Laurie is waiting for me when I get home, on the front lawn throwing a ball to Tara. My two favorite women, waiting eagerly for their man to come home. Can my newspaper, pipe, and slippers be far behind?
Apparently, they can, since as soon as Laurie sees me she sends me back out to bring home some pizza. In Laurie’s case, she orders so many toppings that it’s more of a salad than a pizza. Since I’m a man’s man, I get a man’s pizza, plain cheese. That way I can eat four pieces, eat just the cheese off the other four, and give the crusts to Tara.
After dinner we have some wine. Laurie has opened a rather flinty-tasting bottle, but I decide that sitting in candlelight, minutes before bed, is not the time to lecture or educate her. Instead, she tells me of her session with Richard Dempsey, husband of murder victim Nancy Dempsey.
Laurie did not like him very much at all. On three separate occasions he let slip the fact that theirs was a troubled marriage, comments that Laurie considered inappropriate in light of the subsequent tragic events. “If I had given him the opportunity, I think he would have tried hitting on me,” she says.
“Should that ever happen, use the face-smash-into-the-car maneuver you used on the pimp,” I say.
She nods. “Will do.”
“Do you think he’s involved in this?”
She firmly shakes her head. “I don’t, Andy. The guy’s a little slimy, but a serial killer? I could be wrong, but it just doesn’t fit at all.”
Nothing fits, and it’s starting to get on my nerves. I’m also feeling tired, and what I want to do right now is get into bed with Laurie. The problem is that she seems comfortable on the couch, drinking wine and petting Tara’s head.
My mind races, wondering how to lure her into the sack. I think back to the numerous techniques I tried on women during my fraternity days, but the one thing they had in common was that they never worked.
“You ready for bed?” she asks.
I fake-yawn nonchalantly. “Whenever . . .”
“Then I’ll stay up for a while. You can go on to sleep. You look tired.”
There’s as much chance of me going to bed without Laurie as there is of me crawling into the microwave and pressing High.
“No, staying up is fine. I’m completely wide awake,” I say. “I can’t remember the last time I was this awake.”
She smiles, a humoring-the-pathetic-idiot smile. “I think we should go to bed. You coming?” she asks.
“Damn right,” I say. “I’m exhausted.”
She takes my hand and we go to bed.
I am Andy the master manipulator.
• • • • •
RANDY CLEMENS HAS the same look on his face every time I visit him, and today is no exception. Once again he has a plan, an idea, and he’s positive that his telling it to me will be the first step to freedom. He’s hopeful and enthusiastic, and those feelings are not tempered by the fact that every time he’s felt them before he’s been wrong.
Unfortunately, my job is to always break the bad news. But I secretly harbor my own faint hope, the hope that one day his idea for a new appeal will be brilliant, something I completely overlooked, and will result in his being set free. In a sadistic quid pro quo, it always falls on him to demonstrate that I am wrong, simply by telling me his idea.
He enters the visiting room, and his eyes seek me out from the other visitors and prisoners, talking to each other on phones through the glass partitions. He heads toward me, though pausing to warily eye the others on his side of the glass. Seeming to decide that it is safe, he sits down.
“Andy, thanks for coming,” he says. “I know it’s a hassle.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
He grins. “Yeah, right.” Then his voice gets lower, and the wariness returns to his eyes. “Andy, I’ve got something. Something that could get me out of here.”
I try to seem eager to hear what he has to say, but in reality I dread it. I can’t stand to shoot this man down again. “What is it?”
“I know why those women were killed.”
If you had given me a thousand guesses, I never could have predicted that was what he would have said. “What?”
“Andy, I can’t scream it out, you know? I know about the murders, and I want you to use the information to get me released. I tell them all about it, and I get paroled. They make deals like that all the time.”
“Did you know I’m representing the accused?”
The shock is evident on his face; he had no idea. “Oh, my God!” he enthuses. “This is great! This is unbelievable!”
I’m not quite ready to join in the euphoria. “What is it you know, Randy?”
Again he looks around warily, more understandable in light of what we are talking about. “It’s all about the rich one. The others were window dressing.”
“You mean-”
He interrupts me, shaking his head. “No, not here. But I won’t let you down, Andy. Just set this up, please. Give me ten minutes in a room with the DA, and your client is in the clear.”
“They’re going to want a preview before they meet.”
He shakes his head firmly. “Andy, I can’t now. Okay? I’ve heard things . . . please trust me, and please get this done. I swear on my daughter’s life . . . this is real.”
I’m not going to get any more; he’s calling the shots. And I do trust that he believes what he is saying, though I have strong doubts that he can deliver what he hopes. “Okay. I’ll get right on it.”
His relief is so powerful it seems to be seeping through the glass. “Thank you,” he says, and walks off. He looks around, seems to pause for a moment, and then hurries out of the room.
By the time I reach my car, I’ve decided what to do with Randy’s request. The DA’s office is the obvious place to go, but I’m not about to trust Tucker with it. There is too much chance he would bury the information, even if it turns out that the information does not deserve to be buried.
Instead, I call Richard Wallace. Richard originally prosecuted Randy’s case, but that is not why I choose him. Richard has always demonstrated total integrity. It’s a cliche, but in his case true: He is more interested in justice than victory.
I’m lucky enough to get Richard on the phone. I tell him I need to see him about something important, but I don’t overplay it. My belief is that this will turn out to be unsubstantiated jailhouse chatter and ultimately not amount to anything. He agrees to see me right away, and I ask that we meet at a nearby coffee shop. I don’t want to run into Tucker.
Richard is already at a table waiting for me when I arrive. We exchange small talk, after which I lay out what Randy told me at the prison.
“This should go to Tucker,” he says.
“I can’t, Richard, he’d never follow up. It would be detrimental to both my clients.”
Richard nods; he knows I’m right, and he’s trying to find another way. “I assume everything you’ve just said to me is unofficial? Off the record?”
I don’t know what he’s getting at, but he’s nodding his head, prompting me, so I nod right back. “Right,” I say, going along. “Totally unofficial and way off the record.”
“Suppose you officially come to me and tell me Clemens has something important to say, that it could involve the perpetrators of some serious crimes. But you don’t mention which crimes, or any other clients of yours that might be involved.”
I immediately see where he’s going with this. “Then you would have no reason to talk to Tucker. It’s the kind of thing you could and should handle on your own.”
He nods. “At least until I hear what Clemens has to say.”
I lean forward. “Richard, there’s something I want to officially talk to you about.” Feeling a little silly, I lay out
