Not bosom buddies then. When I took WE, they might as well have taught it in Razorback Stadium.
“People won’t even know,” I tell her, “that we’re related.”
“Of course they will,” Sarah contradicts me.
“This is like the stock market dropping three hundred points in one day up here. All anybody talks about is the Razorbacks.”
An exaggeration, but I know what she means. Bill Clinton is the number one fan.
“Have you heard anything about the incident?” I can’t help but ask, though I know she is anxious to leave.
“Dad, please don’t try to get me involved,” she says impatiently.
“I know how you’ve used Rainey.”
Sarah is always accusing me of using people in my life to get information in my big cases. My off-and-on girlfriend Rainey, a social worker at the state hospital, seemed like a member of my staff she was so helpful.
Sarah would become incensed when I asked Rainey to hide a client or witness for a night or two at her house as I had to do a couple of times. Rainey never complained.
Other things about me upset her. But not my work. Invariably, she would get sucked in once a case got going.
“Have you heard anything about what Robin is like?” I ask.
“Dad!” Sarah pleads.
I back off.
“Be careful tonight,” I advise, unable not to have the last word. I let her go after telling her I will call her for dinner tomorrow evening. I assume I will be spending the night. It is too long a trip
to make often. My fees will be eaten up in transportation and lodging costs.
Yet, if I end up negotiating Dade’s pro contract, it will be the best time I ever spent.
“I love you, Sarah,” I say, finally.
“I love you, too,” she says, her voice full of exasperation, before she hangs up.
After taking a Lean Cuisine out of the freezer and pop ping it in the microwave, I open a Miller Lite and sit at the kitchen table and wait for Barton’s call. I try to read (he part of the paper I missed this morning but give up because I’m thinking about the case and Sarah’s comments about the Razorbacks. Why are they so damn important? Not just to me, but to hundreds of thousands in the state. Including the President of the United States.
And it is winning that is crucial. Not merely competing, not good sportsmanship, not the sheer athleticism of our players, imported or not. Winning, in our brains, equates with respect. And this is what we crave. Why wouldn’t we feel as good about ourselves if we were to achieve the lowest infant-mortality rate in the country? Frankly, we’d rather beat Alabama in football or Kentucky in basket ball.
At ten Barton calls back and gives me Coach Carter’s home and office number.
“He still may be in his office,” he says.
“The coaches stay up there late during the sea son. The two men I talked to said to call him immediately. It can’t hurt. Of course they are the type who would want Dade to play even if he had murdered the chancellor
I laugh. Razorback football and basketball. The meaning of life. I thank Barton and tell him I will come by his office in the next couple of days. Then I dial Carter’s home number.
“Coach Carter,” he says, answering on the first ring as if he were expecting my call. His voice, familiar through radio and TV, is raspy and tough like a drill sergeant’s.
Carter has none of the slickness of the younger breed of coaches, who look and sound as if they were in constant rehearsal for later careers as sport announcers.
I explain quickly who I am and why I’m calling.
“From what I’ve heard, I think there’s a real strong likelihood that Dade didn’t rape this girl. Coach Carter. I’d very much like for you to talk to him yourself before you take any disciplinary action. I should have him bonded out of jail tomorrow afternoon and can have him in your office anytime you say.”
“How do you know he didn’t rape her?” he demands, his voice hard as graphite.
“His father’s talked to him,” I say.
“Dade swears it was consensual. For whatever reason, it sounds to me like she was trying to set him up.” I tell him also that the rape charge may have been filed prematurely and why. He clears his throat a couple of times but hears me out.
“This isn’t a cut-and-dried kind of case where you have a girl who’s been beaten up and raped. She waited until the next day to say anything and didn’t have a scratch on her.
Everything I hear about Dade is that he’s a good kid. In my opinion, he deserves at least a conversation with you before anything else happens to him.”
Carter clears his throat again and grunts, “Where can I reach you tomorrow afternoon about five?”
My mind goes blank. I can’t even think of a single motel in Fayetteville.
“I’ll call and leave a message for you.”
I think I have my foot in the door, but I have no real idea. If Carter doesn’t want to talk to Dade, I sure as hell can’t make him. I thank him and hang up. As I begin to pack, I worry that I may be jeopardizing Dade’s criminal case by having him talk to Carter. He may say something to implicate himself. By trying to save his football career, I may end up helping to convict my own client. Human greed. I can feel it working in me like a virus. After I talk to Dade, I can always change my mind. I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.
It is hard to get to sleep. When I try to quit thinking about Dade’s case, my mind automatically defaults to Amy. Damn, she looked good. I’ll call her when I get back or maybe sooner. Woogie, at my feet, moans in his sleep. Do dogs dream? I will. My life hasn’t had so many possibilities in quite some time. Better not seem too eager or I’ll scare her off.
2
“Is he giving you a plane, too?” Julia, the receptionist secreta for the lawyers on the sixteenth floor of the Layman Building, asks sarcastically when I hand her Roy Cunningham’s check to deposit for me.
“If you’re looking for an excuse to learn some bankruptcy law, this case is it.”
Julia, a relative of the owner, retains more job security than a U.S. Supreme Court Justice. If she has ever managed to repress a hostile thought in her life, none of the lawyers on our floor has witnessed the blessed event.
“This is just the first installment,” I whisper cryptically, looking across the waiting room at my new client, a young woman who looks, as most women do these days to me, young enough to be my daughter.
Julia tugs at the imitation black leather skirt that barely covers her crotch. Not a woman to let the weather dictate her wardrobe, she seems to outdo herself each day. Her hips should sweat off a couple of pounds before lunch, and she won’t even have to stand up.
“Oh sure!” she says.
“And the Tooth Fairy’s gonna place it under your pillow.”
I resist the temptation to tell her why I took this case. If it doesn’t pan out, I’ll never hear the end of it.
“What’s my new client’s name again?” I ask, bending my head so the woman won’t read my lips. From a distance of twenty feet, she looks as fresh and wholesome as the proverbial farmer’s daughter. With thick brown hair framing a face as round as a globe, her greatest asset is her youth.
“Jeez!” Julia huffs.
“When are you getting tested for Alzheimer’s?” She prints a name on her pad. I try to focus without my reading glasses. Gina Whitehall, I make out, squinting at Julia’s grandiose but nearly illegible handwriting.
“Before long you’re gonna need a map just to get to work.”
“You’ll be old one day, too,” I mutter, about to pass out from Julia’s overly sweet cologne. For the better part of every morning she will give off an odor that suggests she has spent the previous night swimming in a vat of artificially flavored fruit juices whose bottom is pure NutraSweet.
“You’re not trying to look down my blouse, are you?”
