Tag Archives: Mrs. Robertson

A Hard Rain; chapter ten, part one

“God, this is boring,” Leslie mutters as she sits in the back of Judge Anthony’s courtroom.  She is not paying any attention to the trial.  She knows it’s some kind of manslaughter charge, but that’s it.  She watches Judge Anthony, trying to discern what type of judge he might be.  Folly, really, as if she could tell by sitting in his courtroom during a trial.  She nods off several times as the attorneys drone on and on and on.  Finally, the judge calls for a recess.  Leslie wonders if she can catch the judge in his chambers.  Doubtful.  She’s pretty sure that she can’t.  She thinks for a minute before she walks outside the courtroom, cell phone in hand.  She pulls out her list and calls the judge.

“Hello.  Judge Anthony.  Who are you, and why are you calling me?”  The judge has a supercilious edge to his words, as if he were born with the right to rule.

“My name is Sandra Scoppettone.  I am with the Sun-Times.  I have information on the murder—“

“No you’re not,” Judge Anthony says briskly, barely letting Leslie speak.  “Try again, or I’m hanging up.”

“OK, look.  I want to write for the Sun-Times.  I just need a break.  I heard that there is new information as to the whereabouts of Freddy Amato and—“

“I’ll be right—where are you?”

“Outside your courtroom.”

“Meet me outside the building in two.”  Judge Anthony hangs up the phone abruptly, leaving Leslie to stare at hers incredulously.  What a rude man.  She makes it outside before Judge Anthony does.  She watches as he emerges from the building.  He is not a bad-looking man with his dark, slicked-back hair, intense blue eyes, and slim build.  He is wearing a black suit with a magenta tie.  Leslie remembers that he is noted for his flashy ties.  He looks around, but of course he has no idea what Leslie looks like.  Leslie stands up and walks over to the judge.  His eyes are glued on her chest as she approaches.  She has her coat unzipped and those three buttons unbuttoned—the judge is definitely a chest man.  Leslie keeps that in mind as she holds out her hand.

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A Hard Rain; chapter eight, part two

Leslie presses her forehead to the window of the cab, feeling the tears gather in her eyes.  Even when John was tough on her, he was still so full of love.  He did it because he believed in her.  He believed with all his might that Leslie would get better, that she would heal from her past.  Every time she said she was ruined and broken, he would say she was damaged, but not broken.  It was as if thought he could heal her by the sheer force of his beliefs.  Leslie roots through her oversized purse for a tissue (John liked to joke that she could carry a small child in it) and blows her nose.  She wonders how long it’ll take before she doesn’t cry every time she thinks of John.  She has a hunch it’ll be a long time.

“Here we are.”  The cabbie pulls up to what looks like a gated mansion, at least to Leslie’s eyes.  “I hope they’re expecting you.”

“They are.”  Leslie is about to say something when an intercom crackles to life.


“Tell her Jacqueline Kim is here,” Leslie tells the cabbie.  He does so with little fanfare.  They are buzzed through the gate.  “Will you wait for me?”  Leslie asks the cabbie.

“Sure.”  The cabbie nods at Leslie before pulling a book out to read.  Leslie sees that it’s A Tale of Two Cities by Dickens.  Leslie exits the cab and marches toward the front door.  She takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell.  The door is opened by an older woman with faded blond hair and faded blue eyes, wearing a faded pink housedress.  Though she is neatly attired and her hair is combed, there is something vaguely slatternly about her.  It might be the way she is clutching her oversized wine glass, though it isn’t even ten in the morning yet.  That doesn’t daunt Mrs. Robertson as she gulps the red wine from her glass.

“You’re Jacqueline Kim.  Friend of Rose Duffy.  You want to talk to me about Amy.”  Mrs. Robertson’s words are slurred.  She steps back from the door and gestures for Leslie to enter.  Leslie glances around her and sees nothing but taupe and beige and ecru.  Everything is of fine quality and very tasteful, but it’s fucking boring.  Mrs. Robertson leads Leslie to the living room, which is at least done in dusty rose rather than beige.  But, the furniture is beige, and so is the floor.  Leslie would go nuts living in this soulless house.  “Sit.”  Mrs. Robertson motions to a beige leather couch, and Leslie gingerly sits down.  She and leather don’t get along very well.  She has a tendency to slide off it.  “I need a refresher.  I’ll be right back.”  Mrs. Robertson disappears without asking Leslie if she wants a drink.  Leslie blinks.  There is something off-putting about Mrs. Robertson’s manners.  It’s as she knows what she’s supposed to say and do, but she can’t quite do it.  Leslie waits tensely for Mrs. Robertson to return.  Once she does, she seats herself in a hard-back chair directly opposite of Leslie.  Mrs. Robertson continues to gulp at her wine, staring at Leslie without saying anything.

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