A Private Sorcery by Lisa Gornick Page A

at particularly high risk to flee the jurisdiction of this court. The individual suspected to be his coconspirator, Mr. Reed Michaelson, has, we believe, already fled to the Canary Islands. Mr.—excuse me, Dr. Dubinsky is undoubtedly aware that his career as a physician is severely threatened by these proceedings and may well be motivated to join Mr. Michaelson wherever he may be.”
    Morton bangs the table where the federal prosecutor has spread his papers. Coffee from a styrofoam cup sloshes onto the surface. “This is garbage. No one informed us of this information.”
    â€œCounselor,” the judge says. “I must request that you maintain decorum in my courtroom.”
    Morton leans over you. You shake your head, and then I see you starting to turn. I duck as though picking up a dropped piece of paper. The drone filters down to the floor. Crouched over, I make my way to the door.
    M ORTON’S HANDS ARE frozen in fists, fighter’s fists with the thumb pressed on top of the forefinger. Rena sits motionless. She’s wearing pleated black pants with gold knots in her earlobes and a pale green jacket. Her face looks fragile and bony, all cheekbones and eye sockets. Her lips are parted as if she needs extra air.
    Morton has told us the bail decision. “Two hundred and fifty thousand, no noncash alternative.” He explains that this is because of Michaelson’s disappearance. He doesn’t say anything about the pharmacist having miscarried and the second-degree manslaughter charge, and I don’t know if this is because he doesn’t see this as the relevant factor or if this is so serious he doesn’t want to break it to us now.
    â€œWhat does that mean?” Rena asks.
    â€œUsually they accept ten percent cash and the rest of the bail as anote—a commitment from the bail bondsman to pay if your boy skips town. With no noncash alternative, it’s got to be all cash. That means you’re going to have to come up with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash. No notes.”
    Rena looks at me. “How would we do that?”
    â€œAssuming you don’t keep that kind of dough sitting in the bank and you don’t have a cousin who’s a banker waiting to put that kind of loan through for you, the only way it can be done is with a bail bondsman who might take a risk on you for a hefty charge. I’ve got one guy in mind, Charlie Green, but he’s not someone I play games with. If I tell him he can put money on my man, he counts on me to mean that one hundred and fifty percent.”
    Morton squirms in his seat. He stretches a rubber band between his forefingers and snaps at it with his thumbs.
    â€œFatso, the feds’ prosecutor, is right. Your boy’s a risk. He’s strung out. He’s got the means to get out of here. Sticking around is not going to look so good. When Green asks me what I think, I’m going to have to say so.”
    â€œThat will nix it from the start, won’t it?” I say.
    Morton leans back in his chair. He looks over the door frame at a hoop mounted there. Your brother has the same thing in his office, this club of men for whom twelve was the apex of pleasure. When he loses a case, he can cover the floor with wads of paper tossed through the hoop. “These guys make money by purchasing risk. Green makes his own decisions. Sometimes he does these things as a gamble. Sometimes he’ll do it if he can structure the deal so he wins no matter what. Nothing lost by giving him a try.”
    C HARLIE G REEN MOVES his fingers in and out. He’s a tall man with thick black hair receding at the temples and a nose with a prominent bump. Last year’s calendar is taped to the wall, and there’s a stained coffeemaker on top of the file cabinet. In the background is the rumble of what sounds like a police radio. Rena has taken off her jacket, the curve of her breasts and her narrow waist now revealed