Justice. Faye Kellerman

He took about a half hour to set up. “Would you like some music before we start?”

      “That’d be nice.”

      Chris opened a drawer and pulled out a CD cartridge. “Let’s see what I’ve got loaded—Pearl Jam, Spin Doctors, Metallica, Crash Test Dummies, Greenday, Eric Johnson, Joe Satriani, Nicholas Gage, Yo Yo Ma, Jacqueline DuPres, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons …” He looked up. “That’s nice and light. How about that?”

      I nodded. He put on the music and told me to move to the middle of the bed.

      “Keep your clothes on for now. Just sit there like you’re doing, Terry. With your knees pressed to your chest and your shoulders hunched over like that. But keep your head up and look at me … to the left … perfect. Hold that position, all right?”

      This was easy enough. He studied me, then started making swipes at his easel.

      “Can I talk while you draw me?” I asked.

      “Absolutely.” He looked at me, then back at his paper. “Say whatever’s on your mind.”

      “Did you see Lorraine while you were back east?”

      Preoccupied, he didn’t answer. He flipped over his preliminary sketch and started anew. “Yes, I saw Lorraine.”

      “Were you on good terms with her?” I asked.

      “Good terms?” He squinted at the paper. “Are you asking if I slept with her? Yes, I slept with her.”

      I didn’t say anything.

      “Look at me, Terry.”

      I did.

      “Ah, such anguish in those beautiful eyes.” Chris started on a fresh piece of paper. “I did it because it was expected. Closed my eyes and imagined you. She means nothing to me. I’m not marrying Lorraine, I’m marrying her family. My uncle arranged the whole thing when I was fourteen.” His eyes went from me to his drawing. “Believe me, I’d get out of it if I could. But you don’t mess with my uncle without good reason.”

      “But you don’t love her.”

      “That’s not a good reason.” He stood back and studied his work. “It’s chilly in here. I’m going to turn up the heat. Give you a chance to strip down to your bra and panties without me staring at you. And sit in the same position. If your feet are cold, leave your socks on.”

      He disappeared. Slowly I took off my sweater, jeans, and shoes. Barely clad, I rubbed my arms and shivered. When he came back in, he glanced at me, saw me shaking. Keeping his eyes averted, he draped a comforter over my shoulders.

      I know what they’ve taught you so I know what you’re feeling.

      He knew exactly what I was feeling. Doing everything he could to make it easy on me, to make me feel beautiful. All the guilt, the shame … he was right. It was crap. I had to get past it. I couldn’t live with myself if I let him down.

      “You can take the cover off whenever you want to.” Chris rubbed his hands and reviewed his pictures.

      “Can I see?”

      “When we’re done.”

      I slowly let the comforter drop from my torso until it rested over my legs.

      Chris took in my bare shoulders with his eyes. “Nice.” He began a new sketch. “That’s real nice. Look up, Ter.”

      I raised my head. There was nothing lecherous in his eyes and that made me feel good. I said, “Why isn’t ‘you don’t love her’ a good reason?”

      He started shading with his thumb. “You ever hear of Joseph Donatti?”

      I scrunched up my forehead trying to attach the familiar name with an event.

      “His murder trial made the national papers about four years back.” Chris’s fingers were black. “Before that, he’d been arrested for racketeering, extortion, bribery … uh, pandering and pushing … money laundering. Nothing ever stuck. Evidence got lost.”

      I stared at him, openmouthed.

      “He was acquitted in his murder trial, by the way. Witnesses either changed their stories or mysteriously disappeared.”

      I remained silent, wondering if he was putting me on.

      Chris spit into his hand, rubbed his palms together, and began working the moisture into the paper. “My uncle’s mob, Terry. And I don’t mean small-time hoods who’re cute movie characters. I mean real mob. Lorraine is a daughter of the mob. She’s from a rival family. Our engagement has bought both families a truce and lots of money. If you’re warm enough now, toss the comforter on the floor.”

      Mechanically, I did what he asked. I was still dumbfounded by his recitation. It was his demeanor—as casual as an afternoon sail.

      Flipping over his sketch, Chris attacked the clean paper with renewed vigor. “I want you to know that I have nothing to do with my uncle’s activities. All I want is a nice, quiet life as a classical cellist. Unfortunately, what I am is a pawn in a wargame played by two dangerous men. I screw with this engagement, heads’ll roll. Namely my own.”

      I stammered out, “Your uncle would … kill you?”

      Chris continued drawing. “Nah, you’re right. He wouldn’t kill me.” His eyes bored into mine. “I wouldn’t be the problem.”

      Slowly, my brain absorbed his words. I felt myself go light-headed. Chris stopped drawing, placed the comforter over my shaking body, and stuck Scotch in my face. “Drink.”

      “I don’t want—”

      “Drink!”

      I took a sip and immediately started coughing. He patted my back. “Take another sip.”

      “It makes me sick—”

      “Drink it, Terry.”

      I sucked the smoky liquid into my mouth. I could never figure out why people drank to clear their heads. Alcohol only made me queasy. I wrapped myself in the comforter, resting my pounding head in my hands.

      “Are you all right? You’re white.”

      I whispered that I was all right.

      He let out a small laugh. “Guess honesty isn’t always the best policy. Terry, nothing’s going to happen to you. My uncle doesn’t care what I do just as long as I show up at the altar. You know, I could tell my uncle about you, right now, at this moment—”

      “Please don’t do that.”

      “I won’t, but I could.” He put his arm around me. “He’d probably feel sorry for me. Loving one girl and marrying another. He’d know how much it hurts. Because he loved his mistress very much.” He removed the comforter from my shoulders. “You want another sip of Scotch?”

      “No.”

      “Can you take your bra off for me?”

      I closed me eyes. “Chris, I don’t feel very well.”

      “You want to stop?”

      I opened my eyes and peered into his—unreadable. “No.” My voice was shaky. “No, it’s okay.”

      “Are you sure?”

      I answered him by slipping off my bra. He stared at my chest for a long time before going back to his easel. “Hunch over like you were doing before.”

      Gladly, I did as I was told, my knees hiding most of my nakedness.

      He began a new drawing. “You’re very, very beautiful.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Don’t ever be ashamed of what God gave you, you hear me?”

      I nodded.