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Chapter 1
Bertha Brannon worked her Jeep into a tight parking spot and cut the ignition. Anxious to get out of the heat, she checked her watch and thought about the coming weekend. For once there was nothing pressing. The two days off seemed to stretch out like an empty highway across the flat summer prairie.
Bertha waved at the new woman with the dark crew cut who worked in Lilith’s Book Store and hurriedly pushed through the revolving doors into the Lambert Building, where the marble lobby felt cool.
On the third floor, in her own office, Bertha kicked off her black pumps and rubbed her nyloned calves. Despite a window air conditioner that worked day and night, her office was warm. An oscillating fan rattled on top of a four-drawer file cabinet in the corner. Late afternoon sunlight filtered between the vertical blinds and fell across the disheveled desk. She rummaged through a stack of file folders looking for her appointment book. Alvin, her part-time secretary, had left early for a dentist’s appointment.
Bertha was pretty sure the whole afternoon had been blocked out for court. If no one was scheduled at four, she would slide out of the panty hose too. Her six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame wasn't meant for skirts and heels. She only had two court outfits. They usually hung on a coat rack that was obscured by a cluttered bookshelf in the corner. She had several packages of Queen-Tall panty hose--the damn things always ripped when she was getting in or out of them. Bertha wore jeans and tennis shoes in the office--sometimes a blazer. She'd never be the cut-throat professional, African-American woman with a power wardrobe she used to admire. She had given up trying to fit into that mold after two years at the state’s attorney's office. They had wanted her to stay. Women, especially black women, were more at ease with Bertha. They could tell her the ugly truths that would often make or break a case. Sometimes Bertha longed for the security and regular pay check. But she didn’t miss the dress code.
Several files slid to the floor when she pulled out the appointment book. There was no one scheduled that afternoon, but dinner with Alvin and Randy had been penciled in at seven. She was glad for the free time, but worried. There had only been three new clients since Monday--two divorces, referred from the battered women's shelter, and a wage assignment for child support. None of them had the fifty dollars for the first consultation. She had informed each of them that she took only so many cases on a sliding scale--then took them all.
"Damn it, Bertha," Alvin swore when she'd handed him the last file to type. "The rent's due Monday. If you keep taking these cases, you won't have time for the work that pays."
"As long as I have the contract with the public defender, the rent will be paid," she'd said. Why was she explaining her decisions to the secretary anyway? She'd been in juvenile court all afternoon defending a fifteen-year-old boy who was charged with car theft. Jimmy Reed was a good-looking kid--tall, slim, blond hair, green eyes--with a brand new Mickey Mouse tattoo. Jimmy "borrowed" his father's car, stole the stereo and a couple of blank checks, then used the money and the transportation to get himself and a school friend tattooed. His dad pressed charges. The boy lived with his mother. Mr. Reed was remarried, behind on child support, and rarely saw the kid. Though it was a separate issue, Bertha had been allowed to mention the unpaid child support because they were in Juvenile Court. Judge Wallace sent everyone out of the room and asked Bertha if she would put together a wage assignment against Mr. Reed. "If she had her child support, she could get some help for the boy. Most of the kids we see are too far gone. This one has a chance."
Bertha had a form on the computer. Most of the time she slipped them in with divorce packages. Jimmy got months of court supervision and the standard lecture. Bertha called his mother aside after the others were gone and asked her to put together the details for the wage assignment, child support, medical costs and everything else the divorce agreement said Mr. Reed was responsible for and have it to her by next Monday.
Bertha felt good about the whole thing. But payment for county contract work would take months and was irregular at best. She didn't think she should have to explain that to Alvin. But the reminder about the rent did make her nervous. Running her own office, she didn't have to worry about dress codes or billable hours. But she still had to worry about the bills.
Bertha rubbed her right foot. Her toes were cramping. She ran her hands up her round, nyloned thighs and hooked her thumbs in the waist band of her panty hose. She stood slightly behind her desk, rolled the things down over her hips, and pulled first one foot, then the other, free. She picked up the damp nylons from the floor and tossed them into her bottom drawer.
The air conditioner humming behind her was on high. She turned and let the cool air blow on her neck. She bent forward and felt the air beneath her blouse.
Through the third-story window, she could see the street below. There was a line of cars at the drive-up bank on the corner. Heat waves rose from the sidewalk like an electric stove left on high. There were only a few pedestrians.
Bertha wanted to get home and put some more Sulfur 8 on her itching scalp. She cursed Alvin and his hairdresser boyfriend for talking her into the blonde hair. Not only did she look like Wesley Snipes in "Demolition Man," but her hair was also drier and harder to manage than ever.
"Excuse me." A voice from behind Bertha cut through her thoughts. She turned to face a slender young white woman in a red sleeveless dress.
Bertha quickly sat behind the desk. She hoped it hid her bare legs.
"I'd like to see Miss Brannon."
"I'm Bertha Brannon. Did you have an appointment?"
The woman smiled apologetically. "Barry Levine, the attorney down the hall, told me you might be here. I had an appointment with him, but he couldn't help me. The outer office was empty, but I saw you in here."
"Barry thought I could help you when he couldn't?" Bertha was suspicious. Barry Levine never turned away a client.
"Yes." The woman glanced back over her shoulder as though someone was behind her.
Bertha checked the empty doorway.
The woman asked, "Do you have time to see me now?"
"Well actually . . . "
"It's very important," the woman pleaded. "I don't know what I'll do if I have to wait all weekend. Please, Miss Brannon."
"Call me Bertha." Bertha motioned to the folding chair next to the file cabinet. "I only have a few minutes. Now what is this about?"
"My name is Sally Morescki." The woman scooted the chair to the corner of the desk.
Bertha pulled a pen from the center drawer and a legal pad from the bottom of one of the stacks on her desk. "Can you spell that for me, please?"
Sally started to spell her last name slowly, then flinched and looked behind her. "Did you hear a noise?"
"No." Bertha sighed. "Look, if you need an order of protection, you can file for that yourself."
"I have one."
"Well if he's violated it, you can call the police yourself. Lawyers are expensive." Bertha thought she knew exactly why Barry Levine had sent Sally Morescki down the hall.
"Do you believe in the tarot?" Sally asked.
Bertha wiped beads of sweat from her upper lip. The damn polyester blouse was soaked under her arms and around her waist. She wanted to go home, get out of the monkey suit and put on a pair of cut-off jeans. "I know what it is. Cards, right?"
Sally nodded. "Each card means something . . . "
Bertha interrupted her. "At the risk of sounding trite, can we cut to the chase? It's been a long day."
"I just came from a reading. I was advised to get a lawyer." Sally swallowed hard. "I was advised to get one today."
"Are you telling me that you had your fortune told . . . "
"It was the tarot."
"Tarot, tea leaves, what difference does it make? You're getting a lawyer on the advice of a gypsy?"
"A witch," Sally corrected her.
"And what exactly are you employing a lawyer to do?" Bertha made a mental note to thank Barry Levine for this one.
"Defend me," said Sally Morescki. "I'm going to be charged with murder."
Bertha started scribbling on the legal pad. "Now we're getting somewhere," she said. "Who is dead?"
"No one."
Bertha threw the pen on her paper-laden desk a little too hard. She sat back in the desk chair and glared at the blonde woman. "You are going to be charged with murder, and no one is dead?"
"I'm going to murder my husband." Sally's voice was soft. There was a hint of excitement, as if she were really looking forward to it.
"Mrs. Morescki, if you say the man deserves to die, I believe you. But I am required by law to report your intention to kill him." Bertha spread her arms in a gesture to indicate the situation was out of her hands. "Maybe you shouldn't say any more. When they arrest you, you'll be allowed a phone call. Get in touch with me then."
"I don't intend to kill him. But the cards . . . "
"I know, the witch-- "
"Yes, she told me to find a lawyer today."
"Where did this witch study law?"
Sally Morescki sighed. She picked up her purse and started rummaging through it. She looked as if she was going to cry.
Bertha turned to the window ledge and picked up a box of Puffs. She offered them to Sally.
"Thanks," Sally muttered and blew her nose.
There was a long silence. Finally Bertha said, "Why don't you tell me about him?"
"My husband is a very influential man." Sally leaned forward and spoke softly, as if someone in the empty outer office might hear. "We've been married for two years. I thought things were going fine until last February."
"What happened?" Bertha looked the woman over and tried to figure how well-off this "influential" husband was. Sally didn't really look rich. The red dress was a simple affair. The shoes could have been from Payless. Her hair was cut short, in one of those white women's shake-and-go cuts. Sally was a blonde too, although hers looked natural. There were subtle clues that things weren't going well for her- - the dark circles under her eyes, an ashen complexion. She looked like one of the women referred from the battered women's shelter. "He didn't come home for a week," Sally answered. "We quarreled."
"You two fight a lot?" Bertha thought she knew the answer.
But Sally shook her head, "No, not until then. He seemed very irritable. I thought it might be pressure at his business or another problem with his ex-wife."
"So you are the second wife?" Bertha was making notes again.
Sally flushed. "I was his secretary. There was a messy divorce. I'm ashamed to admit that, when he disappeared for a week, I thought he was involved with Miss Cornwell, the new secretary. After I was sure he wasn't dead, that is."
"Why be ashamed of that?" Bertha asked. "It's a natural assumption." Bertha remembered her Aunt Lucy, who'd had five husbands, telling her that if you took a woman's man, some day another woman would take him from you.
Sally met Bertha's eyes. "You're very blunt, aren't you?"
"Blunt. Cynical." Bertha sighed. "Also hot and my feet hurt."
"How much would it cost to retain you?" Sally asked.
"As far as I can see you don't have a need to retain me," Bertha said. "I could take your money. But the fact is, you don't need an attorney. That's probably why Barry Levine couldn't help you. And it's the reason I can't either."
Sally's forehead wrinkled in a frown. She appeared puzzled. "Do you know anything about criminal law?" she asked.
"I worked for two years in the state’s attorney’s office. I handled my share of criminal cases there. As a prosecutor, of course." Bertha leaned back in her chair. "There is one thing I do know for sure. And that is, you have to have a crime."
"But, Madame Soccoro . . . "
"You're not planning on murdering your husband?"
"Of course not!"
"But you have an order of protection?" Bertha didn't really understand why she was continuing the conversation. Maybe it was because Sally kept sitting there, and Bertha couldn't leave the room without exposing her bare legs.
"When he finally came home last winter, we quarreled. He pushed me around." Sally lowered her voice, "I went home to my mother's for a while. He kept calling. Mom insisted I get the order of protection."
"When was the first time he hit you?" Bertha asked.
Sally hung her head, "I don't remember."
It was Bertha's experience that that was one thing a woman did remember. She might forget all the times in between, but she could remember the first time, and maybe the last. "Where is your husband now, Mrs. Morescki?"
Sally shrugged, "I don't know."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"A week ago."
Bertha felt a drop of sweat run down her spine. She discreetly checked her watch, then picked up the legal pad, and fanned herself with it. "You want a divorce, Mrs. Morescki?" she asked at last.
"Would you take my case?" Sally seemed to be getting the idea.
"Any children?" Bertha asked.
"No."
"Property?"
"We own our home together. Two cars," said Sally, "the usual."
Bertha said, "I would need six hundred dollars flat fee. If there are complications, there will be additional charges."
Sally opened her purse and rummaged around. "According to Madam Soccoro, there will be complications," she said. "I'll feel better knowing you're on my team."
Sally retrieved a business size white envelope and opened the flap. It was full of money. She pulled out a stack of one hundred dollar bills and counted out six.
Bertha's temple started a faint throbbing. She ignored it, took the money from Sally's outstretched hand, and stifled a sigh of relief upon seeing the rent money in front of her, in cash. "What are your grounds?"
"Huh?"
"For the divorce," said Bertha. "We could file no-fault, but with property involved, it might be best if you were the injured party. That is, unless he agrees with the divorce and our ideas about the settlement."
"Is mental cruelty all right?" Sally asked.
Bertha shrugged. "Okay by me. Any special considerations on property? The usual fifty/fifty split?"
"I’d like for him to sell everything and split the money. I suppose he’ll want to keep his business. He can buy my stock."
"We’ll try. Bring me a list. I'll get the paperwork ready to file Monday afternoon." Bertha was writing on the legal pad again. She stopped, reached for the bottom drawer and pulled it open. Her panty hose were in a heap on top of the bank bag. She tried to remember where Alvin kept the receipt book.
Sally looked at her watch. "God, I didn't realize it was this late." She reached across the desk and extended her hand. "Thank you for taking time to see me, Bertha."
Bertha shook the Sally's thin, cool hand, and said, "I'll get you a receipt."
"Can I get it Monday?" Sally was already stepping toward the door. "I have another appointment."
"Sure. Sure." Bertha waved her on. She was relieved to have the interview over. She turned and scraped her shin on the open desk drawer. She reached to close it, and when she looked up a second later, Sally Morescki was gone.
Bertha pulled a blank file folder from a box on the floor and wrote "Morescki" on the tab. She ripped two pages of notes from the legal pad and shoved them inside. She decided to make the deposit herself rather than leave it for Alvin on Monday. Until now there had only been four ten-dollar checks, sent by women who were paying their bills by the month, and one five-dollar check from a woman who couldn't put together the ten. The cash made her nervous, and she didn't want to leave it in the office all weekend.
Preparing the deposit took fifteen minutes. She listed the check number, amount and client's name in the A/R Ledger, added everything up twice, wrote six hundred and forty-five dollars on the deposit slip, and dropped the yellow bank bag in her briefcase.
From her office door, she took one last look at the mess on her desk and promised herself she'd definitely sort it out Monday and have Alvin file it away. With her inner door closed, the outer office looked immaculate.
The only things on Alvin's desk were a plant and his phone. She closed the outer door and locked it.
When Bertha got off the elevator on the first floor, the lobby was empty. Her dress shoes made hollow sounds on the gleaming marble tiles. Passing the mailboxes, she thought she heard a soft scrape. She turned quickly, but saw nothing. As she pushed through the revolving door out into the sultry air, she admonished herself for being so jumpy.
As bad as Sally Morescki, she thought.
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