Chapter One

 	Bertha Brannon worked her Jeep into a tight parking spot and cut the ignition.  Anxious
to get out of the heat, she checked her watch and thought about the coming weekend.  For once
there was nothing pressing.  The two days off seemed to stretch out like an empty highway 
across the flat summer prairie.  
     Bertha waved at the new woman with the dark crew cut who worked in Lilith's Book
Store and hurriedly pushed through the revolving doors into the Lambert Building, where the
marble- floored lobby felt cool. 
     On the third floor, in her own office, Bertha kicked off her black pumps and rubbed her
nyloned calves.  Despite a window air conditioner that worked day and night, her office was
warm.  An oscillating fan rattled on top of a four-drawer file cabinet in the corner.  Late
afternoon sunlight filtered between the vertical blinds and fell across the disheveled desk.  She
rummaged through a stack of file folders looking for her appointment book.  Alvin, her
part-time secretary, had left early for a dentist's appointment. 
     Bertha was pretty sure the whole afternoon had been blocked out for court.  If no one
was scheduled at four, she would slide out of the panty hose too.  Her six-foot-tall,
two-hundred-pound frame wasn't meant for skirts and heels.  She only had two court outfits,
one for summer and one for winter.  They usually hung on a coat rack that was obscured by a
cluttered bookshelf in the corner.  She had several packages of Queen-Tall panty hose--the damn
things usually ripped when she was getting in or out of them.  Bertha wore jeans and tennis
shoes in the office--sometimes a blazer.  She'd never be the cut-throat professional,  African-
American  woman with a power wardrobe she used to admire.  She had given up trying to fit
into that mold after two years at the state's attorney's office.  They had wanted her to stay. 
Women, especially  black women, were more at ease with Bertha.  They could tell her the ugly
truths that would often make or break a case.  Sometimes Bertha longed for the security and
regular pay check.  But she didn't miss the dress code. 
     Several files slid to the floor when she pulled out the appointment book.  There was no
one scheduled that afternoon, but dinner with Alvin and Randy had been penciled in at seven. 
She was glad for the free time, but worried.  There had only been three new clients since
Monday--two divorces, referred from the battered women's shelter, and a wage assignment for
child support.  None of them had the fifty dollars for the first consultation.  She had informed
each of them that she took only so many cases on a sliding scale--then took them all. 
     "Damn it, Bertha," Alvin swore when she'd handed him the last file to type. "The rent's
due Monday.  If you keep taking these cases, you won't have time for the work that pays." 
     "As long as I have the contract with the public defender, the rent will be paid," she'd
said.  Why was she explaining her decisions to the secretary anyway?  She'd been in juvenile
court all afternoon defending a fifteen-year-old boy who was charged with car theft.  Jimmy
Reed was a good-looking kid--tall, slim, blond hair, green eyes--with a brand new Mickey
Mouse tattoo.  Jimmy "borrowed" his father's car, stole the stereo and a couple of blank checks,
then used the money and the transportation to get himself and a school friend tattooed.  His dad
pressed charges.  The boy lived with his mother.  Mr. Reed was remarried, behind on child
support, and rarely saw the kid.  Though it was a separate issue, Bertha had been allowed to
mention the unpaid child support because they were in Juvenile Court.  Judge Wallace sent
everyone out of the room except Bertha.   
     "Counselor, how long will it take you to produce a wage assignment?" 
     Bertha wanted to cooperate but pointed out, "Mrs. Reed is not my client, your Honor." 
     Judge Wallace's voice softened.  "If she had her child support, she could get some help
for the boy.  Most of the kids we see are too far gone.  This one has a chance." 
     "I can have it in front of you Monday."  Bertha had a form on the computer.  Most of the
time she slipped them in with divorce packages. 
     Judge Wallace gave Jimmy three months of court supervision and the standard lecture. 
Bertha called his mother aside after the others were gone.  Mrs. Reed was a thirty-something,
plump, red-headed woman who looked as uncomfortable in her court clothes as Bertha felt.  
     "How much is your ex-husband in arrears, Mrs. Reed?" Bertha asked. 
     The woman said,  "I don't know.  He hasn't paid support for at least three years." 
     "You never tried to collect?"  
     "I would stand a better chance if I were on welfare," Mrs. Reed said. "I work.  I make
just enough that I can't get assistance with legal fees.  I signed up for the state program that
tracks down deadbeat dads months ago."
     "No luck?"
     Pat Reed sighed and shook her head.  "It all takes so long.  He knows it." 
     "Well, it looks like Jimmy has taken care of that for you," said Bertha. "Add it up and
call my office Monday with the total.  Include medical costs or anything else your divorce
agreement says he's responsible for.  Judge Wallace has instructed me to prepare a wage
assignment.  Mr. Reed does work, doesn't he?" 
     "For the state."  
     Bertha felt good about the whole thing.  But payment for county contract work would
take months and was irregular at best.  She didn't think she should have to explain that to Alvin. 
But the reminder about the rent did make her nervous.  Running her own office, she didn't have
to worry about dress codes or billable hours.  But she still had to worry about the bills. 
     Bertha rubbed her right foot.  Her toes were cramping.  She ran her hands up her round,
nyloned thighs and hooked her thumbs in the waist band of her panty hose.  She stood slightly
behind her desk, rolled the things down over her hips, and pulled first one foot, then the other,
free.  She picked up the damp nylons from the floor and tossed them into her bottom drawer. 
     The air conditioner humming behind her was on high.  She turned and let the cool air
blow on her neck.  She bent forward and felt the air beneath her blouse.  
     Through the third-story window, she could see the street below.  There was a line of
cars at the drive-up bank on the corner.  Heat waves rose from the sidewalk like an electric
stove left on high.  There were only a few pedestrians. 
      Bertha wanted to get home and put some more Sulfur 8 on her itching scalp.  She
cursed Alvin and his hairdresser boyfriend for talking her into the blonde hair.  Not only did she
look like Wesley Snipes in "Demolition Man," but her hair was also drier and harder to manage
than ever. 
     "Excuse me." A voice from behind Bertha cut through her thoughts.  She turned to face
a slender young white woman in a red sleeveless dress. 
     Bertha quickly sat behind the desk.  She hoped it hid her bare legs. 
     "I'd like to see Miss Brannon." 
     "I'm Bertha Brannon.  Did you have an appointment?" 
     The woman smiled apologetically. "Barry Levine, the attorney down the hall, told me
you might be here.  I had an appointment with him, but he couldn't help me.  The outer office
was empty, but I saw you in here." 
     "Barry thought I could help you when he couldn't?"  Bertha was suspicious.  Barry
Levine never turned away a client. 
     "Yes."  The woman glanced back over her shoulder as though someone was behind her.
     Bertha checked the empty doorway.  
     The woman asked,  "Do you have time to see me now?" 
     "Well actually . . . " 
     "It's very important," the woman pleaded.  "I don't know what I'll do if I have to wait all
weekend.  Please, Miss Brannon." 
     "Call me Bertha."  Bertha motioned to the folding chair next to the file cabinet.  "I only
have a few minutes.  Now what is this about?" 
     "My name is Sally Morescki."  The woman scooted the chair to the corner of the desk. 
     Bertha pulled a pen from the center drawer and a legal pad from the bottom of one of the
stacks on her desk.  "Can you spell that for me, please?" 
     Sally started to spell her last name slowly, then flinched and looked behind her.  "Did you
hear a noise?" 
     "No."  Bertha sighed.  "Look, if you need an order of protection, you can file for that
yourself." 
     "I have one." 
     "Well if he's violated it, you can call the police yourself.  Lawyers are expensive."  Bertha
thought she knew exactly why Barry Levine had sent Sally Morescki down the hall. 
     "Do you believe in the tarot?"  Sally asked. 
     Bertha wiped beads of sweat from her upper lip.  The damn polyester blouse was soaked
under her arms and around her waist.  She wanted to go home, get out of the monkey suit and
put on a pair of cut-off jeans.  "I know what it is.  Cards, right?" 
     Sally nodded.  "Each card means something . . . " 
     Bertha interrupted her.  "At the risk of sounding trite, can we cut to the chase?  It's been
a long day." 
     "I just came from a reading.  I was advised to get a lawyer."  Sally swallowed hard.  "I
was advised to get one today." 
     "Are you telling me that you had your fortune told . . . " 
     "It was the tarot." 
     "Tarot, tea leaves, what difference does it make?  You're getting a lawyer on the advice
of a gypsy?" 
     "A witch," Sally corrected her. 
     "And what exactly are you employing a lawyer to do?" Bertha made a mental note to
thank Barry Levine for this one. 
     "Defend me," said Sally Morescki.  "I'm going to be charged with murder." 
     Bertha started scribbling on the legal pad.  "Now we're getting somewhere," she said. 
"Who is dead?" 
     "No one." 
     Bertha threw the pen on her paper-laden desk a little too hard.  She sat back in the desk
chair and glared at the blonde woman.  "You are going to be charged with murder, and no one is
dead?" 
     "I'm going to murder my husband."  Sally's voice was soft.  There was a hint of
excitement, as if she were really looking forward to it. 
     "Mrs. Morescki, if you say the man deserves to die, I believe you.  But I am required by
law to report your intention to kill him."  Bertha spread her arms in a gesture to indicate the
situation was out of her hands.  "Maybe you shouldn't say any more.  When they arrest you,
you'll be allowed a phone call.  Get in touch with me then." 
     "I don't intend to kill him.  But the cards . . . " 
     "I know, the witch-- " 
     "Yes, she told me to find a lawyer today." 
     "Where did this witch study law?" 
     Sally Morescki sighed.  She picked up her purse and started rummaging through it.  She
looked as if she was going to cry.  
     Bertha turned to the window ledge and picked up a box of Puffs.  She offered them to
Sally.  
     "Thanks," Sally muttered and blew her nose. 
     There was a long silence.  Finally Bertha said, "Why don't you tell me about him?" 
     "My husband is a very influential man." Sally leaned forward and spoke softly, as if
someone in the empty outer office might hear.  "We've been married for two years.  I thought
things were going fine until last February." 
     "What happened?"  Bertha looked the woman over and tried to figure how well-off this
"influential" husband was.  Sally didn't really look rich.  The red dress was a simple affair.  The
shoes could have been from Payless.  Her hair was cut short, in one of those white women's
shake-and-go cuts.  Sally was a blonde too, although hers looked to be natural.  There were
subtle clues that things weren't going well for her- - the dark circles under her eyes, an ashen
complexion.  She looked like one of  the women referred from the battered women's shelter. 
Bertha had her own reasons for taking so many domestic violence cases.  And she knew that
she'd do what she could to help Sally Morescki.
          "He didn't come home for a week," Sally answered.  "We quarreled." 
     "You two fight a lot?"  Bertha thought she knew the answer. 
     But Sally shook her head, "No, not until then.  He seemed very irritable.  I thought it
might be pressure at his business or another problem with his ex-wife." 
     "So you are the second wife?"  Bertha was making notes again. 
     Sally flushed.  "I was his secretary.  There was a messy divorce.  I'm ashamed to admit
that, when he disappeared for a week, I thought he was involved with Miss Cornwell, the new
secretary.  After I was sure he wasn't dead, that is." 
     "Why be ashamed of that?" Bertha asked.  "It's a natural assumption."  Bertha
remembered her Aunt Lucy, who'd had five husbands, telling her that if you took a woman's
man, some day another woman would take him from you. 
     Sally met Bertha's eyes.  "You're very blunt, aren't you?" 
     "Blunt.  Cynical."  Bertha sighed.  "Also hot and my feet hurt." 
     "How much would it cost to retain you?" Sally asked. 
     "As far as I can see you don't have a need to retain me," Bertha said.  "I could take your
money.  But the fact is, you don't need an attorney.  That's probably why Barry Levine couldn't
help you.  And it's the reason I can't either." 
     Sally's forehead wrinkled in a frown.  She appeared puzzled.  "Do you know anything
about criminal law?" she asked.  
     "I worked for two years in the state's attorney's office.  I handled my share of criminal
cases there.  As a prosecutor, of course."  Bertha leaned back in her chair.  "There is one thing I
know do for sure.  And that is, you have to have a crime." 
     "But, Madame Soccoro . . . " 
     "You're not planning on murdering your husband?" 
     "Of course not!" 
     "But you have an order of protection?"  Bertha didn't really understand why she was
continuing the conversation.  Maybe it was because Sally kept sitting there, and Bertha couldn't
leave the room without exposing her bare legs. 
     "When he finally came home last winter, we quarreled.  He pushed me around."  Sally
lowered her voice, "I went home to my mother's for a while.  He kept calling.  Mom insisted I
get the order of protection." 
     "When was the first time he hit you?" Bertha asked. 
     Sally hung her head, "I don't remember." 
     It was Bertha's experience that that was one thing a woman did remember.  She might
forget all the times in between, but she could remember the first time, and maybe the last. 
"Where is your husband now, Mrs. Morescki?" 
     Sally shrugged, "I don't know." 
     "When was the last time you saw him?" 
     "A week ago." 
     Bertha felt a drop of sweat run down her spine.  She discreetly checked her watch, then
picked up the legal pad, and fanned herself with it.  "You want a divorce, Mrs. Morescki?" she
asked at last. 
     "Would you take my case?"  Sally seemed to be getting the idea. 
     "Any children?" Bertha asked. 
     "No." 
     "Property?" 
     "We own our home together.  Two cars," said Sally, "the usual." 
     Bertha said, "I would need six hundred dollars flat fee.  If there are complications, there
will be additional charges." 
     Sally opened her purse and rummaged around.  "According to Madam Soccoro, there
will be complications," she said.  "I'll feel better knowing you're on my team."  
     Sally retrieved a business size white envelope and opened the flap.  It was full of money. 
She pulled out a stack of one hundred dollar bills and counted out six. 
     Bertha's temple started a faint throbbing.  She ignored it, took the money from Sally's
outstretched hand, and stifled a sigh of relief upon seeing the rent money in front of her, in cash. 
"What are your grounds?" 
     "Huh?" 
     "For the divorce," said Bertha.  "We could file no-fault, but with property involved, it
might be best if you were the injured party.  That is, unless he agrees with the divorce and our
ideas about the settlement." 
     "Is mental cruelty all right?" Sally asked. 
     Bertha shrugged.  "Okay by me. Any special considerations on property?  The usual
fifty/fifty  split?"
     "I'd like for him to sell everything and split the money.  I suppose he'll want to keep his
business.  He can buy my stock."
     "We'll try.  Bring me a list.  I'll get the paperwork ready to file Monday afternoon." 
Bertha was writing on the legal pad again.  She stopped, reached for the bottom drawer and
pulled it open.  Her panty hose were in a heap on top of the bank bag.  She tried to remember
where Alvin kept the receipt book. 
     Sally looked at her watch.  "God, I didn't realize it was this late."  She reached across the
desk and extended her hand.  "Thank you for taking time to see me, Bertha." 
     Bertha shook the Sally's thin, cool hand, and said, "I'll get you a receipt." 
     "Can I get it Monday?" Sally was already stepping toward the door.  "I have another
appointment." 
     "Sure.  Sure." Bertha waved her on.  She was relieved to have the interview over.  She
turned and scraped her shin on the open desk drawer.  She reached to close it, and when she
looked up a second later, Sally Morescki was gone. 
     Bertha pulled a blank file folder from a box on the floor and wrote "Morescki" on the
tab.  She ripped two pages of notes from the legal pad and shoved them inside.  She decided to
make the deposit herself rather than leave it for Alvin on Monday.  Until now there had only
been four ten-dollar checks, sent by women who were paying their bills by the month, and one
five-dollar check from a woman who couldn't put together the ten.  But the cash made her
nervous, and she didn't want to leave it in the office all weekend. 
     Preparing the deposit took fifteen minutes.  She listed the check number, amount and
client's name in the A/R Ledger, added everything up twice, wrote six hundred and forty-five
dollars on the deposit slip, and dropped the yellow bank bag in her briefcase.   
      From her office door, she took one last look at the mess on her desk and promised
herself she'd definitely sort it out Monday and have Alvin file it away.  With her inner door
closed, the outer office looked immaculate.   
     The only things on Alvin's desk were a plant and his phone.  She closed the outer door
and locked it.  
     When Bertha got off  the elevator on the first floor, the lobby was empty.  Her dress
shoes made hollow sounds on the gleaming marble tiles.  Passing the mailboxes, she thought she
heard a soft scrape.  She turned quickly, but saw nothing.  As she pushed through the revolving
door out into the sultry air, she admonished herself for being so jumpy.   
     As bad as Sally Morescki, she thought.