“Anything in this jurisdiction on point?”

“Not directly, Judge, but there is a case from Alaska that is startlingly similar.”

“Which would be useful if we were trying this case in Nome. Ms. Dalton?”

“I understand Ms. Derringer’s anger. These are hurtful accusations that would upset anyone, especially if untrue. Which is the whole point here, Judge. Mr. Carl, in his opening, seemed to indicate that the Dubé divorce was amicable, which is absolutely false. This was a brutal, no-holds-barred fight for money and custody, with the direst accusations being thrown about.”

“And you believe the nature of the proceedings is an important part of the defendant’s motive?”

“A crucial part, Judge.”

“What will Mr. Gullicksen be testifying to?”

“The allegations in the divorce case coming from both sides and his observations of Mr. Dubé’s reaction to his wife’s accusations.”

“He wasn’t pleased, I take it.”

“No, sir, he was not. In fact, threats were made.”

“This is why I stay away from family court, criminal trials are so much more civil. And what would you have Mr. Gullicksen limited to testifying about, Ms. Derringer?”

“The weather?” said Beth.

“Okay,” said Judge Armstrong. “I’ve heard enough. I will read your memorandum, Ms. Derringer, because I so enjoy your writing, but I can tell you all now, I am inclined to give Ms. Dalton a free hand here. I, too, took note of Mr. Carl’s characterization of the divorce proceedings in his opening. He said the Dubés were working it out. The jury has the right to see exactly how. I will instruct the jury not to consider the truth of the accusations, only their effect on the defendant, but that’s as far as I will go.”

A few minutes later, as we waited in the courtroom for the judge to finish reading Beth’s memorandum before he could dismiss it outright and rule against us, Beth was still fretting over Gullicksen’s testimony.

“Calm down,” I told her. “It will be all right.”

“He’s going to kill us,” she said. “I don’t care how the judge instructs the jury, once they hear the claim of spousal and child abuse, the jury will never look at François the same again.”

“How about you? Do you see him differently?”

“I know it’s a lie.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know,” she said, steely voiced.

“Then maybe the jury will be able to tell it’s a lie, too.”

“The judge is getting it wrong,” she said, “flat wrong.”

“That’s what judges do, but we’ll be okay. Maybe we can turn this whole thing to our advantage, build some sympathy for François.”

“How?”

“I’ve been doing some research. That year, four of Gullicksen’s other clients made the same claim of physical abuse by their spouses. It was a standard ploy in his practice before he was sanctioned for it by the bar association.”

“You have the proof?”

“The pleadings are in my bag, along with the sanction. The language in each case is startlingly similar.”

“Why didn’t you tell the judge?”

“And spoil the surprise? No, this cross-examination should be fun, me going after Gullicksen, shark to shark.”

“You think you’ll draw blood?”

“Oh, I hope so, but it doesn’t really matter. This is all just the preliminary fencing. None of this really matters.”

“Then what does?”

“Sonenshein,” I said. “Everything depends on little Jerry Sonenshein. You want to worry about something, worry about him.”

49

Horace T. Grant stood on the corner in front of Tommy’s High Ball, his chin up, his creased face creased with concern. It was not a good look for Horace. His natural expression was one of repugnance, disdain, his features were generally etched with a sweet scorn for the general stupidity of the world. I watched him a moment as he worriedly fingered his bow tie. I almost felt something for him then, some sort of empathic pity, before I beeped the horn and he saw my face in the window and his normal derisive expression returned.

“You get lost, boy? Seems like I been standing here since Truman was president.”

“The judge held us longer than I expected.”

“Did you tell him I was waiting? Did you tell him his inconsiderate lethargy was seriously inconveniencing an upstanding member of the community? I’m an old man, I don’t got time to waste.”

“Probably less than you think. I’ll tell him next time.”

“You do that. Remind him he works for us, not the other way around.” He bent his ancient frame to fit into my car. “Now, where we going? You found us a shaman this time, or a conjure man, or any other of your garden-variety frauds and tricksters intending to feed us smoke and mirrors and tell us squat?”

“We’re going back to Madam Anna.”

“That old scarecrow? Why we going to waste any more time with her? I’d just as soon stick a hot poker in my ear as listen to her screech again about my shoes or that there spirit world she’s in touch with.”

“She called me,” I said. “We set up a meeting.”

Horace T. Grant leaned back, stared at me for a long moment. “How’d you get that one-eyed witch to call you?”

“It was funny, actually. Out of the blue, an L &I inspector paid our Madam Anna a visit. Would you believe she didn’t have a business-privilege license after all?”

“Shocking,” said Horace T. Grant.

“The inspector, in the course of his writing out the violation notice, mentioned my name. It turned out that I successfully defended this same inspector in a DUI case just last year. Funny how that works, isn’t it? When she called, I said I would tell her how to take care of the violation notice, so long as I learned what I needed to learn about the girl.”

“I must then say, I am sorry.”

“For what?”

“For calling you a less-than-useless piece of seagull doo.”

“Apology accepted.”

“See, I can admit when I am wrong. Takes a big man to do that, but here I am. You still a piece of seagull doo, and you still pretty much useless. But not less than that, no, sir, not less than that at all.”

It wasn’t long before we were back in that maroon room in Madam Anna’s apartment, candles burning on that pale blue table, the yellow symbols dancing around us as if alive. We were waiting again, that seemed to be Madame Anna’s method of operation, make the stiffs wait so long that when she finally does appear, it seems like a deliverance from on high. Horace’s black porkpie hat sat in front of him on the table.

“How’s this?” I said, showing Horace my thumb-twiddling technique. “I think I have it down.”

Horace took a look, raised his gaze to the ceiling. “Lord, save us from amateurs.”

Just then the far door opened, and Madam Anna, in her shimmering green robe, entered the room, accompanied by a skinny man in a plain black suit, white shirt, narrow black tie. The man had long arms, yet still the sleeves of his jacket reached his knuckles. He looked, the man, with his long arms and hunched shoulders, as if he had just come from burying the dead. The two sat across from us and stared for a moment. We let them.

“I have something for you,” Madam Anna said finally. She reached into one of the sleeves of her gown, pulled out a piece of paper, handed it to me.

I hoped it was an address. No such luck. Instead it was a notice of violation made out to Madam Anna by the Licenses and Inspection Department of the City of Philadelphia. I looked at it and shrugged as I tossed it onto the table.

“They want five thousand dollars in fines and fees,” she said. “You will take care of that.”

“Tell me where Tanya Rose is.”

“I don’t know where she is,” she said. “But I brought the Reverend Wilkerson to talk to you. He’s a man of the cloth, so I assume you will trust what he says.”

“I appreciate the reverend’s being here. We can all use the help of the Lord in our endeavors. But I’m not here to pray, I’m here to find a little girl. An address is all I need.”