Laurie and Kevin arrive for a meeting on how we will approach the investigation of Linda Padilla. They are stunned to hear about Randy. Neither knew him, so while they are sympathetic, it’s natural that they focus on the impact this might have on our case.
Randy’s death enhances the credibility of the information he was going to provide. Kevin and Laurie share my view that there is almost no chance that his murder was a coincidence. He was going to name names, and we can only assume that the owners of those names, be it Petrone or anyone else, took steps to make sure that didn’t happen.
I call in Edna to ask her to report on the results of an assignment I had given her, which was to watch as much televised coverage of the Padilla killing as she could find.
There has been a recent tendency, probably since Princess Diana died, for television networks to cover funerals in their entirety. I’m at a loss to know what news value there is in showing people grieving and singing upbeat, gooey songs, but it must generate good ratings. I want to go on record and say that if anyone sings “You Light Up My Life” at my funeral, I will die of embarrassment. Actually, Sam Willis will probably song-talk it.
The plus side of the coverage, at least from our point of view, is that it is easy to get a handle on who were the important people in Padilla’s life. These are the people we will talk to, and Edna does a very good job of filling us in.
I give out assignments for each of us to cover. There is simply never enough time to prepare for a trial, and I want us moving quickly and efficiently. The meeting then breaks up, and Laurie stays behind.
“Sondra is doing okay,” she says. “But her recovery will take a while.”
“How long will she be in the hospital?”
“She can leave in a few days,” she says, “but she needs to rest for at least six weeks.”
“Where will she do that?”
“My house.”
I’m not surprised, but not happy to hear this for selfish reasons. Will Laurie be willing to leave her alone and spend nights at my house? Will she still feel comfortable having me stay over at hers? Is she starting down a path that is going to be filled with frustration?
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I ask. It’s a wimpy, completely ineffective question, unlikely to make her snap her fingers and say, “You know, I don’t think it is. Let me tell her to go back on the streets.”
She nods. “I do. But this is my thing, Andy. You don’t have to be part of it.”
I’m glad to hear this, because I don’t want to be involved in any way; I’ve got enough on my plate. “Are you going to get her a real job?” I ask.
“I’m going to try.”
“Let me see what I can do,” I say, thereby involving myself and crowding my plate a little more.
I catch a break when Vince calls, and I mention I want to see Michael Spinelli, Linda Padilla’s campaign manager. It turns out that Vince knows him very well, which is true of pretty much everyone in the Western Hemisphere. It also turns out that Vince doesn’t like him, which is true of pretty much everyone, period. But he owes Vince a couple of favors for past press coverage, so Vince offers to set up a meeting ASAP.
In the meantime, I take a ride down to the Tara Foundation to see how things are going and to apologize for not spending more time there helping out. I want to refine the apology, making it short but meaningful, because it’s one I’m going to have to deliver many times during the course of the trial.
Willie greets me enthusiastically and updates me on the foundation’s progress. “So far this week we placed Joey, Rocky, Ripley, Sugar, Homer, Hank, Carrie, Ivy, Sophie, and Chuck,” he says.
We have a veterinarian come in twice a day, and we let her name the dogs for us. She initially got carried away by the chance to display her creativity and named the first three dogs Popcorn, Kernel, and Butter. We’ve toned her down considerably, and the names are more normal now.
I’m pleased that the dogs Willie mentioned are now safe in their new homes, but guilty that I never even got to meet Homer, Sugar, and Chuck. The only end of this partnership I am holding up is the financial, and that is the least significant.
Willie shows me pictures of the dogs with their new owners. “Man, I am good at this,” he says, an assessment with which I agree.
“Yes, you are. You send out the records?” I ask. We give the dogs all their shots and make sure they’re spayed or neutered. After someone adopts a dog, we mail them all of those records, since they need them to get a license.
“Not yet.”
I look over at Willie’s desk, or at least where his desk would be if it weren’t completely engulfed in sheets of paper. “Let me take a shot at it,” I say, and go over to try to restore order.
It is while I’m trying to find Ripley’s rabies certificate that the stroke of genius hits me. “You really can use somebody to come in and help you out,” I say, hoping that Sondra isn’t afraid of dogs.
“You mean somebody to work with me?” He shakes his head vigorously. “No way. I work alone.”
“I’m not talking about working
“I’d be the boss?” Clearly, I’ve piqued his interest.
I nod. “The total boss. The ruler. The kingpin. The Grand Kahuna. You could tell her what to do and when you want her to do it. Within reason.”
“You said ‘her,’” he notices. “You got someone in mind?”
“Could be. I know someone who might be perfect. But she won’t be available for about six or eight weeks.”
“Where’d she work before?” he asks.
“I think she was in the motel field. She’s also been in and out of the automotive industry.”
It doesn’t take much more to sell Willie on the idea, and I leave the foundation looking forward to receiving plaudits from Laurie for dealing so quickly and successfully with her problem.
Sometimes I even amaze myself.
• • • • •
NO MATTER WHO killed Linda Padilla, one of the many secondary effects of the crime was to take away Michael Spinelli’s meal ticket. It’s a safe bet that Spinelli, as Padilla’s campaign manager, was planning to follow her to the governor’s mansion and beyond. Her death means it’s time for him to come up with a new plan.
Vince has set up my meeting with Spinelli at Padilla campaign headquarters. I’m sure a couple of weeks ago this place was bustling with activity, but as I enter no one asks me or cares who I am. It has become an organization without a reason for being, and dejection surrounds the place like faded wallpaper. The few remaining staffers are quietly packing their things, and I ask one of them where Spinelli might be. He points to an office and returns to what he is doing.
I enter Spinelli’s office and introduce myself, which prompts an immediate and unsolicited soliloquy. “I damn well shouldn’t be talking to you,” he says. “I mean, I know everybody’s entitled to a defense, but nobody forced you to represent the son of a bitch. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t talk to you. But you know what a pain in the ass Vince can be.”
“That’s something we can agree on.”
“So what do you want?”
“I want to know about Linda Padilla.”
“You mean, like, what did she eat for breakfast? Or how fast she could run a mile? You think you could be a little more specific? Because I don’t feel like chatting about this forever.”
“Okay,” I say, “here’s how it works. At the end of the day I want to find out who killed Linda Padilla. So I ask questions about her. I can’t only ask what’s important, because I won’t know what’s important until after I’ve asked a hell of a lot more questions. Of course, if you know who killed her, and why, you can blurt it out and save us both a lot of time.”
“The police think your client killed her,” he says.
I nod. “Yes, they do. I’m working on a different theory. My theory is that he’s innocent.”
He sighs and sits at his desk. “So where should I start?”
