would order sausage, but I figure, when in Findlay, do as the Findlayans do. So I take a bite, albeit with my eyes closed, and it tastes okay. Maybe a little better than okay.
“Andy, I heard you were in town.” The voice comes from the back of the room, and it causes me to open my eyes. When I do, I see Sandy Walsh, a prominent local businessman who I met last year when I was in Findlay. He is a really terrific guy who made the suggestion to Laurie that she move back here, so I would like to rip his eyes out of their sockets and put them in the scrapple potpie.
“Sandy, how are you?” I say, shaking his offered hand. He says hello to Calvin as well; they obviously know each other.
I invite Sandy to sit down, and unfortunately, he does, launching into a few minutes of how much the town loves having Laurie back. I’m about to commence strangling him when he switches and refers to the Davidson case. “So you guys are representing him together, huh?” he asks.
“We are,” I confirm. “Let me ask you a question. If we polled the people in this room about whether or not they believe he’s guilty, what do you think they would say?”
“Tough question,” he says, and then thinks for about thirty seconds, confirming what a tough question it is. “There’s a lot of angry people, more than I would have thought. Everybody’s always liked Jeremy and his family, but most people think if somebody’s arrested, he’s probably guilty. And with all the evidence they supposedly have…”
I attempt to make eye contact with Calvin, but I’ve never been that good an eye-contacter, and no connection is made.
Sandy continues: “But on the other hand, I think most people would want to believe he’s innocent.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
Sandy thinks for a few more moments and then says, “Because these murders… things like that don’t happen around here. And now that it has… well… people would want to deny it, blame it on the outside world. But if the killer was from our town and just a boy… well, then somehow we’re all to blame. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but I think that’s how a lot of people will feel. On some level I think it’s how I feel.”
It’s a thoughtful point of view, and helpful because I hadn’t expected it. Obviously, Calvin finds it moving, because he gets up to go to the bathroom. Since Sandy’s on a roll, I decide to try him on something else. “We’re going to want to talk to the families of the victims and some other people in Center City. Any suggestions how we go about that?”
“Boy, that’s a tough one,” he says. “Those people really keep to themselves and talk to outsiders as little as possible.”
“What about if we go through Clayton Wallace?” I ask.
“He’s the Keeper, right? That’s what they call their leader.”
I nod. “So I’m told.”
“Yeah, I guess you should go through him. But you’ll probably wind up with Stephen Drummond.”
“Who’s he?” I ask.
“Sort of like the town’s general counsel. Handles all their legal affairs, which basically means doing whatever he can to keep the outside world outside.”
I thank him, and after offering to help in whatever way he can, he goes back to join his friends for dinner. Calvin comes back a few moments later.
“Where’s your friend?” asks Calvin in a tone that indicates he’s not a big fan of Sandy.
“You don’t like him?” I ask.
“Not particularly.”
“Why not?”
“He’s part of a group, mostly guys, who sort of make the decisions for the town. Kind of like influential citizens that the mayor basically listens to because he wants to stay the mayor.”
I nod my understanding. “He’s the guy who got Laurie the job back here.”
“My point exactly. He butts in where he shouldn’t, and because of him you’re not in a fancy New York restaurant eating pheasant and pate and caviar and shit. Instead you’re sitting here sucking up a face full of sausage.”
We finish our meal, and I pay the check, eight dollars and ninety-five cents. At this rate the twenty-five- hundred-dollar retainer will go a lot further than I thought.
On the way to the door I see Laurie at a table at the other end of the diner. She is with three women, all maybe ten or fifteen years her senior, and they are roaring with laughter.
I briefly debate whether to go over there, but Laurie sees us and stands up. “Andy… over here.”
I go over, but Calvin chooses to wait out front. By the time I get to the table, the laughter has pretty much subsided. Laurie does the introductions. “Andy Carpenter, this is my Aunt Linda and my Aunt Shirley and my cousin Andrea. My family.”
The way she says “my family” drives home more clearly than ever why Laurie needed to come back to Findlay. The job opportunity was important, as were the old friends, but this cemented the deal. Her family is here.
We banter for a few minutes, and they all tell me how much they’ve heard about me from Laurie. And how wonderful it is to have Laurie home.
And that’s where Laurie is.
Home.
• • • • •
JUDGE MORRISON has scheduled a nine A.M. meeting in his chambers, the invited guests being defense and prosecution counsel. He wants to go over the ground rules for the upcoming preliminary hearing. It’s a typical move for a judge who does not like surprises in his courtroom, which is just the way Calvin described him.
The judge asks me to arrive fifteen minutes before the meeting is to start, never a good sign. I get the same feeling I have every time a judge summons me without opposing counsel; it’s as if I’m being called to the principal’s office. Actually, it’s worse: The principal’s power never extended to declaring me “in contempt of homeroom” and sending me to jail.
I call Calvin and suggest he arrive for this advance meeting with me.
“Did he say he wanted me to be there early?” Calvin asks.
“No, but he didn’t say he didn’t either.”
“Then I’d rather have my eyebrows plucked,” he says.
There’s a definite possibility I’m going to have to teach Calvin the subservience etiquette involved with his being my second-in-command, but this is not the time. So I head down to the court, and the clerk takes me directly into Judge Morrison’s chambers.
“Mr. Carpenter, thanks for coming in early.”
“My pleasure, Judge.”
“I had a conversation yesterday with a mutual friend of ours,” he says.
Uh-oh, I think, and gird for the worst.
“Judge Henderson,” he says, and I realize that even though I thought I had girded for the worst, I hadn’t.
I nod. “Very good man. Outstanding man.”
Judge Morrison starts looking through some papers on his desk. “Let’s see… ah, here it is,” he says as he finds the paper. “He said you were a fine attorney.”
“He did? Well, he’s a fine judge. Very fine,” I say.
“And he also said you were”-he starts to read from his paper-“a disrespectful wiseass who considers proper court procedure something to trample on and make fun of.”
“Maybe ‘fine’ was too strong. He’s a decent judge. Somewhat decent.”
Judge Morrison takes off his glasses and stares at me. “I trust I will not have a similar problem with you?”
