“Hello, Andy.”
“Nicole …” is the cleverest retort I can come up with.
“I heard about Nelson … I was in Seattle visiting my grandmother … I got here as fast as I could … oh, Andy …”
She comes over and hugs me, though it makes me feel awkward. I wonder if she feels the same, but there's no sign of it. Actually, I don't think “awkward” is something Nicole ever allows herself to feel. Feeling awkward would just make her feel awkward, so she simply avoids it.
“He was really crazy about you,” I say, driven by a sudden need to make her feel better.
“And I felt the same way about him. Are you okay?”
“I'm hanging in. I'm not sure it's totally hit me yet.”
She still has her arms around me, it's one of the longest hugs I've ever experienced. And there's no sign of it ending anytime soon.
“Andy, I've been thinking … even before this … I don't want to just give up on us.”
I'm at a loss for words, not an everyday occurrence for me, which goes on for quite a while. The uncomfortable silence is enough to get her to break the hug.
“It's your turn to say something,” she says, though I already knew that.
I give it my best shot. “Nicole, we've been separated for six months. In that time I have not become a big-time corporate attorney, nor have I decided to run for Congress.”
“Andy …”
“And I still represent people who think Beef Wellington is a wrestler. In short, I'm not what you seem to want anymore.”
“So maybe I can try and change. It's worth a try, isn't it?”
I'm not sure and I tell her so. She takes that as a qualified yes.
“So I was thinking we could start dating … have dinner or something?”
“You want to start dating?” I ask. “What's the matter, you can't find anybody to take you to the prom?” This is meant to sound tough; it comes off as cutesy.
“Andy, let's start over.” She renews the hug again, this time with certain body parts rubbing against certain other body parts.
“Am I going to have to get you a corsage?” I have now openly switched to cutesy. Even Tara looks disgusted.
Nobody's ever accused me of being a tower of strength, least of all Nicole. I think we're going to try. This would have been a good day for my father.
THE HOUSEOF MY FIRST EIGHTEEN YEARS WAS ON 42nd Street in Paterson, New Jersey. This is of considerable significance because of the manner in which Paterson has developed. There is a downtown area, economically poor and overwhelmingly African-American. Then there are the numbered streets, 1 through 42, ending at the Passaic River. The river is where 43rd Street would be.
The higher the street number, the more expensive and desirable the houses. For years, almost all of the people living in the streets above 20 were white. Gradually, though, African-Americans started moving “upward” to the mid-20s, then the early 30s, and on toward the heavenly 40s. The whites would then move further up, fearful that the mixing of the neighborhood was driving their home values down.
Looking at the big picture, it was as if the whites were being driven to the sea, in this case the river, and that it eventually would part and allow them to flee to the suburbs. This they did, in droves, and Paterson is now overwhelmingly African-American. The houses look exactly the same, but the people look different.
It is a source of great pride to me that my parents never followed the masses across the river, but a source of some shame that I did. But I love that house, and that neighborhood, and I love my parents even more for not abandoning it.
I drive to the house, with Tara sitting in the front seat and looking out the window at the neighborhood, checking it out as if she is thinking of buying property here. We arrive at the house, now empty of family, and I take a deep breath as we walk toward it. We walk up the steps where I covered myself in glory playing stoopball. We step up onto the porch from which I used to watch summer thunderstorms, mesmerized as the water hit the ground so hard that it bounced six inches back in the air.
And then we enter the house. You could blindfold me and I could describe every square inch of the house, tell you every piece of furniture that has ever been in it, yet I could barely remember what any house I've lived in since looks like.
Once inside, the pain begins inside my stomach and keeps boring inward. By the time I'm in the den it has reached previously unexplored depths, but I resolve not to give in to it. My resolve lasts for about eight seconds, and I start sobbing. Tara nuzzles next to me, letting me know that she loves me and is there for me. I wonder if she can comprehend how much that helps; I believe she can. The power of a dog's love is astonishing.
I compose myself and get started. My father kept everything in four file cabinets in his office, and for the next three hours I go through papers and documents. Everything seems characteristically straightforward and organized; my father would never have had it any other way. My unspoken (even to myself ) dread that I would find something troubling (an old love letter to a mistress?) soon gives way to semiboredom as I plow through the material.
I seem to remember that there are a lot of things in the attic, so I take a stepladder and go up there. It's dusty; this area obviously was not a frequent place of visitation. There are boxes of old papers, books, photographs, and memorabilia, and despite myself I get lost in them. I realize with a flash of guilt that I have not similarly chronicled my own life, then I realize with a flash of sadness that there will not be anyone to notice.
Many of the items I see trigger old memories, though some are literally before my time. There is a yellowed newspaper clipping from the day that my then thirteen-year-old father slipped through an ice crack in a local pond, along with a picture of Philip, dripping wet after heroically pulling him out. It is an incident my father related to me perhaps half a dozen times; he truly credited Philip with saving his life. Surprisingly, I never heard Philip mention it, though it would certainly have added luster to his political résumé.
I pick up a photograph of my parents at the beach. What strikes me about it is how comfortable they look together; I can never remember a time when it was any other way. Looking at their youthfulness, it seems amazing that they are gone, or even that they ever existed in this form.
The photograph is in a frame, and as I go to put it back, I see there is something behind it, as if hidden. I pry open the frame and pull out another picture, which is of four men, arm in arm, smiling and laughing as they pose for the camera. All of the men seem to be in their early twenties, and my father is one of them. There are two 1960s model cars in the driveway behind them, one sideways to the camera and one facing it.
The black and white shot was taken at night, and the young men seem jovial, perhaps intoxicated. In the background are trees and a large, manicured lawn, but I don't recognize the location.
I go to put down the photo, then do a double take and pick it back up. One of the men looks like a young Victor Markham, a very wealthy, very influential local industrialist. I've never met Markham, but his son's girlfriend was the young woman that my client, Willie Miller, was convicted of murdering years ago. Even though my father prosecuted the case originally, I until now was not aware that he knew Victor Markham as a younger man. It is a strange thing for him not to have mentioned.
It is the Miller case that finally draws me away from the house. I put the picture in my pocket and leave. I have to go out to the prison this afternoon and see my client, to keep him up-to-date about what is going on. He's the one who very well might receive the lethal injection, so I think he has a right to know.
After driving Tara home, I head out to the prison, which is about twenty-five minutes from Paterson, near Newark Airport. It seems a sadistic placement, as the prisoners must constantly listen to those living in freedom literally soaring off into the sky. It must make their cagelike existence seem that much more confining. On the other hand, they never have to eat airline food.
Visiting death row is something I don't think I'll ever get used to, and I don't recommend it at all. The first thing I notice about it, the first thing I always notice about it, is that it is so clean. It's ironic. The people housed here are deemed the filth of society, not even worthy of life, yet their “house” is kept clean with a zeal unmatched this side of Disneyland.
The place seems entirely gray, as if I am looking at it through black and white eyes. The stench of hopelessness is everywhere; it feels like the animal shelter in which I found Tara. Everybody in cages, just waiting until it's time to die, knowing no one is coming to set them free.
I go through the process of checking in and wait until the guard, Danny, comes to bring me to the cell block. Danny and I are by now familiar with each other, and I am struck by his ability to maintain a sense of humor in these surroundings. He's not Jerry Seinfeld, but he's okay.
We walk down a corridor flanked by cells on both sides, just like you see in the movies, and the prisoners call out taunting comments about the legal profession in general and myself in particular. None of it is flattering, some is positively brutal.
Danny is amused by it. “They're getting to know you pretty well.”
I just nod and walk faster; I'm not in the mood for banter.
I'm finally brought to Willie Miller's cell, the small iron box where he has spent the last seven years. He is heavily muscled and keeps himself in outstanding shape by working out. I don't have the discipline to exercise even though I know it will help me lead a longer, healthier life. Willie's about to be put to death and he never misses a day.
Willie never acknowledges my arrival until I'm inside the cell, and this time is no exception. I'm waiting for Danny to open the door, but instead he pulls over a metal chair and positions it outside the cell.
I'm puzzled, so I give him my puzzled look. He explains, “No direct contact with visitors during the last two months.” He's referring to the time left in Willie's life, and on Willie's behalf I'm thoroughly irritated.
“I've been frisked and put through a metal detector. You afraid I'm going to slip him my teeth so he can bite through the bars?”
“Rules are rules, Andy.”
I can tell that he feels bad, and I feel bad for making him feel bad. But I keep going, 'cause Willie feels worst of all.
“Are you sure? Rules are rules?”
“That's right.”
“Have you got a pen? Because I want to write that down. ‘Rules are rules,’ ” I repeat. “What a great line. Is it okay if I use it at cocktail parties?”
He's not in the mood for my bullshit. “Call out if you need me,” he says, and then walks away.
I turn to Willie, who is on his cot all the way across the length of his home, which means he's eight feet away from me. “How are you doing today, Willie?” It is an innocent question, but it presses a button.
He stands up and walks toward me, challenging. For a brief second, I'm glad Danny didn't let me in the cell.
“What the hell is the difference? You think next year anybody is going to say, ‘Boy, I wonder how Willie felt fifty-seven days before they killed his ass?’ ”
“What is it about death row that makes people so damned cranky?”
Willie looks at me for a moment, then starts to laugh. The weird thing is I knew he would. I know and like Willie, plus I think he's as innocent as the rest of my clients.
“Man, you're a lunatic, you know that? Of course, if I had me a lawyer, instead of a lunatic, I wouldn't be here.”
This has become a familiar refrain, and I respond in kind. “Need I remind you that I was not your lawyer when you were sent here? I have merely been handling your appeal. A small but significant point.”
Willie looks around at the cell. “You don't seem to be appealing too well,” is his logical reply.
“That's because the Supreme Court has become a major pain in the ass in this area.”
“More white bullshit,” he says.
“Did you ever hear of Clarence Thomas?” I counter.
“No, who's he play for?”
I laugh so loudly that it rattles through the corridors. Willie knows damn well who Clarence Thomas is, he's been reading up on everything about his case, including who might someday be ruling on it.
As if satisfied that he got me laughing, he gets right to the point. It's a point we've gone over before.
“We gonna get the new trial?”
“The Court of Appeals ruling should come down at any time.”
“We gonna win?”
“I think so,” I say. “But even if we get it, we're still in deep shit.”
“I'll just lose again?” he asks.
I pretend to be puzzled. “Lose? Did somebody say ‘lose'? I know I've heard that word, I'm just not familiar with it.”
“Make sure it stays that way.”
The specifics of Willie's case really haven't come up between us, since all I've had to concern myself with is the technical aspect of the appeal. We're pursuing a number of arguments, but our best one is the fact that one of the jurors on Willie's case openly lied in concealing the fact that her brother was a cop. More significantly, that brother had been killed in the line of duty six months earlier. That does not tend to make one friendly to the accused.
But if we get a new trial, we're going to have to move quickly. I decide to put my toe in the water, mainly because there's not much else to talk about. “You know, you're going to have to help me more than you helped your last lawyer.”
His antennae are up. “What the hell does that mean? I got nothing more to tell you than I told him.”
“That's because I haven't started my subtle, probing questioning yet.”
“Why don't you just ask your father? He was damn sure he knew everything that happened that night.”
It is not exactly unprecedented for a death row inmate to hold a grudge against the prosecutor that put him there, and Willie has been open about his hatred for my father. Because of those feelings, it took longer than usual for Willie and me to establish a mutual trust.
He obviously has not heard about recent events, and I see no reason to conceal them. “My father died last week.”
Willie's face reflects his feelings, or lack of feelings, at hearing this news. No guilt, no triumph, no nothing. “I'm sorry for you, man,” is what he says.
I nod my thanks. “Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
“Okay,” I say. “Let's start with an easy one. Did you kill her?”
I almost never ask this question, since if the client says yes, I am then prohibited from allowing him to say no at trial. It's called suborning perjury. The reason I ask is because I know what his answer is going to be. That doesn't make it any easier to hear.
“I don't have the slightest fucking idea.”
It goes downhill from there. Willie was totally drunk that night, with no memory of anything that happened. But he had never committed a violent act in his life, except for a few street fights. He wouldn't, couldn't, murder a woman.
We don't get very far, which right now is not a big problem, since we don't even know if we'll ever get another trial. The only fact that the conversation reaffirms in my mind is that Willie is never going to testify in any trial in which I am his lawyer. The “I was too drunk to remember if I did it” defense isn't generally a winner.
After twenty more minutes of getting nowhere, I head home, where I find Nicole preparing dinner. This is in itself a rare event; Nicole can make three types of food, the best of which is a tuna fish sandwich. But here she is making spaghetti, which means she's trying to “change,” which means I'm going to get stuck eating some really terrible spaghetti.
Outside the kitchen, things seem to be going reasonably well between us. We're both aware that we're testing the waters, which doesn't make for spontaneity, but I agree with her assessment that we're making progress. We haven't had sex yet, which shows how limited that progress has been, but I think we might be g
etting there.
If we had no history together, I'm not sure that we would fall madly in love. But we do have a history, and I'm just not ready to abandon it. I haven't mentioned this to Laurie yet, and I tell myself it's because I haven't seen her. I also tell myself that I don't owe her anything, that we have no commitment to each other, but I can't quite get myself to stop feeling like a shithead.
THE NEXT MORNINGI HAVE TO STOP AT Roger Sandberg's office. Roger is known as “the attorney's attorney,” and for years he has personally represented many of the top lawyers in the area. He and my father had been close friends for twenty years, and my father trusted Roger with his life. Since he doesn't have his life anymore, here I am.
The purpose of this visit is to go over matters of the estate and learn the terms of my father's will. I arrive ten minutes early and start reading one of the ancient magazines from the rack in the waiting room. For some reason, every doctor's, dentist's, or lawyer's office I am ever in only has magazines more than four months old. Where do the magazines go when they first arrive? Is there a publication purgatory that they are required to inhabit until their information is no longer timely?
I pick up the current one in the office, a six-month-old Forbes. It predicts that the stock market will go up, a prediction which has turned out to be wrong. I'm glad I didn't read it six months ago.
The door to Roger's office opens and he comes out to greet me. Roger is a very distinguished-looking man, with a kind smile and smooth manner. He is the definition of “unruffled,” a neat trick to have pulled off since he's been married five times. I've had only one troubled marriage, and I am thoroughly ruffled.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Andy.”
Roger shakes my hand and then hugs me, just like he hugged me at the funeral. I'm not a big hug fan, but I hug him back.
“No problem.”
We exchange pleasantries about his wife and children, all of whom I vaguely know, and he inquires about my practice. I talk briefly about it, at which point his eyes start to glaze over. Criminal law is not Roger's thing.
Open and Shut Page 3
