Crime & Punishment: The Prequel Ch. 04

"Thank you. The cameras give me a headache, and I'm not feeling all that well," he replied.

He stopped only to pick up the black and white composition book. It was all he used during the trial. It never left his possession. Lynda had often fantasized about taking a quick flip through the pages of that book.

She led him out through the back of the courtroom, down a long corridor to an elevator that landed them on the floor with the detention cells, and then down a back staircase to a door that opened to a small, rear parking lot, deserted of cars except a red Miata.

She didn't wait for him but began walking toward the Miata.

"Come on, I will give you a lift," she said.

Lynda had on her six-inch heels, and she was swinging her hips as she walked. From behind, she knew he was getting quite the show. She had lost the case; she felt entitled to the consolation prize.

Seated in her little car, she said, "How about some dinner?"

"Not feeling all that well," he said.

"Good, you need some chicken soup. It will calm your stomach, and I know the place that has the best."

She swung the little car out through the security gate and onto the heavily trafficked street. She paid little attention to the other traffic as she maneuvered the car a half-dozen blocks to the highway entrance. Then she stepped hard down on the gas with zero concern for the speed limit or her passenger's queasy stomach.

Twenty minutes later, she pulled up at the front of a set of garden apartments.

"There a restaurant inside?" he asked.

"No, my apartment—and my grandmother's chicken and dumpling soup. Come on, you need it," she said.

It was a small, awkwardly laid out apartment, the dwelling of a woman who prioritized practicality and reasonable comfort, at limited cost.

"Take a seat; I'll have the soup up in a jiffy," she said.

Steven found a chair for himself and a place on an end table for his notebook.

The soup she served at a small table just off the kitchen, in the large, center room that functioned as dining room, living room, and recreation place.

"So how does it feel, getting guilty people off?" she said.

"Is that what we are going to talk about? Because you know I can't," he said.

"Sorry, for a moment, I thought we were two human beings. But you're right, we're lawyers."

"Surely there is other dinner conversation?"

"Definitely," she said, and, rising from her chair, she came around behind him, whispering in his ear.

"For example, how many times do you think you can fuck me?" she asked.

****

The dawn light woke Lynda. She always set the bedroom curtains to let the morning sun hit her side of the bed. It woke her before her bedmates and gave her a chance to make herself just that bit more desirable in the morning. A modern, single woman who was only cute needed all the extra help she could give herself.

The bathroom was placed on the other side of the apartment. Most people would see that as a defect, but Lynda had made good use of that fact. She carefully left her bed so as not to wake Steven. Twenty minutes later, freshly showered, teeth brushed and morning makeup on, she exited the bath. She checked that he was still asleep.

Time to make breakfast, she thought.

Steven Fitzgerald had proved an interesting and very special sex partner. He did not cum quickly, for one thing, leaving her wondering at one point whether he would cum at all. She had not held anything back. At first, she went way out to please him. Lynda was considerably intimidated by the specter of the man's wife.

Lynda did not see herself as the "other woman" type. This was the first time she had ever knowingly slept with another woman's man. But, in researching Foxy, it was impossible not to stumble on Susan Singleton. The woman had quite the looks and a reputation to go with those looks. Lynda felt no sympathy for Susan. If you act that way, when you have the best looking and sweetest man anyone ever knew as a husband, well, screw you—or, rather, screw him.

This last thought brought a smile to her face as she crossed the living room, headed for the kitchen. One minute, her feet were moving—and then they were not. She was frozen stiff. There, lying on her end table, was the black and white composition notebook. She took a quick look over her shoulder toward the open bedroom door. He was still asleep.

She should not open that book. It was unethical and a completely gross thing to do. She would not open it.

Never.

She would only take a quick look.

She flipped through the pages. He had the neatest and roundest handwriting she had ever seen. It slanted oddly, right to left, but was so clear and easy to read.

"Oh. My. GOD," she muttered.

"Find what you were looking for?" he said in that soft, sweet voice of his.

She was good and truly busted. Her head spun, her hands shook, and her legs began to weaken.

The book fell from her hands as his arms came around her. He helped her into a chair. She couldn't speak; she could only stare at those blue eyes of his. The thought hit her that she had wondered about that look of his that seemed to see into you. Could he really see inside you? Was that why?

"I'll make some tea," he said.

It took all her strength to pick the book back up. She was still holding it when he came back with the tea. He took back the notebook and pressed the warm mug of tea into her hands.

"There are some things it's best not to know," he said.

She took a long sip of tea. She reached out with her left hand and took his.

"Thank you. I don't know how I can ever repay you," she said.

"It's only a cup of tea," he said.

"Don't! You saved me and Samantha Wheatmore. I could not have lived with that," she said.

"Just did my job—as you did yours," he said.

She was looking down at the ripples in her tea caused by the tremble in her hands.

"No, I was playing a game. Win at all costs. I didn't think about the consequences. You made a miracle. I came with a great case. You took it apart, thank God. I came so close," she said, as she lost what composure she had and began to sob.

"Well, I have never had this happen before. Usually, I'm the one crying the morning after," he joked.

She laughed in spite of herself, and then turned serious, "But why?"

"Love, I guess—and there are children. All adults now, but still."

"It's crazy. She would have gone to prison. Maybe for life."

Steven clearly didn't have an answer; his face said it all. He was just the attorney. But that hardly satisfied. He was the ultimate attorney. Samantha had prevailed. She had concealed the Wheatmore family secret. She had risked everything for that goal.

"How did you know?" she asked, in a bare whisper of a voice.

"Obvious, really. You only needed to take a hard look. You were blinded by the forensics, caught up in the love triangle and the media hype. Moreover, middle-aged men don't get shot by middle-aged wives over affairs with twenty-something women. That will take more passion than fifty-plus allows. No—murder takes evil, and marriage takes love. Trouble, sometimes, is they give the same result."

"It still doesn't seem worth it. So, his mother had an affair and got pregnant. She's dead, and so is her husband."

"You still don't get it. The great Stewart Peabody Wheatmore, Senior, was a cuckold. Stewart Peabody Wheatmore, Junior, is the bastard of some anonymous stable hand. Stewart lived with that knowledge as long as he could. In death, he confessed it. The letter was obviously addressed to Samantha, but she destroyed it. The good wife, preserving the family name. A foolish act, but, as they say, love makes fools of us all," he said.

"Big and little," she replied, finishing the quote.

She came into his arms, "Let's see if we can make him big again this morning," she said.

Two hours later, he was on the train headed north. A dozen missed calls told him the world was looking for him. So was Susan. She had left three messages: the first angry that he had ducked the cameras once again; the second saying she had fixed it and he would have interviews on the morning news shows. But the third was wondering where he was. The last call held a hint of suspicion and jealousy.

Steven Fitzgerald sat in the northbound train and watched the Hudson flow south as it had since before the first man reached North America. The river barely changed, but Steven's life was about to be recast. He could no more change his future than his past. The fates had touched him. He took a deep breath and let the moving train carriage rock him to sleep.