“I see,” Cynthia said, blessing him for beginning to drive.
“He’s working his way through law school, drives a cab at night. These days, in this city, you don’t need to be a lawyer, you need to hire one, and a doctor too while you’re at it, I tell him. So he’s crazy, so you’re crazy. You’re not buying drugs, I hope?”
Cynthia assured him that she was not. Was meditation like prayer? Was it answered like prayer? First the name had come to her, then this wonderful cabdriver. Could another miracle happen, that they would hear her pounding on the door and let her in and listen to her story?
Another miracle happened, though not quite that way. As she emerged from the taxi, a couple approached her. They looked at her oddly; she was not, it was to be assumed, a usual type to be seen in this neighborhood at this hour. The couple had also emerged from a taxi, even now departing.
“Dean Sterling!” someone shouted. It was Angela Epstein. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for you,” Cynthia said, suddenly unbelievably tired, worn out by all the sudden good fortune that had come her way.
“So ya gonna pay me, or ya forgot and left your purse at home?”
Cynthia came to her senses, apologizing to the cabdriver and the astonished young couple. She reached into her purse and gave the cabdriver a large bill. “For you and your nephew and the baby,” she said. “You are wonderful.”
“You too,” he shouted, taking off with a screech of tires. Cynthia had meant to beg him to return, but she merely shrugged. It was Angela Epstein’s young man upon whom she now turned her full attention.
“You are a public defender, you understand the criminal system?” she said, as though he might deny it and turn out to be something wholly useless.
“Yes,” he said, taking her arm. “Are you in trouble? Why don’t we go upstairs and talk about it?” Over her head, for he was a tall young man, he gave Angela a quizzical look; she made soothing gestures and rushed ahead to open the building door, peering about to see that there were no dangerous types lurking.
“I’m afraid I don’t even know your name,” Cynthia said.
“My name’s Leo,” he said. “Leo Fansler. What’s yours?”
“Cynthia Sterling. My sister Beatrice Sterling is in jail, accused of murder. And I’m afraid they won’t even let her out on bail; that seemed to be the only coherent statement I could get out of the lawyer I called. Will you help us?”
“I’ll try,” Leo Fansler said.
They got her settled on the couch with a cup of tea and a blanket over her legs because the loft was chilly. Besides, they wanted to do all the easy things they could think of to help her. She had always appeared to Angela as a woman of such power and efficiency, but she now looked the very picture of distraction and disarray, rather-Leo later said to Angela-like the White Queen. (Leo had to explain who the White Queen was. “You’ve read everything,” Angela lovingly accused him. “Not really,” he answered. “I just lived for a time with a literary aunt.”)
At last Cynthia managed to tell Leo, in answer to his questions, with what her sister was charged, when she had been arrested, whether or not the detectives had had a warrant, and whether she had yet been arraigned. He tried, as gently as possible, to keep her from telling him the whole story from the very beginning, “Not yet,” he said. “I’ll find out from your sister; I’ll talk to her, I’ll get the whole story, believe me. But right now all I want to know is where she is, and what’s already happened in court.”
Cynthia made a noble attempt to be as coherent as possible. To her infinite relief, Leo understood her, interpreted her vague answers, knew what to do,
“Do you know when the arraignment is?” he asked, “Did they tell you, or her?”
“Probably tomorrow, but they can’t be sure.”
“Okay. I’ll be there,” Leo said. “Her lawyer will try for bail at the arraignment, but probably won’t get it. The chances are she’ll be remanded, and we’ll try again; we may do better upstairs at the felony arraignment. But if she does get bail for a murder charge, it may be in the neighborhood of a million dollars. Can you raise that much? There are bondsmen…”
“I’ll raise it,” Cynthia said. “The lawyer already spoke to me about that. The one who doesn’t know anything. I think he talked about money because that’s all he knows anything about. We’ll mortgage our apartment. It’s very valuable. It’s worth over a million now, though it wasn’t when we moved in thirty years ago.”
“It takes a while to get a mortgage, even a loan,” Leo said, more to himself than her. “I’m going to call you a taxi now; the company will send one if we offer double. Otherwise they avoid this neighborhood at night. You go home and try to get some rest. Meet me in the public defender’s office on Centre Street across from the courthouse tomorrow morning at nine. Can you manage that?”
“I could take her,” Angela said. “I could be late to work.”
“I’ll find it,” Cynthia said. “Please, you’ve done enough. I’ll meet you there.”
“Get off the subway at Chambers Street. Then ask someone the way. Don’t take a taxi; you’ll be stuck in traffic for hours.”
“I’ll be there,” Cynthia said. “Poor Beatrice. I’ll be there. You will let me convince you she’s innocent.”
“Tomorrow, or maybe even later. The important thing is, you’ve got someone on your side who knows the system. That’s all you have to think about right now. I’m going to try to get you another lawyer for the trial. I know it’s impossible, but try not to worry too much.”
Cynthia arrived at the public defender’s office at nine o’clock. She saw no reason to tell Leo, who came out to the reception desk to meet her, that she had set out at seven, and wandered around the confusing streets of lower Manhattan for at least an hour, until a truck driver finally gave her proper directions. Leo led her off to his office, hung up her coat, sat her down, and tried to tell her what had happened so far.
“Where is Beatrice now?” Cynthia asked, before he began.
“Probably on her way in from Central Booking. We haven’t much time, so you must listen.”
“I am listening,” Cynthia said, drawing together all her powers of attention. The time for action had come.
“All right,” Leo said. “She was arrested and taken to your precinct, where pedigree information, name, address, and so on, are taken, and a warrant check is made, that is, to see if she is wanted on any other cases. I know, I know, but we’re talking about the system here, not your sister. As you’ll see when we go to court, most of those arrested have records, and quite a number do not have an address, so she’s ahead on that count. The detectives will have questioned your sister extensively, and we can only pray she had the sense not to say anything at all. Any statement she made upon arrest can and will be read out at her arraignment,”
“It all seems very unfair,” Cynthia said, “taking advantage of people when they’re upset.”
“That’s exactly the point. And even hardened criminals rarely know enough to shut up. I don’t know how long she was held in the precinct-I’ll find out-out it was as long as they had to wait before Central Booking was ready to process more bodies.” Leo ignored the fact that Cynthia had closed her eyes and gone white. He kept on talking to bring her around. “Her prints were then faxed to Albany, where they are matched by computer against all other prints in the state. The result is a rap sheet, which in your sister’s case will be encouragingly blank. I assume she has no record.” He looked at Cynthia, who nodded certainly. “That’s good news for our side when it comes to pleading for bail,” Leo said.