by David Ellis
“Bad choice of words,” I say.
She raises her drink. “To a brighter future, Marty. After you beat this.”
I nod without feeling. That hope is out there, I know, just out of my reach, where it belongs. And where it will stay. Reaching for it is like reaching for a hot iron. Instead I will do what I’ve been doing, holding my breath. Avoiding, not hoping. Pulling the blanket over my eyes. So now I raise my glass with Mandy, on the surface acknowledging the good thought, in my mind willfully blocking it. But in the deep recesses, silently begging Mandy to save me, please save me.
34
DECEMBER 17 IS A LITTLE LATE NOT TO HAVE A Christmas tree up. Then again, maybe they don’t observe. He’s standing on his deck, lifting firewood off a considerable stack. He lives on a hill, so the deck is about twelve stairs from the ground. Let’s see . . . yes, twelve.
He is almost as tall as the door. The light is on, and he is using a flashlight. This time of night, can’t be more than twenty degrees outside. I know this better than anyone.
They came home around nine that night, together. A holiday dinner with friends, I imagine, things that the average suburban couple is doing this time of year. I haven’t seen her since they came home; she must be somewhere in the front part of the house.
He goes inside with three logs and shuts the door behind him.
The lights go out on the bottom floor. She is in the bedroom, and he is up there a minute later. My heartbeat quickens when I see him through the window. Here we go.
He pulls off his shirt and pants and walks into the bathroom wearing only boxers. She has her head tilted to one side and is running a brush through the long brown hair that falls over her shoulder. He comes out five minutes later with a toothbrush in his mouth, removing it momentarily to speak to her. She pulls back the covers on the bed while she answers him, then moves into the walk-in closet, out of view. He heads back to the bathroom with his toothbrush as she gets into bed, wearing some flannel nightshirt. He comes back out and walks over past the bed, to the doorway. He reaches up to the burglar alarm pad on the wall, that has a green light glowing. I grip the binoculars tighter.
With his index finger, he punches in four numbers to activate the alarm: 3-1-6-1. The light turns from green to red and blinks on and off. Then he hits the light switch and the room is dark. Except for the light, which blinks, by my count, for forty-five seconds before remaining a solid red.
35
THE LAW FIRM OF BRANDON AND SALTERS IS IN THE holiday spirit, as much as a law firm can be, anyway. A Christmas tree adorns the lobby, wreaths and tinsel are scattered around the hallways. The young lawyers mill about in rolled-up shirtsleeves and slacks, one chap with his hair in a ponytail, looking up but hardly noticing me and my lawyers, as the receptionist takes us through their small law library to a conference room.
The office occupies less than one floor of the high-rise, no more than ten lawyers. The secretaries and clerks are dressed just as casually. This is in stark contrast to the buttoned-up look at Shaker, Riley and Flemming. I guess it’s the clientele; this is a small criminal defense firm, and even though it has its share of white-collar clients, there is necessarily the typical array of lowlifes who find their way into this office and don’t take much to appearances. Lowlifes like me.
A guy like Paul Riley probably isn’t accustomed to working so close to Christmas, or to being in an office like this one. But here he is, wearing a brown turtleneck and tweed coat, being led to a conference room for one of the most critical interviews in the case of People v. Kalish.
Rachel’s attorney, Gerald Salters, rises to greet us, shaking hands with Riley like they’re old friends. Intros are made for me and Mandy.
Salters turns the program over to Paul. The plan is that we’ll tell them what we claim happened, and then Salters will tell Rachel’s side. A nice, tidy plan to wrinkle out any inconsistencies, to make sure Rachel’s story will jibe with mine. Everyone knows, of course, that we’ve already met with Rachel’s shrink, Dr. Garrett. Shit, Salters is the one who told us about him.
I won’t speak in this meeting. If I say anything to anyone besides my attorneys, it is discoverable by the prosecution; no attorney-client privilege. According to Mandy, Paul lobbied hard to get Rachel herself to speak to us. But Salters flatly refused. His client was loath to make any statements to anyone. The police were still on her back, trying to figure if, and where, she fit into all this. What could we do? We took what they gave us.
Paul begins his narrative, explaining that we are still “feeling out” various theories. He speaks “hypothetically” of a man who was concerned about Rachel, who went over to her house out of concern, who broke into the house and wrestled the gun out of the doctor’s hands. His story paints me in a far more sympathetic and heroic light than I ever could have. I guess that’s what I’m paying him for.
Salters starts slowly. He explains that Mrs. Reinardt regrets that she could not be here herself, but that he is speaking with her full authority. He begins by confirming that Rachel had been abused for just under a year, physically and sexually. He then proceeds to discuss this history almost exactly like Rachel’s shrink, Dr. Garrett, had in his office; I’m thinking this is not a coincidence.
“On November eighteenth,” says Salters, “Dr. Reinardt flared up again. To be specific, Dr. Reinardt struck Mrs. Reinardt in the face repeatedly. He shouted at her. He told her it was—too late for him, he said. She couldn’t help him, he kept saying to her. She had failed him. She was supposed to help him, and she had failed him.” Salters waves his hands unenthusiastically.
“Mrs. Reinardt ran from her husband. She ran from the bedroom. He grabbed her from behind and knocked her down, but she broke free from him and ran downstairs. He brought his gun from upstairs and found her in the den. He began to beat her again. Then he began to tear at her clothes, with the gun pointed at her. She feels sure he was about to rape her. At some point shortly thereafter, while she lay on the carpet in the den, she heard someone enter the house through the glass door. There was a struggle between Dr. Reinardt and—and the intruder.” He looks apologetically at me. “She crawled into the living room and called 911. She never saw her husband again.”
Paul waits to be sure Salters was finished. “Did she know the person who entered the house?”
“No.”
Good. Like she told the shrink.
“Let’s talk about her relationship with Marty Kalish. It was a platonic one.”
I hold my breath on this one. I’m quite sure my attorneys aren’t breathing, either.
Salters nods. “Strictly.”
Exhale.
“She had confided in him about the abuse?”
“As you said.”
“And on November eighteenth,” says Paul, “the day of Dr. Reinardt’s death, she spoke with Marty about the fact that the abuse had become more severe.”
Salters looks at Paul thoughtfully, searching his memory. “I don’t believe Mrs. Reinardt mentioned that.”
“That’s my understanding,” Paul says rather forcefully. “And it’s an important fact. I wonder if you couldn’t verify this with your client.”
Of course, Salters says, and he excuses himself. Paul looks at me, as if he is about to speak, and then turns away. Paul, no doubt, is remembering our first conversation on this subject, how I jumped back and forth as to when Rachel last talked to me about the abuse, finally settling on the day of the murder. Paul must have had a strong feeling I was lying, which I was, but I guess he was hoping somehow that Rachel would agree to this now.
Salters returns, stops in the doorway, and clears his throat.
“Mrs. Reinardt has no memory of making a phone call to Mr. Kalish on that day.” He looks from Paul to me, and then back at Paul. “She has no memory of speaking with him that day.”
36
I TWIST OPEN THE BOTTLE OFFERED TO ME AND drink down half the beer in my first take. I take a look at the label and note the final rite
of passage for Jerry Lazarus, from law school rebel to corporate lawyer: The Old Style is replaced with some yuppie microbrew.
I make a point of mentioning this to Laz; he always gets a kick out of jokes about himself. It is, in a sense, like old times for us, back in the first year of law school, fretting over finals and capping off a night of cramming with a cold one. Only this time, it is high-powered lawyer and ex-investment-banker-turned-accused-felon, sitting on a couple of comfortable sofas in Jerry’s high-rise condo downtown.
We order in Chinese and try like hell not to talk about my case. We are at the point in our lives where our friends, people who started law school with us, are beginning to make something of themselves. Some have made partner at law firms, not the bigger firms, where you’re looking at a minimum of eight years before you touch the purse, but smaller shops. A couple are actually state court judges, guys with ethnic names who were lucky enough to draw first spot on the ballot. We laugh about Gino Cicarelli, your basic slick Italian, grew up out East, played cards every night of the week, and smashed his beer cans with his elbow when he was finished. Guy was lucky if he made three classes a week in school. This guy is wearing a robe now. Looking down earnestly at people caught doing the same things he used to do, and giving them jail time for it.
Jerry has taken the conventional route, up next year for junior partner at his firm. I wonder for the umpteenth time whether I have blown this for him. Guilt by association.
Laz’s curly black hair is allowing some gray in on the sides. He’s put on about twenty pounds since law school, which moves him from terribly skinny to trim. The crow’s feet have deepened; and that little bit of slackness beneath the chin that arrives in the mid-thirties, I don’t care how good of shape you’re in, has finally begun to take form with Jerry. Tonight, however, he looks more like the guy in law school, when it was all long hair and grunge. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says MAKE LOVE, NOT LAW REVIEW, covered with a plaid cotton shirt that he doesn’t bother to button.
We make it through about two hours, and five beers each, before my case comes up. We have made the vow not to discuss it, but the alcohol has eroded our restraint. Jerry is looking quite emotional. Never could hold his liquor.
“Sorry about the ruling,” he says. Today, Judge Schueler handed down his written opinion: The questions the cops put to me did not rise to the level of an interrogation. No Miranda warnings were required. My confession would be admissible at my trial.
I wave a hand.
“But the case is looking good,” Laz says.
“I don’t want you to get involved, Jerry. We agreed on that.”
“What, involved? I hear things.” He and Mandy are pretty close, from what I gather. I could see that, too. Laz is all sarcasm, probably has Mandy in stitches when he’s on a roll.
“The psychiatrist corroborates everything,” he says. “So does Rachel.” Corroborates. A lawyer word for, they finally believe what I’ve been telling them.
“We’ll see where it gets me,” I say.
“It gets you a long way. The jury will be looking at a guy who beat his wife on a daily basis, pulled a gun on her that night. No way they convict. They put you on a fucking altar, is what they do.” He accents that last point with a stab of his finger. There’s more hope than conviction in his voice, but God bless the man, he’s trying. They can put me in the chair and throw the switch, but we won’t be denied this night of bravado.
“You’re a good man, Laz.”
He’s got a mouthful of beer; he shakes his head furiously and swallows. “It’s what a man does,” he says. “And I’ll tell you something, Marty, I could never have done what you did. You risk your life to save this woman? You get arrested? Then you get charged with felony counts. And what do you do? You worry about whether she’s gonna be okay with it.” He thinks about that, then shakes his head. “You’re a piece of work, my man.”
I nod graciously and fetch some more beers. We down another one in silence. Jerry reaches for another, then, without looking at me, asks, “Was she worth it?”
I take a sip and study that one, wondering if my answer has changed over the last few days. I take another swig and sit back in the chair.
“Forget it,” Laz says, waving his hand. “I don’t wanna know.”
“The answer to your question,” I say, “is it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. It’s done, and I have to answer for it. I have to look twelve citizens in the eye and tell them what I did, why I did it, and hope they’ll see it my way. We all make choices, I made mine. And now I have to live with it.” Amazing what a six-pack can do for your courage.
“It’s crazy how fucked-up things can get,” Laz offers. “One mistake, Marty.” He holds up a finger. “A guy like you, a good guy, minds his own business. One mistake, and they want to take away everything.” So much for the pep talks; now he is giving my eulogy. Such is the emotional roller-coaster ride of a drunk person.
“Everything,” I repeat sarcastically, jumping on that ride myself. “What did I have, Jerry? Really, when you get down to it. What? A wife? A family? All I had was my job. Chasing around rich guys, trying to get them to give me their money to spend, so the partners at McHenry Stern would like me enough to let me join their club. Seventy hours a week, kissing tail, putting up fronts, when deep down, I’m scared as hell. Lying in my bed at three in the morning, scared they won’t accept me. They’ll pat you on the back, nice work, Marty my boy, thanks for lining our pockets with another million. Maybe you’re lucky, we’ll throw an extra ten grand your way in the bonus. Thanks a bunch, but don’t fucking dare try to join the partnership.”
Jerry sets down his beer now, just watching me. “Can’t be all that bad,” he says.
I make a noise as I take a drink. “Last year, a guy named Sutter, Ray Sutter, a real workhorse, guy makes revenue plan by month eight. He’s got a wife and three kids, fourth on the way, it’s his turn to await the call from higher up. They turn this guy down, sorry, Ray. You know why, Jerry? Ray lacked vision. That’s what they said to this guy. He lacked vision. Oh, you’re welcome to stick around, make about one percent on the profit you generate. After all, we’re a family here, Ray. We take care of our own. Just don’t get too close to the purse. And you know where Ray’s gonna be come Monday? Bright and early, in the office, making deals for these leeches. I don’t need that. At least with Roger Ogren, there’s no pretense. He makes no bones about wanting my blood.”
Jerry smirks at this. “Well that’s turning a negative into a positive.”
“And even Ray, at least he can look himself in the mirror. He’s got a family. He has to play the game, follow the rules, because he’s stuck. Me, what’s my excuse? I have no one to worry about except myself.”
Jerry looks at me earnestly, then picks up his beer. I take a deep breath, calming after that outburst that came from somewhere unknown within my conscience. It’s funny, the kind of revelations that spew forth when you’re in a position like mine.
We sit in silence for a moment. I empty another beer. Jerry is staring at the wall, at what, I have no idea. He clears his throat, like he’s going to say something. Then he raises the bottle to his mouth. “They’re gonna go hard on motive,” he says, the bottle dangling by his lips. He takes a swig.
“So I hear. Marty and Rachel, the happy couple.” I look over at Laz, and he’s staring back. This isn’t idle conversation. He’s got a point. The lunch with the two of us, and Nate Hornsby, and Vic Silas. And the various stray comments from each of them, especially Laz and Nate, over the next months. How’s Rachel? they would say. Seen Rachel lately? Boy, Rachel sure looks good today, don’t ya think, Marty?
“I never once told you that we were having an affair,” I say.
“No, I know,” Jerry says forcefully. “You never once did. Far as I’m concerned, I have absolutely no reason to think you were sleeping with her. None whatsoever.”
That’s what I expected from Jerry. It’s pure bullshit, of course. Maybe h
e doesn’t know the sordid details, but that’s only because he had too much discretion to ask.
“I wonder how Nate feels about all this,” I say.
“The same. He has no reason to think that you two were having an affair.”
I narrow my eyes. “And how might you know that, Jerry?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “These things come up in conversation.”
Jerry is getting involved in this, something I don’t want. There could be trouble for him that even I can’t see. He has talked to Nate, gotten him to agree that he had no reason to suspect that Rachel and I were together. I wonder what, exactly, he said to Nate. How he smoothed this over. But I will never ask him. All I can feel for Jerry at this moment is gratitude.
“It’s not Nate I’m worried about,” he continues.
I feel a knot in my stomach. “Vic.”
“Vic.” Deep sigh. “Vic could be a problem.”
I don’t know Victor Silas very well; he’s really Nate’s friend. He’s a good enough guy, a little mousy for my taste, not exactly your guy’s guy. But a decent enough sort. I’ve never really gone out of my way to be friends with him. Suddenly, I wish that I had. Even more, I wish that Nate hadn’t brought him along to that lunch.
“What does Vic say about all this?”
Laz shakes his head. “He’s just a little wigged-out about it. I mean, he doesn’t know you like Nate and I do. He doesn’t really know what to think. Or what to do.” He runs his hand through his hair nervously, then pats it down.
“Has he said anything to the police?”
“No. He doesn’t know what to do. I hope I can talk some sense into him.”
“Jerry,” I say. He looks at me. “You did what you could. But don’t push it. If he says something, he says something. You can’t get yourself in trouble.”
“No,” Jerry says, shaking his head furiously. “This is my fault. I never should have brought it up at lunch. Why did I have to bring it up? Just couldn’t resist a chance to display my wit and sarcasm, could I? I just had to force the issue.”
