# 2 Lotti Charlotte woke with a start and huddled deeper into the dusty corner. She hadn’t meant to sleep. She moved cautiously and peered out the dirty window across from her. The sky beyond the rooftops along the avenue had begun to gray. The sun would be up soon. She had to be a long way from here by then. Slowly, she got to her feet, stiff and sore from hunching in the corner. For a moment she clung to the wall as memory engulfed her. Her house was gone, everything consumed by the flames, she was sure. She’d run desperately last night as the fire engines screamed and people, wakened by the sound of danger so close, rushed to windows or outside to see where the fire trucks were stopping. When she spotted the side door of this garage ajar, she ducked inside so she wouldn’t be seen. Not hat she knew many people in the neighborhood anymore. It had changed so much the past years while she’d been busy taking care of her mother, then devoting herself to work. For what, she thought. Now she had nothing. As her eyes became accustomed to the growing light , she felt her way along the wall to a shadowy stack of boxes several feet away. The top one wasn’t sealed. When she pushed aside the flaps and reached into it, she felt cloth. She lifted it out, then examined it with her hands. A pair of trousers. There was a hole in one knee and stiff spots that felt like dried paint. She reached into the box again and pulled out a man’s long-sleeved, flannel shirt, elbows out and also spattered with stiff spots. She worked her way through some rags , and at the very bottom of the box found a pair of shoes. She almost cried with relief. By the time the first streaks of pink spread across the sky, she had dressed in the clothing that surely had been destined for the junk man and wrapped her hair under a rag big enough to fold like a bandana. She put on her blue bathrobe and hitched it up under her sweater so it might pass for a skirt, then slipped out of the garage and made her way down the alley to the subway. Keeping her back to the change booth, she used one of the extra tokens from her pocket, then hurried to catch the almost empty train just pulling into the station. She sat in a corner, head bowed, eyes downcast. In her outlandish outfit, everyone would take her for a homeless bag lady who’d managed to sneak onto the subway. The thought almost made her laugh. She was homeless. Probably only one step above some of the poor souls she ignored every day. Never again would she turn away as she passed them on the street. Thank God she had other shoes and her purse in the locker at the courthouse. The oversized men’s footwear she was flopping around in drew attention with every flap, not to mention the blisters rising on her feet. And she had to talk to Judge Roland. He’d know what she should do. More important, he’d believe she wasn’t imagining things, or worse, crazy, and he’d help. She remembered the paycheck in her purse. Maybe he’d cash it for her. Or lend her money to buy something to wear. He might even be able to get her police protection until the man who had torched her house was caught. Sometime during the night, awake or asleep, she couldn’t be sure, she remembered why he looked familiar. She’d been looking at or past him every day for the last six weeks. Her fingers on the steno machine moved automatically in response to what her ears heard, but her eyes weren’t involved in the process unless the court asked her to read back someone’s testimony. From time to time her glance wandered across the witness box, the bailiff, jury or crowded courtroom. The man always sat in the same spot at the back corner, head down, eyes hooded. And when court adjourned, he slipped out with the first wave of departing spectators. If he hadn’t slumped in the seat on the train that same way, her memory might not have clicked. Now it drenched her with fear that he had some connection to that gangster’s trial. But what? And why was he after her? Judge Roland would know what to do. The guard at the door barred her way. "Sorry, you can’t come in here." "Charlie, it’s me, Charlotte Howard." His mouth fell open. "Ms Howard? My God, what happened to you?" "Please, just let me in. I’ll explain later." He stepped back. "Sure. If there’s anything I can do…" "Thanks. I appreciate that." She gave him a feeble smile and started for the stairs, then stopped and turned. "There is something." "Anything, Ms Howard." "Don’t tell anyone you saw me. That I came in. Please?" "Well, sure, if that’s what you want." He nodded with a quick glance at her attire as if it explained everything. "I won’t say a word." "Thanks." She hurried toward the elevator, the ugly paint-spattered shoes, slapping on the marble like drum beats. As soon as she unlocked her office door, the room felt different. She turned on the light and looked around quickly. The transcript was gone from the basket. Her gaze continued a slow inspection but found nothing else amiss. Transcripts weren’t usually picked up until eight o’clock. If the judge had come in, Charlie would have mentioned it, wouldn’t he? Unless he thought they had an appointment. It would be a possible explanation for two such early weekend arrivals, his not to question as long as they both belonged in the building. She’d call the judge’s chambers and check. If he wasn’t there, she’d call him at home and ask him what to do. She dug her keys from her carryall and inserted the one for her locker, but it wouldn’t turn. Without thinking, she grabbed the handle and shook the door to dislodge whatever was stuck. To her astonishment, the door sprang open, and she found herself staring at an empty shelf and hook. There was nothing there. No purse, no shoes, no light-weight blue sweater— She walked around the office glancing in corners, under the desk. Nothing. When she sank onto the chair feeling helpless and frightened, she didn’t realize she was crying until tears splashed on her hands in her lap. She jumped up. The judge. His home number—She pulled open the drawer, but her courthouse phone directory was gone, too. Stunned, she went through the other drawers. Nothing. No so much as a slip of paper. Whatever was going on was no hit or miss thing. He, or they, had thought of everything. It was as if they wanted to erase all evidence of her existence. How long would it take them to discover she wasn’t burned to a crisp in the house in Brooklyn? She glanced around the office. All this had been done last night after she left, possibly at the same time her house was being set afire or maybe before. How many of them were there? Anyone could enter the building during the day as long as he passed the metal detectors. Someone even half-way clever could hide when the building closed and get locked in, free to do his dirty work after the lights were out. Then all he had to do was wait until people began to come and go with the new day— Was he still here? Waiting, planning to check to make sure she didn’t come in? She turned off the light quickly and sat in the dark. She wasn’t safe in this office, nor in the courtroom upstairs. Where then? The ladies room or employees lounge— Grabbing her keys for the locker and house she no longer had, she eased open the door and glanced along the empty hall before she let herself out and pulled the door shut quietly behind her. Bending, she took off the miserable, clattering shoes and ran barefooted down the hall. The employees’ lounge had a phone. At the end of the hall, she breathed a sigh of relief when the door to the lounge opened when she turned the key. She reached for the light switch, but caught herself. Better not take a chance. She shoved the shoes into the bag on her shoulder, then felt her way along the wall past the vinyl couch, the table with the coffee maker and Styrofoam cups. Turning her back to it, she walked with her hand out ahead of her groping for the pay phone on the opposite wall. She smothered a yelp when she stubbed her toe on the leg of a chair someone had left pulled away from the table. When she felt the phone, she stood a moment to catch her breath and let her mind to clear. Pay phone… Coins. She dug in the shoulder bag and found her coin purse, then fingered the contents until she identified a quarter. She slipped it into the slot, then fingered the dial pad to visualize the numbers as she dialed slowly and carefully. The judge always stayed at his daughter’s apartment on the Upper West Side weekends or when he worked late. Charlotte had dropped off some requests for subpoenas there for him two weeks ago. If he wasn’t there, his daughter would give her his Connecticut number or call him for her. A man answered on the second ring. "Yes?" "I’m sorry to be calling at such an early hour—" "You’ll have to speak up, I can’t hear you." Charlotte raised her voice as much as she dared. "I need to speak with Judge Roland. It’s very important." "Who is this?" "Please, let me talk to him. Is this his son-in-law? I’m the court reporter who came by with some papers for him a couple of weeks ago." "What did you say your name is?" "Charlotte Howard. Please—it could be a matter of life or death!" Tears filled her eyes and she swallowed a sob. The man covered the phone and she heard his voice rumble as he spoke to someone. Then he came back. "Charlotte, where are you calling from?" Her hand clutching the phone began to tremble. Why would he ask that? "Charlotte, are you there?" "Yes," she whispered. "Where are you?" "I’ll tell the judge. Let me talk to him." "I’m afraid I can’t do that. Judge Roland is dead." Her hand on the phone numbed from the pressure. "Dead?" "This is Lt. Massey, NYPD. Judge Roland was killed by a hit and run driver last night as he crossed the street in front of this building. We’ll be talking to everyone he worked with, so if you’ll just tell us where you are—" She hung up and leaned against the wall. The judge dead. Like she would be if she hadn’t managed to from the burning house. Lt. Massey… Why would a policeman be at the apartment now, hours after the accident. If it really was an accident… An old television cop show she used to watch flashed through her mind. The homicide detective’s words sounded so corny at the time. "I don’t believe in coincidence," he always said. Neither did she. Not now. Not after last night and what she’d just heard. She realized she was trembling. Lt. Massey said they’d be talking to everyone who worked with the judge. Here? Most likely. But when? The courthouse officially opened in an hour or so. Saturday crowds were small, but people began trickling in as soon as the doors opened. She wouldn’t be able to hide. Someone would spot her and call a guard Then the whole building would know. Including the man who’d taken everything from her office if he was still here. And if he was, he might find her before the police did. Her mouth went dry. She wasn’t safe here. Her only hope was to hide on the streets or in the subway where people would avoid her, where she’d be one of the multitude of homeless that New Yorkers accepted as part of the landscape. She made her way to the dim sliver of light that showed under the door. Pausing a moment to retrieve the change purse she’d dropped back in her bag, she got out her last token. Opening the door, she checked the hall in both directions before she ran to an enclosed stairwell. On the main floor, she inched the door open and peered toward the entrance to be sure the coast was clear. Charlie stood talking to a man. She couldn‘t be sure with the light behind him and his face in shadow, but he was the right size and build as the man who’d followed her last night. Who’d stood across the street watching her house burn. Lord, don’t let it be him! It can’t be! She eased the door shut, struggling to breathe as she inched her way toward the flight of stairs leading down. At the bottom, a red sign over a door read Emergency Exit Only. She closed her eyes and tried to get her hearings. This side of the building was across the street from another subway entrance. Not the one she used, but it didn’t matter. Could she be down the steps and out of sight before anyone had time to respond to the alarm that would go off when she opened the door? Clutching her last token, she threw her weight against the door and flung it open. An alarm clattered like a doomsday bell as she leaped down the steps and raced for the subway entrance.