Sudden Death (8 page)

T
HERE 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
Rambo
s.”

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.

T
HE 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.”