One Must Wait Page 3

  In the moment of stunned silence that followed, Carole Ann turned away from the crowd of reporters, shook Tommy's hand again, accepted hugs and kisses from his family and friends, and was looking for an opening in the crowd, when, simultaneously, peels of laughter erupted from the spectators and howls of protest from the reporters. What do you mean by that, Carole Ann? Are you questioning the integrity of the press, Carole Ann? Are you challenging our First Amendment rights, Carole Ann? Are you threatening a libel or slander suit, Carole Ann? You tell 'em, Miss Gibson! Way to go, Sister! Naw, we don't listen to 'em 'cause we know they lie! That's right! Reporters are worse than the government for lying!

  Not only did the crowd part in Biblical fashion to permit her exit, but it closed behind her, preventing the reporters from following immediately. Her long-legged stride allowed her to cover the block and a half around the courthouse, from the front to the rear, where her car and driver waited, faster than the reporters could swim against the tide of the crowd and follow her; and she was more than slightly impressed by the dexterity with which the young woman driver effected their departure, at one point easily jumping a curb and speeding the wrong way down a one-way drive reserved for court officials and merging into the dense, late afternoon traffic before the guard stationed at the private entrance could react to their unauthorized and illegal presence.

  It seemed to Carole Ann these days that any time of day was rush hour in D.C. Traffic always was congested; the fact that it was now almost five o'clock did not alone explain the tortoise-like pace with which cars and trucks, bikes and cycles, busses, taxis, and vans, followed Pennsylvania Avenue as it changed directional nomenclature from Southeast to Northwest, winding past such tourist favorites as the FBI building, the elaborately restored Hotel Washington, the White House, Blair House, the Old Executive Office Building, and looping around the circle guarded by George Washington University and its massive hospital on one end, and the entrance to Georgetown on the other. Carole Ann knew that the time of day had minimal effect on Pennsylvania Avenue traffic because this was her neighborhood. Her home and office were on one end of it—the northwest end, called Foggy Bottom—and several of the courts in which she practiced were on the southeast end of Pennsylvania Avenue and adjacent Constitution and Independence Avenues. She shopped on Pennsylvania Avenue, and jogged on it, and went to the movies and the ice cream parlor and the dry cleaners and the liquor store and to several restaurants on it. And no matter where she was going, no matter the time of day or night, traffic was a mess, and she always wondered where all the cars and people were coming from and where they were going.

  Joining the nosey wonderings in her imagination was the understanding that she deliberately was not thinking about the events of the day. She'd escaped the courthouse, leaving the hungry, young associate attorneys to handle the court's paperwork. Not that there was anything wrong with that—no senior litigator that she knew or knew of fooled with the minutiae of lawyering. Which is precisely why she did. She always made it a point, especially at the conclusion of long, contentious trials, to personally acknowledge juries and clerks and bailiffs and court reporters, the judge, the judge's personal staff, and to personally attend to the clerical odds and ends, whether that was filing notice of appeal or accepting a verdict or decision. Today, she wanted none of that. Nor did she want to return to the office to bask in the false adulation that would be spread on much too thickly because she knew that, with the exception of Cleo, nobody in the firm had believed in Tommy Griffin's innocence. And there was a distinct chill in some quarters of the office, the residual fallout from her accurate prediction of acquittal in the O.J. Simpson case. Carole Ann had taken her unpopular to the point of dangerous stance not because she was a Simpson apologist, or because she'd paid particular attention to the abomination that masqueraded as a trial, but because, as a Black native of Los Angeles, she understood the dislike and distrust that Black residents of that city had for a police department that had brutalized and humiliated them with impunity for generations. She understood that Black Angelinos carried with them always the slap in the face that was the acquittal of Rodney King's attackers. So she understood that unless the police department presented incontrovertible evidence against Simpson—and she suspected that it would not because the LAPD rarely took Black citizens seriously enough to build air-tight cases—no Black on the Simpson jury would vote to convict. That thesis she outlined in painstaking detail more than once, and was both surprised and dismayed when her colleagues reacted angrily at the correctness of her prediction. For the most part, they still were angry with her—angry because she hadn't wished for his conviction, angry because she hadn't shared their anger when it didn't come. So, their congratulations would ring hollow and she wasn't in the mood to ignore or excuse or understand.

  She opened the console, released the phone, called Cleo and got an earful: Not only was there awe and disbelief in the Griffin verdict, but collective outrage at her statement to the media. They were, Cleo imparted, gunning for her. She told Cleo to tell them what they could do with their weapons and, gratified that she'd determined not to return to the office before learning of the hostile mood there, she turned off the phone.

  "Miss?" She leaned forward to the driver. "I'm sorry I don't know your name."

  "It's Wanda, Miss Gibson. What can I do for you?"

  "I'm not going back to the office. Drop me at home, please," she said, knowing that the firm's drivers could take her home, to her gym, to her doctor or dentist or hair stylist without once asking for an address or directions.

  "Yes, Ma'am," Wanda replied crisply, shifting from the right lane and executing a left turn so quickly and smoothly that Carole Ann wasn't certain that it had happened until she saw the outline of her apartment building directly ahead of her.

  "You're a hell of a driver, Wanda," Carole Ann said dryly, though with true admiration. Wanda turned around and grinned her thanks and Carole Ann marveled at the speed and agility with which Wanda pulled up in front of her building, shifted the car into gear, got out and sped around to open the rear passenger door.

  "Do you want your bags inside, Miss Gibson?"

  "No, Wanda, I don't. Take them to Cleo, please."

  "Yes, Ma'am," she responded briskly, closing the car door with the same energy and preceding Carole Ann to the building entrance just as the doorman appeared with a nod, a touch of his hand to his cap, and a mumbled, "'Afternoon Mrs. Crandall."

  Tired now of the servitude which became an intrusion when she just wanted to be alone, Carole Ann turned her back on the both of them and crossed the lobby, her heels a rapid staccato on the rose-colored marble. The elevator was open and waiting and she strode in, pushed the button to the penthouse, and rode home in swift silence, grateful that it was early enough that her neighbors weren't flocking home. Enough of them knew who she was and what she did for a living that it could have taken half an hour to traverse the distance from front door to elevator door. She didn't think she'd ever seen the building lobby totally empty of residents, and she was quite certain that she had never in her life come home from work at—she looked at her watch—five twenty-three.

  She exited the elevator into a small, private foyer. She dropped her purse and brief case in a heap and slipped off her shoes while she punched in the five-digit code that opened the door, deactivated the alarm, and turned on the hall lights, simultaneously. Every time she came home she alternated between gratitude at not having to search for and fumble with keys, and worry about what would happen should the advanced technology that made life so easy ever failed. Al, who believed in the superiority of technology, also was a lapsed Buddhist who adhered to the belief that every thought sent out to the Universe returned as one's reality, and constantly cautioned her against worrying about the impossible less she make it real. She sighed in relieved gratitude when the door clicked open, and, kicking her belongings in ahead of her, silently vowed for at least the millionth time to stop holding her breath, waiting for th
e door mechanism to malfunction, just in case Al was right, as he very often was.

  The apartment, bright and warm from the sunlight as well as from decor and furnishings, welcomed her arrival. And though she needed more than anything to talk to Al, to tell him all the new thoughts and feelings and understandings that had become part of her interior landscape in the last three days, she relished the time alone. Once a staple of her existence, private time and space had become a rare commodity, one missed only occasionally since she'd learned from Al the value and virtue of sharing a life. But she'd spent the last three days exploring her interior terrain alone, roaming and searching and questioning and discovering; and while some moments had been frightening, she'd enjoyed the experience, and wasn't quite ready for it to end. She also didn't know what to do now that she was home at five o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. She realized that she didn't know what normal people did at home at this time of day; she and Al rarely got home before nine.

  She walked the entire length and breadth of the apartment twice before returning to the front hallway and retrieving her purse, shoes and briefcase. These she put away, and, changing into shorts and a tee shirt, she went into the mirrored bathroom and cleansed her face, carefully removing the just as carefully applied make-up that she knew to be invisible to all but the most astute, meaning invisible to men, noticed with appreciation by most women. Feeling free and easy, she returned to the dining room and slid open the balcony doors, admitting a swirl of still-warm air that wrapped around her like a hug. In a couple of months, the humidity for which D.C. was infamous would feel more like a wet, woolen blanket than a hug; but right now it was delightful.

  She contemplated briefly going for her daily run and quickly dismissed the notion, preferring to save that pleasure for after sundown, and crossed into the kitchen. She placed a bag of popcorn in the microwave, set the timer, and strolled out on to the balcony which wrapped around three sides of the building, providing views north, east and west. She looked east, toward the Potomac River and the bumper-to-bumper traffic snaking its way out of Washington and into Virginia. That slow procession would last until long after sundown, evidence, according to many, that sleepy, Southern D.C. no longer was a one industry, 9-to-5 government town. Carole Ann disagreed. Washington, D.C. still was essentially of, for, by, and about the Federal Government, which had merely grown beyond the wildest imaginings of its creators and, like some monster in a 1950's horror movie, needed constantly to feed, to gorge itself, never attaining satiation. So, more and more politicians and their lackeys, lawyers and lobbyists, associations and organizations, flocked to town to feed and feed on the massive government; and, parasitically, there followed the smaller beasts that feed on the politicians and lobbyists and associations. Suburban Washington now extended as far north as Baltimore and as far south as Fredericksburg and the beast still was ravenous.

  The breeze brought the scent of popcorn to her nostrils, and she crossed into the kitchen just as the rapid pop-pop-popping subsided. She got a beer from the refrigerator and the popcorn from the microwave and a fistful of napkins from the cabinet and padded down the hall to the den. She plopped down on the sofa and opened the popcorn, leaning away from the heat of the escaping steam while savoring the scent. She could eat popcorn for dinner every night—and did on those nights when Al worked even later than usual and therefore could not ridicule what he called her pedestrian eating habits. She switched on the television, curious to see how the news programs would handle Tommy's acquittal in light of their heavy-handed and opinionated coverage of his arrest and indictment. She was horrified to find herself the focus of the news instead of Tommy. She flipped from channel to channel, each time startled to find herself looking at herself—at the emerald silk and linen dress with the plunging neckline she'd just removed and hung in her closet; at the carefully made-up face she'd just cleansed; at the perfectly coiffed hair she'd run her fingers through and rumpled; at the tall, imperious, icon that resembled herself but was not herself. They'd made her the story instead of Tommy. They'd made her words a threat to the free press instead of a repudiation of an irresponsible one.

  She worked the remote control, switching back and forth between channels, watching the various news programs the way people watched the aftermath of disasters—earthquakes or fires or train or plane crashes: with a horrified fascination tinged with equal parts fear and excitement. She ate popcorn and drank beer and watched, ignoring the ringing of the phone, for she could easily imagine that the caller, whoever it was, was calling about what she was watching on the television. Looking at it was difficult enough; she certainly didn't want to talk about it. Finally, as if on an agreed upon cue, the programs all switched from her to Tommy, re-hashing the charges against him, complete with the innuendoes of his guilt, until they grudgingly got around to reporting the not guilty verdict—one of the news readers actually said, 'got off’—and she laughed out loud. At least, she thought to herself, the heat finally was off Tommy. Perhaps he could resume his job and his life.

  Their private phone rang, the one that only family and the closest of friends knew the number to, and Carole Ann muted the sound to the television and picked up the phone at the beginning of the second ring, expecting Al. It was Cleo.

  "All hell is breaking loose over here. Pritchard is howling like a junkyard dog under a full moon and the old farts are hyperventilating. If one of 'em has a heart attack and dies, can you be charged as an accessory?"

  "Only if he dies with my name on his lips," Carole Ann said laughing, "and then it would almost be worth it to suffer the indignity of a trial. Do you think Bob would represent me?"

  "Not in this life or the next," Cleo said with a snort of disgusted laughter. "And he is furious that you're not here to take the heat yourself."

  "Well, I don't want you taking his abuse, so why don't you pack up and leave."

  "I already tried that, but Bonnie Sam informed me that the work day for support staff is nine a.m. until six p.m."

  "You tell that little cretin that you work for me, not his office pool, and that if he ever again—on second thought, what's his direct number? I'll call him myself."

  "Relax, C.A. It's almost six anyway, and by the time I catalog all the phone calls you've received in the last hour, it'll be quitting time and I can leave with Bonnie's blessing."

  "Have there been that many?" Carole Ann still could not believe how completely the focus had shifted from Tommy to herself, and Cleo's snorted reply shocked her further. "How many, Cleo?" she asked almost plaintively.

  "Let's put it this way: Don't be surprised if I'm overcome by a twenty-four hour virus sometime in the next twelve hours.’ Bye, C.A. See you tomorrow," Cleo said with another snort that converted itself to deep chuckle at mid-point.

  "Perhaps not," Carole Ann said, with her own snort. "I'm feeling a little under the weather myself."

  "Are you serious?" Cleo asked, a tinge of panic replacing the earlier irreverence. "You've never not come to work, not even when you had walking pneumonia!" Cleo gave in fully to the panic attack and Carole Ann reined her in.

  "I'm quite serious, but I'll be there after I make an appearance with Tommy at his precinct. Don't worry, OK?"

  "If you say so," Cleo replied, voice heavy with skepticism and, without further comment, she disconnected.

  Carole Ann sank back into the sofa, knees pulled up in front of her and resting on her chest. She wrapped her arms around them and rested her chin there and thought about all the thoughts she'd had in recent days: New, challenging, questioning, bold, frightening thoughts. Thoughts that made it possible for her to truly contemplate not going into the office tomorrow because she truly questioned the value of what she did. For the first time in almost twenty years, since graduating from college, she challenged herself to justify her existence. The last time she'd engaged in such an exercise she'd ended up in the Peace Corps, digging ditches in West Africa to bring water to crops so that people who might have been her kin could eat. So
moved was she by the feeling of actually doing something useful that she'd seriously contemplated staying there—perhaps would have stayed—had a young man from South Carolina not challenged her to return home and help her own people. She was not an African, he'd reminded her, any more than he himself was. And grateful as he was for the African experience, what he'd really learned was that he was needed in his home state where, despite the prevalence of technological advances, people who truly were his kin were living a West African-village existence.

  Law school had been her response to that challenge upon her return home. She'd fled the familiar, idyllic ambiance of Los Angeles for New York—what could be more different?—and immersed herself with a vengeance in Columbia's law program. She'd graduated cum laude, law review, and married to Alain Langston Crandall who, true to his poetic namesakes, was the most romantic man she'd ever met, and the only man who'd volunteered, without being asked, to return with her one day to West Africa and see how the crops were doing. Almost twenty years. And the only useful thing she'd done lately was save Tommy Griffin from jail and she'd almost botched that by believing that she was, as she'd been told often enough, one of the best trial lawyers on the East coast.

  Where did it come from, that kind of arrogance? When and how did it begin? With the first big against-the-odds courtroom wins? With the advent of the really big money? With the invitations to the White House? With the recognition that Supreme Court justices and Attorneys General and U.S. Attorneys were personal friends? She and Al didn't believe themselves to be status seekers, social climbers. In fact, they rarely, if ever, made appearances on Washington's high level social scene, preferring small dinner parties with their closest and oldest friends. But black attorneys as full partners in major law firms still was rare enough in D.C. to attract notice; for them both to have achieved such status was unprecedented. So, with or without their acquiescence, they routinely were included at or near the top of all those "power couple" and "Washington insider" lists; and to the extent that those designations carried weight, they were Washington heavyweights.