Eye of the Beholder

There is a knock on the door and she jumps.

“Oh. Room service,” she says, chuckling at herself without humor.

I throw on a shirt and answer the door. I tip the bellhop on his way out. I put the fruit and granola in my mouth, chew it, swallow it, but I don’t taste it. She plays with a piece of toast and laughs appropriately at my jokes, but she is holding back. Shelly holding back is about as natural as the sun rising in the east. But now I feel it, more than ever, even more than when she broke up with me, because, at least then, I had hope that she’d return.

I shower and dress in a short-sleeve shirt and slacks. I walk her down to the spa, where I have arranged a day of beauty for her. Massage, facial, the works. She demurred initially, and positively scoffed at the notion of a pedicure until they explained that a foot massage is included. She is not looking for pampering so much as relaxation.

I walk her to the door of the spa, an act of chivalry, but she senses I’m being protective escorting her everywhere. She’s right.

“What are you doing with your morning off?” she asks me.

“I’ll think of something.”

She nods and turns to the door.

“Shelly.”

She looks back at me casually, then reads my expression. When the pause becomes more than momentary, when she watches me struggle, she senses what’s coming and braces herself.

“Let’s move up our flight,” I suggest. “Let’s take off tomorrow morning.”

She looks into my eyes.

“You need to get back to your life,” I add. “I need to get back to mine.”

She struggles with that awhile, but, with every moment she doesn’t respond, she is answering. I know Shelly Trotter better than she knows herself. I know the difference between wanting to be with someone and the fear of never being with anyone. I know the difference between someone loving me and someone being in love with me.

I retreat to my hotel room with that silence, painful but honest, hanging heavily.

I STEP OUT ONTO the veranda with a folder I brought from work. I have a multiple-defendant fraud trial four weeks from now. I’ve fallen behind, but I don’t mind. The preparation is my favorite part, mapping out strategy and planning its execution. It’s a game, a competition, something between a contact sport and theater. My client probably should be convicted, seems to me. At best, he buried his head in the sand while the executives around him were playing fast and loose with the Medicaid regulations. At worst, he specifically directed the illegal action.

But I think he’ll walk. We will argue that he didn’t know what was going on and couldn’t have known. And their best witness, the flipper, the guy who cut the quick deal with the feds and agreed to testify against my guy, is on bad paper. He lied to the feds initially and admitted to doing so, and it looks like he had a bit of a gambling problem, too. I will tear him to pieces in front of the jury. I’ll throw up enough smoke to blur the picture.

That’s my job now, to smudge the picture, to mess with the prosecution’s case, to make adverse witnesses unlikable and untrustworthy while my client sits peacefully, smiling gently and sweetly and silently. That’s the game. It’s about winning. It’s not about truth. It’s not my job to make it about the truth.

It used to be. But I’ll never be a prosecutor again.

I lean over the veranda’s railing, the warm wind curling under my T- shirt, the rays of the sun warming my face, images of Leo Koslenko and the Mansbury victims and, most of all, Terry Burgos swimming through my mind. I think of him strapped in the electric chair, chubby and disheveled, looking into my eyes as the prison guard called out that Burgos had no last statement.

I’m not the only one, he’d mouthed to me, his final words. Was he simply quoting Tyler Skye’s lyrics? Or did some part of his brain know his words to be true?

I use my cell phone. The number has been programmed in, at the governor’s insistence. I didn’t plan on using it.

I get an aide, who patches me through quickly.

Governor Trotter’s initial reaction is one of concern. I put him at ease, tell him we’re doing well here, Shelly’s enjoying the break, she’s getting a massage right now. We do a little small talk, but neither of us thinks I’m calling to shoot the breeze.

There is a small pause, and I clear my throat.

“As you requested, Counselor,” he says, “I put in a word for this detective, McDermott. I think he can be expecting a promotion soon.”

“I appreciate that, Lang. Very much.”

“But that’s not why you called,” he adds. “And it’s not to ask me for Shelly’s hand in marriage, either.”

“No,” I agree, not elaborating on just how correct he is.

“It’s not to ask me to put in a good word for you with Harland, either.” He laughs. “From what it sounds like, he wants me to put in a word for him with you.”

Before Shelly and I left for vacation, Harland Bentley showed up at my office. It was the first time he had ever come to me. He apologized for keeping information from me during the Burgos prosecution. He asked me to stay on as his attorney. He said he needed me and would accept any terms I demanded.

I don’t kid myself that I’m the only lawyer who could handle Harland’s legal work. I’m a good face to put at the top, and, when necessary, I step in, but there are many lawyers who could do the work, and who could grow into the necessary leadership role. I do believe that Harland values my contribution, but there’s no question that his plea to me was born, in no small part, out of guilt. He feels like he owes me one.

I introduced Harland to Jerry Lazarus, who has been one of the lead partners I’ve utilized on his litigation. I told him Jerry, a young, aggressive, and smart lawyer, was the man he wanted. He agreed, mostly, I think, because I asked. So the firm will not be laying off lawyers. It will not lose Harland Bentley’s business. The only difference will be the name on the law firm’s door. Shaker & Flemming will be just fine.

“Vacations, getting away-it gives you space,” the governor remarks. “Gives a man time to step back and think about his life. Think about the future.”

I don’t respond to him. But I smile.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Paul. I was a prosecutor for many years. A man confesses to murder and has forensics all over his house. And he still killed most of those women. Hell, his own lawyer thought-”

“Thanks, Governor. I appreciate that. It’s a little late, unfortunately.”

“Is that why you’re calling, Counselor? Because it’s too late?”

He knows why I’m calling. I can’t change what happened, no matter how much I wish I could. But I want to believe, I have to believe, that it’s not too late to do some good.

“I suppose you heard-last week, Judge Benz announced she’s stepping down,” he says. “She was a credit to the federal bench. She’ll need an equally worthy replacement.”