“Look,” he said, after a long pause, “it’s almost nine o’clock. Knowing you, you haven’t eaten.”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“You need to eat. Come on. I can be there in twenty minutes. We’ll go out, grab a steak. …”
“Don, I just spent two hours with a car that looks like a shit sandwich. I don’t have much of an appetite.” She felt him smile. “I’m sorry. Another time?”
“Anytime. Get some sleep.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and Jess …”
“Yes?”
“The state of Illinois doesn’t execute criminals in the electric chair anymore. I believe lethal injections are the order of the day.”
She laughed. “Thanks for the update.”
They hung up without saying good-bye.
Almost immediately, Jess felt her stomach growl. “Great. Perfect timing.” Jess looked at the phone, decided against
calling Don back. She was too tired, too aggravated, too fed-up to go out. She’d only drag Don down. Besides, why eat steak when she had nice, hard frozen pizzas right in her very own freezer?
She removed two from their cellophane wrappers and popped them into the microwave, then grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge and pulled open its metal tab, taking a long sip directly from the can. More gas that way, she thought, taking another sip, thinking of her brother-in-law, his new no-soft-drinks rule. (“I think you’re jealous,” Barry had said. “Because your sister has a husband and a family, and she’s happy. And what have you got? A freezer full of frozen pizzas and a goddamn canary!”)
Was he right?
Was
she jealous of her sister’s happiness? Could she possibly be so petty?
For the first time in years, Maureen hadn’t invited her over for Thanksgiving dinner. She’d said something about having dinner with Barry’s parents for a change, but probably she was just fed up. They were all fed up. Even her father had stopped suggesting opportune times for her to meet his new love. He appreciated how busy she was these days, he’d told her, citing all the publicity surrounding her current case. He’d wait for the trial to be over.
What was she doing to her father? Was she jealous of his happiness too? Did she want everyone who loved her to live the same sort of isolated lonely life she’d designed for herself? Could she believe her father’s interest in another woman was somehow a betrayal of her mother, even now, after all these years?
Jess buried her head in her hands. No, she realized slowly. It was more that by allowing himself to love another
woman, her father was, in some symbolic but very real way, signing her mother’s death certificate.
Jess lifted her head from her hands, stared up at the ceiling, tears falling the length of her cheeks. Could it be that she still half expected her mother to come walking back into their lives? Is that what she was waiting for, hoping for, longing for? Even now, after eight years? Was she still waiting for her mother to appear on her doorstep, sweep her faithful daughter into her arms, smother her face with kisses, tell her all was forgiven, that she wasn’t responsible for her disappearance, that she’d been found not guilty.
Was she still waiting for her moment of absolution? Could her life not proceed without it?
The microwave oven beeped to announce that dinner was ready, and Jess snapped back to reality, carefully lifting the two steaming pizzas onto a blue-flowered plate. She carried the plate and the can of Coke into the living room and sat down on the sofa, aware for the first time of the sixties music emanating from the radio. “Monday, Monday,” the Mamas and the Papas sang in harmony, and Jess shrugged. Monday, Monday was right! What a day.
“And how was your day, Freddy?” she asked her canary, blowing across the tops of the pizzas, trying to cool them down. “Better than mine, I hope.” She took an enormous bite from one piece, pulling almost all of the top coating of cheese into her mouth.
The phone rang.
Jess shoved the piece of pizza to the left side of her mouth with her tongue. “Hello.”
“Is this Jess Koster?”
The man’s voice was only vaguely familiar.
“Who’s calling?” Jess asked, her body poised, on alert.
“Adam Stohn.”
“Adam Stohn?”
“From Shoe-Inn. The boots you ordered—they came in late this afternoon. I tried to call you at work. They said you were in court. You didn’t tell me you were a lawyer.”
Jess felt her heart start to race, the pizza stick to the side of her mouth. “I didn’t get a message.”
“I didn’t leave one.”
Silence.
“So, my boots are in,” Jess said after what felt like an eternity.
“You can pick them up any time.”
“That’s great. Thank you for letting me know.”
“Or I could drop them by,” he volunteered.
“What?”
“Save you the trip down. You could just give me a check, made out to Shoe-Inn, of course.”
“When?”
“I could come by now, if that’s convenient.”
“Now?”
What? When? Now?
Jess heard herself repeat. When had she turned into such a sparkling conversationalist?
“They’re calling for snow tomorrow.”
“Are they?”
“Actually, I haven’t had dinner yet. How about you? Feel like splitting a pizza?”
Jess promptly spit the half-chewed lump of cheese still in her mouth onto the plate. “That sounds great.”
“Good. Why don’t you tell me where you live?”
“Why don’t we just meet somewhere?” Jess suggested in return.
“Name the place.”
Jess named a small Italian restaurant on Armitage Avenue, within easy walking distance.
“Fifteen minutes?”
“See you there.”
“You’re early,” he said, sliding into the red vinyl booth at the back of the small family-operated restaurant. He wore blue jeans and a black bomber jacket over a gray turtleneck.
“I’m always early. Bad habit,” she told him, studying his face, thinking him better looking than she remembered. Was he having similar thoughts about her? She wished now that she’d changed into something more interesting than a plain black sweater and pants. Probably a touch more makeup wouldn’t have hurt either. All she’d done was splash some cold water on her face, brushed her teeth, applied a little lipstick, and dashed out of the house.
“Hello, signorina,” the middle-aged proprietress greeted Jess, laying two stained paper menus on the table. “Nice to see you again.”
“Nice to see you,” Jess agreed, smiling at the dark-haired, moon-faced woman. “Carla makes the best pizzas in the world.”
“In the De Paul area anyway,” Carla qualified. “Can I bring you a carafe of Chianti while you look over the menu?”
“Sounds good,” Adam said, taking a quick glance at the items listed.
“I already know what I want,” Jess said eagerly. “I’ll have the special pizza. It’s my all-time favorite thing to eat in the entire world.”
“In that case, make it a large,” Adam said quickly. “We’ll
share.” Carla retrieved the menus from the table and headed for the kitchen. “Incidentally, your boots are in the car. Don’t let me forget to give them to you.”
“Don’t let me forget to write you a check.”
“God, the pressure.” He laughed. “I take it you come here often.”
“I just live down the street. And I’m not much of a cook,” Jess added.
“I would guess that you don’t have lot of time for cooking.”
“I don’t, but I wouldn’t anyway.”
He looked surprised. “A matter of principle?”
“We lawyers do have them,” she said, and smiled.
“There was never a doubt in my mind.”
“My mother used to cook all the time,” Jess explained. “She hated it, so she never taught us how. Maybe she figured if my sister and I didn’t know how to cook, we’d never get trapped into doing it.”
“Interesting theory.”
“Not that it worked.”
He looked puzzled.
“My sister has lately turned into Julia Child.”
“And you don’t approve?”
“I’d rather not talk about my sister.”
Carla returned with the carafe of Chianti and two wineglasses. “I was reading about the Crossbow Killer in the paper tonight,” Carla said, pouring some dark red wine into each glass. “They mentioned your name and everything. Very impressive.”
Jess smiled. “Winning would be impressive.”
Carla made a dismissive gesture with her hands. “No question. You win. No question.” She rubbed her hands against
the hospital-green apron that stretched across her ample bosom, then made her way to the front of the restaurant. There were five booths and perhaps ten tables crowded into the small room, about half of them currently occupied. The walls were covered with bright, handpainted scenes of Italy. Plastic grapes hung at irregular intervals from the ceiling.
“So I’m having dinner with a celebrity,” Adam stated, lifting his glass to hers in a toast.
“Just an overworked, underpaid prosecutor, I’m afraid.” They clicked glasses. “Health and wealth, as my brother-in-law would say.”
“To your imminent victory.”
“I’ll drink to that.” They did. “So, what about you? How long have you been selling shoes?”
“At Shoe-Inn, since the summer. Before that, for about a year.”
“And before that?”
“Odd jobs. This and that. Itinerant salesman. You know.”
“My father was a salesman.”
“Oh?”
“Then he owned his own store. A couple, actually. Now, he’s retired.”
“And driving your mother crazy?”
Jess took a long sip of her drink. “My mother’s dead.”
Jess watched Adam’s jaw drop. “Oh, sorry. That was a bit clumsy. When did she die?”
“Eight years ago. I’m sorry—would you mind if we talked about something else?”
“Anything you want.”
“Tell me more about you. Are you from Chicago?”
“Springfield.”
“I’ve never been to Springfield.”
“Pretty city.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Time for a change.” He shrugged. “And you? Chicago born and bred?”
She nodded.
“No desire to try somewhere else?”
“I’m pretty much of a homebody.”
“You went to law school here?”
“Northwestern.”
“From which you graduated in the top third of your class?” he guessed.
“I stood fourth.”
He smiled into his glass. “And from there you turned down all offers of lucrative private practice to become an overworked, underpaid prosecutor in the state’s attorney’s office.”
“I didn’t want to find myself in the litigation department of some big firm, where the only litigation I’d ever see was a war of memos crossing my desk. Besides, the state’s attorney was one of my law professors, and he ran for office and was elected, and he hired me. The only question he asked me was whether or not I’d be able to ask for the death penalty.”
“You obviously gave him the right answer.”
Jess laughed. “They don’t want any liberals in the state’s attorney’s office.”
“So what’s it like there?”
“Honestly?”
“Only if you insist.”
She laughed. “I love it. At least I do now. In the beginning, it was pretty dry. They started me out in traffic court.
That’s not wildly exciting, but you have to pay your dues, I guess. I was there for about a year, then I went into the First Municipal Division, which prosecutes misdemeanors, anything from property damage to aggravated assault. Those are pretty much bench trials, only a few actual jury trials, the sort of stuff that’s always serious to the victims, but not to anybody else. Does that sound callous?”
“I’d imagine you’d have to develop a pretty hard shell working in the state’s attorney’s office.”
The image of a headless turtle popped itself into Jess’s line of vision. “I stayed at First Municipal Division for another year,” Jess said, speaking quickly. “Then I went to Felony Review. That was a lot more interesting.”
“What made it more interesting?”
“It involves real investigative work, getting out there and talking to the victims and the witnesses. You work pretty closely with the police. You see, what most people don’t realize is that the cops can’t actually charge anyone. Only the state can bring charges. The cops investigate, but it’s the assistant state’s attorney who decides whether to approve the charges and put the case into the system.”
“Your first taste of real power.”
Jess took another long sip of her wine. “My brother-in-law claims that when a woman gets a little power, she loses her sense of humor.”
“Hey, you laughed at my condom joke.”
“Actually, I have a joke for you,” Jess said, hurriedly trying to organize her thoughts. “One of the secretaries at work told it to me.” She paused, trying to recall the exact phrasing. “What do you get when you have a hundred rabbits in a row, and suddenly ninety-nine of them take one step back?”
“I don’t know. What do you get?”
“A receding
hare
line!” Jess laughed, then stopped abruptly. “That was terrible. That was a terrible joke.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I told you that joke.”
“It was a totally terrific joke, told with great flourish, I might add,” Adam said, chuckling quietly. “Next time, you see your brother-in-law, tell him he’s full of shit.”
Jess pictured first her brother-in-law, then her shit-streaked automobile. “Could we talk about something else, do you think?”
“So you stayed in Felony Review for another year,” he said without missing a beat.
“Seven months.”
“Then on to the Trial section?”
Jess looked surprised. “How’d you know that?”
“What else is left?” he asked simply.
“Each courtroom has three assistant state’s attorneys assigned to one particular judge, usually for about a year, maybe more. The most senior of those assistants is called the first chair. That’s me.” Jess paused, finished the wine in her glass. “How’d we get on to all this?”
“I believe I asked what it was like in the state’s attorney’s office.”
“Well, you can’t say I didn’t tell you.” Jess looked toward her lap. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away. I guess it’s pretty dry.”
“Not at all.” He poured more wine into her glass. “Tell me more.”
Jess lifted the glass to her mouth, grateful to have something to do with her hands, breathing in the heavy aroma of the wine, trying to see beyond the warm brown
of Adam’s eyes. She wondered if he was as interested in the details of her career as he seemed. She wondered what he was really doing here. She wondered what
she
was doing here. “Well,” she hesitated before continuing, “I’m responsible for everything that goes on in that courtroom. I prosecute the major cases. I decide what cases to let my second and third chair try. I’m sort of the teacher, or the guidance counselor, if you will. And I’m the one who takes the heat if they mess up. If something goes wrong in my courtroom, I’m the one responsible.”