“You’d be amazed how much.”
“Then I’d like everything you have on Kenny.”
“No problem,” he says.
I’m starting to like this feeling of power. “Any chance you can get the information the Jets have on Troy Preston?”
“I’ll try. I think that information might be helpful. I don’t know the specifics, but I believe Preston was a problem.”
I press him for more information, but he professes not to have any. I thank him for his time, then turn with a flourish and trot to the sidelines, imagining the crowd roaring in appreciation of my spectacular touchdown pass.
I’ve got a really strong imagination.
When I get back to the office, Tanya Schilling, Kenny’s wife, is waiting for me. I had asked Edna to set up an appointment with her, but I characteristically forgot about it.
Tanya is a strikingly beautiful young woman and one who radiates a strength that belies her diminutive size. “Mr. Carpenter, I know you hear this from every client you’ve ever had, but I’m going to say it anyway. Kenny is innocent. He simply could not have done this.”
I know that she is telling me the truth as she sees it, but that doesn’t make it the truth. “He’s got an uphill struggle,” I say.
She nods. “Let me tell you a story about Kenny. When he was eight years old, he woke up one morning in his apartment and found the police there. His mother had reached under her bed and was bitten during the night by a neighbor’s pet snake. It had gotten loose and somehow made it into the Schillings’ apartment. The police asked her why she didn’t call them during the night when it happened, and she said it was because in the dark she assumed she had been bitten by a rat. That’s the kind of neighborhood Kenny grew up in. So uphill struggles don’t scare him; they’re the story of his life.”
“That is indescribably awful,” I say, “but this may be tougher.”
She nods. “But he’ll come out on top. Usually, he does it on his own; sometimes we do it together. This time we need you to help us.”
I ask her some questions about Kenny and his relationship with Troy Preston but get basically the same answers that Kenny gave me. By the time Tanya leaves, I’m very impressed by her, and by extension impressed that Kenny was able to get her to marry him.
Laurie arrives a few minutes later, and once again I get a mini-electric jolt of remembrance that she may be leaving. We’ve agreed not to discuss it for a while, but rather to sit with it and let our feelings settle. Patient introspection is not my strong point, so my approach is to let work push everything else in my head out of the way. Seeing Laurie makes that very difficult.
Laurie is here to discuss the case and find out what I want her investigation to cover. In these early stages I’m interested in three basic things. The first is Troy Preston, especially after Simmons’s comment at Giants Stadium. The second is Kenny Schilling; it is absolutely imperative to know who the client is, warts and all, before he can be properly defended. The third is the relationship between the two men, and whether or not there is anything there that Dylan can claim to be a motive for murder.
Kevin comes in just as the first discovery documents arrive. They’re mostly police reports, detailing the actions of the officers on the scene when Kenny turned Upper Saddle River into the O.K. Corral. The reports are devastating but not surprising; we already knew how Kenny acted under that pressure.
Just as bad are the reports concerning the disappearance of Troy Preston. Preston was seen leaving the bar with Kenny, which we knew. What we didn’t know is that Kenny’s car was found abandoned in the woods just across the Jersey border in New York State, not far from Upper Saddle River. Worse yet, there were no fingerprints in the car other than Kenny’s and Preston’s, and Preston left behind another calling card: specks of his blood.
To complete the trifecta, Kenny’s blood tested positive for the stimulant Rohypnol, and Preston’s did as well. Dylan and the police obviously believe that the drugs are tied into the motive for the killing, but that belief is not, and does not have to be, detailed in these reports. I make a note to myself to find out everything I can about the drug and to confront my client with the evidence that he lied to me about taking it.
It’s strange that I’ve begun to think of Kenny as my client on a more permanent basis. Catching him in this lie about the drugs might have disqualified him at this stage, and I would have helped him secure other counsel. But I seem to want to continue, be it because of the diversion from my worries about Laurie or because of my competitive nature vis-à-vis Dylan.
This analysis of my decision to keep Kenny as a client is typical of my version of introspection, which consists of thinking about myself in the third person. It’s as if I’m saying, “I wonder why he’s thinking like that” or “I wonder why he did that.” The “he” in these sentences is me.
I generally don’t do even this pathetic introspection for very long. If it becomes too painful, if I discover too much about myself, I shrug and say, “That’s his problem,” and move on.
* * * * *
SOMEHOW during the night, I come up with a brilliant theory. And unlike most ideas that come in dreams, this one holds up in the light of morning.
That’s the good news. The bad news is that the theory has nothing to do with the Schilling case. It has to do with football.
My fantasy on the Giants Stadium field yesterday centered on my making the team as a running back or wide receiver, and even my delusional mind knows that is impossible.
I’m going to make it as a placekicker.
Think about this. There are at least two dozen behemoths on every pro roster, weighing in excess of three hundred pounds and able to bench-press Argentina. Yet the kicker is always a little guy, about the size of a late night snack for a defensive lineman.
This leads me to the inescapable conclusion that strength is not a significant factor in placekicking. If it were, then the strongest guys, and not the weakest, would be doing it. What must be necessary to succeed is technique, which the little guys have taken the time to master. There must be a trick to the leg swing, or the body-lean into the ball, or something.
Now, as far as I can tell, there is no reason a thirty-nine-year-old lawyer can’t learn the technique. I’m a smart guy; I’ll get somebody to teach me, and I’ll practice until I’ve got it down pat. I don’t know if the Gramatica brothers can learn torts, but I sure as hell can master a leg sweep.
So now I’ve got a plan. I get Kenny acquitted, and the very grateful Giants offer me a tryout before next season, which gives me months to learn the technique. I become a football hero, and Laurie stays and becomes head cheerleader. The only flaw in that plan is the “Kenny acquitted” part, since I have no idea how the hell to do that.
I get to the office at nine o’clock, a little late for me, but a little early for the shock I receive. Edna is already in and brewing coffee. Eclipses happen with considerably greater frequency than Edna getting in before ten, and I didn’t know she knew where the coffeemaker was.
A casually dressed man of about twenty-five sits across from Edna, and they have a New York Times open on the table between them. She seems to be lecturing him on the intricacies of crossword puzzle solving, a speech she is uniquely qualified to give. Edna is to crossword puzzles what Gretzky was to hockey, alone on a level above all possible competition.
Edna finally notices that I’ve come in, and she reluctantly pauses in her tutorial to introduce the stranger as Adam Strickland. He’s the writer the studio sent to get to know us and see how we operate so that he can write the screenplay more effectively and accurately. I had forgotten he was even coming, and now very sorry that he did. One thing I don’t need now is a distraction from the case.
Adam apologizes for coming on such short notice, though he did call yesterday afternoon. I wasn’t in, but Edna took the call, hence her early arrival.
I invite Adam back into my office. As he gets up, Edna asks, “Do you want me to type up a
summary of what we talked about?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve got it.” He smiles and holds up the pad on which he’s been taking notes.
Edna lowers her voice slightly, wary of my overhearing, which I do anyway. “The point is, it’s never been done.”
Adam nods in agreement. “It’s Rocky with a pencil. Thanks for the coffee.”
Edna smiles, confident that she’s gotten her message through. On the way back to my office I stop and get my own coffee. “Rocky with a pencil?” I ask.
“Right,” he says. “Edna was pitching me an idea for a script. It’s about a young girl who grows up with a dream to be the best crossword puzzle player in America. Winds up winning the national title and representing America against the Russian champion in the Olympics.”
“I didn’t know crossword puzzling was an Olympic sport,” I say.
He nods. “She knows the idea needs a little work.”
I take a sip of Edna’s coffee, which is not the greatest way to start the day. It tastes like kerosene, though I doubt kerosene is this lumpy. “Your coming at this time may be a little awkward,” I say.
“Because of the Schilling case?” he asks.
“Yes. I assume you want to observe us, but everything you’d observe would be protected by client privilege. Which means you aren’t allowed to hear it.”
“I thought you’d say that. I may have come up with a solution.”
“I can’t imagine how you could,” I say.
“A close friend of mine is a lawyer, and I talked to him about it. Here’s the plan: You have people that work here that aren’t lawyers, right? Like Edna, or maybe outside investigators. They are bound by the privilege because they work for you, right?”
“Right,” I say, immediately seeing where he’s going.
“So hire me. Pay me a dollar to be your investigator. I’ll be covered by the privilege, and I’ll sign a confidentiality pledge that only you or your client can release me from.”
Surprisingly, the idea is a good one, at least legally. But it’s not good enough to make me want to do it. I just don’t need someone hanging around during the intensity of a murder trial. On the other hand, I signed a contract and committed to this project, so I have an obligation.
“I have my doubts,” I say. “But I’ll talk to my client.”
“It would really mean a lot to me,” he says. “The Schilling case is real drama, you know? And depending on how it comes out, it’s a movie that can get made.”
“What about the Willie Miller case?” I ask. “Isn’t that a movie that will get made?”
He smiles. “I wish, but no way. It’s jerk-off time.”
He’s lost me. “Excuse me? Why is the studio buying it if they don’t plan to make it? Why would they pay you to write it?”
“You’re not going to like this, but think of movie production as a long pipeline,” he says. “Executives, some smart, some idiots, feed projects into the pipeline because they’ve been told the pipe is supposed to be filled. And that’s their job: They’re pipe fillers.”
“So?” is my probing question.
“So the problem is that the other end of the pipe leads to the sewer, which is where ninety-nine percent of the projects wind up.”
“But the theaters are filled with movies,” I point out.
He nods. “Right. Because every once in a while a big-shot producer or director or star punches a hole in the pipe and pulls out a project before it can get to the sewer. But once they do, they patch it back up so nothing else leaks out.”
“Have you ever had a movie made?”
He shakes his head. “Not even close. But the Schilling case could stay out of the sewer. It’s Pride of the Yankees meets In Cold Blood.”
“Do you always talk like that?”
“Pretty much. I’ve loved movies since I was a little kid, and there’s a movie that has dealt with just about every situation ever.”
“Except international crossword puzzle tournaments.”
He smiles. “Searching for Edna Fischer.”
I like this guy. He inhabits another world that coexists on the same planet as mine, but he seems to be honest, enthusiastic, and probably smart. “I’ll talk to Kenny. Can you give me a couple of days?”
He’s fine with that and leaves his number at the Manhattan hotel where he’s staying. “I love New York, and the studio’s paying, so take your time.”
“I recommend the mixed nuts from the minibar,” I say. “Only fourteen dollars, but there’s plenty of cashews.”
Adam leaves, and I open an envelope on my desk with the New York Giants’ logo on it. It’s a letter from Walter Simmons, confirming our discussion and telling me that the reams of information that the team has on Kenny will be sent shortly. He also lists Kenny’s closest friends on the team and assures me that they have been contacted and urged to cooperate.
Laurie’s out learning what she can about Troy Preston, so even though investigating is not my strong suit, I might as well start on this list. The first name on it isn’t even a player. It’s Bobby Pollard, one of the team’s trainers. Simmons has helpfully provided me with phone numbers and addresses, and Pollard’s wife, Teri, answers on the first ring.
I explain who I am, and she says that Bobby should be home soon and that she’ll call him and tell him I’m coming over. He’s distraught over what has happened to Kenny, and she’s sure he’d love to be able to help. We agree that I’ll be there in thirty minutes. This investigating stuff is not so tough after all.
The Pollards live in Fair Lawn, a nice little town adjacent to Paterson. Its size and location are such that it is really a suburb of Paterson, but the people of Fair Lawn would tend to strangle anyone who made such a reference. All northern New Jersey residents consider themselves connected to New York City, and certainly not to Paterson. This is despite the fact that Fair Lawn is heavily populated with former Patersonians, who escaped in a mass exodus in the sixties and seventies.
Teri Pollard is standing on the front porch of their modest home when I pull up. Her presence is the only thing that distinguishes this house from the others on the street, and as distinguishing features go, it’s a good one. Teri is very attractive in a comfortable, homespun way. I seem to be noticing attractive women more these days; am I getting in practice for a post-Laurie bachelor life?
Teri is also wearing a nurse’s uniform. “You’re a nurse?” I ask, checking to see if my deductive skills are working properly.
“Yes. Part-time. Most of the time I spend with Bobby.”
Teri’s smile matches the rest of her, and she invites me into the den. “Would you like something to drink? We have coffee, tea, soda, orange juice, grapefruit juice, and lemonade.”
“I’ll have a grande decaf cappuccino.” When Kramer said it to Elaine’s shrink on Seinfeld, it was funny, but Teri doesn’t react. I settle for coffee, and she goes off to get it, leaving me with nothing to do but look around the room.
It is definitely a football player’s room, and since Teri doesn’t look like the linebacker type, I assume that this is where Bobby sits and relives some past gridiron glories. The football pictures all show a young man in a high school uniform, so Bobby may have never made it to college ball. It’s surprising, because he appears to be a very large, very powerful young man, and just based on this room, it’s doubtful that his dedication to the sport waned.
There are a number of pictures of Bobby with Kenny Schilling, many in football uniform. All but one have them in “Passaic High” uniforms; in the exception their jerseys say “Inside Football” across the front. The pictures also reveal Bobby to be African-American, whereas Teri is white. I do a quick mental calculation and decide that they are young enough not to have encountered too much societal resistance to their union, though I’m sure some still exists.
Teri comes back with the coffee and sees me looking at the pictures. “Bobby was a great player,” she says, and then smiles sheepishly.
“Not that I would necessarily know a great football player if I saw one, but everybody says he was terrific. The fact that he never played in the NFL with Kenny is something he hasn’t fully gotten over, though he’d never admit it.”
At that moment the door opens and Bobby comes in. He brings with him the solution to the mystery of why he gave up football, why he never played in the NFL. Bobby, powerful arms propelling his large frame, sits in a wheelchair. I have no idea what put him there, or when it happened, but the sight of him is an instantly saddening story of shattered dreams. It is also an explanation of why Teri is not a full-time nurse; Bobby must need some help getting around.
“Mr. Carpenter?” he asks, though I suppose Teri has already answered that question for him.
“Andy,” I say, and wait until he offers his hand before I walk over and shake it. His grip is powerful, his biceps enormous, and my mind processes the fact that this wheelchair-bound invalid could twist me into a pretzel. “Walter Simmons from the Giants gave me your name. He said you might be willing to talk to me about Kenny.”
“Kenny’s my best friend. I’ll help in any way I can.”
“I take it you don’t think he’s guilty.”
“No fucking way.”
Teri seems to cringe slightly from the language and excuses herself so that we can talk. As soon as she does, Bobby launches into a spirited defense of Kenny, whom he ranks as sort of a male, football-playing Mother Teresa.
“He’s the reason I have my job,” says Bobby. “He told the Giants that if they didn’t hire me, he’d become a free agent and move to a team that would. He wouldn’t back down, so they did.”
I doubt that the story is quite how Bobby describes it but it’s probably how he believes it. “How long have you known him?”
“Sophomore year in high school. That’s when I moved to Passaic and we met on the football field. I was the right guard. He ran right behind my ass for over a thousand yards that year and two thousand each of the next two. Still holds the Jersey state record. Kenny and I were both named high school all-Americans.”
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