Sudden Death

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

To Robert Greenwald,

an extraordinary talent, friend,

person, and citizen

Acknowledgments

Okay… okay… so I didn’t do this alone. The point is, I could have… I just chose not to. So, a grudging thank you to those who may have provided some slight, unnecessary, almost imperceptible help.

Robin Rue and Sandy Weinberg, agents for life.

Jamie Raab, Les Pockell, Kristen Weber, Susan Richman, Martha Otis, Beth de Guzman, Bob Castillo, and everyone else at Warner. They have been extraordinary partners.

My team of experts, including George Kentris, Kristen Paxos Mecionis, and Susan Brace. They fill in the gaps of my knowledge in the legal and psychological worlds, which is like saying the Atlantic Ocean fills in the gap between Europe and North America.

Those who read early drafts and/or contributed their thoughts and suggestions, including Ross, Heidi, Rick, Lynn, Mike and Sandi Rosenfelt, Sharon, Mitchell, and Amanda Baron, Emily Kim, Al and Nancy Sarnoff, Stacy Alesi, Norman Trell, June Peralta, Stephanie Allen, Scott Ryder, David Devine, and Carol and John Antonaccio.

Debbie Myers, who brightens and informs my life and my work by just being Debbie Myers.

I continue to be grateful to the many people who have e-mailed me feedback on Open and Shut, First Degree, and Bury the Lead. Please do so again at dr27712@aol.com. Thank you.

I STEP OFF THE PLANE, and for the first time in my life, I’m in Los Angeles. I’m not sure why I’ve never been here before. I certainly haven’t had any preconceived notions about the place, other than the fact that the people here are insincere, draft-dodging, drug-taking, money-grubbing, breast-implanting, out-of-touch, pâté-eating, pom-pous, Lakers-loving, let’s-do-lunching, elitist scumbags.

But here I am, open-minded as always.

Walking next to me is Willie Miller, whose own mind is so wide-open that anything at all is completely free to go in and out, and often does. I’m not sure how thoughts actually enter his mind, but the point of exit is definitely his mouth. “This place ain’t so cool,” says Willie.

“Willie, it’s only the airport.” I look over at him and am surprised to see that he is wearing sunglasses. They seem to have appeared in the last few seconds, as if he has grown them. While he doesn’t consider the airport “cool,” he apparently fears that it might be sunny.

Willie has become a good friend these last couple of years. He’s twenty-eight, ten years my junior, and we met when I successfully defended him on an appeal of a murder charge for which he had been wrongly convicted. Willie spent seven long years on death row, and his story is the reason we’re out here. That and the fact that I had nothing better to do.

We take the escalator down to baggage claim, where a tall blond man wearing a black suit and sunglasses just like Willie’s holds up a sign that says “Carpenter.” Since my name is Andy Carpenter, I pick up on this almost immediately. “That’s us,” I say to the man, who is obviously our driver.

“How was your flight?” he asks, an opening conversational gambit I suspect he’s used before. I say that it was fine, and then we move smoothly into a chat about the weather while we wait for the bags to come down. I learn that it’s sunny today, has been sunny this month, last month, and will be sunny next month and the month after that. It’s early June, and there is no chance of rain until December. However, I sense that the driver is a little nervous, because for tomorrow they’re predicting a forty percent chance of clouds.

I have just one small suitcase, which I wouldn’t have bothered to check had not Willie brought two enormous ones. I make the mistake of trying to lift one of Willie’s bags off the carousel; it must weigh four hundred pounds. “Did you bring your rock collection?” I ask, but Willie just shrugs and lifts the bag as if it were filled with pillows.

I’ve lived in apartments smaller than the limousine that transports us to the hotel. The movie studio is obviously trying to impress us, and so far succeeding quite well. It’s only been a week since they called me and expressed a desire to turn my defense of Willie into a feature film, and we are out here to negotiate the possible sale of those rights. It’s not something I relish, but Willie and the others involved all coaxed me into it. Had I known we would be flown first-class and whisked around in limos with a bar and TV, it might not have taken quite so much coaxing.

The truth is, none of us need the money we might make from this deal. I inherited twenty-two million dollars from my father, Willie received ten million dollars from a civil suit which we brought after his release, and I split up the million-dollar commission from that suit among everybody else. That “everybody else” consists of my associate, Kevin Randall, my secretary, Edna, and Laurie Collins, who functions in the dual role of private investigator and love of my life.

I would be far more enthusiastic about this trip if Laurie were here, but she decided to fly back to Findlay, Wisconsin, for her fifteenth high school reunion. When I warily mentioned that it would also be a chance for her to see her old boyfriends, she smiled and said, “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“I’ll be spending all my time in LA with nubile young actresses,” I countered. “Sex-starved, lawyer-loving, nubile young actresses. The town is full of them.” I said this in a pathetic and futile attempt to get her to change her mind and come out here with me. Instead, she said, “You do that.” I didn’t bother countering with, “I will,” since we both know I won’t.

So it’s just Willie and me that the driver drops off at the Beverly Regent Wilshire Hotel. It’s a nice enough place, but based on the nightly rate, the fairly average rooms must have buried treasure in the mattresses. But again, the studio is paying, which is one reason the first thing I do is have a fourteen-dollar can of mixed nuts from the minibar.

Since Willie’s release from prison brought him some measure of fame, his life has taken some other dramatic turns. In addition to becoming wealthy, he’s gotten married, partnered with me in a dog rescue operation, and become part of the very exclusive New York social scene. He and wife Sondra are out every night with what used to be known as the in crowd, though I am so far “out” that I’m not sure what they’re called anymore. He is constantly and unintentionally name-dropping friends in the sports, entertainment, and art worlds, though he comically often has no idea that anyone else has heard of them.

Willie’s social reach apparently extends across the country, because he invites me to go “clubbing” tonight with him and a number of his friends. I would rather be clubbed over the head, so I decline and make plans to order room service and watch a baseball game.

First I call Laurie at her hotel in Findlay, but she’s out. I hope she’s in the process of marveling at how fat and bald all her old boyfriends have gotten. Next I call Kevin Randall, who is watching Tara for me while I’m gone.

Golden retrievers are the greatest living things on this planet, and Tara is the greatest of all golden retrievers, so that makes her fairly special. I hate leaving her, even for a day, but there was no way I was going to put her in a crate in the bottom of a hot airplane.

“Hello?” Kevin answers, his voice raspy.

I put him through about three or four minutes of swearing to me that Tara is doing well, and then I ask him how he’s feeling, since his voice maintains that raspy sound. I ask this reluctantly, since Kevin is America’s foremost hypochondriac. “I’m okay,” he says.

I’d love to leave it at that, but it would ruin his night. “You sure?” I ask.

“Well…,” he starts hesitantly, “do you know if humans can catch diseases from dogs?”

“Why? Is Tara sick?”

“I told you she was fine,” he says. “We’re talking about me now. I seem to have developed a cough.” He throws in a couple of hacking noises, just in case I didn’t know what he meant by “cough.”

“That definitely sounds like kennel cough,” I say. “You should curl up and sleep next to a warm oven tonight. And don’t have more than a cup of kibble for dinner.”

Kevin, who is no dummy, shrewdly figures out that I am going to continue to make fun of him if he pursues this, so he lets me extricate myself from the call. Once I do so, I have dinner and lie down to watch the Dodgers play the Padres. I’m not terribly interested in it, which is why I’m asleep by the third inning.

I wake up at seven and order room service. I get the Assorted Fresh Berries for twenty-one fifty; for that price I would have expected twin Halle Berrys. They also bring an LA Times and Wall Street Journal, which are probably costing twenty bucks apiece.

The same driver and limo show up at nine in the morning to take Willie and me to the studio. We arrive early for our meeting, so we spend some time walking around the place, looking for stars. I don’t see any, unless you count Willie.

We are eventually ushered into the office of Greg Burroughs, president of production at the studio. With him are a roomful of his colleagues, each with a title like “executive vice president” or “senior vice president.” There seems to be an endless supply of gloriously titled executives; I wouldn’t be surprised if there are three or four “emperors of production.” The lowest ranked of the group is just a vice president, so it’s probably the pathetic wretch’s job to fetch the coffee and donuts.

It turns out that the overflow crowd is there merely as a show of how important we are to them, and everybody but Greg and a senior VP named Eric Anderson soon melts away. Greg is probably in his late thirties, and my guess is, he has ten years on Eric.

“Eric will be the production executive on this project,” Greg informs. “He shares my passion for it.” Eric nods earnestly, confirming that passion, as if we had any doubt.

Willie’s been uncharacteristically quiet, but he decides to focus in on that which is important. “Who’s gonna play me?”

Greg smiles. “Who do you have in mind?”

“Denzel Washington,” says Willie without any hesitation. He’s obviously given it some thought.

“I can see that.” Greg nods, then looks at Eric, whose identical nod indicates that he, too, can see it. “The thing is, Will, we don’t start to deal with casting until we have a script and director in place. But it’s a really good thought.”

Eric directs a question at “Will.” “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but do you have a mother?”

Willie shakes his head. “Nah. Used to.”

“Why?” asks Greg of Eric, barely containing his curiosity.

“Well,” Eric says, looking around the room and then back at Willie, “I hope I’m not talking out of turn, and this is just me speaking off the top of my head, but I was thinking it would be really great if you had a mother.”

“Interesting,” says Greg, as if this is the first time he has heard this idea. My sense is that Eric wouldn’t say “good morning” without first clearing it with Greg, even if it’s just “off the top” of his head.

“Well, it ain’t that interesting to me,” says Willie. “My mother took off when I was three and left me in a bus station. I ain’t got no family.”

Eric nods. “I understand, and again, I’m just thinking out loud off the top of my head, but I’m talking about for the sake of the story. If your mother was there, supporting you the whole time you were in prison, believing in you…”

Willie is starting to get annoyed, which in itself does not qualify as a rare occurrence. “Yeah, she could have baked me fucking cupcakes. And we could have had a party in the prison. Mom and Dad could have invited all my fucking invisible aunts and uncles and cousins.”

I intervene, partially because I’m concerned that Willie might throw Greg and Eric out the fifth-story window and they might bounce off the top of their heads. It would also necessitate getting two other passionate executives in here, thereby prolonging this meeting. The other reason I jump in is that they are alluding to an area in which I have a real concern, which is taking dramatic license and changing the characters and events. I’ve heard about the extraordinary liberties Hollywood can take with “true” stories, and I don’t want to wind up being portrayed as the lead lawyer of the transvestite wing of Hamas.

We hash this out for a while, and they assure me that the contract will address my concerns. We agree on a price, and they tell me that a writer will be assigned and will want to go back East to meet and get to know all of us.

I stand up. “So that’s it?”

Eric smiles and shakes my hand. “That’s it. Let’s make a movie.”

* * * * *

THE FLIGHT HOME is boring and uneventful, which I view as a major positive when it comes to airplane flights. The movie doesn’t appeal to me, so I don’t put on the headphones. I then spend the next two hours involuntarily trying to lipread everything the characters are saying. Unfortunately, the movie is Dr. Dolittle 2, and my mouse-lipreading skills are not that well developed.

Willie, for his part, uses the time to refine his casting choices. On further reflection he now considers Denzel too old and is leaning toward Will Smith or Ben Affleck, though he has some doubts that Ben could effectively play a black guy. I suggest that as soon as he gets home he call Greg and Eric to discuss it.

Moments after we touch the ground, a flight attendant comes over and leans down to speak with me. “Mr. Carpenter?” she asks.

I get a brief flash of worry. Has something happened while we were in the air? “Yes?”

“There will be someone waiting at the gate to meet you. You have an urgent phone call.”

“Who is it?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know. But I’m sure everything is fine.”

I would take more comfort from her assurances if she knew what the call was about. I fluctuate between intense worry and panic the entire time we taxi to the gate, which seems to take about four hours.

As soon as the plane comes to a halt, Willie and I jump out of our seats and are the first people off the plane. Somebody who works for airline security is there to meet us, and he leads us to one of those motorized carts. We all jump on and are whisked away.

“Do you know what’s going on?” I ask.

The security guy shrugs slightly. “I’m not sure. I think it’s about that football player.”

Before I have a chance to ask what the hell he could possibly be talking about, we arrive at an airport security office. I’m ushered inside, telling the officers that it’s okay for Willie to come in with me. We’re led into a back office, where another security guy stands holding a telephone, which he hands to me.

“Hello?” I say into the phone, dreading what I might hear on the other end.

“It took you long enough.” The voice is that of Lieutenant Pete Stanton, my closest and only friend in the Paterson Police Department.

I’m somewhat relieved already; Pete wouldn’t have started the conversation that way if he had something terrible to tell me. “What the hell is going on?” I ask.

“Kenny Schilling wants to talk to you. And only you. So you’d better get your ass out here.”

If possible, my level of confusion goes up a notch. Kenny Schilling is a running back for the Giants, a third-round pick a few years ago who is just blossoming into a star. I’ve never met the man, though I know Willie counts him as one of his four or five million social friends. “Kenny Schilling?” I ask. “Why would he want to talk to me?”

“Where the hell have you been?” Pete asks.

Annoyance is overtaking my worry; there is simply nothing concerning Kenny Schilling that could represent a disaster in my own life. “I’ve been on a plane, Pete. I just flew in from Fantasyland. Now, tell me what the hell is going on.”

“It looks like Schilling killed Troy Preston. Right now he’s holed up in his house with enough firepower to supply the 3rd Infantry, and every cop in New Jersey outside waiting to blow his head off. Except me. I’m on the phone, ’cause I made the mistake of saying I knew you.”

“Why does he want me?” I ask. “How would he even know my name?”

“He didn’t. He asked for the hot-shit lawyer that’s friends with Willie Miller.”

An airport security car is waiting to take us to Upper Saddle River, which is where they tell us Kenny Schilling lives, and they assure us that our bags will be taken care of. “My bag’s the one you can lift,” I say.

Once in the car, I turn on the radio to learn more about the situation, and discover that it is all anyone is talking about.

Troy Preston, a wide receiver for the Jets, did not show up for scheduled rehab on an injured knee yesterday and did not call in an explanation to the team. This was apparently uncharacteristic, and when he could not be found or contacted, the police were called in. Somehow Kenny Schilling was soon identified as a person who might have knowledge concerning the disappearance, and the police went out to his house to talk to him.

The unconfirmed report is that Schilling brandished a gun, fired a shot (which missed), and turned his house into a fortress. Schilling has refused to talk to the cops, except to ask for me. The media are already referring to me as his attorney, a logical, though totally incorrect, assumption.

This shows signs of being a really long day.

Upper Saddle River is about as pretty a New York suburb as you are going to find in New Jersey. Located off Route 17, it’s an affluent, beautifully wooded community dotted with expensive but not pretentious homes. A number of wealthy athletes, especially on those teams that play in New Jersey like the Giants and Jets, have gravitated to it. As we enter its peaceful serenity, it’s easy to understand why.

Unfortunately, that serenity disappears as we near Kenny Schilling’s house. The street looks like it is hosting a SWAT team convention, and it’s hard to believe that there could be a police car anywhere else in New Jersey. Every car seems to have gun-toting officers crouched behind it; it took less firepower to bring down Saddam Hussein. Kenny Schilling is a threat that they are taking very seriously.

Willie and I are brought into a trailer, where State Police Captain Roger Dessens waits for us. He dispenses with the greetings and pleasantries and immediately brings me up-to-date, though his briefing includes little more than I heard in radio reports. Schilling is a suspect in Preston’s disappearance and possible murder, and his actions are certainly consistent with guilt. Innocent people don’t ordinarily barricade themselves in their homes and fire at police.

“You ready?” Dessens asks, but doesn’t wait for a reply. He picks up the phone and dials a number. After a few moments he talks into the phone. “Okay, Kenny, Carpenter is right here with me.”

He hands me the phone, and I cleverly say, “Hello?”

A clearly agitated voice comes through the phone. “Carpenter?”

“Yes.”

“How do I know it’s you?”

It’s a reasonable question. “Hold on,” I say, and signal to Willie to come over. I hand him the phone. “He isn’t sure it’s me.”

Willie talks into the phone. “Hey, Schill… what’s happenin’?” He says this as if they just met at a bar and the biggest decision confronting them is whether to have Coors or a Bud.

I can’t hear “Schill’s” view of what might be “happenin’,” but after a few moments Willie is talking again. “Yeah, it’s Andy. I’m right here with him. He’s cool. He’ll get you out of this bullshit in no time.”

Looking out over the army of cops assembled to deal with “this bullshit,” I’ve got a feeling Willie’s assessment might be a tad on the wildly optimistic side. Willie hands the phone back to me, and Schilling tells me that he wants me to come into his house. “I need to talk to you.”

I have absolutely no inclination to physically enter this confrontation by going into his house. “We’re talking now,” I say.

He is insistent. “I need to talk to you in here.”

“I understand you have some guns,” I say.

“I got one gun” is how he corrects me. “But don’t worry, man, I ain’t gonna shoot you.”

“I’ll get back to you,” I say, then hang up and tell Captain Dessens about Schilling’s request.

“Good,” he says, standing up. “Let’s get this thing moving.”

“What thing?” I ask. “You think I’m going in there? Why would I possibly go in there?”

Dessens seems unperturbed. “You want a live client or a dead one?”

“He’s not my client. Just now was the first time I’ve ever spoken to him. He didn’t even know it was me.”

“On the other hand, he’s got a lot of money to pay your bills, Counselor.” He says “Counselor” with the same respect he might have said “Fuehrer.”

Dessens is really pissing me off; I don’t need this aggravation. “On the other hand, you’re an asshole,” I say.

“So you’re not going?” Dessens asks. The smirk on his face seems to say that he knows I’m a coward and I’m just looking for an excuse to stay out of danger. He’s both arrogant and correct.

Willie comes over to me and talks softly. “Schill’s good people, Andy. They got the wrong guy.”

I’m instantly sorry I didn’t leave Willie at the airport. Now if I don’t go in, I’m not just letting down a stranger accused of murder, I’m letting down a friend. “Okay,” I say to Dessens, “but while I’m out there, everybody has their guns on safety.”

Dessens shakes his head. “Can’t do it, but I’ll have them pointed down.”

I nod. “And I get a bulletproof vest.”

Dessens agrees to the vest, and they have one on me in seconds. He and I work out a signal for me to come out of the house with Schilling without some trigger-happy, Jets-fan officer taking a shot at us.

Willie offers to come in with me, but Dessens refuses. Within five minutes I’m walking across the street toward a quite beautiful ranch-style home, complete with manicured lawn and circular driveway. I can see a swimming pool behind the house to the right side, but since I didn’t bring my bathing suit, I probably won’t be able to take advantage of it. Besides, I don’t think this bulletproof vest would make a good flotation device.

As I walk, I notice that the street has gotten totally, eerily silent. I’m sure that every eye is on me, waiting to storm the house if Schilling blows my unprotected head off. “The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife” suddenly doesn’t seem like a cliché anymore.

Four hours ago my biggest problem was how to ask the first-class flight attendant for a vodkaless Bloody Mary without using the embarrassing term “Virgin Mary,” and now I’ve got half a million sharpshooters just waiting for me to trigger a firefight. I’m sure there are also television cameras trained on me, and I can only hope I don’t piss in my pants on national television.

As I step onto the porch, I see that the door is partially open. I take a step inside, but I don’t see anything. Schilling’s voice tells me to “Come in and close the door behind you,” which is what I do.

The first thing I’m struck by is how sparsely furnished the place is and how absent the touches of home. There are a number of large unopened cardboard boxes, and my sense is that Schilling must have only recently moved in. This makes sense, since I saw on ESPN a few weeks ago that the Giants just signed him to a fourteen-million, three-year deal, a reward for his taking over the starting running back job late last season.

Schilling sits on the floor in the far corner of the room, pointing a handgun at me. He is a twenty-five-year-old African-American, six three, two hundred thirty pounds, with Ali-like charismatic good looks. Yet now he seems exhausted and defeated, as if his next move might be to turn the gun on himself. When I saw him on ESPN, he was thanking his wife, teammates, and God for helping him achieve his success, but he doesn’t look too thankful right now. “How many are out there?” he asks.

Why? Is he so delusional as to think he can shoot his way out? “Enough to invade North Korea,” I say.

He sags slightly, as if this is the final confirmation that his situation is hopeless. I suddenly feel a surge of pity for him, which is not the normal feeling I have for an accused killer pointing a gun at me. “What’s going on here, Kenny?”

He makes a slight head motion toward a hallway. “Look in there. Second door on the left.”

I head down the hall as instructed and enter what looks like a guest bedroom. There are five or six regular-size moving cartons, three of which have been opened. I’m not sure what it is I’m supposed to be looking for, so I take a few moments to look around.

I see a stain under the door to the closet, and a feeling of dread comes over me. I reluctantly open the door and look inside. What I see is a torso, folded over with a large red stain on its back. I don’t need Al Michaels to tell me that this is Troy Preston, wide receiver for the Jets. And I don’t need anybody to tell me that he is dead.

I walk back into the living room, where Kenny hasn’t moved. “I didn’t do it,” he says.

“Do you know who did?”

He just shakes his head. “What the hell am I gonna do?”

I sit down on the floor next to him. “Look,” I say, “I’m going to have a million questions for you, and then we’re going to have to figure out the best way to help you. But right now we have to deal with them.” I point toward the street, in case he didn’t know I was talking about the police. “This is not the way to handle it.”

“I don’t see no other way.”

I shake my head. “You know better than that. You asked for me… I’m a lawyer. If you were going to go down fighting, you’d have asked for a priest.”

He wears the fear on his face like a mask. “They’ll kill me.”

“No. You’ll be treated well. They wouldn’t try anything… there’s media all over this. We’re going to walk out together, and you’ll be taken into custody. It’ll take some time to process you into the system, and I probably won’t see you until tomorrow morning. Until then you are to talk to no one-not the police, not the guy in the next cell, no one. Do you understand?”

He nods uncertainly. “Are you going to help me?”

“I’m going to help you.” It’s not really a lie; I certainly haven’t decided to take this case, but for the time being I will get him through the opening phase. If I decide not to represent him, which basically means if I believe he’s guilty, I’ll help him get another attorney.

“They won’t let me talk to my wife.”

He seems to be trying to delay the inevitable surrender. “Where is she?” I ask.

“In Seattle, at her mother’s. They said she’s flying back. They won’t let me talk to her.”

“You’ll talk to her, but not right now. Now it’s time to end this.” I say it as firmly as I can, and he nods in resignation and stands up.

I walk outside first, as previously planned, and make a motion to Dessens to indicate that Kenny is following me, without his gun. It goes smoothly and professionally, and within a few minutes Kenny has been read his rights and is on the way downtown.

He’s scared, and he should be. No matter how this turns out, life as he knows it is over.

* * * * *

I PICK UP TARA at Kevin’s house. She seems a little miffed that I had abandoned her but grudgingly accepts my peace offering of a biscuit. As a further way of getting on her good side, I tell her that I’ll recommend she be allowed to play herself in the movie.

Kevin has followed the day’s events on television, and we make plans to meet in the office at eight A.M. I’m starting to get used to high-profile cases; they have a life of their own, and it’s vitally important to get on top of them immediately. And if one star football player goes on trial for murdering another, it’s going to make my previous cases look like tiffs in small-claims court.

As I enter my house, I’m struck by the now familiar feeling of comfort that envelops me. Two years ago, after my father’s death, I moved back to Paterson, New Jersey, to live in the house in which I grew up. Except for rescuing and adopting Tara from the animal shelter, coming back to this house is the single best thing I’ve ever done. I’ve hardly changed the interior at all; the house was already perfectly furnished with memories and emotions that only I can see and feel.

I’ve barely had time to put a frozen pizza in the oven when Laurie calls from Findlay. Such was the intensity of today’s events that I haven’t thought about her in hours.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “I saw what happened on television. I’ve been trying you all day on your cell phone.”

I left my cell phone in my suitcase, which the airline has delivered and is in the living room. “I’m fine. But we may have ourselves a client.”

“Is it true the victim’s body was in his house?” she asks.

“In the closet,” I confirm.

“Sounds rather incriminating.”

“Which is why you have to come home and uncover the kind of evidence that will let me display my courtroom brilliance.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she says. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

I let the words roll gently over me, sort of like a verbal massage. I know she loves me, but I have an embarrassing need for reassurance. At least it would be embarrassing if I were to reveal it to her. Which I won’t. Ever.

“Have you had fun?” I ask.

“It’s been an amazing experience, Andy. These are people I haven’t seen or thought about in more than fifteen years. And in five minutes all the memories came back… I even recognized their mannerisms. It makes me wonder why I cut off from them… why we never stayed in touch.”

Laurie’s father was a police officer in Findlay but decided to leave for a higher-paying job back East in Paterson, which qualified as the “big city.” He died five years ago, and I never got to meet him, but Laurie tells me he felt the move was the biggest mistake he ever made. I don’t recall her ever telling me if she shares that view.

We talk some more about reconnecting with old friends; she knows I completely understand because of my experience in moving back to Paterson. “The Internet is the way to stay in touch,” I say. “E-mailing makes it easy, and there are no pregnant pauses in the conversation.”

She doesn’t seem convinced, in fact seems vaguely troubled. I could ask her about this honestly and directly, but that would require too great a change in style. So instead, I change the subject. “If we take this case, we won’t be able to go away.” We had talked about a vacation.

“That’s okay,” she says, and again I hear the tone of voice that I don’t recognize as belonging to Laurie. It’s a halfhearted statement in a mostly halfhearted conversation. I’m not sure why, and I’m certainly not sure if I want to find out.

I get up really early in the morning to take Tara for a long walk. She attacks the route eagerly-tail-wagging and nose-sniffing every step of the way. We’ve gone this way a thousand times, yet each time she takes fresh delight in the sights and smells. Tara is not a “been there, done that” type of dog, and it’s a trait I admire and envy.

As I get dressed to go to the office, I catch up on what the media are saying about the Schilling case. There are reports that Schilling and Preston were out together the night Preston disappeared and that witnesses claim the last time Preston was seen was when Schilling gave him a ride home.

The striking part of the media coverage is not the information that is revealed, but the overwhelming nature of the effort to reveal it. I have 240 channels on my cable system, and it seems as if 230 of them are all over this case. One of the cable networks has already given a name to it, and their reports are emblazoned with the words “Murder in the Backfield” scrawled across the screen. They seem unconcerned with the fact that the victim was a wide receiver.

As has become standard operating procedure, guilt seems to be widely assumed, especially in light of the way Schilling was taken into custody. His were not the actions of the innocent, and if we ever go to trial, that is going to be a major hill to climb. The fact that a national television audience watched as he fended off police with a gun only makes the hill that much steeper.

Kevin and I don’t have much to talk about, and we just compare notes on what we’ve learned from the media. I’ve got a ten o’clock appointment at the jail to meet with Schilling, and Kevin plans to use the time to learn what the prosecution is planning in terms of arraignment. Kevin knows my feelings about defending guilty clients, feelings that he shares, and he’s relieved when I tell him that I’ve made no decision on whether to take on Schilling as a client.

We both leave at nine-forty-five, which is when Edna is arriving. I’ve always felt that a secretary should arrive very early and have the office up and running by the time everyone else arrives. Unfortunately, Edna has always felt pretty much the opposite, so basically, she comes in whenever she wants. Though she is one of the financial beneficiaries of the commission from the Willie Miller case, I can honestly say that the money hasn’t changed her. She’s worked for me for five years and is just as unproductive today as before she was rich.

I briefly tell her what is going on; she’s heard absolutely nothing about Schilling or the murder. Never let it be said that Edna has her finger anywhere near the public pulse.

Schilling is being held at County Jail, which is why an entire media city has set itself up outside. Having become all too familiar with this process, I’ve learned about a back entrance which allows me to avoid the crush, and I make use of it this time.

Guarding the door is Luther Hendricks, a court security officer who carries a calendar with him so he can count the days until retirement. “You sure stepped in shit this time,” he says as he lets me in. I know he’s talking about this case, so I don’t even bother to check my shoes.

Nothing moves quickly within a prison bureaucracy, and the high-profile nature of this case doesn’t change that. It takes forty-five minutes for me to be brought back to the room where I will see Kenny Schilling and then another twenty minutes waiting for him to arrive.

He’s brought in cuffed and dressed in prison drab. I had thought he looked bad huddled in the corner of his living room yesterday, but compared to this, he actually appeared triumphant. It looks as if fear and despair are waging a pitched battle to take over his face. The process of losing one’s freedom, even overnight, can be devastating and humiliating. For somebody like Kenny, it’s often much worse, because he’s fallen from such a high perch.

“How are you doing, Kenny?” is my clever opening. “Are they treating you okay?”

“They ain’t beating me, if that’s what you mean. They tried to talk to me, but I said no.”

“Good.”

“They took some blood out of my arm. They said they had the right. And I didn’t care, because all they’re gonna find is blood. I don’t take no drugs or anything.”

They actually don’t have that right, unless they had probable cause to believe that drug usage had something to do with the murder. I have heard nothing about any suspicions that drugs were involved in this case, but then again, I know almost nothing about this case. “You’re sure you’ve never taken any kind of drugs?” I ask.

He shakes his head firmly. “No way; I just told you that.” Then, “Man, you gotta get me out of here. I got money… whatever it takes. I just can’t stay in here.”

I explain that we won’t know the likelihood of bail until the district attorney files charges, but that those charges are likely to be severe, and bail will be very difficult. I’m not sure he really hears me or understands what I’m saying; he needs to cling to a hope that this is all going to blow over and he’ll be back signing autographs instead of giving fingerprints.

I ask him to tell me everything he knows about the night that Preston disappeared. “I didn’t kill him,” he says. “I swear to God.”

I nod. “Good. That covers what you didn’t do. Now let’s focus on what you did do. How well did you know him?”

He shrugs. “Pretty well. I mean, we weren’t best friends or anything-he played for the Jets. But in the off-season a lot of guys hung out…”

“So you hung out with him that night?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not just him… a whole bunch of people. We went to the Crows Nest. No big deal. We probably did that three or four times a week.”

“How many people were there that night? With you and Troy.”

“Maybe fifteen.”

I take him through the events of the night, which mainly consisted of drinking beer, talking football, and occasionally leering at women. I never realized how much I had in common with star football players. “How long did you stay there?” I ask.

“I was real tired, so we left about twelve-thirty.”

“We?”

He nods. “I gave Troy a ride home.”

This is not good and confirms the media reports. The last time the victim was seen, it was by fifteen people, who watched him leave with my client. “Was that an unusual thing for you to do?”

He shakes his head. “No, he lived about two blocks from me. And I don’t drink that much, so he’d leave his car at the bar, and I guess he’d pick it up in the morning.”

“So he lived in Upper Saddle River?” I ask.

Kenny shakes his head and explains that Preston lived in an apartment in East Rutherford. Kenny did as well; he and his wife had only recently purchased the house in Upper Saddle River and hadn’t fully moved in yet. This explains the boxes spread around the house.

Kenny claims to have spent the fateful night in his East Rutherford apartment, alone. “I dropped Troy off and went home. That’s the last time I saw him.”

“Why did the police come to your house in Upper Saddle River?” I’ll learn all this in discovery, but it’s helpful to hear my client’s version first.

“The next morning my car was gone. I parked it on the street, and I figured it was stolen. Which it was. I reported it to the police. I hadn’t even heard about Troy being missing yet. Then yesterday I got a rental car and went up to the new house. I was unpacking boxes when I saw some blood on the floor. Then I found his body in that closet. I was about to call the cops, but before I could, they showed up at my door with guns. I freaked and wouldn’t let them in.”

“And took a shot at them,” I point out.

“They pulled out guns first… I wasn’t even sure they were cops. They could have been the guys that killed Troy. Even when I figured out who they were, I was afraid they’d come in shooting. Hey, man… I wasn’t trying to hit them. I just figured if they found the body like that, they’d think I did it. Which they did.” He sees the look on my face and moans. “Man, I know it was stupid. I just freaked, that’s all.”

Kenny doesn’t know what brought the police to the Upper Saddle River home, but he believed from their attitude that they were there to arrest him. I’ll find that out soon enough, so I use our remaining time to ask him about his relationship with Preston.

“I met him when we were in high school,” he says. “One of those sports magazines did an all-American high school team, and they brought everybody to New York and put us up in a hotel for the weekend. I think he was from Pennsylvania or Ohio or something…”

“But you’ve never had an argument with him? There is no motive that the prosecution might come up with for your killing him?”

He shakes his head vigorously, the most animated I’ve seen him. “No way, man. You gotta believe me. Why would I kill him? It don’t make any sense.”

The guard comes to take him back to his cell, and I see a quick flash of shock in Kenny’s eyes, as if he thought this meeting could last forever. I tell him that I will get to work finding out whatever I can and that the next time I will see him is at the arraignment.

For now I’m far from sure I believe in his innocence. But I’m not sure that I don’t.

* * * * *

LAURIE’S FLIGHT IS more than an hour late because of heavy thunderstorms in the area. They are my favorite kind of storms, the ones where the skies get pitch-black in late afternoon on a hot summer day, and then the water comes bursting out, bouncing off the street as it lands. Eat your heart out, Los Angeles.

I stand with a bunch of people in the Newark Airport baggage claim waiting for the passengers. Laurie walks in the middle of a group of about twenty; she couldn’t stand out more clearly if she were wearing a halo. I have an urge to nudge the guy next to me and say, “I don’t know who you’re waiting for, loser, but that one is mine.” It’s an urge I stifle.

I’m not big on airport arrival hugs, but Laurie gives me a big one, and I accept it graciously. I ask, “How was your flight?”-a witty line I picked up from our LA driver. Laurie shares my general disdain for chitchat, so by the time we’re in the car, she’s questioning me about the recent events.

“Are you going to take the case?” This is the key question for her, since as my main investigator it will determine how she spends the next few months of her life.

“I don’t know; I haven’t heard the evidence yet.”

“I’m not saying he’s guilty,” she says, “but they wouldn’t go after a high-profile guy like that unless they felt they had a strong case. And he didn’t help himself by turning his house into the Alamo.”

What she’s saying is certainly true. On the other hand, “Willie says he’s innocent.”

“Willie might be slightly biased,” she points out. She’s referring to both the fact that Schilling is his friend and also the fact that Willie himself is a walking example of a law enforcement mistake. As a wrongly convicted man Willie has less than full confidence in the justice system.

Laurie has other questions, and almost on cue, Kevin calls me on my cell phone with some of the answers. None of it is good. At the arraignment on Monday morning Schilling is to be charged with first-degree murder. To make matters worse, Dylan Campbell has been assigned to prosecute the case. Dylan is difficult and obnoxious, which would be okay if he weren’t also tough and smart.

And Dylan will have a more personal incentive to win. Last year Laurie was herself on trial for the murder of a Paterson Police lieutenant, her boss in the days that she was on the force. I defended her and won her acquittal, despite Dylan’s vigorous prosecution. It was a high-profile trial, and I have no doubt he’s been lying in wait to kick my ass on another case.

Dylan refused to give Kevin a preview of their evidence, despite the fact that they will have to turn it over in discovery early next week. It is a confirmation of how contentious this case will be, which on one level makes me more eager to tackle it. I would take great pleasure in beating Dylan again, but it would be nice to know if I have a shred of evidence to utilize.

Laurie doesn’t even want to stop off at her place; she wants to come home with me. The way we’ve structured our living arrangements is to have our own homes while staying together Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday nights. It’s flexible, but since today is Friday, I’m glad we’re not exercising that flexibility tonight.

Camped out in front of my house when we pull up are half a dozen media types, with two camera trucks. The thirst for news on this case is going to be unquenchable, and Schilling’s lawyer will be a permanent source. Since I am that lawyer, at least for now, I’ve got to get used to it and learn to use it to my advantage.

I pull the car into the garage, and Laurie goes inside while I go outside to speak to the press. I’ve got nothing whatsoever to tell them, especially since I don’t yet know the facts of the case. The last thing I want is to blow my future credibility by saying something that turns out to be wrong.

“Listen,” I say, “I just came out to tell you that I have no comment. And I thought you’d want to hear that in time to change the front-page headline.”

Karen Spivey, a reporter who’s covered the court beat far longer than I, is the only one of the group to laugh. “Thanks, Andy. We can always count on you.”

“Glad I can help. And you’re welcome to sit out here as long as you like, but I’m going to be in there sleeping.”

They take that as a signal that they can safely leave without missing any breaking news, and pack up to leave. I go inside, and Laurie and I are in bed within fifteen minutes, including the five minutes she spends petting Tara. Laurie turns on CNN, which would not have been my first choice. SEX would have been my first choice. But Laurie didn’t get to follow the news much the last few days, and she apparently wants to let Larry King bring her up-to-date on what’s happening in the world.

Ol’ Larry proves to be quite the aphrodisiac, because within ten minutes the TV is off and Laurie and I are making love. We’ve only been together for two years, and maybe there will come a time when I take our physical relationship for granted, but I can’t imagine when.

I’m just about to doze off when she says, “I really love you, Andy. It’s important to me that you know that.”

Something about the way she says it worries me, but I can’t figure out why. It’s the same feeling I had when I talked to her on the phone, and I briefly consider whether to reveal my concern. “I love you too” is what winds up coming out. I am Andy, master conversationalist.

Kevin phones the next morning to suggest that he come to the house to discuss our plans for the case. It’s Saturday, so he says it’s more comfortable than going to the office. He doesn’t mention that this will also provide him with an opportunity to eat Laurie’s French toast and to act surprised when she offers to make it.

While he is inhaling his breakfast, we do little more than acknowledge the fact that there is nothing we can effectively do until the arraignment. Laurie sits in on our conversation, a tacit acceptance of the job as investigator for our team.

We turn on the television, since that seems to be our main source of news, and receive another jolt. An anonymous source within the prosecution has leaked the fact that Kenny failed the drug test administered after his arrest. If this is true, and it probably is, it would mean that Kenny lied to me, not a good way to start a lawyer-almost-client relationship.

I’m torn about whether I want to handle this case at all. On its face it seems a near-certain loser, mainly because there is a very substantial chance Kenny is guilty. My financial and professional situation is such that I have little stomach for securing the release of people who shoot other people and stuff them in closets.

On the other hand, I don’t know that Kenny is guilty, and this case represents a chance to get back into the action. Ever since the Willie Miller trial, I have been very selective in picking my clients, with the result being a lot of downtime. It’s been three months since I’ve been in a courtroom, and I can feel the juices starting to flow. The fact that I could be taking on Dylan is an added, competitive benefit.

Once Kevin leaves, Tara and I take a ride over to the building that houses the Tara Foundation, the dog rescue operation that Willie and I run. More accurately, Willie and I finance it, and Willie and his wife, Sondra, run it. It’s a labor of love for them, and I’ve loved helping them rescue and place over six hundred dogs in our first year.

As we enter, Willie and Sondra are behind the desk while a young couple gets to know one of the dogs, a large yellow Lab mix named Ben. They are sitting on the floor and playing with him, unknowingly making a good impression on Willie, Sondra, and me in the process. As a general rule, people who get on the floor with dogs provide them with good homes.

I overhear Sondra talking to Willie before they see me. “Samuel Jackson?” she says. “Are you out of your mind?”

Apparently, Willie is nearing a final casting decision. Sondra sees me and tries to enlist me in her cause. “Andy, tell him that Samuel Jackson is old enough to be his father.”

“Samuel Jackson is old enough to be your father,” I say as instructed.

“Then what about Danny Glover?” Willie persists.

“Damn,” says Sondra. “Danny Glover is old enough to be Samuel Jackson’s father.”

Willie is getting frustrated, so he turns to me. “You got any ideas?”

I nod. “Sidney Poitier.”

“Who’s he?” asks Willie, and Sondra shares his baffled expression.

“A new guy,” I say. “But he has potential.”

I go off to pet the dogs that have not yet been adopted, and then Tara and I head home. Starting Monday, I’m going to be totally focused on the Schilling case, and until then I’m going to be totally focused on the NBA play-offs.

Between now and tomorrow there are six games, culminating in the Knicks-Pacers game tomorrow night. All the games have betting lines and are therefore totally watchable. I have gotten so used to betting on these games that sometimes I wonder if I’m actually a basketball fan anymore. Would I be watching if I couldn’t wager? I’m confident I’d watch the Knicks, but would I care if Detroit beats Orlando? I’m not sure why, but these are somewhat disconcerting issues to contemplate.

The flip side is even more worrisome. If I could gamble on other events, currently exempt, would I automatically become a fan of those events? If I could wager on ballet, would I be pulling for the team in green tutus? And what about opera? If I could bet that the fat lady would sing before the fat guy, would I become an opera buff?

I’ve got to get control of myself and erase these self-doubts. The last thing I ever want to do is ask my bookie if he has a wagering line on the Joffrey or an over/under on how many haircuts will be given by the barber of Seville.

Tara is a help to me at times like this. She gets me to focus on that which is important: the beer, the potato chips, the dog biscuits, and the couch. I’ve taught her to fetch the remote control, and her soft golden retriever mouth never damages it.

Laurie’s having dinner with some of her girlfriends tonight and then coming over tomorrow to spend the day. She doesn’t seem to be acting strangely anymore, and I would spend time reflecting on how pleased I am by that if I didn’t have to watch these games…

* * * * *

LAURIE COMES INTO the room carrying a blanket. That’s not what’s worrying me. What’s worrying me is that she also has two pillows. I have to assume that she intends for my head to be occupying one of them, which is a problem, because it’s Sunday evening and I have other plans for my head. At least for the next two hours.

“Let’s go,” she says, instantly confirming my fears.

“Go where?”

“Outside. It starts in less than half an hour.” I think she can tell from my blank expression that I have no idea what she is talking about, so she explains. “The eclipse, Andy. Remember?”

I do remember, at least partly. I remember that Laurie had said an eclipse was coming and that it would be really nice if we could lie outside and watch it together. Unfortunately, it never entered my mind that God would have scheduled an eclipse at the same time the Knicks were in their first play-off game in four years.

My mind races for a solution; there must be something it can instruct my mouth to say to get me off this literally astronomical hook. “Now? The eclipse is now?” Suffice it to say, I was hoping to come up with something stronger.

“Eight-thirty-one,” she says, since eclipses are really precise things.

“Just about the beginning of the second quarter,” I say. “Talk about your coincidences.”

“Andy, if you’d rather watch the basketball game…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but based on her tone, an appropriate finish would be, “then you can kiss my ass.”

“No, it’s not that,” I lie. “It’s just that it’s a play-off game, and it’s the Knicks. How often does that happen?”

“The next eclipse won’t happen for over four hundred years,” she counters.

I shake my head. “That’s what they say, but don’t believe it. They always announce that the next one won’t come until 2612, so everybody goes out to see it, but then there’s another one two weeks later. The whole thing is a scam.”

“Who’s doing the scamming?” she asks, a slight gleam in her eye, which could mean that she’s either secretly finding this amusing or planning to kill me.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “It could be the telescope industry, or maybe blanket and pillow manufacturers. But take it from me, these people are not to be trusted.”

“I’ve got an idea,” she says. “Why don’t you tape it?”

“Great!” I say enthusiastically. “I didn’t even know you could tape an eclipse.”

Her expression turns serious; banter time is over. “Andy, we need to talk.”

Maybe there’s a more ominous phrase in the English language than “We need to talk.” Perhaps “Michael Corleone says hello.” Or maybe “I’m afraid the test results are back.” But right now what Laurie just said is enough to send spasms of panic through my gut.

I could be overreacting. Maybe it’s not so bad. “We need to talk.” That’s what people do, they talk, right? But the thing is, a talk is like a drink. It’s fine unless you need to have it. Then it’s a major problem. And I’ve got a feeling Laurie is going to play the U.S. Air Force to my Republican Guard and drop a cluster bomb in the middle of my life.

I take a pillow from Laurie and follow her outside. Tara trails along; she clearly considers this “talk” potentially more entertaining than the Knicks game. We don’t say anything as we align the blanket and pillows to view the stupid eclipse. I’m so intent on what is about to be said that if the sun and moon collided, I wouldn’t notice.

“The sky’s clear; we should be able to see it really well,” she says.

Is she going to chitchat first? I swallow the watermelon in my throat. “What is it you wanted to talk about?” I ask.

“Andy…” is how she starts, which is already a bad sign. I’m the only other person here, so if she feels she has to specify whom she’s talking to, it must mean that what she has to say is very significant. “Andy, you know that my father and mother split up when I was fifteen.”

I wait without speaking, partially because I am aware of her parents’ divorce, but mainly because I want this to go as fast as possible.

“My father got custody simply because my mother didn’t contest it. She no longer wanted a family-I don’t know and it doesn’t really matter why-and he made it easy for her. He found a job here and took me with him. One day I was living in Findlay, and the next day I wasn’t. I literally never even said goodbye to my friends.”

She takes a deep breath. “And I never went back. Not once. Not even a phone call. My mother died five years ago without me seeing or talking to her. That’s how she wanted it, and it was fine with me.”

With her voice cracking as she says this, it doesn’t take a keenly analytical mind to know that it wasn’t really fine with her.

She goes on. “In the process I cut off from my friends, my boyfriend at the time, everybody. I’m sure they must have heard where I had gone, but they wouldn’t have had any way to contact me, and I certainly never contacted them. I never even considered it.”

“Until this weekend” is my first verbal contribution.

She nods. “Until this weekend. I’ve been nervous about going back, but when I saw how it was for you to get back into this house… I know it’s different because you never left this area… but it gave me extra motivation.

“And it was wonderful,” she continues. “Better than I could have imagined. Not just seeing my old friends, though that was great. It was about going home, about reconnecting with how I became who I am. I even met three cousins I never knew. I have family, Andy.”

“That’s great,” I say.

“I was stunned by the impact the whole thing had on me, Andy. When I drove past my grammar school, I started to cry.”

That impact and the resulting emotions are clear as a bell, and it makes me feel for her. For a moment I even stop thinking about myself and how whatever is going to be said will affect me. But only for a moment.

“I had a boyfriend named Sandy. Sandy Walsh.”

“Uh-oh,” I say involuntarily.

“He’s a businessman and sort of an unelected consultant to the town.”

“Married?”

“A less significant question would be hard to imagine,” Laurie says, “but no, he’s not married.”

I simply cannot stand the suspense anymore. “Laurie,” I say, “I’m a little nervous about where this is going, and you know how anxious I am to watch the eclipse, so can you get to the bottom line?”

She nods. “Sandy talked to the city manager, and they offered me a job. They’ve been aware of my career; I’m like a mini-hometown hero. A captain’s position is going to be opening up on the police force, and Chief Helling is approaching retirement age. If all goes well, I could be chief of police within two years. It’s not a huge department, but there are twelve officers, and they do real police work.”

Kaboom.

“You’re moving back to Findlay?” I ask.

“Right now all I’m doing is talking to you about it. The captain’s slot won’t open for at least three months, so Sandy is giving me plenty of time. He knows what a big decision this is.”

“That Sandy’s a sensitive guy,” I marvel.

“Andy, please don’t react this way. I’m talking to you because I trust you and I love you.”

Her words function as a temporary petulance-remover. “I’m sorry, I’ll try to be understanding, and a person for you to talk to, but I just don’t want you to leave. We can talk for the next twelve years, and I still won’t want you to leave.”

“You know how much I’ve wanted to get back into police work,” she says, “and in a position like that, I could really make a difference.”

Laurie was working for the Paterson Police Department when she told what she knew about the crooked lieutenant she was working for. When the issue was whitewashed, she left in protest. Her family has been in police work for generations, and she’s never felt fully comfortable with leaving. “You make a difference here, Laurie.”

“Thank you, but this is different. And you could be the best attorney in Findlay,” she says. Her smile says she’s kidding, but only slightly. “I had forgotten what an amazingly wonderful place it is to live.”

“So you want me to move to Findlay?” I ask, my voice betraying more incredulousness than I would have liked, but less than I feel. “Is good old Sandy offering me the town justice of the peace job? Great! You arrest the jaywalkers, and I’ll put ’em away for good. And then on Saturday nights we can get all dressed up, head down to the bakery, and watch the new bread-slicing machine.”

“Andy, please. I’m not saying you should move. I’m not even saying I should move. I’m just putting everything on the table.” She looks up from this grass table just as the eclipse is starting. “God, that’s spectacular,” she says.

“Yippee-skippee,” I say. “Now I can’t wait for 2612.”

* * * * *

THREE SECONDS AFTER I wake up I have that awful feeling. It’s the one where you’ve forgotten something really bad while you were asleep, and the sudden remembrance of it in the morning is like experiencing it fresh all over again. Why doesn’t that happen with good things?

Laurie may leave. That is a simple fact; I can’t change it. Or if I can change it, I don’t know how, which is almost as bad.

A number of months ago we talked about marriage. She didn’t feel she needed it, but loved me and was willing to marry if it was important to me. I didn’t force the issue, but what if I had? How would it impact on this situation, on her decision? Would she even consider leaving her husband behind?

But we’re not married, and I’m not her husband, so what the hell is the difference?

I know it’s immature, but the chances of my taking on Kenny Schilling’s case just went up very substantially. I need something else to think about, and the total focus and intensity of a murder case and trial are a perfect diversion.

I can feel this diversion start to take effect as I arrive at the courthouse for the arraignment. The streets surrounding the place are mobbed with press, and this will not change for the duration of the case. Clearly, the public view is that Kenny is guilty. This is true not because he is widely disliked; in fact, he’s been a fairly popular player. The fact is that the public always assumes that if someone is charged with a crime, then he or she is guilty. While our system purports to have a presumption of innocence, the public has a presumption of guilt. Unfortunately, the public makes up the jury.

I have to confess that this sentiment against Kenny also contributes to my desire to represent him. Great basketball players like Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, and Kobe Bryant have always said that what they love most is winning on the road, against the odds in hostile environments. I can’t shoot a jump shot into the Passaic River, but I know what they mean. It’s not something I’m necessarily proud of, but the legal “game” is more fun, more challenging, when I’m expected to lose.

Kevin and I meet with Kenny in an anteroom before the arraignment. He’s more composed than he was in the jail, more anxious to know what he can do to help in his own defense. I tell him to write down everything he can remember about his relationship with Troy Preston, whether or not he thinks a particular detail is important.

I describe what will take place during the arraignment. It’s basically a formality and one in which Kenny’s only role will be to plead. The rest will be up to me, although in truth my role is limited as well. This is the prosecution’s day, and Dylan will try to make as much of it as possible.

The judge who has been assigned is Susan Timmerman, who coincidentally presided over the arraignment the last time Dylan and I tangled. She is a fair, deliberate jurist who can handle sessions like today’s in her sleep. I would be quite content if she is assigned the actual trial, but that will be decided by lottery sometime down the road.

Dylan does not come over to exchange pleasantries before the session begins, and seems to avoid eye contact as well. I say “seems to” because not being an eye-contacter myself, I can’t be sure. I’m not even positive what eye contact is, but Laurie says you know it when you see it. Of course, it’s hard for me to see it, because I don’t do it.

The gallery is packed, and Kenny’s wife, Tanya, sits right behind us, a seat I assume and hope she’ll be in every day of the trial. I also see a few of Kenny’s teammates in the third row. That’s good; their abandoning him would be a major negative in the eyes of the public. And as I said, twelve members of that public are going to be the jurors in this case.

Dylan presents the charges, and I can see Kenny flinch slightly when he hears them. The State of New Jersey is charging Kenny Schilling with murder in the first degree, as well as an assortment of lesser offenses. They are also alleging special circumstances, which is New Jersey’s subtle way of saying that if it prevails, it will pay someone to stick a syringe in Kenny’s arm and kill him.

There is a slight tremor in Kenny’s voice when he proclaims himself not guilty, and I can’t say I blame him. If I were charged with a crime like this, I’d probably croak like a frog. Kenny is used to being applauded and revered. New Jersey is calling him a brutal murderer, and the worst thing that’s been said about him before this is that he has a tendency to fumble more than he should.

Judge Timmerman informs us that a trial judge will be assigned next week, then asks if we have anything we need to bring up.

I rise. “There is the matter of discovery, Your Honor. We’ve discovered that the prosecutor does not seem to believe in it. They have not turned over a single document to us.”

Dylan rises to his feet, a wounded expression on his face. “Your Honor, the defense will receive what they are due in a timely manner. The arrest took place on Friday, and this is Monday morning.”

I respond quickly. “Since I had no evidence to examine, Your Honor, I spent some time over the weekend looking at the rules of discovery, and it quite clearly states that the prosecution must turn over documents as they receive them, even if, God forbid, it interferes with their weekend. I might add that they were able to find the time during that same weekend to provide information to the media. Perhaps if I had a press pass, I would have a better chance of getting the information the discovery statute requires.”

Judge Timmerman turns to Dylan. “I must say I was concerned by the amount of information available in the media.”

Dylan is embarrassed, a state I would like to keep him in as much as possible. “I do not countenance leaks to the press, Your Honor, and I am doing all I can to prevent it.”

I decide to push it and agitate Dylan even more. “May we inquire what that is, Your Honor?”

Judge Timmerman asks, “What are you talking about?”

“Well, Mr. Campbell has just said that he is doing all he can to prevent leaks. Since he’s obviously failed, I would like to know exactly what affirmative steps he’s taken. Perhaps you and I can give him some advice and make him better at it in the process.”

Dylan blows his top on cue, ranting and raving about his own trustworthiness and his outrage at my attacking it. Judge Timmerman calms the situation down, then instructs Dylan to start providing discovery materials today.

“Is there anything else we need to discuss?” she asks, clearly hoping that the answer will be no. I could come up with other diversions, but that’s all they would be, and they really wouldn’t divert. The fact is, I could strip naked, jump on the defense table, and sing “Mammy,” and it wouldn’t be the lead story on the news tonight. The lead will be that Kenny Schilling, star running back for the Giants, is facing the death penalty.

It takes me twenty minutes to get through the assembled press outside the courthouse. I’ve changed my standard “No comment” to an even more eloquent and memorable “We’re completely confident we will prevail at trial.”

Winston Churchill, eat your heart out.

* * * * *

THE FIRST MESSAGE on my call sheet when I get back to the office is from Walter Simmons of the New York Giants. I have to look twice at the sheet before I can believe it. The New York Giants are calling me, Andy Carpenter.

I have been waiting for this call since I was seven years old. But is it too late? I’m almost forty; can I still break tackles like I used to? How will I handle the rigors of two-a-day practices? Can I still run the down-and-out, or is my body down-and-out? All I can do is give it a hundred and ten percent, and maybe, just maybe, I can lead my beloved Giants to victory and…

There’s just one problem. I’ve never heard of Walter Simmons. If he were involved with the football side of the operation, I would know the name. I can feel the air go out of my balloon; the love handles resting on my hips are actually starting to deflate.

I call Simmons back, and my worst fears are confirmed: He is the Giants’ vice president of legal affairs. “I’d like to talk to you about this matter with Kenny Schilling,” he says.

“You mean the matter in which he is on trial for his life?”

He doesn’t react to my sarcasm. “That’s the very one.”

He wants to meet in his office at Giants Stadium, but I’m pretty busy, so I tell him he can come to me. He doesn’t really want to, and I must admit that the prospect wouldn’t thrill me either, since my office doesn’t inspire much in the way of respect and awe. It’s a three-room dump in a second-floor walk-up over a fruit stand. Everybody tells me I need to upgrade our office space, which is probably why I don’t.

Simmons and I wrangle over the meeting location for a brief while until I come up with the perfect solution.

We can meet at Giants Stadium. On the fifty-yard line.

My drive to the stadium takes about twenty-five minutes, and a security guard is in the empty parking lot to greet me. He takes me in through the players’ entrance, which allows me another three or four minutes of solid fantasizing. Before I know it, I’m on the field, walking toward the fifty-yard line. A man who must be Walter Simmons, dressed in a suit and tie, walks from the other sideline to meet me at midfield. It’s as if we’re coming out for the coin toss.

A group of players is on the field, in sweat suits without pads. They’re throwing some balls around, jogging, doing minor calisthenics. A placekicker booms field goals from the forty-yard line. These are no doubt voluntary off-season workouts; the serious stuff is a good month away.

Of all the people on the field, Walter Simmons is the only one I could outrun. He looks to be in his early sixties, with a healthy paunch that indicates he’s probably first on line for the pregame meal. He’s got a smile on his face as he watches me react to these surroundings.

“Not bad, huh?” he asks. “I come down here fairly often. It brings me back to my youth.”

“Were you a football player?”

He grins again. “I can’t remember. At my age, after lying about my athletic exploits for so many years, I’m not sure what’s true and what isn’t. But I certainly never played in a place like this.”

One player on the field overthrows another, and the next thing I know there is a football at my feet. I pick it up to throw it, glancing toward the sidelines just in case a coach is watching. This could be my chance.

I rear back and throw the ball as far as I can. It is the kind of effort for which the term “wounded duck” was coined. Perhaps even more accurately, it flops around in the air like an exhausted fish on the end of a hook, then falls unceremoniously to the ground fifteen yards in front of the intended receiver. Neither Simmons nor the receiver laughs at me, but I still want to dig a hole in the end zone and lie down next to Jimmy Hoffa.

“That’s what happens when I don’t warm up,” I say.

“How long would it take you to get warm?”

I shrug. “I should be ready about the time of the next eclipse. What’s on your mind?”

What’s on his mind of course is Kenny Schilling. The Giants are in the uncomfortable position of having given him a huge contract, one befitting a star, two weeks before he is arrested for murder. Not exactly a PR man’s dream.

But Simmons says that the Giants are standing behind him, financially and otherwise, and are in fact paying his salary while he deals with the accusations. “He’s a terrific person and has never given us a day of trouble since we drafted him.”

“And he can run the forty in 4.35,” I point out.

He nods at the truthfulness of that statement. “Of course. We’re a football team. If he was built like me or threw the ball like you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“I’m still not sure why we are having it,” I say.

“Because we can be helpful to you,” he says. “The league and the Giants have substantial security operations. We might possibly have better access to certain people than you would. We are prepared to do whatever we can, within reason, of course.”

“And in return?” I ask.

“We would like a heads-up if things are going to break in such a way that the organization will be embarrassed.”

“While respecting lawyer-client confidentiality.” He’s a lawyer; he knows I’m not going to reveal more than is proper.

“Of course.”

We shake hands on the deal, which I am willing to do since I’ve given up absolutely nothing and gotten something in return. I decide to test him right away. “Can you get me a list of the players Kenny was closest to?”

“I’ll have our people get started on it. We’ll also put out the word that they should talk to you, but of course, we can’t force them.”

I push it a little further. “Actually, you do a lot of personal research on players before you draft them, right?”

“You’d be amazed how much.”

“Then I’d like everything you have on Kenny.”

“No problem,” he says.

I’m starting to like this feeling of power. “Any chance you can get the information the Jets have on Troy Preston?”

“I’ll try. I think that information might be helpful. I don’t know the specifics, but I believe Preston was a problem.”

I press him for more information, but he professes not to have any. I thank him for his time, then turn with a flourish and trot to the sidelines, imagining the crowd roaring in appreciation of my spectacular touchdown pass.

I’ve got a really strong imagination.

When I get back to the office, Tanya Schilling, Kenny’s wife, is waiting for me. I had asked Edna to set up an appointment with her, but I characteristically forgot about it.

Tanya is a strikingly beautiful young woman and one who radiates a strength that belies her diminutive size. “Mr. Carpenter, I know you hear this from every client you’ve ever had, but I’m going to say it anyway. Kenny is innocent. He simply could not have done this.”

I know that she is telling me the truth as she sees it, but that doesn’t make it the truth. “He’s got an uphill struggle,” I say.

She nods. “Let me tell you a story about Kenny. When he was eight years old, he woke up one morning in his apartment and found the police there. His mother had reached under her bed and was bitten during the night by a neighbor’s pet snake. It had gotten loose and somehow made it into the Schillings’ apartment. The police asked her why she didn’t call them during the night when it happened, and she said it was because in the dark she assumed she had been bitten by a rat. That’s the kind of neighborhood Kenny grew up in. So uphill struggles don’t scare him; they’re the story of his life.”

“That is indescribably awful,” I say, “but this may be tougher.”

She nods. “But he’ll come out on top. Usually, he does it on his own; sometimes we do it together. This time we need you to help us.”

I ask her some questions about Kenny and his relationship with Troy Preston but get basically the same answers that Kenny gave me. By the time Tanya leaves, I’m very impressed by her, and by extension impressed that Kenny was able to get her to marry him.

Laurie arrives a few minutes later, and once again I get a mini-electric jolt of remembrance that she may be leaving. We’ve agreed not to discuss it for a while, but rather to sit with it and let our feelings settle. Patient introspection is not my strong point, so my approach is to let work push everything else in my head out of the way. Seeing Laurie makes that very difficult.

Laurie is here to discuss the case and find out what I want her investigation to cover. In these early stages I’m interested in three basic things. The first is Troy Preston, especially after Simmons’s comment at Giants Stadium. The second is Kenny Schilling; it is absolutely imperative to know who the client is, warts and all, before he can be properly defended. The third is the relationship between the two men, and whether or not there is anything there that Dylan can claim to be a motive for murder.

Kevin comes in just as the first discovery documents arrive. They’re mostly police reports, detailing the actions of the officers on the scene when Kenny turned Upper Saddle River into the O.K. Corral. The reports are devastating but not surprising; we already knew how Kenny acted under that pressure.

Just as bad are the reports concerning the disappearance of Troy Preston. Preston was seen leaving the bar with Kenny, which we knew. What we didn’t know is that Kenny’s car was found abandoned in the woods just across the Jersey border in New York State, not far from Upper Saddle River. Worse yet, there were no fingerprints in the car other than Kenny’s and Preston’s, and Preston left behind another calling card: specks of his blood.

To complete the trifecta, Kenny’s blood tested positive for the stimulant Rohypnol, and Preston’s did as well. Dylan and the police obviously believe that the drugs are tied into the motive for the killing, but that belief is not, and does not have to be, detailed in these reports. I make a note to myself to find out everything I can about the drug and to confront my client with the evidence that he lied to me about taking it.

It’s strange that I’ve begun to think of Kenny as my client on a more permanent basis. Catching him in this lie about the drugs might have disqualified him at this stage, and I would have helped him secure other counsel. But I seem to want to continue, be it because of the diversion from my worries about Laurie or because of my competitive nature vis-à-vis Dylan.

This analysis of my decision to keep Kenny as a client is typical of my version of introspection, which consists of thinking about myself in the third person. It’s as if I’m saying, “I wonder why he’s thinking like that” or “I wonder why he did that.” The “he” in these sentences is me.

I generally don’t do even this pathetic introspection for very long. If it becomes too painful, if I discover too much about myself, I shrug and say, “That’s his problem,” and move on.

* * * * *

SOMEHOW during the night, I come up with a brilliant theory. And unlike most ideas that come in dreams, this one holds up in the light of morning.

That’s the good news. The bad news is that the theory has nothing to do with the Schilling case. It has to do with football.

My fantasy on the Giants Stadium field yesterday centered on my making the team as a running back or wide receiver, and even my delusional mind knows that is impossible.

I’m going to make it as a placekicker.

Think about this. There are at least two dozen behemoths on every pro roster, weighing in excess of three hundred pounds and able to bench-press Argentina. Yet the kicker is always a little guy, about the size of a late night snack for a defensive lineman.

This leads me to the inescapable conclusion that strength is not a significant factor in placekicking. If it were, then the strongest guys, and not the weakest, would be doing it. What must be necessary to succeed is technique, which the little guys have taken the time to master. There must be a trick to the leg swing, or the body-lean into the ball, or something.

Now, as far as I can tell, there is no reason a thirty-nine-year-old lawyer can’t learn the technique. I’m a smart guy; I’ll get somebody to teach me, and I’ll practice until I’ve got it down pat. I don’t know if the Gramatica brothers can learn torts, but I sure as hell can master a leg sweep.

So now I’ve got a plan. I get Kenny acquitted, and the very grateful Giants offer me a tryout before next season, which gives me months to learn the technique. I become a football hero, and Laurie stays and becomes head cheerleader. The only flaw in that plan is the “Kenny acquitted” part, since I have no idea how the hell to do that.

I get to the office at nine o’clock, a little late for me, but a little early for the shock I receive. Edna is already in and brewing coffee. Eclipses happen with considerably greater frequency than Edna getting in before ten, and I didn’t know she knew where the coffeemaker was.

A casually dressed man of about twenty-five sits across from Edna, and they have a New York Times open on the table between them. She seems to be lecturing him on the intricacies of crossword puzzle solving, a speech she is uniquely qualified to give. Edna is to crossword puzzles what Gretzky was to hockey, alone on a level above all possible competition.

Edna finally notices that I’ve come in, and she reluctantly pauses in her tutorial to introduce the stranger as Adam Strickland. He’s the writer the studio sent to get to know us and see how we operate so that he can write the screenplay more effectively and accurately. I had forgotten he was even coming, and now very sorry that he did. One thing I don’t need now is a distraction from the case.

Adam apologizes for coming on such short notice, though he did call yesterday afternoon. I wasn’t in, but Edna took the call, hence her early arrival.

I invite Adam back into my office. As he gets up, Edna asks, “Do you want me to type up a summary of what we talked about?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve got it.” He smiles and holds up the pad on which he’s been taking notes.

Edna lowers her voice slightly, wary of my overhearing, which I do anyway. “The point is, it’s never been done.”

Adam nods in agreement. “It’s Rocky with a pencil. Thanks for the coffee.”

Edna smiles, confident that she’s gotten her message through. On the way back to my office I stop and get my own coffee. “Rocky with a pencil?” I ask.

“Right,” he says. “Edna was pitching me an idea for a script. It’s about a young girl who grows up with a dream to be the best crossword puzzle player in America. Winds up winning the national title and representing America against the Russian champion in the Olympics.”

“I didn’t know crossword puzzling was an Olympic sport,” I say.

He nods. “She knows the idea needs a little work.”

I take a sip of Edna’s coffee, which is not the greatest way to start the day. It tastes like kerosene, though I doubt kerosene is this lumpy. “Your coming at this time may be a little awkward,” I say.

“Because of the Schilling case?” he asks.

“Yes. I assume you want to observe us, but everything you’d observe would be protected by client privilege. Which means you aren’t allowed to hear it.”

“I thought you’d say that. I may have come up with a solution.”

“I can’t imagine how you could,” I say.

“A close friend of mine is a lawyer, and I talked to him about it. Here’s the plan: You have people that work here that aren’t lawyers, right? Like Edna, or maybe outside investigators. They are bound by the privilege because they work for you, right?”

“Right,” I say, immediately seeing where he’s going.

“So hire me. Pay me a dollar to be your investigator. I’ll be covered by the privilege, and I’ll sign a confidentiality pledge that only you or your client can release me from.”

Surprisingly, the idea is a good one, at least legally. But it’s not good enough to make me want to do it. I just don’t need someone hanging around during the intensity of a murder trial. On the other hand, I signed a contract and committed to this project, so I have an obligation.

“I have my doubts,” I say. “But I’ll talk to my client.”

“It would really mean a lot to me,” he says. “The Schilling case is real drama, you know? And depending on how it comes out, it’s a movie that can get made.”

“What about the Willie Miller case?” I ask. “Isn’t that a movie that will get made?”

He smiles. “I wish, but no way. It’s jerk-off time.”

He’s lost me. “Excuse me? Why is the studio buying it if they don’t plan to make it? Why would they pay you to write it?”

“You’re not going to like this, but think of movie production as a long pipeline,” he says. “Executives, some smart, some idiots, feed projects into the pipeline because they’ve been told the pipe is supposed to be filled. And that’s their job: They’re pipe fillers.”

“So?” is my probing question.

“So the problem is that the other end of the pipe leads to the sewer, which is where ninety-nine percent of the projects wind up.”

“But the theaters are filled with movies,” I point out.

He nods. “Right. Because every once in a while a big-shot producer or director or star punches a hole in the pipe and pulls out a project before it can get to the sewer. But once they do, they patch it back up so nothing else leaks out.”

“Have you ever had a movie made?”

He shakes his head. “Not even close. But the Schilling case could stay out of the sewer. It’s Pride of the Yankees meets In Cold Blood.”

“Do you always talk like that?”

“Pretty much. I’ve loved movies since I was a little kid, and there’s a movie that has dealt with just about every situation ever.”

“Except international crossword puzzle tournaments.”

He smiles. “Searching for Edna Fischer.”

I like this guy. He inhabits another world that coexists on the same planet as mine, but he seems to be honest, enthusiastic, and probably smart. “I’ll talk to Kenny. Can you give me a couple of days?”

He’s fine with that and leaves his number at the Manhattan hotel where he’s staying. “I love New York, and the studio’s paying, so take your time.”

“I recommend the mixed nuts from the minibar,” I say. “Only fourteen dollars, but there’s plenty of cashews.”

Adam leaves, and I open an envelope on my desk with the New York Giants’ logo on it. It’s a letter from Walter Simmons, confirming our discussion and telling me that the reams of information that the team has on Kenny will be sent shortly. He also lists Kenny’s closest friends on the team and assures me that they have been contacted and urged to cooperate.

Laurie’s out learning what she can about Troy Preston, so even though investigating is not my strong suit, I might as well start on this list. The first name on it isn’t even a player. It’s Bobby Pollard, one of the team’s trainers. Simmons has helpfully provided me with phone numbers and addresses, and Pollard’s wife, Teri, answers on the first ring.

I explain who I am, and she says that Bobby should be home soon and that she’ll call him and tell him I’m coming over. He’s distraught over what has happened to Kenny, and she’s sure he’d love to be able to help. We agree that I’ll be there in thirty minutes. This investigating stuff is not so tough after all.

The Pollards live in Fair Lawn, a nice little town adjacent to Paterson. Its size and location are such that it is really a suburb of Paterson, but the people of Fair Lawn would tend to strangle anyone who made such a reference. All northern New Jersey residents consider themselves connected to New York City, and certainly not to Paterson. This is despite the fact that Fair Lawn is heavily populated with former Patersonians, who escaped in a mass exodus in the sixties and seventies.

Teri Pollard is standing on the front porch of their modest home when I pull up. Her presence is the only thing that distinguishes this house from the others on the street, and as distinguishing features go, it’s a good one. Teri is very attractive in a comfortable, homespun way. I seem to be noticing attractive women more these days; am I getting in practice for a post-Laurie bachelor life?

Teri is also wearing a nurse’s uniform. “You’re a nurse?” I ask, checking to see if my deductive skills are working properly.

“Yes. Part-time. Most of the time I spend with Bobby.”

Teri’s smile matches the rest of her, and she invites me into the den. “Would you like something to drink? We have coffee, tea, soda, orange juice, grapefruit juice, and lemonade.”

“I’ll have a grande decaf cappuccino.” When Kramer said it to Elaine’s shrink on Seinfeld, it was funny, but Teri doesn’t react. I settle for coffee, and she goes off to get it, leaving me with nothing to do but look around the room.

It is definitely a football player’s room, and since Teri doesn’t look like the linebacker type, I assume that this is where Bobby sits and relives some past gridiron glories. The football pictures all show a young man in a high school uniform, so Bobby may have never made it to college ball. It’s surprising, because he appears to be a very large, very powerful young man, and just based on this room, it’s doubtful that his dedication to the sport waned.

There are a number of pictures of Bobby with Kenny Schilling, many in football uniform. All but one have them in “Passaic High” uniforms; in the exception their jerseys say “Inside Football” across the front. The pictures also reveal Bobby to be African-American, whereas Teri is white. I do a quick mental calculation and decide that they are young enough not to have encountered too much societal resistance to their union, though I’m sure some still exists.

Teri comes back with the coffee and sees me looking at the pictures. “Bobby was a great player,” she says, and then smiles sheepishly. “Not that I would necessarily know a great football player if I saw one, but everybody says he was terrific. The fact that he never played in the NFL with Kenny is something he hasn’t fully gotten over, though he’d never admit it.”

At that moment the door opens and Bobby comes in. He brings with him the solution to the mystery of why he gave up football, why he never played in the NFL. Bobby, powerful arms propelling his large frame, sits in a wheelchair. I have no idea what put him there, or when it happened, but the sight of him is an instantly saddening story of shattered dreams. It is also an explanation of why Teri is not a full-time nurse; Bobby must need some help getting around.

“Mr. Carpenter?” he asks, though I suppose Teri has already answered that question for him.

“Andy,” I say, and wait until he offers his hand before I walk over and shake it. His grip is powerful, his biceps enormous, and my mind processes the fact that this wheelchair-bound invalid could twist me into a pretzel. “Walter Simmons from the Giants gave me your name. He said you might be willing to talk to me about Kenny.”

“Kenny’s my best friend. I’ll help in any way I can.”

“I take it you don’t think he’s guilty.”

“No fucking way.”

Teri seems to cringe slightly from the language and excuses herself so that we can talk. As soon as she does, Bobby launches into a spirited defense of Kenny, whom he ranks as sort of a male, football-playing Mother Teresa.

“He’s the reason I have my job,” says Bobby. “He told the Giants that if they didn’t hire me, he’d become a free agent and move to a team that would. He wouldn’t back down, so they did.”

I doubt that the story is quite how Bobby describes it but it’s probably how he believes it. “How long have you known him?”

“Sophomore year in high school. That’s when I moved to Passaic and we met on the football field. I was the right guard. He ran right behind my ass for over a thousand yards that year and two thousand each of the next two. Still holds the Jersey state record. Kenny and I were both named high school all-Americans.”

Bobby and Teri were both at the bar the night that Preston was killed, and Bobby admits with reluctance that he saw Preston and Kenny leave together. He completely rejects any possibility that Kenny is the killer. “And I told that to the police,” he says. “I don’t think they wanted to hear it.”

The conversation moves back to Bobby’s own football career, mainly because that’s where he moves it. My guess is that pretty much every conversation he has moves to the same place. He talks about how he was going to attend Ohio State on a full football scholarship. That all came to an end when he was injured in a car crash.

“It happened in Spain,” he says. “I was taking a few weeks to travel through Europe. I was on one of those winding roads, and my car went over the edge. I haven’t been out of this chair since. If it happened here, with American doctors… who knows if it would have been different, you know?”

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Everything Bobby ever wanted disappeared when his car went a few inches off the side of the road. I can almost feel the disappointment in the air, weighing on him.

I’m relieved when the door opens and Teri comes in, still wearing her nurse’s uniform. She also has with her a young boy, whom she introduces as Jason, their seven-year-old son. Jason seems tall for his age and has none of his father’s offensive lineman bulk. He’s either going to be a wide receiver when he grows up or, if he takes after his mother, a nurse.

“I’m off to work, Bobby,” Teri says. “Don’t let Jason stay up too late.”

He smiles. “What do you mean? I thought we’d go out drinking tonight.” He taps Jason lightly in the ribs. “Right, big guy?” Jason taps him right back and mimics his “Right, big guy.” There seems to be an easy relationship between father and son.

Teri says goodbye to me and leaves. Once she’s out of the house, Bobby says, “She works like crazy and takes care of me and Jason. She’s unbelievable.”

“Can you drive?” I ask.

He nods. “Yup. They make hand controls for cars. But it’s still a hell of a lot easier when she’s with me. The team lets her come on road trips.”

Jason asks Bobby to read him a story, and I take advantage of the interruption to say my goodbyes.

I drive back home, no more enlightened about the facts of the case, but liking my client a little more. He has taken good care of this one friend, and on some level it makes it harder for me to believe he killed another one.

* * * * *

LAURIE MAKES MY favorite for dinner, pasta whatever. She seems to add anything lying around into the sauce, and somehow it turns out terrifically. The best part is, she never tells me the ingredients, since if I knew how healthful they were, I probably wouldn’t eat them.

We have an agreement that we never discuss business at home, but while we’re on a case, we break the agreement pretty much every night. Tonight is no exception, and during dinner she tells me about her initial efforts to investigate the life of Troy Preston.

Mostly working with her own contacts, the picture she’s getting of Preston is not a positive one. Word has it that he failed an NFL drug test last season. NFL policy is to put the failed player on probation and mandate counseling. The infraction remains secret until the second offense, at which point there is a four-week suspension. The prosecution’s postmortem blood test on Preston indicated that he would have failed another test had one been scheduled any time soon. That’s not something he needs to worry about now.

The Jets, according to Laurie’s sources, were very worried about Preston and felt that drug use was responsible for his mediocre performance last season. He was never more than an adequate reserve anyway, and with his knee injury he was in danger of being cut from the squad this year.

After dinner we go into the living room, put on an Eagles CD, open a bottle of chardonnay, and read. I had run a Lexis-Nexis search on Kenny, which through the miracle of computers allows me to access pretty much everything that has been written about him. Edna has pared it down to everything not related to game performances, leaving me with a thick book of material to go through.

Laurie reads a mystery, one of probably a hundred she reads every year. It surprises me, because solving mysteries is what she does for a living. I’m a lawyer, and trust me, when I have spare time, you won’t catch me reading The Alan Dershowitz Story.

Tara takes her spot on the couch between us. Music seems to put her in a mellow mood, which Laurie and I augment by simultaneously petting her. My assigned zone is the top of her head, while Laurie focuses on scratching Tara’s stomach.

Laurie and I haven’t discussed her possible move back to Findlay since the night of that stupid eclipse. I keep forming sentences to address it, but none of them sound right while taking the route to my mouth, so I don’t let them out.

“This is so nice,” Laurie says with total accuracy.

I need to let her feel how nice this is without saying anything about the possibility of her leaving and ruining it. I have to let her deal with this on her own; my advocating a position is not going to help. “It is nice,” I agree. “Completely nice. Totally nice. As long as you and I and Tara live here in New Jersey, we will have this permanent niceness.” In case you haven’t noticed by now, I’m an idiot.

“Andy…,” she says in a gentle admonishment. Then, “I do love you, you know.”

“I know,” I lie, since that is no longer something I know. I’ve pretty much broken it down to a simple proposition: If she stays, she loves me; if she leaves, she doesn’t.

Usually, we have CNN on as background noise, but lately, we’re unable to do that because their policy seems to be “all Kenny Schilling, all the time.” Nobody on these shows has any knowledge whatsoever about the case, but that doesn’t stop them from predicting a conviction.

I get up and walk around the house, bringing my wineglass with me. I grew up in this house, then lived in two apartments and two houses before coming back here. I could barely describe anything about those other places, yet I know every square inch of this house. Even when I wasn’t living here, it was completely vivid in my mind.

No matter what I look at, the memories come flooding back. Wiffle ball games, playing gin with my father, stoopball, trying a puff of a cigarette in the basement, eating my mother’s cinnamon cake, having the Silvers, our next-door neighbors, over to watch baseball games on TV… my history was played out here. I left it behind me once, and I won’t do so again.

I am painfully aware that Laurie’s history is in Findlay. Not in a house, maybe, and I’m sure that her memories aren’t as relentlessly pleasant as are mine. But it is where she became who she is, and she’s being drawn back to it. I understand it all too well.

I need to stop thinking about it. She will make her decision, one way or the other, and that will be that. If my mother were alive, she would say, “Whatever happens, it’s all for the best.” I never believed it when she used to say it, and I don’t believe it now. If Laurie leaves, it will not be for the best. It will be unacceptably awful, but I will accept it. Kicking and screaming, I will accept it.

I wake up in the morning resolved to focus on nothing but Kenny Schilling. My first stop is out to the jail to talk with him. He’s less anxious and frightened than the last time I saw him, but more withdrawn and depressed. These are common reactions, and they must have something to do with the self-protective nature of the human mind.

I begin by telling him that I have decided to stay on his case, though he had always assumed that I would. I lay out my considerable fees for him, and he nods without any real reaction at all. Money is not an issue for him right now, though until a month ago he was a relatively low-paid player. The Giants are sticking with him and paying him according to his huge new contract. As far as my fees go, if I get him acquitted, it will be the best money he ever spent. If he’s convicted, all the money in the world won’t help him.

With the money issue out of the way, I start my questioning. “So tell me about the drugs,” I say.

“There weren’t any. I don’t do drugs.”

“They were found in your blood. The same drug was found in Troy Preston.”

“They’re lying. They’re trying to put me away.”

“Who’s they?” I ask.

“The police.”

“Why would the police want to put you away?”

“I don’t know. But I didn’t take no drugs.”

His insistence on this point is surprising. Drug use in itself does not come close to a proof of murder. He could be protecting his public image, but his current incarceration on first-degree murder charges has blown that out of the water much more effectively anyway. It is extraordinarily unlikely that the police have conspired to frame him by faking the blood tests, though I will look into any possible motivations for their doing that.

The other possibility of course is that both the police and Kenny are being honest and that the drug was slipped to him. I need to consult an expert to find out if that is possible.

“Could someone have slipped you the drug without you knowing it?”

He grabs on to this like a life preserver. “Yeah, that must be it! Somebody put it in my drink or food or something. Maybe Troy did… he was there.”

Once again the persistent “why” question rears its ugly head. “Why would he do that?”

He shakes his head, having discovered that this particular life preserver can’t support his weight. “I don’t know. But there’s gotta be a reason.”

I have Kenny rehash his relationship with Troy Preston, starting with their meeting at the high school all-star weekend. It turns out that they also spent a couple of days together at the NFL combine before they were drafted. The combine is a place where rookies come to demonstrate their physical skills to assembled NFL executives.

Kenny claims to have racked his brain trying to think of something relevant to Preston’s murder, but he just can’t come up with anything. “There’s… there’s just nothing.”

I detect a hesitation, mainly because there was a hesitation. “What were you going to say?” I ask.

“Nothing. I’ve told you everything I know.”

I’ve gotten pretty good at reading my clients, and for the first time I think Kenny’s holding something back. Holding something back from one’s defense attorney is akin to putting a gun to one’s head and pulling the trigger, but my pressing Kenny for more information gets me nowhere.

Before I leave, I broach the subject of Adam Strickland becoming an employee of my office so that he can observe what’s going on and perhaps someday write about it.

“But he can’t write anything we don’t want him to?” Kenny asks.

“He can’t reveal any privileged information without our permission.”

“What if he did?”

“You could sue him, and nothing he says could ever be used in court against you.”

Kenny shrugs, having lost interest. He has no desire to focus on any subject that can’t get him out of his cell. “Whatever you want, man. I don’t care either way.”

I tell him I’ll decide one way or the other and then let him know. I head back to the office, where Laurie is waiting for me. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she has something to tell me, though my hunch is helped along considerably by her saying, “Wait till you hear this.”

I decide to take a guess first. “Your old boyfriend changed his mind and offered you a job as a school crossing guard. And you said no, because they’re giving you a bad corner and making you buy your own whistle.”

“Andy,” she says, “you’re going to have to try harder to deal with this.”

I already knew that, so I say, “What were you going to tell me?”

“Preston wasn’t just using. He was dealing.”

This is potentially huge. If Preston was dealing drugs, he was involved with big money and very dangerous people. The kind of people that kill other people. The kind of people that defense lawyers love to point to and say, “My client didn’t do it; they did.”

“Who told you?”

She smiles. “Police sources.”

“Police sources” is Laurie-speak for Pete Stanton. Pete has long been a reliable source of information for both of us. He would never say anything damaging to the department, but nor does he have that knee-jerk police reaction not to have anything to do with anyone on the defense side of the justice system. There would be no downside at all to his supplying background information in this case, since it is under the jurisdiction of the state police.

“Did he give you specifics?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Over dinner with you. Tonight. He invited me as well.”

I nod with resignation. Since I’ve inherited my fortune, Pete’s goal has been to make me poor again. He does this by selecting the most overpriced restaurants he can find and then stuffing himself to the point where he has to be lifted out of his chair with a crane, while I pick up the tab. “I hope he didn’t choose the restaurant,” I say.

“He did. It’s a place in the city.”

New York City. Pete hates New York City, always has, but he’s apparently become disenchanted with the reasonable cost structure of New Jersey restaurants. “It would be cheaper to bribe the jury,” I say.

* * * * *

PETE SAYS HE’LL meet us at the restaurant, so Laurie and I drive in alone. I’m not a big fan of driving in Manhattan; it calls for an aggressiveness that I simply do not have outside of a courtroom. I’m always afraid that Ratso Rizzo is going to pound on my car and yell, “I’m walkin’ here! I’m walkin’ here!”

The restaurant is on Eightieth Street near Madison, and as we get close, I start looking for a parking lot. I find one on the same block, with a sign proclaiming a flat rate of forty-three dollars for the night. They seem proud of this, as if it’s so inexpensive it will be an enticement for people to park their cars here. I only wish Laurie and I had come in separate cars so we could take double advantage of this incredible deal.

“Maybe you should look for a space on the street,” Laurie says.

I shake my head. “It’s a nice thought, but the nearest space on a street is in Connecticut.”

I park in the lot, and we walk half a block to the restaurant. It’s French, with stone walls to give us the impression that we’re having dinner in a cave. I approach the maître d’ and tell him that I believe our reservation is in the name of Stanton.

He brightens immediately. “Ah, yes! They’re waiting for you!”

Before I get a chance to fully weigh the significance of his using the word “they’re” rather than “he’s,” Laurie and I are led to a private cave off the main dining room. We enter and see one table, set for fifteen people. The problem is, there are enough people in the room to fill it.

Pete jumps up, almost knocking over a lit candle in the process. “Our host is here!”

This draws a cheer, and I am soon surrounded by members of Pete’s family. I know only two of them: his wife, Donna, and his brother, Larry. I’ve been out with Pete and Donna a few times, and I got Larry off on a drug charge four years ago. He’s since turned his life around and does volunteer work as a drug counselor in downtown Paterson.

Laurie and I are soon introduced to a bunch of Uncle Eddies and Aunt Denises and Cousin Mildreds, all of whom think it’s just wonderful that I’ve thrown this party for my good friend Pete.

“This is so nice of you,” Donna says to me. “And his birthday isn’t for six weeks.”

Laurie jumps in, fearful of what I might say. “Andy wanted it to be a surprise.”

I nod, staring daggers across the room at Pete. “And it was. It definitely was.”

Pete is oblivious to my daggers; he’s too busy holding bottles of expensive wine and asking, “Who wants white, and who wants red?” He looks at the labels and says, “I got the Lafeet something and the Pooly whatever…” This is from a guy who’s never bought a bottle of wine without a twist-off cap.

I finally make it over to the guest of honor. “You’re a cop,” I say, “so you’d be a good person to answer this question. Who could I hire to kill you? After this dinner, I can’t afford to pay very much, but I don’t need a quality hit man. For instance, I don’t care how much pain he causes.”

“Don’t tell me you’re pissed off,” he says.

“This was supposed to be a dinner where you gave us information about drug traffickers. Not a four-thousand- dollar family circle meeting.”

He nods. “It turns out that Larry knows something about this, so I wanted him here. But he was having dinner with Aunt Carla, who was staying at Cousin Juliet’s, and it sort of snowballed from there. You know how these things are.”

With almost no family of my own, and no desire to impoverish my friends, I don’t know how these things are, but I drop it. “So when can we talk?”

“You can drive Larry and me back. We’ll talk then.”

The rest of the evening is surprisingly pleasant, at least until the check comes. Pete’s family is both close-knit and funny, and it feels good to be included in it. I’m not totally forgiving Pete for this fiasco, though, and I lash out by refusing to sing “Happy Birthday” when they bring out the three-tier cake I’m paying for.

It’s not until we’re on the George Washington Bridge driving home that Pete addresses the issue at hand. “Paul Moreno,” he says.

“Who’s Paul Moreno?” I ask. The question must be a stupid one, because it draws sighs and moans from Pete, Larry, and Laurie.

“He’s a guy who makes Dominic Petrone look like Mother Teresa,” Pete says. Dominic Petrone is the head of the mob in North Jersey, which means Paul Moreno must be a rather difficult fellow to deal with.

“I just spent twenty-eight hundred bucks on your birthday. Can you be a little more specific?”

Pete, Laurie, and Larry then alternate being very specific, and the picture they paint of Paul Moreno is not a pretty one. About five years ago a group of young Mexican immigrants started a drug pipeline from their former country to their current home in North Jersey. It was mostly street stuff and relatively small money for this industry.

What distinguished this gang was the violence they were quite willing to use in running their business. Led by a young hood named Cesar Quintana, they became the area’s primary source of cheap drugs and ruthless violence, and they were limited only by their inherent lack of intelligence. They were not businessmen, and business acumen is needed to sell all products, including illegal drugs.

Enter Pablo Moreno, born in Mexico to a family of very significant wealth, said to be dubiously earned. Moreno was educated in this country, graduated from the Wharton School of Business, after which Pablo Moreno became Paul Moreno. He returned to Mexico for a while and then settled in North Jersey two years ago to apply his business expertise in earnest.

It seems as if he conducted an analysis and determined that the best opportunity for success in this country was to become a part of the still-fledgling, unsophisticated operation Quintana was running. Moreno’s style, reputation, and money overwhelmed him, and they soon became partners. They allegedly split the profits, but Quintana has allowed Moreno to call the shots, perhaps the first sign of intelligence he has ever shown.

In the eyes of law enforcement their operation now represents the worst of both worlds. Moreno provides the smarts and the capital, and Quintana supplies the muscle and willingness to use it. In the process they’ve branched out to higher-end drugs and higher-level clientele.

“Which is why they’ve become a major pain in the ass of Dominic Petrone,” Pete says.

“And he hasn’t taken them on?” I ask. Rumor has it that both end zones in Giants Stadium are built on a foundation of people who became pains in the ass of Dominic Petrone.

Pete shakes his head. “Not yet. Drugs have never been the main part of Petrone’s operation, so he’s let it go so far. There’s no telling how long that will last. It’s a war he’d win, but it would be ugly.”

“So where does my client fit into this?”

Larry answers. “He probably doesn’t, but Troy Preston does. Moreno loves football, and he took a liking to Preston. Preston in turn took a liking to Moreno and his lifestyle. The word is, they were really close.”

“So Preston was dealing for him?” Laurie asks.

“Not in a serious way at first. More to his friends, certain other players… that kind of thing. People tell me it made him feel like a big shot. Then he started liking the fact that it was supplementing his income, so he branched out some. The bigger problem is, he started using what he was selling, which is not the best thing for a pro football career. And as his career went down, his need for money outside football went up.”

My mind of course is focused on finding a killer other than Kenny Schilling. I start thinking out loud. “So Petrone could have killed Preston to send a message to Moreno. Or maybe Preston pissed Quintana off, and he killed him.”

“Or maybe your client is guilty,” Pete says, ever the cop. “The victim’s blood was in his car, and his body was in his house. Not exactly your classic whodunit.”

“More like your classic frame-up,” I say.

Pete laughs. “And exactly why would they pick Schilling to frame? It’s not like they would have left evidence for the police to track them down. Petrone’s been murdering people since he was four years old. You think we could have tied him to this?”

“You? No. The state cops? Maybe.” I don’t really believe what I’m saying; it’s my pathetic attempt to get back at Pete for the birthday bash.

If Pete is wounded by my attack, he hides it well. He shakes his head. “Nope. Petrone didn’t do Preston, and the job was too classy for Quintana. He would have sliced him up and dumped him in front of City Hall.”

He’s probably right, but at the very least this opens up a huge area for a defense attorney to explore and exploit. I’m already working out strategies in my mind; the money for this evening’s fiasco may actually turn out to be well spent.

We pull up at Pete’s car, and as he and Larry get out, Pete pats my arm. “Thanks, man. This is the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me, even if I was the one that did it. But you didn’t get too pissed, and I appreciate it. You’re a good friend.”

“Happy birthday,” I say. That’ll teach him.

* * * * *

THERE ARE A FEW things I don’t like about my job. One is that it doesn’t involve playing professional sports, though my placekicking brainstorm should take care of that. Two is that it gives me the creeps to have to call anyone “Your Honor.” Three, and most important, I don’t like to mislead people.

But misleading people is something a good defense attorney does, and this case is about to become a textbook example. I do not believe that Troy Preston was murdered by Dominic Petrone, Paul Moreno, Cesar Quintana, or anyone else involved with illegal drugs. Those are not people who would have gone to such lengths to frame Kenny Schilling. They would have put a bullet in Preston’s head and dumped him in the river, or buried him where he’d never be found. And, as Pete was quick to point out, they would not have left a trail so they could be caught. And if they weren’t in legal danger, there would be no reason to frame somebody else.

But these bad guys present perfect targets for me, people who I might get the jury to believe could have done it. It helps me create reasonable doubt that my client is guilty, so I must pursue it vigorously, even though I don’t believe it. I’m not lying, but it still makes me uncomfortable. I’ll go forward with it, though, since our justice system makes no allowances for lawyer discomfort.

Adam Strickland is with Kevin and Edna when I arrive at the office. He takes notes as Edna regales him with more of her ideas for the crossword puzzle film, and I hear Kevin ask if Adam can use the actual name of Kevin’s privately owned business in the Willie Miller movie. It’s called the Law-dromat, and the gimmick is that Kevin gives free legal advice to his customers. Of course, he can only be there to do that when we are not busy on a case. The way the Schilling case is shaping up, there are going to be a whole lot of poorly advised launderers running around North Jersey for a while.

Adam tells Kevin that he’ll definitely put the Law-dromat in the script and refers to Kevin’s idea as My Beautiful Laundrette meets The Verdict. Unfortunately, Adam forgets to mention that the script will ultimately travel through the pipe and into the sewer.

I haven’t thought about Adam since I discussed him with Kenny, but I make a decision in the moment to let him hang out with us. Kenny didn’t mind, and I made a commitment to the studio, so I might as well. I have Edna type up a standard agreement, and within minutes Adam is an employee of my firm, bound by the same confidentiality guarantees as the rest of us.

I explain to Kevin what we’ve learned about Troy Preston’s relationship to Paul Moreno and the drugs he distributes. I find myself feeling self-conscious with Adam listening in, especially since he is staring at me so intently as I speak that it feels like he’s literally inhaling my words.

Because of Adam’s presence, I don’t mention to Kevin my feeling that, while we now have some people to point the finger at, I don’t really believe they are guilty. This is not a good start to this relationship; I’m going to have to either trust Adam or renege on our agreement and remove him from our team.

Kevin and I kick things around for about a half hour, until Laurie shows up with Marcus Clark. I had told her to bring in Marcus once I learned that we were going to be dealing with people as dangerous as Cesar Quintana and Paul Moreno. It makes me feel secure to have Marcus in our camp, in the same fashion that Don Corleone felt secure having Luca Brazi on his side. Having only seen Luca in the movie, and never meeting him in person, my view is that Marcus is far scarier. To me, Marcus makes Luca look like Mary Lou Retton.

Adam looks stunned when Laurie and Marcus enter, and it’s easy to understand why. There could not be two human beings on this planet who look more different, yet each has achieved a type of physical near perfection. Laurie is white, tall, blond, and breathtakingly beautiful, with a face that combines intelligence, compassion, and more than a modicum of toughness. Marcus is African-American, short, bald, and carved from burnished steel, with a perpetual scowl so fearsome that my initial instinct is invariably to back away from him, even though he’s on my side.

What Marcus and Laurie have in common is that they are both talented investigators, though their styles are as different as their looks. Laurie is smart and relentless, pushing and probing, until she learns what she has to learn. People provide Marcus with information in the hope that he will continue to let them live. And sometimes he does.

I introduce them to Adam, mentioning that Adam is a writer.

“Books?” asks Marcus, a man of few words.

“Movies,” says Adam. He says it nervously, because when people talk to Marcus, the goal is not to say the wrong thing. “I write screenplays, and-”

“Rambo?” interrupts Marcus.

“Uh, no. I didn’t write Rambo,” says Adam, glancing quickly at me in the hope I’ll jump in and help, which I won’t. “But I liked it. It was a wonderful film. They… they were wonderful films… all the Rambos.”

Marcus just shakes his head and sits down, no longer interested in Adam or his portfolio. He also doesn’t say a word as I go over everything I know about Paul Moreno and Cesar Quintana. I’m speaking strictly for Marcus’s benefit, since Laurie already knows all of this, having been my date for Pete’s birthday extravaganza.

When I’m finished, it’s time to give out the assignments. I say to Marcus, “I’d like you to find out everything you can about Quintana and whatever connections he has to Troy Preston or Kenny Schilling.”

Marcus just stares at me, not saying a word. Also not a nod or a blink or a shrug or any other human response. It’s disorienting, but it’s pure Marcus.

I continue. “Be careful, these guys are very dangerous.”

Again I get the Marcus stare, but no other reaction.

“I’m glad we had this chat,” I say. “I always find these exchanges of ideas very helpful.”

Apparently also satisfied with the discussion, Marcus gets up and leaves.

“Jesus Christ,” says Adam. “Godzilla meets Shaft. Are we sure he’s on our side?”

“Let’s put it this way,” I say. “If we find out he’s sleeping with the fishes, we’re in big trouble.”

With that, I leave to begin what may be an impossible project. I’m going to attempt to reverse the tide of public opinion that has been building against Kenny, the overwhelming feeling that he must be guilty.

While Kenny has always been relatively popular, this belief in his guilt amounts to mass wishful thinking, by both the public and the press. The media see this as a monster story, sure to sell newspapers and lift Nielsen ratings for months. The public views it as entertainment, much more fascinating and exciting than whether Britney and Justin will get back together. They are looking forward to following the soap opera that will lead up to and include the trial.

All of this anticipated fun for everyone would be wiped away if something came out to vindicate Kenny and lead to the charges being dropped. So while no one would ever admit it, the wishful thinking is that he is guilty, so the show can go on.

I’ve decided to let our developing defense point of view leak out into the public discourse, but I can’t do so openly. I have to do it in a sneaky, underhanded manner, which our system fortunately encourages. My only dilemma was in deciding which member of the press to make my partner, since the number of willing candidates would literally number in the thousands.

I briefly considered whether to go national, to slip my story to Time, Newsweek, or one of the cable outlets. The advantage would be immediate widespread coverage, but in this situation it’s just not necessary. Any story, no matter its origin, will be picked up in the hurricane that has become this case and spread everywhere. I could plant this in the afternoon with a stringer for the Okefenokee Swamp Gazette, and it would be the lead on CNN before nightfall.

Once I made the decision to do this locally, the choice of whom to go to was a difficult one. Vince Sanders, editor of one of the local papers, has helped me a number of times in the past. He’s also a good friend, which is the main reason I can’t go to him. I can’t have my fingerprints on this. Everybody will assume I’m behind it anyway, but if Vince breaks the story, they’ll know it for an actual fact. Vince is going to kill me for not going to him, but I’ll make it up to him later on.

I narrowed my choice down to two or three prospects and finally settled on Karen Spivey, a real pro who has covered the courthouse beat for as long as I can remember. She’s a no-frills, old-fashioned reporter who grabs a story in her teeth and pulls on it until all the facts come out. She’s also done me a bunch of favors in the past, and it’s nice to be able to repay one.

I called Karen yesterday and told her that I had a scoop for her but that it was off the record-“background,” as it’s known in reporter jargon. We agreed to meet at the duck pond in Ridgewood, an out-of-the-way place where we’d be unlikely to be seen. Her office is in Clifton, but she was quite willing to travel the half hour or so to get to Ridgewood. The truth is, she was so excited to hear from me that she would have agreed to meet me in Beirut.

I stop on the way and pick up Tara, since the duck pond ranks with her favorite places on earth. We don’t even bring along her favorite tennis ball, since throwing it causes a commotion that makes the ducks swim away from us. Tara likes them close-up, where she can observe them.

We arrive before Karen, and Tara immediately goes into staring mode, watching every move the ducks make. They watch her just as carefully; it’s as if they’re all here because they’re writing a dissertation on the habits of the other species. The ducks don’t seem at all threatened by Tara, though they shy away whenever other dogs show up.

Karen arrives, and as she gets out of her car and looks toward me, I point at a deserted picnic area. I call Tara to come along with me as I go to meet her, though Tara would much rather stay and watch the ducks. I don’t like to take her away from them, but I care for Tara as I would a child, and you don’t leave children alone at the duck pond or anywhere else.

Karen, in her business suit, looks completely out of place in these surroundings. Her reputation is that she works twenty-four hours a day, and it’s unlikely her job brings her to very many duck ponds.

“Thanks for coming, Karen,” I say, pretending that she’s done me a favor.

She taps her foot on the ground. “What is all this green stuff?”

“Grass. And the brown material under that is dirt.”

She shakes her head, as if in wonderment. “Damn. I heard about this stuff. But I didn’t realize there was any around here.”

“Next time I’ll show you flowers.”

“You do that. Are we going to make small talk all day?” Her trip to nature is over; she’s back to business.

“Unless you confirm that we’re off the record.”

She nods. “We’re off.”

“You can say you got this from sources close to the defense,” I allow, “but my name doesn’t get mentioned.”

“Agreed.”

I proceed to tell her what I know about the drug connection Troy Preston had with Cesar Quintana. I don’t mention Paul Moreno, and I don’t mention the rivalry with Dominic Petrone, preferring to hold all of that until a later date. There is always the possibility that Karen, being a good reporter, will uncover it on her own, and that would be fine with me.

“Was Preston involved in their drug business?” she asks.

I nod. “That is our information, though we’re not ready to prove it. He certainly had drugs in his system.”

“As did your client.”

“Preston took them voluntarily,” I say.

She seems surprised. “And Schilling didn’t?”

“Schilling didn’t.”

“So how did the body get in Schilling’s house and the blood in his car?” she asks.

“We’ll take that up next semester.”

Karen looks skeptical, as she should be. “You think Quintana framed him? Why would they do that?”

I smile knowingly, even though I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m talking about. “Come on,” I say, “I’ll show you how cute Tara is with the ducks.”

Much to my amazement, Karen has no desire to see how cute Tara is with the ducks. She declines, then rushes off across the green stuff to her car so she can prepare her story.

* * * * *

THE PHONE WAKES me at six A.M., and Laurie answers it.

“Hello,” she says, then listens for a moment and hands the phone to me. “It’s Vince. He wants to talk to the ‘shithead source close to the defense.’”

I take the phone. I’ve dreaded this conversation and was hoping to put it off until later than six in the morning. “Hello, Vince, old buddy,” I say. “How are you?”

“You son of a bitch.”

Vince has obviously read Karen Spivey’s story already. “I’m sorry, Vince. If I gave the story to you, everyone would have known I planted it.”

“Who do you think they suspect now? The queen of fucking England?”

I actually feel bad about this, but I’ll get over it. “You’ll get the next one. I promise.”

“I’d better. And just to show there are no hard feelings, you can have my next one. It’s about your client, and you’re not going to like it.”

“What is it?”

Click.

Vince hanging up on me is not a news event, but what he said leaves me a little unsettled. He’s a terrific newsman with a first-rate staff of reporters and very capable of having come up with something on Kenny. If he said I’m not going to like it, it’s safe to assume that I won’t.

It’s also safe to assume that calling him back won’t help me drag the secret out of him, so I roll over and go back to sleep for another hour. When I wake up, I go out to the front yard and get the paper, an act that Tara has never accepted as dignified for golden retrievers to perform.

Karen has nailed the story well; it will certainly have the desired effect of shaking up the public perception of the case. Quintana is not likely to be thrilled with it; Karen has done some additional reporting that makes his connection to Preston seem even tighter.

I sit for a while and ponder what my next steps should be when Laurie comes in and reminds me that I have a breakfast with Sam Willis at eight.

Sam is my accountant, a position that increased significantly in importance when I came into my fortune. He is also my friend and my competitor in something we call song-talking. The goal is to work song lyrics smoothly into our conversation, and I am probably giving myself too much credit by referring to Sam as my competitor. He is a master at it and has long since outdistanced me.

I let Sam choose the restaurant for breakfast, and he picked a place called Cynthia’s Home Cookin’, which the signs say is noted for “Cynthia’s World Famous Pancakes.” I’ve only been to Europe twice, but no one has come up to me and said “Ah, an American. That’s where Cynthia makes her famous pancakes.” But Sam is a regular here and always chooses the place, and they do have great pancakes.

Since it’s not fair to leave Adam in the office listening to Edna all the time, and since he’s supposed to be observing me, I invited him to the breakfast with Sam. He’s waiting for me in the parking lot when I arrive, as always writing something in his notepad.

“Good morning,” I say. “No trouble finding the place?”

He smiles. “Are you kidding? It’s world-famous.”

I point to the notepad. “You’re taking notes about it?”

He nods. “It’s a great setting for a scene.”

We go inside the restaurant, which is basically a dump, albeit a crowded dump. There is not an empty table in the place. Sam sits in a booth near the window waiting for us. He waves, then calls out to the waitress. “They’re here, Lucy.”

“Coffee comin’ up, Sam” is her response, then she comes over to the table and pours coffee for all of us even before we arrive. Decaf is not an option at Cynthia’s.

I introduce Adam to Sam as we sit down. I notice my chair is covered with crumbs and sweep them off before sitting. “Nice clean place you brought us to.”

Sam shrugs and fires his opening salvo. “Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name.”

Adam brightens up. “Hey, that’s a song. Cheers, right?” I had forgotten to warn Adam about the song-talking.

Sam says to me, “This guy’s sharp as a tack.”

“He’s a big-time screenwriter,” I say. “So be careful, or he’ll have Peewee Herman play you in the movie.”

I start to tell Sam what I want, which is to have him use his incredible computer expertise to hack into the life of the deceased Troy Preston. Put Sam in front of a computer and he can find out anything about anybody, and right now I’m interested in financial dealings that can connect Preston to drug money. I provide Sam with the personal information about Preston that was in the police reports, as well as the information the Giants were able to provide.

Sam gives the material a quick look, then casts a wary glance at Adam, who is still taking notes. The kind of research Sam does is not always strictly legal, and his unspoken question to me asks if Adam can be trusted. I nod that it’s okay, so Sam promises to get right on it.

The waitress, Lucy, comes over and spends a few minutes joking with Sam, who tells Adam that Lucy can “light the world up with her smile. She can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile.” Adam recognizes it as being from The Mary Tyler Moore Show, which surprises me, since he’s not old enough to have seen it, other than in reruns.

Sam asks Adam a bunch of questions about the movie business, including one about how Adam got into it in the first place. He grew up in a poor rural area in Kansas, and his first and fondest memories are rooted in his love for movies. Five years ago he was living in St. Louis working at an ad agency and spending his free hours writing something called a spec script. That’s a script that no one commissions in advance and therefore can be sold as a finished product to the highest bidder. His sold for “mid-five figures,” as Adam puts it, and though it never came close to making it out of the sewer pipe, it resulted in his getting more work.

“But I had to move to LA so I could sit in meetings, look creative, and pretend to know what I’m talking about.”

I see an opportunity, so I say to Sam, “They said that Californee is the place he oughta be, so he loaded up the truck and he moved to Beverlee-Hills, that is.”

Sam nods in grudging respect to my Hillbillies reference. “Makes sense… swimming pool… movie stars.”

I tell Adam that I will meet him back at the office, that there is something I need to talk to Sam about privately. Adam leaves, and Sam makes the logical assumption that I want to discuss my personal finances, which is not at all what I want to discuss.

“There’s somebody else I want you to check out.” I say it hesitantly because I’m more than a little ashamed of what I’m doing. “His name is Sandy Walsh. He lives in Findlay, Wisconsin.”

Sam writes down the name. “You want to tell me why?”

As long as I’m doing something this slimy, I might as well at least come clean as to why. “He’s Laurie’s old boyfriend… he’s offered her a job back in Findlay. She’s thinking of moving there.”

He shakes his head in sympathy; he likes Laurie and knows how devastated I would be if she left. “You think she will?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly.

He shakes his head again. “Just walking out on you and going back to her hometown… damn, there must be fifty ways to leave your lover.”

I’m going through this torture, and he’s actually song-talking Simon and Garfunkel. The mind boggles. “This might not be the best time for song-talking,” I say.

“Sorry, sometimes I can’t help it. What do you want me to find out about this guy?”

“That he’s a slimeball. Maybe a crook, a terrorist… whatever you can come up with. Something that will make Laurie decide to stay here.”

“I assume you don’t want her to know about this?”

I nod. “That’s a safe assumption. It’s not my proudest moment.”

“Jeez, Andy… I thought you guys were gonna get married.”

“We talked about it. Maybe we should have; things were going well enough. I certainly didn’t expect anything like this.”

“Ain’t it always like that?” he asks.

“What?”

“I mean, the relationship goes on, you think you’re making progress… I don’t know… sometimes it just seems the nearer your destination, the more you’re slip-sliding away.” He smiles slightly, hoping I won’t take offense at his inability to stop song-talking.

I don’t. “Just for that you can pay the check,” I say.

He nods. “Who do you want me to look into first, Preston or this Walsh guy?”

“Preston,” I say with some reluctance.

“I’ll get on them both right away,” he says, understanding. “You can count on it.”

I stand up to leave. “You’re like a bridge over troubled water,” I say.

He smiles. “I will ease your mind.”

* * * * *

I MAKE IT A POINT to meet frequently with my clients during the pretrial period. It’s not vital to their defense; the truth is that as time goes on, they have less and less to contribute. This is usually because they’ve already told me everything they know, though I’m not sure that’s the case with Kenny Schilling. But with Kenny, as with all my clients, my visiting is vital to their sanity, and they are generally desperate to see me and learn whatever is going on in their case.

My visit to the jail this morning finds Kenny in surprisingly good spirits. A guard has slipped him the morning newspaper, and he’s read Karen’s story raising the possibility that Preston was the victim of a drug killing. It’s the first positive news Kenny’s heard in a very long time, and though it’s totally speculative and publicly denied by Dylan, he chooses to be euphoric over it.

“So you think this Quintana guy could have done it?” he asks.

“Somebody did,” I say, deflecting the question. “Preston didn’t go in that closet and shoot himself, did he?”

“He sure as shit didn’t,” he says, laughing and punching me in the arm, which seems to be his way of being jovial. Since he’s a two-hundred-thirty-pound professional football player with a punch that can dent iron, I’m going to have to give him any future good news over the phone.

Kenny’s been getting visits from some of his teammates on the Giants, and that has made him more upbeat as well. I’m always torn in situations like this over how much to level with the client. His situation is fairly grim at the moment, but it would do no good to bring him down emotionally. There will be plenty of time for that later.

My next stop is back at my office, to receive a chemistry lecture from a professor at Fairleigh Dickinson University, located off Route 4 in Teaneck. The professor, Marianna Davila, will serve as my expert witness on the subject should I need one at trial. I’ve used her before and have always enjoyed the interaction. She’s a very pleasant, attractive young woman who has developed an incongruous reputation as one of the leading authorities on street drugs in North Jersey.

I find with experts in any field that it is counterproductive for me to ask other than general questions early on in our discussions. I don’t want to lead them where I want to go; there’ll be plenty of time for that when I get them on the stand. I want the raw facts first, and then I can figure out how I want to manipulate them.

I have Kevin and Adam sit in on the meeting, and I start by telling Marianna that we are meeting on a matter relating to the Kenny Schilling case. She tries not to show it, but I see her perk up. I know from past conversations that she wouldn’t know a football from an aardvark, but no one is immune from the barrage of media coverage this case has gotten. And it’s only beginning.

“Tell us about Rohypnol,” I say.

“Its nonproprietary name is flunitrazepam” is how she starts, and my eyelids begin drooping. “There is no medically accepted use for it in the United States, and it’s produced almost exclusively outside the country. It’s most prevalent in the U.S. in the South and Southwest, but lately, it’s gotten up here in much bigger quantities. Most of it comes out of Mexico.”

“How long does it take to have an effect?” I ask.

“Usually, thirty minutes to an hour, but it peaks in maybe two hours. Blackouts are possible for eight to twenty-four hours after taking it, which is why its main use is as a date-rape drug.” Anticipating my next question, she says, “It lasts in the bloodstream for up to seventy-two hours.”

“What kind of a high does it give?” Kevin asks.

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t. It’s more of a low. Think Valium, only way stronger. Very relaxing… gives a feeling of peace, serenity, when users know what they’re doing.”

We continue to question Marianna, whose knowledge of the subject seems complete. She’ll make a fine witness if we need her, especially since she says that Rohypnol could absolutely be slipped into a drink.

Marianna leaves, and Adam does as well. I doubt it’s a coincidence; Adam seemed to be so taken with her that he didn’t even take notes while she talked.

I have to wait for Laurie to come by with the report on where she and Marcus stand in their investigation. I’ve structured it so that Laurie is in charge of the overall investigative efforts, and Marcus reports through her. Basically, I’ve set it up this way because I’m afraid of Marcus and Laurie isn’t.

Laurie’s not due for about an hour, so I play a game of sock basketball. It’s a game where I take a pair of rolled-up socks and shoot it at the ledge above the door, which serves as the basket. I set up mock games, and it serves as a stress-reducer and confidence-builder, mainly because I always win.

I’m the Knicks this time, and we beat the Lakers 108-14, the highlight being my thirty-one blocked shots of Shaquille O’Neal. After the twentieth block he gets in my face, but I stare him down. When it comes to nonexistent three-hundred-pound, seven-foot basketball players, I make intimidating eye contact.

Destroying Shaq makes me work up a sweat, compounded by the fact that Edna doesn’t believe in air conditioners and instead keeps the windows open so that we can have fresh air. It’s a concept I’ve never understood. Where do air conditioners get their air in the first place? Don’t they just cool off the same air we always breathe? Or is there some mysterious tubing that leads from some stale air factory direct to our air conditioners? Edna seems to think the air that comes from the dirty city streets through our windows is straight from the Rockies, although I don’t remember seeing too many Coors commercials shot against the backdrop of Market Street in Paterson.

I wash up in the bathroom down the hall and then go back to the office to wait for Laurie and do some paperwork. It turns out that the paperwork part is going to be difficult because sitting at my desk is a large, very ugly man.

“This place is a shithole,” Ugly says.

My first instinct is to run for it, figuring that no normal person, even a nonlarge, nonugly one, would enter my office and sit like that at my desk if he was up to any good. But it seems like a particularly cowardly and ridiculous thing to do; this is my office, and I should at least be able to find out what he is doing here before I bail out.

“Sorry it’s not up to your standards,” I say, “and by the way, who the hell are you?”

Ugly shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is who sent me and what he wants.”

“Fine. Who sent you?”

“My boss. He doesn’t like you talking about him.”

“Cesar Quintana?” I ask.

“Didn’t I just say he doesn’t like you talking about him?”

“So that’s why you’re here, to ask me to be quiet?”

Ugly laughs and stands up, walking slowly around the desk. I start to gauge the distance between myself and the open door. “Right. I’m asking you to be quiet. And if you don’t get quiet, he’ll come see you himself, cut your tongue out, and strangle you with it.”

He moves slowly as he talks, sort of toward me but at an angle. He’s not stalking, just ambling. I move as well, and before I know it, I have been outmaneuvered to the point where I don’t think I can make it to the door before he gets to me. This is not good, and for a moment I consider whether to move toward the double windows overlooking the street. Since Edna left them open, I could call out into the fresh air for help.

I can’t think of anything to say, and my guess is, it wouldn’t matter anyway. Ugly has been given an agenda, whatever that might be, and he wouldn’t likely be entrusted by his boss to make decisions or changes in the moment based on circumstances.

For some reason I notice that he has a bit of a gut and is not in the best of shape. I contemplate whether this gives me any advantage at all and quickly realize that it does not. We’re not going to run the marathon, nor am I going to bob and weave for ten rounds. He might huff and puff a little, but it’s nothing that will stop him from kicking the shit out of me, if that is his mission.

I’m so intent on his motions that for a moment I don’t realize that he is still talking. “… has something that my boss wants. So you get it from him, and maybe we can let you live.”

“What?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your client. You get it from him, give it to me, and we’ll be fine.”

This is a little bewildering. “Get what?”

“Ask your client. He’ll know. And tell him if he doesn’t come up with it, we can get to him in prison.”

“Why don’t you tell me what it is?” I ask, and I can immediately tell that I’m starting to piss him off. He’s won the strategic maneuvering game, and I can’t make it to the door. He starts to move toward me, more threatening now, and I back up toward the window, finally leaning against the wall next to it.

One moment I see him coming toward me, and the next moment my view is blocked by Marcus Clark, standing between us and facing Ugly. I assume he came in through the door and walked across the room, but he managed to do it without either of us noticing him. I know this because I see a flash of surprise on Ugly’s face, but no real concern. He’s not afraid of Marcus, which makes him an idiot. But he does seem to realize that Marcus will be somewhat more difficult to contend with than I am.

“Step aside, friend,” Ugly says.

Marcus, ever the gregarious conversationalist, just stands there and doesn’t say a word.

“I’m not going to tell you again,” Ugly says, and then without waiting for a response, pulls his fist back to take a swing at Marcus. It is safe to say that Ugly is not a Rhodes scholar.

Marcus’s movement is so quick as to be imperceptible, but the thud of his fist hitting Ugly’s stomach echoes through the office. It is followed by a gasp and then gagging, as Ugly doubles over in stunned agony. As he leans over, Marcus picks him up over his shoulder, so that the very large Ugly is completely off the ground.

“Put him down, Marcus.” The voice is Laurie’s, and I look up to see that she has just joined the party. “Come on, Marcus, put him down.”

Marcus looks over at her, nods, then walks a few feet and drops Ugly out the open double windows. I hear a thud as he lands and some screams from people one floor below on the street.

“I think she meant to put him down in the office,” I say, but Marcus seems unconcerned with his mistake.

Laurie and I go to the window and look down. Ugly had crashed through one of the awnings above the fruit stand, crushing it. He then landed in a display of cantaloupes, which I hope were ripe enough to have cushioned his fall.

As startled bystanders come over, Ugly staggers to his feet, still apparently more hurt from the effects of Marcus’s punch than his fall. He makes it to a nearby parked car, opens the door, and falls into the passenger seat. The driver, who was waiting for him, pulls out.

“I’ll be right back,” I say. “I’ve got to go buy some cantaloupes.”

I go downstairs to pay Sofia Hernandez, the owner of the fruit stand, enough money to take care of the damage and aggravation. She’s amazingly calm about it, as if thugs falling from the sky are an unfortunate but expected part of doing business.

I’m ready to go back upstairs when Pete Stanton pulls up, along with two other cars with patrolmen. Pete comes over to me, a grin on his face. “When I heard on the radio that the guy came flying out of your office window, I had to take the call.”

“Thanks for caring,” I say, and suggest that he come upstairs. “Marcus is up there.”

Pete nods in understanding. “Ah, the human launching pad.”

Pete comes up, and Laurie and I watch with barely concealed amusement as he tries to question Marcus. If a transcript could be done of this interview, and there were a thousand words spoken, Pete would be shown to have spoken nine hundred and seventy of them. Marcus simply has little to say, whether he is talking to Pete, the SS, or anyone else.

Finally, Pete turns to me as a witness to the events. I ask Marcus if I can speak for him, and he both nods and grunts, which represents a ringing endorsement of me as his spokesman.

I describe Ugly, though it is a basic, not very helpful description. I have no comprehension of how some people can remember faces as well as they do. More amazing is how they can describe them. It’s not even just a question of memory; if you gave me a picture of someone to refer to, I still couldn’t describe him or her well enough for a police artist to draw.

When I am finished, Pete says, “He sounds like any one of a hundred people who work for Quintana.”

“Except this one can fly,” I point out.

“Right. Now, exactly how did that come about?”

“It’s pretty simple,” I say. “He was hassling me, Marcus asked that he stop, he attacked Marcus, Marcus picked him up, Laurie asked Marcus to put him down, and Marcus put him down.”

“Outside the window,” Pete says.

Laurie says, “My mistake was in not telling Marcus which side of the window to put him down on.”

“The guy was having trouble breathing,” I say, “and Marcus has heard Edna mention that the air is fresher out there. He was doing him a favor.”

“After this, Quintana’s going to send people after you in bunches,” Pete says, injecting some depressing reality. “Is Marcus always going to be there?”

I look at Marcus, who shrugs. It’s not the most reassuring shrug I’ve ever seen. Marcus can stop a lot of people, but eventually, one is going to get through. To me. And if one of them gets through to me, it’s game, set, and match.

Pete leaves, and Laurie, Marcus, and I talk about how we should proceed in light of this new, very disturbing development. Laurie is concerned for my personal safety, and while I pretend to be stoic about it, I certainly share that concern. Our hope is that Ugly’s visit, while embarrassing to Quintana, might be thought to have served its purpose. I’ve been warned, and although our collective reaction to the warning was to toss Ugly out the window, Quintana can at least be sure the warning was delivered.

Almost as disturbing was Ugly’s claim that Kenny had something belonging to Quintana, and his demand to get it back. If true, Kenny certainly hasn’t shared the news with me. If not true, Quintana is just going to get more upset when he doesn’t recover whatever it is he’s missing.

We agree that Marcus will keep an eye on me for now, though from a distance. He’s very good at it, and it makes me feel safer, at least for the time being. But the trick is not to throw all of Quintana’s people out the window. The trick is to get Quintana to stop sending those people in the first place.

There is only one person who can do that.

* * * * *

PAUL MORENO’S personal assistant is so cute and perky she could be a cheerleader. She greets me at his office at PTM Investments with, “Hello, Mr. Carpenter, and welcome to PTM. My name is Cassie. It’s so nice to meet you.” If I gave her some pom-poms, I think she’d jump in the air and yell, “Give me a P! Give me a T!” I can’t tell if she’s completely sincere, but so far I like Moreno’s staff a hell of a lot better than Quintana’s.

There’s a lot I don’t know about PTM Investments. For instance, I don’t know what the “T” stands for, and I don’t know what they invest in. But I can find out that stuff some other time; right now my goal is to convince Paul Moreno to prevent me from being killed.

In the next five minutes Cassie announces my presence to Moreno, fields two calls, brings me some delicious hot coffee, and gets me in to see Moreno. All of this she accomplishes with a smile. She is the anti-Edna.

Moreno’s office is done in chrome and steel, ultramodern to the point that it looks like it was furnished in the last couple of hours. His desk has only a phone on it; paper and writing instruments are nowhere to be seen.

Moreno’s window looks out at Van Houten Street in downtown Paterson, and it seems incongruous considering the obvious expensiveness of the office furnishings. The street is not a slum, but nor is it the kind of view that’s going to make Ritz Carlton buy up the adjacent land.

When I enter, Moreno is standing behind his round bar, making a couple of drinks. He gives me a warm smile. “Mr. Carpenter, welcome.” For a ruthless drug dealer’s office, things are pretty friendly.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I say.

He comes around the bar, holding two drinks. The liquid in them is pink, almost red. “Try one of these,” he says.

“It’s a little early in the day for me.”

“Not for this. It’s made from fruit trees at my home. They’re crossbred, unlike anything you’ve ever had.”

I take one and sip it. It hits me with a jolt; it’s one of the best and most distinctive tastes I’ve ever experienced. “This is unbelievable,” I say, and guzzle down the rest of the glass. He laughs and heads back to the bar to pour another.

“So what can I do for you?” he asks.

We’re about to get to the unpleasant part of the visit; I briefly wonder if I should wait until he gives me another glass full of that great juice. I decide to go ahead. “Tell Cesar Quintana not to try and kill me.”

I guess I haven’t offended him too badly, because he hands me the drink before responding. “Who is Cesar Quintana, and why would he want to kill you?” he asks.

He’s either playing a game with me or worried that I’m wearing a wire. Either way, I have to go along with it. “He’s a drug dealer whose name came up in connection with the Kenny Schilling case. He sent an emissary to my office to warn me not to mention him again.” I decide to leave out the part about Schilling having something that he wants; Moreno is probably very aware of it, but just in case, it gives me something to hold back.

“Why are you telling this to me?”

“Because he is either your partner or your employee, and I’m told that you can control him.”

“If that were true, and I’m certainly not saying that it is, why would I want to control him? How would that be to my advantage?”

“To keep your own name out of the press. Bad publicity, no matter how unfair, is bad for investments. Think Martha Stewart.” I hold up my glass. “Although you make a better drink.”

Moreno walks over to his desk, picks up his phone, and says something I can’t quite hear. Within five seconds the door opens and two very large men in suits come in. I would have preferred perky Cassie.

Before I can react, they have ahold of me and push me up against the wall. One of them keeps me pinned, unable to move, while the other frisks me, no doubt checking for a wire. Finding none, they leave as quickly as they came. If there was a secondary goal to leave me feeling intimidated and vulnerable, Moreno has achieved that as well. Physically, I’m okay, except my heart is pounding so hard I don’t think I’ll be able to hear over it.

“Mr. Carpenter, do you have any idea how much you will shorten your life span by threatening me?”

I try to compose myself, to not look as frightened as I am. “I didn’t intend it as a threat,” I say. “I see it as a negotiation… a deal.”

“With all the publicity surrounding this football player’s case, killing you now could bring unwanted attention to my business, but it would be a manageable inconvenience.”

My mind flashes to my future headstone: “Here lies Andy Carpenter. He was a manageable inconvenience.” I decide not to mention my headstone image to Moreno, for fear that he’ll make it come true. “Think how inconvenient it would be for me,” I say.

He smiles. “That’s not really my concern. Cesar Quintana is not someone who can easily be controlled. Especially after the embarrassment in your office yesterday.”

I return the smile, which is difficult, since my lips are shaking along with everything else. “Maybe you can reason with him. As one businessman to another.”

He shakes his head, as if I just don’t get it, but I decide to push it. “Look, after all this, the police would know where to look if anything happened to me. They’d come straight for Quintana and for you. Probably you could handle it, but maybe not. I’m just suggesting it’s not worth it to find out.”

He thinks for a moment, as if deciding what to do. My hunch is that no matter what decision he is about to announce, he had made it before I even walked into his office. “I would strongly suggest you hold up your end of the bargain,” he says.

“So we have a deal?” I decide to be explicit. “You call off Quintana, and I keep your name out of it.”

He nods. “We have a deal.”

I look toward the bar hopefully. “Let’s drink to it.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Goodbye, Mr. Carpenter.”

My next stop is the courthouse, where there is a hearing before the judge recently assigned to the case, Henry Harrison. Judge Harrison is a sixty-two-year-old with an impressive résumé. He was a full marine colonel, a Vietnam hero with a Silver Star. He retired from the service at the age of forty-five, went to Seton Hall Law School, spent five years as a prosecutor, and eventually became a superior-court judge. Our backgrounds are quite similar, except for the fact that he’s spent his entire life serving society, whereas I’ve spent my entire life living in it.

While assignment of judges is said to be random, my guess is that Judge Harrison was specifically chosen. His background is well known, and he has a large reservoir of respect from the public, which will help when his rulings are inevitably scrutinized. He is also firm and decisive on the bench, well equipped to deal with whatever bullshit Dylan and I try to throw at him. Lastly, he is nearing retirement age and not likely to be swayed by public pressure.

I’m a few minutes from the courthouse when my cell phone rings and Vince Sanders’s voice cheerfully greets me with, “Where are you now, you traitor shithead?”

“How long are you going to hold a grudge, Vince?”

“Are you kidding? I still hate Jimmy Collins, a kid who pissed me off in kindergarten.”

“Where is he now?” I ask, pretending I’m interested.

“He’s a priest. Runs a soup kitchen and shelter on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Dedicates his life to helping the sick and the poor… the son of a bitch.”

I can’t help laughing, though I know that will only encourage him. “What can I do for you, Vince?”

“Get your ass over here. We’ve got a deal to make.”

“What kind of deal?” I ask.

“I give you some bad news about your client before it breaks, and you promise me future scoops.”

Uh-oh. “What kind of bad news?”

“Not over a cell phone, bozo. Anybody could be listening in.”

I explain to Vince that I’m on my way to court, and we agree to meet at Charlie’s tonight. I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.

Dylan is already in court when I arrive, but he glances quickly and then looks away as I enter. We are not going to be friendly adversaries during this trial, which is fine with me. I like to antagonize and annoy the opposing attorney in hopes of goading him or her into a mistake or misjudgment. It’s part of my style, and its effectiveness varies according to the opponent. Dylan has shown himself susceptible to this strategy in the past, so I’m not about to blow that potential advantage by getting chummy with him.

I work my way through the press and packed gallery to join Kevin, seated at the defense table. Seconds later Kenny Schilling is brought in. I usually like to talk to my clients before each appearance so as to let them know what to expect. I arrived too late to do so today, which is no tragedy, since this will be little more than a formality. Kenny’s role will be merely to sit and watch.

Judge Harrison comes in and immediately gets the hearing started. He’s basically an impatient man, and he usually presides as if he’s got a train to catch. Once Dylan and I are introduced as the respective counsel, Harrison says, “Talk to me, gentlemen.”

Dylan surprises me by requesting a gag order on all interested parties. It is clear that he considers Karen Spivey’s story, and the furor that followed, to be a negative for the prosecution. He wants the focus kept on Kenny as the only possible killer.

“Your Honor, the defense has been advancing wild theories in the press, which can only serve to pollute the jury pool,” Dylan says.

I’m torn here. Basically, I’d be fine with a gag order, since I’ve already put out Quintana’s name, and I have nothing to add to that. I’m questioning myself, though, trying to make sure that I am not subconsciously in favor of it so that I can more easily keep my deal with Moreno. Keeping that deal has the additional benefit of keeping me alive.

I stand. “Your Honor, the prosecution has been publicly proclaiming that my client is guilty since the moment of the arrest. The press coverage has been overwhelmingly in the prosecution’s favor. We would be in favor of the gag order as well; it’s too bad it couldn’t have been in place earlier.”

Dylan half whirls in surprise, not knowing what to make of this. I believe he had been hoping I would be opposed to the gag order and that Judge Harrison would be reluctant to impose it. This would have allowed Dylan to play the aggrieved party while still playing to the press every chance he got.

Harrison lets him off the hook. “Despite the apparent agreement on this issue by both parties, I am not prepared to issue the order at this point. But I do expect both the prosecution and defense”-he looks at the gallery-“as well as the media, to behave responsibly, or I will revisit the issue.”

Harrison announces his intention to set a trial date, and Dylan suggests the first week in November. That would be quick for a trial of this magnitude, which is why Dylan is again surprised when I propose the first week in September. Dylan is right to be surprised: It is straight out of Defense 101 to delay as much as possible. Unfortunately, Kenny did not take that course, and he’s insisted on his right to a speedy trial.

Harrison is also surprised. He’s six foot five, and from his position up on the bench it looks like he’s peering down from Mount Olympus. “Are you sure about this, Mr. Carpenter? That’s just six weeks from today.”

I decide to try to turn this negative into a slight positive. “Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Schilling wants to miss as little of the season as possible.” The football season starts around the same time as the trial will start, and I want any Giants fans on the jury to be keenly aware of their power to put Kenny back on the field.

Harrison handles a few minor “housekeeping” chores, then rejects my plea to set bail. I told Kenny that it was a formality, that there was no chance bail would be granted, yet I can still feel his disappointment when Harrison refuses.

I arrange to speak to Kenny in an anteroom for a few moments after the hearing. I tell him about the visit from Ugly and his comments that Kenny has something that belongs to Quintana.

“Man, Preston must have been in with some heavy guys,” Kenny observes with some pleasure. Kenny’s no dummy; he believes that the more dangerous Preston’s associates were, the more chance that the jury will believe they killed him.

“Do you have anything of his?”

He shakes his head. “No, man. I don’t have any idea what they’re talking about.”

I’ve given up trying to read the truthfulness of Kenny’s statements. I’m unable to do so, and it doesn’t do me any good anyway, so I just take them at face value.

I head back to the office to do some paperwork before going to Charlie’s to hear whatever disaster Vince has in store for me. Alone at the office is Adam, typing away on his laptop. I feel a flash of guilt that I forgot to invite him to the hearing today and that I generally have not been that accessible.

“How’s it going?” I ask.

“Great,” he says with characteristic enthusiasm. “I’m working on an outline. I read through most of the transcript of the Miller trial today.”

“What did you think?”

“You’re damn good. I couldn’t write you that good if I started from scratch. Lucky I don’t have to.”

“I could show you some other transcripts which wouldn’t impress you quite so much.”

“I doubt it,” he says. I like this guy more and more every day.

I decide to invite him to Charlie’s with Vince. He deserves some exposure to the inner workings of the case, and he’s sworn to secrecy, so it doesn’t seem as if it can hurt. He jumps at the opportunity. It’s hard to imagine an opportunity he wouldn’t jump at.

I check through my messages before we leave, just in case someone else has called to confess to the Preston murder. No such luck, and within a half hour Adam and I are in the car heading to Charlie’s.

On the way Adam says, “I need to create an arc for you.”

“An ark? Like a boat?”

He shakes his head. “No, a character arc. That’s all movie executives care about. The character has to change, develop during the script. Have an arc.”

“I pretty much haven’t changed since I was eleven years old,” I say. “Wait a minute… I just started eating mushrooms a few months ago. And I’ve got a couple of hairs growing on my left ear… that’s new…”

He laughs. “I don’t think that’ll do it.”

“So how can I help?”

“What about if you had a disease?” he asks.

“I don’t think I want to help that bad.”

“No,” he says, “what about if I create a disease for you to have while you’re handling the Miller trial? Life-threatening, but you don’t let it stop you. You’re fighting for your life and Willie’s at the same time, staring your own mortality and his right in the face.”

“How does that help you?” I ask.

“It’s a catalyst for your change… your arc. Gives you a new perspective… that kind of thing. Terms of Endearment meets Anatomy of a Murder.”

“I don’t like it,” I say, “but as long as the pipe is going to take the whole project into the sewer, I don’t care either way.”

He takes this as a yes. “You got any preference? I mean, for the disease.”

I think about it for a moment; it isn’t every day one gets to pick the ailment he will heroically fight. “Just something that doesn’t hurt and can’t be sexually transmitted.”

He nods. “That makes sense.”

* * * * *

VINCE IS WAITING for us at our regular table when we get to Charlie’s. He’s watching a Mets-Yankees interleague game on the large-screen TV, and the first thing I do is look at the score, which will be a sure predictor of his mood. Vince is a die-hard Mets fan, but the Yankees are ahead 5-1. It could get ugly.

At least for the moment Vince has nothing obnoxious to say, because he has a hamburger stuffed into his mouth. All of us, Laurie, Pete, Vince, myself… we all have different reasons why Charlie’s is our favorite restaurant. Vince’s reason is that when he orders a hamburger, they don’t assume he wants it with cheese. Other restaurants start with the cheeseburger, and that’s what you get unless you specifically direct them to remove the cheese. Vince says that the historic status quo in America is just a hamburger, no cheese, and he resents that the cheese-ites, as he calls them, have taken over. Vince needs some significant therapy.

I introduce Adam to Vince and explain Adam’s presence. Vince, no doubt anticipating his portrayal in the movie, flashes the charming side of his personality, which in his case means eliminating most grunting and spitting. Once we get the pleasantries and ordering of our food and beer out of the way, I try to get to the heart of the matter. Laurie is waiting for me at home, and that is a far more appealing prospect than this boys-night-out.

“So tell me about Schilling,” I say.

As if on cue, Adam takes out his notepad and pen, causing Vince to give me a wary glance. “It’s okay,” I say, “he’s sworn to secrecy.”

Vince nods, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “You screwed me by giving away that story on Quintana.”

“We’ve been through that,” I say. “I apologized. I begged for your forgiveness.”

He sneers. “That was all bullshit.”

I have the advantage of knowing that Vince can never stay mad at me. I defended his son, Daniel, last year on another headline-making case. Daniel was accused of being a serial killer of women, when in fact the actual killer was contacting him and providing information that would eventually frame him. I won an acquittal, though Daniel was subsequently murdered by the real killer. In the process I learned some secrets about Daniel that would hurt Vince terribly if ever publicly revealed. All in all, the episode won me “friend points” with Vince that can never be erased.

Vince finally gets around to what he has to tell me. “I’ve got something on your boy. In return I want to be your media contact until this is over. You got a story to plant, I’m your gardener.”

“What if what you have isn’t good? What if I know it already?”

“Then the deal is off,” he says, which both surprises and worries me, since he’s confident his bad news is significant.

“Fine,” I say as the waitress arrives with our beer.

“Six years ago Schilling was involved in another shooting death.”

Adam reacts, almost coughing up his beer. “Tell me about it,” I say to Vince, though I dread hearing it.

“He went out hunting with some buddies, in a town called Hemmings, about two hours outside of Milwaukee. One of the group got shot.”

“By who?” I ask.

“They couldn’t pin it on anybody… finally classified it as an accident. But there are people that believed Schilling was involved. He had argued with the dead guy an hour before it happened.”

If this piece of news is as Vince describes it, I instinctively know three things. One, this is not good. Two, it will come out whether Vince breaks the story or not. And three, when it comes out, it will create a media firestorm, further messing with prospective jurors’ minds. “Can you give me the particulars? Names, places…”

Vince takes out a piece of paper from his coat pocket and hands it to me. “You’ve got three days to find out what you can before the shit hits the fan.”

It’s very important to me that I get on this before the entire world is after the same information I am. “Three days? Come on, Vince, you can do better than that.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I go with it on Monday. Somebody could be beating me to it right now.”

I inhale my hamburger and beer and head home, leaving Adam behind to hang out with Vince. It’ll be a clash of the titans, Adam’s irresistible upbeat enthusiasm versus Vince’s immovable grouchiness. Adam may be in over his head. My guess is that within an hour Vince’ll have him writing The Vince Sanders Story.

Laurie is waiting for me when I get home, and I’m anxious to talk to her about the information Vince has given me. Laurie, it turns out, is anxious to have sex. I weigh my options, debating with myself whether to talk or have sex, while I’m ripping my clothes off. Then, since I’m not comfortable with naked talking, I decide to go with the sex.

After we’re finished, I decide to go with sleep rather than talk, but Laurie again has other ideas. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something,” she says.

I nod and tell her about the shooting in Wisconsin.

“You want me to go out there to check it out?” she asks.

I’m jolted awake by the realization that Hemmings must be reasonably close to Findlay, her hometown and possible future place of employment. “No,” I say, “I need you working here. I’m the one with the least to do right now, so I should go.”

Laurie doesn’t argue with me, acknowledging that she really is busy and adding that Wisconsin will likely be a temporary safe haven from the danger of Quintana, just in case Moreno hasn’t successfully called him off.

She doesn’t try to dissuade me, nor does she mention the proximity to Findlay. It pops into my head that maybe I should go to Findlay and check out the place, maybe personally catch this Sandy Walsh loser doing something slimy. I doubt I’ll have time, but the thought is pleasant and intriguing enough to let me sleep with a smile on my face.

The next morning I get into the office before Edna, which is not exactly a news event. I decide to go online and make my own travel arrangements to Wisconsin, to leave late this afternoon.

I am a complete computer incompetent, and every time I try to do something some ad pops up in my face. It takes me forty-five minutes, but I finally get through it. Just before I’m finished, I have an amazing stroke of luck. A message comes on the screen, telling me that if the bar at the top is flashing, I’m a winner. And it’s flashing! I haven’t been online in weeks, and here I am the chosen one. It’s simultaneously thrilling and humbling, so much so that I forget to click the bar to see what I’ve won.

Adam comes in with a request to go with me, and I say yes, mainly because I can’t think of a valid reason to say no. The studio will pay for his ticket, and he calls their travel department and within thirty seconds is booked and ready to go. Of course, he missed out on the flashing bar and the incredible win.

I’ve scheduled a ten o’clock meeting with Kevin and Laurie to assess where we are in our trial preparation. Kevin has been meeting with various members of the Giants, ironic because Kevin knows so little about football, and sports in general, that I could tell him Kenny played shortstop and he’d believe me.

Kenny’s teammates are thoroughly supportive, uniformly claiming to be positive that Kenny could not possibly be guilty of such a crime. Not realizing that I had already talked to Bobby Pollard, the paralyzed trainer who is one of Kenny’s best friends, Kevin has done so as well, and he is especially taken with Bobby’s expressions of loyalty. He is also, as I was, impressed by the fact that Kenny has seen to it that his friend has stayed employed.

Laurie and Marcus have made considerable progress buttressing our contention that Preston was involved with drugs, as both seller and user. Their information is supplemented by things Sam Willis has found out about Preston’s finances. It helps, especially since we have little else to hang our hat on. The evidence against Kenny, while circumstantial, is very compelling, and we have almost nothing to refute it.

On the plus side we haven’t uncovered anything striking or unusual about the relationship between Kenny and Preston. Certainly, there is no obvious motive, at least none that we can see. This is not to say Kenny is innocent; the murder could have been the result of a sudden argument or a rash act clouded by the fog of drugs.

Our meeting ends early, since I have to get to the airport. I’m late and only have time to kiss one of them goodbye, so I choose Laurie over Kevin. It’s a tough call, but I’m paid big bucks to make this kind of decision.

Kevin leaves, and I say to Laurie, “Making any progress on your decision?” I say it nervously because I’m nervous about hearing the answer.

She shakes her head. “Not really. I’m trying not to obsess about it. I just think, when I know, I’ll know.” That’s pretty tough to argue with, so I don’t.

On the way out I walk by Sam Willis’s office, and he yells out for me to stop in. He tells me that he’s been checking into Sandy Walsh, and I instinctively look up to make sure that Laurie hasn’t come in and overheard this. It’s another sign that I’m aware that what I’m doing is nothing to be proud of.

“He’s got real money,” says Sam. “Not as much as you, but loaded.”

“From where?”

“Hard to tell. Maybe investments, maybe family money… but it’s not from his business.”

“What is his business?” I ask.

“Rental car agency. One location in town, one just outside of town. Solid, but not big enough to be responsible for his wealth.”

“Thanks, Sam,” I say, and prepare to leave.

He stops me. “Andy, there’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The guy’s married.”

“Laurie said he wasn’t,” I say.

He shrugs. “Maybe that’s what he told her. Got married three years ago February. Wife’s name is Susan.”

I nod and leave, considering what this news means. It’s a mixed bag. On the one hand, it could result in some pain for Laurie, but on the other hand, it could be used by me to get her to stay.

I wish all my bags were this mixed.

* * * * *

THE TEMPERATURE in Milwaukee when we land is eighty-seven, not quite what I picture when I think of this town. It’s in stark conflict with my mental image of Vince Lombardi prowling the sidelines, smoke coming from his mouth into the frigid air as the Packers march across the frozen tundra in nearby Green Bay.

The airport is modern and efficiently run, and within a very few minutes we’re in a rental car driving the two hours to Hemmings. I drive and Adam takes out his notepad, no doubt making sure he can keep track of how many rest stops we pass.

An hour from Hemmings we pass a sign telling us that we are three miles from the exit for Findlay. I haven’t yet decided whether to check out Laurie’s hometown, but the highway god is obviously throwing it in my face. Am I man enough to resist temptation? I never have been before, so I doubt it.

“Isn’t that where Laurie is from?” Adam asks.

“She told you that?” is my quick response.

Adam reacts to my reaction. “Sure. I didn’t know it was a secret.”

This is the last thing I want to talk about, so I switch the conversation toward Adam’s life. “You like LA?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I love it, but just for now. It’s especially great with my lifestyle; being a writer absolutely beats working. But if I hit it big, I’m out of there.”

“Why?”

“Because when they need you, and you don’t need them, you can work from anywhere. You hardly ever have to go to meetings and schmooze; all you have to do is write.”

“So where would you live?”

He points at the green fields we are passing. “Near my parents in Kansas. I want to have enough money to buy a house for them and one for me. After all these years they deserve a nice house.”

“You wouldn’t miss a big city?” I ask.

“Maybe a little, but I could always go there on vacations. I want to be somewhere I can raise a big family and not have to worry about drive-by shootings.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.

“No,” he says, then laughs. “Why, do I need one of them first?”

We drive on for a while longer, at which point Adam apparently decides it’s my turn. “Are you and Laurie engaged or anything?”

“No,” I say. “I’m a swinging single.”

He laughs. “Yeah, right.”

The terrain gets more and more desolate as we reach Hemmings, which can’t really be called a small town, or a town at all. It’s really just three or four streets of houses in various states of disrepair, surrounding a cardboard box factory.

The houses have deteriorated over the years, yet most have well-kept small lawns and gardens separating them from the street. It is as if the residents do not have the bucks necessary to renovate their homes, but their gardens make the statement that they would if they could.

One of the better-kept homes belongs to Brenda and Calvin Lane, and they are standing on the porch waiting for us as we arrive. I had spoken to Calvin yesterday, alerting him to our coming to see them, and confirming that they would talk to us. He appeared anxious to do so, and their waiting for us on the porch would seem to confirm that.

Within two minutes we are inside on the couch, being barraged by homemade breads, jams, and pastries. Brenda could make a fortune running a bakery on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, but my hunch is that doing so is not on her radar screen.

Calvin thanks us profusely for coming, as if it had been his idea and we were doing them a favor. “When I saw what happened on television, I knew I had to talk to somebody about it.” He seems unconcerned when I tell him I’m representing Kenny; he just wants to tell his story to anyone who will listen.

“I told him it was silly,” says Brenda, “but he wouldn’t listen.” She laughs. “He never does.”

“I think getting things out in the open is always a good thing,” I say. “What is it that’s bothering you?”

“It’ll be five and a half years this November that we lost our Matt,” Calvin says, and for the first time I notice that some of the pictures on the wall are of a strapping young man. A few of them are in football uniform.

Now that the conversation has turned to their son, their movements are as if choreographed. Calvin moves his chair closer to me, and Brenda brings out a photo album to show Adam. Clearly, they think I’m the guy to talk to about this matter, and in this case they’re right.

I can hear Brenda start to identify the pictures that Adam is looking at; as if she has to entertain him while Calvin is telling me his story. They start in kindergarten and peewee football, so apparently, it’s going to take Calvin a while.

“He was a great kid… a great kid,” says Calvin. “Not a week goes by we don’t look at those pictures.”

“What happened to him?” I ask, trying to move this along, but feeling a little bad about doing so. Talking about their boy is clearly one of their favorite pastimes.

Calvin goes on to tell me the story of a fateful November weekend, just after Matt’s freshman season as a University of Wisconsin football player had come to an end. Matt had a fine year; he was a top player his entire young life, and the coach at Wisconsin was predicting huge things for him.

A bunch of guys whom Matt knew, mostly football players, had come up to do some camping. They weren’t all from Wisconsin-some were from big cities-but Matt was going to educate them in the ways of the wild. They’d do some camping, fishing, maybe a little hunting, and in the process drink far more than their share of beer.

It was a trip from which Matt never returned. He took a few of the guys hunting and was the victim of what was ruled a tragic accident. The police version is that a hunter must have shot at motion in the woods, thinking it was a deer when in fact it was Matt. This despite the fact that the hunter apparently fled and was never identified, and the additional fact that Matt was wearing the bright orange jacket designed to prevent just such accidents.

Kenny Schilling was there that day, having previously established a friendship with Matt through football. The police questioned each of the young men thoroughly, and Calvin did as well, trying to understand why this young life had been snuffed out.

Calvin says that Kenny had aroused his suspicions at the time, but Brenda’s slight accompanying groan indicates that she doesn’t share that feeling. Kenny had been tentative in describing his whereabouts and had not returned to the camp after the shooting until well after the others.

“And I heard him arguing with Matt about an hour before they left,” Calvin says.

This time Brenda’s groan from across the room is louder. “They were probably arguing about football,” she says. “They always argued about football. Big deal.”

Calvin gives me a slight smile and wink, in the process telling me that I should discount everything Brenda is saying. But I actually think she’s probably right, as the police did as well. According to Calvin, the police did not appear suspicious of any of the group, and the case never went anywhere.

I’m greatly relieved to hear what Calvin has to say; it’s not nearly the blockbuster that Vince led me to believe. When this breaks, if it does at all, my assessment is that it will be a twenty-four-hour story, ultimately going nowhere and doing no damage.

My plan had been to visit with the local police in the morning and get whatever information I could from them. That no longer seems necessary and in fact could be counterproductive, calling more attention to a story that in no way incriminates Kenny. I’ll ask Pete Stanton to call them, cop-to-cop, and find out what he can.

Now of course we have more time on our hands before our return flight tomorrow evening. I can’t go fishing because I didn’t bring any bait. I can’t go hunting because I left my twelve-gauge at home. I can’t farm the land because I don’t own any land and I never applied for a plow license.

I guess I’ll just have to go to Findlay and check out Sandy Walsh.

* * * * *

WE FIND A HOTEL just outside of Findlay, no expensive minibar or robes in the bathroom, but clean sheets and a television that gets forty-eight channels, including both ESPN and ESPN2.

Adam and I are tired, but we go out to grab a quick bite to eat. I’m forced to grudgingly admit that Laurie’s hometown is not totally without culture when we find a Taco Bell that’s open late. When Adam tells me he can charge it back to the studio, I order an extra grilled stuffed burrito to take back to the hotel.

When I’m traveling, I usually call Laurie before I go to sleep, but I avoid the temptation this time. I don’t want to lie to her about where I am, and I certainly don’t want to tell the truth, so conversation at this point could be a little difficult.

In the morning we have the buffet breakfast in the hotel. I try the fruit, which appears to have ripened about midway through the first term of the Clinton administration. The biscuits are the consistency of something Mario Lemieux would shoot from just inside the red line. But the coffee is good, and I’m able to use the time to tell Adam where we’re going.

It’s the “why” I’m not quite so forthcoming about. I tell him I want to surreptitiously check out this guy Sandy Walsh, but I imply that it has to do with a case. Adam can hang out in town while I do it, and he’s not to say anything to anyone about it when we get back. I think he knows I’m full of shit, but he’s nice enough to just shrug and go along.

Findlay is a small town but considerably bigger than I expected and much nicer than Hemmings. It has a four-block shopping area of treelined streets, where cars park headfirst at an angle. All in all, a nice town… a nice place to have grown up… I’m afraid a nice place to go back to.

I was hoping for a lot worse. I was hoping there would be a sign when we pulled in saying “Welcome to Findlay, Pedophilia Capital of the World.” Or “Welcome to Findlay, World’s Leading Fungus Producer.”

I’m feeling uncomfortable with this whole thing. Laurie’s actions remind me of The Wizard of Oz, like she’s going to click her heels and say, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.” Which is bullshit, or Dorothy wouldn’t have run away from the dump in the first place.

I ask Adam, “If Dorothy ran away from home because the dog catcher was going to ice Toto, how come she clicks her heels and goes back? And what happens to Toto when she gets there? Can we assume he gets a needle in the arm?”

He has no idea what brought this on, but it’s about movies, so he’s into it. “You know something, you’re probably right. They should do a sequel, The Wizard of Oz 2: Toto’s Revenge.”

“You should write it.”

“Maybe I will,” he says, but I can’t tell if he’s serious.

Once I leave Adam in the shopping area, I call one of the rental car offices that Sam told me Walsh owned. The office I reach is the one about five miles out of town. They tell me that Walsh is not there, but at the office in the center of Findlay. It turns out to be a few stores down from where I left Adam. I don’t even have to get back in the car; I just walk down the street and go in.

My plan is to ask for him and then hit him with a diversion I’ve created about my company and its need to rent a large amount of cars in a small time frame. By presenting such a lucrative opportunity, I figure I can engage him in conversation, then see where it goes from there.

I enter the small office and approach the counter, an ingratiating smile on my face. “Hi,” I say to the young woman, “I’m looking for a Sandy Walsh.”

As I am saying this, I can see into the office behind her, where a man is sitting at a desk. He gets up and walks toward me, a little better-looking and in better shape than I would prefer. I was hoping for someone a little more on the grotesque side, with some open, oozing sores on his face.