Free Hanging on a String by Janette M. Louard Page A

office. Two quick rings was an outside line. Three rings was my private, direct line. The phone rang three times.
    â€œHello,” I answered, expecting to hear the voice of one of my parents, Thea, or Dahlia. They were the only people who used my direct line.
    â€œIs this Jasmine Spain?” a vaguely familiar voice asked.
    â€œThis is Jasmine,” I replied, surprised that someone not in my inner circle was calling on my personal line. Not many people had the number. “Who’s calling?”
    â€œThis is Mariah Brown.”
    â€œMrs. Brown, you’re represented by counsel. I should not be talking with you. If you have any information you want to get to me, have your lawyer give me a call.”
    â€œI know the rules, Miss Spain,” Mariah replied. “Sometimes I just choose not to follow them.”
    â€œHow did you get my number?”
    â€œDon’t worry about that. I need your help.”
    â€œThe police are looking for you,” I said, remembering that Marcus Claremont had informed me this morning that Mariah Brown was among the missing, and from what I gleaned from the cautious Claremont, Mariah was a suspect in Chester’s death. “You need to call your attorney.”
    As if she read my thoughts, Mariah said, “I didn’t kill Chester Jackson, Miss Spain. Although I can’t say that I’m too broken up about it. But I didn’t kill him.”
    â€œThat’s something you need to discuss with the police,” I replied, wondering why she was calling me. Unlike the blatant contempt with which she had regarded Chester, she had, for the most part, ignored me.
    Mariah Brown’s laugh was harsh. “The police? After what they did to my child? Have you forgotten, Miss Spain, that I sued the police? They’re supposed to believe me?”
    â€œI don’t see how I can be of assistance to you,” I replied. “You need to call your attorney.”
    â€œI don’t see how I can be of assistance to you.” She repeated my words in a perfect imitation of my lawyer-speak. “I guess you’re right, Miss Spain. Something about you, I thought, was different from the rest. I thought maybe you weren’t like the rest of them lawyers, but I see you’re just a slave carrying a briefcase.”
    â€œThere’s no need for you to insult me, Mrs. Brown.”
    â€œI ain’t insulting you,” she replied. “I’m just telling the truth. I’m also going to tell you this: there was someone there when your client shot my son. My son remembered hearing dogs barking and seeing somebody there.”
    â€œDoes this person have a name?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know who the person is,” Mariah replied. “But there’s someone out there who saw what happened to my baby, and I’m going to find that person.”
    She hung up before I had a chance to reply. I wasn’t sure what I would have said, anyway, if given the chance.
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    As much as I love good food in general, and good Thai food in particular, my appetite disappeared after my phone call with Mariah Brown. Why had she called me? We were on opposite sides of the case, and, I suspected, we were also probably on opposite sides in life view. She looked at me probably the same way that God-fearing folks looked at ladies of the evening hard at work plying their trade.
    I was used to this reaction. Many people didn’t like lawyers. Hell, I wasn’t too fond of most of the members of my profession, either. Still, I would say defensively, there are such creatures as good lawyers. Folks who truly believe in truth, justice, and not just a big, fat retainer. My friends from college who knew I fasted for migrant workers, held sit-ins against apartheid, and wore black armbands in support of organizations fighting to end international human rights violations could not reconcile their current vision of me as a Wall Street lawyer.
    I was