from a solitary punter.
'Susan,' I called from a few yards away.
She turned with an expectant smile. The sight of me washed it away. I asked if we could talk. She turned back to the field. I asked if she was waiting for somebody. She studied the yard markers. I asked who she liked in the AFC East. She didn't give me any tips. I just stood there, looking at her profile. It wasn't hard to take.
She turned toward me again, a studious yet annoyed look through thick glasses, as if an interesting insect had landed in her soup. 'Why should I help you?'
'Because you're not real interested in helping Melanie Corrigan. Because you know things about her that could help an innocent doctor save his career. Because you like the way I comb my hair.'
'You're dumber than you look,' she hissed.
'Is there a compliment buried in that one?'
'You're hopeless.'
I can take being put down. Judges do it all the time. So do important people like a maitre d' in a Bal Harbour restaurant who insists that diners wear socks. But this was different. I looked at her, a fresh-faced young woman in cotton sweats that could not hide her athletic yet very womanly body. I gave her a hangdog look that sought mercy. She turned back to the field. Dan Marino was firing short outs to Mark Duper and Mark Clayton. Though each pass arrived with ferocious speed, there was no slap of leather onto skin at the receiving end.
'Soft hands,' Susan Corrigan said, mostly to herself.
'These guys are good but Paul Warfield will always be my favorite,' I said. 'Had moves like Baryshnikov. Stopping him was like tackling the wind.'
Sounds like you know more about football than about your own client.'
I gave her my blank look and she kept going. 'You still don't get it. You still don't know the truth.'
'Get what? Look, I'm defending a man accused of professional malpractice. I don't know what the truth is. I never know. I just take the facts-or as much of them as I can get from people biased on all sides-and throw them at the jurors. You never know what jurors hear or remember or care about. You never know why they rule the way they do. They can right terrible wrongs or do terrible wrongs. They can shatter lives and destroy careers, and that's what I'm worried about with Roger Salisbury.'
'Bring out the violins.'
Suddenly a shout from behind us: 'Heads up!' I looked up in time to see a brown blur dropping from the sky. Susan Corrigan's hands shot out and she caught the ball with her fingertips. A cheer went up from the wide receivers, anonymous behind their face masks.
'Soft hands,' I said, 'and a lot of quick.' I gave her my best smile. It had been good enough for several generations of University of Miami coeds, their brains fried from working on their tans. It had lowered the minimal resistance of stewardesses from half a dozen failing airlines. It did not dent the armor of Susan Corrigan.
'Sit on this,' she said, lateraling the ball toward my gut.
I felt like popping her one. Instead I took my frustrations out on the funny-shaped ball. Fingertips across the laces, I heaved a hard, tight spiral to the punter half the field away. He took it chest high and nodded with approval. The toss surprised even me.
Susan Corrigan whistled. 'You've played some ball.'
Her tone had subtly changed. Good, maybe if I went a few rounds with Mike Tyson, she'd give me the time of day.
'A little,' I said. I decided not to tell her my right arm just lost all its feeling except for a prickly sensation where the wires had been frayed.
'Quarterback?'
'No, I decided early I'd rather be the hitter than the hittee. Linebacker with lousy lateral movement. Occasionally I'd hit people returning kickoffs if they came my way. Sometimes filled in when games were already won or lost and I'd smack fullbacks who trudged up the middle. Mostly I polished the pine, which is actually aluminum and can freeze your butt in places like South Bend and Ann Arbor in November. Gave me time to philosophize about cheerleaders' thighs.'
'You look like you stay in shape.'
'Used to windsurf a lot. Now I just hit the heavy bag a couple times a week and never miss a Wednesday night poker game.'
'I can beat almost any man at almost any sport,' she said. She didn't sound boastful. If you kin do it, it ain't braggin'.
'We should play ball sometime,' I suggested.
She showed me the first hint of a smile. Her face didn't break. 'Are you being a smartass now?' she asked, almost pleasantly.
'No. I just want to talk to you.'
'I'll talk if you can beat me in a race.'
'What?'
'The goal line,' she said, pointing across the empty practice field, 'Let's see who can score.'
Only the punter was still on the field. He took his two-step approach and kicked the ball with a solid thwack. The same motion, time after time, a machine following the path designed for it on the drawing board. Like a surgeon clearing out the disc, the same motion, time after time. But the punter had shanked one off the side of his foot, and even Roger Salisbury could have booted one. There I go again, mind slipping out of gear.
'Yes or no?' she demanded. 'I've got to interview Shula, and that's no day at the beach the way the Bills dropped buffalo shit all over them last Sunday.'
'Okay,' I said, taking off my Scotch brogue wing tips. 'I suppose you want a head start.' She laughed a wily laugh.
The sun was just dropping over the Everglades to the west and a pink glow spread across the sky, casting Susan Corrigan into soft focus. I stretched my hamstrings and concocted a plan. I'd run stride for stride with her without breathing hard, maybe make a crack or two, then shoot by her, and run backwards the last ten yards. I'd let her jump into my arms at the goal line if she were so inclined. Then, I'd be a gracious winner and take her out for some fresh pompano and a good white wine.
She dropped into sprinter's stance, shouted 'Go,' and flew across the field. I bolted after her, my tie flapping over my shoulder like a pennant at the big game. She was five yards ahead after the first two seconds. Her stride was effortless, her movements smooth. My eyes fixed on her firm, round bottom, now rolling rhythmically with each stride. Halfway there I was still in second place, the greyhound chasing the mechanical rabbit. So I picked it up, still three yards back with only thirty to go. So much for the plan. Chasing pride now. Longer strides, lifting the knees too high, some wasted motion, but letting the energy of each step power the next one. Two steps behind and she shot a quick glance over her shoulder. A mistake, but only ten yards to go, no way to catch her, so I lunged, grabbing at her waist, hand slipping down over a hip, tumbling her into the grass with me rolling on top and her glasses, notepad, and pen whirling this way and that.
We ended up near the goal line, her on the bottom looking up, moist warm breath tickling my nose. A lot of my body was touching a lot of her body, and she wasn't complaining.
'First and goal from the one,' I whispered.
I looked straight into her eyes from a distance any quarterback could sneak. Was it my imagination or was the glacial ice melting? I was ready for her to get all dewy and there would be some serious sighing going on. But I had come up a yard short. She flipped me off her like a professional wrestler who doesn't want to be pinned, one of her knees slamming into my groin as she bounced up. She stood there squinting in the dusk, looking for her glasses while I sucked in some oxygen.
'You really don't know, do you?' she said, standing over me.
'Not only that, but I don't know what I don't know.' My voice was pinched.
'Then listen, because you're only going to hear it once. Your client isn't guilty of medical malpractice.'
'He's not?'
'No. He's guilty of murder. He killed my father. He planned it along with that slut who ought to get an Academy Award from what I saw in court today. I can't prove it, but I know it's true.'
'I don't believe this.'
'Believe it. Your client's a murderer. He should be fried or whatever they do these days. So pardon me if I
