Page 9 of A Matter of Pedigree
“You’re welcome,” she said, as the bailiff called the room to order. “All rise for the Honorable Judge William Wilson.”
Carole’s heart sank as a wizened little man in a black robe took his seat behind the bench. Frank turned around and gave her a look, as if to say the judge was further proof of his WASP conspiracy theory.
Judge Wilson, however, was unimpressed with the evidence the prosecution presented and refused to comply with the DA’s demand that bail be denied. “Five hundred thousand dollars,” he said, “and Mr. Capobianco must sur render his passport.” The business was quickly completed, Frank was released, and a joyful throng issued out onto South Main Street, where they encountered a barrage of questions from the assembled media.
Microphones were thrust in Frank’s face, but he just waved and smiled, letting Vince do the talking. “My client welcomes this opportunity to demonstrate his complete and utter innocence,” he declared. “And he also extends his deepest sympathy to the Browne family.”
“Yeah, right,” murmured Frank, leaning into her ear and giving her a hug as the cameras clicked around them.
Then they went on up the Hill for a celebratory family lunch with Mom and Big Frank and Frank-O at Costantino’s that seemed to go on and on as the chef produced specialty after specialty and bottle after bottle was opened, different ones for each course. They were finally eating the tiramisu when Carole remembered Poopsie.
“We better get home,” she said, rising and tapping Frank on the arm.
“What’s the hurry?” he asked, pulling her back down into her chair. “I’ve been eating prison food.”
“One, maybe two meals,” she said.
“That so-called breakfast was enough to convince me I don’t want to go back,” declared Frank, and everybody laughed.
It was after three when they finally staggered home; one of the boys from the restaurant drove the Cayenne, and they gave him taxi money for the trip back, as well as something for his trouble. They’d hardly got through the door and Frank was groping Carole’s butt when a familiar odor reached them.
“Well, I guess we didn’t name her Poopsie for nothing,” said Frank, handing Carole the roll of paper towels.
Carole was just putting the last of the dinner dishes in the dishwasher when there was a tap on the apartment door. She wasn’t expecting anyone, so she peeked through the peephole, surprised to see Connie standing in the hall. “Come on in,” she said, greeting her daughter with a hug. “What brings you here?”
“The case, Mom. I’ve been worried about Pop. I came right over after work.”
“You just got done with work now?” asked Carole, noticing that Connie was still dressed in her business suit but had pulled her shirt out of the waistband and had swapped her heels for a pair of running shoes. “It’s almost eight! That’s ridiculous. How are you supposed to have a life?”
It was a shame what this job was doing to her, thought Carole, studying her daughter. Connie had always been a pretty girl, with a heart-shaped face, big hazel eyes, and a head of abundant brunette hair that she wore long. Only you couldn’t tell how beautiful she was because that gorgeous, naturally wavy hair was pulled back into a bun, there were dark circles under her eyes, and she was developing a worry line from furrowing her lovely arched eyebrows. At least she’d managed to keep her figure, although that suit was looking as if it was a size too large.
“My life is just fine,” said Connie, firmly. “It’s Pop I’m worried about. How’s he holding up?”
Poopsie, seeing her adored Connie, had jumped down from her favorite spot on the couch and greeted Connie by rolling on her back and baring her tummy. Connie bent down and politely gave her a couple of rubs, after which Poopsie rolled over and sat on her feet, taking possession.
“See for yourself,” said Carole, tilting her head toward the big leather recliner, where Frank was dozing, snoring gently, after eating most of a pizza for dinner. Carole had begged off cooking, saying they’d had such a big lunch, and ordered delivery. She’d had one slice, and Frank ate the rest of the pie.
“I guess he’s not too stressed, then,” said Connie, scratching the dog behind her ear. “That’s a relief. Right, Poopsie?”
Poopsie lifted her snout, inviting Connie to scratch her chin.
“Come on into the bedroom,” invited Carole. “We can talk there, and I’ve got a new pair of shoes to show you.”
Connie and Poopsie obediently followed Carole down the short hallway to the master bedroom, where Connie sat herself on the king-size bed. Poopsie leaped up and sat beside her, placing her chin on Connie’s thigh. Carole disappeared into her enormous closet and returned with a pair of Ferragamo sneakers.
“They’re real nice, Mom. Are you taking up jogging?”
“Me? What, are you crazy? They’re for walking Poopsie.”
“Your mommy will be the most stylish dog mommy at the dog park,” crooned Connie, allowing the dog to give her a doggy kiss.
“I can’t take her to the dog park; she fights with all the other dogs,” admitted Carole, sitting alongside Connie on her free side, holding the shoe in her hand. “Tell me what you really think?”
“The shoes are really cute.”
“I don’t mean the shoes! Tell me the truth. Is your father in trouble?”
“Well, yeah, Mom. He’s been indicted for murder.”
