Hanging on a String Read online

  “Here’s the last load, Jasmine,” he announced. “Thank God.”

  I looked up from the work and was relieved to see a friendly face.

  “You look as if you’ve just lost your favorite teddy bear,” he said.

  “Tough times,” I replied.

  Lamarr closed the door behind him. “This thing with Chester has gotten everybody pretty spooked.”

  I let out a long sigh in response, unable to think of anything to say other than the obvious. For most folks, including me, murder was a spooky thing.

  “I know this might be a stupid question,” Lamarr continued, looking directly at me, “but is something else, something other than the demise of Chester Jackson, bothering you?”

  He knew me too well. “Thea left her husband.”

  “What happened?” Like most of my male friends, Lamarr had a not so secret crush on my sister.

  “He cheated on her.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t believe that. Brooks isn’t stupid enough to do that.”

  I thought back to the conversation I’d just had with my mother. Both she and Lamarr obviously had more faith in Brooks than was warranted.

  “Could we change the subject?” I asked. I didn’t feel like discussing my sister’s marital issues, particularly after my less than wonderful conversation with my mother on the subject. The demise of my own marriage still caused the occasional bouts of pain, and the thought of my sister having to go through the same crisis depressed me.

  “How many files have you got there?” I asked him.

  “Forty-two files. That should be all of them, or that’s what Irmalee says.”

  I got up to help Lamarr unload the cart laden with Chester’s case files.

  I thought of Irmalee’s bitter reaction to my offer of condolences earlier this morning and shook my head. I hoped I didn’t have to deal with her too often, although I knew she would be the most logical person to help me if I had any questions about the files.

  “I told her that she probably shouldn’t have come to work today,” said Lamarr as we took case files off the cart and searched for space in my office to store them. “But she wasn’t about to hear that. It’s almost as if she feels like she’s still working for him.”

  “They were close,” I said neutrally.

  “Yes, they were,” he agreed, but there was something about the tone of his voice that made me stop and look at him.

  I knew that tone of voice well. He had some serious scoop, and with gentle or not so gentle prodding, I would soon find out exactly what it was he knew.

  Although I got along with most of the people in the firm, I wasn’t close to anyone but Raymond, Lamarr, and Hernanda, my secretary. Lamarr and I had spent many late evenings in the office, talking about life and firm gossip. He kept my secrets and made me laugh even on bleak days when I cursed the day I entered the legal profession. We were buddies almost from his first day at work at B&J.

  Tall, thin, with skin so light that most people thought that he was white, Lamarr had come to B&J right out of drug rehab. Raymond had been a board member of the rehab center, and another board member, an idealistic social worker who still believed in the goodness of people’s hearts, prevailed upon Raymond to give Lamarr a job. Lamarr had started out as a file clerk and ended up running the mail room, and in most respects, running the office. He helped out with everything, from sorting mail to document production, to supervising the file clerks. Raymond often said that Lamarr was his best hire. I was inclined to agree.

  “Now, Jasmine girl, you know how I hate to gossip... .”

  I didn’t know any such thing. In fact, I knew the opposite was true, and I said as much.

  “You got me there,” he replied. “But I don’t want to gossip about the recently dearly departed.”

  “Lamarr!”

  “Now, Jasmine, you know that discretion is my middle name.”

  “I don’t know any such thing,” I replied.

  Lamarr closed the door, a sure sign that he was ready to dish the dirt, and sat down in front of me, in the same chair that Detective Claremont had occupied earlier that morning. He flashed me a smile and lowered his voice.

  “Jasmine, now you know you didn’t hear it from me, but Irmalee and Chester had been kicking it for years.”

  “Kicking it?”

  “You know, they’d had a relationship for a while. Let’s put it this way: their thing predated his marriage to Sherrie, and from what I hear, they were together even before you lost your mind and dated that fool, not to talk ill of the dead.”

  With everything that was going on with my sister, and everything I knew about Chester, this news shouldn’t have surprised me. What did surprise me was that I had not picked up this particular bit of gossip on the office grapevine.

  “How did you find this out?” I asked Lamarr.

  “Let’s just say that my eyes did not deceive me one cold winter night.”

  I shook my head. If I’d married Chester, I would have shared Sherrie’s fate. “This was still going on after he and Sherrie got together?”

  Lamarr nodded his head. “I didn’t discuss it with you at the time because of your, er, history with the man, but now that you’re going to be working on Chester’s files, probably with Irmalee’s help, I figured that it was time to give you full disclosure.”

  I agreed. It was best to know all when you were walking into a minefield, something I suspected I was doing as I examined Chester’s files.

  “In other words, Sister Jasmine,” Lamarr continued, “watch your back.”

  I could see why all those women in Red Hook, the neighborhood that Lamarr grew up in and swore never to leave, were steadily trying to catch his attention. There was no nicer, kinder person than Lamarr. An all true man, as Alexander O’Neal used to sing. There were times when I would wonder what it would be like to be more than friends, but we’d never crossed that particular bridge, and it was just as well.

  “When are you going to find some nice woman and rock her world?” I would ask, but I knew the answer.

  Lamarr’s wife had died years ago, and his grief about her death had ultimately led to his dance with Mr. Heroin. A dance that almost killed him. It had taken years, but he got clean and stayed clean. Still, a certain sadness remained, and the earth mother in me was always drawn to protect him.

  Even now, I wanted to help chase away some of that pain, which I still saw in his eyes. “You need a good woman in your life,” I told him, but I knew that there was no woman alive that could compete with the ghosts that inhabited his heart.

  “Folks talk about Red Hook and how bad things are there.” Lamarr’s voice cut through my thoughts. “But when your number’s up, don’t matter where you live. Look at Chester, living in that fancy town house over on Park Avenue.”

  I nodded my head.

  Lamarr looked at me. “Enough talk about Chester. How are you doing? I know that even though you guys fell out, you once cared for him.”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I guess I’m still trying to understand how this could have happened.”

  “Nothing to understand. He lived by the sword.”

  “Lamarr!” I was surprised at the hardness in his voice. I knew that Lamarr didn’t like Chester. Chester had talked down to him on several occasions. People like Lamarr, people that didn’t have anything that Chester wanted, didn’t exist in his orbit.

  “I’m sorry he’s dead, Jasmine,” Lamarr said quietly. “But he was retribution waiting to happen.”

  I couldn’t blame Lamarr for how he was feeling. I knew there were several other people in New York singing the same song.

  “Well, he’s in the hands of the ancestors now,” said Lamarr. “It’s the ones who are left behind. Those are the ones I pity. I’m sure there are folks who cared about him, and those are the folks I feel for.”

  I digested this in silence.

  “While we’re on the subject,” said Lamarr, “watch out for Nina Smyth. Don’t tru
st her.”

  “What does Nina have to do with Chester?” I asked.

  Lamarr raised a censoring eyebrow.

  “They were kicking it?” I asked, using Lamarr’s phrase.

  “You got it.”

  I never thought I’d ever feel sorry for Chester’s wife, Sherrie. She was a hard, calculating woman who viewed Chester’s breakup with me as a personal triumph. Still, it was hard not to pity her given the current circumstances.

  “That explains Nina’s reaction to the news yesterday.”

  “Watch your back, Jasmine,” Lamarr repeated.

  I hated when Lamarr was deliberately cryptic. “Lamarr, what are you saying?”

  “Raymond isn’t going to like it when all Chester’s dirt starts coming out. You know how protective he is about the firm. You need to be aware of the undercurrents running around here, my sister. Believe me, they are strong.”

  I repeated my question. “Lamarr, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying be careful. Watch your back. Chester was into a whole lot of stuff, and all of it’s gonna come out. Just keep your eyes open.”

  “Lamarr, you have to give me more information than that,” I said.

  “Keep your eyes open,” he repeated. “That’s as specific as I’m going to be right now. Trust me, you’ll be safer that way.”

  “Safer?”

  Lamarr stood. “Jasmine, sometimes it’s better and safer not to know too much. Trust me.”

  6

  After going through about half of the files on my desk, and finding nothing that looked even remotely “unusual,” I decided it was time to take a break. Looking at the clock on the wall, I saw it was already three o’clock in the afternoon. It was time for a break. I was suddenly famished. Quickly deciding on Thai food, I rummaged through my desk, looking for the Thai Orchid’s take-out menu.

  The telephone interrupted my search, and I answered on the first ring. Our firm has a telephone code, with which by now I was very familiar. One ring was a call from someone in the office. Two quick rings was an outside line. Three rings was my private, direct line. The phone rang three times.

  “Hello,” I answered, expecting to hear the voice of one of my parents, Thea, or Dahlia. They were the only people who used my direct line.

  “Is this Jasmine Spain?” a vaguely familiar voice asked.

  “This is Jasmine,” I replied, surprised that someone not in my inner circle was calling on my personal line. Not many people had the number. “Who’s calling?”

  “This is Mariah Brown.”

  “Mrs. Brown, you’re represented by counsel. I should not be talking with you. If you have any information you want to get to me, have your lawyer give me a call.”

  “I know the rules, Miss Spain,” Mariah replied. “Sometimes I just choose not to follow them.”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I need your help.”

  “The police are looking for you,” I said, remembering that Marcus Claremont had informed me this morning that Mariah Brown was among the missing, and from what I gleaned from the cautious Claremont, Mariah was a suspect in Chester’s death. “You need to call your attorney.”

  As if she read my thoughts, Mariah said, “I didn’t kill Chester Jackson, Miss Spain. Although I can’t say that I’m too broken up about it. But I didn’t kill him.”

  “That’s something you need to discuss with the police,” I replied, wondering why she was calling me. Unlike the blatant contempt with which she had regarded Chester, she had, for the most part, ignored me.

  Mariah Brown’s laugh was harsh. “The police? After what they did to my child? Have you forgotten, Miss Spain, that I sued the police? They’re supposed to believe me?”

  “I don’t see how I can be of assistance to you,” I replied. “You need to call your attorney.”

  “I don’t see how I can be of assistance to you.” She repeated my words in a perfect imitation of my lawyer-speak. “I guess you’re right, Miss Spain. Something about you, I thought, was different from the rest. I thought maybe you weren’t like the rest of them lawyers, but I see you’re just a slave carrying a briefcase.”

  “There’s no need for you to insult me, Mrs. Brown.”

  “I ain’t insulting you,” she replied. “I’m just telling the truth. I’m also going to tell you this: there was someone there when your client shot my son. My son remembered hearing dogs barking and seeing somebody there.”

  “Does this person have a name?” I asked.

  “I don’t know who the person is,” Mariah replied. “But there’s someone out there who saw what happened to my baby, and I’m going to find that person.”

  She hung up before I had a chance to reply. I wasn’t sure what I would have said, anyway, if given the chance.

  As much as I love good food in general, and good Thai food in particular, my appetite disappeared after my phone call with Mariah Brown. Why had she called me? We were on opposite sides of the case, and, I suspected, we were also probably on opposite sides in life view. She looked at me probably the same way that God-fearing folks looked at ladies of the evening hard at work plying their trade.

  I was used to this reaction. Many people didn’t like lawyers. Hell, I wasn’t too fond of most of the members of my profession, either. Still, I would say defensively, there are such creatures as good lawyers. Folks who truly believe in truth, justice, and not just a big, fat retainer. My friends from college who knew I fasted for migrant workers, held sit-ins against apartheid, and wore black armbands in support of organizations fighting to end international human rights violations could not reconcile their current vision of me as a Wall Street lawyer.

  I was particularly sensitive to the criticism leveled at me that I had sold out. As far as I was concerned, I could do more working from the inside than I could protesting against “the system.” My friends did not buy it, but nevertheless, I contented myself with the knowledge that I always counseled my client to do the right thing, even if it ended up costing the client a lot of money.

  The Daniel Brown case, however, was different. I was convinced that Daniel was a victim of the increasingly common phenomenon—police brutality. This case was the only case in my career that I’d tried to get the hell off of as quickly as possible. Chester had insisted that I remain, and Raymond had backed him a thousand percent on this.

  I’d try to reason with myself that even a creep like Pileski deserved good representation; after all, our system was built upon the basic tenet that the accused was innocent until proven guilty. God knows that he had stated loudly and consistently that he was wrongfully accused. His words provided no comfort, however, when I had to look into the eyes of Daniel Brown and his mother.

  Now Mariah Brown had called me to declare her innocence. I understood why she wouldn’t call the police. This was a woman who firmly believed that the police were responsible for almost killing her son. She would not turn to them for any kind of assistance. But why call me? I wondered. There had to be others she could turn to. Why would she turn to the lawyer defending the cop who was accused of brutally beating her son? What about her own lawyer? Why hadn’t she called him?

  I looked at my desk and saw Detective Claremont’s business card. If anything comes to mind, Miss Spain, please give me a call. I was certain that a call from the woman suspected of murdering Chester Jackson qualified. I felt nervous about calling him. I was attracted to him, and that was unsettling. It had been a long time since I’d been attracted to anyone. My dating life was sporadic at best. The crazy hours I worked didn’t leave much room for romance—not that I was planning to have anything romantic with Marcus Claremont—but the memory of those amber eyes and that sexy smile could make a sister weak. I got his voice mail and left a message asking him to call me. I told him that I’d explain more when we spoke. Hanging up the telephone, I had to admit that I was disappointed. I’d been looking forward to hearing that deep, sexy voice. Oh well, I thought as I
pushed thoughts of Marcus Claremont out of my mind.

  I then did something I’d done several times before that day: I called my sister. I’d tried to reach Thea all day but to no avail. I’d tried her cell phone, and no one answered. I’d called my home and was likewise unsuccessful. I was worried sick about her, but I also knew she needed some space. Thea was the kind of person who needed to work things out in her own head. I’d determined to give her the space she needed, but the sister in me couldn’t stop from calling her again.

  I still had a hard time believing that Brooks would cheat. Why would he cheat on Thea? I wondered. She’s gorgeous, kind, funny, smart, and totally devoted to her family. But I knew that many other gorgeous, kind, funny, smart, and equally devoted women fell prey to cheating husbands. Unfortunately, I knew this from personal experience. Still, bad things weren’t supposed to happen to my sister.

  The telephone kept ringing, and I finally hung up when my answering machine clicked on. I’d already left Thea seven messages, and I was certain that message number eight wouldn’t be answered, either.

  Raymond came to my office door at eight o’clock that evening.

  “Found anything interesting?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “The only thing I’ve learned, and which you already know, is that Chester was probably the most organized, anal-retentive attorney who ever walked this earth. Everything is in order. Every phone conversation he ever had was memorialized, down to date and time of call. Lists of potential witnesses are alphabetized. He kept drafts of everything he ever wrote, even letters.”

  Raymond lifted a pile of folders from one of the chairs in the corner of the room and then dumped them on the floor. As he sat down, he said, “Found anything that could hurt us?”

  Hurt us? “Raymond, if you told me what you’re looking for, then this needle in a haystack thing could be entirely avoided.”

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for, Jasmine!” Raymond’s voice rose in irritation.