Sudden Death (4 page)

L
AURIE’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…

L
AURIE 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.”