about Napoleon? That famous battle he was in?”
“No idea.”
“You know it.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I know you know it, Mare.”
“I don’t know it!” Mary wondered if Judy, Marta, everyone around her was going crackers. Maybe it was the snowstorm. Cabin fever, early onset. “Judy, what are you talking about?”
“Napoleon was in a battle, I forget which, and there was so much smoke and dust he couldn’t see what was going on.” Judy unzipped her parka. “Nobody could see what was going on because of the smoke. The sides who were fighting couldn’t even see each other to shoot.”
“Okay.” Crackers. Losing it. Too much coffee. Not enough coffee.
“Napoleon told his lieutenants where to move his men anyway, in response to what he knew the other side would be doing. No one understood what he was doing, but he could direct the battle without seeing anything. All his soldiers thought he was nuts. But when the dust settled, who do you think won?”
“The lawyers?”
Judy laughed. “That’s not funny.”
“Yes, it is. You laughed.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, you are. I have a motion to write and Napoleon will be here any minute.”
“Is that all you’re worried about?”
“No, but we’ll talk about it on the way.” Mary stood up and headed for the conference room, with Judy dripping behind.
Fueled by a pot of blistering Hawaiian Kona, Judy and Mary started to draft the motion, but they kept getting distracted talking about whether Heb Darnton was Eb Darning and Steere’s color blindness. The more Judy thought about it, the fishier it got, and her suspicions solidified into theory. “Is it really possible that Steere intended to kill Darning?” Judy asked.
“Why? What’s his motive?” Mary couldn’t ignore the draft of the motion on her laptop and wondered how much time they had before Marta got back. “Where do you think Marta called from?”
“I don’t know, you talked to her.”
“I think she was at the hotel.” Mary hit a key on the laptop and read the beginning of the last paragraph: Traul courts aroudn the country have long held such evidence inadmisssable. Goddamn Mavis Beacon. Betty Crocker wannabe. Mary rolled the trackball to the icon for Spellcheck. “So how long until Marta gets here and starts screaming?”
“A half hour if she takes a cab.”
“Think that’s enough time to finish the brief?”
“No.”
“Okay, so what’s his motive?” It was intriguing, but it wasn’t work. Mary hit the SAVE key on the computer, to save her job. Maybe that’s why they called it SAVE .
“I’m not exactly sure about motive, but think what we know about Steere. He’s an egotist. Arrogant. Ruthless. A heartless asshole.”
“Don’t mince words now. And plenty of people are assholes. They don’t commit murder because of it. It’s not enough for motive.” Mary noticed her laptop screen turn blank and her brief drift into power-saving sleep.
“Yes it is, in a way. It’s a power thing. When some poor black guy tries to carjack Steere, he knows he can kill him and get away with it.”
“That’s quite a stretch, isn’t it?” Mary reached into the center of the table and picked up the printout of Darnton/Darning’s photo from the computer archives.
“It’s consistent with Steere’s personality.”
“True, but it’s not enough. If Steere killed intentionally, it has something to do with Darnton, if he is Darnton. Because he’s Darnton, not because he’s homeless.” Mary scrutinized the photo for the umpteenth time and mentally compared it with the gruesome autopsy photos. “I bet Heb Darnton is the same man as Eb Darning. He’d be the right age, about fifty-one, fifty-two. Does it look like the same man to you, only older?” She slid the photo across the table to Judy, who caught it midway.
“He didn’t age well, did he?” Judy asked, studying the photo. “You got a theory? Go with it.”
“Let’s say Darnton —
“No idea.”
“You know it.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I know you know it, Mare.”
“I don’t know it!” Mary wondered if Judy, Marta, everyone around her was going crackers. Maybe it was the snowstorm. Cabin fever, early onset. “Judy, what are you talking about?”
“Napoleon was in a battle, I forget which, and there was so much smoke and dust he couldn’t see what was going on.” Judy unzipped her parka. “Nobody could see what was going on because of the smoke. The sides who were fighting couldn’t even see each other to shoot.”
“Okay.” Crackers. Losing it. Too much coffee. Not enough coffee.
“Napoleon told his lieutenants where to move his men anyway, in response to what he knew the other side would be doing. No one understood what he was doing, but he could direct the battle without seeing anything. All his soldiers thought he was nuts. But when the dust settled, who do you think won?”
“The lawyers?”
Judy laughed. “That’s not funny.”
“Yes, it is. You laughed.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, you are. I have a motion to write and Napoleon will be here any minute.”
“Is that all you’re worried about?”
“No, but we’ll talk about it on the way.” Mary stood up and headed for the conference room, with Judy dripping behind.
Fueled by a pot of blistering Hawaiian Kona, Judy and Mary started to draft the motion, but they kept getting distracted talking about whether Heb Darnton was Eb Darning and Steere’s color blindness. The more Judy thought about it, the fishier it got, and her suspicions solidified into theory. “Is it really possible that Steere intended to kill Darning?” Judy asked.
“Why? What’s his motive?” Mary couldn’t ignore the draft of the motion on her laptop and wondered how much time they had before Marta got back. “Where do you think Marta called from?”
“I don’t know, you talked to her.”
“I think she was at the hotel.” Mary hit a key on the laptop and read the beginning of the last paragraph: Traul courts aroudn the country have long held such evidence inadmisssable. Goddamn Mavis Beacon. Betty Crocker wannabe. Mary rolled the trackball to the icon for Spellcheck. “So how long until Marta gets here and starts screaming?”
“A half hour if she takes a cab.”
“Think that’s enough time to finish the brief?”
“No.”
“Okay, so what’s his motive?” It was intriguing, but it wasn’t work. Mary hit the SAVE key on the computer, to save her job. Maybe that’s why they called it SAVE .
“I’m not exactly sure about motive, but think what we know about Steere. He’s an egotist. Arrogant. Ruthless. A heartless asshole.”
“Don’t mince words now. And plenty of people are assholes. They don’t commit murder because of it. It’s not enough for motive.” Mary noticed her laptop screen turn blank and her brief drift into power-saving sleep.
“Yes it is, in a way. It’s a power thing. When some poor black guy tries to carjack Steere, he knows he can kill him and get away with it.”
“That’s quite a stretch, isn’t it?” Mary reached into the center of the table and picked up the printout of Darnton/Darning’s photo from the computer archives.
“It’s consistent with Steere’s personality.”
“True, but it’s not enough. If Steere killed intentionally, it has something to do with Darnton, if he is Darnton. Because he’s Darnton, not because he’s homeless.” Mary scrutinized the photo for the umpteenth time and mentally compared it with the gruesome autopsy photos. “I bet Heb Darnton is the same man as Eb Darning. He’d be the right age, about fifty-one, fifty-two. Does it look like the same man to you, only older?” She slid the photo across the table to Judy, who caught it midway.
“He didn’t age well, did he?” Judy asked, studying the photo. “You got a theory? Go with it.”
“Let’s say Darnton —
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