We both leave at nine-forty-five, which is when Edna is arriving. I’ve always felt that a secretary should arrive very early and have the office up and running by the time everyone else arrives. Unfortunately, Edna has always felt pretty much the opposite, so basically, she comes in whenever she wants. Though she is one of the financial beneficiaries of the commission from the Willie Miller case, I can honestly say that the money hasn’t changed her. She’s worked for me for five years and is just as unproductive today as before she was rich.
I briefly tell her what is going on; she’s heard absolutely nothing about Schilling or the murder. Never let it be said that Edna has her finger anywhere near the public pulse.
Schilling is being held at County Jail, which is why an entire media city has set itself up outside. Having become all too familiar with this process, I’ve learned about a back entrance which allows me to avoid the crush, and I make use of it this time.
Guarding the door is Luther Hendricks, a court security officer who carries a calendar with him so he can count the days until retirement. “You sure stepped in shit this time,” he says as he lets me in. I know he’s talking about this case, so I don’t even bother to check my shoes.
Nothing moves quickly within a prison bureaucracy, and the high-profile nature of this case doesn’t change that. It takes forty-five minutes for me to be brought back to the room where I will see Kenny Schilling and then another twenty minutes waiting for him to arrive.
He’s brought in cuffed and dressed in prison drab. I had thought he looked bad huddled in the corner of his living room yesterday, but compared to this, he actually appeared triumphant. It looks as if fear and despair are waging a pitched battle to take over his face. The process of losing one’s freedom, even overnight, can be devastating and humiliating. For somebody like Kenny, it’s often much worse, because he’s fallen from such a high perch.
“How are you doing, Kenny?” is my clever opening. “Are they treating you okay?”
“They ain’t beating me, if that’s what you mean. They tried to talk to me, but I said no.”
“Good.”
“They took some blood out of my arm. They said they had the right. And I didn’t care, because all they’re gonna find is blood. I don’t take no drugs or anything.”
They actually don’t have that right, unless they had probable cause to believe that drug usage had something to do with the murder. I have heard nothing about any suspicions that drugs were involved in this case, but then again, I know almost nothing about this case. “You’re sure you’ve never taken any kind of drugs?” I ask.
He shakes his head firmly. “No way; I just told you that.” Then, “Man, you gotta get me out of here. I got money… whatever it takes. I just can’t stay in here.”
I explain that we won’t know the likelihood of bail until the district attorney files charges, but that those charges are likely to be severe, and bail will be very difficult. I’m not sure he really hears me or understands what I’m saying; he needs to cling to a hope that this is all going to blow over and he’ll be back signing autographs instead of giving fingerprints.
I ask him to tell me everything he knows about the night that Preston disappeared. “I didn’t kill him,” he says. “I swear to God.”
I nod. “Good. That covers what you didn’t do. Now let’s focus on what you did do. How well did you know him?”
He shrugs. “Pretty well. I mean, we weren’t best friends or anything-he played for the Jets. But in the off- season a lot of guys hung out…”
“So you hung out with him that night?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not just him… a whole bunch of people. We went to the Crows Nest. No big deal. We probably did that three or four times a week.”
“How many people were there that night? With you and Troy.”
“Maybe fifteen.”
I take him through the events of the night, which mainly consisted of drinking beer, talking football, and occasionally leering at women. I never realized how much I had in common with star football players. “How long did you stay there?” I ask.
“I was real tired, so we left about twelve-thirty.”
“We?”
He nods. “I gave Troy a ride home.”
This is not good and confirms the media reports. The last time the victim was seen, it was by fifteen people, who watched him leave with my client. “Was that an unusual thing for you to do?”
He shakes his head. “No, he lived about two blocks from me. And I don’t drink that much, so he’d leave his car at the bar, and I guess he’d pick it up in the morning.”
“So he lived in Upper Saddle River?” I ask.
Kenny shakes his head and explains that Preston lived in an apartment in East Rutherford. Kenny did as well; he and his wife had only recently purchased the house in Upper Saddle River and hadn’t fully moved in yet. This explains the boxes spread around the house.
Kenny claims to have spent the fateful night in his East Rutherford apartment, alone. “I dropped Troy off and went home. That’s the last time I saw him.”
“Why did the police come to your house in Upper Saddle River?” I’ll learn all this in discovery, but it’s helpful to hear my client’s version first.
“The next morning my car was gone. I parked it on the street, and I figured it was stolen. Which it was. I reported it to the police. I hadn’t even heard about Troy being missing yet. Then yesterday I got a rental car and went up to the new house. I was unpacking boxes when I saw some blood on the floor. Then I found his body in that closet. I was about to call the cops, but before I could, they showed up at my door with guns. I freaked and wouldn’t let them in.”
“And took a shot at them,” I point out.
“They pulled out guns first… I wasn’t even sure they were cops. They could have been the guys that killed Troy. Even when I figured out who they were, I was afraid they’d come in shooting. Hey, man… I wasn’t trying to hit them. I just figured if they found the body like that, they’d think I did it. Which they did.” He sees the look on my face and moans. “Man, I know it was stupid. I just freaked, that’s all.”
Kenny doesn’t know what brought the police to the Upper Saddle River home, but he believed from their attitude that they were there to arrest him. I’ll find that out soon enough, so I use our remaining time to ask him about his relationship with Preston.
“I met him when we were in high school,” he says. “One of those sports magazines did an all-American high school team, and they brought everybody to New York and put us up in a hotel for the weekend. I think he was from Pennsylvania or Ohio or something…”
“But you’ve never had an argument with him? There is no motive that the prosecution might come up with for your killing him?”
He shakes his head vigorously, the most animated I’ve seen him. “No way, man. You gotta believe me. Why would I kill him? It don’t make any sense.”
The guard comes to take him back to his cell, and I see a quick flash of shock in Kenny’s eyes, as if he thought this meeting could last forever. I tell him that I will get to work finding out whatever I can and that the next time I will see him is at the arraignment.
For now I’m far from sure I believe in his innocence. But I’m not sure that I don’t.
* * * * *
LAURIE’S FLIGHT IS more than an hour late because of heavy thunderstorms in the area. They are my favorite kind of storms, the ones where the skies get pitch-black in late afternoon on a hot summer day, and then the water comes bursting out, bouncing off the street as it lands. Eat your heart out, Los Angeles.
I stand with a bunch of people in the Newark Airport baggage claim waiting for the passengers. Laurie walks in the middle of a group of about twenty; she couldn’t stand out more clearly if she were wearing a halo. I have an urge to nudge the guy next to me and say, “I don’t know who you’re waiting for, loser, but that one is mine.” It’s an urge I stifle.
I’m not big on airport arrival hugs, but Laurie gives me a big one, and I accept it graciously. I ask, “How was
