managed a spirited laugh. Larry probably never had a boss he didn't turn into a rival.
"Well, if you're smart enough to get a search warrant on a holiday weekend, you're smart enough for me," said Greer.
She ended up making notes on the back of one of the green tablets of order tickets the waitstaff used. Harold needed warrants for the cars in the parking lot, and, as a double-check, the houses of Gus's staff. Before they parted, Muriel felt obliged to repeat John Leonidis's remarks about wanting to kill his father.
"Hell," said Harold and frowned. Nobody liked having to beat up on the bereaved.
"It's just the shock," said Muriel. "You know how it is. Families?"
"Right," said Greer. He had a family, too. "Get me those warrants, huh? And give me your phone numbers in case I need something else."
She had no clue where she'd find a judge to sign a warrant at 4 p . M . Friday on a holiday weekend. When Harold left, she remained in the tiny office, feeling saddened by the proximity of Gus's personal things, while she phoned felony judges at home. Gillian Sullivan , Muriels last choice, sounded, as usual, well sauced and sleepy, but she was available. Muriel headed for the office in the County Building, where she'd have to type up the warrants herself.
She was excited. In the P . A .'s Office, there was a standing rule: once you touched a case it was yours. The maxim kept deputies from dumping their dogs, and political heavyweights from clouting their way onto plum assignments. Even so, she'd probably be stuck as third chair, because it would be a capital prosecution. Only if John and Athena were the kind to say no more killing would the P . A . hesitate to seek execution, and the Leonidis family clearly was not in that frame of mind. So it would be a trial -no one pled to capital murder-a big one. Muriel would see her name on the front page of the Tribune before this was over. The prospect sparked the nerves all over her body.
As a child, she'd had a prolonged fear of dying. She would lie in bed trembling, realizing that the whole long journey to grow up would only bring her closer to that point of terrifying blackness at the end. In time, though, she accepted her mother's counsel. There was only one way out-to make your mark, to leave some trace behind that would not be vaporized by eternity: A hundred years from now, she wanted somebody to look up and say, 'Muriel Wynn, she did good things, we're all better off now.' She never thought that would be easy. Hard work and risk were part of the picture. But obtaining justice for Gus, for all these people, was important, part of the never-ending task of setting her shoulder to the bulwark and holding back the grisly impulses that would otherwise engulf the world.
Leaving, she found Larry on the pavement in front of the restaurant, holding off Stanley Rosenberg, the rodent-faced investigative reporter from Channel 5. Stanley kept wheedling, no matter how many times Larry told him to talk to Greer, and finally Starczek, who generally had little use for journalists, simply turned away.
"Fucking vulture," he said to Muriel, who walked beside him. Their cars were in the same direction. She could feel the grimness they'd left back there lingering with her on the gray streets, like an odor that stayed in your clothing.
"So Harold hired you?"
"You do good work," she said. They'd reached her Honda. She thanked Larry circumspectly and said "See ya," but he reached for her arm.
He said, "So who is it?"
When she finally caught the drift, she told him to forget it.
"Hey, you think I'm not gonna hear?"
They went a few more rounds before she gave in.
"Talmadge," she finally said.
"Talmadge Lor-man?"
"Really, Larry. In your whole entire life, how many other people named Talmadge have you met?"
Talmadge, a former Congressman and now a renowned business lawyer and lobbyist, had been their Contracts professor when Larry and Muriel were in law school. Three years ago, Talmadge's wife
"Well, if you're smart enough to get a search warrant on a holiday weekend, you're smart enough for me," said Greer.
She ended up making notes on the back of one of the green tablets of order tickets the waitstaff used. Harold needed warrants for the cars in the parking lot, and, as a double-check, the houses of Gus's staff. Before they parted, Muriel felt obliged to repeat John Leonidis's remarks about wanting to kill his father.
"Hell," said Harold and frowned. Nobody liked having to beat up on the bereaved.
"It's just the shock," said Muriel. "You know how it is. Families?"
"Right," said Greer. He had a family, too. "Get me those warrants, huh? And give me your phone numbers in case I need something else."
She had no clue where she'd find a judge to sign a warrant at 4 p . M . Friday on a holiday weekend. When Harold left, she remained in the tiny office, feeling saddened by the proximity of Gus's personal things, while she phoned felony judges at home. Gillian Sullivan , Muriels last choice, sounded, as usual, well sauced and sleepy, but she was available. Muriel headed for the office in the County Building, where she'd have to type up the warrants herself.
She was excited. In the P . A .'s Office, there was a standing rule: once you touched a case it was yours. The maxim kept deputies from dumping their dogs, and political heavyweights from clouting their way onto plum assignments. Even so, she'd probably be stuck as third chair, because it would be a capital prosecution. Only if John and Athena were the kind to say no more killing would the P . A . hesitate to seek execution, and the Leonidis family clearly was not in that frame of mind. So it would be a trial -no one pled to capital murder-a big one. Muriel would see her name on the front page of the Tribune before this was over. The prospect sparked the nerves all over her body.
As a child, she'd had a prolonged fear of dying. She would lie in bed trembling, realizing that the whole long journey to grow up would only bring her closer to that point of terrifying blackness at the end. In time, though, she accepted her mother's counsel. There was only one way out-to make your mark, to leave some trace behind that would not be vaporized by eternity: A hundred years from now, she wanted somebody to look up and say, 'Muriel Wynn, she did good things, we're all better off now.' She never thought that would be easy. Hard work and risk were part of the picture. But obtaining justice for Gus, for all these people, was important, part of the never-ending task of setting her shoulder to the bulwark and holding back the grisly impulses that would otherwise engulf the world.
Leaving, she found Larry on the pavement in front of the restaurant, holding off Stanley Rosenberg, the rodent-faced investigative reporter from Channel 5. Stanley kept wheedling, no matter how many times Larry told him to talk to Greer, and finally Starczek, who generally had little use for journalists, simply turned away.
"Fucking vulture," he said to Muriel, who walked beside him. Their cars were in the same direction. She could feel the grimness they'd left back there lingering with her on the gray streets, like an odor that stayed in your clothing.
"So Harold hired you?"
"You do good work," she said. They'd reached her Honda. She thanked Larry circumspectly and said "See ya," but he reached for her arm.
He said, "So who is it?"
When she finally caught the drift, she told him to forget it.
"Hey, you think I'm not gonna hear?"
They went a few more rounds before she gave in.
"Talmadge," she finally said.
"Talmadge Lor-man?"
"Really, Larry. In your whole entire life, how many other people named Talmadge have you met?"
Talmadge, a former Congressman and now a renowned business lawyer and lobbyist, had been their Contracts professor when Larry and Muriel were in law school. Three years ago, Talmadge's wife
Similar Books
