me less than most. I've developed the ability to step back and view him as a caricature of the “mean judge,” and my reaction is usually amusement. He instinctively knows that, and it drives him crazy.
Hatchet absolutely refuses to engage in the small talk that constitutes social relationships between normal human beings. “Hello” is to him meaningless and wasteful chitchat; every word he says or allows himself to hear must provide information. Right now that's fine with me, because information is what I'm waiting for. I'm going to learn whether Willie Miller is going to die or be granted another trial.
Hatchet's clerk ushers me into his chambers, which is famous for how dark Hatchet keeps it. The drapes are drawn and the Great One reads a brief at his desk in the sparse light of a table lamp.
He doesn't look up, but he knows I'm there. He also knows that I know the game, which is to stand there like an idiot and wait for him to speak. It can go on for a while, and this time it goes on for ten excruciating minutes.
Finally, he talks without looking up. “Speak.”
I'm now free to open my mouth. “Nice to see you again, Judge.”
“Sorry about your father.” For him that is an amazing burst of humanity.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“Top man. Top man.” He's positively gushing. “One of the best.”
“Thank you,” I reply again.
“You said that already.” Hatchet is back in character. “The decision is coming down today from Appeals. You're getting your retrial.”
There it is. Willie is saved, at least for the time being. Hatchet said it with such a lack of emotion that it took me off guard, though of course I would have expected nothing else.
I'm going to be humble about this. “That's good news. It's the right decision.”
“Bullshit.”
I nod agreeably. “That's another way of looking at it.”
He takes off his glasses and stares at me, peering through the darkness. This is not a good sign. There is a possibility I will never be heard from again.
“You got the retrial on a technicality.” He says “technicality” with such intense disdain that his teeth are clenched. It comes out “technically,” but I don't think I'll point this out. What I think I'll do is just listen.
“You'll need a hell of a lot more in court,” he continues. “There was enough evidence to convict Miller ten times over, and that's not going to change.”
“Well …” I begin.
“Bullshit.” I wonder how he knew what I was going to say?
“Your father did a good job prosecuting that case, but Daffy-fucking-Duck could have nailed Miller. And your courtroom stunts, should you be crazy enough to risk contempt and try them, won't help.”
A question forms on my lips, but I hesitate to ask because I dread the answer. I can't help myself. “Has a judge been assigned?”
“You're looking at him,” he says with obvious relish.
“Wonderful,” I lie. Other than the fact that I just got twenty-two million dollars dropped in my lap, and my client isn't going to be executed anytime soon, this has been a rough couple of days.
“You know,” he says, “there are some people that refer to me behind my back as Hatchet Henderson.”
“No!” I'm flabbergasted. “Why would they do that?”
“Because I cut the balls off lawyers in my courtroom who piss me off.”
“As well you should.”
“Trial is set for four weeks from today. I want your motions filed within ten days.”
This is simply unacceptable. Four weeks is not nearly enough time. I don't care if they call him Hatchet, I'm not going to let him walk all over me. “Judge, I need more time. The preparation involved will take-”
He cuts me off. “You've got four weeks.”
I'm raging with anger now. There is no way this asshole is going to railroad me and my client into this. “Four weeks,” I nod.
I realize that Hatchet is looking back at the papers on his desk. He's effectively dismissed me.
“Nice talking to you, Judge.” He doesn't respond; I have ceased to exist. Without saying another word, I turn and leave, closing the door behind me. I don't say goodbye. That'll teach him.
My next stop is out to the prison to tell Willie the good news in person. It's the first one of these visits I've looked forward to, although I'm already starting to focus on just how difficult this trial is going to be.
On the way to the cell, Danny asks me if I've gotten any news on Willie's appeal. He obviously can sense that I have.
“I really want to talk to Willie about it first,” I say.
He nods. “I understand. I hope he gets the new trial.”
I just nod, still noncommittal. It would seem a betrayal of Willie to tell anybody else before I tell him.
Danny continues, “I don't always root for the prisoners, you know? But I like Willie. I don't know what he did, or didn't do, but I judge 'em on how they are in here. And I like Willie.”
Willie is waiting for me, but trying to act nonchalant. He can't quite pull it off, but it doesn't matter. I get right to it.
“We heard from the Court of Appeals. We got the retrial.”
Willie sort of flinches when he hears it. I was nervous waiting to hear what Hatchet would tell me, and I'm just the lawyer. Willie was listening to hear whether he would live or die. He's going to live, at least for now. I can't imagine what this moment would have been like if I had to tell him the appeal was turned down. I don't know how I could have done it.
I call Laurie and tell her the good news. We agree to meet the next morning at eight o'clock in my office. There's going to be about three months of work to do in the next four weeks, and Laurie is going to be responsible for a great deal of it. She doesn't mention Nicole or the situation between us, but neither does she whisper sweet nothings into the phone. It's going to be the longest, shortest four weeks of my life.
NICOLE ANDI HAVE DINNER PLANS TONIGHT. I'M still feeling guilty about Laurie, so I exact my revenge on Nicole by taking her to a sports bar that I've never been to. It's a sign of how hard she's trying that she doesn't voice a complaint about the choice.
The only sports Nicole tolerates are sports cars, and occasionally sports shirts. It was a problem in our marriage. One time I planted myself on the couch and watched football for so long that she came over and watered me. Tara licked it off my face and I didn't miss a single play.
This place actually turns out to be pretty cool, with nine large-screen TVs and headphones that plug into the table so you can hear whatever game you want. Unfortunately, the only game on is a hockey game, which doesn't interest me. I have this rule: I'm only a fan of sports in which I can pronounce 30 percent of the players’ names. I don't think Nicole is a big hockey fan either; she glances at the screen and asks me what inning it is.
Nicole doesn't seem terribly impressed by the place. She has this hang-up about wanting edible food when she goes to a restaurant, and her meal doesn't seem to measure up. I make the mistake of inquiring as to how her salad is.
“Actually,” she says, “I've never said this about salad before … but it's too tough.”
I nod with characteristic understanding. “Same thing with the burgers. It's good for your teeth.”
She smiles and takes my hand. “It's just good to be together.”
At this point I'm thinking that she might be right. Things are getting more comfortable, more like old times. Of course, old times led to our separating, but I'm willing to overlook that right now.
I've known Nicole since I was fourteen; my father and Philip Gant were old friends who had gone on to Yale Law School together. They both then went on to work in the District Attorney's office. Though it became my father's life and passion, it was a resume-builder for Philip, and after four years he left crime fighting behind to fight for votes.
Tevye would have been thrilled with our courtship; it was the closest thing to an arranged marriage as the United States Constitution permits. We were introduced at a charity ball at Nicole's family's country club, an important enough event that my mother bought me a new navy blazer and khaki pants. I went reluctantly, much preferring to waste time hanging out with my friends than to meet this ritzy prep school girl. I was cool, my friends
