“She made a career out of blowing the whistle on people, every one of whom would have a grudge against her. What I want to know are the special ones, the ones who really hated her, who she might have been afraid of.”
“Linda wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody.”
“Tell me about her connections to Dominic Petrone.”
He laughs a mocking laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m not asking you if they were connected. I already know that from five different sources. What I want to know is the extent of the relationship.”
He hesitates, unsure of what I know or how to respond.
“I will ask you these same questions on the stand if I have to,” I say.
“Don’t threaten me.”
“Look,” I say, softening my voice and acting conciliatory, “my only interest in this is proving my client is innocent. To do that, I just may have to find out who is guilty, or at least provide the jury with a reasonable alternative. I only care about Petrone if I think there’s a chance he had Padilla killed. If there’s nothing there, I don’t bring in Petrone and I don’t bring in you.”
He thinks for a moment; the idea of avoiding future involvement appeals to him. “She knew Petrone,” he says. “She met him at business dinners, political gatherings, that kind of thing.”
Those kinds of meetings are quite conceivable. Petrone has the appearance and manner of a sophisticated businessman, and he has relationships with important people from the legitimate side of the tracks.
Nevertheless, I’m skeptical. “You make them sound like casual acquaintances. I know it was much more than that.”
He nods. “He liked her, thought she was smart and had guts. He sort of took her under his wing. And she liked him, but she knew it would look bad for her politically. So she kept him at arm’s length.”
“Did that piss him off?”
He stares hard at me. “Dominic Petrone would never have done anything to hurt Linda Padilla. No way. No how.”
“Is that right?” I ask skeptically.
He nods. “That’s very right. He wouldn’t harm a hair on her head. But you? He’d break you like a twig and bury the pieces under Giants Stadium.”
Oh.
• • • • •
TRIALS DO NOT creep up on a lawyer. Birthdays and holidays creep up. The start of the baseball season creeps up. Trials steamroll; one minute it seems like you have plenty of time to prepare, and the next the bailiff is asking you to rise.
The bailiff will be asking us to rise in the case of
Vince has asked me to meet him at Charlie’s tonight for a final pretrial discussion. It’s one I’m dreading, almost as much as I’m dreading the trial itself.
I’d feel better if Laurie were able to join us, but she’s with Sondra tonight. They’re out to dinner, a sort of celebration that Sondra has finally recovered from her injuries. Tomorrow I’m bringing her down to the foundation to meet Willie, who has been asking me every day for weeks when his devoted underling is arriving.
Vince has grown increasingly subdued and depressed over the last few weeks and appears the same when he arrives tonight. We order beers, and I wait for the questions that I know are coming.
He throws me a curve. “I want to announce that Daniel is my son,” he says. “I don’t want it to be a secret anymore.”
Vince has to this point not come forward with his relationship to Daniel. It would be a brave thing to do, since it would expose Vince to the same kind of public scorn and hatred as the rest of us in Daniel’s camp. It is also a piece of news that can only impact Vince’s career and reputation negatively.
“That’s your call, Vince.”
He nods. “But I want to make sure it doesn’t hurt his chances in any way.”
“In the trial? I don’t see why it would. It might even be a slight positive, maybe make him a little more human and worthy of support. But the impact on the trial wouldn’t be big enough either way for you to factor it in.”
“Then I’m going to do it,” he says.
His decision made, I change the subject. “Vince, how well did you know Daniel’s wife?”
“Margaret? I knew her . . . we weren’t close or anything. We went out to dinner a bunch of times.”
“When you visited, did you stay at their house?”
“Nah, I stayed at a hotel. It was easier that way.”
“Did you like her? How were they together?”
I expect a quick “Yes” and “Great,” but that’s not what I get. Vince takes a while to think about it, measuring his answer. “She was always nice to me,” he says, “and I never saw them arguing or anything . . .”
His answer invites a “but . . . ,” so that’s what I give him. “But . . .”
“There is a poem,” he says, “by Edwin Robinson. It’s called ‘Richard Corey.’”
I nod. I’m vaguely familiar with the poem, mainly because Simon and Garfunkel had a song that ripped it off. The fact that Vince is talking about it is rather stunning. Until now I thought his intellectual awareness extended about as far as “knock, knock” jokes.
He continues. “It’s about this really wealthy guy, who everybody in the town thinks has the greatest life in the world. At the end of the poem, they’re all shocked ’cause the guy goes home one night and puts a bullet in his head.”
“So Daniel and Margaret seemed to have a great life, but you didn’t think it was real?”
He nods. “Something like that. She had all this money, and they lived in a great house and had fancy cars and stuff, but there was something missing . . . something a little off. I couldn’t place it then . . . I can’t even place it now . . . but I felt it.”
Vince seems like he’s getting upset, so I try to lighten the moment. “So now I’ve learned that not only did you once have sex, but you’ve also read a poem. What a life you’ve lived.”
My effort at lightening lands with a heavy thud. “Andy, you’ve been on this for a while now. You think Daniel could have done this? Killed those people? Killed Margaret?”
It’s the first time I’ve seen him exhibit any doubt, though I’ve always suspected it had to be there. It’s ironic because I’ve become more and more willing to believe that Daniel is innocent. “I don’t know anything about Margaret, Vince. I can’t really give an opinion on that. These killings here, though, they don’t fit with Daniel. But I’m not going to lie to you . . . I’m not sure, and I definitely could be wrong.”
“Thanks,” he says, and then without another word just gets up and walks out of the place.
This is not at all the Vince I know. Except for the part where he didn’t pay the check.
I pick Sondra up first thing in the morning for the drive over to the foundation. The transformation in her has been remarkable. It’s not just the conservative clothing Laurie has gotten for her; it’s also a change in attitude. Her reluctance to go after this new life has gradually faded, if not to eagerness, then a willingness to give it a shot. Laurie has performed miracles with her.
I’m a little nervous about Sondra and Willie meeting. He could come on with a heavy-handed “me boss, you slave” routine, which might cause her to bail out. On her part, she could decide that, even though she claims to like dogs, feeding them, cleaning their cages, and doing menial paperwork don’t constitute an upward career move.
There is also the potential for a natural clash of personalities. Both are strong-willed and independent, used to taking care of themselves and only themselves. The idea of a close working relationship might be culturally repugnant to either or both of them.
Sondra and I enter the foundation building. Willie is nowhere to be seen, so I tell Sondra to wait as I look for him. He turns out to be in the back, playing with one of the dogs that has kennel cough, a minor ailment but one
