She looks up at me, annoyed as usual, and then lowers her reading material to her lap and sighs. I can almost see her brain decide that answering my question is probably the quickest way to get rid of me. “The daughter,” she says, “Anna-something.”
“Anastasia,” I tell her.
“That’s it. She wants us to release the body.”
I nod. It’s not an unusual request.
“And the house,” Geraldine adds.
“The house? What house?”
“Her father’s. She’s having some sort of service for him tomorrow morning. Wants to invite the mourners back to the house for a mercy meal.”
Anastasia was true to her word. She made arrangements. And she wasted no time.
“She also wants to stay there while she’s on the Cape,” Geraldine continues. “She can’t do either of those things as long as the house is a designated crime scene, so she filed a motion asking the court to release it.”
“Are you opposing the motion?” The thought of Geraldine and Anastasia in combat is frightening.
She shakes her head. “No. There’s no need. The post is done. And she’s entitled to her father’s remains, for Christ’s sake.”
“What about the house?”
Geraldine hugs the stack of documents to her chest and smiles the way she always does when she knows she’s holding the reins. “Anna-whoever-the-hell-she-is can have the damned house,” she says. “After all, we’re done with it. We have everything we need.”
CHAPTER 27
In the Barnstable County House of Correction, no reasonable request goes unrefused. The powers that be rejected ours on the spot. The Kydd and I were on our best behavior when we met with Louisa Rawlings in the jail’s smallest conference room. We were patient, uncomplaining, as we waited in the hallway for more than half an hour to see the matron in charge of Louisa’s ward. We were as polite as Eagle Scouts when we explained the situation and asked that Louisa be brought back to the main courtroom at one o’clock. The answer was no.
“It’s not on the schedule,” the gum-chewing matron told us. She closed her ledger then. And she closed our discussion with it.
“We know it’s not on the schedule,” I reminded her. “That’s why we’re here.”
As far as she was concerned, though, our meeting had already ended. She took off her thick glasses and used them to direct us to the door.
The schedule is of paramount importance in our county facilities, particularly on the female violent offenders’ ward. This has always struck me as somewhat peculiar. Like every other woman who resides there at the moment, Louisa Rawlings has precisely nothing to do. Yet her schedule is not to be disrupted. She might miss a call from the Pentagon, it seems. Or the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
It took a written order from Judge Leon Long to override the mulish matron. And by the time that was accomplished, it was almost twelve-thirty. The Kydd ran out to grab a quick bite at the Piccadilly Deli, but I came back to the courthouse instead. I don’t have much of an appetite today.
Anastasia Rawlings is here early for the one o’clock hearing on her petition. She’s already in the hallway, outside the main courtroom, her ensemble either the same one she’s been wearing all week or a reasonable facsimile. She’s engrossed in what appears to be a heated discussion with Steven Collier and he’s not getting to say much. Lance Phillips is seated on a nearby bench. Apparently he’s not interested in their tiff; he’s staring into his lap, not even looking at them. Maybe he’s plotting his next murder mystery best seller.
Collier spots me first and he alerts Anastasia to my arrival with a silent dip of his jet-black head. She wheels around, dropping whatever her beef is with him, and storms down the long hallway in my direction, her hair trailing behind like the train of an evening gown gone wrong. “You,” she bellows, her deep voice echoing in the almost empty corridor. “How do you sleep at night?”
I’ve been asked this question a number of times since I joined the defense bar a year ago. Never by anyone concerned about my well-being. “You’ll get used to it,” Harry promised after the first time a pompous reporter shouted it at me on the courthouse steps. I haven’t.
“I want an answer,” Anastasia barks, blocking my path with her substantial black-clad form, her hair shroud settling around it.
“Then ask a question that deserves one.” I stand still, toe to toe with her clodhopper boots, and meet her ridiculously outlined eyes.
“Anastasia!” Steven Collier hustles down the hallway as if he’s been appointed the courthouse bouncer. “Stop it. The woman is only doing her job.”
This is a comment I’ve heard before too. I don’t like it any better than the sleep inquiry. “Not so,” I tell him. “I’m doing more than that. Much more.”
He looks down at me and knits his inky eyebrows, apparently unable to fathom what I might mean. I walk around both of them and pass Lance Phillips, who’s still examining his lap. I glance back at Anastasia and Collier again—they’re planted where I left them—and then enter the courtroom through its rear double doors.
Harry is the only person in here. He’s seated at the defense table looking a little bit like the Maytag repairman. His chair is pushed back, away from the table, his legs stretched out in front of him. He swivels the chair around when the heavy doors slam shut behind me and he laughs. As is often the case with Harry, I can’t imagine what he finds amusing. “Marty,” he says. “Here we are. Alone at last.”
As if she heard him, Wanda Morgan opens the side door and pokes her head into the courtroom. “You ready, Mr. Madigan?”
“You betcha,” he says, thrusting a fist in the air. “Ready, set, Rinky.”
Wanda shakes her head at him and then looks at me and laughs. I take a seat at the bar as she steps inside the courtroom, allowing Rinky and a couple of guards to enter after her. Rinky must be rambunctious today; it took two uniforms to get him in here. One removes his cuffs and the other delivers him to the defense table.
“There you are,” Rinky says to Harry as he approaches. “I’ve been looking for you.”
The side door opens and Geraldine rushes in, Clarence on her heels carrying two briefcases. Rinky’s shoulders droop when he looks over at the prosecutors and he drops his head sadly. “Oh, man,” he says. “Her again.”
Harry laughs out loud and slaps him on the back, sending skinny Rinky stumbling forward a few steps. Joey Kelsey tells us to stand.
Judge Long emerges from chambers, takes the file from Wanda as he passes her, and slaps it down on the bench. He sits, signals with both hands for the rest of us to do likewise, and retrieves his half-glasses from the pocket of his robe. “Mr. Snow,” he says, donning his spectacles and then peering over them, “you’re back.”
Rinky gives the judge a little wave. “Here I am again,” he says.
Judge Long sighs and skims the police report, then looks back up, his eyes wide under raised eyebrows. “Another tourist?” he asks Geraldine.
“Indeed,” she says, “I told you so” written plainly on her face. “Another one. A Mr. Palmer. A businessman from Pittsburgh.”
“Mr. Snow,” the judge says, “the members of our Chamber of Commerce work extremely hard to attract visitors to this peninsula during the shoulder seasons. You are single-handedly thwarting their efforts.”
Rinky hangs his head and assumes an “aw, shucks” look, as if he’s a little embarrassed by the judge’s flattery.
A firm grip on my shoulder makes me look up. It’s Steven Collier. “I need to see Louisa,” he says in an authoritative tone.
“Then make an appointment,” I tell him, maneuvering my shoulder out of his grasp. I toss my head in the general direction of the jail. “The women’s ward has set visiting hours. Call and get your name on the list.”