The Tenth Case

The fact that the marriage had survived for eight years was hardly testimony to its success. The place Samara had persuaded Barry to buy her before the first year was over was the four-story brownstone in the lower Seventies, between Park and Lexington. The city’s inflated real estate had driven up the asking price to close to five million dollars, but if Barry complained, it was to deaf ears. “He used to tip that much in a year,” according to Samara.

Within a few months she had basically set up residence in the town house. She continued to appear in public with Barry but made no secret of the fact that theirs had become an “open marriage,” a throwback phrase from an earlier generation. Still, there was no talk of divorce. Barry had been there and done that three times already, and apparently had no taste for a fourth go-round.

“But according to your statement to the police,” Jaywalker pointed out, “you admitted having fights, the two of you.”

“That was their word,” said Samara. “Fights.”

“And your word?”

“Arguments.”

“What did you argue about?”

“You name it, we argued about it. Money, sex, my driving, my clothes, my drinking, my language. Whatever couples argue about, I guess.”

A corrections officer came into the lawyers’ section of the room and asked for everyone’s attention. “Anyone who wants to make the one o’clock bus back,” he announced, “wind it up. You got ezzackly five minutes.”

Jaywalker looked at Samara. If she missed the one o’clock, it meant she’d be stuck in the building till after five, which could mean not getting back to Rikers before ten or eleven, and having to settle for a bologna or cheese sandwich instead of what passed for a hot meal. But Samara gave one of her patented shrugs. Jaywalker took it as a good sign that she was willing to make personal sacrifices in order to finish telling him her story.

He should have known better.

There was a lot of rustling in the room as other inmates rose to leave, and other lawyers gathered their papers and snapped their briefcases shut.

“Tell me about the month or so before Barry’s death,” he said.

“What about it?”

“What was going on? Any new arguments? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Samara seemed to think back for a moment. “Not really,” she said. “Barry was sick, and—”

“Sick?”

“He had the flu.” The way she spat out the word suggested that she’d had little sympathy for him. “He thought I should be around more. You know, to take care of him. I told him that’s what doctors are for, and hospitals. I mean, it’s not like he couldn’t afford it. Still, I did see a little more of him than usual.”

“Where?”

“His place, mostly. Mine, once or twice. Out, a couple of times. I don’t know.”

“And how did the two of you get along on those occasions?”

Two shrugs.

“What does that mean?” Jaywalker asked.

“We got along the same as always,” she said. “When we were apart, fine. When we were together, Barry always found a way to pick a fight.”

“A fight?”

“An argument. Jesus, you’re as bad as the cops.”

“Sorry,” said Jaywalker. “Tell me about the evening before you found out Barry had been killed. Your statement says you first denied seeing him, then admitted you’d gone to his place. Is that true?”

“Is what true?”

Objection sustained. Jaywalker gave Samara a smile, then broke it down to a series of single questions. “Did you go there?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you deny it to the detectives at first?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t think it was any of their goddamned business.”

That was a pretty good answer, actually, if you took away the goddamned part. If believed, it showed that Samara hadn’t known about Barry’s murder. If believed. He made a note of it on his yellow pad.

“What caused you to change your story,” he asked, “and admit you’d been there?”

“They said they already knew. The old bat next door heard us arguing.”

“Were you?”

“Yeah.”

“What about?”

“Who remembers? Barry was still pissed off that I’d walked out of some opera a few nights earlier, leaving him sitting there. Maybe that was it.”

“Why had you done that?”

“Why? Why? Have you ever sat through five hours of some three-hundred-pound woman wearing a helmet, sweating like a pig and singing in German? Next to someone with the flu?”

“No,” Jaywalker had to admit.

“Try it sometime.”

“Tell me everything you remember about that last evening at Barry’s,” said Jaywalker. “What prompted you to go there in the first place?”

“Barry asked me to,” Samara said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have. He said he wanted to talk to me about something, but it turned out to be some bullshit, something about how much I’d spent at Bloomingdale’s or something like that. Who remembers?”

“What else?”

“Nothing much. He’d ordered Chinese food, and we ate. I ate, anyway. He said he couldn’t taste anything, on account of being all clogged up, so he barely touched it. I remember that,’ cause I asked him if he was poisoning me.”

Jaywalker raised an eyebrow.