Open and Shut

I take Tara home, shower and change, then head back to court. I arrive at one-forty-five and wade through the crush of reporters and cameramen calling out to me, all their questions blending together.

They want to know what I think, when in fact there is at this moment nothing on earth less important than what I think. The die has been cast; this is like taping a playoff game and then watching it afterward without knowing the final score. There's no sense rooting, or hoping, or guessing, or thinking. It's already over, one way or the other. The boat, as they say, has sailed.

I nod to Kevin and Laurie, who are already at the defense table when I come in. Richard Wallace comes over to shake my hand and wish me well, and to congratulate me on a job well done. I return the compliment sincerely.

When Willie is brought in, I can see the tension in his eyes, in his facial muscles, in his body language. If doctors say that normal, everyday stress can take years off one's life, what effect must this be having on Willie? Has he already received a death sentence of a different type?

Willie just nods at us and takes his seat. He's smart enough not to ask me what I think; he's just going to wait with the rest of us.

Hatchet comes in and court is called to order. He doesn't waste any time, asking that the jury be brought in, and moments later there they are, revealing nothing with their impassive expressions.

Hatchet gives the obligatory lecture about demanding decorum in his courtroom once the verdict is read, and he is stern enough that it will probably have an effect. He then turns to the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

The foreman stands. “We have, Your Honor.”

“Please present it to the bailiff.”

The bailiff walks over and receives a verdict sheet from the foreman. He then carries it over to the clerk.

Hatchet says, “Will the defendant please rise.”

Willie, Kevin, Laurie, and I stand as one. I can see that my hand is on Willie's shoulder, but I don't remember putting it there.

“The clerk will read the verdict.”

The clerk takes the form and looks it over. It seems as if it takes four hours for her to start reading, but it is probably four seconds in real time. Each word she says sucks more air out of the room, until I think I am going to faint.

“We, the jury, in the case of the State of New Jersey versus William Miller, find the defendant, William Miller … not guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree.”

The gallery explodes in sound, and air comes flooding into the room and my lungs. Willie turns to me, a questioning look on his face, as if for confirmation that he has heard what he thinks he's heard. I have a simultaneous need to scream and to cry, which my inhibitions convert into a smile and a nod.

Willie turns and hugs me, then Laurie, then Kevin, and then we all in turn hug each other. As I mentioned previously, I'm not a big hug fan, but these don't bother me at all. Especially the one with Laurie.

Hatchet gavels for quiet, thanks the jury for their contribution to society and sends them on their way. He then takes the unbelievably un-Hatchet-like, human step of apologizing to Willie for his years of incarceration, hoping that he can rebuild his life despite it. This case, according to Hatchet, points out the flaws of our imperfect system, while at the same time demonstrating its incredible capacity for ultimately getting things right.

Wallace comes over to congratulate me, and he then shakes hands with Kevin, Laurie, and Willie. The bailiff comes to take Willie away, and Willie glances at me with concern and confusion. I assure him that he is only going to complete some paperwork, and then he is going out into the world.

The defense team makes plans to meet Willie tonight at Charlie's for a victory party, and I go home for a quiet celebration with Tara. She and I spend a couple of hours watching television, with the assembled legal pundits anointing me a legal genius. Turns out they're not so dumb after all.

Tara seems unimpressed, so we head out to the park. I use up my fifteen minutes of fame tossing a ball to Tara, and I am actually interrupted three times by other dog owners seeking my autograph, which I sign with a flourish.

I get back home to change for the party, and there is a message on my voice mail from Nicole, congratulating me on the verdict.

On the way to Charlie's, I stop off at the police precinct to talk to Pete about his efforts to go after Victor Markham. He's upbeat about nailing him for the murder of Denise. Betty's testimony provides the motive, and the flaws in Victor's story, such as the time it took to get to the bar, are incriminating.

The police never had reason to investigate Victor before, so it is only now that they are learning things like the fact that there is no record of any phone call that night from Edward to the club. Additionally, and amazingly, the valet people at the club keep detailed records of the times members’ cars come in and out, and rather than throw those records away, they consign them to a life in storage. They have been retrieved and are totally in conflict with Victor's story.

Troubling to Pete is his feeling that Victor could not have done this alone, and in fact is not the type to dirty his hands. Edward, who is also legally vulnerable, could not have participated in the actual murder, since he was in the bar the entire time and had no blood on him. Pete believes Victor had help, but he has no leads as to who may have provided that help.

Charlie's is overflowing; word has apparently gotten out that we were coming here. Willie is in his glory, reveling in this first flush of freedom. He's invited Lou Campanelli, and when Laurie and Kevin arrive, the owner of the place puts us in a side room in which we can have some privacy.

Willie, to his credit and to Lou's obvious relief, is downing Virgin Marys right and left. With his other hand, he is waving to and leering at every woman in the place, enjoying his celebrity and obviously hoping to capitalize on it. Marys are the only virgins that Willie is interested in right now.

He holds up his glass to me in a toast.

“Man,” Willie says, “you're the most amazing genius of all time.”

I modestly wave off the compliment, though the accuracy of it is obvious to even the most casual observer. I go on to tell Willie that he hasn't seen anything yet, that he should wait until he sees me go after Victor Markham on his behalf in a civil suit.

After about an hour at the party, I start to feel overwhelmingly tired. The intense pressure and emotion have taken their toll, and I say my goodbyes. I make plans to meet with Willie about the lawsuit and his life in general, with Kevin about the prospects of getting him out of the Laundromat and into a form of partnership with me, and with Laurie about, well, who knows?

But all of these meetings are going to have to wait until two weeks from tomorrow, because, as they say, I'm outta here.

LOVELADIES IS THE NAMEOF A small town on Long Beach Island. Its colorful name has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the town as it exists today; it is a wholesome, family community set on the most magnificent, pure white beach in New Jersey.

I've spent a good deal of time there in the past; it's a place where I can unwind and depressurize after the intensity of a trial. For the next two weeks my life will consist of lying on the beach with Tara, walking on the beach with Tara, and reading on the beach with Tara. There is also a seafood place called the Shack, where Tara and I can sit outside and eat terrific shrimp and lobster. To say that I'm looking forward to this time is to expose the inadequacy of language.

But before I can get to that, I've got a promise to keep, and I take a detour out to Wally McGregor's trailer. He's sitting in his rocking chair, as if calmly waiting for my arrival, though I hadn't called ahead. His German shepherd companion looks just as mean as ever, but Tara seems to see something in him that I don't, since she jumps right out of the car and ambles over to him. They commence sniffing each other, which seems to go well enough, since in a few seconds they're lying down next to each other in the sun.

“Hello, Wally,” I say. “I saw you in court the day of closing arguments, but afterward I looked for you, and you had gone.”

“You seemed pretty busy,” he says.

“Have you heard what happened?”

He nods. “Lieutenant Stanton called and told me. He said Markham was the real killer.”

“Yes.”

“He took my whole family. Doesn't seem right that he lived free all these years. Or that Willie Miller didn't.”

“No,” I say, “it's certainly not right.”

“But better late than never.”

“Much better,” I agree.

“You did a good thing, and I thank you for it,” he says.

“Believe me, I was glad to do it.”

I stay another two hours, during which time not another word is mentioned about the murders or the trial. We mostly talk baseball, a subject on which his knowledge is virtually encyclopedic. By the time I leave, Wally McGregor is no longer a man I've helped, nor is he a man I feel sorry for. He is simply a good friend.

Tara and I arrive on Long Beach Island in the early evening, as ready for peace and quiet as I have ever been in my life. The first thing I do, since I know it will hover over me if I don't, is try to understand my father's role in the events that shaped and destroyed so many lives. Unfortunately, I have limited success in doing so. There is no one to tell me if he had direct involvement in Julie McGregor's death and murder, or why he took and then never touched the two million dollars. I can make guesses, some exculpating and some painful, but they seem destined to remain guesses.

I can make a more informed judgment of his involvement in the Willie Miller trial. I believe that he considered Willie to be guilty. He would likely never have known Julie McGregor's name, and therefore would have had no reason to connect Denise's murder to that horrible night all those years before. He may have taken a hands-on role in the prosecution because of his prior friendship with Victor, but he must have believed that Willie was guilty. I suspect that years later he may have started to question that belief, and that is why he asked me to take the case.

I've given a few people permission to call me on my cell phone, while admonishing them to make sure they do so only in an emergency. I'm lying in bed on the tenth day, about nine o'clock in the morning, when the phone rings. It's Pete Stanton calling, with the briefest of messages. “Turn on CNN.”

He hangs up without waiting for me to say anything, and I rush to the television and do as I'm told. There is a press conference taking place, featuring the current DA, Richard Wallace's boss. Wallace is at his side as he announces the arrests of Victor and Edward Markham. They have turned themselves in, rather than face the indignity of being brought into the jail-house in handcuffs, and they are facing arraignment the next morning.

I'm pleased and more than a little gratified, and I suppose my thirst for revenge is at least partially quenched, but I'm also strangely detached from this news. My role in this case is over, and I have no desire to relive or resurrect it. It is in competent hands, as evidenced by the speed with which the investigation has been conducted, and I'd just as soon leave it alone.

So, in terms of the last four days of my stay here at the beach, I wouldn't describe the impact this news has as drastic. Instead of spending all my time walking, sunbathing, and reading, I add a Walkman to the mix, and occasionally listen for radio reports on the Markham situation.

I learn that a conditional bail has been set at two million dollars for both Victor and Edward, an amount which of course Victor is able to raise with ease. He and Edward have been released to electronic house arrest, which means that they must stay in Victor's house, with high-tech ankle bracelets recording their movements and ensuring they cannot flee. Victor in electronic shackles; now that is something I would buy a ticket to see.

Tara and I reluctantly pack up the car and head for home. We make the two-hour drive listening to the Eagles’ Greatest Hits and Ragtime ; let no one accuse us of having particularly modern taste in music.

I'm feeling the benefits of the time off, and I'm even experiencing rumblings inside myself of wanting to get back into the fray. It's hard to know what is going to come up next, but surely the notoriety of the Miller case should result in a wide array of clients wanting to hire my services.

I'm about five minutes from my house when I realize that I'm not driving to my house at all. I seem to be semivoluntarily driving to Laurie's, though I certainly haven't called her and told her I was coming. In fact, I haven't spoken to her since I left.

I'm about three blocks from her house when I see her jogging on the side of the road, ahead of me and going in the same direction. She looks phenomenal in shorts and T-shirt, and I drive very slowly behind her all the way to her house, not wanting to spoil this picture.

When she reaches the house, I speed up and pull up in front, pretending that I'm just seeing her for the first time.

She comes over to the car, a little out of breath. “Into stalking, are we?”

“You knew I was there?” I ask.

She nods. “I'm a trained investigator. And I have a slimeball detector that can locate leering, drooling men up to a mile away.”

Seeing Laurie is jarring, in a good way. For two weeks I have kept myself in a plastic bubble, not letting real life enter. Now I see Laurie, and I'm incredibly glad that she is a part of that real life. I am stunned by the realization of how much I have missed her.

Laurie leans in and gives me a light kiss on the cheek, then pats Tara's head. “Come on in,” she says, and Tara and I do just that.

Laurie gives Tara some dog biscuits that she has in the house for her neighbor's dogs, then showers and changes. Tara then jumps up on the couch to take a nap, and Laurie and I go over to Charlie's for dinner.

We order a couple of burgers and fries, though we have to get separate orders of fries. I want mine very, very crisp, but cooks seem to have a resistance to making them that way. I have come to ordering them “burned beyond recognition, so that their own french fry mothers wouldn't know who they are,” but it never seems to help.

We also get bottles of Amstel Light, and toast to Willie's freedom. The discussion then turns to other cases, future clients, other work issues. Laurie does most of the talking, while I do most of the staring.

She finally notices and asks me why it is that I'm staring, and when I don't respond immediately, she figures it out.

“Oh, come on, Andy.”

“What?” I innocently inquire.

“You can't expect us to just get back together, as if nothing had happened.”

“I can't? No, of course I can't. Can I?”

“No, you can't. I know you went to law school, Andy, but did you ever go to grammar school? Because you're acting like you're there now.”

“All I'm suggesting is that we slowly, very slowly, see if we can rebuild the nonbusiness portion of our relationship.” I'm crawling now. “Which I screwed up by acting like the idiot that I am.”

“That's a little more like it,” she says, weakening slightly.

“Also, I can't remember if I've mentioned this previously, but I'm really rich.”

“That's much more like it,” she says, weakening greatly.

“I'm a multimillionaire, desperately in need of a woman to shower with gifts.”

She nods, feeling my pain. “And I'm a woman who believes in second chances,” she says.

I lean across the table and kiss her, and she responds. As Jackie Gleason would say, “How sweet it is.” Unfortunately, the moment is broken by a guy who comes over with a camera, unusual since Charlie's is not exactly a tourist trap. The guy has seen me on TV in connection with the Miller case, and he asks me to take a picture with him. Laurie agrees to take the picture, and the guy leaves happy. Ah, stardom.

We go back to Laurie's, but I don't think that I'll try anything sexual; it seems like that would be rushing things. Fortunately, Laurie disagrees, and she tries something very sexual. Not only does she try it, but it works. Really well.

It works so well that it leaves me exhausted, but even though we've agreed that I'm staying over, I can't go right to sleep, because Tara has to be walked. We go outside for what I hope will be a short walk, but which I extend because she's enjoying the smells of this new neighborhood so much.

I'm feeling good, make that great, about the turn of events with Laurie, and I sort of relive the day in my mind. It's when I'm thinking about our evening at Charlie's, about the guy wanting the picture, that it hits me, and I take Tara back to Laurie's at a full run.

We rush into the house and I head straight for the bedroom, where Laurie is sound asleep. I try to wake her, which is no easy task. When I exhaust a woman, I exhaust a woman.

I finally get her coherent enough to respond. “What the hell do you want?”

“Laurie, it's about the picture.”

I think the intense tone of my voice pulls her out of her sleep. “What picture?”

“My father's picture, the one of the four men.”

“What about it?” she asks.

“There's somebody not in it.”

“Who?”

“The person that took it,” I say.

I'M CARRYING A PAPER BAGAND waiting outside Vince Sanders's office when he arrives at nine-thirty in the morning. He had left a surprisingly warm message on my answering machine while I was away, congratulating and thanking me for my work in finding Denise's real killer.

“Oh, shit,” he says when he sees me. “What the hell are you doing here?” Obviously he doesn't retain warmth real well.

“I need your help,” I say.

“Forget it. I'm too busy.”

I hold up the bag. “I brought you a dozen, fish-free jelly donuts.”

He looks at the bag, then opens the door and motions me in. “Make my home your home.”

We enter and he proceeds to eat three donuts and drink two cups of coffee in about a minute and a half. The time is not completely unenlightening, however. He explains to me that the way to prevent jelly from dripping out of a donut is to bite into the hole on the side through which the jelly had been inserted. Brilliant, but not what I came here to learn.

Vince can tell that I'm anxious to get down to business, so he pauses midway through the fourth donut to ask me what I need.

“I want to go through copies of your newspaper for the week of June fourteenth, nineteen sixty-five. I assume you have it on microfilm.”

“Microfilm?” He laughs. “Nowadays that would be like having it on parchment. It's all computerized.”

I nod. “All the better.”

“What are you looking for?”

“The night Julie McGregor was killed, my father, Markham, Brownfield, and Mike Anthony were at some kind of future leaders conference in Manhattan. I want to know who else was there.”

He looks doubtful. “So what are you doing here? In case you forgot, this is a Jersey paper. We wouldn't have covered it.”

“I'm betting you did.”

Within five minutes, Vince and I are going through the old papers. He finds the article almost immediately, and instantly understands why I am sitting in his office.

“Jesus Christ,” he says.

I jump out of my chair and go over to his computer screen. The article is there, and the headline jumps out:

PHILIP GANT NAMED A FUTURE LEADER OF AMERICA

I can't say this is exactly what I expected, but it does give me an even healthier respect for my own hunches. The potential implications of this are stunning, and my mouth opens in amazement. It is the only mouth in the room that isn't filled with jelly donut.

Vince looks to me for confirmation. “Gant was a part of this?”

I shrug. “I can't be sure.”

“But you think he might be?” Vince is a reporter, and he's sensing a beauty of a story.

I nod. “I think he might be.”

Vince takes a final swallow; he wants to be able to clearly enunciate this point. “If he is, I get the story first. We clear on that?”

“Crystal,” I say.

I meet up with Laurie back at the office. She's been tracking this on her own, and I'm not surprised to hear that she's gotten even further than I have. Not only has she confirmed that Philip was there that night, but she has the entire list of that year's future leaders.

A quick check shows that it includes young men and women from all over the country, and that in fact Philip was the only one besides my father living in New Jersey. I know for a fact that my father's house did not have a swimming pool, so it may well be that Philip's house is the one at which Julie McGregor was killed. The question is how to prove it.

Laurie logically points out that a crime this old is not going to be solved by physical evidence, and requires a witness. Victor has steadfastly refused to implicate anyone else, and for that reason Brownfield is not in custody. But with Victor facing murder one for Denise's murder, he seems the one most likely to crack.

We make two decisions, not necessarily in order of importance. One, we're going to include Pete Stanton in our deliberations, and two, I'm going to spend tonight at Laurie's. Therefore, we pick Tara up, take her for a brief walk, and then bring her to the precinct with us. Maybe I can introduce her to a male from the K-9 squad.

Pete's not there when we arrive, but he shows up a few minutes later. He is of course surprised to see Laurie, myself, and especially Tara sitting there.

“What the hell is this? A family picnic?” He points to Tara. “Is he house-trained?”

“She,” I say. “Her name is Tara, and you would shit on the floor before she would.”

“Okay,” he shrugs, “what do you guys want?”

I proceed to tell him, and he listens to the story without interrupting. When I'm finished, he thinks for a few more moments before responding. “You know Gant well. You think he could be involved?”

“I think he's a pretentious, controlling asshole, but I've never thought of him as a murderer.”

“That wasn't my question.”

I nod. “I think he was there that night. I think he'd do anything to protect his position. Yes, I think he was involved.”

Pete cuts right to the meat. “You're going to need Markham to give him up.”

“Do you think he would?” Laurie asks.

Pete shrugs. “Hasn't so far.”

“Can you get me in there?” I ask.

Pete laughs. “He'd be real happy to see you. You guys are good buddies.”

“Just get me in.”

Pete nods. “Okay. But only with Wallace on board. You want me to talk to him?”

I tell Pete that I'll talk to Wallace, and I call him. He's more skeptical than Pete, perhaps because he's not feeling the force of my face-to-face charm. Wallace's boss has to get elected every two years, which makes him sensitive to life's political realities. He sounds sorry he even answered the phone.

“Andy, I'm not even talking about whether or not Gant is guilty, or whether we could make it stick even if Markham gave him up. I'm saying that making the decision to go after Gant is a huge one. The kind we'd both better be right on.”

“I agree, but we're not making that decision now. Right now we're just talking to Markham.”

He finally agrees, which I knew he would. Wallace is not the type to sweep things under the rug, no matter how politically powerful those things might be.

Pete makes a phone call to get us in to see Markham at his house. I drop Laurie and Tara off, then pick up Wallace. We drive out in my car.

We arrive at Markham's and the patrolman at the gate lets us through. The justice system has determined that electronic ankle bracelets are not enough to keep Victor and son confined, and that armed guards are necessary to prevent their possible flight. I concur.

The house is on a par with Philip's, which is to say it is magnificent. I reflect to myself that this scene of Victor's incarceration, albeit temporary, is rather different from Willie's residence for the past seven years.

A patrolman accompanies us inside, and we are led into the den, where Victor awaits us with his lawyer, Sandy Michelson. Victor has changed lawyers since the deposition, a wise move, since Sandy is a first-rate criminal defense attorney. I had asked that Edward not be a part of the meeting, and apparently Victor agreed, since Edward is nowhere to be seen.

I am stunned by the sight of Victor Markham. He's slightly pale, though he really hasn't changed much physically. However, his demeanor has changed so dramatically that he seems to be an entirely different person. He has been defeated and humiliated, and every move he makes screams that fact to the world. At least it would scream it to the world if he were allowed to leave his house.

Victor is actually cordial, offering us something to drink and inviting us to sit down. But he is without energy, sort of like a fat, rich, male Stepford Wife. Wallace tells him that a new development has come up in the case, and then he turns the floor over to me to outline the situation.

“Victor, I'm not here to tell you that your legal position is a shaky one. Sandy can do that, but I think you already know that wearing an electronic ankle bracelet is not a good sign. And I'm not here to work out a plea bargain; that is Mr. Wallace's job, should he care to do so. I'm here to tell you what I know.”

Victor just sits and listens with no noticeable reaction; I'm not even sure he is hearing what I am saying. But I push on. “I know that you, and Frank Brownfield, and Mike Anthony, and my father were at the house the night that Julie McGregor died. And I know that Philip Gant was there with you.”

I'm watching Victor's eyes as I bring up Philip's name, and the reaction is unmistakable. There is surprise, then a hint of fear, then definitely resignation. I realize in that instant that Victor on some level had been expecting Philip to help him, not to join him in custody.

“I believe it was Philip's house where it all happened. I can't prove this yet, but believe me, I will. It would be in your interest to help me.”

I'm expecting Victor to refuse, at least initially, but he takes me by surprise. “How would it be in my interest?”

Wallace says, “I'm prepared to discuss the possibility of a plea bargain in return for your truthful and complete testimony.”

Victor laughs, but it's not exactly a joyful one. “I'm sixty-four years old. My life is over, no matter what agreement we might reach. What will you offer me? A window in my cell? Extra cigarettes?”

Sandy leans in to whisper something to his client, and Victor responds by nodding slightly.

“I wasn't talking about a deal for you,” Wallace says. “I was talking about your son. Yours isn't the only life you've ruined.”

The conversation goes on for another hour, but Wallace handles most of it from our end. I spend most of that time thinking about Nicole, and how devastating it will be for her if this meeting accomplishes our goal. There's no way I can alert Nicole to what is going on, yet I feel as if I am betraying her by concealing it.

Both sides agree to consider their respective positions. Wallace will talk to the District Attorney about what they might do for Edward, and Victor will consult with Sandy as to what he might testify to. Both Wallace and I are surprised that it has gone as well as it has.

We are even more surprised two days later when Sandy Michelson presents Wallace with a proposal and a proffer of what Victor's testimony would be. The proposal is for Edward to plead guilty to a conspiracy to murder charge, which would probably result in his getting ten years in prison. The proffer confesses to the murder of Julie McGregor, implicates both Philip Gant and Brownfield, and places the scene of the murder at Philip's house. According to Victor, Philip is the one who pushed her into the pool with his leg, and Victor believes that at the time she was unconscious but alive.

It goes on to detail the events surrounding Denise's murder, which Victor claims was physically done by an unknown assailant hired by Philip. Apparently Philip has retained some connections from his time as a prosecutor dealing with the criminal element, and has used his considerable wealth to hire them. If true, it would also explain how the various attacks and threats were accomplished over the past weeks.

A proffer of this type is a document written by the plea bargainer, detailing what his testimony will be if an agreement can be reached. The law states that if the parties fail to agree, the prosecution cannot benefit from the proffer in any way. It thus becomes a confession and testimony that never legally existed. The purpose is to allow the prosecution to know exactly what testimony it is bargaining for, so that if the accused subsequently reneges and testifies differently, his reduced sentence is reinstated in full.

Wallace already knows what his boss will go for regarding Edward's sentence, and this proposal fits within those guidelines. He conveys to Sandy that the state agrees; all that remains is for Hatchet to put his rubber stamp on it. Wallace offers me the right to sit in on that meeting in Hatchet's chambers, which I am very grateful for.

Even though I won't have a significant role in the meeting, I still want to be prepared, so I bring home some books to study up on the relevant law. When I get home, there is a message on the answering machine from Nicole. She sounds tentative, a little nervous, but basically just wants to know how I am doing. I don't call her back; I can't tell her what's going on with her father, and it seems too dishonest to have a conversation without bringing it up.

The next morning at nine o'clock Wallace, Sandy, and I are ushered into Hatchet's chambers. His eyes focus on me. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm a friend of the court,” I answer cheerfully.

“Since when?”

The meeting goes without a hitch. Hatchet has to be surprised when Philip's name is mentioned, but he doesn't show it. He asks the correct, perfunctory questions of Wallace and Sandy, and they provide the proper answers. At the conclusion, he signs off on the plea bargain. Nothing to it, but when the results of this meeting are made public there will be a political firestorm unlike any since the Clinton impeachment.

When we leave the chambers, there is little said between the three of us. We all know the implications of what we are doing, and we're going to go about our business professionally. Sandy goes to Victor's to get him and Edward to sign off on the final agreement, Wallace goes to prep his boss for an afternoon press conference announcing the news, and I go home to watch what promises to be an amazing night of television.

THE PHONE CALLFROM SANDY MICHELSON comes at three o'clock. In a fairly steady voice he says that he's calling to inform me that his client, Victor Markham, is dead. After signing the proffer and watching Sandy leave with it, he went into his bathroom and took enough powerful pain medication to kill himself three times over.

Sandy speculates that despite his careful explanations, Victor may well have believed that simply the act of signing the proffer meant Edward's deal was secure. He also believes that Victor's ego would not let him face the public humiliation that his confession would bring.

I'm not really interested in dwelling on the tragedy that is Victor Markham. The fact is that as evidence the proffer is useless, inadmissible hearsay in a court of law. With the lack of physical evidence that exists, Philip is off the hook before he even knew he was on it.

My frustration is complete. Laurie comes over to commiserate, but I really don't want anybody around me right now. I want to be alone to wallow in my misery. I don't tell her that, because even in this frustrated state, I retain my wimpy tendencies.

Laurie is of the opinion that we shouldn't give up, that there still has to be a way to tie Philip to this. I know better and I tell her so, but she keeps throwing out ideas, which I keep shooting down.

She asks me to take out the photograph, which I reluctantly do. Between the two of us, we've probably looked at it five hundred times, but now she looks at it carefully, as if she's never seen it before. It's an investigative technique she uses, which she has often told me about. She is able to will herself to take a fresh approach to evidence.

This time it doesn't seem to get her anywhere. She looks at it for almost five minutes, then turns to me. “Are you sure there's nothing in the background that identifies this as Philip's house?”

“I'm sure,” I say.

She tries to hand me the picture. “Look again.”

I don't want to; I never want to see that stupid picture again. “Come on, Laurie …” I whine.

“Please, Andy, I hate seeing you like this.”

“It'll get worse before it gets better.”

She keeps insisting, so I sigh and take the picture and look at it. My assessment is it hasn't changed much, and I tell her so.

“So you can't tell that's Philip's house?” she asks.

I look still again. “Nope. In fact I've never seen those trees. He must have cut them down.”

Now she looks again. “Why would he cut down beautiful trees like that?”

So I look again, a fresh look like Laurie taught me. And all of a sudden, I know exactly why Philip Gant would cut down beautiful trees like that.

I ARRIVE AT THE GANT ESTATE at eleven the next morning, having called ahead to tell Philip I needed to speak to him. He was cordial and without a hint of concern in his voice; he seemed to know nothing about Markham's proffer. I ring the bell and the butler, Frederick, answers.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter.”

“Hello, Frederick. The Senator is expecting me.”

Frederick nods. “Yes, sir. He's at the pool.”

I nod and move quickly through the house and out to the back. I head toward the pool, and find Philip sitting in his bathing suit at an umbrella-shaded table, nursing a drink and reading a book. He hears me coming and looks up.

“Hello, Andrew.”

“Hello, Philip. Am I interrupting anything important?”

“No … no … not at all. It's very disappointing about you and Nicole. I very much wanted it to work out.”

“And you usually get what you want,” I say.

I can see him react to this; it is not something that someone would ordinarily come out and say to him, even though it is obviously true. He decides to let it pass by treating it good-naturedly.

He grins. “Yes, I guess I do. I guess I do. Congratulations on your victory in that trial.”

“Did you hear about Victor Markham?” I ask.

He nods. “I did. The entire episode is terrible. Just terrible.”

“You know,” I say, “it's funny. A secret like that is kept for almost forty years, and then it comes out, just like that. Makes you think, doesn't it?”

“About what?” he asks.

“That if you have something to hide, you can never be sure it will stay hidden. There's always that worry, always that chance that a base hasn't been completely covered.”

“I suppose that's true.” Philip's tone is now a little uncertain, tentative.

“I mean, think about this case. There's still a secret to be revealed. There's still someone who hasn't been accounted for.”

“And who might that be?” he asks.

“The guy who took the picture.”

The look in his eyes says I've got his attention, so I continue. “Maybe he's the one who gave my father the money. Maybe he's the one whose house it was.”

Philip sits there, sipping his drink, unruffled. The son of a bitch. “Andrew,” he says, “you don't want to go any further.”

But I do, and I will. “Maybe he's the one who was afraid he'd be ruined … that his perfectly planned future could be destroyed. Maybe he's the one who killed Julie McGregor to protect himself.”

Philip puts down his drink: his way of saying that it's time to get serious. “All right, Andrew, what exactly are you saying?”

“I'm saying that if I were that person, I'd be worried. Because secrets like this are very difficult to keep. And if that person were somebody prominent, somebody hot-shit important, then his whole life could go down the drain, slowly … surely … totally.”

As much as I despise this man, I am almost mesmerized by him. He is being confronted with the revelation of a secret so terrible that he has murdered to preserve it, yet he seems unfazed and totally in control. It's either a confidence bordering on invincibility, or an Academy Award winning performance.

“Goodbye, Andrew,” he says.

But I'm not going anywhere. “I know my father took your money, and that was wrong. But you had saved his life when he fell through the ice, and now he was saving yours. You were his oldest friend, and he let that cloud his judgment. But it doesn't matter anymore, because you know what, Philip? The bad news for you is that I'm not my father.”

“That much is true,” he says. “You're not even close.”

“Victor Markham gave a proffer for a plea bargain, Philip. He said that you were there … that you all took Julie McGregor to this house.”

For a moment there is a flash of uncertainty in Philip's eyes, but it is immediately replaced by confidence.

“I don't believe that is true. But even if it were, his death renders that useless.”

“You know,” I say, “Julie McGregor's body was never found.”

Philip smiles, serenely confident. “Is that right?”

“If it was me, if I were a pig like yourself, I would have buried the body. And then I would have covered it up … like maybe with a guest house. Which was built not long after that night. You didn't build it as a future home for your child, Philip. You built it as a headstone for Julie McGregor.”

I see it, a quick look of panic, a steel blade of truth cutting through to the bone. “Andrew …”

“Philip, you went to Yale Law, so how about we try a legal riddle? Ready? When is a useless proffer not useless?”

Philip doesn't answer, so I continue. “Give up? It's when you want to use it to get a search warrant.”

He knows I have him, but he's not giving up. He smiles, almost sadly. “We can reach an accommodation, Andrew. It was so long ago.”

There are some things that I've got to know before this is over. “Why did you do it, Philip? A guy from your family, good-looking, smart, you could have had a lot of women. Why did you have to have Julie McGregor that night?”

“She was no innocent, Andrew. She wanted to as much as we did; then she pretended to change her mind. Well, the unfortunate fact was we hadn't changed ours.”

“So you did what you had to do.”

“And we have had to live with it ever since. Not an easy thing, I assure you.”

“Yeah, you've really suffered. Where was my father when all this happened?”

“In the house.” Philip laughs, as if recounting a funny story from long ago. “He drank too much and he was throwing up.” He laughs again, even harder. “He had a weak stomach and it cost me two million dollars.”

It is all I can do not to strangle him. “You are a scumbag, Philip. My father lost a piece of himself that night-and he never got it back. And you deserve everything that is going to happen to you.”

Philip starts to speak, but when I hear a voice it is not his. “Andy, what are you doing?” It is Nicole, having walked in on us. I'm not sure how much she has heard, but my guess is it's enough.

“I'm sorry, Nicole. It's already done.”

“Andy, what will this accomplish? For God's sake, he's my father.”

“Your father is a rapist and a murderer.”

Before she can respond, Pete, Wallace, and two patrolmen walk from the house to the pool. Frederick walks with them, as if he is escorting them. Wallace goes up to Philip and hands him a piece of paper, which Philip does not take. Wallace puts it on the table.

“This is a search warrant for these premises, Senator. It authorizes us to excavate under the guest house, and it will be lawfully executed this afternoon.”

Nicole goes over to Philip and grabs on to his arm. “Daddy …” she says, as if he is going to fix this.

He just sits there, nothing to say and nothing to do.Nicole sits there with him. They'll probably still be there when Julie McGregor's body is dug up. But I won't be here. I want to get as far away from this as I can.

“RICH OR POOR, IT'S GOOD to have money.” That's what my mother used to say, tongue firmly tucked in cheek, when she'd see an ostentatious display of wealth. Of course, she had no idea she was already rich by virtue of my father's hidden fortune, but I'm learning to accept that and deal with it.

I'm having more trouble learning how to be rich.

It's been two months since the end of the Willie Miller trial, and I still haven't touched the money. I make plans to touch it, I come up with strategies to touch it, but so far no actual contact has taken place.

Laurie thinks I need psychiatric help, an opinion that has become more strident since she happened to be at my house when the mail arrived. The thing is, I've taken to ordering catalogues of every conceivable product ever produced; my mailman has vowed to bill me for his hernia operation. A lot of the merchandise is appealing to me, and Tara has her eye on a cashmere dog bed featured in the “Yuppie Puppy” catalogue. But I haven't actually purchased anything from anywhere. There's time for that.

Philip has resigned from the Senate and is in prison awaiting trial. He's in an actual prison, as the justice system in its infinite wisdom decided that, based on the Victor Markham experience, the ankle bracelet idea just might have some flaws. Philip was arrested the moment poor Julie McGregor's remains were unearthed.

I speak to Wally McGregor at least once a week. He took the news about Philip in stride, and we got back to talking baseball. Wally thinks Willie Mays was better than Mickey Mantle, which pleases me, since it means we'll always have something to argue about.

I haven't heard from Nicole since that day at Philip's house, but I did see her on television at the arraignment. I've tried calling her a couple of times, but she hasn't taken my calls.

Cal Morris is still nowhere to be found. I have an image of him on a Caribbean beach, drinking piña coladas and selling Des Moines Register s to the tourists. I have no hard feelings toward him, and I've managed to create new superstitions to take his place.

I've been busy, working on a bunch of cases at once. I'm trying to lure Kevin out of the Laundromat, but he's resisting. If he doesn't relent soon, I'm going to have to hire someone else to help keep up with the workload.

Laurie and I have settled into a nice rhythm, going slow and enjoying ourselves. She's as much friend as lover, and I don't want to do anything that might rock that boat. I made mistakes with Nicole, mistakes I'm wary of repeating.

I've never been accused of being an intellectual, and I get my philosophy wherever I can find it. In the movie The Natural, Glenn Close tells Robert Redford, “I believe we have two lives. The life we learn with, and the life we live with after that.”

I want Laurie to be a leading player in my “life after that.”