The Court Read online

  “Yes.” The word was whispered. “I remember. You thought he danced too close with me.”

  “You didn’t speak to me for days after that.”

  She sighed. “That was just for show. I was so flattered that it’s really impossible to describe. I told my daughter just the other night about how you had fought over me. Most of what I tell her doesn’t impress her at all, but that really left her wide-eyed.”

  He chuckled at the memory. “God, I was angry. Poor Sedmak, I belted him before he could even see it coming. He was bigger, and if they hadn’t stopped it quickly he probably would have broken every bone in my body. I risked life and limb, and then you got sore.”

  “It was put on, Jerry. It was expected in those days. If girls didn’t react that way, every high school dance would have turned into a bloody carnage, you know that.”

  He switched on the defoggers. He was having trouble seeing as the snow blew against the windshield and there was no oncoming traffic to clue him as to the path of the roadway.

  “It’s getting bad,” he said.

  “It’s not too far now. At the next stop sign, turn right. You go about a half mile down the road and my complex is on the right.”

  The blowers began to defog the window but the snow seemed to be increasing in intensity.

  “What about you, Jerry? Hank said you were married, had a son, got divorced, and then remarried. Tell me, without violating the marriage vows, what about your love life?”

  Suddenly he felt depressed, almost ashamed. He didn’t know why.

  “Nothing much to tell. Hank seems to have covered the territory.”

  “Your wife, your present wife, what’s she like?”

  “You know, I think there’s some built-in compulsion in the female sex, they always want to know everything about other women.”

  “Probably. But as you lawyers say, you’re evading the question. What’s she like?”

  “My age, a few years older actually. Second marriage for both. But I suppose Hank’s told you that already. No children. She’s an accountant and has her own firm. Highly successful woman, very intelligent.”

  “You could say the same thing about a computer. I asked what she was like.”

  For a moment he was speechless. Regina had meant it only as a joke, but she was right, Carol was very much like a computer; slick and sleek, like a well-designed piece of machinery, she operated without any demonstrable emotion. It was the lack of typical feminine reaction that had first attracted him. Her reserve was so refreshing in contrast to the violent mood swings of his first wife.

  “Like you, she’s blonde. She’s a pretty woman, very chic. If you’re interested, we share a very cool relationship. There’s no trouble, we are just two professionals who share space, but not each other’s interests.”

  “You sound unhappy, Jerry.”

  “And you’re thinking maybe I’m saying all this as though I were some on-the-make traveling salesman at a bar—I’m married, honey, but the wife don’t understand me—is that it?”

  She laughed. “You do that well, it sounds practiced. No, I don’t think that. I know you too well. I’m sorry your marriage is like that, Jerry.”

  The car started to skid. He turned the wheel into the spin and brought it under control. “Well, what marriage is like the movies anyway? We get along, we don’t irritate each other too much. I know a lot of couples who would trade places in a minute.”

  She didn’t say anything, but he could feel her eyes on him.

  He was surprised at his own thoughts. He really hadn’t realized fully just exactly what the relationship between himself and his wife had come to. It was a convenient arrangement, cordial, comfortable, but really without love, or for that matter, even commitment. He had always been too busy to really analyze it before.

  “You’ll see two stone gateposts coming up on the right,” she said. “Just slide in between them. It’s a winding street. You have to follow it to almost the end. I’ll point out my apartment.”

  As predicted the posts appeared through the swirls of snow. The car slid as he turned, but he was able to guide it successfully between the two stone sentries.

  “Is your wife Jewish?” Regina asked.

  The question surprised him.

  “No. She’s a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose just curiosity. You remember that was a big thing with my father.”

  “My being Jewish. I remember. That was my first experience with the full meaning of the word ‘tolerate.’”

  She laughed softly. “Oh, those were different times, Jerry. My father took Catholicism very seriously. His ultimate concern was that any grandchildren be baptized and raised Catholic. I really don’t think he was anti-Semitic.”

  The street curved sharply as he slowed to maneuver past rows of snow-covered cars. “Well, whatever his reasons, he put me through hell in those days.”

  “Yes, I know.” Her voice was soft and quiet.

  “Well, maybe it really wasn’t hell, but he sure made me feel uncomfortable when I came to call for you.”

  “But that wasn’t because of you.”

  “What?”

  She laughed, the sound again was deep, almost pagan, and terribly exciting. “It was because of your brother. My father knew about Hank’s reputation. They said he had sex with every girl in his senior class, except Mary Jane Reilly. Mary Jane became a nun. She spoiled his record. Anyway, my father knew all about Hank and he thought you were a carbon copy. That’s why the freeze. I always thought you knew.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Good old Hank. I certainly have a lot to thank him for.”

  She giggled. “I’m sorry. Do you see that light on the left? That’s my place.”

  He eased the car into an empty parking space. The snow quickly covered the windshield when he stopped. He flicked off the lights but did not turn off the motor.

  The light from the porch was like Hollywood backlighting, causing her shadowed face to have a dramatic, moody quality.

  “I’ve enjoyed tonight, Jerry,” she said. “It was such fun to see you again.” She paused. “You’re a handsome man. I guess I’ll just have to chalk you up as the one who got away, won’t I?”

  Her eyes were hidden in shadow and he couldn’t detect if she was being playful or serious.

  “Damn it, Regina, you make me feel as if I had never left, or aged. If Sedmak was here I’d punch him out again, just for starters. You seem to weave a special kind of magic.”

  “You’re sweet.” She leaned toward him and lightly kissed his cheek.

  Without thinking he grabbed her and twisted her around, just as they had done in his father’s car. He kissed her fiercely, consumed with an almost raging hunger. He gripped the back of her hair with his hand. To his surprise and delight, she responded with passion, the remembered passion of old. They said nothing, each clasping the other tightly as they continued to kiss.

  Suddenly she broke away. He was on fire and reached for her but she held out a restraining hand. “Don’t, Jerry,” she whispered. “I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”

  “Those were the very words you used to say to me. Oh, Regina, it’s like … like.…”

  She opened the car door and stepped out. She turned and smiled at him. “My children may be watching out the window. I would hate for them to see their poor mother raped, wouldn’t you?” She was laughing again.

  “I have to see you, Regina. I must. Please!”

  She hesitated for a moment before answering. “You’re a married man, Jerry. I’m really not in the market for one-night stands.”

  “It’s not like that, and you know it. Please. Have dinner with me tomorrow night. I won’t touch you, I promise.” He felt desperate. “Look, I know you won’t believe me, but I just need to talk to you, Regina. I need that very much.”

  The snow was beginning to cover her hair. “I believe you,” she said softly. “All right. Could you pick me up he
re tomorrow about five, if that’s convenient?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d ask you in, Jerry, but I have to see that my children get to bed.” She laughed, but this time more quietly. “Besides, I don’t know if I could trust myself. Good night, and be careful driving back.”

  She turned, walked to her door, and was gone. He sat there for a moment, his heart pounding. It was as if time had been rolled back. He felt the same remembered joy, excitement, and promise.

  No other woman in his life had ever aroused him the way Regina Kelso did. The years had changed many things, but not that.

  * * *

  “Charley, this is a hell of an hour to get up. It’s still dark.” Abby Simmons climbed into the car, grateful for its warmth.

  “This is the only time you can see for yourself what I been telling you. There’s a good northwest wind blowing and at this hour there’ll be damn few cars on the bridge.” Charley Pesta, the man who spoke, was thickly built. His heavy rugged face had the leathery look of a person who spent much time outdoors.

  They sped away from Abby Simmon’s apartment house and headed toward the bridge.

  The old highway veered gently and the roadway became smoother as they moved onto the new paving put in when the bridge was built. They climbed the gently rising incline toward the bridge itself.

  The bridge was ten lanes wide with a toll booth for each incoming lane. Only one booth had the green light on. The others had their booms lowered and were dark and unoccupied.

  The booth attendant slid his window open just enough to take the money. He handed out the change, then snapped the window shut to conserve the warmth generated by his small electric heater.

  The bridge was well lighted but deserted. They drove out on the main span, some two hundred feet above the river.

  “Charley, the signs say you can’t park here,” Abby Simmons remarked as the car rolled to a stop near the edge of the bridge railing.

  “We only need to stop for a moment. Besides, there’s no traffic anyway. Come on.”

  The stout man laboriously climbed out of the car. The wind was strong and the cold breeze chilled Simmons as he too stepped out onto the bridge.

  “The wind has to be from the right direction and over fifteen miles an hour to make this happen,” Charley Pesta said. “Grip the railing, then look through the railing slats, and fix your eye on something on shore, a light for instance, and then watch what happens.”

  Simmons obeyed the instructions. He chose a place between two rail struts and sighted on a shore light close to the base of the bridge. As he watched, the light seemed to move, shifting from one opening in the rail to the next. He peered over the railing to make sure the light on shore was fixed. It was. He sighted on a different opening. The wind freshened and it happened again.

  “The bridge is swaying,” Pesta said. “You can’t feel it, but you can see it, right?”

  Simmons nodded. His companion climbed back into the car and Simmons followed.

  Simmons welcomed the cozy heat of the auto. Pesta put the car in gear and began to drive slowly over the rest of the bridge. The wind buffeted their vehicle.

  “It’s a pretty view from way up here,” Pesta said. “You can see the lights of the city over there. They look like a field of diamonds, don’t they? And the dawn can be spectacular when you see it from up here.” They began their descent the other side. “I used to drive over this bridge every day, going to and from work.”

  “So the bridge sways in the wind,” Abby Simmons said. “What’s the big deal? I understand all bridges are designed to sway in winds.”

  The other man slowly shook his head. “You’re thinking of suspension bridges. A sway factor is built into them, otherwise they’d whip around and snap their cables.”

  “And you’re telling me there’s no sway factor in this bridge?”

  “Nope, not this kind. It’s all steel and concrete. The supports are supposed to hold that thing as steady as a rock.”

  “I saw it sway.”

  “Right, and it’s getting progressively worse. Eventually that entire main span will break off. I showed you the cracks in the supports before. That’s why she’s swaying, those damn supports are unstable.”

  “Do you think they used inferior materials?”

  “No. I don’t think they allowed for the gross weight on the bridge during rush hours. Every morning and night, for about an hour each way, the cars are jammed up here bumper to bumper. I don’t think the architect allowed for all that concentrated weight at one time. She just isn’t built for it, and that’s what’s breaking her up. At least, that’s my educated guess.”

  “You’re the city engineer, why don’t you do something?” Abby Simmons lit a cigarette. They picked up speed as they left the bridge and moved onto the regular highway.

  “I’m not the city engineer, I just work for him. I’m a building inspector.”

  “But you are an engineer, a qualified engineer?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then why don’t you go to the county authorities and tell them about this?”

  Pesta shrugged. “I did.”

  “And?”

  “I talked to the head county engineer. But this bridge was his baby in the first place. He listened to me, even went out there with me. He said the cracks were a normal settling process. And that was that.”

  “There must be someone else you can give your information?”

  “Not unless I want to lose my job. Nobody likes a public servant who goes around making waves. That’s why I came to you, Mr. Simmons. I thought your paper could bring the whole thing out.”

  Simmons nodded. “I wrote the story.”

  “When are they going to run it?”

  “They aren’t. They have a law in this state that can make newspapers liable for revenues lost through what they term journalistic negligence. My editor didn’t think we had enough evidence to take the risk of running the story.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “It’s because the damn thing is a toll bridge. If people stopped using it because of our story, and we couldn’t prove in court that it was unsafe, we could be stuck for all the lost tolls. And my editor feel that’s too big a risk to take.”

  “How about the swaying? Maybe he’ll do something when you tell him about that.”

  “I doubt it. There’s a case now before the U.S. Supreme Court testing that state law. If the law is struck down, we’ll run the story.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “I’m not sure. It still has to be argued up there. Six to eight months probably.”

  They were driving through the city now. “I sure hope that bridge holds up that long,” Pesta said.

  “Do you really think it really might go down soon?”

  The other man shrugged. “I’m not sure. Somebody would have to do tests, stress tests and things like that to really find out. Somebody would have to be really interested because those tests cost a lot of money. Look, I’ll be frank. I don’t know when it will fall. It could stand there for twenty years, or it could go down tomorrow. I don’t know the ‘when,’ I just know that eventually it will fall.”

  Simmons said nothing, just inhaled deeply on the cigarette.

  Pesta continued. “If that sucker goes down during rush hour, it will take sixty or seventy cars along with it. It’s a long fall to the river. I doubt if many would survive, even if they could get out of the car before it sank.”

  “God, that many?”

  “That’s just counting the cars. Counting car pools, couples, and so on, you have to figure a loss of a hundred people. Of course, if she went down during the night, you’d only lose the few who zipped in before it was discovered.”

  “And you honestly think it can fall?”

  “As I said, I used to drive it every day. I take the long way around now. I drove over it just now but that was to show you about the sway. I stay off the damn thing.” He paused, then continued. “It’s a shame you c
an’t alert the people who use the bridge.”

  Pesta looked over at him. “I thought you guys could print anything you wanted to.”

  “Yeah, so did I,” Simmons said. He rolled down the window and flicked out the cigarette. “But then I believed in Santa Claus until I was almost sixteen.”

  * * *

  The headwaiter escorted Professor Harold Orwell toward Jerry Green’s table. Orwell walked with military bearing, spine straight, shoulders back, his chin elevated slightly. He moved very well, displaying none of the usual uncertainty of movement associated with old age, although he was nearing eighty. Tall, lean, and with close-cropped white hair, he sported a British-style white mustache. There was a definite aura of imperial elegance about him. He cooly surveyed the others in the restaurant much as a reviewing general might inspect troops whom he suspected to be less than battle ready.

  Green stood up and extended his hand. “Professor Orwell, this is a pleasure.”

  The man’s grip was firm although a bit tremulous. Orwell nodded and took the chair the headwaiter held in readiness.

  A waiter appeared almost instantly. “Can I get you something from the bar?”

  Green looked across the small table at the tall man who sat as he walked, straight and military.

  “I should prefer coffee,” he said in a strong, deep voice. Orwell made an effort to smile although it looked as if he was out of practice in that expression. His teeth were too perfect, obviously a plate. False teeth seemed grossly out of place in such a magnificently aristocratic face.

  “Scotch and soda,” Green said.

  The waiter hurried away.

  “Orwell on Torts was our case book at law school,” Green said. “Meeting you is like talking to a historical figure.”

  The cool blue eyes flickered over Green for a moment. “That’s what I am, a historical figure. I worry constantly about being kidnapped by agents of the Smithsonian and put on display like Lindbergh’s airplane. After all, I am older than his Spirit of St. Louis.” A small smile curled beneath the trim mustache. “What school did you attend, Mr. Green?”