“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.
I awoke the next day at noon. I hadn’t gone to bed until the wee hours of the morning as I was too hyped from the two naps. I went into the kitchen to see what I could dig up. As I was about to pull some bread out of the freezer, I remembered that I had to be at Julia’s at one. I raced to the bathroom and jumped into the shower. The good thing about having an odd schedule was that Matt and I didn’t fight over the bathroom. He used it around eight in the morning while I rarely needed it before noon. I washed myself hastily before hopping out of the shower. Running to my room, I thought about what clean clothes I had. I pulled on a black cotton skirt and a red tank top before flying out of the house. It was twelve-thirty, and I was going to have to forgo food until I got to Julia’s. I just hoped she had something she could feed me. I also hoped the gang wouldn’t be too pissed that I hadn’t finished my work.
I slid into my mother’s Honda, determined to drive it. I slowly backed out of the garage and started down the street. I decided to go to Grand Street in St. Paul to shop because they had many eclectic shops on that street. I hated malls with a passion, and I never went to the Megamall unless someone came to visit from out of town. Without exception, visitors always wanted to be taken to the Mall. I had the radio on MPR—the only station I could stomach. They were interviewing Jonny Lang and playing his newest release. I hummed along to it as it was undeniably catchy. Hard to believe he was only twenty-two with a full-throated growl like that. He was cute, too, but apparently married. I shook my head to rid myself of these random thoughts and concentrated on the road. It wasn’t easy to do as my arm was screaming at me to stop moving, but I managed to make it in one piece.
“I’m going to see Paris,” I say defiantly, striding towards the room. I positively itch for a confrontation, but this officer, yet a different one, lets me in as soon as I give her my name. I sit down. “It’s a mess, Paris. I’m no closer to finding out who did this to you, and worse yet, I quit my job today. Sort of.” I pour out everything, not wanting to bottle up my feelings. As I’m talking a glimmer of something comes to my mind, but it’s gone. I don’t try to push it because I know it’ll come to me sooner if I let it simmer. I want more than anything for Paris to open his eyes, for him to smile at me, for him to come home. “Oh, god,” I sob, my head dropping forward. How much longer can I stand to see Paris like this? I long to shake him by his shoulders until he awakes.
