“In a cab leaving Newark Airport.”
I agree to wait for him, masking my annoyance. Laurie obviously told him that I would speak with him even before she spoke to me. She just as obviously has confidence that she can manipulate me and get me to do what she wants. I’m pissed off because she’s been proven right.
Richard Davidson arrives within forty-five minutes. He’s probably six foot two, a hundred and sixty pounds, the kind of annoying guy who can suck in a freezerful of Häagen-Dazs without gaining an ounce.
I instantly feel sorry for him for two reasons. First, he has the look of a man who is totally exhausted, his face already bearing deep lines of concern, be it from lack of sleep or intense stress. Considering that his son has been arrested for a brutal double murder, it’s probably both, and I expect his black hair should be gray within the hour. Second, he’s wearing a suit, meaning he figured that to do so would impress me. This is a desperate man.
My office is about as unimpressive as one is likely to find, situated above a fruit stand in downtown Paterson. It looks as if it was decorated in early Holiday Inn, during a chambermaid strike. Yet Davidson does not seem to notice any of this; his total focus is to try to get me to help his son.
I offer him water or a cup of coffee, and I’m relieved when he chooses the former, since I have no idea how to make the latter. “I’ve planned what I was going to say on the way here, but right now I have no idea where to start,” he says.
“I’ve read up as best I can on your son’s case,” I say. “Just the newspaper stories.”
He nods. “It’s horrible… just horrible. Those two poor girls.”
“Did you know them?” I ask.
“Just Elizabeth… not Sheryl Hendricks. Elizabeth and Jeremy were talking about getting married. They were so terrific together.”
“Until she broke it off?” I ask.
“Yes, until she broke it off. She told Jeremy that she still loved him but that it just couldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Pressures from her parents, her town, her religion… the place she’s from is a very closed society. I had warned him about that; those people have always kept to themselves. But even though she ended it, he would never hurt her, not ever. Mr. Carpenter, I know my son is innocent.”
“You believe he is.” It’s an important distinction to make; I’m pointing out that he has no real evidence.
“It’s the same thing. There is simply no way he could have done this. Laurie knows that as well as I do.” He’s exaggerating this for effect; Laurie has not professed a strong belief in his son’s innocence, she has simply expressed doubts about his guilt. There’s a difference.
“How do you know Laurie?”
“We lived next door to each other growing up. She and my little sister were best friends. She’s gotten to know Jeremy some since she moved back.”
Laurie’s doubt about Jeremy’s guilt is compelling. She has spent her adult life in law enforcement, and in the face of powerful evidence is not inclined to take the side of the accused. It’s the main reason I don’t think she ever felt fully comfortable working for a defense attorney like me. She was always concerned she might contribute toward letting a guilty person go free.
Also adding to the significance of Laurie helping Jeremy is her position as acting chief of police. She has taken a real chance of alienating her constituency by facilitating the conversation between Davidson and me.
My sympathy for Davidson is starting to be challenged by my desire to get home and watch football. “What is it you want from me?” I ask. “I don’t know nearly enough about the facts of the case to make any coherent recommendations.”
He’s obviously surprised by the question. “I want you to represent Jeremy.”
I guess Laurie forgot to mention that part. “Mr. Davidson, that is not going to happen. I’m sorry.”
“Please,” he says, in such a childlike, desperate way that I expect his next words to be “pretty please.”
“I just can’t pick up and go to Wisconsin to try a murder case. It’s really out of the question.”
“Can’t you at least look into it before you make your decision?”
“It’s too late for that; I’ve already made my decision. And I’m sorry, but looking into the case wouldn’t change anything.”
“I can pay whatever your fee is.”
I nod. “Good. Then you can afford any lawyer you want… except me.” I can see the disappointment in his face, so I soften it a little. “I can do this for you: I can make some phone calls and help you find a first-class lawyer closer to the trial venue.”
He’s not satisfied by this or anything else I say, and I soon give up trying. I have no desire whatsoever to go to Wisconsin and represent someone who is probably a brutal murderer. At this point I haven’t even factored in the close proximity I would have to Laurie, but were I to, it would no doubt be a negative rather than a positive. I’m not going to get on with my life by spending an upcoming chunk of it in her hometown.
As Davidson is leaving, Kevin Randall is coming in, and they mumble a quick hello to each other. Kevin has been my associate for almost two years now, after his disenchantment with the justice system prompted him to take a three-year hiatus from practicing law. During that time he opened the Law-dromat, an establishment that offers free legal advice to customers while their clothes are washing and drying. Kevin still spends much of his spare time away from the office at the Law-dromat, and since we have no clients, that spare time is in no short supply.
It is quite unusual for Kevin to be in on Saturdays; in recent months it’s been unusual for him to come in Monday through Friday. The odds against our both being here today are off the charts.
“Andy, what are you doing here?” he asks.
“I came in to research something on the computer.”
He is instantly alert. “We’ve got a case?”
I shake my head. “No, nothing as drastic as that.”
His reaction is one of relief. “That’s good.”
“Why is that good?” I ask. “And what are you doing here on Saturday?”
He can’t conceal a small grin. “Carol and I are getting married.”
“Today?” Kevin and Carol met on one of those computer-matching services about three months ago. She’s a personal trainer at a fitness center in Glen Rock; every time I see her I’m afraid she’s going to demand I do twenty push-ups. I know that things are going well between her and Kevin, but I didn’t know they were going well enough that marriage was under consideration.
He laughs. “No… but I hope soon. I haven’t actually asked her yet; I’m just getting things in order before I do.”
“What kind of things?”
“Like the honeymoon, for one.”
“Where are you going?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out now; I came in to do some research on the computer as well.”
Kevin proceeds to tell me the places that he’s thought about but has been forced to reject, due mainly to the fact that he is the absolute biggest hypochondriac on the planet. Tropical resorts are no good because of his sun allergy… big cities have too much smog and aggravate his asthma… places with spicy cuisine are likely to inflame his heartburn… and on and on.
“Maybe you can get a time-share on a plastic bubble,” I offer, but it doesn’t so much as raise a chuckle. Apparently, Carol isn’t totally enamored of Kevin’s hypochondria; my guess is that Kevin neglected to mention it on the computer-matching questionnaire.
In fact, Kevin might be annoyed at my joke, because he quickly turns the conversation in an unwelcome direction. “Did you see Laurie on television yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“That’s quite an arrest for her to make. I mean, to get national attention like that…”
“That guy you just saw walking out of here is the father of the accused.”
Kevin is shocked to hear this, and I recount to him my co
nversation with Laurie, as well as Davidson’s attempt to hire me to represent his son.
“Are you going to do it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Because of Laurie?”
The question is jolting to me, mainly because I should have asked it of myself. “No,” I say too quickly. “I do not want to spend the winter in Wisconsin. My life is here.”
“Which life would that be?” he asks. Kevin is one of the long list of people who have been counseling me to start dating.
I ignore the dig, and he lets the subject drop. I head home, leaving him alone to do his honeymoon planning on WebMD. When I get there, I place a couple of calls to lawyers I know and trust in Chicago, asking for recommendations in the Findlay area, though it’s a good distance away. I get a couple of names, and I will give them to Davidson when I call him tomorrow.
I take Tara to the park and pick up a pizza on the way home. My normal style is to open the pizza in the kitchen and eat the whole thing while standing against the counter. Since I’ve resolved to start my post-Laurie life fresh, this time I sit at the table, using a paper towel for a napkin and eating the pizza off a plate. I know it’s more civilized, but pizza just doesn’t taste as good off a plate.
I get into bed and turn on a Seinfeld rerun. I watch the whole show, but I don’t have to. I’ve seen them so many times that just hearing one sentence is sufficient to trigger the entire thirty minutes in my memory bank.
When the show ends, my thoughts go back to Wisconsin, much as I might resist. I try to analyze major decisions logically, absent emotion. One of my techniques is to break a situation down to its various key aspects and then remove those aspects one at a time, seeing how that impacts on the decision I am making.
This time I try to imagine what I would have done if the murders had taken place in some state besides Wisconsin, with Laurie not involved. In this new scenario another person whose opinion I respect calls and tells me about the murder and their view that the accused is innocent. The father then comes to me with an impassioned plea to represent his son, or at least to look into his case.
There is no escaping the obvious truth that in such a situation I would at least look into the particulars of the case. At first glance a young man who might be innocent yet faces a potentially life-destroying murder trial makes my legal adrenaline start to flow. Yet this time I rejected the offer out of hand.
The reason is Laurie, which really pisses me off. There is no longer anything I should do, or not do, because of Laurie.
She is yesterday’s news.
• • • • •
I’VE DECIDED TO come to Wisconsin.”
“That’s wonderful,” Richard Davidson says when he hears this. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“You need to understand that I’m not agreeing to take the case. I’m going to come up there, look into things, talk to your son, and then make up my mind.”
“I understand completely, and I respect whatever decision you make,” he lies. “When are you coming?”
“I should be there in a few days,” I say.
“Just let me know when your flight is. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“I’ll be driving. I’m bringing my dog, and I won’t put her in a crate under the plane.”
“Okay. Can I get you a hotel room? Or you’re certainly welcome to stay with us.”
I let him reserve me a hotel room in town, and then I ask him if his son has current representation. “Yes,” he says. “A local lawyer. Calvin Marshall.”
“Please tell Mr. Marshall about our conversations,” I say.
He promises to do so, and I end the call.
I spend the next twenty-four hours getting ready for the trip. This consists of packing and filling the car up with gas, and I put a similar amount of care into both. I pump as much gas in as the tank will hold, and I throw in as many clothes as my two suitcases will hold.
I call Edna and Kevin and tell them about my decision. Kevin mercifully agrees to handle Edna’s estate requirements, should further changes be necessary on the will. Edna seems fine with the fact that my not being around means there is absolutely no possibility she will have any work to do.
I meet Pete and Vince at Charlie’s and shock them with the news of my departure tomorrow morning.
“Wisconsin?” Pete asks. “You got any idea how cold that is? You ever see a Packers game?”
They both assume I’m chasing after Laurie, and even though I deny it, it may be the truth. This causes them to spend most of the night sneaking looks at each other, saddened at how pathetic it is that I can’t let her go. It’s not until the sixth or seventh beer that they can put it behind them and get back to watching sports and leering at female customers.
Tara and I are out of the house and in the car by nine o’clock, for what is supposed to be a sixteen-hour trip. I’ve decided to go at a leisurely pace and make it in two days, stopping at a Holiday Inn in Indiana that allows pets. I plan to spend the time in the car thinking about the Davidson case, and not thinking about how I will deal with being in the same town as Laurie.
Tara sits up in the front seat the entire time, head out the window, soaking up the wind and the local culture. One of the many great things about her is that she doesn’t seem to mind that I dominate the radio.
I listen to mostly sports talk radio along the way, and I soon discover that “Larry from Queens,” who always calls to complain about the Knicks and Rangers, has a counterpart in every other city. But I’m nothing if not an intellectual, so I listen to all of it.
I’m also a gourmet, so I take full advantage of the fact that every city along the way seems to have a Taco Bell. Even better, many of them are in combination with Pizza Hut, so I can get a grilled stuffed burrito while making sure Tara gets her beloved pizza crusts. America is a wonderful place.
About ten minutes before the Findlay exit on the highway is an exit for Center City. I know from the newspaper articles that this is where the two young murder victims were from, so I decide to get off and check out the town. I probably won’t learn anything, but it will delay my arrival in Findlay. I would stop off for a rectal exam if it would delay my arrival in Findlay.
Center City turns out to be a good fifteen minutes in from the highway, tucked away in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by farmland. There is a small airport set in the fields on the northeast side of town, which makes it about ten minutes from Lake Superior. The airport amounts to little more than a landing strip, a hangar, and a small shack. If there are planes there, I don’t see them, but there could be one or two in the hangar.
The town center is no more than two blocks long. Calling this a city is a total misnomer; “town” is a stretch. Outside this two-block center are small houses, mostly identical in size and style, that spread out for perhaps a mile, nudging up against the farmland. Just north of the town is a large factory that processes the dairy products of the local farmers. I would guess that Center City has a population of maybe five thousand, except for the fact that almost none of those people are visible.
Even in the center of town, where the stores are, the streets are eerily empty… almost Twilight Zone empty. It’s only six o’clock in the evening; could everybody be asleep?
Looming over the entire town is a building, perhaps seven stories high, with the designation “Town Hall” on the front. There is a large grassy area in front of it, and on that area is what looks to be a makeshift memorial to the murder victims. Townspeople have brought flowers and written notes in tribute to the deceased young women, and they have been arranged in a circular manner, almost as if they are spokes on a wheel.
I walk over with Tara to get a closer look. The fact that there are no people around is more than vaguely unsettling; something seems either wrong or unnatural. The notes, as I start to read them, are heartfelt and mostly religious in nature; the town is clearly mourning these two lives that were cut way too short.
“Have you got business her
e, sir?”
The sound of the voice is jolting and causes me to jump. I look over and see a man, no more than twenty-five years old, wearing a tan shirt and pants, which seems like a uniform. I have to look up to see his face; he’s probably six foot four, two hundred and thirty pounds. “Man, you scared me,” I say. “Where did you come from?”
“Have you got business here, sir?” he repeats, in exactly the same tone. He may be young, but he’s already developed into quite a conversationalist.
“No, just driving through.” I look around. “Where is everybody?”
“There is a town meeting,” he says, and at that very moment the doors to the town hall open, and the good citizens of Center City come flooding out en masse.
“I guess attendance is mandatory,” I say, but the officer doesn’t react.
Instead he says, “Where are you staying, sir?”
I don’t answer right away, since I’m somewhat distracted by the fact that most of the people leaving the town hall are staring at me as if I’m an alien. I also notice that everybody seems to be paired up and holding hands, including children no more than seven years old. I never had a sister, but I know for a fact I wouldn’t have held hands with the little brat.
“Sir, where are you staying?” he repeats.
“Not here. Why do you ask?”
“We just don’t get many strangers, so we like to keep track of them. We’re a friendly community.”
“Good, ’cause I’m a friendly guy,” I say, and Tara and I start to walk back to the car. I see a large group of people walking in the same direction and staring at me, so I wave.
“Hi,” I say, a big fake smile on my face. It does not attract a return “Hi” from any of them, nor does it stop them from staring. Maybe Wisconsin friendly communities are different from friendly communities back on earth.
We get back on the road and head to Findlay, stopping for dinner along the way. I’ve been to Findlay before; last year I checked out a lead on a case and the possible future home of Laurie at the same time. I’ve developed something of a jealous hatred for the place, since Laurie chose it over me, and I can sense that hatred returning as I get closer.
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