Although the “when” question didn’t go too well, I decide to try another one. “Why?”
“You’re still a lawyer, aren’t you?”
“You want to hire me?”
He doesn’t consider this a question worth answering. “Be here in twenty minutes.”
• • • • •
VINCE SHOULD BE a happy camper these days. His paper’s circulation has gone through the roof since the murders began, mainly because Daniel Cummings, through whom the killer has chosen to speak to the public and police, is one of Vince’s reporters.
Vince brought Cummings in about six months ago from somewhere in Ohio, I think Cleveland. He made him his top crime reporter, although Cummings can’t be more than thirty. I’ve only met him once, but he’s a pretty easy guy for a defense attorney to dislike, a strong law-and-order type who clearly believes in a presumption of guilt.
I’ve known Vince for about a year. He’s cantankerous and obnoxious on the surface, but when you chip that away and dig deeper, you find him to be surly and disagreeable. You probably could say Vince and I have become good friends, if your definition of “friends” isn’t too rigid. We’re not “Ya-Ya Brotherhood” types, but we hang out some in sports bars and trade insults, which fits my definition pretty well.
Vince usually starts off our conversations with five minutes of complaining, but he doesn’t do that when I arrive this time. Instead, he offers me a chair and starts telling me what’s on his mind, almost like a normal human would do. “I want to hire you,” he says.
Since I’m a criminal attorney, I’m surprised. Under all the bluster, Vince is a straightforward, ethical guy. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” I ask.
“Of course not. I want you to represent the paper. Not officially. Like a consultant.”
Vince’s paper is owned by a newspaper syndicate, which employs lawyers by the barrelful. “You already have lawyers. What do you need me for?”
“They’re idiots. Besides, you’ll be dealing only with me. They won’t even know about you. You’ll be my own private idiot.”
I’m not understanding any of this. “So you’re going to pay me?”
“Pay you? Are you out of your mind?”
My friends share two common views about money. They think they don’t have enough, and that I have too much. “This is what I do for a living, Vince. I’m a lawyer. I got an A in money grubbing in law school.”
He throws up his arms in an exaggerated gesture. “Fine. You want my money? No problem.” He yells out so he can be heard beyond the closed office door. “Shirley! Don’t mail that check to the Orphans Fund! I need it to pay the big-time lawyer!” He turns to me, shaking his head in disgust. “It’s just as well. Little brats don’t have parents, they think that entitles them to three meals a day.”
I know that Vince is lying; I would know that even if he had a secretary named Shirley. But I’m not going to get any money out of him, and I’m curious as to what is going on, so I accept a jelly donut as a retainer. For the rather rotund Vince, it’s a significant payment.
Vince describes his concern about the newspaper’s position in the Daniel Cummings matter. He has no idea why the killer has chosen Cummings as his conduit, and though he loves the resulting boost in circulation, as a journalist he’s uncomfortable that his newspaper seems to have become part of the story.
“These last couple of weeks there have been more cops in here than reporters,” he says.
“But you’ve been cooperating?”
“Of course. I mean, there’s no source to protect, right? Daniel’s only source is the killer, and he has no idea who he is.”
“So what are you worried about?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. Nothing specific, but who knows where this is gonna go? Who knows what the cops are gonna ask us to do?”
This doesn’t seem like Vince; he’s usually far more confident and decisive than this. “Okay,” I say, “I’ll keep an eye on things. I’ll have to talk to Cummings.”
Vince nods. “I told him you would. Just so you’ll know, he’s not thrilled about it.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “He seems to think you’re a major pain in the ass.”
“You told him that?”
“I didn’t use the word ‘major.’ I used the word ‘total.’ He also doesn’t want you interfering with how he does his job.”
I nod. “I don’t expect to. Is he a good reporter?”
“As good as any I’ve ever had,” he says. “When do you want to talk to him?”
“How’s tomorrow morning? Around eleven? And I’ll want the stories he’s written on the murders to read through tonight. Plus the stories in the other papers.”
“Done,” he says. “Laurie back yet?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Maybe if you’d take on some clients, she wouldn’t have to go work for somebody else. Hey, why don’t you put her on this case?”
Laurie is a former police officer whom I employ as my private investigator. There is no way she’d want to work on this. “First of all, this isn’t a ‘case,’” I say. “Second of all, she likes to be paid in money, not donuts.”
He takes a big bite out of a glazed one. “Women don’t know what they’re missing.”
• • • • •
TARA GREETS ME at the door when I get home. She has a tennis ball in her mouth, a not-so-subtle reminder that I haven’t taken her to the park in two days. I drop off the stories Vince gave me and we head out.
The place we go to is called Eastside Park, less than five minutes from my house on Forty-second Street in Paterson, New Jersey. It’s the house I grew up in, the house that contains every memory worth remembering. I moved back in after my father died, and feel like I’m home, now and forever.
Paterson has always been considered a good place to leave, and getting out was long regarded as a sign of upward economic mobility. For that reason, even though I’m still there, I am in touch with very few of my childhood friends, who have headed for parts wealthier.
Going to Eastside Park always brings back memories of those friends and the times we shared. It’s where we played baseball, football, and tennis, where we tried to look cool in the futile hope that the girls would notice us. It’s also where I hit my one high school home run. It was against East Paterson High, a city we never had much respect for, mainly because any place that names itself based on its direction from Paterson can’t have too much going for it. We were obviously right, since they’ve since changed their name to Elmwood Park.
But back to the home run. I can still feel the ball hit the bat, can still remember flying around the bases as the left fielder tried to field it. It should have been scored a triple and an error. I knew that then and know it now. But my cousin was the scorekeeper, he ruled it an official home run, and nothing can ever change that.
I didn’t have Tara in that distant past, which automatically means the present is a hell of a lot better. We toss the ball around for about fifteen minutes. I don’t throw it quite as far as I used to; Tara is eight years old and starting to slow down. Considering the implications of that sends very real spasms of anxiety through my gut. And since I’m not a big fan of self-inflicted gut spasms, I avoid such thoughts at all costs.
When we’re done, we stop at a coffee shop with outdoor tables. I get an iced coffee, and Tara has water and a bagel. Her favorite is cinnamon raisin, probably because she knows I don’t like them and therefore won’t steal any. As we usually do, we hang out for a half hour, which gives Tara enough time to be petted by fifty or so passersby.
We stop off on the way home to pick up a pizza and some beer. The NFL season is opening tonight, and I want to get it started on the right note. I’ll just have enough time to go over the papers Vince gave me before kickoff.
