Redemption by Howard Fast Page B

come to my house twice a week after Lena’s death—cooking for me and berating me for not eating enough to keep me alive—and again and again, we had talked for hours. I had gone to court at least a dozen times to watch her defend some wretched person, and I had watched her win cases that I felt could not be won, but to put Liz on the stand? What on earth did she have in mind?
    Finally I fell asleep with Liz’s warm body still cradled in my arms, her soft, easy breathing marking the sleep of innocence.

FIVE
    T HE D ISTRICT A TTORNEY
    T HE D ISTRICT A TTORNEY rose from behind his mahogany desk to greet me and to shake hands. Should I take that as a bad sign or a good sign? I wondered. He could be sealing the bond of friendship, or he could be saying, “Nothing we say now, Ike, dissolves the fact that we are old friends.” Nothing? He had already branded the woman I loved as a murderer, and he had assigned his most ferocious combat hound to bring her down.
    â€œAges since I’ve seen you. You look good—not a day older.”
    It wasn’t “ages” by any means. A year ago we had sat for two hours at the Harvard Club, while I unraveled one of the most complicated contracts I had ever seen. Any other lawyer would have charged his office at least a thousand dollars for the work. To me, it was simply a favor for an old friend, paid for by the accolade that I was the best contract lawyer in New York. “Why you don’t take up a practice, I don’t know,” he had said. “You’re not that much older than I am. My word, there are a dozen firms that would roll out the red carpet for you.” I told him that I like to read, that there were at least a hundred books I should have read and never had the time for.
    â€œWhat can I do for you, Ike?” he asked me, as if he didn’t know why I was there, and I refrained from saying that such pleasantries were beneath him at this moment.
    Instead, I put an end to good fellowship by saying flatly, “You can drop the case against Elizabeth Hopper.”
    He regarded me for a long moment, and then said quietly, “You’re angry, Ike. That doesn’t help a serious discussion. Sit down. If you have your pipe with you, you can smoke—which is a favor I grant very few. Anyway, I love the scent of your tobacco.”
    I ignored that and sat in one of the carved chairs that faced his desk. Like many people from very good families, he had inherited good furniture as well as good taste.
    â€œYou want me ‘to drop the case,’” he repeated. “What? As a favor? You know I don’t operate that way. You, above all people, should know that criminal law is based on evidence; and we did not thoughtlessly indict Mrs. Hopper. We have evidence, and the grand jury accepted our evidence. I had no alternative.”
    â€œAnd with over four hundred assistant DAs, you chose Michael Rudge to prosecute.”
    â€œHe’s senior, and he’s good. He asked for it.”
    I calmed myself, knowing that anger would get me nowhere, and I said, “Every bit of evidence is circumstantial. You haven’t one fact that places her at the scene of the crime. You will have my testimony that she was at my apartment in my bed at the time of the crime.”
    That had been decided by Sarah and myself. The truth of the matter was that when I awoke during the night of the murder, Liz was in bed with me, cold and clinging to me. The fact that I took a sleeping pill would not come up at all, and if it did, I would lie about it. The District Attorney made a point of that.
    â€œIke, you should know as well as I that a man and a woman in love with each other are worthless as witnesses. An old widower who has been married for years and who has experienced the agony of living alone and then finds a younger woman who loves him will lie under oath as easily as a hardened criminal. That’s a given, but we won’t