The Arraignment by Steve Martini

fingers like a scout, hoping they don’t rot before her eyes and fall off.
    Before I can take my hand down, she takes it in both of hers. We sit there for a couple of moments. Me looking at the table, the coffee cup, anything but Dana’s blue eyes. She’s looking for something, whether it’s to be consoled or for information, I’m not sure.
    “I’m trying to understand why it happened,” she says. “You met with Mr. Metz; Nick told me you did. Why would anyone want to kill him?”
    Dana’s now entering forbidden territory, items I can’tdiscuss. If I do and she repeats it to the cops, they would have me on the carpet for a good grilling, arguing that I had trashed any claim of privilege. With the client dead and no other interest to be served, it would be evidence of a waiver.
    “I don’t know.”
    “He must have told you something. I know it had to do with some business he had down in Mexico.”
    “He told you that?”
    She nods. “Before he went to see Nick. We talked after one of the commission meetings about his problem.”
    “How much did he tell you?”
    “Not much. He told me that he didn’t do anything wrong, that he needed a lawyer, and so I told Nick. What was it about? I have to know.”
    “I can’t tell you.”
    “Why not?”
    “Listen, you’ll know soon enough. The police will find the people who killed Nick. Then it’ll all come out. Be patient.”
    “You tell me to be patient. I’ve lost my husband,” she says. “I want to know why. Was he involved in something?”
    “What makes you say that?”
    I can tell in this instant she wishes she hadn’t. “Nothing,” she says. “It’s just me. I haven’t been myself.”
    That’s not true. This is the Dana I know.
    “It’s just that it’s hard to be patient. To wait, not knowing what happened.”
    “Yes. I know.”
    “Then he didn’t tell you anything that would give you a clue. Metz, I mean?”
    I shake my head. It’s a lie, but at the moment it’s the best I can do. Whether she believes me or not, she accepts this.
    “There was another reason I called,” she says. “I needed to talk to you about something else.”
    “What’s that?”
    “It’s—I’m afraid this is going to sound awfully crass,” she says.
    “Try me.”
    “It’s the insurance on Nick’s life.”
    I look at her quizzically.
    “I mean if Nick had a policy of life insurance, at the firm, the fact that he was shot, murdered—I’m not—I mean I’m not sure what to do.”
    “You want to know whether that would affect your ability to recover on the policy?”
    She nods. This is Dana the helpless, blue eyes and silky skin, the veiled complexion. Sitting here holding my hand.
    “Was there a policy?”
    “I think so. Nick told me about it once. Something I think he called a key policy.”
    “Key man?”
    “That’s it. Do you know what it is?”
    This is something a firm like Rocker, Dusha might have. Hefty life insurance on each of the partners, so in the event of death the firm wouldn’t be strapped to buy out the partner’s interest.
    “It’s not exactly my field,” I tell her.
    “I know, but I trust you. You were Nick’s friend.” Dana now wields this like a sword.
    “Do you have a copy of the policy?”
    She shakes her head.
    “Did Nick have a safe, a safety deposit box?”
    “The police took the safe,” she says. “We had a safety deposit box at the bank, but it’s sealed until they can go through it. I can’t even get the papers to the house. The mortgage,” she says. “To see what we owe. How much equity I have.” She may be helpless, but she’s not stupid.
    “So, no policy?”
    She shakes her head again, looking at me sort of breathless, waiting for answers.
    “This must sound heartless,” she says. “The grasping widow.”
    “If there’s a policy and you’re the beneficiary, then you’re entitled,” I tell her.
    “I haven’t told anyone else about this, but Nick left mein, well, what is not exactly a good