“This is... very strange,” he said. “I had no idea...”
“Nor I.”
“I mean, I knew you were married. You wrote to me and told me you were getting married and... and maybe you even mentioned the name, but that was such a long time ago, Mary, and I never...”
“I mentioned the name,” she said. “John Di Pace. My husband.”
“Yes. Maybe you did mention the name. I don’t remember.”
He could remember every other detail of the day he’d received her letter, could remember the wet drizzle clinging to the airfield in the north of England, the sounds of the Liberators warming up outside, the white plumes of their exhausts sifting through the early-morning rain, the neat red and blue diagonal lines on her airmail envelope, the hurried scrawl of her hand, and the address, Captain Henry Alfred Belani, 714 5632, 31st Bomber Squadron Command, U. S. Army Air Corps, A.P.O. New York, New York, and the words:
Dear Hank—
“When you asked me to wait for you, I said I didn’t know. I said I was still very young. I’ve met someone, Hank dear, and I’m going to marry him, and I hope you will understand. I don’t want to hurt you. I have never wanted to hurt you...
And the sudden angry roar of the bombers taxiing across the blackened field to take off into the wind.
“I didn’t remember the name,” he said.
They were both silent.
“You’re... you’re looking very well, Mary,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t know you still lived in the old neighborhood.”
“Harlem? Yes. Johnny’s store is there.” She paused. “My husband. Johnny.”
“Yes, I see.”
“Hank...”
“Mary, I don’t know why you came here, but—”
“Oh, Hank, for the love of God, are you going to kill my son?”
She did not cry. In that moment, he wished she would have cried. She hurled the words across the desk instead, her face dead white behind the startling brown eyes and the full sensual mouth.
“Mary, let’s understand each other,” he said.
“Please. Let’s.”
“What happened between us was a long time ago. You’re married now, and I’m married, and we both have children.”
“And you’re prosecuting my child for murder.”
“Mary—”
“Aren’t you, Hank?”
“Yes, I am,” he said. “I work for this county, and it’s my job to protect the people of this county. Your son committed murder, and as attorney for the—”
“My son had nothing to do with it! It was the others!”
“If that’s true, I’ll find out before the trial.”
“He didn’t even belong to the gang!”
“Mary, believe me, this is not a vengeful office. The case will be investigated thoroughly before it comes to trial. If there are mitigating circumstances—”
“Oh, stop it, stop it, Hank, please. This isn’t what I expect from you. From a stranger, yes, but not you, not Hank Belani.”
“Bell,” he corrected gently.
“I’m Mary,” she said softly, “the girl you once knew. Mary. Who loved you once... very dearly.” She paused. “Don’t tell me about mitigating circumstances.”
“What do you want me to tell you, Mary?”
“That my boy won’t be sent to the electric chair...”
“I can’t promise you anything like—”
“...for something he didn’t do!” she concluded.
The room went silent again.
“No one pays with his life for something he didn’t do,” Hank said.
“You really believe that, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes. I really believe it.”
She stared at him long and hard. Then she said, “I don’t know you any more, do I?”
“A lot’s happened to both of us,” he said. “We can’t expect...”
“It’s funny,” she said tiredly. “I came into this office expecting a stranger — and I found one. I don’t know you at all. I don’t even know whether or not you’d allow what happened between us to influence what might happen to my son. For all I know—”
“Don’t say it, Mary!” His voice was harsh. “I’m a lawyer, and I believe in justice, and your son’ll get justice. When I got your letter, I was hurt, yes. But that was a long time ago, and everyone grows up.”
“Will my son grow up?” she asked.
And to this there was no answer.
He went into Holmes’s office that afternoon. As chief of the Homicide Bureau, Holmes was familiarly referred to by most newsmen as “Sherlock,” but everyone on the staff called him Ephraim, which was his true given name. He was a short man with white hair and spectacles, his round face giving him the appearance of a television comic, an impression which could not have been further from the truth; Ephraim Holmes was a man almost totally devoid of any humor.
“What is it, Hank?” he asked immediately. “I’m busy.”
“The Morrez case,” Hank said without preamble.
“What about it?”
“I’d like to drop the assignment. I’d like you to assign someone else to the prosecution.”
Holmes looked up suddenly. “What in hell for?” he asked.
“Personal reasons.”
“Like what?”
“Personal reasons,” Hank repeated.
“You getting scared?”
“No. Why should I be?”
“I don’t know. All the newspaper fuss. The bastards are pretrying the case already. Screaming for the death penalty. I thought it might be giving you the jumps.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Then what is it? Don’t you think we’ve got a case?”
“I think we’ve got a very strong case.”
“For Murder One?”
“Yes, for Murder One.”
“Then what the hell’s the matter?”
“I told you. It’s something personal. I’d like to disqualify myself, Ephraim. I’d appreciate it.”
“None of these kids are related to you or anything, are they?”
“No.”
“Are you leary about asking for the death penalty for young kids?”
“No.”
“Are you prejudiced against Puerto Ricans?”
“What?”
“I said—”
“I heard you. What kind of a question is that?”
“Don’t be so high and mighty. Hatred doesn’t choose its jurisdictions. You may be one of those who feel the city’s better off without the likes of Rafael Morrez. You may feel the murder was justified.”
“That’s absurd,” Hank said. “And I don’t think anybody really feels that way.”
“No, huh? You’d be surprised.” Holmes paused. “You still haven’t convinced me that I should reassign this case.”
“Let’s simply say that the defense may concoct some yarn about the unconscious prejudice of the People’s attorney.”
“Then you don’t like Puerto Ricans?”
“I wasn’t speaking of that kind of prejudice.”
“Then what kind?”
“Ephraim, I can’t explain this to you. I want out. I want to drop the case. I’ve barely begun working on it, so there’ll be no real loss of time or energy. And I think the office will benefit by my withdrawal.”
“You think so, do you? And whom would you suggest I assign this to?”
“That’s your job, not mine.”
“Have you ever known me to snow you, Hank?”
“No.”
“All right then. When I tell you you’re the best damn prosecutor on this staff, you’ll know I’m not just making noises. This is an important case, more important than you—”