Hanging on a String Page 11

Judge Lawrence was in rare form. I settled in for the ride.

  “N-no, Your Honor.” Now my opponent’s voice was squeaking.

  “Are you familiar with the local rules of the United States District Court for the Eastern District of New York, Mr. McDowell?” Judge Lawrence was relentless in his attack. He leaned forward, seemingly with great effort, and it looked as if he was ready to pounce out of his seat and onto the unlucky and no longer cocky Mr. McDowell.

  “Yes, Your Honor, I am familiar with the local rules.”

  “And what does Local Rule 32.1 say about initial conferences, Mr. McDowell?”

  Mr. McDowell tried the “let’s be reasonable” approach. “Your Honor, it says that all the clients must attend initial conferences, but several of the judges allow counsel to have an initial conference without the presence of the client... .”

  Judge Lawrence stopped him cold. “What is my name, Mr. McDowell?” he asked peevishly. His voice deepened one dramatic octave lower.

  “Excuse me, Your Honor?”

  “What. Is. My. Name?”

  “Judge Ishmael Lawrence, Your Honor.”

  Judge Lawrence leaned back in his seat. “That’s right. Is this my courtroom, Mr. McDowell?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You would do well to remember that, Mr. McDowell. In my courtroom, we follow rules. We follow the local rules and any other applicable rules. Do you understand, Mr. McDowell?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Judge Lawrence turned his attention to me. “Well, Miss Spain, I see today you’re the one who is following rules. What a refreshing change.”

  I didn’t respond. I refused to. I didn’t like bullies, especially when they wore black robes.

  Judge Lawrence turned his attention back to the opposing counsel and began his diatribe again. My mind started to drift.

  “Miss Spain.” Judge Lawrence’s sarcastic voice interrupted my reverie. “I realize these are somewhat trying times for you, but I would appreciate your attention to the matter at hand.”

  I wanted to slap him so bad, my palms itched; instead, I smiled cooly at him, or hoped I did. “Your Honor?”

  “I was saying, Miss Spain,” said Judge Lawrence, peering down at me from his throne, “that since Mr. McDowell has decided not to bring his client to the conference, we will adjourn the conference for another week. Hopefully, by then, Mr. McDowell’s client will decide whether or not she wishes to pursue this case.”

  “Give ’em hell, Judge,” my client, who was pleased at this turn of events, muttered under his breath.

  “All rise! The honorable court of Judge Ishmael Lawrence is now adjourned.”

  We watched as Judge Lawrence made his way out of the courtroom. As soon as the judge left, my client began whispering furiously in my ear. “We won that one, didn’t we?”

  He looked so hopeful that I didn’t have the heart to tell him we hadn’t won anything, just a stay of execution. Next week, Judge Lawrence would be raring to go, and no one would be spared his wrath. Judge Lawrence would now look on this case as tainted based on this less than impressive beginning, and we were all going to catch hell.

  “Yes, Mr. Carlton,” I said, “we won this round.”

  My opposing counsel left quickly, without saying good-bye. I can’t say I blamed him. I’d been on the receiving end of Judge Lawrence’s tirades many times, and I knew from experience that it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  We walked out of the courtroom and almost ran into, literally, Detective Claremont. I felt an immediate flush of pleasure, which quickly gave way to alarm. There was something in his dark eyes that said trouble. I said a quick good-bye to my appreciative client.

  “How did you find me?” I asked. “I thought we were going to meet later on today.”

  “We need to talk,” said the detective, looking at me with an almost sympathetic expression. Not a good sign, I thought.

  Marcus Claremont took my arm and gently ushered me toward the elevator. “Your secretary told me you’d be here. Let’s go outside.”

  The door to the elevator opened, and we stepped inside. The elevator was full of people, who either looked bored (the attorneys) or anxious (the clients). No one looked happy. The life of a lawyer, I thought as we rode down on the elevator in silence.

  When we got off the elevator, I turned to the detective and asked, “What is it you want to talk about? I’m not going to wait until we get outside?”

  “There’s no easy way to say this,” he said, staring directly into my eyes. “Lamarr Henry died this morning. Apparently, it was an overdose.”

  I felt my legs go weak. I leaned forward slightly and held the detective’s arm as if to steady myself. Looking back, I don’t know why I did that. I suppose I wanted to feel something solid. Tangible. Maybe I wanted some sort of comfort. I’m not sure. I held on to his arm while he continued talking, but I could not understand what he was saying. He might have been speaking Swahili for all I understood. Lamarr was dead. I started to tremble. I couldn’t stop myself. My whole body started to shake. Marcus held me tight. He didn’t say a word.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, holding his arm, but at some point, I became aware that the detective had stopped talking and was instead looking at me with a great deal of concern in his eyes. Finally, he said, “There’s a coffee place near here.”

  Those words meant nothing to me, and I wondered abstractly, as my mind took in the meaning of those words, what on earth a coffee place had to do with me and the fact that my friend, whom I had just talked to yesterday, was now dead.

  Marcus Claremont gently pried my hand from his arm and ushered me out of the courthouse. I was aware people were now staring at us, and I wondered whether or not my grief—because what I was feeling could not be described in any other way—was hanging over me like a shroud. Folks parted like the Red Sea and let Marcus, who was now holding my hand, and me walk out of the courthouse.

  The bright sunlight hurt my eyes as I walked out of the courthouse and faced a future without the benefit of Lamarr’s smart mouth and his equally smart advice. I followed Marcus, although it seemed as if my feet were no longer connected with my brain. We walked across the park at Cadman Plaza, past little old women feeding birds, past a drunk sleeping off binges, and past schoolchildren dressed in their uniforms, playing ball at recess. Marcus didn’t let go of my hand.

  Across the street from the park was a diner. It didn’t look like much from the outside, a small building with dirty windows, covered by equally dirty plaid curtains. “They have good coffee here,” said the detective, as if I cared about the taste of anything at that moment. We walked inside, and although the place had a look of benign neglect, it appeared much cleaner on the inside than it did from the street.

  Marcus ushered me to a booth in the corner, and he helped me into the seat before he sat down across from me, facing me across a yellow Formica table. “I’m sorry, Jasmine.”

  A waitress appeared at our table. She looked as worn and battle weary as her surroundings, but her voice was kind. “What can I get you, sweetie?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want anything,” I replied, my eyes fastened on the sugar dispenser sitting on the table.

  “I’ll have a coffee, ma’am,” said Marcus Claremont. “Black with no sugar.”

  The waitress disappeared, and Marcus Claremont began talking. “Jasmine, I know you’ve suffered a loss. Your secretary tells me you were very close with Mr. Henry.”

  “What happened?” I asked when I finally got my voice back.

  “He was found in Central Park late last night. Apparently, he overdosed, but we’ve got to get an official report from the coroner. They found his drug paraphernalia nearby.”

  “Somebody killed him,” I said. I was certain of this, as certain as I was that night followed day. “Lamarr would never go back on drugs.”

  “People have been known to have relapses,” Marcus Claremont said gently.

  “Not Lamar
r,” I said.

  “Jasmine, there’s more stuff I need to tell you.”

  I looked over at him, but I didn’t say anything.

  “We found a slip of paper with three names in Lamarr’s jacket pocket. Two of the names were crossed out, the names of Chester Jackson and Lamarr Henry. There was one more name on the paper. Your name.”

  I wanted to yell at him, “Lamarr is dead. Who cares about a damn piece of paper with my name on it?” Instead, I kept on staring at the sugar dispenser.

  “There’s more. Underneath your name, someone wrote ‘one more to go.’ Jasmine, there’s no easy way to put this, but is there anyone who would want to harm you?”

  “I’m a lawyer,” I replied, without mirth. “People hate me for a living.”

  “Well, if you think of anyone ...” His voice trailed off, and he looked out of the window of the diner.

  Tears stung my eyes as I fought a losing battle not to cry in front of this man. How could Lamarr be dead? “This is crazy.”

  “I want you to be careful, Jasmine. Chester had your business card in his pocket when he was found.”

  I stood up. I had heard enough. “I’m not going to talk to you about this. There’s no one out there that’s going to hurt me.”

  “Jasmine, two people on the list are dead. I’m going to do everything possible to see that the third person on the list stays very much alive, but I am going to need you to help me with this.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t help you, Detective. I don’t know anything. You ask me if I have enemies? I’m sure I have enemies. Can I give you a list? I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “This is a bad time.” His words were surprisingly gentle, and that was what released the tight coil inside of me. I started crying as I stood there. Lamarr was dead and Marcus was asking me to make out a list of my enemies.

  I sat back down and laid my head on the table while my grief overwhelmed me. Marcus didn’t say anything. He didn’t offer consolation, advice. Instead, he was silent. After some time, I felt a tissue being placed in my hand, and then another and another, until finally I heard him say, still in that gentle voice, “I’ve run out of tissues, Jasmine.”

  I wish I could have replied that I had run out of tears, but that wasn’t the case. I wiped my eyes. “I can’t help you, Marcus. I don’t know anything.”

  “Tell you what. How about if I give you a drive home?”

  I shook my head. “That won’t be necessary. I can get a taxi.”

  “Just think of me as a faster and safer taxicab service, one that can run through red lights with the aid of a trusty siren.”

  I used one of the crumpled tissues and wiped my eyes. I needed to get back home, to crawl back into my bed and pull the covers over my head. The thought of home became irresistible in its appeal.

  “Okay,” I said, “but no more questions.”

  “I’ll be so quiet, you’ll forget I’m sitting next to you.”

  Marcus Claremont was as good as his word. He got me from downtown Brooklyn to Harlem in less than half an hour, without uttering one word. Only when he pulled up in front of my house did he ask, “Is there anyone I can call?”

  I shook my head. I just wanted to be alone.

  Sharif was sitting on the stoop. The thought that Sharif should be in school and not sitting on the stoop flitted in and out of my mind.

  “Jasmine, what’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I lost a friend,” I said. “A very good friend.”

  He shook his head. “That’s messed up,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  I opened my pocketbook and fumbled for my keys, but Sharif jumped up and opened the front door for me. He followed me downstairs, without saying anything. When we got to my apartment, I thanked him.

  “Let me stay with you, Jasmine. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  I gave him a quick hug. “I’ll be alright. If I need you, I’ll call you.”

  “Hey,” said Sharif. “I’ll be upstairs. All you have to do is holler.”

  The telephone was ringing, and there was someone banging on my door. I ignored both of the intrusions. I don’t know how long I had lain on my bed, with the covers pulled over my head, listening to Stevie Wonder’s CD Songs in the Key of Life. I had fallen asleep with the song “Isn’t She Lovely,” one of my favorites, playing in my head, as well as images of Lamarr and Chester, their faces frozen in a grotesque death mask. The steady ring of the telephone had jarred me from a dreamless sleep.

  I had turned off the answering machine. I stopped counting the number of rings when I got to fifteen. They’ll take the hint soon enough, I thought, but the telephone kept on ringing. It would stop for a few minutes; then the calls would start anew. There is a desperate, insistent sound to a telephone one has decided not to answer.

  Competing for my attention was the sound of someone knocking on my door. The knocking was growing more insistent, and I could hear muffled voices from behind the door.

  “Go away!” I called out.

  “Jasmine, open this door!” I heard my mother’s voice. “I’m here with Dahlia and Thea. We’re worried sick about you!”

  “I’m fine,” I called out, not even ashamed to lie. “Just leave me alone.”

  That statement was greeted with a cessation of the door knocking and the sound of muffled voices discussing something.

  Then my mother spoke again. “We’ll go away if you just let us in to make sure you’re okay.”

  Dahlia chimed in. “We won’t stay. But if you don’t let us in, we won’t leave.”

  “Let us in, Jasmine,” said Thea. “We’re worried about you.”

  Emotional blackmail. There were no better masters of this art than Dahlia and my mother. There were also no women more stubborn on God’s green earth, and I knew they would, true to their word, stay at my door, banging away, if I didn’t let them in.

  “Jasmine,” said my mother, her voice sounding at once stern and loving, “I can easily get the key from your landlord. I’ve done it before.”

  I got out of my bed and walked the short distance from my bedroom to the front door of my apartment. I didn’t even bother to make myself presentable. If they wanted a quick look-see, then that was fine with me. I wasn’t in mortal danger. I just wanted to be left alone. Hopefully, both Dahlia and my mother would understand this was what I needed and would, after a blessedly short visit, go back to their homes to worry about someone else.

  I opened the door, and almost immediately, Dahlia was in my arms. Holding me tightly, she started to cry. No words passed between us; instead, she held on to me as if I were a lifeline, and she cried.

  Dahlia is an emotional person. Everyone who knows Dahlia knows it doesn’t take much to make her cry. She cries at commercials, old movies, the sight of stray dogs, and anything dealing with abused or neglected children, from posters to talk show subjects. Dahlia is a veritable pool of tears. Still, her tears and the love from which they flowed touched me.

  I looked at my mother and Thea over Dahlia’s shoulder. They both look sick with worry. “I’m okay, Mom,” I lied. “Really.”

  “A Detective Claremont called me,” my mother told me. “He was very concerned about you.”

  I wondered how Marcus had managed to track my mother down.

  “I’m so glad he called me.” My mother stepped inside my apartment.

  My sister followed her into my apartment. “Jasmine, the cavalry’s here,” she said as she held my hand.

  11

  I awoke the next morning to a crowded bed. My mother and Dahlia had apparently decided to spend the night with me, and at some point they had crawled into bed. Thea had fallen asleep on my couch. Usually, I’m a light sleeper, often awakened by creaking night noises in my apartment. The fact that I slept soundly, despite being sandwiched between two women, one of whom, Dahlia, had the reputation of being a blanket hog and a violent sleeper, spoke volumes about my grief and my fatigue.

  I tried to get out of bed as carefully
as possible so as not to awaken the other occupants, but I needn’t have bothered. Both my mother and Dahlia were down for the count. I looked at the clock on the wall and saw it was just past eight o’clock. Good, I thought. If I hurried, I could reach B&J by nine o’clock, in time to face Raymond before the office got too busy. There were several questions I needed answered, and I was sure Raymond had the answer to at least a few of those questions.

  I knew Lamarr had not suddenly fallen off the wagon and started doing heroin again. His peace of mind, not to mention his new life, had meant too much to him. I knew how difficult it had been for him to break free of his habit. I knew what that habit had cost him, the loss of all self-respect. I knew he had become too strong a man to want to walk down that road again. Someone had placed a needle full of poison in his arm and killed him. And I was going to find out who that person was.

  I didn’t doubt for a minute there was some connection between Chester’s death and Lamarr’s overdose. Lamarr had known something, something he was afraid to tell me, about Chester’s death. His words came back to me, with clarity. You need to be aware of the undercurrents running around here, my sister. Believe me, they are strong. I didn’t know what undercurrents had found their way into B&J, but I was sure Raymond would know. There were few things about B&J, his pride and his joy, Raymond did not know. He made it his business to keep his hands on the pulse of his firm. Whatever “undercurrents” Lamarr was referring to would probably be already well known to Raymond. In any event, I intended to find out.

  I walked out into my living room and found the couch was occupied by my father, who was awake. He was sitting, reading the New York Times. In his hand was a cup of tea.

  “Hi, Daddy.” I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him. There was no crisis in my life that my parents felt was too great or too small for them to get involved in. Some of my friends would say my parents interfered in my life too much, and I am sure they had a good point. But I knew everything that my parents did was done out of love. Besides, whenever I told them to back off, on those rare occasions, they would respect my wishes. Grudging respect, but respect nonetheless.