And justice for mall, p.1
And Justice For Mall, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by E.J. Copperman
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part 1: Young
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Part 2: Getting Older Every Minute
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Cast of Characters
Author’s Note
Also by E.J. Copperman
Jersey Girl Legal mysteries
INHERIT THE SHOES *
JUDGMENT AT SANTA MONICA *
WITNESS FOR THE PERSECUTION *
AND JUSTICE FOR MALL *
Haunted Guesthouse mysteries
NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED
AN UNINVITED GHOST
OLD HAUNTS
CHANCE OF A GHOST
THE THRILL OF THE HAUNT
INSPECTOR SPECTER
GHOST IN THE WIND
SPOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL
THE HOSTESS WITH THE GHOSTESS
BONES BEHIND THE WHEEL
Asperger’s mysteries (with Jeff Cohen)
THE QUESTION OF THE MISSING HEAD
THE QUESTION OF THE UNFAMILIAR HUSBAND
THE QUESTION OF THE FELONIOUS FRIEND
THE QUESTION OF THE ABSENTEE FATHER
THE QUESTION OF THE DEAD MISTRESS
Mysterious Detective mysteries
WRITTEN OFF
EDITED OUT
Agent to the Paws mysteries
DOG DISH OF DOOM
BIRD, BATH, AND BEYOND
* available from Severn House
AND JUSTICE FOR MALL
E.J. Copperman
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
This eBook edition first published in 2022 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © E.J. Copperman, 2022
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of E.J. Copperman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-5077-5 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0809-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0808-8 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
To Jessica Oppenheim, my wife,
who is the bravest and best person I know.
PART 1: YOUNG
ONE
‘Sandra, can you explain what Communism is?’
I remember being eleven years old. They talk about kids (girls, to be honest) going through an ‘awkward phase’, which usually means the change from childhood into puberty, and is often a way for disapproving adults to comment on a young girl’s body. Heaven forfend you gain a few pounds around age eleven; you’ll be remembered that way by your classmates and your family for the rest of your life, and possibly beyond.
That was not my experience. I had begun the physical changes to be expected and had noticed some new thoughts, like about how good Jeremy Crichton looked in his Yankees T-shirt, but that was true of everyone. I didn’t have a crush-crush on Jeremy, exactly, but Sarah Panico did and wanted everyone to know it. I didn’t know why that bothered me.
Otherwise, we did what we were told young women (suddenly we were young women) were supposed to do, which is of course not at all the case for an entire gender, or even an entire sixth-grade class in Westfield, New Jersey.
I’d heard all the usual crude nicknames – which I will not repeat here – regarding my bodily development or lack thereof at that moment (the comments went both ways, which should give you some idea of how I looked at eleven). And I’d gotten shoved around a little because, hey, it was Jersey and that’s what happens. It eventually made me a tougher prosecutor and now a better family attorney/defense attorney. That’s complicated.
But at this one moment in my life, in Ms Carbone’s class (which was called Social Studies despite having nothing to do with socializing), I reached what you might have called a turning point.
I looked up and felt the same rush in my stomach as I did anytime I was called upon in class. Being right was so important. ‘Communism is a form of government based on the idea of communal living. Everything is owned by the people, meaning everything is owned by everyone, and there is no need for a capitalist system that bases its reward system on the amount of money a person has.’
Ms Carbone seemed to wince a little, which I didn’t understand. Had I gotten the answer wrong? Was that really Socialism I’d described? Was that why they called the class Social Studies?
‘That is technically correct, Sandra,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure that was the answer we were looking for, though.’
What? Something was correct but not the right answer? But before I could ask how that was possible, Sarah Panico’s hand had risen and Ms Carbone was pointing at her. ‘Sarah?’ she said with a sunny smile.
‘Communism,’ the little kiss-ass said, ‘is a system of government favored by evil regimes that bans religion and restricts the people’s freedom.’
‘Very good, Sarah,’ Ms Carbone said. She gave Panico a warm smile and a nod. Those types stick together.
I rose my hand again. ‘That’s not true, Ms Carbone,’ I protested. ‘Some Communist governments have attempted to do those things, but that’s not part of the definition of the system itself.’
‘I believe Sarah had the correct answer,’ Ms Carbone said, because she’d been brought up in the 1950s. ‘Let’s move on.’
If I’d been in high school, or (believe me) college, I would have continued the fight for truth, justice and not enabling Sarah Panico. But I was eleven and among the most average girls in the world and that meant I didn’t want to make a fuss.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said.
When I told my mother about it that night – which was a blatant mistake and I should have known better – she praised me profusely. For not making a fuss.
My father gave me a look that said we’d talk later, but that was the night he had the heart attack.
‘I want to hire you,’ said Riley Schoenberg.
‘How did you get in here?’ I asked her.
Riley, all of eleven years old, had walked into my office at Seaton, Taylor, Evans and Wentworth without knocking and sat down in my client chair. Her feet did not dangle and she didn’t twirl her hair with her finger. It was too short. I was already intimidated.
I was, it should be noted, working on a motion in a divorce proceeding and was preparing to meet my client, a woman named Olivia Partridge, in less than an hour. Olivia’s husband had not cheated on her, which was refreshing in the family law business, but he had confiscated most of her money and moved to Acapulco, which somewhat complicated matters. I was working on my understanding of California’s laws regarding bank accounts, as this one was
So the fact that I was now talking to an eleven-year-old girl who had never even heard of my appointment calendar was in itself something of an anomaly. It was also a pretty substantial inconvenience.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Riley (whose name I did not yet know) answered.
‘Yeah, it kind of does. This is a law firm, I’m an attorney, and little girls don’t generally barge into my office because we have receptionists and security officers, so I’d like to know who to blame for the interruption. I’ll say it again: How did you get in here?’
‘Your receptionist was looking at a handsome man with very blue eyes who was asking about seeing a divorce lawyer, and the security guard in the back smiled at me when I waved.’ Riley didn’t seem to be congratulating herself for her clever entrance, and I certainly wasn’t, but I did sort of admire her drive. And I’d have to talk to Gus the security officer and Celia McKenzie, our main receptionist. ‘Now like I said, I want to hire you. What do you charge?’
‘If you or your parents want to make an appointment with me about something, I’m sure my assistant can help you,’ I offered.
‘My mom is dead and my dad is in jail for killing her,’ Riley said. ‘I want to hire you to get him out of prison because he didn’t do it. So what do you charge?’
TWO
‘So how did you get the young lady out of your office?’ Patrick McNabb asked me.
We were driving in Patrick’s new all-electric Rolls-Royce (a prototype car, he told me) from my office, where Patrick had picked me up, to a property Patrick wanted me to see. We had been together for some months now and had agreed recently that we’d move in together, but I refused to just move my things into Patrick’s enormous mansion, largely because all of my possessions would have taken up a small corner in one room. Also because I was afraid I’d need Google Maps to get from whichever bedroom I was in to the kitchen.
The place was large, is what I’m saying.
Patrick being Patrick, he’d dived into researching any available properties in the Los Angeles area, meaning that he’d gotten my best friend Angie, who was now Patrick’s executive assistant, to research them. He’d contacted the real-estate agent listing one of them and now we were on our way for a tour. Patrick had promised me this house, the first we’d ever gone to visit, was not too big. I was about to find out what the Patrick version of ‘not too big’ might mean.
‘I agreed to look into her father’s case,’ I answered.
Patrick glanced at me briefly because he was driving. He could have taken a long look at me because we were driving in Los Angeles traffic, which consists more of sitting still than actually moving. ‘Really,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think your firm catered much to walk-in business.’
‘We usually don’t,’ I admitted. ‘But each attorney gets to use her own discretion on such things as pro bono cases.’
Patrick smiled a little. ‘You’re doing this for free? I’m proud of you.’
Patronizing though that was, I knew Patrick was coming from a place of love and respect. ‘She’s an eleven-year-old girl,’ I told him. ‘I didn’t see any way to tell her I wouldn’t look into her father’s conviction for killing her mother.’
‘Did her father kill her mother?’ he asked. He was watching the GPS on the screen. We must have been getting closer to the house we were scheduled to tour.
‘I don’t have any idea yet,’ I answered. ‘I barely got the file from the LAPD and the records bureau. I’ll dive into it, starting tonight but mostly tomorrow. But the odds are that the dad probably killed the mom.’
Patrick is a very talented actor, but I’d begun to catch the tells he has when he’s less than riveted by the conversation. He cares about my work but he was clearly preoccupied with the search for a home to call our own. So I knew what it meant when he twitched his mouth a bit before asking, ‘Why do you say that?’
I was about to answer that most murders are not mysteries and that they generally happen within families, that domestic violence is far less often reported than it should be, and that the cops tend to find out who killed someone before they arrest anybody. But instead my voice caught, I ducked under the dashboard as best I could and I hissed at Patrick, ‘Speed up! We’ve got to get out of here!’
Clearly he did not understand what I was saying because I felt the car actually slow rather than speed up and my stomach clenched; I felt nauseated. ‘Patrick!’ I said slightly louder. ‘It’s Emily Webster! Get us out of here!’
Patrick laughed and that was the most chilling sound I’d ever heard. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘Emmie’s going to be showing us the house.’
OK, second most chilling.
‘Are you nuts?’ I sat up in the car seat and saw that Patrick had parked the car in front of a very big, very modern house, which was not nearly as alarming as the sight of Emily Webster walking toward the car with what I’m sure she thought was a warm smile on her face. ‘She tried to have us killed! Multiple times!’
‘She’s very sorry about that,’ Patrick said. He’d actually been engaged to Emily Webster for a brief time before he and I started dating. And Patrick has, let’s say, blind spots when dealing with the women he’s thought he loved. I believe he loves me now, but I made him wait a lot longer than any of the other girls to get to that point. It’s a strategy.
So was running away. ‘There’s still time,’ I said. ‘Hit the gas.’
Patrick laughed and turned off the engine. He opened his door and got out of the car. ‘You are a one, Sandy,’ he said. ‘You are definitely a one.’
Before I could jump into the driver’s seat, hot-wire the car and take off for parts unknown in an electric Rolls-Royce, Emily Webster was right next to my door. ‘Sandy,’ she said. ‘So good to see you again.’
It was becoming obvious that I was the crazy person in this scenario because the other two players didn’t seem to notice the complete insanity of the situation. ‘I’m surprised,’ I said to Webster. ‘I wasn’t aware you were out on your own recognizance.’
‘I’m awaiting trial, but that should happen in a month or two. I imagine they’ll contact you to testify.’ The Stepford Wives smile on Emily’s face didn’t falter at all. ‘But I’m still able to show you this fabulous property. Come on in.’
Not getting out of the car no longer seemed an option, but I was hyperaware of the surroundings. If Emily was following her previous modus operandi, someone would be inside the house with a machine gun or a bomb. It was like touring a house with Natasha Fatale. ‘Maybe we should just look at the outside,’ I suggested.
Both Emily and Patrick laughed as if I had said something funny. Patrick walked to my side of the car, opened my door and extended his arm for me to get out. So I did because that’s how stupid I am. ‘Come on, love,’ he said to me. ‘Emmie’s just the real-estate agent on this house and I think you’re really going to like it.’
I stood on the sidewalk next to the gated driveway. (This was Patrick’s idea of less ostentatious.) Webster hovered around to my side and pushed a button on a remote that made the iron gates open.
‘How did you even retain your real-estate license?’ I asked her.
‘I haven’t been convicted of anything,’ she reminded me.
‘That’s because I’m not a prosecutor anymore,’ I said under my breath.
‘What?’
‘I think that wouldn’t happen in Jersey,’ I said.
Webster decided she’d puff up in 1960s TV housewife fashion and ignore the rude remark. ‘Let’s go in and see this wonderful house!’ she gushed.
Patrick smiled his tolerant smile, since I was clearly the one being difficult, and gestured that I should walk through the gate first. It’s a testament to how well I know him that I did not wonder whether he was in on the plot Webster had cooked up to kill me. The poor man; he was probably on the hit list himself and didn’t see it coming.
Oddly, there was no attempt on anyone’s life. I wasn’t exactly disappointed, but I do confess to wondering if Patrick and I had become that much less important in the crazy lady’s estimation.
The less baroque home Patrick had been promising me turned out to have six bedrooms, seven baths (how many people did they think would live here?), a kitchen that the most senior chef in a Paris restaurant wished he could have, another kitchen, smaller, on the lower floor (don’t you dare call it a basement!), and two full-size palm trees growing in its atrium. The house had an atrium with palm trees. Live palm trees. In the atrium.
