Rogue Lawyer

1.

I often disappear after a big trial, especially one that gets front-page coverage and plenty of airtime. It’s not that I don’t love the attention. I’m a lawyer; it’s in my genes. But in the Renfro trial I humiliated the police department, embarrassed some cops, some really tough guys who are not accustomed to answering for their misdeeds. As they say, “The streets are hot right now,” and it’s time for a break. I load some clothes into the van, along with my golf clubs, some paperbacks, and half a case of small-batch bourbon, and ease out of town the day after the verdict. The weather is raw and windy, too cold for golf, so I head south like countless other snowbirds in search of the sun. I have learned through my meandering travels that almost every small town with a population above ten thousand has a public golf course. These are usually packed on weekends but not too crowded during the week. I play my way south, hitting at least one course per day, sometimes two, playing alone with no caddie and no scorecard, paying cash for inexpensive motel rooms, eating little, and sipping bourbon late at night while I read the latest James Lee Burke or Michael Connelly. If I had a pile of money, I could spend the rest of my life doing this.

But I don’t, so I eventually return to the City, where my notoriety instantly catches up to me.

2.

About a year ago, a young woman named Jiliana Kemp was abducted as she was leaving a hospital after visiting a friend. Her car was found untouched on the third floor of a parking garage next to the hospital. Surveillance cameras caught her walking toward her car but lost her as she stepped out of range. The footage from all fourteen cameras was analyzed. It captured the license plates of every vehicle coming and going for a twenty-four-hour period, and revealed only one significant clue. An hour after Jiliana was seen walking to her car, a blue Ford SUV left the parking deck. The driver was a white male wearing a baseball cap and glasses. The SUV had stolen license plates from Iowa. During the night, the attendants saw nothing suspicious, and the one who took the ticket from the white male did not remember him. Forty vehicles had passed through the exit gate in the hour preceding the SUV’s departure.

Detectives scoured every inch of the garage and found nothing. Her abductor made no demand for ransom. The search went from frantic to futile. An initial reward of $100,000 provoked no response. Two weeks later, the blue SUV was found abandoned in a state park a hundred miles away. It had been stolen a month earlier in Texas. Its license plates were from Pennsylvania, stolen of course.

The abductor was playing games. He had wiped the SUV clean; no prints, no hairs, no blood, nothing. His range, along with his planning, terrified the investigators. They were not chasing an ordinary criminal.

Adding to the urgency was the fact that Jiliana Kemp’s father is one of the City’s two assistant chiefs of police. Needless to say, the case was given the highest priority by the department. What was not made public at the time was that Jiliana was three months pregnant. As soon as she disappeared, her live-in boyfriend told her parents about the pregnancy. They kept this quiet as the police worked around the clock to find her.

Jiliana has not been heard from. Her body has not been found. She’s probably dead, but when was she murdered? The worst possible scenario is also the most obvious: She wasn’t killed immediately but was held captive until after she gave birth.

Nine months after her disappearance, as the reward money continued to pile up, a tip led the police to a pawnshop not far from my apartment building. A gold necklace with a small Greek coin had been pawned for $200. Jiliana’s boyfriend identified the necklace as the one he’d given her the previous Christmas. In a full-court press, detectives worked furiously to establish a chain of possession. It led to another pawnshop, to another transaction, and finally to a suspect named Arch Swanger.

A thirty-one-year-old drifter with no apparent means of support, Swanger had a history of petty thievery and small-time drug dealing. He lived in a run-down trailer park with his mother, who was a drunk drawing disability checks. After a month of intense surveillance and scrutiny, Swanger was finally brought in for questioning. He was evasive and coy, and after two hours of fruitless interrogation clammed up and demanded a lawyer. With little hard evidence, the police let him go but continued to monitor his every movement. Still, he managed to slip away several times, but always returned home.

Last week, they picked him up again for questioning. He demanded a lawyer.

“Okay, who’s your lawyer?” the detective asked.

“That guy named Rudd, Sebastian Rudd.”

3.

The last thing I need is more trouble with the police. But, as we say in the trade, we don’t always get to choose our clients. And every defendant, regardless of how despicable the person or his crime, is entitled to a lawyer. Most laymen don’t understand this and don’t care. I don’t care either. This is my job. To be honest, I’m initially thrilled Swanger picked me, thrilled to be allowed to stick my nose smack in the middle of another sensational case.

This one, though, will haunt me forever. I’ll curse the day I hustled over to Central to have my first chat with Arch Swanger.

The police department has more leaks than old plumbing, and by the time I arrive at Central word is out. A reporter with a cameraman catches me as I enter the building and demands to know if I represent Arch Swanger. I offer a rude “No comment” and keep walking. From that moment on, though, everyone in town knows I’m his lawyer. It’s a perfect fit, right? A monstrous murderer and the rogue lawyer who’ll defend anyone.

I’ve strolled through Central many times, and the place is always bustling with an urgent energy. Street cops in uniforms rush around, bantering crudely with those stuck behind desks. Detectives in cheap suits swagger through the halls, scowling as if they’re pissed at the world. Frightened families sit on benches waiting for bad news. And there’s always a lawyer huddled up with a cop in a tense negotiation, or hurrying to get to a client before he spills his guts.

Today, the air is especially heavy, the mood tense. I get more stares than usual when I walk through the front door. And why not? They’ve caught the killer; he’s just down the hall. And here comes his lawyer to save him. Both should be grabbed and put on the rack.

Present too is the lingering rawness of the Renfro trial. It was only three weeks ago and cops have long memories. Some of these guys would like to take a nightstick and break a few of my bones, or worse.

They lead me through the maze to the interrogation rooms. Down the hall, smoking and looking into a one-way mirror, are two homicide detectives. One is Landy Reardon, the cop who called me with the news that, out of all the lawyers in the City, I had been chosen. Reardon is the best homicide detective in the department. He’s nearing retirement now and the years have taken their toll. He’s about sixty but looks ten years older, with thick white hair that goes untouched for the most part. He still smokes and has the jagged wrinkles as proof.

He sees me and nods. Come on over. The other detective disappears.

The good thing about Landy Reardon is that he is brutally honest and will not waste time on a case he can’t prove. He digs hard for the evidence, but if it’s not there, then it’s not there. In thirty years, he’s never charged the wrong murder suspect. But if Landy collars you for murder, the judge and jury will fall in line and you’ll probably die in prison.

He’s had the Jiliana Kemp case since the beginning. Four months ago, he had a mild heart attack and his doctor told him to retire. He found another doctor. I stand beside him and both of us look through the mirror. We do not say hello. He thinks all defense lawyers are scum and would never stoop to shake my hand.

Swanger is alone in the interrogation room. He’s kicked back in his folding chair and has his feet on the table, totally bored with everything. “What’s he said?” I ask.

“Nothing. Name, rank, and serial number, and after that he called for you. Said he saw your name in the newspaper.”

“So he can read?”

“IQ of 130, I’d guess. He just looks stupid.”

Indeed he does. Plump with a double chin; large brown freckles from the neck up; head practically shaved but for a few waxed bristles, like the old butch crew cut from sixty years ago, pre-Beatles. To attract either attention or ridicule, he is wearing a pair of round-frame glasses, absurdly large and aqua blue in color.

“About those glasses,” I say.

“Drugstore, cheap and fake. He doesn’t need glasses but he fancies himself clever when it comes to disguises. Actually, he’s pretty good. He’s slipped our surveillance a few times in the past month but always comes home.”

“What do you have on him?”

Landy exhales in fatigue and frustration. “Not much,” he says, and I admire the guy’s honesty. He’s a brilliant cop and knows better than to level with me, but he inspires confidence.

“Enough for an indictment?”

“I wish. We’re not even close to an arrest. Chief wants to hold him for a week or two. Crank up the pressure, you know, see if the guy’ll break. But really to see if lightning will strike and we get lucky. Fat chance. We’ll probably let him go again. Between me and you, Rudd, we ain’t got much.”

“Seems like you have plenty of suspicion.”

Landy grunts and laughs. “We’re good at that. Look at him, talk about suspicious. I’d give him ten years in solitary just based on the first impression.”

“Maybe five,” I say.

“Talk to him, and if you want, I’ll show you the file tomorrow.”

“Okay, I’m going in, but I’ve never met this guy and I’m not sure I’ll be his lawyer. There’s always the issue of getting paid and he doesn’t look too prosperous. If he’s indigent, PD takes over and I’m out of the picture.”

“Have fun.”

4.

Swanger takes his feet off the desk, stands, and we make our introductions. Firm handshake, eye contact, easy voice with no trace of concern. Playing it cool, I restrain myself from telling him to take off those damned glasses. If he likes ’em then I’m crazy about ’em.

“I saw you on TV,” he says. “That cage fighter that killed the ref. Whatever happened to him?”

“The case is still pending, waiting for a trial. You go to cage fights?”

“No. I watch ’em on TV with my mum. I thought about getting into it a few years back.”

I almost laugh. Even if he dropped thirty pounds and trained eight hours a day, this guy wouldn’t last ten seconds in a cage. He’d probably faint in the dressing room. I sit at the table, empty-handed, and ask, “Now, what did you want to talk about?”

“That girl, man, you know the case. These guys think I’m involved in some way and they’re hassling me. They’ve been on my ass for months now, always hiding in the shadows as if I don’t know what’s going on. This is the second time they’ve hauled me in here like something on television. You watch Law & Order? Well, these guys have watched way too much and they’re really bad actors, know what I mean? That old one with the white hair, Reardon I think, he’s the good guy, always just looking for the truth and trying to find ways to help me. Right. Then the skinny one, Barkley, he’ll come in and start yelling. Back and forth. Good cop, bad cop, like I don’t know the game. Ain’t my first rodeo, pal.”

“Your first murder charge, right?”

“Hang on, Superman. I ain’t been charged yet.”

“Okay, assuming you are charged with murder, I take it you want me to represent you.”

“Well, gee, why else would I call you, Mr. Rudd? I’m not sure I need a lawyer right now but it damned sure feels like it.”

“Understood. Are you employed?”

“Here and there. How much do you charge for a murder case?”

“Depends on how much a person can pay. A case like this, I’ll need ten thousand up front and that’ll just get us through the indictment phase. Once we’re looking at a trial, then we get to the serious fee. If we can’t agree, then you go elsewhere.”

“Where’s elsewhere?”

“Public defender’s office. They handle virtually all murders.”

“Figures. But what you’re not factoring in here, Mr. Rudd, is all the publicity. Ain’t too many cases as big as this one. Pretty girl, important family, and that thing with the baby. If she had a kid, then where is it, right? That’ll drive the press crazy. So you gotta figure that this thing is front-page news, starting right about now. I’ve seen you on television. I know how much you love to bark and growl and strut in front of the cameras. This case will be a gold mine for my defense lawyer. Don’t you agree, Mr. Rudd?”

He’s hammering the nail on the head, but I can’t admit this. I say, “I don’t work for free, Mr. Swanger, regardless of the publicity. I have too many other clients.”

“Of course you do. Big lawyer like you. I didn’t call no rookie in here to save my ass. They’re talking death penalty, man, and they mean it. I’ll get the money, one way or the other. The question is, will you take my case?”

Usually, by this point in the first meeting, the accused has already denied the charges. I make a mental note that Swanger has not done so, has not ventured anywhere near the issue of his guilt or innocence. In fact, he seems to be welcoming an indictment, with a big trial to follow. I say, “Yes, I’ll represent you, assuming we can come to terms on the money and assuming they actually indict you. I think they have a ways to go. In the meantime, don’t say a word to the cops, any cop. Understood?”

“Got it, man. Can you get them to back off, stop the harassment?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” We shake hands again and I leave the room. Detective Reardon has not moved. He’s watched our little meeting, and he’s probably listened to it too, though that would be illegal. Standing next to him, in casual clothes, is Roy Kemp, father of the missing girl. He glares at me with unbridled hatred, as if the few minutes I just spent with their first and rather weak suspect is clear proof that I’m involved in his daughter’s disappearance.

I have sympathy for the man and his family, but right now he wants to put a bullet in the back of my head.

Outside the building, more reporters have gathered. When they see me they start hopping and shoving. I brush by them with “No comment, no comment, no comment,” as they lob their idiotic questions. One actually yells, “Mr. Rudd, did your client abduct Jiliana Kemp?” I want to stop, walk over to this clown, and ask him if he might possibly come up with a dumber question. But instead I push by them and hop in the van with Partner.

5.

At six o’clock, the anchormen scream the news that the police have a suspect in the Kemp case. They show footage of Arch Swanger being mobbed by reporters as he tries to leave Central not long after I did. According to sources, unnamed of course but undoubtedly from within the building, he’s been interrogated by the police and will soon be arrested and charged with kidnapping and murder. To prove his guilt, he’s hired Sebastian Rudd to defend him! They show me scowling at the cameras.

Finally, the City can breathe easier. The police have the killer. To relieve the enormous pressure on them, and to begin the process of poisoning public opinion, and to establish the presumption of guilt, they are manipulating the press, as always. A leak here and there and cameras show up to capture the face that everyone has been desperate to see. The “journalists” chase their tails, and Arch Swanger is as good as convicted.

Why bother with a trial?

If the cops can’t convict with evidence, they use the media to convict with suspicion.

6.

I spend a lot of time in a building officially and affectionately known as the Old Courthouse. It’s a grand old structure, built around the turn of the century, with soaring Gothic columns and high ceilings, wide marble hallways lined with busts and portraits of dead judges, winding staircases, and four levels of courtrooms and offices. It’s usually crawling with people—lawyers doing their business, litigants searching for the right courtroom, families of criminal defendants wandering fearfully about, potential jurors clutching their summonses, and cops waiting to testify. There are five thousand lawyers in this city, and at times it seems as though every one of us is hustling around the Old Courthouse.

As I leave a hearing one morning, a man who looks vaguely familiar falls in beside me and says, “Hey, Rudd, got a minute?”

I don’t like his looks, his tone, or his rudeness. What about “Mr. Rudd” to start with? I keep walking; so does he. “Have we met?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter. We have something to discuss.”

I glance at him as we walk. Bad suit, maroon shirt, hideous tie, a couple of small scars on his face, the kind left behind by fists and beer bottles. “Oh really,” I say as rudely as possible.

“Need to talk about Link.”

My brain tells me to keep walking but my feet simply stop moving. My stomach does a long, nauseous flip as my heart races away. I stare at the thug and say, “Well, well, where is Link these days?”

It’s been two months since his dramatic escape from death row and I haven’t heard a word. Not that I would; however, I’m not completely surprised. Frightened, maybe, but not shocked. We move to the edge of the hallway for privacy. The thug says his name is Fango, and there’s a 10 percent chance Fango is the name on his birth certificate.

In a corner, with my back to the wall so I can observe the foot traffic, we converse in voices that are low, our lips barely moving. Fango says, “Link’s having a hard time of it, you know. Money’s tight, real tight, because the cops are watching everybody even remotely connected to the businesses. They watch his son, his people, me, everybody. If I bought a plane ticket today for Miami, the cops would know about it. Suffocating, you know what I mean?”

Not really, but I just nod. He goes on, “Anyway, Link figures you owe him some money. He paid you a pile, got nothing in return, you really screwed him, you know, and now Link wants a refund.”

I fake a laugh like this is just the funniest thing. And it is laughable—a client who loses wants his money back when the case is over. Fango, though, is not in a humorous mood.

“That’s funny,” I say. “And how much of a refund?”

“All of it. A hundred grand. Cash.”

“I see. So all of the work I did was really for free, is that it, Fango?”

“Link would say that all of your work really sucked. Got him nowhere. He hired you because you’re a hotshot gunslinger who was supposed to reverse his conviction and get him off. Didn’t happen, of course, in fact he got slammed every which way. He thinks you did a lousy job, thus the refund.”

“Link got slammed because he killed a judge. Oddly enough, when this happens, and it’s quite rare, it really pisses off the other judges. I explained all this to Link before he hired me. I even put it in writing. I told him his case would be very difficult to win because of the overwhelming proof the State had. Sure he paid me in cash, but I put it on the books and sent Uncle Sam about a third of it. The rest of it was spent a long time ago. So, there’s nothing left for Link. Sorry.”

Partner approaches and I give him the nod. Fango sees him, recognizes him, says, “You got one pit bull, Rudd, Link still has a few more. You got thirty days to get the money together. I’ll be back.” He turns and deliberately brushes by Partner as he leaves. Partner could break his neck, but I gesture for him to be cool. No sense starting a fistfight in the middle of the Old Courthouse, though I’ve seen several here.

Most involved angry lawyers taking swings at each other.

7.

Not long after Tadeo got famous for killing a referee, I began receiving solicitations from doctors claiming to be expert witnesses, all wanting a part in the show. There were a total of four, all with medical degrees and impressive résumés, all with experience in courtrooms in front of juries. They had read about the case, seen the video, and, to varying degrees, all offered the same opinion; to wit, Tadeo was legally insane when he attacked Sean King in the ring. He did not understand right from wrong, nor did he appreciate the nature of what he was doing.

“Insanity” is a legal term, not a medical one.

I talked to all four, did some research, called other lawyers who’d used them, and settled upon a guy named Dr. Taslman, out of San Francisco. For $20,000, plus expenses, he is willing to testify on Tadeo’s behalf and work his magic with the jury. Though he has yet to meet the defendant, he’s already convinced he knows the truth.

The truth can be expensive, especially when it comes from expert witnesses. Our system is chock-full of “experts” who do little in the way of teaching, researching, or writing. Instead, they roam the country as hired guns testifying for fat fees. Pick an issue, a set of facts, a mysterious cause, an unexplained result, anything, really, and you can find a truckload of PhDs willing to testify with all sorts of wild theories. They advertise. They solicit. They chase cases. They hang around conventions where lawyers gather to drink and compare notes. They brag about “their verdicts.”

Their losses are rarely mentioned.

They are occasionally discredited by nasty cross-examinations, in open court, but they stay in business because they are so often effective. In a criminal trial, an expert has to convince only one juror to hang things up and cause a mistrial. Hang it again on the retrial, and the State will usually throw in the towel.

I meet Tadeo in a visiting room at the jail, our usual spot, and discuss Dr. Taslman’s possible role in his defense. The expert will testify that he, Tadeo, blacked out, went crazy, and has no recollection of what happened. Tadeo likes this new theory. Yes, come to think of it, he really was insane. I mention the fee and he says he’s broke. I’ve already mentioned my fee, and he was even broker. Needless to say, I’ll represent Tadeo Zapate simply because I love him. That, and the publicity.

It’s the O. J. Simpson theory of legal fees: I’m not paying you; you’re lucky to be here; go make a buck with your book.

Using Harry & Harry’s paperwork, I file the proper notice telling the court that we will be relying on an insanity defense. Mr. Ace Prosecutor, Max Mancini, howls in response, as always. Max is fully in control of the Zapate matter, primarily because of the overwhelming proof of guilt, as well as the publicity. He’s still offering fifteen years for second-degree murder. I’m stuck on ten, though I’m not sure my client would plead to that. As the weeks have passed and Tadeo has become the beneficiary of hours of free jailhouse legal advice, he has become even more rigid in his belief that I can somehow pull the right strings and walk him out. He wants one of those technicalities all of his cell mates know about.

Dr. Taslman comes to town and we have lunch. He’s a retired psychiatrist who never liked to teach or listen to patients. Legal insanity has always fascinated him—the crime of passion, the irresistible impulse, the moment when the mind is so filled with emotion and hate that it commands the body to act violently and in a way never contemplated. He prefers to do all the talking. It’s his way of convincing me how brilliant he is. I listen to his bullshit as I try to analyze how a jury will react to him. He’s likeable, intense, smart, and a good conversationalist. Plus, he’s from California, two thousand miles away. All trial lawyers know that the greater the distance an expert travels, the more credibility he has with the jury.

I write him a check for half of his fee. The other half will be due at trial.

He spends two hours evaluating Tadeo, and, surprise, surprise, he is now certain the kid blacked out, went crazy, and does not remember pummeling the referee.

So we now have a defense, shaky as it is. I’m not that encouraged because the State will haul in two or three experts, all at least as credible as Taslman, and they will overwhelm us with their brilliance. Tadeo will testify and do a credible job on direct, perhaps even manage some tears, then he’ll get chewed up by Mancini on cross-examination.

But the video doesn’t lie. I’m still convinced the jurors will watch it over and over and see the truth. They will silently scoff at Taslman and laugh at Tadeo, and they will return a verdict of guilty. Guilty means twenty to thirty years. On the day of the trial, I’ll probably get the prosecutor down to twelve to fifteen years.

How can I convince a headstrong twenty-two-year-old to plead guilty to fifteen years? Scare him with thirty? I doubt it. The great Tadeo Zapate has never scared easily.

8.

Today is Starcher’s eighth birthday. The battered and abused court order that dictates the time I spend with my son clearly says that I get two hours with him on each of his birthdays.

Two hours is too much, according to his mother. She thinks one hour is plenty; actually, no time would be her preference. Shoving me out of his life completely is her goal, but I won’t let that happen. I may be a pathetic father, but I am trying. And, there might come a day when the kid wants to spend time with me in order to get away from his quarreling mothers.

So I’m sitting at a McDonald’s, waiting to begin my two hours. Judith eventually pulls up in her Jaguar, her lawyer car, and gets out with Starcher. She marches him inside, sees me, scowls as if she’d rather be anywhere else, and hands him over. “I’ll be back at five o’clock,” she hisses at me.

“It’s already four-fifteen,” I say, but she doesn’t acknowledge me. She huffs away, and he takes a seat opposite me. I smile and say, “How’s it going, bud?”

“Okay,” he mumbles, almost afraid to speak to his father. I cannot imagine the strict orders she hit him with during the drive over. Do not eat the food. Do not drink the drinks. Do not play on the playground. Wash your hands. Do not answer questions if “he” quizzes you about me or Ava or anything to do with our home. Do not have a good time.

It usually takes him a few minutes to shake off this drubbing before he can relax around me.

“Happy birthday,” I say.

“Thanks.”

“Mom tells me you’re having a big party on Saturday. Lots of kids and cake and stuff like that. Should be fun.”

“I guess,” he says.

I wasn’t invited to the party, of course. It’s at his home, the place where he lives half his life with Judith and Ava. A place I’ve never seen.

“Are you hungry?”

He looks around. It’s a McDonald’s, a kid’s paradise, where everything is carefully designed to make people crave the food that looks far more delicious on the walls than on the tables. He zeroes in on a large poster hawking a new ice cream float called the McGlacier. Looks pretty good. I say, “I think I’ll try one of those. You?”

“Mom says I shouldn’t eat anything here. Says it’s all bad for me.”

This is my time, not Judith’s. I smile and lean forward as if we’re now conspirators. “But Mom’s not here, right? I won’t tell, you won’t tell. Just us boys, okay?”

He grins and says, “Okay.”

From under the table I pull out a box that’s covered in birthday wrapping and place it on the table. “This is for you, bud. Happy birthday. Go ahead and open it.” He grabs it as I head toward the counter.

When I return with the floats, he’s staring at a small backgammon board on the table. When I was a boy, my grandfather taught me to play checkers, then backgammon, then chess. I was fascinated with board games of all varieties. As a kid, I received board games for birthdays and Christmas. By the time I was ten, I had stacks of them in my room, a vast collection that I took meticulous care of. I seldom lost at any of the games. My favorite became backgammon, and I would pester my grandfather, my mother, my friends, anyone, really, to play. When I was twelve, I came in third place in a city tournament for kids. When I was eighteen, I was competing well in adult tournaments. In college, I played for money until the other students stopped gambling with me.

I’m hoping some of this might rub off on my son. It’s becoming apparent that he will almost certainly look like me, walk like me, and talk like me. He’s very bright, though I must admit he gets a lot of that from his mother. Judith and Ava are keeping him away from video games. After the Renfro trial, I am thrilled by this.

“What’s this?” he asks, taking his McGlacier and looking at the board.

“It’s called backgammon, a board game that’s been around for centuries. I’m going to teach you how to play.”

“Looks hard,” he says as he takes a spoonful.

“It’s not. I started playing it when I was eight years old. You’ll catch on.”

“All right,” he says, ready for the challenge. I arrange the checkers and start with the basics.

9.

Partner parks our van in a crowded lot and walks into the mall. He’ll enter a two-story restaurant that anchors one wing of the mall, and he’ll find a window seat in a small bar area on the upper level. From there, he’ll watch the van to see who else is watching the van.

At 4:00 p.m., Arch Swanger knocks on the sliding door. I open it. Welcome to my office. He takes a seat in a comfortable recliner and looks around. He smiles at the leather, the television, the stereo, the sofa, the refrigerator. “Pretty cool,” he says. “Is this really your office?”

“It is.”

“I figured a big shot like you would have a fancy office in one of those tall buildings downtown.”

“I had one once, but it got firebombed. Now I prefer a moving target.”

He stares at me for a second as if he’s not sure I’m serious. The goofy blue glasses have been replaced by black readers that actually succeed in making him appear somewhat more intelligent. He’s wearing a black felt driving cap that looks authentic. It’s a nice look, an effective disguise. From ten feet away you wouldn’t know it was the same guy. He says, “Really, your office was firebombed?”

“It was, about five years ago. Don’t ask who because I don’t know. It was either a drug dealer or some undercover cops. Personally, I think it was the narcs because the police showed little enthusiasm when it came to investigating the fire.”

“You see, that’s what I like about you, Mr. Rudd. Can I call you Sebastian?”

“I prefer Mr. Rudd, until I’m hired. After that, you can call me Sebastian.”

“Okay, Mr. Rudd, I like it that the cops don’t like you and you don’t like them.”

“I know a lot of the guys on the force and we get along fine,” I say, fudging just a little. I like Nate Spurio and a couple of others. “Let’s talk business. I’ve had a chat with the detective, our pal Landy Reardon, and they don’t have much in the way of evidence. They’re pretty sure you’re the guy; they just can’t prove it yet.”

This would be the perfect time for him to deny his guilt. Something simple and thoroughly unoriginal like “They got the wrong guy” would be appropriate. Instead, he says, “I’ve had lawyers before, several of them, most appointed by the court, and I never felt like I could trust them, you know? But I feel like I can trust you, Mr. Rudd.”

“Back to the deal, Arch. For a fee of $10,000 I’ll represent you through the indictment stage. Once you’re indicted, and facing a trial, my representation will end. At that point we’ll sit down to discuss our future together.”

“I don’t have $10,000 and I think that’s too much just to get to the indictment. I know how the system works.”

He’s not completely wrong about this. Ten grand for the initial skirmishes is a bit steep, but I always start on the high side. “I’m not going to negotiate, Arch. I’m a busy lawyer with a lot of clients.”

From his shirt pocket he pulls out a folded check. “Here’s five thousand, from my mother’s account. It’s the best we can do.”

I unfold the check. Local bank. Five grand. Signed by Louise Powell. He says, “Powell was her third husband, dead. My parents divorced when I was a kid. Haven’t seen my dear old dad in a long time.”

Five grand keeps me in the game and in the news and it’s not a bad fee for the first round or two. I refold the check, stick it in my shirt pocket, and pull out a contract for legal services. My cell phone is sitting on the small table in front of me. It vibrates. Partner’s calling. “Excuse me a second. I gotta take this.”

“It’s your office.”

Partner says, “You got two cops in a white Jeep fifty feet away, just pulled in and watching the van.”

“Thanks. Keep me posted.” I tell Swanger, “Your buddies picked up your tail. They know you’re here and they know my van. Nothing wrong with a lawyer meeting with his client.”

He shakes his head and says, “They follow me everywhere. You gotta help me.”

I slowly walk him through the contract. When everything is clear, both of us sign it. For good measure I say, “I’m going straight to the bank. If the check doesn’t clear, the contract is void. Understand?”

“You think I’d write a bad check?”

I can’t help but smile. I reply, “Your mother wrote it. I don’t take chances.”

“She drinks too much but she’s not a crook.”

“I’m sorry, Arch. I didn’t mean to imply that. It’s just that I see my share of bad checks.”

He waves me off and says, “Whatever.”

We stare at the table for a minute or so, and I finally say, “Is there something you’d like to talk about, now that you have a lawyer?”

“You got a beer in that cute little fridge?”

I reach over, open the door, and pull out a can of beer. He pops the top and takes a long swig. He likes it, says with a laugh, “I guess this is the most expensive beer I’ve ever had.”

“That’s one way of looking at it. Keep in mind that no other lawyer would serve you a drink in his office.”

“Got that right. You’re the first.” Another gulp. “So, Sebastian, it is Sebastian now, right, now that I’ve forked over the fee and we’ve signed a contract?”

“Sebastian works.”

“Okay, Sebastian, in addition to some beer, what do I get for five thousand bucks?”

“Legal advice, for starters. And protection—the cops won’t be tempted to drag you in and rough you up in one of their infamous ten-hour interrogations. It’ll be hands off as they play it by the book. I have a relationship with Detective Reardon and I’ll try to convince him that they don’t have enough evidence to move forward. If they find any evidence, chances are I’ll know about it.”

He turns the can up, drains it, wipes his mouth with a sleeve. A thirsty frat boy could not have finished the beer any faster. It’s another perfect moment for him to say something like “There is no evidence.” Instead, he belches and says, “And if I’m arrested?”

“Then I’ll be at the jail trying to get you out, which will be impossible. A charge of murder in this city means no bail. I’ll file a bunch of motions and make some noise. I have friends at the newspaper and I’ll leak the fact that the police have little in the way of evidence. I’ll start intimidating the prosecutor.”

“Doesn’t sound like much for $5,000. Could I have another beer?”

I hesitate for a second and quickly decide that two will be his limit, at least in my office. I hand him another can and say, “I’ll refund the money right now, Arch, if you’re unhappy with our arrangement. As I’ve said, I’m a busy lawyer with a lot of clients. Five thousand bucks is not going to change my life.”

He pops the top and takes a reasonable sip.

I ask, “You want the check back?”

“No.”

“Then stop bitching about the fee.”

He glares at me and for the first time I catch the cold, hollow stare of a killer. I’ve seen it before. He says, “They’re gonna kill me, Sebastian. The cops can’t prove anything, they can’t find their man, and they’re under a ton of pressure. They’re afraid of me because if they arrest me then they have to deal with you, and since they have no evidence they don’t want to go to trial. Imagine a not-guilty verdict after a huge trial. So, to sort of short-circuit everything, they’re just gonna take me out and save everyone the trouble. I know this because they’ve told me. Not Detective Reardon. Not the big shots down at Central. But the cops on the street, some of those guys who follow me nonstop, twenty-four seven. They even watch the trailer when I’m asleep. They harass me, cuss me, threaten me. And I know they’re gonna kill me, Sebastian. You know how rotten this department really is.” He goes silent as he takes another drink.

“I doubt that,” I say. “Sure, we have some bad apples, but I’ve never known them to rub out a murder suspect just because they couldn’t nail him.”

“I know a guy they killed, a drug dealer. Made it look like a botched delivery.”

“I’m not going to argue about this.”

“Here’s the problem, Sebastian. If they put a bullet in my head, then they’ll never find that girl’s body.”

My stomach flips but I remain stone-faced. It’s customary for the accused to deny guilt. It’s unheard of for him to admit to the crime, especially at such an early stage. I never ask criminal defendants if they’re guilty; it’s a waste of time and they lie anyway. I proceed carefully with “So you know where her body is?”

“Let me get this straight, Sebastian. You’re now my lawyer and I can tell you anything, right? If I killed ten girls and hid their bodies and told you all about it, you couldn’t repeat a word, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Never?”

“There’s only one exception to the rule. If you tell me something in confidence, and I believe that it will endanger other people, then I am allowed to repeat it to the authorities. Other than that, I can never tell.”

Satisfied, he smiles and takes a drink. “Relax, I didn’t kill ten girls. And I’m not saying I killed Jiliana Kemp either, but I know where she’s buried.”

“Do you know who killed her?”

He pauses, says yes, then goes silent again. It’s obvious he’s not naming names. I reach into the fridge and get a beer for myself. We drink for a few minutes. He watches every move, as if he knows my heart is pounding away. Finally, I say, “Okay, I’m not asking for any information, but do you think it’s important for someone, maybe me, to know where she is?”

“Yes, but I have to think about it. Maybe I’ll tell you tomorrow. Maybe not.”

My thoughts turn directly to the Kemp family and their unspeakable nightmare. At this moment I hate this guy and would love to see him locked up, or worse. Sipping a beer in my van like he’s Joe Cool while the family suffers.

“When was she killed?” I asked, pushing it.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t do it, I swear. But she did not give birth in captivity, if that’s what you want to know. There was no baby sold on the black market.”

“You know a lot, don’t you?”

“I know too much and it’s about to get me killed. I may have to disappear, you know?”

“Taking flight is a clear sign of guilt. It will be used against you in court. I wouldn’t advise it.”

“So you want me to stay here and take a bullet.”

“The cops do not kill murder suspects, okay, Arch? Trust me on this.”

He crushes his can and leaves it on the table. “I got nothing else to say right now, Sebastian. I’ll see you later.”

“You have my number.”

He opens the door and gets out. Partner watches him as he glances around, looks for the cops, then enters the mall and disappears.

Partner and I drive straight to the bank. The check is no good. I call Arch for an hour and finally get him. He apologizes and promises the check will be good tomorrow. Something tells me I’d be a fool to believe him.

10.

It’s 4:33 in the morning and my phone is ringing. I grab it and don’t recognize the number. This is always trouble. “Hello,” I say.

“Hey, Sebastian, it’s me, Arch. Got a minute?”

Of course, Arch. Oddly enough, I’m not that busy in the middle of the night. I take a deep breath and say, “Sure, Arch, I have a minute. But it’s four in the morning, so this better be good.”

“I’m out of town, okay, officially on the run. I shook ’em off and slipped through their net, and I’m not coming back, so they’ll never catch me.”

“Big mistake, Arch. Better find yourself a new lawyer.”

“You’re my lawyer, Sebastian.”

“The check is rubber, Arch. Remember what I said?”

“You still have it, run it through today. I swear it’ll clear.” His words are fast and clipped, and he sounds as though he’d been running. “Look, Sebastian, I want you to know where that girl is, okay? Just in case something happens to me. There are others involved, and I could easily end up on the short end of the stick, know what I mean?”

“Not really.”

“I can’t explain all of it, Sebastian. It’s complicated. I got folks after me, cops as well as some guys who make cops look like Cub Scouts.”

“Too bad, Arch. I can’t help you.”

“You ever see that billboard down the interstate, about an hour south of here, big bright sign in a cornfield, says, ‘Vasectomy Reversals.’ You ever see it, Sebastian?”

“I don’t think so.” Every reasonable thought and instinct tells me to cancel this call immediately. Just hang up, stupid. And never speak to him again. Physically, though, I freeze and cannot do it.

His voice is animated now, as if he’s thoroughly enjoying this. “ ‘Vasectomy Reversals by Dr. Woo. All insurance accepted. Call twenty-four hours a day. Toll-free number.’ That’s where she’s buried, Sebastian, under that billboard, right next to a cornfield. My father had a vasectomy two years before I was born, not sure what went wrong and my mother was certainly perplexed. Maybe she was seeing someone on the side. So who’s my daddy, right? I guess we’ll never know. Anyway, I’ve always had this fascination with vasectomies. A snip here and a snip there, drive yourself home and shoot blanks for the rest of your life. Such a simple procedure but such dramatic results. You had the Big V, Sebastian?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. You’re such a stud.”

“So you buried her, is that what you’re saying, Arch?”

“Ain’t saying anything, Sebastian. Except good-bye and thanks for keeping this a secret. I’ll check in later.”

11.

I wrap myself in a blanket and sit outside on the small terrace. It’s cold and dark and the streets far below are quiet and empty. In moments like these, I wonder why I became a criminal defense lawyer. Why have I chosen to spend my life trying to protect people who, for the most part, have done horrible things? I can justify it on the usual grounds, but at times like this my heart is not really in it. I think about architecture school, my second choice. But then, I know some architects and they have their own issues.

First scenario: Swanger is telling the truth. In that case, am I bound by ethics and duty to stay quiet? Hand in hand is the question, am I really his lawyer? No and yes. We signed a contract, but he breached the contract by paying with a bad check. No contract means no representation, but it’s never that clear. I met with him on two occasions, and during both he considered me to be his lawyer. Both were clearly lawyer-client meetings. He asked for advice. I gave it. He followed most of it. He confided in me. When he told me about the body, he certainly thought he was talking to his lawyer.

Second scenario: Let’s say I’m his lawyer, I never see him again, and I decide to tell the police what he told me. It would be a serious breach of client trust, probably enough to get me disbarred. But who will complain? If he’s on the run, or dead, how much trouble can he cause me?

Third scenario: Plenty. If the body is where he says it is, and I tell the police, then Swanger will be hunted, found, tried, convicted, and given death. He would blame me, and he would be correct. My career would be over.

Fourth scenario: I cannot tell the police, under any circumstances. They don’t know what I know, and I’m not about to tell them. I think about the Kemp family and their nightmare, but there’s no way I can break a confidential relationship. With luck, the family will never know that I know.

Fifth scenario: Swanger is lying. He seemed too anxious to tell me. He’s playing games and sucking me into some awful scheme that will only end badly. He knew the check would bounce. His poor mother has never seen $5,000 in her life, nor has he.

Sixth scenario: Swanger is not lying. I can leak the information to Nate Spurio, my mole deep in the department. The body will be found. Swanger will be caught and put on trial and I will be nowhere near the courthouse. If he killed the girl, I want him locked up.

I kick around several other scenarios and things get foggier, not clearer. At 5:30, I put on the coffee. While it brews I rack all fifteen balls and break with a rather soft shot. The neighbor next door has complained about the noise of clacking balls at weird hours, so I work on my finesse game. I run the table, sink the 8 ball in a corner, pour a cup of strong coffee, and run the table again. Another rack, and I leave the 4 ball an inch from the pocket. Thirty-three in a row. Not bad.

Vasectomy reversals?

12.

The police follow me, but halfheartedly. Partner says they’re tailing me about half the time, that they got fired up when Swanger met me in the van, but that was over a week ago. Partner drops me off at Ken’s Kars, a cheap secondhand lot in the Hispanic part of town. I’ve done some work for Ken, kept him out of jail, and he and I both know that our tag-teaming days are not over. He loves shady deals, the darker the better, and it’s just a matter of time before a SWAT team shows up with another arrest warrant.

For twenty bucks cash, per day, Ken will “lease” me a serviceable car from his sad inventory, no questions asked. I do this occasionally when I think I’m being watched. My black Ford cargo van is quite easy to spot. The dented Subaru wagon Ken has selected for me, however, will never attract attention. I spend a few minutes with him, swap some insults, and hit the road.

I weave through a run-down part of town, circling back here and there, with one eye on the mirror. I eventually find a bypass that takes me to the interstate, and when I’m sure there’s no one following me, I head south. Fifty-two miles from the city limits, I pass Dr. Woo’s sign on the other side of the road. As Swanger said, it’s a large billboard at the edge of a cornfield. Next to the words “Vasectomy Reversals” is the large goofy face of Dr. Woo as he looks down upon the northbound traffic. I turn around at the next exit, drive four miles back to the sign, and park near it. Traffic roars by, the drafts from the big trucks almost lifting my little Subaru. Next to the shoulder there is a ditch covered with weeds and clogged with litter, and beyond the ditch there is a chain-link fence choked with vines. Beyond the fence is a gravel frontage road that borders the cornfield. The farmer who owns the place has carved out a narrow rectangle to lease to the sign company, and in the center of it there are four large metal poles that anchor the billboard. Around them are weeds, more litter, a few stray stalks of corn. Above them, Dr. Woo grins at the traffic as he hawks his skills.

He’s the last guy I would trust with my testicles.

Though I have no experience, I suppose one could use darkness as cover, ease along the frontage road, dig a nice grave, drag a body over to it, refill the hole, scatter dirt and litter around, and cover it all up. Let a few months go by as the seasons change and the dirt settles.

And why would you pick a spot so close to an interstate highway with twenty thousand cars a day? I have no idea, but I remind myself that I’m trying to understand the mind of a very sick person. Hiding in the open works all the time, I guess. And I’m sure that at 3:00 a.m. this place is fairly deserted.

I stare at the weeds under the sign and think about the Kemp family. And I curse the day I met Arch Swanger.

13.

Two days later, I’m waiting in a hallway in the Old Courthouse when I get a text from Detective Reardon. He says we need to talk, and soon. It’s urgent. An hour later, Partner drops me off at Central and I hustle back to Reardon’s cramped and suffocating office. No hellos, no handshake, no greeting of any kind, but then I don’t expect any.

He grunts, “You got a minute?”

“I’m here,” I say.

“Have a seat.” There is only one place to sit—a leather bench covered with dust and files. I look at it and say, “That’s okay. I’ll just stand.”

“Whatever. Do you know where Swanger is?”

“No, I have no idea. Thought you guys were bird-dogging him.”

“We were, but he got away. No sign for over a week, nothing. Vanished.” He falls into his wooden swivel chair and eventually gets both feet onto his desk. “Are you still his lawyer?”

“No. When he hired me he paid with a rubber check. Our contract is void.”

A smirk, a fake smile. “Well, he thinks otherwise. This came in just after midnight, right here on my office phone.” He reaches over and hits two buttons on his vintage answering machine. After the beep, Arch’s voice begins: “This message is for Detective Landy Reardon. This is Arch Swanger calling. I’m on the road and I’m not coming back. You guys have hounded me for months and I’m tired of it. My poor mother is out of her mind because of your constant surveillance and abusive tactics. Please leave her alone. She’s completely innocent and so am I. You know damned well I didn’t kill that girl, had nothing to do with it. I’d like to explain this to someone who’s willing to listen, but if I come back you’ll just bust my ass and throw me in jail. I got some good information, Reardon, and I’d like to talk to someone. I know where she is right now. How about that?”

There is a long pause. I look at Reardon and he says, “Hang on.”

Arch coughs a couple of times, and when he resumes his voice is shaky, as though he’s getting emotional: “Only three people know where she’s buried, Reardon. Only three. Me, the guy who killed her, and my lawyer, Sebastian Rudd. I told Rudd because as a lawyer he can’t tell anyone. Isn’t that screwed up, Reardon? Why should a lawyer be able to keep such deadly secrets? I like Rudd, don’t get me wrong. Hell, I hired him. And if by some lucky break you’re able to find me, then I’ll bring in Rudd to walk me.” Another pause, then, “Gotta go, Reardon. Later.”

I step over to the leather bench and sit on some files. Reardon turns off the answering machine and leans forward on his elbows. “It came in from a prepaid cell phone and we couldn’t track it. We have no idea where he is.”

I take a deep breath as I try to unscramble my thoughts. There is no strategic or commonsense reason for Swanger to tell the police that I know where the body is buried. Period! And the fact that he was so eager to tell me, and then blab it to the cops, makes me doubt him even more. He’s a con, perhaps a serial killer, a psychopath who enjoys playing games and revels in the lying. But whatever he is, and whatever his motives, he has thrown me off a cliff and I’m free-falling.

The door suddenly opens and in walks Roy Kemp, assistant chief of police and father of the missing girl. He closes the door behind him and takes a step toward me. He’s a tough guy, an ex-Marine with a square jaw and a grayish crew cut. His eyes are weary and red, evidence of the toll the last year has taken. His eyes also convey a hatred that makes my skin crawl. My collar is instantly wet.

Reardon gets to his feet, cracks his knuckles as if he’s about to use his fists, and gives me a look that could kill, and probably will.

It’s fatal to show weakness to a cop, or a prosecutor or judge, even a jury, but right now it is impossible to conjure up the slightest trace of confidence, let alone my usual cockiness.

Kemp gets right to the point with “Where is she, Rudd?”

I slowly get to my feet, raise both hands, and say, “I gotta think about this, okay? I’m caught off guard here. You guys had time to plan this ambush. Give me some time, okay?”

Kemp says, “I don’t give a damn about your confidentiality and ethics and all that crap, Rudd. You have no idea what we’re going through. It’s been eleven months and eighteen days of sheer hell. My wife can’t get out of bed. My whole family is falling apart. We’re desperate, Rudd.”

For all of his fearsomeness, Roy Kemp is a man in grievous pain, a father who’s sleepwalking through his worst nightmare. He needs a body, a funeral, a permanent grave where he and his wife can kneel on the grass and properly mourn. The horror and uncertainty must be overwhelming.

He’s blocking my narrow path to the door, and I’m wondering if he’ll actually get physical.

I say, “Look, Chief, you’re assuming that everything Arch Swanger says is the truth, and that could be a bad assumption.”

“Do you know where my daughter is?”

“I know what Arch Swanger said, but I do not know if he’s telling the truth. Frankly, I doubt it.”

“Then tell us anyway. We’ll go look.”

“It’s not that simple. I can’t repeat what he said to me in confidence, you know that.”

Kemp closes his eyes. I glance down and notice both his fists are clenched. Slowly, he relaxes them. I look at Reardon, who’s glaring at me. I look back at Kemp, whose red eyes are open slightly. He’s nodding, as if he’s saying, “Okay, Rudd, we’ll play it your way. But we’ll get you.”

Frankly, I’m on their side. I would love to spill my guts, help get the girl properly laid to rest, help track down Swanger, and watch with satisfaction as a jury nails him for murder. Sadly, though, that is not an option. I take a small step toward the door and say, “I’d like to leave now.”

Kemp doesn’t move, and somehow I manage to brush by him without provoking a fight. As I grab the doorknob I can almost feel a knife in my back, but I survive and make it to the hallway. I’ve never left Central in a bigger hurry.

14.

It’s the third Friday of the month, time to see Judith for our mandatory two-drink meeting. Neither of us wants it, but neither is willing to surrender and quit. To do so would be to confess a weakness, something we both simply cannot do, not to each other anyway. We tell ourselves that we need to keep the lines of communication open because we share a son. That poor child.

This is our first drink since she dragged me into court in her futile effort to terminate all visitation rights. So, with that little brawl still hanging in the air, there will be an even thicker layer of tension. Frankly, I was hoping she would cancel. I could easily be provoked into a tongue-lashing.

I get to the bar early and find a booth. She arrives on time as always, but with a pleasant look on her face. Judith is not a pleasant person and doesn’t smile much. Most lawyers battle stress, but most lawyers don’t work in a firm with nine other women, all known to be ball-squeezing litigators looking for a fight. Her office is a pressure cooker, and I suspect her home life is not that much fun. The older Starcher gets, the more he talks about all the yelling between Judith and Ava. I, of course, pump the kid for all the dirt I can get.

“How was your week?” I ask, the standard opening.

“The same. Looks like you’re on a roll. Another picture in the paper.”

The waiter takes our orders, always the same: chardonnay for her, whiskey sour for me. Whatever pleasant thought she brought into the bar has now vanished.

“A bit premature,” I say. “I don’t represent the guy anymore. He couldn’t handle the fee.”

“Gee, think of all the publicity you’ll miss.”

“I’ll find some more.”

“I have no doubt about that.”

“I’m not in the mood to swap insults. I get Starcher tomorrow for my thirty-six hours. Any problems with that?”

“What are your plans?”

“So I have to submit my plans to you for approval? When did the court order this?”

“Just curious, that’s all. You need a drink.”

We stare at the table for a few minutes, waiting for the alcohol. When it arrives, we grab the glasses. After the third gulp, I say, “My mother is in town. We’ll take Starcher to the mall for the usual ritual whereby the noncustodial parent kills a few hours drinking coffee while the kid rides the carousel and bangs around the playground. Then we’ll have bad pizza and bad ice cream in the food court and watch the clowns turn flips and pass out balloons. After that we’ll drive down to the river and take a walk by the boats in the harbor. What else would you like to know?”

“You plan to keep him tomorrow night?”

“I get thirty-six hours, once a month. That’s 9:00 a.m. tomorrow until 9:00 p.m. Sunday. Do the math. It’s not that complicated.”

The waiter pops in to ask how we’re doing. I order another round, even though our glasses are not yet half-empty. Over the past year, I have almost managed to look forward to these brief meetings with Judith. We’re both lawyers and occasionally we’ve found common ground. I once loved her, though I’m not so sure she felt the same. We share a child. I have entertained the fantasy that we could possibly develop a friendship, one that I need because I have so few friends. Right now, though, I can’t stand the sight of her.

We drink in silence, two brooding ex-lovers who would really like to strangle one another. She breaks the tension with “What kind of person is Arch Swanger?”

We talk about him for a few minutes, then about the abduction and the nightmare the Kemp family is enduring. A lawyer she knows once handled a DUI for Jiliana’s last boyfriend, which is supposed to somehow be enlightening.

The drinks are finished in thirty minutes, a record, and we part ways without even the obligatory peck on the cheek.

15.

It’s a challenge each month to plan an activity that keeps Starcher entertained. He’s already told me he’s tired of the mall, the zoo, the fire station, miniature golf, and the children’s theater. What he really wants to do is watch more cage fighting, but that’s not going to happen. So, I buy him a boat.

We meet my mother at a place called the Landing, a contrived boathouse in the middle of City Park. She and I drink coffee while Starcher slurps his hot cocoa. My mother is worried about his upbringing. The kid has no table manners and never utters the words “sir,” “ma’am,” “please,” and “thank you.” I’ve pushed him on this and gotten nowhere.

The boat is a remote-controlled model racer with an engine that whines like a muffled chain saw. The pond is a large man-made circle of water with a gushing fountain in the center. It’s a magnet for model boats of all varieties, and for all ages. Starcher and I fiddle with the remote controls for half an hour before everything makes sense. When he’s comfortable, I turn him loose and take a seat next to my mother on a bench under a tree.

It’s a beautiful day, with crisp light air and a brilliant blue sky. The park is crawling with people—families strolling about eating ice cream, new moms with massive strollers, young lovers rolling in the leaves. And no shortage of divorced fathers exercising their rights of visitation.

My mother and I chat about nothing of any importance as we watch her only grandson in the distance. She lives two hours away and does not get our local news. She’s heard nothing of the Swanger affair and I’m not about to bring it up. She has a lot of opinions and does not approve my career. Her first husband, my father, was a lawyer who made a nice living in real estate. He died when I was ten. Her second husband made a fortune in rubber bullets and died at the age of sixty-two. She’s been afraid to gamble on a third one.

I fetch us more coffee in paper cups and we resume our conversation. Starcher waves me over, and when I get there he hands me the controls and says he needs to go pee. The restroom is not far away, just on the other side of the pond in a building that houses the concession stands and park offices. I ask him if he needs help and he shoots me a dirty look. He is, after all, now eight years old and gaining confidence. I watch him as he walks to the building and enters the men’s restroom. I stop the boat and wait.

There is a sudden commotion behind me, loud angry voices, then two gunshots crack through the air. People start screaming. About fifty yards away, a black teenager sprints across the park, leaps over a bench, darts between some saplings and into the woods, running as if his life is in danger. Evidently it is. Not far behind him is another young black male, angrier and with the gun. He fires it again, and people hit the ground. All around me, folks who were enjoying the day are now ducking, crawling, clutching children, and scurrying for their lives. It’s a scene from television, something we’ve all witnessed before, and it takes a few seconds to realize that this is not fiction. That’s a real gun!

I think about Starcher, but he’s on the other side of the pond in the restroom, a good distance from the gunfire. As I duck and look wildly around, a man scampering away bumps into me, grunts “Sorry,” and keeps moving.

When both the prey and the hunter are lost in the woods, I wait, afraid to move. Then, two more gunshots in the distance. If the second guy found the first guy, at least we didn’t have to watch it. We pause, wait, then start to move again. My heart is racing as I stand and gawk at the thick trees along with everyone else. When it appears as though the danger has passed, I take a deep breath. People stare at each other, relieved but still stunned. Did we really just see what we just saw? Two policemen on bicycles fly around the corner and disappear into the woods. In the distance a siren can be heard.

I look at my mother, who’s on the phone as if she missed it all. I look at the men’s restroom; Starcher is still inside. I start walking that way, pausing to place the remote control on the bench beside my mother. Several men and boys have come and gone from the restroom.

“What was that?” she asks.

“Life in the big city,” I say as I walk away.

Starcher is not in the restroom. I hurry outside and begin looking around. I grab my mother, tell her he’s disappeared, and tell her to check out the ladies’ restroom. For several long minutes the two of us scour the area, our fear mounting with each second. He’s not the kind of kid who would wander off. No, Starcher would take a pee and head straight back to the pond to continue his boat racing. My heart is pounding and I’m sweating.

The two bicycle cops emerge from the woods, without a suspect, and head our way. I stop them, tell them my son is missing, and they immediately get on the radio. In my panic, I stop others and ask them to help.

Two more bicycle cops arrive. The area around the Landing is now a panic zone; everyone knows a kid is missing. The police are trying to lock down the entire park, to keep anyone from leaving, but there are a dozen points of entry and exit. Patrol cars arrive. The urgent wail of sirens only adds to the alarm. I see a man in a red sweater. I think I saw him enter the men’s restroom. He says yes, he was there, and he saw a kid at the urinal. Everything seemed fine. No, he did not see the kid leave. I jog up and down the sidewalks that weave through the park, asking everyone along the way if they’ve seen an eight-year-old boy who seemed lost. He was wearing jeans and a brown sweatshirt. No one has seen him.

As the seconds tick by, I try to calm myself. He has just wandered off. He has not been abducted. It doesn’t work; I am in full panic.

This is the awful story you read about but think it can never happen to you.

16.

After half an hour my mother is ready to collapse. A medic sits beside her on a park bench and tends to her. The police ask me to stay with her too, but I cannot sit still. There are cops everywhere. God bless them.

A young man in a dark suit introduces himself as Lynn Colfax. He is the detective in the Missing Children Division, City Police. What kind of sick society needs an entire section of its police department dedicated to missing children?

He and I walk through the final moments. I stand exactly where I was standing when Starcher left for the restroom, less than a hundred feet away. I kept my eyes on him until he went inside, then I was jolted by the sound of gunfire. Step by step, thought by thought, we go through it all.

The men’s restroom has only one door and no windows. It is inconceivable to me, and to Detective Colfax, that someone could grab an eight-year-old boy and physically remove him from the premises without being seen. But, at that moment, most of the people hanging around the Landing were either crouching behind benches or shrubs or flat on the ground as the bullets were fired. Other witnesses verify this. We estimate the diversion lasted fifteen, maybe twenty seconds. Plenty of time, I guess.

After an hour, I finally admit that Starcher has not simply wandered away. He has been taken.

17.

The best way to tell Judith is to make her see for herself. If something bad happens to our son, she will never forgive me, and she will always maintain that since I am such a lousy parent, am in fact thoroughly derelict in all areas of parental guidance, that his disappearance was and is completely my fault. Great, Judith. You win; I’m to blame.

It might help her to see the crime scene, especially with all the cops around.

I stare at my cell phone for a long time, then make the call. She answers with “What is it?”

I swallow hard and try to sound calm. “Judith, Starcher has disappeared. I’m at the Landing in City Park, with his grandmother, and with the police. He disappeared about an hour ago. You need to get down here now.”

She yells, “What?”

“You heard me. Starcher is missing. I think he’s been abducted.”

Again she yells, “What! How! Were you watching him?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was. We’ll argue later. Just get down here.”

Twenty-one minutes later, I see her racing along the sidewalk, obviously a woman who’s scared out of her mind. As she approaches the Landing and sees all the policemen, then me, then the yellow crime scene ribbon strung around the restrooms, she stops, throws a hand over her mouth, and breaks down. Lynn Colfax and I walk over to her and try to calm her.

She grits her teeth and says, “What happened?”

She wipes her eyes as we go through it again. And again. She says nothing to me, as if I’m not a part of the drama. She won’t even look at me. She grills Colfax until all questions have been asked. She takes complete charge of the family’s side of things, even informs the detective that she is the custodial parent and all communication will be through her. Me, I’m viewed as nothing more than a negligent babysitter.

Judith has a photo of Starcher on her cell phone. Colfax e-mails this to his office. He says that posters will go up immediately. All alerts and warnings are already in play. Every policeman in the City is looking for Starcher.

18.

We eventually leave the Landing, though it is painful. I would prefer to sit here all afternoon and throughout the night, just waiting for my little boy to appear and ask, “Where’s my boat?” It is the last place he saw his father. If he’s just lost, then maybe he’ll find his way back. We’re sleepwalking through this, numb and stunned and telling ourselves that this is not really happening.

Lynn Colfax says he’s been through this before, and the best move right now is for us to meet at Central, in his office, and talk about how to proceed. It’s either an abduction, a disappearance, or a kidnapping, and all three pose different problems.

I take my mother to my apartment, where she is met by Partner. He’ll take care of her for a few hours. She’s blaming herself for not being more attentive, and she’s griping because that bitch Judith wouldn’t even acknowledge her presence. “Why did you ever marry that woman?” she asks. It wasn’t by choice. Really, Mom? Can’t we discuss this later?

Colfax has a neat desk and a calm, soothing presence. It means nothing to us—Judith and me. Ava, the third parent, is out of town. He begins by telling us a story about an abduction, one of the few with a happy ending. Most end badly, and I know this. I’ve read the summaries. With each passing hour, the chances of a good outcome get slimmer and slimmer.

He asks if there is anyone that we know of who might be a suspect? A relative, a neighbor, the pervert down the street, anyone? We shake our heads, no. I’ve already thought about Link Scanlon and I’m not ready to bring him into this. A kidnapping does not fit his profile. All he wants from me is $100,000 in cash, a refund, and I cannot believe he would resort to kidnapping my son for ransom. Link would prefer to break my right leg this week and my left leg the next.

Colfax says it’s useful to immediately promise a reward for information. He says a good starting point is $50,000. Judith, the sole parent, says, “I can handle that.” I doubt if she could stroke a check for that amount, but go, girl. “I’ll split it,” I say, as if we’re playing cards.

To make an unbearable situation even worse, Judith’s parents arrive and are escorted into the office. They grab their daughter and all three have a long cry. I stand against a wall, as far away as possible. They do not acknowledge my presence. Starcher lives with these grandparents about half the time, so they are very attached to him. I try to understand their grief, but I have loathed these people for so long I cannot stand the sight of them. When they settle down, they ask what happened and I tell them. Colfax helps me out with a few facts here and there. By the time we get through with the narrative, they are convinced everything was all my fault. Great—now we’re getting somewhere.

I do not have to stay in the room. I excuse myself, leave the building, and return to the Landing. The police are still there, loitering around the boathouse, keeping people away from the men’s restroom. I speak to them and express my gratitude; they are sympathetic. Partner arrives, says my mother has had two martinis and is somewhat subdued. He and I split up and roam the walkways of the park. The sun is setting; the shadows are getting longer. Partner brings me a flashlight, and we continue our search well into the night.

At 8:00 p.m. I call Judith to see how she’s holding up. She’s at home, with her parents, waiting by the phone. I offer to come over and sit, but she says no thanks. She has friends over and I wouldn’t fit. I’m sure she’s right about that.

I roam through the park for hours, shining my light at every bridge, culvert, tree, and pile of rocks. This is the worst day of my life, and when it ends, I sit on a bench at midnight and finally weep.

19.

Aided by whiskey and a pill, I manage to sleep for three hours on the sofa before waking in a pool of sweat. Wide awake now, and the nightmare only continues. I shower to kill time and check on my mother. She’s had some pills and seems to be in a coma. At dawn Partner and I return to the park. There’s nowhere else to go, really. What else am I supposed to do? Sit by the phone? It’s in my pocket and it buzzes at 7:03. Lynn Colfax checks in to see how I’m doing. I tell him I’m at the park, still searching. He says they’ve had a few tips but nothing useful. Just some crackpots interested in the reward money. He asks if I’ve seen the Sunday morning newspaper. Yes, I have. Front page.

Partner brings some muffins and coffee, and we eat on a picnic table overlooking a pond that’s used for skating in the winter. He asks, “Have you thought about Link?”

“Yes, I have, but I don’t think it’s him.”

“Why not?”

“Not his kind of crime.”

“You’re probably right.”

We return to the silence that defines our relationship, a quiet I have always appreciated. Now, though, I need someone to talk to. We finish eating and split up again. I cover the same paths and trails, look under the same footbridges, walk along the same creeks. I call Judith mid-morning, and her mother answers her cell phone. Judith is resting, and, no, they’ve heard nothing. Back at the Landing, the police have removed the crime scene tape and things have returned to normal. The place is bustling with people again, all apparently oblivious to yesterday’s horror. I watch some boys race their boats around the pond. I stand where I stood yesterday when I saw Starcher for the last time. A dull pain rips through my gut and I’m forced to walk away.

At the rate I’m going, Starcher is the only child I’ll ever produce. He was an accident, an unwanted child born in the midst of a raging war between his parents, but in spite of that he has blossomed into a beautiful boy. I haven’t been much of a father, but then I’ve been shut out of his life. I never dreamed I could miss another human so much. But then, what parent can imagine a child being abducted?

Hours pass as I roam the park. I jump out of my skin when my phone rings, but it’s only an acquaintance wanting to help. Late in the day, I sit on a park bench near a jogging trail. From out of nowhere, Detective Landy Reardon appears and sits beside me. He’s wearing a suit under the standard black trench coat.

“What brings you here?” I ask, startled.

“I’m just the messenger, Rudd. Nothing more. Not involved, really. But your kid is okay.”

I take a deep breath and lean forward, elbows on knees, thoroughly confused. I manage to grunt, “What?”

He stares straight ahead as if I’m not here. “Your kid’s okay. What they want is an exchange.”

“An exchange?”

“You got it. You tell me; I tell them. You tell me where the girl is buried, you get your kid back after they find her.”

I don’t know what to think or say. Praise God my kid is safe, but he’s safe because the cops have snatched him and are holding him as bait! I tell myself I should be angry, furious, volcanic, but I am nothing but relieved. Starcher is okay!

“They? Them? You’re talking about some of your own people, right?”

“Sort of. Look, Rudd, you gotta understand that Roy Kemp has pretty much checked out. They’ve put him on administrative leave for a month or so, but no one knows it. He’s a mess, and he’s out there acting on his own.”

“But he has a lot of friends, right?”

“Oh yes. Kemp is highly regarded. He’s a thirty-year man, you know, with a lot of contacts, a lot of pull.”

“So this is an inside job. I don’t believe it. And they’ve sent you to negotiate.”

“I don’t know where the kid is, I swear. And I don’t like being where I am right now.”

“That makes at least two of us. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. In fact, I should’ve known the cops were not above snatching kids.”

“Back off, Rudd. You got a big mouth, you know that? Deal or no deal?”

“I’m supposed to tell you what Arch Swanger told me about the girl, right? Where she’s buried. And let’s say Swanger is telling the truth, you find the body, he gets busted for capital murder, and my career as a lawyer is over. My son is returned safely to his mother, and I get to spend a lot more time with him. In fact, I’ll be a full-time dad.”

“You’re on the right track.”

“And if I say no, what will happen to my kid? Am I supposed to believe that an assistant chief of police and his thugs will actually hurt a child as revenge?”

“I guess you gotta roll the dice, Rudd.”