“And let a right-wing nut like Hal Kronon run you off the cliff?” That came from Ray. His sad blue eyes and ruddy face were set to the question, which was a serious one. Ray and he had lived by the same credos, and believed that the people with money didn’t get the right to own the democracy, too.
“I didn’t say I’d drop out. I said I’m going to dismiss the lawsuit. I’ll fight the good fight. I won’t give up. And I’ll talk about the Big Lie. Because that’s what this is. But the lawsuit is over. No DNA or deps or ring-around-the-rosy.”
He stood up to show he’d decided.
18
The morning showed the faintest signs of spring. The temperature was in the mid-twenties, but there were no clouds, a wonderful improvement over the usual low-hanging sky of steel wool. On warmer days when Evon had no meetings outside the office, she walked the twelve blocks to ZP from her condo. In the winter when she didn’t need to drive, she most often risked what she privately called “Demolition Derby,” otherwise known as the Grant Avenue bus. In the Tri-Cities, the bus operators were a law unto themselves, bullies in the traffic, who veered from the curb to the left turn lane with no concern for other vehicles. The transit unions had insulated the drivers from much responsibility, except in the event of homicide.
As soon as Evon stepped off the bus, a block from ZP, she saw Heather across the street. Her former girlfriend was wearing a headscarf and Ray-Bans, and was wrapped in an oatmeal-colored wool Burberry coat Evon had bought for her, but Heather had no desire to conceal herself. Evon looked in her direction for a second and then began walking double time. She could hear the click of Heather’s heels on the pavement as she ran to catch up, arriving breathlessly at Evon’s side.
“You love me,” Heather said. “And I love you. This makes no sense. I’ll be better. I promise. I’ll make you happy. I’ll make you completely happy. Just one more chance, baby, please. Just one.”
Evon had actually hoped Heather had given up. There had been no communication in a week. Now Evon never looked up, never slackened her pace as Heather followed along, elbowing aside the pedestrians coming in her direction, elaborating on her soliloquy. She meant all of this, of course, about love and devotion. She knew so little about herself that she actually believed what she was saying.
Evon hated bringing her shit into the office-Heather knew that, too, which was why she’d been so confident she could corner Evon out here. But there was no choice. Evon headed into the ZP Building. Heather not only followed her through the revolving door but managed to squeeze herself into the same sealed quarter compartment. Heather tried to embrace Evon-she seemed intent on a kiss-and in the close confines of the glass panels they had a brief struggle as Evon, much shorter but far stronger, held Heather off. But still the woman pleaded.
“How can you be so heartless? How can you treat me this way? I don’t deserve this, Evon. I love you. I was good to you. How can you do this?”
Finally, Evon pushed out of the revolving door, which Heather was trying to obstruct, and burst into the open air of the lobby. She hurried off, but Heather called after her.
“I’m pregnant,” Evon heard her say, and wheeled. They had talked about that. At the best moments, lying in each other’s arms, they had shared that fantasy.
Evon waited a second to gather herself.
“That’s crap.”
“I am. I did it for you. Evon, I want to do this. A child needs a family. We can be a family.”
That was a frightening thought, really, this bag of loose nuts and bolts that was Heather as somebody’s mother, even with Evon to deflect a bit of the damage. But that was not where Evon’s heart ran. Her heart ran to the cruelty of this, of probing every soft spot, each of the many festering regrets. This was how cruelty was done, Evon thought, when someone needed something so much that they became indifferent to the pain they were inflicting.
The security guard, Gerald, sat at a desk built of the same taupe granite as the rest of the vast lobby. It was his job to record IDs and issue passes so visitors could move through the turnstiles to the elevators. He was in Evon’s department and called her “Boss.”
Hurrying forward, Evon hooked a thumb over her shoulder and told Gerald, “Keep her out.” She proceeded past him while Gerald, quick off his seat, snagged Heather by the arm.
“Whoa, lady,” he said.
Heather called after Evon.
“If I don’t hear from you, I’m going to have an abortion on Friday.” Her voice was piercing. There couldn’t have been a soul in the lobby who missed it.
Upstairs in her office, Evon closed the door and sat alone. She didn’t cry, but she was shaking. Fortunately, she had no time for her own agonies, with a conference call beginning in moments. Dykstra had finally agreed to a twenty-five-million-dollar price concession for the Indianapolis brownfield-he blamed underlings for failing to disclose it-and the deal had been announced yesterday in the Journal. The closing was scheduled for next week. Evon’s call this morning with her counterpart at YourHouse was to discuss how to meld operations. Twelve people ended up on the line and she wasn’t done until after 11:30. When she finished, Evon’s assistant informed her that Tim Brodie was waiting to see her on an urgent matter.
“I called you,” Tim said when he came in, “but you were on the phone, so I figured I better walk over and deliver the news. Paul Gianis just announced he’s dismissing the lawsuit.” He described Judge Lands’s ruling, and Paul’s press conference in the Temple rotunda, which ended with a pack of cameras and reporters running after Paul as he exited the courthouse.
A part of her was still recovering from Heather, but even so Evon was astounded.
“Does Hal know?” Evon asked.
Hal had run off with Tooley as soon as court ended to meet with a business reporter to discuss the YourHouse acquisition. About fifteen minutes later, as soon as Hal had returned, she and Tim went down the hall to Hal’s sycamore redoubt. Tooley was still with him and neither of them had yet heard the news.
Hal was furious. “How can he do that?”
Tooley explained the law. Until the start of trial, every plaintiff was allowed to dismiss the suit he or she had brought.
“Just like that?” Hal asked. “Doesn’t he even have to say I’m sorry?”
“We could ask for costs.”
“What are costs?”
“About two, three hundred dollars,” said Mel. “Filing fees. Witness fees on the subpoenas.”
“I don’t want two hundred dollars,” Hal said. “I want his DNA. He’s hiding something.”
“You can certainly say that. Scream it out loud. I’m sure Cia over at the agency can design some great ads that make that point.”
“I’m not letting him get away with it.”
“With what?” asked Tooley.
“Hiding whatever he’s hiding.”
“Hal, what could he be hiding if the test is 99 percent likely to be inconclusive? Don’t smoke your own dope.”
Hal’s bulging eyes ran back and forth behind his glasses as he considered his friend’s advice.
“I want the DNA.”
Mel dropped his glance to his hands, then tried another approach.
“Hal, you won. Don’t you see this? You won this motion. You made a convincing case that this guy knows more than he’s telling. And Paul said uncle. Accept victory, Hal. Celebrate for a second.”
“This isn’t a victory,” Hal insisted. “I want to know what Paul Gianis had to do with my sister’s murder. I want the DNA. You should do something. I’m the client. Those are my orders. Do something.”