AN ENORMOUS LIMOUSINEWITH a chauffeur waiting in the driver's seat is in front of the house when I pull up. I go inside and find Nicole sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee. She does not look happy, which gives us something in common.
“Hello, Nicole.”
“Hello, Andy.”
“Based on the size of the limo outside, either the President of the United States, the Sultan of Brunei, or your father is here.”
“Right the third time,” Philip says as he comes into the kitchen, smiling but not exactly bubbling over with warmth.
“Daddy's heard about what happened.” She takes Philip's arm, which I suppose is her way of showing me who she means by “Daddy.” “He's concerned.”
“Join the club,” I say.
“What are you doing about it?” Philip asks.
“I called the police, made sure the windows and doors were locked, got the alarm system fixed … but most importantly, I'm trying to find out what's going on and who might have done it.”
“Have you made any progress?”
“Not much.” Nicole moans in frustration, but I keep talking to Philip, who puts his hand on Nicole's head to comfort her. “Did you check out Brownfield?”
He nods. “Yes. He was attending business school in London the entire year that picture was taken.”
“Maybe he was back for one of the school breaks.”
Philip smiles his condescending smile, as if I'm a backwoodsman trying to understand the big city. “I pulled a few strings and checked with Immigration. Their records show he was in London for fourteen straight weeks surrounding that date. If the date is right, then it certainly is not Brownfield.”
This is another piece of distressing news placed on top of the pile I already have. Laurie and I were both sure it was Brownfield, and that his adamant denial came from his involvement in some criminal plot. If he was out of the country, then he loses his connection to the picture and to the date my father got the money. My face must show my disappointment and frustration, because Philip pounces on it.
“Can I make a suggestion?” he inquires. He doesn't do humble real well.
“Of course.”
“Since we don't know what or who is behind this, I suggest that you eliminate the potential dangers.”
“And how should I do that?”
“By giving up the murder case. It can't pay too well anyhow and in any event you no longer have any need for money. And it might be a good idea to stop looking into this photograph. Just in case.”
I'm really annoyed, especially by the suggestion that I drop the Miller case. Does he think this is a video game? Can he not realize and respect that a real life is at stake?
“Philip, if you don't mind my saying so, that is ridiculous. I'm going to see this through to the end. My client is on trial for his life.”
“He's already lost one trial. And you know as well as I do how little chance you have to turn that around. Hell, when I was in the prosecutor's office, I would have begged to handle a case like this.”
I'm sure that's true, since publicity was the only reason Philip was there. I'm about to answer him, but he's still going. “Besides,” he says, “it's Nicole's life that has been threatened, Andrew.”
“Actually, it hasn't. Mine has. But I get your point, and I have already suggested that Nicole go someplace safe until this is over. Maybe you can convince her that I'm right.” We're talking about Nicole as if she's not there, and when Philip is around, she effectively isn't. It makes me sad that the disappearance of the Nicole I knew happened on my watch.
Then Philip delivers his roundhouse right. He tells me that I'm not thinking clearly, that if I were I'd realize that whatever I discover could have a negative impact on my father's memory.
“My father never broke a law in his life,” I say.
He walks over and wraps his arms around my shoulder. I probably dislike shoulder wrapping even more than hugging. “Now look, we're all family here. I'm on your side. But Andrew, your father didn't earn the two million dollars delivering newspapers. If he had he wouldn't have kept it a secret and left it untouched all these years. You've got to face that fact.”
Philip is right about that much, of course, and after he leaves I try to bury that truth in a mountain of paperwork. I don't succeed. So I try and get some sleep, since tomorrow is my first session with Hatchet in his ballpark, and I had better be ready, because he and Wallace certainly will be. But I don't succeed at that either; I can't stop thinking about my father never touching that money.
I can clearly remember back to a time when I was eleven. My bedroom was right off the kitchen, but it was past midnight and my parents believed I was asleep. I wasn't, and the strange tones in their voices, particularly my father's, kept me awake with my ear to the wall.
They were discussing my request, made earlier that day, to go to overnight camp in the upcoming summer. It did not seem an unreasonable request, my two best friends had gone there the year before, and they were returning. But camp cost over two thousand dollars, plus all the equipment and clothing, and it was this financial commitment that my parents were discussing.
“You've got to tell him, Nelson,” my mother said. “He's a mature young man, he'll understand.”
“I know he will,” my father replied. “But I'm just not ready to give up on managing this.”
My mother pointed out that they simply did not have the money now, and that in any event summer camp was an extravagance, not a necessity. Better to save the money for college, which she said was just around the corner.
My father was adamant. His voice cracking, he talked about wanting me to have this experience, wanting me to have every experience he was never able to have. He would somehow figure out a way to make it work.
The next morning, to my undying shame, I did not withdraw my request. I had the time of my life at camp that summer, and I know now that my father, so desperate for me to go that he was in terrible pain, had millions of dollars that he refused to touch.
Money that he did not make delivering newspapers.
HATCHET'S GAVELPOUNDS THE CASE OF
This is the first time I have ever seen Willie outside of prison. He's wearing prison clothing and has his hands cuffed behind him, but I can still tell that he's enjoying this tiny taste of almost real life. I will get him normal clothing to wear when there is a jury present; prison clothing makes him look like he belongs there.
For some reason they have chosen to put us in courtroom three, which is the most modern and by far the least impressive of the six courtrooms in the building. It is as if the designer was taken to a typical Holiday Inn room and was told, “Give me this.”
There is not much room for the public and press, which may be the intent behind choosing it. Hatchet likes a calm and controlled courtroom; if he could I think he would conduct the trial in a plastic bubble. Personally, I like commotion and disorganization. In this case especially, I want the jurors on their toes and willing to think outside their box.
What I do like about the room is that since it is fairly small, the lawyers are close to both the judge and jury. There is a good chance for interaction, for the little asides that can have a disproportionately large effect. Playing to the jury is going to be difficult with the vigilant Hatchet in charge, but I'm still going to try.
Hatchet gets the names of the attorneys on the record, and then says, “Before we go through these motions, is there anything we need to discuss?”
“Your Honor,” I say, “I would request that my client's handcuffs be removed whenever he is in the courtroom. It is unnecessary, uncomfortable, and prejudicial to the jury.”
Hatchet looks around. “Do you see a jury here, Mr. Carpenter?”
“No, Your Honor. But I expect there will be.”
“Motion denied.” Not a great start.
I persist. “Your Honor, could we at least have his hands cuffed in front of him? I am advised that it would
