The Wrong Man

26

Kathy Rubinkowski’s parents lived in the northwest suburbs in a townhouse community of mostly retirees. The community was constructed around a man-made lake. The homes were all built with the same red-brick, white-wood pattern, a Stepford-wives feel to it that gave me the willies. To a guy like me who grew up in the city, the suburbs were a nonstarter. My wife, Talia, had mentioned them once, back when she was pregnant with our daughter, and I just about went into convulsions-probably because I knew I’d be swimming against the current on that one and would probably relent one day, about the time we were on child number four or five and we were priced out of the city housing market.

I’d wanted to bring Shauna with me to this appointment because of her soft touch, but she was swamped with other cases and needed to clear them out so she could work on Stoller. So I dragged Lightner with me, who didn’t normally have a deft touch but could turn it on when he was on the job.

I rang the doorbell, and Lightner and I instinctively stepped back from the door, a nonthreatening posture. It was midday, and we were in full view of twenty other townhomes, but we were still two sizable guys showing up at a door.

A man’s voice came through a speaker next to the door. “Yes?”

“Mr. Rubinkowski, it’s Jason Kolarich.”

I’d called ahead and talked my way into an appointment. Ray Rubinkowski hadn’t been happy to hear from me, but he’d been polite enough to hear me out.

He answered the door in a plaid shirt and blue corduroys. Classic retired-dad wear, I would think, though I was hardly an expert. My father’s wardrobe these days was limited to a gray jumpsuit, courtesy of Marymount Penitentiary.

Age had weakened Rubinkowski’s voice and added ten pounds to his midsection, but he was clear-eyed and handsome. He bore some resemblance to his deceased daughter, his only child. I knew from background research that he’d been an accountant until his retirement two years ago.

He took our coats and showed us into what he called the parlor. I didn’t think people used that term anymore. His wife, Doreen, was sitting on a couch with her hands in her lap. She could just as easily have been in a dentist’s reception area awaiting a root canal. She probably would have considered that more enjoyable.

“We made coffee,” she said, the extent of her greeting.

“We’re fine,” I answered for both of us. Joel and I took a seat.

“What you said on the phone-it-was a surprise,” said Ray. “You said there were questions about how… how it happened?”

I’d been careful with my words over the phone. I didn’t want the family to call the prosecutor and tell her that the defense was changing its theory. That might be unavoidable, ultimately, but I wanted to keep as many cards as close to my vest for as long as possible.

“Mr. and Mrs. Rubinkowski,” I began.

“Ray,” he said. “And Doreen.”

He was being more generous than I’d have been, were the roles reversed. “We have questions. I’m new to the case. I just came in less than two months ago, and maybe seeing things with fresh eyes makes a difference.”

They didn’t respond to that. They seemed confused.

I asked, “Can you think of why anyone might have wanted to hurt your daughter?”

Kathy’s mother drew back, placing a hand over her heart like she was about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Her husband patted her knee.

“From what little information I have,” I said, “your daughter was an ambitious young woman who was working her way through a master’s program and had a bright future. So it seems weird to me to have to ask this question, but I feel compelled to do so.”

“You’re saying this like we don’t already know who shot her,” said Ray. “Your client shot her. So why the hell would you ask us a question like that?”

By now silent tears had fallen down Doreen’s cheeks. She turned her head to look out the window, a defense mechanism, while her husband glared at me.

I shrugged. “I’m just trying to paint a picture for myself.”

“You want to smear Kathy,” he said through a clenched jaw. “Is that it? You want to make her look like someone who deserved what happened to her.”

“No, sir,” I protested. “I’m just-”

“You’re trying to get your client off,” he interrupted. “You’ll say whatever you need to say to win the case. That’s your job, isn’t it? You don’t care if what you’re saying is right or wrong. You’ll say whatever you need to say. You’ll say bad things about Kathy, if that’s what it takes. And now you want us to be a part of it?”

“Ray-”

“Are you telling us that your client didn’t kill our daughter?” Ray was growing more upset with every word. “Because that would be the first I’ve heard of that.”

I sighed. I could tell him the truth, that I seriously doubted that Tom Stoller shot her, but once again I had to balance a lot of considerations. If Ray Rubinkowski had something very important and relevant to tell us, then it was worth disclosing my change in defense strategy to Ray, and therefore, inevitably, to the prosecution. But if I didn’t think my odds were good, I was better off not showing my hand.

I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I’d hoped that the Rubinkowskis would just answer a few of my questions and let me be on my way. In hindsight, it was foolish of me. You can’t walk into the home of bereaved parents and expect them to take a loaded question, like the one I asked, lying down.

Plus, I didn’t want to do that to them. I knew what it was like to deal with a loss like theirs. You learn the facts, gruesome and incomprehensible facts, and you try to find a way to process them and ultimately coexist with them. Over time, the repetition, the constant replaying of the sordid information in your mind, has the effect of blunting it. On day one, you couldn’t possibly utter the words- my wife and daughter died in a car accident; my daughter was shot by a homeless man — but over time the wounds scar over. Then someone like me comes along and says, That horrific pain that you’ve managed to store away? Well, it’s all wrong. We have to rip open those scars. We have to reexamine everything. You have to relive this.

“No, I’m not saying that,” I answered. “We’re still pleading insanity.”

Ray and Doreen consoled each other. I waited them out. On the mantel of the fireplace was a shrine to their only child. Photos of Kathy Rubinkowski with a cap and gown at high school graduation, as a toddler sitting atop a horse, at the kitchen table, smiling into the camera with a mouthful of braces.

I looked at Lightner, who motioned toward the door. But I wasn’t ready to go yet.

“Again, Ray, Doreen, I was just trying to get a big picture here. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just have one more question, if I may.”

Finally, Ray composed himself and turned to me again. His jaw was clenched, his face reddening with frustration.

“Did you give anything to the police or the prosecutors?” I asked. “I didn’t see anything in the discovery.”

Ray, who had been ramping up to bawl me out again, was disarmed by the innocuous question. “I–I don’t think so.” He looked at his wife. “Dor, did we give Wendy anything?”

“That legal document,” said Doreen. “From the FedEx.”

“Oh, right. There was one thing,” he said to me. “But I don’t think there was anything to it. Wendy didn’t seem to think so.”

I looked at Lightner. I had nothing to lose at this point.

“Did you keep a copy?” I asked.