Hanging on a String Read online

  I looked around the room and noted that all of the attorneys were in attendance, except Chester. We were a motley crew of folk; none of us had that much in common. Yet, for the most part, we associates got along. I couldn’t speak for the partners; they kept their disagreements quiet. Still, one would hear rumblings, usually from the secretaries, who knew absolutely everything. The latest law firm rumor was that Chester was stirring things up again, and there was talk about defections from B&J.

  Raymond cleared his throat, and the chatter in the room immediately ceased. All eyes turned in his direction. I shifted in my seat in an attempt to get comfortable, but I shouldn’t have bothered. The black leather chairs in the conference room, although impressive to look at, were undoubtedly designed by someone who didn’t like lawyers. I looked around the room quickly, trying to gage the mood of those around me. Some of us, those who had gotten to the conference room early enough, got seats around the glass conference-room table. Others leaned against the wall and waited. They all looked as confused as I did.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” said Raymond. No beating around the bush, or trying to give hard news in a soft way. It wasn’t Raymond’s style. “Chester Jackson has been killed. His body was found earlier this morning.”

  I felt the air leave the room. Instantly. I opened my mouth to say something, although I wasn’t sure what to say, and judging from the shocked silence of all those in the room with me, neither did any of my colleagues. I listened to Raymond’s words and tried to understand what they meant. Murder. Chester. Two incongruous words in the same sentence.

  “What happened?” asked Wayne Ling, one of the few associates who had actually enjoyed working with Chester. Wayne had played football for Columbia, which I am convinced had formed the basis of their mutual respect and liking.

  “The details aren’t clear,” replied Raymond, which meant he didn’t want to discuss the details. Raymond was thorough with all things connected to his law firm, and Chester’s death directly affected B&J. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Raymond hadn’t already read the police report.

  We were all hardened New Yorkers who were not im-muned to crime statistics but who had reached a certain place where the seemingly random acts of violence no longer surprised us. Still, none of us had expected the violence to hit so close to home. I looked around me and saw that the shock that I felt was mirrored in the faces around me. There was one face, however, that reflected something more, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  Nina Smyth, one of the firm’s partners, sat in her seat, looking as if she had seen a ghost. Her face, normally pale, now seemed bloodless. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, with shaking hands. Nina wrote the book and published it when it came to being the quintessential tough New York lawyer. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to win a case. I had often remarked that she gave good lawyers a bad name. There was no feeling of solidarity between Nina and the other women lawyers. She was more firmly aligned with the men, and only if she felt they could be of service to her. The only time Nina ever spoke to me was when she was barking out orders or cursing about clients, judges, associates, or anyone who crossed her path. An avid exercise buff who had dieted her way down to borderline anorexic weight, Nina was not someone to be messed with. The only evidence that would support the rumor that Nina did, in fact, possess a heart was the office gossip, which credited Nina with taking care of a sister with serious psychological problems. “Tax write-off,” sneered my secretary, Hernanda, and I was inclined to agree.

  Nina’s eyes met mine briefly. Then, in one awkward motion, she pushed her chair away from the table and walked quickly out of the room, without comment.

  “The police will be coming by,” said Raymond as I marveled at his business-as-usual approach. “I don’t want you to be alarmed, but they’ll be asking a lot of questions. Not to mention the reporters. And, more importantly, our clients. I want you to do all you can to assure our clients that their interests are being taken care of, even at this difficult time.”

  I stood up, wanting to get out of the room. Immediately. I wasn’t sure why the need to leave the conference room was so compelling, but suddenly, the urge to leave was paramount. I needed air. I needed to feel some sort of breeze on my face. I thought of all those times I’d wished Chester ill and felt a nasty taste in my mouth.

  “Just a minute, Jasmine,” said Raymond. “I need to talk to you.”

  Chairs pushed away from the table, backs peeled themselves off the wall, the front door opened, and everyone left the room. Everyone in the room knew that they had been dismissed.

  When the last person left the room, Raymond started talking.

  “Tough break,” he said, his eyes never leaving my face. “Even though he was a son of a bitch, still it’s a tough break.”

  Raymond was a handsome man. While he did not have the over-the-top, male-model handsomeness that Chester had, he was a man whose cool, dark looks would elicit more than his share of female attention. Still, there was a coldness in him, which was disconcerting. Even though Raymond was a friend, and had come to my aid on more than one occasion, I was never completely comfortable with him because of this. He was not someone with whose bad side you wanted to get acquainted.

  “Talk to me, Jasmine Spain,” said Raymond.

  “What do you want me to say?” I asked. I was stunned. I didn’t like Chester, but I didn’t want him to be murdered, either.

  “How are you feeling?” he replied. “I mean, at one point you all were very close.”

  Raymond was fishing around for something. That wasn’t his style, nor was it mine. I decided to cut to the chase. “What are you asking me, Raymond?”

  “Do you still have feelings for him?”

  I’d confided in Raymond about my past relationship with Chester because I’d had to explain to him why I was less than enthusiastic about working with him. He’d assured me that he understood, and until now, he hadn’t mentioned it.

  “What!” I was surprised at the question. It was embarrassing that everyone in the firm knew that Chester had dumped me, but I’d hoped that folks knew that I had moved on.

  “Are you over him?” Raymond asked again.

  “Raymond, for God’s sake, the man just died,” I said. I’d bad-mouthed him enough when he was alive. I didn’t want to talk ill of the dead. “Chester and I are ... were ancient history.”

  He cleared his throat. “That’s good. Because I’m going to need you to be strong in the next few weeks, and it won’t do if your feelings get in the way.”

  It won’t do if your feelings get in the way?

  “Sit down, Jasmine,” said Raymond. “You look like you are going to fall over on your feet.”

  “I prefer to stand,” I replied, my voice tight. This conversation was making me uncomfortable. I couldn’t figure out what Raymond was getting at, but I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself. I’m going to be taking over Chester’s caseload for the time being, and I’m assigning you as the senior associate to the files.”

  Now I was surprised. Although I had worked with Chester, there were several other associates who had done more work with Chester than I ever did.

  “Raymond, Wayne usually worked with Chester. He should be the one on those files.”

  “Are you saying that you’re not up to the task?” asked Raymond. His eyes looked directly into mine.

  “No, I’m not saying that,” I replied. “I’m saying that it’s probably more appropriate for Wayne to handle the cases.”

  “Jasmine,” said Raymond, his voice as cool as his expression, “when your name is on the letterhead, then you can make those decisions.”

  I had been put in my place effortlessly, but I wasn’t about to stay there too long. I was opening my mouth to tell him exactly where he should put his letterhead when Raymond spoke. “Alright; I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

  “You meant it,” I
replied. Folks often marveled that I stood up to Raymond. Everyone in the firm, even Nina, backed down when Raymond was being unreasonable. But I always figured, I was looking for a job when I found B&J, and I could always find another one. My lack of fear when it came to Raymond was probably the primary reason we became friends. I don’t say this with any particular pride. I just come from a long line of women who don’t believe in taking mess from anyone.

  “I meant every word. That’s true,” replied Raymond. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I need your help.”

  “Then maybe you should have asked for it, instead of asking me questions about my personal history.” My voice was unnecessarily sharp, and I knew I was dangerously close to crossing that line between standing up for myself and being disrespectful.

  Raymond raised an eyebrow. “Can I count on getting your help, Jasmine?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I’ll help you. But you have to tell me what this is all about.”

  I knew that Raymond was keeping key information about his request from me. He was being uncharacteristically vague.

  “Later,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about it later. But right now there are some things that I have to do.”

  I took my cue. I had been dismissed. I left Raymond staring out the floor-to-ceiling window at the world below.

  2

  I went back to my office and shut the door. I tried to absorb what I’d learned, but I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around the news that Chester was dead. Maybe this was what they call shock, I reasoned. I picked up the telephone receiver, and before I could stop myself, I dialed my ex-husband’s number at the office. He answered on the first ring. He sounded either annoyed, distracted, or angry. I couldn’t tell.

  “Trevor Vick speaking.”

  In that split second between Trevor’s terse greeting and my response, I knew I had made a mistake. We had been divorced four years now, but I still thought of him first in times of crisis. One of the reasons I had married Trevor was his ability to be calm in the midst of drama. He was the kind of guy that would sit on an airplane during turbulent storms and read the airline magazines, while the rest of the passengers, including me, would be thinking about our next of kin and getting right with the Lord.

  Trevor and I had gotten past most of the bitterness after our divorce, but we were not friends. Occasionally, I would get late-night calls from him, asking me where we went wrong (usually after he’d had a few drinks or had a particularly rough day). Since he still lived in the same neighborhood, I would see him from time to time, but it had been several months since we’d last talked to each other. The last time I saw him, he was walking hand in hand with a fabulous-looking woman—someone who belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. Someone who was not me. Someone who was stylish, slim, and wasn’t wearing all black. Although I’d been the one to walk away from the marriage, it still hurt. Just a little bit. I was never good at reconciling myself to failure, and our marriage had been a failure of gigantic proportions. Looking back, I wasn’t sure why I called him that day, except I was still used to turning to him in times of trouble. He was, as the song goes, a hard habit to break. But I wasn’t doing my best to break it.

  “It’s me,” I said hesitantly. We were divorced, and although it was still easy to lean on him in times of stress, being easy didn’t mean being right. I’d left my husband because he wasn’t the right man for me (in addition to the whole infidelity thing), and God knew, I needed to keep walking in a direction that was opposite from where he stood. I would have hung up the telephone, but I was sure he had caller ID.

  “What’s wrong, Jasmine?”

  I had heard this tone of voice before—the “what kind of trouble is Jasmine in now” tone.

  “It’s nothing,” I said quickly, feeling foolish. “How are you?”

  I was fairly certain that the last thing that Trevor wanted to talk about was an ex-boyfriend. I probably should’ve thought of this before dialing his number.

  Trevor sighed. “I’m fine, Jasmine. But something’s wrong. I know you—”

  I cut him off. Four years after our divorce decree became final, I realized that he’d earned the right to be free. He didn’t need to save me. Those days, if they ever existed, were long gone. I realized that emancipation came with a price. I couldn’t lean on my ex-husband anymore.

  “Look, I gotta go,” I said. “Sorry I bothered you.”

  “Jasmine ...”

  I hung up the telephone receiver before he had a chance to say anything else. I felt like an idiot. Worse, I felt like a weak idiot. Chester’s death had hit me harder than I would have expected. I’m not a cold person. I’m not an unfeeling person, and as my ex-husband, several boyfriends, family, and friends can attest, I can be very emotional. But Chester and I had a bad history, and while I would never have wished death on him, I’m sure I’ve come close. With our acrimonious background (I had blocked out most memories of our long-ago pre-romance friendship), I would not have expected this feeling of overwhelming sadness—and truth be told, guilt. I hadn’t exactly been on good terms with Chester for years.

  The telephone rang again, and I knew it was Trevor calling to make sure I was alright. I didn’t want to talk to him. I was embarrassed by my needy ex-wife display. I thought about calling my sister, but she and her brood were spending the week at my parents’ home in Martha’s Vineyard. I picked up the telephone receiver.

  “Jasmine Spain. May I help you?”

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Spain,” a deep, and surprisingly sultry, voice responded. “My name is Detective Marcus Claremont. I’m investigating the murder of Chester Jackson. Do you have a moment?”

  The theme from Dragnet popped into my head. Although Detective Claremont’s voice sounded like it belonged to a late-night disk jockey, I didn’t want to talk to anyone about Chester’s murder. I hadn’t fully processed the fact that he was dead, and I wasn’t ready to have a conversation on that subject, at least not until I’d actually accepted it.

  “I’m sorry, Detective Claremont, but this really is not a good time.”

  There was a brief moment of silence; then the detective spoke. “Of course, I understand how busy you are, Ms. Spain, but I do need to talk with you.”

  I fought hard to keep my patience in check. In my mind, the detective should have been out looking for whoever was responsible for Chester’s murder, not harassing law-abiding and extremely busy citizens, namely, me.

  “I really don’t see how I can help you, Detective,” I replied, my voice reflecting the chill in my mood. “I just found out about Chester’s murder a few minutes ago. I don’t have any information.”

  I heard a low, soft chuckle over the telephone and felt an unfamiliar fluttering at the base of my stomach. “Well, why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” he asked.

  “I guess I can’t refuse to talk to you,” I grudgingly admitted.

  “No, Ms. Spain,” he responded, apparently still in good humor, “you can’t. One way or the other, we’ll speak. If you prefer, you can always bring a lawyer with you.”

  I bristled at this. Was the detective actually implying I was a suspect? “Detective, am I under suspicion?” I asked.

  “No,” Detective Claremont replied. “It just seems you’re uncomfortable talking with me, and I thought maybe you might feel more comfortable with legal counsel at your side.”

  “If I’m uncomfortable,” I said, between gritted teeth, “it’s because one of my colleagues has just been murdered.”

  “I understand that, Ms. Spain.”

  “Do you?” I asked, not bothering to conceal my sarcasm.

  “I do,” he said. “When can we meet? Would tomorrow morning be convenient for you?”

  “I have to be in court at eleven,” I replied.

  “No problem. I can meet you at your office around eight.”

  “Why don’t we just meet at the crack of dawn?” I asked, annoyed that I would have to come into the office so early. I usually
don’t make it to the office before nine o’clock on a good day.

  “Well,” Detective Claremont replied, “I could do that. But then I’d have to miss my morning jog in Riverside Park.”

  “How nice for you,” I replied. “I would’ve thought that you’d get enough exercise chasing down criminals.”

  I was rewarded for my sarcasm with another soft chuckle. “I’m always open to jogging partners,” he replied. “Care to join me?”

  “I’ll see you at eight,” I snapped.

  “Great. I’ll bring the coffee. How do you take it?”

  “I don’t,” I responded. “I drink tea.”

  “Any particular kind?”

  I was fighting a losing battle with my impatience. “What difference does that make?”

  “I’ve seen you in court, Ms. Spain,” the detective informed me. “It was a couple of years ago ... I have to say I really admired your ... spirit. I thought your tough demeanor was reserved for the courtroom. I guess I was wrong.”

  “I guess you were,” I replied, hoping to get him off the phone as quickly as was humanly possible.

  “So what kind of tea do you like, and how do you like it?”

  I was exasperated, and I wanted to get off the telephone.

  “Mint tea,” I replied. “No milk and no sugar.”

  “See you at eight.”

  I hung up the telephone, annoyed, and almost instantly, the telephone rang again.

  “Jasmine Spain,” I said, praying it wasn’t the detective.

  My prayers were answered. It was my best friend, Dahlia. “I just heard,” she said. She usually never bothered starting her telephone conversations with the generally accepted practice of saying hello. “It’s all over the news! I always knew Chester was heading for a fall, but damn, I didn’t think someone would actually go and kill him.”

  Dahlia Wills and I had been best friends since our freshman year at Wellesley, where we roomed together. We both were from New York, but she was a Brooklyn girl, while I was strictly Manhattan. Back then, she thought I was a card-carrying member of the black bourgeoisie, and I thought she was just plain old odd. We were both wrong. Dahlia’s father had been a bus driver for MTA New York City Transit for thirty-five years, before he retired, and her mother still did hair at a beauty shop on Flatbush Avenue. I still enjoyed many Sunday dinners over at their house in Crown Heights. There was nothing remotely odd about my best friend. True, she marched to the beat of a different drummer, but to me, she was refreshing.