Dante's Dilemma Read online

  Ms. Lazarus also inquired about divorce, stating that she wished to proceed on a “no fault” basis. I explained to her that “irreconcilable differences” is only a ground for divorce in Illinois after a two-year waiting period. This requirement can be waived, but only if both parties agree in writing. This information appeared to upset Ms. Lazarus greatly, as she was certain her husband would not agree to any such waiver. We discussed other grounds for divorce in Illinois, including mental and physical cruelty, but Ms. Lazarus was adamant that she wanted a “no fault” decree.

  On August 10, 2012, I filed a Petition for Dissolution of Marriage coupled with a request for a preliminary injunction preventing Mr. Westlake from attempting to remove, abscond with, or otherwise deprive Ms. Lazarus of assets belonging to the couple jointly. The petition did not address custody of the couple’s daughter, Olivia, since she was over the age of eighteen and could choose where to live for herself.

  Mr. Westlake retaliated almost immediately with verbal threats to my client, over the telephone, in writing, and on the street adjacent to the apartment building at 5475 South Kimbark where Ms. Lazarus was living. Over the course of the next several weeks, these threats escalated to the point where I felt it necessary to seek an emergency Order of Protection. Such orders are, unfortunately, quite common in Illinois, and may be granted on an interim basis until a full evidentiary hearing can be held.

  After that, Mr. Westlake appeared to have come to his senses, and voluntarily agreed not to come into contact with Ms. Lazarus until the divorce was finalized. As a result, the matter did not proceed to hearing and the fact of domestic violence in the Westlake home was never established in court.

  Last, you asked me what I anticipated happening to the couple’s marital property now that Mr. Westlake is dead and the divorce action has become moot. It is interesting that you should ask, since Ms. Lazarus also questioned me about estate matters. As I advised her, the answer depends on whether or not Mr. Westlake left a will. If he died intestate, whatever assets he owned in joint tenancy with Ms. Lazarus would go directly to her, and any property in his estate solely owned by him would be divided evenly between Ms. Lazarus and Olivia. If, however, he prepared a will leaving the latter to someone else, Ms. Lazarus would still be entitled to renounce the will and receive her “widow’s share”—or one-third. You would have to ask her criminal counsel how these outcomes might be affected by her conviction.

  A.P.

  Before I could begin to ponder what all this meant, my phone began ringing. When I heard the CID announce Hallie’s name, my heart leapt. I reached out for the receiver, only to find that the phone was now a good foot to the right of where I usually kept it. While I hurried to answer, I entertained a brief fantasy that she had relented and was calling because she wanted to set up a date.

  “You!” she snapped when I’d finally wrestled the receiver from its hook.

  “Me?” I repeated foolishly.

  “Yes, you!”

  “What is it? Did I do something wrong?” I asked, as though that wasn’t already apparent.

  “You. Lied. To. Me.” She sounded worked up enough to blow the lid off a manhole.

  I assumed she was referring to my belated confession and wondered why it was coming up again. “I thought we already talked about that. I wasn’t lying about Jack—just omitting certain information. OK, important information. I know I should have been honest with you a whole lot sooner, but—”

  “That’s not why I’m calling.”

  “All right,” I said in genuine confusion. “But maybe you could tell me what you are angry about?”

  “You know.”

  “No, I don’t and I won’t know unless you tell me.”

  “Today. At the County Building.”

  “OK,” I said slowly, scrambling to remember what had passed between us in the lobby that morning. Apparently, I’d done something terribly ungallant, but I couldn’t begin to guess what it was. “I don’t understand. All I did was ask about your new case.”

  “Exactly,” she said, as though I had just pleaded guilty to grand larceny. “What did you tell him?” she demanded.

  “Tell who?”

  “Tony Di Marco. It just came over the news that you’re helping him with the Lazarus trial.”

  So my new assignment had already penetrated the airwaves. “Is that what’s bothering you—me working for the Prince of Darkness? Hey, I’m not happy about it, either. But I didn’t have a choice—I was forced into it. Anyway, what does that have to do with me lying to you?”

  She gave a snort of impatience. “You must think I’m stupid. Well, don’t expect me to pull any punches just because it’s you sitting in the witness box. When I get through with your cross-examination, you’ll be lucky to be hired by some two-bit divorce hack in Kane County. I can’t believe I ever—”

  Cross-examination?

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted her. “Are you saying—?”

  “Bastard,” she said.

  And hung up on me.

  NINE

  Driving with Candace to the party Saturday night, I couldn’t help thinking once again about Job, along with the Christian martyrs who were a staple of my Catholic-school education. Their stories were always gruesome—the true believers who were shot through with arrows, crucified upside down, torn apart by wild beasts, or turned into human barbecues—but they usually had an upside, meant to impress on us the rewards of faith. Saint Lucy was a good example. According to legend, she had resisted marriage to a pagan by giving all her wealth to the poor, so enraging the local gentry that they ordered her eyes gouged out. For her pains, Lucy received eternal grace and a lifetime achievement award as the patron saint of the blind.

  I was no saint, but I was having trouble seeing a silver lining in the Lazarus case.

  I didn’t want to be Rachel Lazarus’s inquisitor, would have gladly traded the job for something more personally and financially rewarding—like scrubbing toilets or picking trash off the streets—but that didn’t matter. Nor did it matter that I had done nothing to sucker Hallie into talking about the case. Before our chance run-in at the County Building, I had every reason to believe I’d be working for Linda O’Malley. Becoming Di Marco’s spear-thrower was literally the farthest thing from my mind. About the only thing I could be blamed for was not putting two and two together sooner, which only would have prevented a nasty surprise.

  To make things worse, I couldn’t even exonerate myself.

  After Hallie had unceremoniously ended our conversation, I was on the verge of ringing her back to proclaim my innocence when it hit me what being on opposite sides of the Lazarus case really meant: no contact. As in none, zip, niente. For the duration of the proceedings, including trial, sentencing, and the exhaustion of any appeals, we couldn’t say a word about the case to each other outside of official channels. Even a casual meeting might be misconstrued. Whatever you might have called us before—friends, colleagues, acquaintances—was over. We couldn’t have been thrust any farther apart if our last names were Hatfield and McCoy.

  Of course, I reminded myself, our relationship had always been a long shot. Unless they had a masochistic streak, intelligent, accomplished women tended to shy away from admitted adulterers, even (if not especially) those claiming to be reformed. Throw in a dead child I hadn’t told her about for the better part of a year, and it was no wonder she’d doubted me. If there were a Yelp rating for fudging the truth, I would have earned a full five stars. And now, if I hadn’t already proved my suspect qualifications as a boyfriend, she had every reason to think I’d lied to her once more.

  Candace slowed for a red light on Lake Shore Drive and said, “Hello? You’re very far away tonight.”

  Another reason to kick myself. Whatever my current woes, it was unfair to take them out on my companion, who was going out of her way to be pleasant. I turned embarrassedly in my seat to face her. “I apologize. I was just admiring the scenery.”

  “Yes, it
is lovely this time of year in Antarctica. You should see the Lake. It looks like it’s frozen solid all the way to Michigan. It won’t be long before the polar bears start moving in.”

  “At least they’ll have somewhere to go while their homes are being turned into the tropics,” I said. “Really, I was being a jerk. It won’t happen again.”

  “I’m glad. I was beginning to think it was the clothes I picked out.”

  “I’m sure you’re a feast for all the senses.” I paused before adding, “Including the one that took a hike on me.” After my earlier rude silence, I figured it was only fair to open up to her a bit. “You’re probably wondering about my, um . . . problem.”

  “Guilty as charged. Though you mustn’t like talking about it.”

  “It depends on who I’m with. You wouldn’t believe the number of strangers who think it’s perfectly OK to pepper me with questions—everything from how I tie my shoes to how I know when to go to sleep at night.”

  “Why don’t you just tell them to bugger off?”

  “I do when I’m in the wrong mood.”

  “May I ask how it happened?”

  “It’s an inherited thing. I woke up one morning a few years back with a blurred area in the middle of one eye. A little later, the same thing happened in the other. In both cases, it was like a magician waving a wand. Poof. Now you see it, now you don’t.”

  “Just like that?” Candace said in dismay.

  “More or less. I had some down time in between, enough to drink myself into a stupor and ponder the meaning of life.”

  “And what conclusions did you reach?”

  “Luck of the draw is underrated.”

  That drew a laugh. “Yes it is. All right, I’ll stop being such a Nosy Parker, except for one last thing. Is there anything special I need to do tonight?

  “Just keep reminding me of who I’m talking to. And unless you want to see a grown man cry, don’t leave me standing alone in the middle of the room.”

  “Never fear. I shall cling to you like Saran wrap.”

  The party was in Kenwood, a neighborhood some five miles south of the Loop. Settled in the 1850s, it took its name from the Scottish birthplace of one of Chicago’s first robber barons, who set up housekeeping there to avoid the filth and congestion of the rapidly growing city. More recently, it was famous for being the non–White House home of the Obamas, whose block was cordoned off by concrete barriers and a twenty-four-hour security checkpoint, additions that probably went unappreciated by the neighbors. Most of the lots in the area were oversized and held mansions of baronial splendor, which Candace described to me as we picked our way, arm-in-arm, across the ice and snow from our parking space.

  “Neuschwanstein,” Candace said, pointing out one of them. “And the one next to it could be Xanadu.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Just keep us away from mad kings and Orson Welles impersonators.”

  “And lions and tigers and bears. This neighborhood certainly does have an Oz-like quality to it. It’s hard to believe we’re this close to Woodlawn.”

  Woodlawn, and its neighbor, Garfield Park, were some of the poorest urban enclaves in the country. I wondered how the people who lived there felt about the rich man’s Disneyland located practically on their doorstep.

  “Here we are,” Candace said. “At the end of the yellow brick road.”

  The house she escorted me to was apparently more modest than some, a three-story Richardsonian Romanesque set back from the street on a full acre. We went up a walkway covered in yet more salt and rang the bell. From the light and noise spilling out from the windows, it appeared the party was already in full swing.

  “I should warn you about our host,” Candace said while we waited for someone to answer. “Dean Oliver Armstrong, usually referred to around campus by the initials DOA. We’ll want to avoid getting stuck with him. Simply deadly. And then there’s Professor Ziskin, the retired head of the Italian Department. Poor old dear is nearly deaf and refuses to wear a hearing aid.”

  Meaning we’d make a fine pair. I suddenly had doubts about what I was getting into, walking into a houseful of tedious academics. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about the party being dull.

  Candace proved to be a quick study in blind etiquette, expertly steering me across the spacious front rooms of the Victorian and warning me when we came across hazards in the form of sunken steps, carpet edges, and pedestals bearing hothouse plants, of which there appeared to be quite a few. “My God, it’s practically The Little Shop of Horrors in here,” she whispered in my ear after we’d dropped off our coats. “Check this one out.” She stopped to guide my hand to a monster that felt like it had been raised on raw steak. “The last thing I would have predicted about our esteemed dean is having a green thumb.” She went on to describe the other rich appointments, which included intricately carved moldings, antique tapestries, and enough pre-Raphaelite paintings to fill a gallery at the British Museum.

  I asked how a university administrator could afford all this.

  “Dead On Arrival? I think it’s his wife’s money. I heard she’s related to the McCormicks. I should introduce you.”

  Candace took me over to meet our hosts, who were standing aside a buffet table sending off odors of smoked fish and various items en croute. “Pleasure to, ah, make your, ah, acquaintance,” Dean Armstrong said, offering a small, soft hand. I imagined him as a wizened little figure with owlish features, which Candace later told me wasn’t too far off. Before anyone else could get in a word, he launched into a disquisition on the capital fund, punctuated by further “ahs,” “uhs,” and drawn-out pauses that fully explained his reputation. Fortunately, his wife had better social skills. “Ollie, I’m sure our guests have better things to talk about,” she interrupted, just as he was gearing up to tell us about new improvements to the library. “You two must be hungry. Let me offer you something to eat.”

  After Candace and I had stuffed ourselves to the gills, we proceeded to make the rounds, circulating among groups engaged in lively debate about such topics as Malthusian economics, the Luo people of Kenya, British attitudes toward slavery in the seventeenth century, literary appropriations of the Faust myth, primate osteology, chaos theory, and the filmography of Miyazaki—to name just a few. With my folding cane tucked into my back trouser pocket, people either didn’t notice I was blind or pretended not to, a degree of social anonymity I rarely got to enjoy. By my third drink, I was comfortably ensconced on one of the overstuffed sofas with my arm around Candace’s shoulder, listening to half a dozen people whose names and departments I could barely keep straight holding forth on socio-evolutionary theory.

  “But Bruce, don’t you think it’s a stretch to say that people’s savage instincts actually contribute to a well-functioning society?”

  “Erik, I’m saying that current thinking supports what Nietzsche first proposed—that the urge to punish, which originated in spite, was later converted into a mechanism for achieving fairness through the creation of rules and legal systems to enforce them. Without spite, we’d still be stealing each other’s livestock and raping each other’s wives.”

  “And let’s not forget about the paradigms suggested by game theory,” said a third one, producing a spate of groans.

  “Hear, hear, people,” Erik crowed. “Can there be one faculty party in which game theory does not enter into the discussion?”

  “At this university? You’re dreaming,” a fourth quipped. “But to continue on the subject of Nietzsche . . .”

  Eventually, one of them asked me what I thought. Drawn into the conversation for the first time, I chose my words carefully. “I don’t know about spite making right, but there have been some interesting studies using college students as subjects—”

  “A spiteful little lot if ever there was one,” interjected a professor whose high, querulous voice I’d come to associate with Charles, an economist.

  “Oh, Charles let it go,” said the woman seated next
to Candace, introduced to me earlier as Amanda. “We were all parodied in the spring musical. Go on,” she urged me politely.

  “Well, I was going to say that the research seems to show a connection between negative emotions and certain fields of study. Economics, for instance, is strongly correlated with lowered generosity and feelings of persecution.”

  This met with a round of guffaws, except from Charles, who said petulantly, “Go ahead and laugh. I hardly think I deserve being portrayed as only one step removed from Hitler. There’s a reason behind the strict grading curve, after all.”

  I quickly pointed out that I was only joking. “But in all seriousness, the work I’m familiar with tends to prove that men are more spiteful than women—”

  “What a surprise,” Amanda said.

  “—and that circumstances can provoke spiteful outbursts in otherwise agreeable people. Bitter divorce, for example, which prompts some spouses to hide or even dispose of assets just to keep the other from getting their fair share.”

  The conversation then turned to gossip about faculty split-ups and eventually—as I’d hoped—to the Westlake-Lazarus affair. My ears pricked up at the first mention:

  “And let’s not forget about that absolutely horrid incident at Scav in the spring. Completely overshadowed the Nobel Prize nominations.”

  “Humph,” Amanda said. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but if Rachel killed him out of spite, he deserved it. The man was a perfect little pig—to Rachel and everyone else who had the misfortune to come in contact with him. Including that poor girl, Olivia.”

  “The daughter?”