Is she going to chitchat first? I swallow the watermelon in my throat. “What is it you wanted to talk about?” I ask.
“Andy…” is how she starts, which is already a bad sign. I’m the only other person here, so if she feels she has to specify whom she’s talking to, it must mean that what she has to say is very significant. “Andy, you know that my father and mother split up when I was fifteen.”
I wait without speaking, partially because I am aware of her parents’ divorce, but mainly because I want this to go as fast as possible.
“My father got custody simply because my mother didn’t contest it. She no longer wanted a family-I don’t know and it doesn’t really matter why-and he made it easy for her. He found a job here and took me with him. One day I was living in Findlay, and the next day I wasn’t. I literally never even said goodbye to my friends.”
She takes a deep breath. “And I never went back. Not once. Not even a phone call. My mother died five years ago without me seeing or talking to her. That’s how she wanted it, and it was fine with me.”
With her voice cracking as she says this, it doesn’t take a keenly analytical mind to know that it wasn’t really fine with her.
She goes on. “In the process I cut off from my friends, my boyfriend at the time, everybody. I’m sure they must have heard where I had gone, but they wouldn’t have had any way to contact me, and I certainly never contacted them. I never even considered it.”
“Until this weekend” is my first verbal contribution.
She nods. “Until this weekend. I’ve been nervous about going back, but when I saw how it was for you to get back into this house… I know it’s different because you never left this area… but it gave me extra motivation.
“And it was wonderful,” she continues. “Better than I could have imagined. Not just seeing my old friends, though that was great. It was about going home, about reconnecting with how I became who I am. I even met three cousins I never knew. I have family, Andy.”
“That’s great,” I say.
“I was stunned by the impact the whole thing had on me, Andy. When I drove past my grammar school, I started to cry.”
That impact and the resulting emotions are clear as a bell, and it makes me feel for her. For a moment I even stop thinking about myself and how whatever is going to be said will affect me. But only for a moment.
“I had a boyfriend named Sandy. Sandy Walsh.”
“Uh-oh,” I say involuntarily.
“He’s a businessman and sort of an unelected consultant to the town.”
“Married?”
“A less significant question would be hard to imagine,” Laurie says, “but no, he’s not married.”
I simply cannot stand the suspense anymore. “Laurie,” I say, “I’m a little nervous about where this is going, and you know how anxious I am to watch the eclipse, so can you get to the bottom line?”
She nods. “Sandy talked to the city manager, and they offered me a job. They’ve been aware of my career; I’m like a mini-hometown hero. A captain’s position is going to be opening up on the police force, and Chief Helling is approaching retirement age. If all goes well, I could be chief of police within two years. It’s not a huge department, but there are twelve officers, and they do real police work.”
Kaboom.
“You’re moving back to Findlay?” I ask.
“Right now all I’m doing is talking to you about it. The captain’s slot won’t open for at least three months, so Sandy is giving me plenty of time. He knows what a big decision this is.”
“That Sandy’s a sensitive guy,” I marvel.
“Andy, please don’t react this way. I’m talking to you because I trust you and I love you.”
Her words function as a temporary petulance-remover. “I’m sorry, I’ll try to be understanding, and a person for you to talk to, but I just don’t want you to leave. We can talk for the next twelve years, and I still won’t want you to leave.”
“You know how much I’ve wanted to get back into police work,” she says, “and in a position like that, I could really make a difference.”
Laurie was working for the Paterson Police Department when she told what she knew about the crooked lieutenant she was working for. When the issue was whitewashed, she left in protest. Her family has been in police work for generations, and she’s never felt fully comfortable with leaving. “You make a difference here, Laurie.”
“Thank you, but this is different. And you could be the best attorney in Findlay,” she says. Her smile says she’s kidding, but only slightly. “I had forgotten what an amazingly wonderful place it is to live.”
“So you want me to move to Findlay?” I ask, my voice betraying more incredulousness than I would have liked, but less than I feel. “Is good old Sandy offering me the town justice of the peace job? Great! You arrest the jaywalkers, and I’ll put ’em away for good. And then on Saturday nights we can get all dressed up, head down to the bakery, and watch the new bread-slicing machine.”
“Andy, please. I’m not saying you should move. I’m not even saying I should move. I’m just putting everything on the table.” She looks up from this grass table just as the eclipse is starting. “God, that’s spectacular,” she says.
“Yippee-skippee,” I say. “Now I can’t wait for 2612.”
* * * * *
THREE SECONDS AFTER I wake up I have that awful feeling. It’s the one where you’ve forgotten something really bad while you were asleep, and the sudden remembrance of it in the morning is like experiencing it fresh all over again. Why doesn’t that happen with good things?
Laurie may leave. That is a simple fact; I can’t change it. Or if I can change it, I don’t know how, which is almost as bad.
A number of months ago we talked about marriage. She didn’t feel she needed it, but loved me and was willing to marry if it was important to me. I didn’t force the issue, but what if I had? How would it impact on this situation, on her decision? Would she even consider leaving her husband behind?
But we’re not married, and I’m not her husband, so what the hell is the difference?
I know it’s immature, but the chances of my taking on Kenny Schilling’s case just went up very substantially. I need something else to think about, and the total focus and intensity of a murder case and trial are a perfect diversion.
I can feel this diversion start to take effect as I arrive at the courthouse for the arraignment. The streets surrounding the place are mobbed with press, and this will not change for the duration of the case. Clearly, the public view is that Kenny is guilty. This is true not because he is widely disliked; in fact, he’s been a fairly popular player. The fact is that the public always assumes that if someone is charged with a crime, then he or she is guilty. While our system purports to have a presumption of innocence, the public has a presumption of guilt. Unfortunately, the public makes up the jury.
I have to confess that this sentiment against Kenny also contributes to my desire to represent him. Great basketball players like Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, and Kobe Bryant have always said that what they love most is winning on the road, against the odds in hostile environments. I can’t shoot a jump shot into the Passaic River, but I know what they mean. It’s not something I’m necessarily proud of, but the legal “game” is more fun, more challenging, when I’m expected to lose.
Kevin and I meet with Kenny in an anteroom before the arraignment. He’s more composed than he was in the jail, more anxious to know what he can do to help in his own defense. I tell him to write down everything he can remember about his relationship with Troy Preston, whether or not he thinks a particular detail is important.
I describe what will take place during the arraignment. It’s basically a formality and one in which Kenny’s only role will be to plead. The rest will be up to me, although in truth my role is limited as well. This is the prosecution’s day, and Dylan will try to make as much of it as possible.
The judge who has
been assigned is Susan Timmerman, who coincidentally presided over the arraignment the last time Dylan and I tangled. She is a fair, deliberate jurist who can handle sessions like today’s in her sleep. I would be quite content if she is assigned the actual trial, but that will be decided by lottery sometime down the road.
Dylan does not come over to exchange pleasantries before the session begins, and seems to avoid eye contact as well. I say “seems to” because not being an eye-contacter myself, I can’t be sure. I’m not even positive what eye contact is, but Laurie says you know it when you see it. Of course, it’s hard for me to see it, because I don’t do it.
The gallery is packed, and Kenny’s wife, Tanya, sits right behind us, a seat I assume and hope she’ll be in every day of the trial. I also see a few of Kenny’s teammates in the third row. That’s good; their abandoning him would be a major negative in the eyes of the public. And as I said, twelve members of that public are going to be the jurors in this case.
Dylan presents the charges, and I can see Kenny flinch slightly when he hears them. The State of New Jersey is charging Kenny Schilling with murder in the first degree, as well as an assortment of lesser offenses. They are also alleging special circumstances, which is New Jersey’s subtle way of saying that if it prevails, it will pay someone to stick a syringe in Kenny’s arm and kill him.
There is a slight tremor in Kenny’s voice when he proclaims himself not guilty, and I can’t say I blame him. If I were charged with a crime like this, I’d probably croak like a frog. Kenny is used to being applauded and revered. New Jersey is calling him a brutal murderer, and the worst thing that’s been said about him before this is that he has a tendency to fumble more than he should.
Judge Timmerman informs us that a trial judge will be assigned next week, then asks if we have anything we need to bring up.
I rise. “There is the matter of discovery, Your Honor. We’ve discovered that the prosecutor does not seem to believe in it. They have not turned over a single document to us.”
Dylan rises to his feet, a wounded expression on his face. “Your Honor, the defense will receive what they are due in a timely manner. The arrest took place on Friday, and this is Monday morning.”
I respond quickly. “Since I had no evidence to examine, Your Honor, I spent some time over the weekend looking at the rules of discovery, and it quite clearly states that the prosecution must turn over documents as they receive them, even if, God forbid, it interferes with their weekend. I might add that they were able to find the time during that same weekend to provide information to the media. Perhaps if I had a press pass, I would have a better chance of getting the information the discovery statute requires.”
Judge Timmerman turns to Dylan. “I must say I was concerned by the amount of information available in the media.”
Dylan is embarrassed, a state I would like to keep him in as much as possible. “I do not countenance leaks to the press, Your Honor, and I am doing all I can to prevent it.”
I decide to push it and agitate Dylan even more. “May we inquire what that is, Your Honor?”
Judge Timmerman asks, “What are you talking about?”
“Well, Mr. Campbell has just said that he is doing all he can to prevent leaks. Since he’s obviously failed, I would like to know exactly what affirmative steps he’s taken. Perhaps you and I can give him some advice and make him better at it in the process.”
Dylan blows his top on cue, ranting and raving about his own trustworthiness and his outrage at my attacking it. Judge Timmerman calms the situation down, then instructs Dylan to start providing discovery materials today.
“Is there anything else we need to discuss?” she asks, clearly hoping that the answer will be no. I could come up with other diversions, but that’s all they would be, and they really wouldn’t divert. The fact is, I could strip naked, jump on the defense table, and sing “Mammy,” and it wouldn’t be the lead story on the news tonight. The lead will be that Kenny Schilling, star running back for the Giants, is facing the death penalty.
It takes me twenty minutes to get through the assembled press outside the courthouse. I’ve changed my standard “No comment” to an even more eloquent and memorable “We’re completely confident we will prevail at trial.”
Winston Churchill, eat your heart out.
* * * * *
THE FIRST MESSAGE on my call sheet when I get back to the office is from Walter Simmons of the New York Giants. I have to look twice at the sheet before I can believe it. The New York Giants are calling me, Andy Carpenter.
I have been waiting for this call since I was seven years old. But is it too late? I’m almost forty; can I still break tackles like I used to? How will I handle the rigors of two-a-day practices? Can I still run the down-and-out, or is my body down-and-out? All I can do is give it a hundred and ten percent, and maybe, just maybe, I can lead my beloved Giants to victory and…
There’s just one problem. I’ve never heard of Walter Simmons. If he were involved with the football side of the operation, I would know the name. I can feel the air go out of my balloon; the love handles resting on my hips are actually starting to deflate.
I call Simmons back, and my worst fears are confirmed: He is the Giants’ vice president of legal affairs. “I’d like to talk to you about this matter with Kenny Schilling,” he says.
“You mean the matter in which he is on trial for his life?”
He doesn’t react to my sarcasm. “That’s the very one.”
He wants to meet in his office at Giants Stadium, but I’m pretty busy, so I tell him he can come to me. He doesn’t really want to, and I must admit that the prospect wouldn’t thrill me either, since my office doesn’t inspire much in the way of respect and awe. It’s a three-room dump in a second-floor walk-up over a fruit stand. Everybody tells me I need to upgrade our office space, which is probably why I don’t.
Simmons and I wrangle over the meeting location for a brief while until I come up with the perfect solution.
We can meet at Giants Stadium. On the fifty-yard line.
My drive to the stadium takes about twenty-five minutes, and a security guard is in the empty parking lot to greet me. He takes me in through the players’ entrance, which allows me another three or four minutes of solid fantasizing. Before I know it, I’m on the field, walking toward the fifty-yard line. A man who must be Walter Simmons, dressed in a suit and tie, walks from the other sideline to meet me at midfield. It’s as if we’re coming out for the coin toss.
A group of players is on the field, in sweat suits without pads. They’re throwing some balls around, jogging, doing minor calisthenics. A placekicker booms field goals from the forty-yard line. These are no doubt voluntary off-season workouts; the serious stuff is a good month away.
Of all the people on the field, Walter Simmons is the only one I could outrun. He looks to be in his early sixties, with a healthy paunch that indicates he’s probably first on line for the pregame meal. He’s got a smile on his face as he watches me react to these surroundings.
“Not bad, huh?” he asks. “I come down here fairly often. It brings me back to my youth.”
“Were you a football player?”
He grins again. “I can’t remember. At my age, after lying about my athletic exploits for so many years, I’m not sure what’s true and what isn’t. But I certainly never played in a place like this.”
One player on the field overthrows another, and the next thing I know there is a football at my feet. I pick it up to throw it, glancing toward the sidelines just in case a coach is watching. This could be my chance.
I rear back and throw the ball as far as I can. It is the kind of effort for which the term “wounded duck” was coined. Perhaps even more accurately, it flops around in the air like an exhausted fish on the end of a hook, then falls unceremoniously to the ground fifteen yards in front of the intended receiver. Neither Simmons nor the receiver laughs at me, but I still want to dig a hole in the end zone and lie do
wn next to Jimmy Hoffa.
“That’s what happens when I don’t warm up,” I say.
“How long would it take you to get warm?”
I shrug. “I should be ready about the time of the next eclipse. What’s on your mind?”
What’s on his mind of course is Kenny Schilling. The Giants are in the uncomfortable position of having given him a huge contract, one befitting a star, two weeks before he is arrested for murder. Not exactly a PR man’s dream.
But Simmons says that the Giants are standing behind him, financially and otherwise, and are in fact paying his salary while he deals with the accusations. “He’s a terrific person and has never given us a day of trouble since we drafted him.”
“And he can run the forty in 4.35,” I point out.
He nods at the truthfulness of that statement. “Of course. We’re a football team. If he was built like me or threw the ball like you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“I’m still not sure why we are having it,” I say.
“Because we can be helpful to you,” he says. “The league and the Giants have substantial security operations. We might possibly have better access to certain people than you would. We are prepared to do whatever we can, within reason, of course.”
“And in return?” I ask.
“We would like a heads-up if things are going to break in such a way that the organization will be embarrassed.”
“While respecting lawyer-client confidentiality.” He’s a lawyer; he knows I’m not going to reveal more than is proper.
“Of course.”
We shake hands on the deal, which I am willing to do since I’ve given up absolutely nothing and gotten something in return. I decide to test him right away. “Can you get me a list of the players Kenny was closest to?”
“I’ll have our people get started on it. We’ll also put out the word that they should talk to you, but of course, we can’t force them.”
I push it a little further. “Actually, you do a lot of personal research on players before you draft them, right?”
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