High Risk

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

The Meechum vs. Meechum case was a pain. Mark Walsh hung up the phone, turned back to his desk, and drummed his fingers on its mahogany surface. Outside, the sky was the brilliant blue of autumn. He wondered why he had chosen to make a career of arbitrating others’ misery. He watched as two guys on a platform washed the windows of the high-rise opposite and thought that maybe such a job wouldn’t really be bad work.

Alex Meechum had filed for divorce from his wife, Becky, nine months ago. Nine torturous months in which nothing had been resolved. Not the custody of their eight-year-old daughter, Melissa. Not who would get the house in Lake Forest or the loft apartment in Wicker Park. Not even who would get which of their four automobiles. Becky, when Mark had first met her, had been gentle, seemingly in need of protection. Doe eyes, and short brown hair, a frail little thing who favored flowing dresses that reached almost to her ankles. Now under the tutelage of her attorney, who had the curious name of Stephen Spielberg, she had become an acidic shrew. Even her appearance had changed: her hair cut spiky, tinted red, the flowing dresses replaced with formfitting suits and heels too high for her. Alex had said that if he dropped a dime on the street, Becky would have been drawing up a petition to get a nickel of it.

The joke wasn’t that far from the truth, except the petition would have asked for eight cents.

Their trial had been scheduled for July. But Spielberg had asked for more time, citing a need for additional evaluation of Alex by the Jungian psychoanalyst he had hired. The judge, nearing completion of her term and a move to criminal court, couldn’t have cared much one way or the other, and was happy to grant the extension.

Which would mean a new judge—and a whole new set of unknown variables and, truth be known, prejudices. Judges were people, too, and did not walk into courtrooms blank slates.

Alex was pushing him to see if he could speed things up, to find some dirt on Becky. It was funny how marriage could quickly turn to war. Where did the love go?

He could never imagine such a scenario with his Beth. Had the people he had counseled once felt the same about their spouses? Somehow Mark doubted it. What he and Beth had was different, special, rare.

And now Spielberg had just phoned to say the trial would be pushed back even further, probably into the new year. He had exercised his right to throw out the new judge, without giving a reason.

Alex would be in his office within an hours’ time, red faced and raving, once Mark told him of this latest maneuver. But who else did one vent one’s fury on in situations like these? That’s what attorneys were paid for, wasn’t it? Mark picked up the silver-framed picture of Beth and longed to be at home with her.

Sometimes, the money wasn’t worth it. The whole business had nothing to do with the expedient process of law, nothing to do with helping people. It was all delays, backbiting, money, nipping at each other, tearing each other apart, until there was nothing left but regret, empty bank accounts, and traumatized children. Mark was beginning to see his role as little more than a blade for backstabbing.

He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. He stood, looking out over the buildings, all the way to Lake Michigan. The sailboats represented freedom to him and he longed for that freedom with an almost-palpable desire. He could almost feel the water’s cool breeze in his face.

He sat, picked up a legal pad and the Kohinoor Mont Blanc fountain pen Beth had given him when he’d made partner, and began scribbling some notes for petition to show cause in another case, this one involving failure to pay child support. More ugly business. He threw down the pen.

“f**k it,” he whispered. Indian summer would be over in a blink…then there would be nothing but gray skies, plummeting temperatures, snow, and trudging to and from work in darkness. He had no court appointments today.

In a way, he was free—and he should grab this small chance at freedom.

Mark unfastened the top button of his shirt, loosened his tie. He buzzed his assistant.

“Annette? Listen, could you do a couple things for me? First, call Alex Meechum and let him know that the trial has been postponed. Again. Be gentle.”

Annette sighed. “You’re slime, Mark. Slime. You don’t pay me enough to deal with your dirty work.”

“Oh, sweetie, but you’re so much more diplomatic than I am. And infinitely nicer. Plus, we can talk about a raise tomorrow.”

“Don’t push it, hon. Flattery stopped working on me when I found myself pregnant for the third time.” Annette snorted. “And why talk about that raise tomorrow? How about today?”

“Can’t today. Got an upset stomach. I think I’m gonna head home.”

“Uh huh. I’ve got a migraine. Can I go, too?”

“Just as soon as you…” and Mark launched into what documents needed to be sent out for signatures, what affidavits and motions to file with the Cook County Clerk of Circuit Court’s office and to be sure and let Alex Meechum know he would talk to him the next day.

“You know it’ll all be done for you. Think about that when you consider how much of a percentage to make that raise, which we’re talking about tomorrow. It’s a good thing you’ve got me. Things run even better when you’re not here.” Annette laughed.

“That’s probably closer to the truth than you know.”

“Oh, I know it. Now go home and take care of that, um, stomach.”

Mark hung up the phone and loosened his tie a little more. He started to pick up a sheaf of papers to take home, then set them down.

He smiled as he pictured the look of surprise on Beth’s face when he slipped into the apartment, bearing the gift of a free afternoon for just the two of them.

* * * *

The only sound: the clock ticking on the mantle. Abbott continued to sit with his feet on the coffee table, slowly sipping his third beer. Beth sat in a wooden chair, stiff, in a corner of the room, her gaze moving from Abbott to the mantle clock. When she caught Abbott’s eye, he grinned.

The grin was no longer welcome…or wanted.

Mark would be home in two hours.

Two hours until it all blew up in her face. Her fault. How she wished she could go back, start the day over.

A parade of “encounters” swept by…an afternoon army, all different ages, shapes, sizes, and colors. She stared at the hardwood floor, trying to banish the images that came, unbidden, twisting her gut. So many of them lacked faces.

This had to happen sooner or later. Mark deserves to know the truth anyway. Deserves to know before that bruise on my foot that concerned me last week really turns out to be a KS lesion.

The self-punishment did little to alleviate the queasy fear causing her to slightly tremble, causing the cool drip of sweat down her spine. The self-punishment didn’t do anything but help fan the flames of hysteria rising within her with each tick of the mantle clock…the orderly progression to when she would hear Mark’s key being fitted in the lock of the front door.

“How ‘bout another beer?”

Beth jerked up her head. Abbott looked large—and permanent—sitting on her couch, like something unreal. How she wished he was.

“How ‘bout it?” He tapped the bottle. “Good stuff. All I can afford is Old Style…in cans.”

Beth didn’t say anything. She got up, moved toward the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Sam Adams, opened it, and finally returned with it to him.

“While you’re up, how about some music?”

Beth moved to the entertainment unit, where she rummaged through the CDs arranged on the bottom. The jewel cases reminded her of so many dinners with Mark, when one or the other of them would pick something out as background: Rosemary Clooney, Oscar Peterson, Duke Ellington, Lena Horne. Somehow, Abbott didn’t strike her as a fan of classic jazz. What would he like? Something cold and discordant. She pulled out a Prodigy CD someone had left after a party and put it on. The sound of breaking glass that opened the first track seemed apropos.

Beth slid down on the floor, back against the wall, and resumed staring at the hardwood.

* * * *

Irises were Beth’s favorite. Mark took the green paper-wrapped bunch from the florist and headed out the door.

She would be so surprised!

He started the Saab 9-5 and merged into traffic on Wells, heading north, thinking of where he might take Beth for dinner that night. Someplace quiet, romantic…with the old clichés of candlelight and soft music. Beth deserved it. She had been so attentive lately.

Yes, she would be so surprised!

* * * *

Abbott watched her squirm. Suddenly her face didn’t look so pretty anymore: her mascara had run, and her skin had an unhealthy sheen, ashen.

Bringing her mascara-ringed gaze to his, she whispered, “I’m sorry.” She twisted her wedding band around and around. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“Is it?” She closed her eyes. “Please. Please go. I’ll do anything.”

“Yeah. I already knew that.”

“That’s not what I meant. Please don’t do this.”

“Watch me.” Abbott took a long swallow of beer. “Didn’t you think you’d get caught? I mean, this isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this? So didn’t you think you’d get caught? Sooner or later? It was bound to happen.”

“If you won’t do it for me, would you do it for my husband? You don’t know how much this will hurt him. He doesn’t deserve that. He’s a good man.” Beth began to cry. “I promise you I’ll never do anything like this again. Just don’t hurt him.”

Abbott shook his head. “You’re brilliant. Outstanding. Now you’re worried about hurting him?” He removed his feet from the coffee table and leaned forward. “Don’t you realize sometimes it takes a little pain to heal?”

“You don’t understand. I know it doesn’t make sense to you, to someone outside, but I love him. I really do.”

Abbott stood, carefully setting his beer on the coffee table. He crossed to where Beth sat on the floor and squatted down beside her. After lifting her face by her chin, he spit in her face.

“That’s what I think of your love.”

* * * *

Mark turned up the radio. He headed north on Lake Shore Drive, only minutes away from home. Peter Gabriel was on WXRT, singing “Shock the Monkey.” The song made him feel like dancing. Perhaps later, he and Beth could step back a few years, head down to Rush and Division and go dancing.

Mark glanced at the high-rises lining one side of the drive, then at the broad aqua expanse of Lake Michigan on the other, and thought of Beth.

How had she spent her day? Probably, after he had left, she had called her mother. The two were like sisters. He was sure they talked at least once a day. Then she got dressed. Mark pictured her in something navy, low waisted, what his mother had once called “sensible pumps.” He smirked as he thought of the many times he told her Beth should lighten up when it came to her wardrobe, wear something a little more s*x and the City. But deep down, he was glad she didn’t. He liked being the only one who knew what kind of body lurked beneath the flowing dresses and blouses.

She had spent the day shopping, if he knew her. Lately, she had been making noises about redecorating and he wouldn’t have been surprised if she wasn’t out haunting the furniture stores, picking up catalogs and fabric samples.

He signaled and exited at Fullerton. He hoped Beth would be there when he got home.