“The little one, Gabriella.” The woman called Lili points with a well-manicured finger. “She is the apple of her papa’s eye. My husband,” she says. “It would kill him if this thing were to harm her in some way. These ugly accusations and innuendos,” she says.
She speaks in a clipped staccato, syllables rolling from the tongue in the trill of a Romance language, making me think that English is not native to her.
“Has your husband made any statement to the police?” asks Lenore.
“No.” She shakes her head. “He has said nothing to anyone. He does not even want to discuss it with me. He’s been very depressed,” she says. “I am worried about him.”
“You think he might harm himself?” says Lenore.
Lili gives an expression of concession, as though this may be possible.
“You would not tell him I said this?” she says.
Lenore shakes her head, like never.
“Maybe we should start at the beginning.” I sit here, the proverbial man from Mars, wondering whether we are talking ax murder, or someone accused of fondling little girls. The lofty calling of the criminal law.
“It might be best if we wait until he gets here,” says Lenore. “So we don’t have to go over it twice.”
I shrug my shoulders. It’s her party.
“Has your husband talked to another lawyer?” she asks.
“I don’t think he has considered it,” says Lili. “When he found out that you were available, and that you were about to join Mr. Madriani, he wanted you immediately.”
“How nice of him,” says Lenore.
Now I am intrigued.
Lili tells her that the police have said nothing, though they have come twice to the house to look for evidence.
“Did they have search warrants?”
“Yes.” Lili nods. There is no fudging on this. The woman seems to know search warrants from shopping lists.
“The first time they took away his car. They had it towed somewhere,” she says. “We have not seen it since.”
I hear movement in the outer office, the door, and voices: the receptionist’s, and another, a familiar deep baritone.
“I think they’re expecting me,” I hear the man say.
It is a voice that imparts dark premonitions, like an advancing tidal wave in the blackness of night. An instant before the door to my office opens I get a glimpse of Lenore. She is studying me for effect, one eye covered by tousled hair, the other filled with sheepish apprehension, an expression like the Mona Lisa’s.
Mahogany swings wide, and there in the open frame of my door stands Armando Acosta.
It is an image like something on celluloid, strange encounters, the form of a man I would not envision in my most demented dreams darkening my portal. Our eyes lock only for a brief instant, until he breaks this gaze.
Lili does the honors with Lenore, making introductions as the two shake hands.
“My husband, Judge Acosta. Ms. Goya,” she says. She ignores the fact that he is no longer on the bench, having been suspended pending disposition on the prostitution charge, which is now compounded by the death of the state’s only witness.
“You may call me Armando,” he tells her.
I can think of a dozen other names, each one profane, but more appropriate than that selected by his parents on the dark day of his christening.
“Lenore,” she says.
For a moment I think maybe he is going to kiss her hand. But he merely bends at the waist, and takes her limp wrist. This turns into something more courtly than I might have imagined.
Stunned, I am still planted in my chair behind the desk when he turns on me. I am afraid that if I try to rise, my legs may fail me.
“Counselor.” Acosta is restrained as he looks at me, an expression that is not quite a smile. It is more intuitive, as though he can read my mind and knows that there is nothing residing in it at this moment that I would dare utter in mixed company.
So I say nothing, but nod.
“Mr. Madriani and I have known each other for many years,” he tells his wife.
I could show her the scars to prove it.
“Good to see you,” he lies, and extends a hand. This lingers in suspension above the blotter on my desk like a silent and odious passing of wind. He leaves it there for several counts, so that if he takes it back all eyes will be on me.
There follows a socially awkward pause, as if he is willing to wait for the proverbial freeze in hell. Finally I take his hand and give it an obligatory shake.
It must be the expression on my face as I do this, because when I look up to see Lenore, she is laughing at me, openly, so that Lili asks her if she has somehow missed something.
By this time Acosta himself is chuckling.
“My relationship with Mr. Madriani has not always been-how should I put it? — so cordial,” he says. “I will tell you all about it later.” He has an arm about his wife’s shoulders. He leads her to the small couch that is catty-corner to my desk, where they take up positions like bookends. Lenore takes one of the client chairs directly across from me. We sit here for the moment studying one another.
I have not seen Acosta in more than a month, but he has aged two years in that time. An effusion of gray now spirals from the balding spot high on his head. Lines of stress streak from the corners of his eyes like rays from a setting sun. Flesh hangs from his jowls like those of some predatory animal that has lost its edge in the hunt.
“Well. Now that we’re all assembled,” he says, “where do we begin?”
He looks first to me, and then to Lenore, until he realizes that we are waiting on him.
Despite his gaunt appearance, there are a few mannered gestures left. He lets go of his wife long enough to toy with the cuff of one shirtsleeve under his coat, then feathers the hair at gray temples with his fingers to smooth some muss. Ever the preener.
Left to the awkward silence, Acosta clears his throat. “Very well,” he says. “I have come to retain counsel. The death of Brittany Hall,” he says. It is clearly not easy for him to be in this position, the supplicant in need. As he speaks, he doesn’t look at either Lenore or me directly, but at some middle distance between us.
“Normally I wouldn’t ask,” I tell him, “but perhaps we should start by inquiring as to whether you did the deed?”
He gives me a subtle look of confusion, uncertain as to whether even I could be this abrupt or tactless.
“Did you kill Brittany Hall?” I remove all doubt.
“Don’t answer that,” says Lenore.
I get looks from Lili to die. “How could you. .”
“That’s a little blunt, don’t you think?” It is a cardinal rule: Don’t ask. You may not like the answer. There is enough time for truth telling later, after she has waltzed him through some theories of defense, and the facts are better fixed by discovery.
“Calm down,” says Acosta. He is not looking at me, but at the two women as he says this. He seems the only one not offended by my question. His wife, who by this time is up from the couch, purse in hand, seems ready to leave.
“We did not come here to be insulted,” she says. She is no doubt feeling violated, having shared pictures of her grandchildren with the likes of me.
“Mr. Madriani has a right to ask,” says Acosta. Whether I have a right to the truth he does not say.
It takes some effort and several seconds’ persuasion to get Lili seated again. She wants to leave. It seems that any lawyer who cannot take her husband on blind faith does not have her confidence. She may have trouble finding other counsel.
He manages to get her back down.
“You have an uncanny knack for chaos, Mr. Madriani,” says Acosta.
“There are times when it serves its purpose,” I tell him. I give him a cold stare that is as good as the one I get.
“I am sure,” he says.
When we’re settled in again, I remind him that I’ve yet to hear an answer to my question.