The assistant district attorney cleared his throat self-consciously. “I’m not sure. You’re the one who represented the wife in the divorce. What do you think?”
“I think,” she countered strongly, “that it’s highly unlikely!”
After a pause, Jim Girardi agreed. “I tend to be on your side. But he still wants to plea bargain. He’s hoping for probation.”
“That would put him right back on the street, free to do God knows what! I can’t see it. His ex-wife is a gentle person. If—and I do meanif—she held a poker in her hand, she must have had a very certain fear of the man.” Hesitating, she contemplated the next step. “Look, let me speak with Marie and see how she responds to the claim. Then I’ll get back to you. Okay?”
“Fine. But make it fast. We can only hold him so long. If he gets a reduction in bail, he’ll be on the street anyway.”
“I understand.” She grimaced. “Let me give her a call and then we’ll know more. Talk with you later.”
Another pink slip sailed into the basket. Worrying ghost creases into her forehead, Justine jotted a note to herself. She was interrupted when the light on the console flickered. To her relief and pleasure it was the O’Neill who had called earlier, her half brother.
“Tony!” she burst out enthusiastically, responding to the unique place this man held in her heart. “It’s been too long. Howareyou?”
“Just fine, Justine. How’s the eager beaver doing?”
For the first time that afternoon a truly relaxed smile lit her face. “Not bad, for an establishment lawyer,” she poked fun at herself. “Tell me about you—what’s happening?”
For several minutes she listened, leaning back in her chair with her stockinged feet propped against the edge of an out-drawn lower drawer as Tony outlined his latest endeavors. Chief social worker at the local settlement house, he had never a dull moment. But he thrived on it—as did she on her own work’s excitement. Along with a father, fair skin, and similarly amber hair, this was another of the things they shared.
“Listen, Justine”—Tony grew more sober—“I wanted to thank you for what you did for the Aliandro boy. We’re all delighted, now that he’s been placed with foster parents.”
Gratified, she probed. “It’s working out well, then?”
“So far, so good. It’s a relief for him not to have to face a pair of battling, drunken parents every day and night.”
The case itself had been a rewarding one emotionally for Justine. “Every child should have the right to counsel. I’m glad I could have been of help.”
“You’re terrific, you know! Any flak from the firm about cases like these?”
“No, no. They know that I insist on handling a certain number ofpro bonocases. Just because a ten-year-old boy cannot afford to pay a lawyer shouldn’t mean that he is denied his rights. That child has arightto a healthy home environment!”
“Well, thanks to you, he has one now. We’re all in your debt!”
With a blush that her caller could not see, Justine minimized her effort. “It was my pleasure. Call me again soon?”
A mischievous guffaw met her ear. “Are you sure you want that? I always seem to find more work for you.”
“That’s what I’m here for, Tony. Please, do call!”
“Sure thing, Justine. So long!”
For long moments after hanging up the phone she contemplated the success of that particular case. Although ones such as this which Tony had referred her brought in no money, they were, in some ways, the most satisfying—particularly when the outcome was positive.
Once again the console lit. This time it was Dave Brody. “I’ve just managed to get tickets for the theater, Justine. A week from Tuesday. Eight o’clock. Can you make it?”
Momentarily buoyed by her conversation with Tony, Justine accepted the invitation with alacrity. “Sure thing! What will we see?”
“The tickets are forEvita.Have you been?”
“Nope. Sounds good. The reviews have been fantastic—and even though it’s been running for so long, I haven’t been. What time should I be ready?”
“If I pick you up at six thirty, we can grab something to eat beforehand. Something light.” He emphasized the “light,” knowing from experience that this date was not a heavy eater.
Grinning at his perceptivity, she agreed. “Six thirty. I’ll be ready and waiting. See you then!”
Dave Brody was a steady friend, a knightly companion. Justine had met him at a party several years before, had been dating him occasionally ever since. A stockbroker by profession, he was an avid culture nut. In his company she had visited many a museum, enjoyed not only the theater but ballet and opera as well. Though her own appreciation was more geared for pure enjoyment Dave’s knowledgeable commentary always highlighted their evenings together. And, she mused, turning to gaze out her twenty-first-floor window at the steep wall of concrete and glass across the avenue, he made no demands on her—either sexually, or in terms of further commitment. His presence in her life suited her well!
