The Arraignment by Steve Martini Page A

situation,” she says. “Financially, I mean.”
    “I had no idea.”
    “No one did, including me,” she says. “I think it was some investments he made. I read in the paper that he was supposed to have four thousand dollars in cash on him when he was killed. I don’t believe it,” she says. “Nick told me the market tanked, that we’d lost a good deal of money. The house isn’t paid for, I know that. I’ll have to sell the boat,” she says. “That was Nick’s pride and joy. I may have to look for something more modest. I mean a place to live, if I’m going to have anything to live on.
    “You know Nick. Life on the edge is a badge of honor.” She talks as if he were still alive. “And as long as he was taking care of things I never asked questions. But now,” she says.
    “I understand.”
    “That’s why I called you. I knew you would. And Nick trusted you.”
    Dana knows how to turn the knife.
    “I can make a few phone calls,” I tell her.
    “Oh, thank you. You don’t know what a relief it is to be able to turn all of this over to somebody else.”
    My expression tells her this is not what I said. Dana chooses to ignore this.
    “To have somebody who knows what they’re doing.” Suddenly her arms are around my neck, leaning toward me on the couch, her warm face planted against my chest so that I have to use my hands to keep from falling over backward on the couch. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she whispers.
    My thought at the moment, given the situation, is not something I would expect. It concerns Dana’s speculation regarding Sarah and boys, and the certain knowledge that Dana has been polishing these skills since she was fifteen. I make a mental note to have a conference with my daughter.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    T he next morning as I come through the office door, Harry is picking through pink phone message slips with an eye on one of the morning talk shows bleeping from the television set in the lobby. His briefcase is on the floor next to his feet, his coat still on, so I assume he has just arrived or is heading out again.
    There are some phone messages in my slot on the reception desk, so I grab them.
    On the screen, one of the network news anchors is being interviewed, a sagging form sitting there in his suspenders sans suit coat trying to look like a regular guy in his starched $3,000 shirt.
    “I think he threw his back out giving the news a twist,” says Harry.
    My partner has no use for what passes as journalism these days, particularly on the tube. According to Harry, they spend too much time in deep admiration for politicians who show particular skill in lying, so much so that they have now institutionalized the destruction of public ethics byelevating deceit to a statecraft called “spin.” It is no longer the lie that matters but the qualitative fashion in which it is told.
    We now have a receptionist and file clerk rolled into one, though she is not in yet this morning. Marta comes in six hours a day around her school schedule to screen messages from our phone mail, knock correspondence into final form, and organize files so that we don’t drown in an avalanche of loose paper.
    “So how did it go, the meeting with the widow?” Harry was in my office when I placed the phone call to Dana.
    “Fine.”
    “What did she want?”
    “Some advice.” I thumb through my messages. There is one from Nathan Fittipaldi. Perhaps he’s checking up for Dana.
    “No shoulder to cry on?” says Harry.
    “That too.” I quickly change the subject to what little information I gleaned from Nick’s PDA.
    “Let’s talk in the office.” Harry punches the power button on the TV’s remote, the screen goes dark, and we head into my office and close the door.
    I fill him in on the information I got from Nick’s PDA.
    “I did what you asked,” he says. “You know you can get most of that stuff online.” Harry is talking about corporate filings with the Secretary of State’s