start with the cheeseburger, and that’s what you get unless you specifically direct them to remove the cheese. Vince says that the historic status quo in America is just a hamburger, no cheese, and he resents that the cheese- ites, as he calls them, have taken over. Vince needs some significant therapy.
I introduce Adam to Vince and explain Adam’s presence. Vince, no doubt anticipating his portrayal in the movie, flashes the charming side of his personality, which in his case means eliminating most grunting and spitting. Once we get the pleasantries and ordering of our food and beer out of the way, I try to get to the heart of the matter. Laurie is waiting for me at home, and that is a far more appealing prospect than this boys-night-out.
“So tell me about Schilling,” I say.
As if on cue, Adam takes out his notepad and pen, causing Vince to give me a wary glance. “It’s okay,” I say, “he’s sworn to secrecy.”
Vince nods, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “You screwed me by giving away that story on Quintana.”
“We’ve been through that,” I say. “I apologized. I begged for your forgiveness.”
He sneers. “That was all bullshit.”
I have the advantage of knowing that Vince can never stay mad at me. I defended his son, Daniel, last year on another headline-making case. Daniel was accused of being a serial killer of women, when in fact the actual killer was contacting him and providing information that would eventually frame him. I won an acquittal, though Daniel was subsequently murdered by the real killer. In the process I learned some secrets about Daniel that would hurt Vince terribly if ever publicly revealed. All in all, the episode won me “friend points” with Vince that can never be erased.
Vince finally gets around to what he has to tell me. “I’ve got something on your boy. In return I want to be your media contact until this is over. You got a story to plant, I’m your gardener.”
“What if what you have isn’t good? What if I know it already?”
“Then the deal is off,” he says, which both surprises and worries me, since he’s confident his bad news is significant.
“Fine,” I say as the waitress arrives with our beer.
“Six years ago Schilling was involved in another shooting death.”
Adam reacts, almost coughing up his beer. “Tell me about it,” I say to Vince, though I dread hearing it.
“He went out hunting with some buddies, in a town called Hemmings, about two hours outside of Milwaukee. One of the group got shot.”
“By who?” I ask.
“They couldn’t pin it on anybody… finally classified it as an accident. But there are people that believed Schilling was involved. He had argued with the dead guy an hour before it happened.”
If this piece of news is as Vince describes it, I instinctively know three things. One, this is not good. Two, it will come out whether Vince breaks the story or not. And three, when it comes out, it will create a media firestorm, further messing with prospective jurors’ minds. “Can you give me the particulars? Names, places…”
Vince takes out a piece of paper from his coat pocket and hands it to me. “You’ve got three days to find out what you can before the shit hits the fan.”
It’s very important to me that I get on this before the entire world is after the same information I am. “Three days? Come on, Vince, you can do better than that.”
He shakes his head. “Nope. I go with it on Monday. Somebody could be beating me to it right now.”
I inhale my hamburger and beer and head home, leaving Adam behind to hang out with Vince. It’ll be a clash of the titans, Adam’s irresistible upbeat enthusiasm versus Vince’s immovable grouchiness. Adam may be in over his head. My guess is that within an hour Vince’ll have him writing
Laurie is waiting for me when I get home, and I’m anxious to talk to her about the information Vince has given me. Laurie, it turns out, is anxious to have sex. I weigh my options, debating with myself whether to talk or have sex, while I’m ripping my clothes off. Then, since I’m not comfortable with naked talking, I decide to go with the sex.
After we’re finished, I decide to go with sleep rather than talk, but Laurie again has other ideas. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something,” she says.
I nod and tell her about the shooting in Wisconsin.
“You want me to go out there to check it out?” she asks.
I’m jolted awake by the realization that Hemmings must be reasonably close to Findlay, her hometown and possible future place of employment. “No,” I say, “I need you working here. I’m the one with the least to do right now, so I should go.”
Laurie doesn’t argue with me, acknowledging that she really is busy and adding that Wisconsin will likely be a temporary safe haven from the danger of Quintana, just in case Moreno hasn’t successfully called him off.
She doesn’t try to dissuade me, nor does she mention the proximity to Findlay. It pops into my head that maybe I should go to Findlay and check out the place, maybe personally catch this Sandy Walsh loser doing something slimy. I doubt I’ll have time, but the thought is pleasant and intriguing enough to let me sleep with a smile on my face.
The next morning I get into the office before Edna, which is not exactly a news event. I decide to go online and make my own travel arrangements to Wisconsin, to leave late this afternoon.
I am a complete computer incompetent, and every time I try to do something some ad pops up in my face. It takes me forty-five minutes, but I finally get through it. Just before I’m finished, I have an amazing stroke of luck. A message comes on the screen, telling me that if the bar at the top is flashing, I’m a winner. And it’s flashing! I haven’t been online in weeks, and here I am the chosen one. It’s simultaneously thrilling and humbling, so much so that I forget to click the bar to see what I’ve won.
Adam comes in with a request to go with me, and I say yes, mainly because I can’t think of a valid reason to say no. The studio will pay for his ticket, and he calls their travel department and within thirty seconds is booked and ready to go. Of course, he missed out on the flashing bar and the incredible win.
I’ve scheduled a ten o’clock meeting with Kevin and Laurie to assess where we are in our trial preparation. Kevin has been meeting with various members of the Giants, ironic because Kevin knows so little about football, and sports in general, that I could tell him Kenny played shortstop and he’d believe me.
Kenny’s teammates are thoroughly supportive, uniformly claiming to be positive that Kenny could not possibly be guilty of such a crime. Not realizing that I had already talked to Bobby Pollard, the paralyzed trainer who is one of Kenny’s best friends, Kevin has done so as well, and he is especially taken with Bobby’s expressions of loyalty. He is also, as I was, impressed by the fact that Kenny has seen to it that his friend has stayed employed.
Laurie and Marcus have made considerable progress buttressing our contention that Preston was involved with drugs, as both seller and user. Their information is supplemented by things Sam Willis has found out about Preston’s finances. It helps, especially since we have little else to hang our hat on. The evidence against Kenny, while circumstantial, is very compelling, and we have almost nothing to refute it.
On the plus side we haven’t uncovered anything striking or unusual about the relationship between Kenny and Preston. Certainly, there is no obvious motive, at least none that we can see. This is not to say Kenny is innocent; the murder could have been the result of a sudden argument or a rash act clouded by the fog of drugs.
Our meeting ends early, since I have to get to the airport. I’m late and only have time to kiss one of them goodbye, so I choose Laurie over Kevin. It’s a tough call, but I’m paid big bucks to make this kind of decision.
Kevin leaves, and I say to Laurie, “Making any progress on your decision?” I say it nervously because I’m nervous about hearing the answer.
She shakes her head. “Not really. I’m trying not to obsess about it. I just think, when I know, I’ll know.” That’s pretty tough to argue with, so I don’t.
On the way out I walk by Sam Willis’s office, and he yells out for me to stop in. He tells me that he’s been checking into Sandy Walsh, and I instinctively look up to make sure that Laurie hasn’t come in and overheard this. It’s another sign that I’m aware that what I’m doing is nothing to be proud of.
“He’s got real money,” says Sam. “Not as much as you, but loaded.”
“From where?”
“Hard to tell. Maybe investments, maybe family money… but it’s not from his business.”
“What is his business?” I ask.
