those guidelines. He conveys to Sandy that the state agrees; all that remains is for Hatchet to put his rubber stamp on it. Wallace offers me the right to sit in on that meeting in Hatchet's chambers, which I am very grateful for.
Even though I won't have a significant role in the meeting, I still want to be prepared, so I bring home some books to study up on the relevant law. When I get home, there is a message on the answering machine from Nicole. She sounds tentative, a little nervous, but basically just wants to know how I am doing. I don't call her back; I can't tell her what's going on with her father, and it seems too dishonest to have a conversation without bringing it up.
The next morning at nine o'clock Wallace, Sandy, and I are ushered into Hatchet's chambers. His eyes focus on me. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm a friend of the court,” I answer cheerfully.
“Since when?”
The meeting goes without a hitch. Hatchet has to be surprised when Philip's name is mentioned, but he doesn't show it. He asks the correct, perfunctory questions of Wallace and Sandy, and they provide the proper answers. At the conclusion, he signs off on the plea bargain. Nothing to it, but when the results of this meeting are made public there will be a political firestorm unlike any since the Clinton impeachment.
When we leave the chambers, there is little said between the three of us. We all know the implications of what we are doing, and we're going to go about our business professionally. Sandy goes to Victor's to get him and Edward to sign off on the final agreement, Wallace goes to prep his boss for an afternoon press conference announcing the news, and I go home to watch what promises to be an amazing night of television.
THE PHONE CALLFROM SANDY MICHELSON comes at three o'clock. In a fairly steady voice he says that he's calling to inform me that his client, Victor Markham, is dead. After signing the proffer and watching Sandy leave with it, he went into his bathroom and took enough powerful pain medication to kill himself three times over.
Sandy speculates that despite his careful explanations, Victor may well have believed that simply the act of signing the proffer meant Edward's deal was secure. He also believes that Victor's ego would not let him face the public humiliation that his confession would bring.
I'm not really interested in dwelling on the tragedy that is Victor Markham. The fact is that as evidence the proffer is useless, inadmissible hearsay in a court of law. With the lack of physical evidence that exists, Philip is off the hook before he even knew he was on it.
My frustration is complete. Laurie comes over to commiserate, but I really don't want anybody around me right now. I want to be alone to wallow in my misery. I don't tell her that, because even in this frustrated state, I retain my wimpy tendencies.
Laurie is of the opinion that we shouldn't give up, that there still has to be a way to tie Philip to this. I know better and I tell her so, but she keeps throwing out ideas, which I keep shooting down.
She asks me to take out the photograph, which I reluctantly do. Between the two of us, we've probably looked at it five hundred times, but now she looks at it carefully, as if she's never seen it before. It's an investigative technique she uses, which she has often told me about. She is able to will herself to take a fresh approach to evidence.
This time it doesn't seem to get her anywhere. She looks at it for almost five minutes, then turns to me. “Are you sure there's nothing in the background that identifies this as Philip's house?”
“I'm sure,” I say.
She tries to hand me the picture. “Look again.”
I don't want to; I never want to see that stupid picture again. “Come on, Laurie …” I whine.
“Please, Andy, I hate seeing you like this.”
“It'll get worse before it gets better.”
She keeps insisting, so I sigh and take the picture and look at it. My assessment is it hasn't changed much, and I tell her so.
“So you can't tell that's Philip's house?” she asks.
I look still again. “Nope. In fact I've never seen those trees. He must have cut them down.”
Now she looks again. “Why would he cut down beautiful trees like that?”
So I look again, a fresh look like Laurie taught me. And all of a sudden, I know exactly why Philip Gant would cut down beautiful trees like that.
I ARRIVE AT THE GANT ESTATE at eleven the next morning, having called ahead to tell Philip I needed to speak to him. He was cordial and without a hint of concern in his voice; he seemed to know nothing about Markham's proffer. I ring the bell and the butler, Frederick, answers.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter.”
“Hello, Frederick. The Senator is expecting me.”
Frederick nods. “Yes, sir. He's at the pool.”
I nod and move quickly through the house and out to the back. I head toward the pool, and find Philip sitting in his bathing suit at an umbrella-shaded table, nursing a drink and reading a book. He hears me coming and looks up.
“Hello, Andrew.”
“Hello, Philip. Am I interrupting anything important?”
“No … no … not at all. It's very disappointing about you and Nicole. I very much wanted it to work out.”
“And you usually get what you want,” I say.
I can see him react to this; it is not something that someone would ordinarily come out and say to him, even though it is obviously true. He decides to let it pass by treating it good-naturedly.
He grins. “Yes, I guess I do. I guess I do. Congratulations on your victory in that trial.”
“Did you hear about Victor Markham?” I ask.
He nods. “I did. The entire episode is terrible. Just terrible.”
“You know,” I say, “it's funny. A secret like that is kept for almost forty years, and then it comes out, just like that. Makes you think, doesn't it?”
“About what?” he asks.
“That if you have something to hide, you can never be sure it will stay hidden. There's always that worry, always that chance that a base hasn't been completely covered.”
“I suppose that's true.” Philip's tone is now a little uncertain, tentative.
“I mean, think about this case. There's still a secret to be revealed. There's still someone who hasn't been accounted for.”
“And who might that be?” he asks.
“The guy who took the picture.”
The look in his eyes says I've got his attention, so I continue. “Maybe he's the one who gave my father the money. Maybe he's the one whose house it was.”
Philip sits there, sipping his drink, unruffled. The son of a bitch. “Andrew,” he says, “you don't want to go any further.”
But I do, and I will. “Maybe he's the one who was afraid he'd be ruined … that his perfectly planned future could be destroyed. Maybe he's the one who killed Julie McGregor to protect himself.”
Philip puts down his drink: his way of saying that it's time to get serious. “All right, Andrew, what exactly are you saying?”
“I'm saying that if I were that person, I'd be worried. Because secrets like this are very difficult to keep. And if that person were somebody prominent, somebody hot-shit important, then his whole life could go down the drain, slowly … surely … totally.”
As much as I despise this man, I am almost mesmerized by him. He is being confronted with the revelation of a secret so terrible that he has murdered to preserve it, yet he seems unfazed and totally in control. It's either a confidence bordering on invincibility, or an Academy Award winning performance.
“Goodbye, Andrew,” he says.
But I'm not going anywhere. “I know my father took your money, and that was wrong. But you had saved his life when he fell through the ice, and now he was saving yours. You were his oldest friend, and he let that cloud his judgment. But it doesn't matter anymore, because you know what, Philip? The bad news for you is that I'm not my
