Willie is positively giddy.
“Man, that was the most fun I've had in seven years,” he says, cackling with laughter. “Those guys thought I was dead meat. You should have seen what I did to them. They had to get them off the floor with a shovel.”
“I'm glad you had such a good time,” I say. “It's really brightened my night as well.”
The sarcasm is pretty much lost on Willie. As I'm leaving, he says, “And I've got you to thank, man.”
I stop at the door. “How's that?”
“They mentioned your name. Said they were going after me 'cause you don't know when to lay off. That was just before I busted 'em up.”
This takes me by surprise. “You mean they went after you for a reason? It wasn't just a random attack?”
Willie laughs at my prison naet “Random attack? There ain't no such thing in here, man. Nope, whoever sent them had a reason, and I'll bet he paid big bucks to get it done. You must be gettin’ somewhere, man.”
I don't think I'll share this with Willie, but the only thing I'm getting is confused. Somebody tried to have Willie killed because I am uncovering something. I see three minor problems with that: I don't know who that somebody could be, I don't know why they would go after Willie, and I've uncovered absolutely nothing.
I offer to have Willie moved into solitary confinement for his own protection, but he acts as if I am trying to steal his bicycle. He promises he can take care of himself, which seems to be a promise he can keep.
I head home for a restful three hours sleep, knowing full well that I'll be just as confused in the morning.
KEVIN IS WAITINGFOR ME AND CHOMPING ON his second raspberry turnover when I arrive at the office in the morning. Edna has already drawn him into her morning crossword puzzle, and is showing off her skills. He is suitably impressed, as she knew he would be. I hear her tell him that he has a flair for crosswords; she says it in an offhanded way, like Joe DiMaggio might have said to a rookie, “Nice arm, kid.”
I like Kevin's style. When his mouth is not too full of food to talk, he's got a dry sense of humor, but a straightforward way of working. His work style on this case is simple and as advertised; he wants me to give him assignments and he'll accomplish them to the best of his ability. Based on this experience, if I were running a big firm, I would do all my recruiting at Laundromats. The first task I give Kevin is to prepare a motion for change of venue.
Change of venue motions almost never succeed, and they almost never should. If the publicity around a crime is so intense as to make it impossible to empanel an impartial jury, then that publicity is rarely localized. Judges recognize this, and since they are naturally protective of their own turf anyway, they almost always deny the motion.
My reason for requesting the change in this instance has more to do with Hatchet than with the community. I would love to get Hatchet off the case, but I have no grounds on which to so move. If I tried, it would get me nowhere and would most likely piss him off. Requesting the venue change represents a way to remove him, without directly identifying him as the reason.
Kevin outlines for me what his argument will be, and it is a solid one. Willie's case did not get particularly intense media coverage at the time, so at this late date its awareness level in other communities would not be great. However, local people have heard of it, and more importantly they are aware that a jury convicted Willie the first time. The prosecution has already made its case to the local media that the trial was overturned on a technicality, leaving Willie with a presumption of guilt in the minds of potential jurors.
Kevin has also managed to acquire specific, detailed information showing how much attention the media has devoted to this case, and it demonstrates that the recent coverage has been almost entirely local. It is a good argument, Kevin will make it persuasively, and we will lose.
I'm exhausted from last night, and I'd love to cancel lunch with Philip. The problem is that nobody cancels lunch with Philip. So I head out to meet him at the Westmount Tennis Club in Demarest. It's a twenty-minute drive from my office, but for all intents and purposes it's in another world. There are thirty-eight courts, a mixture of hard surface, clay, and grass. The place is perfectly landscaped on seventy-one acres, has three gorgeous swimming pools, a world-class restaurant, killer daiquiris, and ballboys on every court. It also, as far as I can tell, has a membership that does not include a single decent tennis player.
Philip is sitting in the lounge, picking at a fruit plate, when I arrive. He seems pleased to see me, and introduces me to the assortment of rich people within introducing range. I briefly wonder how many of them have less money than I do, and I figure I'm only in the middle of the pack. Just wait until I get my fee from the Willie Miller case.
We engage in meaningless chitchat until we finish lunch, at which point I take out the picture and ask Philip if he recognizes any of the men. He initially only recognizes my father, so I mention Markham and Brownfield. He has spent time with both men on a number of occasions, and while these are much younger versions, he does think it could be them, though he's far from sure.
“Why is this important to you, Andy?”
I tell him about the money, which he's already heard about from Nicole, and how the picture may well be related to that. I tell him I'm interested because Markham and Brownfield denied it so hard. What I don't tell him is the main reason, that I need to learn about my father in death what I obviously never knew in life. To voice this would seem somehow like a betrayal of my father, and I'm not about to come close to that with Philip.
“So how can I help you?” he asks.
“Well, with your connections in the business community, and your access to information …”
“You want me to check out Brownfield?”
I nod. “And maybe learn something about what he and Markham were doing thirty-five years ago. See if there was a connection between them.”
“Or with your father?”
There's no way around it. “Or with my father.”
He promises he'll do what he can, and I have no doubt that he will. Then he gets down to his own agenda for the meeting.
“How are things with Nicole?”
“Good. Really good.” I say this with sincerity, and in fact it may be true. Of course, if Nicole had attacked me the night before with a meat cleaver, I still would have told Philip, “Good. Really good.”
He's pleased; this obviously confirms what Nicole had told him last night. “Excellent,” he says. “I'd hate to have to break in another son-in-law.”
He asks if I have time for a cup of coffee, and I tell him that I don't. I thank him for his help, and then I say something I probably shouldn't say to my father-in-law.
“I've got to take care of a hooker.”
Philip asks me what the hell I am talking about, which forces me to stay there another five minutes as I explain about Wanda, Cal's daughter. But I finally get away so that I can drive to court to deal with Wanda's case. This seems like a particularly appropriate time to indulge my superstition, and I stop off at Cal's newsstand on the way. It is closed for the first time in my memory. I assume that Cal is going to be at court supporting his daughter.
I arrive at the court and arrange to meet Wanda in an anteroom. When I walk in, she is sitting at a table. She's all of sixteen, with a face at least ten years older and sadder. The sight of her jolts me.
There is one thing that virtually all of my clients bring to our first meetings … the look of fear. All but the most hardened criminals are genuinely afraid of the process they are about to go through, knowing full well that it can end with them being locked in a steel cage. Many of them feign a lack of concern, but if you look deep into their eyes, you can see the fear. In a weird way it's one of the things that I like about my job; if I do it well I take away the fear.
That fear is not present in Wanda. Her eyes tell me that this is a piece of cake for her, that she's faced much worse. Her eyes scare the hell out of me.
When I enter, Wanda looks at me as if a gnat had flown in through an open window.
“Wanda?”
“Yeah.”
“My name's Andy Carpenter. I'm a friend of your father. He's hired me to represent you.”
