MIAMI ICED Read online

  In loving memory of my father, Judge Emanuel A. Rissman, who created the Pro Se court in Chicago.

  Acknowledgements

  I am indebted to the generous help received from courthouse staff, attorneys and court ‘buffs’ in both Chicago and Miami; to attorneys Barry Witlin and Steven Brotman; Dr. Harvey Schwartz; the multifarious JoAnn Rifkind who knows where to find absolutely everything; to the elegant Mr. Harry Wilson for the courage and permission to allow me to base a fictional character on him; to Susi, Suzanne and Sharon (you know why); to agent Jane Chelius and a gifted editor who wishes to remain anonymous; to my life-saving computer tekki Aaron Sussman; to the delicious mystery writers of Miami and most of all to my loving soul mate Barry Sussman who makes this all such great fun. Any bending of truths, divergence from facts and other inexactitudes are inevitable mutations in the creation of fiction and should not reflect in any way on excellent professional advice so generously given.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Adult Novels by Susan Sussman

  Praise for Susan Sussman books

  Copyright & Permissions

  1

  Seven months I’ve been dead.

  Going through the motions.

  Get up, read the paper, work the puzzles. Nap. Watch stocks dance the ticker. Fork tuna from a can. Nap. Pick up groceries when the cupboard goes bare. Nights, watching the news, dinner a slice hacked off a Vienna salami or a half-can of Campbell’s Tomato nuked in Michael’s Chicago Cubs mug. A bottle of red helps wash it all down.

  Seven months I’ve been dead, since the day Michael’s heart attacked -- and killed us both.

  The SUMMONS FOR JURY DUTY addressed to Laura Marks sits atop the mound of mail I’ll get around to when I get around to it. The mail waits for days sometimes. Weeks, now and again, when my world goes black.

  Then, one day, my big sister Bitsy shows up on my doorstep, suitcases in hand. Doesn’t bother asking is it all right. Jettisoned by her husband Sheldon’s mid-life-crises, Bitsy sold off her life in Chicago and hopped the train to Miami to ‘help me out’ until she could figure her future.

  The day after she arrives, my piles of papers begin shifting. One day my breakfast nook is strewn with old Sun-Sentinel’s, the next day it’s not. Bitsy consolidates my clutter – overdue bills, expired coupons, Michael’s boating magazines -- arranging neat stacks for me to go through. When I ignore them, she tosses most of it, puts the rest in a basket on the breakfast table, leaves the SUMMONS FOR JURY DUTY unfolded on top.

  Somewhere around eight o’clock Sunday morning, my sleeping pill wears off. The aroma of Bitsy’s fresh-brewed Colombian pries me out of bed. In my bathroom, I find the SUMMONS FOR JURY DUTY triple-folded lengthwise and slipped inside my roll of toilet paper.

  “Inventive,” I say, shuffling into the kitchen. I toss the SUMMONS on the basket of unopened mail.

  “How can you ignore that?” she asks, banging around the room, pouring fresh-squeezed orange juice, setting it in front of me. “It’s one thing to ignore a ringing phone,” she brings my coffee, stirring in milk and sugar, the way her ex-husband Sheldon-the-rat liked it. “And, okay, so I can almost understand how you can ignore a ringing phone or someone knocking on your door. But this?” She lifts the SUMMONS like a sword. Very Joan of Arc. “Our father, may he rest in peace, is turning in his grave.”

  “Dad’s courtroom had no jury.”

  “Drink your juice.”

  I do. It wants a shot of Kettle One.

  “Jury duty,” she says. “It begins Monday. Tomorrow, Monday.”

  “You think the Jury Police are going to drag me off in handcuffs, chain me to the dungeon wall?”

  “You are the daughter of a judge. You need to honor that.” She slips a plate of Sheldon eggs in front of me. They’re scrambled hard and dry, not unlike her ex’s soul. Two pieces of rye toast follow, burnt just north of ash. I sip the coffee. It’s easier to drink it Sheldon’s way than get up and assemble my own.

  Bitsy opens her mouth to say something more then stops, shifts sideways. “I have a grocery list,” she says, exiting stage left toward the guest room to dress. “When you’re ready.”

  An hour later I ease my car into the Publix lot. Sunday shoppers play bumper tag at a ferocious rate. A yellow Hummer bullies its way through. I’d rather chew glass than shop. BB – Before Bitsy – I’d occasionally skulk through the grocery at night when most coupon-cutting, cart-wielding locals were home glued to Jeopardy. “My food bill was a lot cheaper before you moved in,” I say.

  “That’s because you had no food,” says Bitsy.

  “I had fruit.”

  “Maraschino cherries and martini olives don’t qualify for -- ” She gasps as an oncoming Lexus drifts into our lane, the driver tending to something in the back seat. I lay on my horn. The woman jerks her wheel at the last second, shoots me a nasty look.

  Florida drivers…don’t get me started.

  Bitsy exhales. A hint of color returns to her face. “I’d shop without you,” she says, “if I knew how to drive.”

  “You could learn.”

  She stiffens. “And you could answer your mail.” She ruts in her purse for her list, hands me a lipstick. “You need color.” I swipe it over my mouth and hand it back. Bitsy is purple-rose to my bronze-coral, summer blue to my winter black, organized firstborn to my chaotic second. “Monday,” she says, “you can drive me to the flea.”

  I loathe the flea market even more than the grocery. “Sample Road’s a forty minute ride,” I say. “It costs me more in gas than the few pennies you save.”

  “I’ll pay the gas,” she says. “Besides, what else do you have to do on Monday? You already told me you’re not reporting for jury duty….”

  2

  The temperature in the second floor Jury Room is two degrees above ice rink. I grip my plastic juror number and find a chair. A few people settle into games of bridge and gin, others read books, magazines, newspapers. A mute TV broadcasts something sports. I pull out my Pocket Sudoku to distract myself as I freeze.

  “Seat taken?” A man settles into the next chair -- sixties, white gym shoes, hair-color-for-men five shades too dark. He glances at my book. “That’s that number stuff, right?”

  “Sudoku.”

  “If you need help, I’m good at math.” Self-effacing smile.

  “Sudoku isn’t math,” I say. “It’s logic.”

  “Numbers are numbers.”

  I guess he should know, seeing as how he’s never done one. I flip to a half-finished “Diabolical”. The answer is right in front of me; I just can’t see it. I should let it go, move on, but I can’t.

  “…the Bellissimo Towers over on Hallandale Beach,” he’s saying, “Best damned condo on the b
each.”

  I don’t answer, focus on my Sudoku. I didn’t invite this Chatty Charlie to sit next to me. He’s the type that keeps talking whether you listen or not. The truth is, seven months ago, Death punched all the polite right out of me.

  “Juror 340. Juror 341. Juror 342. Juror—” A uniformed woman with an Ethel Merman voice stands in the front of the room belting out numbers. “Juror 352. Juror 353.” I’m 124. A third of the people march off to various courts.

  “This ‘one day or one trial’ thing is really smart…” CPA drones on, his monotone voice an oddly comforting background noise like the bedroom TV I never shut off. I work my Sudoku.

  At five to noon, Ethel takes center stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, your services will not be needed today. We thank you for doing your civic duty. You are free to leave.”

  CPA turns to me, smiling. “Say, how would you like to—”

  “Gotta go,” I say bolting from the room, joining the mob of jurors swarming the elevators. I spot Mr. CPA back in the pack working his way toward me. He sees me, smiles and waves. He thinks I’m interested in him. Why? What did I do to encourage him? My thumb jumps to my naked ring finger. I’d meant to go to the jeweler, have my wedding ring re-sized to stay on my disappearing self. CPA assumes I’m available. People see what they want to see.

  A wave of jurors pushes in behind, blocking for me. I duck into a passageway, follow as it snakes through building corridors and opens onto a deserted outdoor courtyard. A few concrete planters sprout scraggly trees and struggling flowers. Courthouse walls cup three sides of the courtyard. The fourth side is open, overlooking six lanes of Broward Blvd traffic and the main library across the street. I walk to the waist-high wall and look down at jurors leaving the courthouse. Mr. CPA isn’t among them. Maybe he’s still at the elevator waiting for me. A sunlit bench along one wall beckons and I settle in to thaw until the coast is clear. Street sounds echo softly off the concrete. A songbird warbles in a courtyard tree. I drift.

  Voices. I jerk awake. People stream out of the elevators -- men in suits and ties, women in suits with skirts and heels. Who dresses like that down here? Even Florida funerals tend toward Tommy Bahama casual. More people pour out of other elevators.

  “…Marlins can’t catch a break this…”

  “…courthouse over in Miami Dade. Judge Hockman. Trial should….”

  “…saw you got in to see the Flemming case. Does the jury believe the wife…?”

  “…fairways are burnt to shit. Restricted water…”

  A solemn young woman floats off an elevator into the courtyard. The voices around me go quiet. She seems oddly out of century – below-the-knee black skirt, cream colored long-sleeved blouse, sensible low-heeled shoes -- like an extra from The Godfather. People pretend not to stare as she glides toward an unoccupied area of the courtyard. The girl -- flawless skin, lithe body, regal carriage -- looks early twenties, about my daughter Stacey’s age. But, where Stacey’s hair is a tangle of Medusa curls, this girl has the luxurious hair of shampoo commercials. And my Stacey -- enthusiastic energy, perpetual motion, every inch her father’s daughter -- could never stand so still. A shroud of sadness surrounds this girl. Sound seeps back into the courtyard as people retrieve threads of conversations.

  Distant thunder rumbles. The large door next to me swings open and I catch a glimpse of courtroom. I’ve stumbled into the trial area of the courthouse.

  Thunder cracks. Black clouds billow plunging the courtyard into night. I should make a dash for my car wherein lives my umbrella. Not that I’m in any hurry to go home. Since The Invasion of the Big Sister, my once safe haven is no longer TV-watcher/dedicated-drinker/perpetual-sleeper friendly.

  Winds pick up. A wall of rain races toward the courthouse. People flee into various courtrooms. The regal young woman strides past me through the doors to my right. The rain hits, whipping across the open courtyard, drenching my shoes. There’s no time to get to my car. More people push into the courtroom to my right and I follow them in.

  3

  The courtroom’s center aisle separates six rows of wood pews. Bride’s side, groom’s side? I spot an opening in the back row.

  “Excuse me, sorry, excuse me,” stepping over feet and purses, squeezing into the space near the end. My father’s gallery was never this crowded. Pro Se Court was pure King Solomon -- no attorneys, no jury, just regular people pleading their own cases to the judge.

  The gray-haired man to my right studies a Daily Racing Form. The woman to my left, skin the color of Cuban coffee, pulls knitting from a small cart. Madam Defarge lives. Heads will roll today. A large movie screen on the left side of the room faces the empty jury box to the right. Oh, goodie, a matinee.

  “Looks like we got us a full house,” says Racing Form.

  The knitter, sensing a newbie, says to me, “See that scrawny excuse of a human? Head bobbing like a chicken?” She’s pointing up front to a table where four attorneys flank a small man. “Joseph Galdino. Killed his wife’s sister, so they say.” My heart quickens. I’ve stumbled into a murder trial. “Word is,” she says, “his wife’s going to testify in his defense.”

  “He needs it,” says Racing Form. “So far, not one witness had a good word to say.”

  The knitter waves a fuchsia needle. “See that girl, first row, long black hair?” pointing to the girl I’d followed in. “That’s the defendant’s daughter. Been coming to trial alone every day, poor thing, hearing people say terrible things about her father. Comports herself like a real lady. You can just tell somebody raised her right.”

  “Smart money’s on the mother,” says Racing Form.

  Joseph Galdino’s daughter sits Amish still as if awaiting a Sunday sermon instead of watching her father on trial for murder. My Stacey, inconsolable when Michael died, would be an emotional wreck.

  “Now,” continues the knitter, “you see those two young folk sitting directly behind her? It’s their mother been murdered. They come every day, too.” She lowers her voice. “They always make it a point to sit directly behind their cousin. You ask me, there’s no love lost between them.”

  Mr. Racing Form snorts. “If your uncle kills your mother, you’d be pissed too.”

  “Oh Yea, Oh Yea,” calls the bailiff. “Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Stanley Kossoff presiding. All rise.”

  A silver-haired gent strides in, black robe flowing as he takes the bench. “You may bring in the jury,” he says. My frozen toes throb as the jurors file in. I should leave now and find hot coals to walk across. On cue, thunder rumbles long and low. The worst of the storm is still coming. I need to wait here a while. I slip off my sodden shoes praying the rain doesn’t shrink them too much.

  Up front, a pudgy man in a crumpled suit shuffles to the witness chair. His sweaty face sparkles under the fluorescents. “You are still under oath from this morning’s session,” Judge Kossoff reminds him. The room lights dim and photos of jewelry march across the screen: intricately carved ivory pendants, jade beads the size of quail eggs, Liberace-style rings, jewel-encrusted broaches.

  “My, my,” says the knitter.

  The murdered woman’s children point excitedly to various pieces of jewelry. When I die my children will inherit a drawer full of single earrings. Just because a thing loses a mate is no reason to throw it away. The show ends and the lights come up.

  An impeccably dressed young man rises from the Prosecutor’s table. “Mr. Taylor,” he says, “when you purchased this jewelry did you know Brandy Lucas had been murdered?”

  “No.”

  “Had you seen these pieces before?”

  “Yeah. Some.”

  “Some?”

  “Most,” sweat streaming, “I seen most before.”

  “And where was that?”

  “In my shop.”

  “Your jewelry shop. In New Jersey.”

  “Yeah,” mopping sweat with his fingers. “I sold them to her.”

  “You sold them to her? And yet,�
�� a look of astonishment, “there they were again, back in your shop.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And, who brought you Brandy Lucas’ jewelry?” Taylor nods. “Let the record show that Mr. Taylor has indicated the defendant Joseph Galdino.” The prosecutor leans close to the jeweler. “Did you ask Mr. Galdino what he was doing with Brandy Lucas’ jewelry?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you wonder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you didn’t ask.”

  “No.”

  “You are, in fact, currently under indictment in New Jersey for fencing stolen goods, are you not?”

  The witness’ meaty fingers tighten into fists. “Yeah.”

  “Mr Taylor,” says the attorney, “have authorities promised you anything in exchange for your testimony here today?”

  “No. Nothin’. They promised me nothin’.”

  Mr. Racing Form clears his throat. It sounds more laugh than cough. The prosecutor takes his seat and for a long while nothing happens. I have lost all feeling in my toes. When I stand, they’ll break off like Pop Beads. A juror loses his battle to stay awake. Thank God no one picked me to sit on a jury. Since Michael died, I’ve had the attention span of a gnat. The knitter’s needles clack softly. The tout studies his racing form. Attorneys shuffle papers, fool with their computers. The beauty of Courtroom TV shows – I’ve become a connoisseur these past seven months -- is they edit out the boring parts.

  I could do with a bathroom and a wine spritzer. Now’s the time to make a break for it, dodge the rain back to my car, put on the dry soft-soled shoes I keep in the trunk for the boat.

  The boat.

  Guilt rams me broadside. The harbormaster keeps calling, leaving messages. ‘Hey girl, it’s Quincy, how you doin’?’ ‘Hey Laura, give me a call.’ ‘Hey girl, I don’t mean to push, but I’m pushin’.’ I owe Quincy and my boat a visit but haven’t had the courage to go to the marina.

  Thunder explodes. The girl in the front row jumps. My hand jerks reflexively to reach out and comfort her. What is this about? Another violent crash. The girl hugs herself, trembling. Thunder roars on top of thunder. We’re in the heart of it now. She lowers her head, pulling in her shoulders as if to avoid a blow. Why isn’t anyone with her? Where are the adults in her life? The friends?