I can't help but smile. “Yes, you did, Mr. Campanelli. Now tell me … as an expert on alcoholism … how does one go about getting drunk?”
“What do you mean? By drinking alcohol.”
“Does the alcohol get into the drinker's bloodstream?”
“Yes.”
“Is drinking the only way to do it?”
“Far as I know,” he says.
“Suppose,” I ask, “suppose I were to inject a large amount of alcohol into your arm with a syringe. Would that do the trick? Could you become drunk that way?”
Wallace realizes where I'm going. “Objection. Pure speculation.”
“Overruled. Witness will answer the question.”
Lou shrugs. “I guess it would. Sure.”
“Objection! Your Honor, the witness is not qualified as an expert in this area.”
Hatchet overrules again and Wallace asks for a conference out of earshot of the jury. We go back to chambers, where he again makes the case that I am advancing wild theories that Hatchet should protect the jury's delicate ears from having to hear. Hatchet refuses to do so, and we head right back into the court.
As I stand to continue my direct examination of Campanelli, I notice Laurie coming in the back door and sitting at the defense table.
“Mr. Campanelli,” I resume, “could such a large amount of alcohol be injected into a person's bloodstream that the person could be rendered totally drunk? Smashed?”
“Sure.”
“So that he couldn't remember anything afterward? Including the injections?”
“I guess it would depend on the person, but … why not?”
I smile. “I don't know why not, Mr. Campanelli. I don't know why not at all.”
I go back to the defense table as Wallace starts his cross-examination. I hear him getting Campanelli to speak about how common it is for program members to fall off the wagon and go on binges.
I lean over to talk to Laurie. “Any news on the license plate?”
She nods. “Yes, but you're not going to like it. It's a registered plate, top government security clearance. There is no way to find out who has it.”
This is a stunning piece of news. The goddamn government is trying to kill me?
Campanelli leaves the stand, and Hatchet announces that one of the jurors has a medical situation that needs attention, canceling court for the afternoon. Considering the state of my case, I hope it's a twenty-four-week virus.
Nicole, amazingly, has been cleared to leave the hospital, mainly because Philip is setting up a special facility for her in his home, complete with round-the-clock nurses and a doctor who will check on her twice a day.
Actually, I find out about Nicole's departure from the hospital inadvertently. I happen to call her while she is in the process of leaving. I have the feeling that right now I am not wanted or needed by either her or her father. In Philip's eyes I have committed the cardinal sin of exposing his daughter to serious danger, even after I was warned about the possibility of that danger. To compound the offense, I have also rejected her. His accusations are fair; I am guilty as charged.
Laurie and I go to Charlie's bar to discuss the latest developments. I don't have many options for the defense; my strategy has been to cast doubt on the prosecution's witnesses, to raise the possibility of a frame- up.
The simple fact is that, while I've had some success, it hasn't been enough. Absent a major development, Willie Miller is going to be convicted. And if there's a major development coming, it's news to me.
Laurie asks, “Are you going to put Willie on the stand?”
“How can I? All he'll say is he has no idea what happened. Wallace will have him for lunch.”
As has been my custom during my slide into frustration dementia, I take out the photograph from my father's house and put it on the table. I know every square millimeter of it by heart, but I keep looking at it, hoping that it will jog something in my mind. It never does; the sad truth is I'm no closer to figuring it out than the day I first saw it.
Of course, the list of things that I'm not close to figuring out is as long as my arm. Right near the top is why the person who shot at me and hit Nicole was driving a government vehicle, and a classified one at that.
And then one of those moments happen that are impossible to predict, but have the power to change everything. As we are talking about the license plate, my gaze wanders back to my father's picture, still on the table. Between my eyes and the picture is Laurie's beer bottle. The glass has the effect of magnifying the picture, and ringing a bell inside my head.
“You know something,” I say. “I'm a genius.”
“You've certainly been hiding it well,” Laurie answers.
“Let's go.” I put money down to cover the check and head for the door. Laurie has to hurry to keep up behind me. She calls out to me as I head for the parking lot.
“Where are we going?”
“I'll tell you on the way.”
Vince Sanders is in his office at the newspaper when we barge in. I tell him that we need his help urgently, but I'm not sure he hears me because he can't stop staring at Laurie. He probably thinks she is one of the twins I promised him.
Finally, he acknowledges my presence. “How did you know I'd be here this late?”
“Where would you be? On a date?”
Vince asks Laurie, “Is he always this big a pain in the ass?”
“I can only speak for the last three years,” Laurie says.
Vince shrugs. “Okay, what can I do for you?”
I take out the picture and put it on the table.
Vince sighs. “I already told you, the only guy I recognize is Mike Anthony.”
I shake my head. “I don't care about the people. I care about the license plate.”
All this time I have been focusing on the people in the picture, not on the cars. Now I point to the license plate on one of the cars, the one that is facing the camera. It is certainly too small to be read by the human eye, but I can tell that the letters and numbers are there.
“Can you have this blown up so we can read it?”
He looks at it, squinting as he does. “We can try.”
He stands up, grabs the picture, and takes it out of the room, coming back after only a few minutes.
“We'll know in five minutes,” he says.
He's right, although the five minutes feel like five weeks. Finally, his phone rings and all he says is “Yeah?” then hangs up.
He turns to Laurie and me. “Follow me.”
Vince takes us down the hall and into a room filled with computers. He introduces us to Chris Townshend, a twenty-four-year-old who Vince describes as “the best there is.” He doesn't say at what, and I'm not about to ask. There is only one answer I want, and if I'm really, really lucky, it's about to come on the computer screen.
Chris takes us over to the largest screen in the room. He works a console full of buttons and gadgets like a maestro. Suddenly he pauses, presses a button, and the photograph appears, still far too small to make out the license plate. He starts to zoom in on the plate, each time making it larger and larger. I can feel the excitement building; this is going to work.
After a few more clicks, Chris says, “That's as close as I can get without it becoming too diffuse.” We all peer in to try and read it; it's not easy.
“J … B …” I say.
Laurie points at the letter I have identified as a B. “That's an R,” she says. “Let me do this, I'm younger than you.”
“It's okay with me,” Vince says. “I'm blind as a bat.”
Laurie keeps reading, and I'm writing it down as she does. “J … R … C … 6 … 9 … 3.”
“The last number is a 2,” Chris says.
