“The ‘team’ is what I want to talk to you about, Daniel,” I say. “As I’m sure you realize, I was originally retained by Vince to represent the newspaper-and only by extension, as one of its employees, you.”
He nods and waits for me to continue, so I do. “This is now an entirely different matter, and you are entitled to the counsel of your choice.”
He looks puzzled, as if trying to understand what I’m getting at. “Are you saying you don’t want to represent me?”
“Not at all. I’m saying you can have whoever you want.”
“Including you?”
I nod. “Including me.”
He smiles, leans over, and shakes Kevin’s hand again. “Then welcome to the team . . . officially.”
Now that we’ve got a team, it’s time for the coach to issue some pregame instructions. I tell Daniel that the arraignment is a formality, that the only time he will be asked to speak is to plead.
“I assume you want to plead not guilty?” I ask.
“Damn right,” he says.
I go over my rather healthy fee with Daniel, which he agrees to as if it is of no consequence. He says he will ask Vince to bring him his checkbook, so he can give me a retainer of two hundred thousand dollars. I make a mental note to find out just how much money he inherited from his murdered wife.
“I want you to make a list of everybody you’ve ever known who might have a grudge against you. Also, everybody you’ve ever known that you would consider capable of these kinds of murders.”
Daniel agrees to start thinking about these things, and Kevin and I go out to the courtroom. We are there before the prosecution, which is no surprise, since Tucker wouldn’t have it any other way. Just as the champion comes into the ring last for a title fight, so Tucker considers himself the titleholder for this court fight.
When the Great One finally enters, he sees me and comes over, his charming smile lighting up the room. “Andrew, good to see you,” Tucker says, bringing to a total of one the number of people who call me “Andrew.” My guess is, he believes addressing me by a name I don’t use will somehow get under my skin. It doesn’t, but I’ll get my revenge anyway.
“Nice to see you, Tucky my boy,” I say, watching his quick, involuntary grimace. “You know Kevin Randall?” He turns and shines the charm spotlight on Kevin, which relieves me from the glare for a moment or two.
They greet each other, and then Tucker turns back to me. “I hear you were tough on my assistant.”
I shrug. “All in the pursuit of justice. We need to meet.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” he asks.
“No, right now we’re exchanging insincere pleasantries and chitchat. I want to discuss the case.”
His smile gets about forty degrees colder. “If you’re looking for information, you’ll get it in discovery. If you’re looking to plead it out, you’re wasting your time. This one is going all the way.”
Before I have a chance to respond, Judge Lawrence Benes comes into the courtroom, and Tucker and I go back to our respective corners. Judge Benes is unlikely to be the trial judge; his role is strictly to handle the arraignment.
Daniel is brought in, and the arraignment begins uneventfully. He is held over for trial in the murder of Linda Padilla; at this point Tucker is not including the other murders. My request for bail is denied, and the setting of a trial date is postponed until a judge is assigned. Daniel’s not guilty plea is spoken firmly and with conviction, which is important only because the press should report it as such.
I make a demand for immediate discovery, since there really is nothing we can effectively do until we know what they have.
Tucker stands; he can get up and down hundreds of times without wrinkling his pants. I get up once and it looks like I hung my suit in a blender.
“Your Honor,” Tucker intones, “the prosecution, in representing the people of this state, is keenly aware of our responsibilities. This case is being watched all across this great country of ours, and we will do nothing to jeopardize this defendant’s rights under our Constitution. The materials to be turned over to the defense are being compiled even as we speak.”
I take a moment to control my nausea and then respond. “Your Honor, if you could ask Mr. Zachry to provide transcripts of these speeches in advance, then we could stipulate to such revelations as the greatness of our country. And I should point out that it is the defense position that our country is great from the mountains to the prairies to the oceans white with foam.”
Laughter erupts from the gallery, and I see a momentary flash of pain on Tucker’s face. He does not like to be embarrassed, so I make a mental note to embarrass him as much as possible. If he reacts emotionally, then he might make a mistake in front of this “great country of ours.”
The hearing ends, Daniel is taken back to his cell, and for the first time I notice Vince sitting near the back of the courtroom. I walk toward him, and he waits as the gallery empties out.
“Tucker doesn’t look too worried,” he says.
“He’s not.”
“I am,” he says.
I can’t think of anything positive to say, so I don’t.
• • • • •
THERE IS A MESSAGE on my phone machine when I get home. It’s from Sam Willis, reminding me about a commitment I had made for tomorrow night. Like most advance commitments I make, I somehow vaguely thought it would never arrive and had thus wiped it from my mind. Now it’s here, and I can’t think of a way out of it.
This particular event is a charity wine tasting. I don’t know exactly what that is, but there’s almost no chance I’m going to like it. I should have asked Laurie to join us; she would have been pleased to. Laurie’s social consciousness is such that she would willingly sign up for a charity root canal.
My plan for the daytime Saturday hours is to watch college football and indulge in some noncharity beer tasting. This is the beginning of the season, so there are mostly mismatches between teams at the top and the bottom, rather than competitive conference games. It therefore represents another day to give thanks to the inventor of the aforementioned point spread.
I watch sixteen games over nine hours. Now, this may sound like an extraordinary accomplishment, but I am a humble man, and I always share credit when it is warranted. So I want to go on record as saying that if the Academy of Televised Sports Degenerates in America presents me with its award, the coveted ATSDA, even before I thank the academy I will thank my devoted partner, the remote control.
Without it, I’d be just another commercial-watching loser, unable to control my own fate. But with the remote secure in the palm of my hand, or more often resting on my chest, I am all-powerful. I don’t think I’ve missed an important play since the Carter administration. The remote control, to paraphrase Tom Cruise to Renee Zellweger in Jerry Maguire, “completes me.”
As I get dressed to attend the charity wine tasting, I turn on the news to see if the world exploded while I was watching the games. I discover that while I have effectively shut out thoughts of the Cummings case during football, I’m the only one who’s done so. Two of the three cable news networks are discussing Daniel’s prospects, and their collective opinion seems to be that the only question is whether he will get a lethal injection or a public beheading. One of the talking heads refers to me as Daniel’s “flamboyant attorney” and warns that my skills are not nearly strong enough to carry the day.
Sam pulls up outside and beeps the horn. I wave that I’ll be right down, then go through my departure ritual with Tara. Just before I leave, she always jumps up on my bed and I pet her for a short while. Then I put a biscuit on the bed, but she pretends to be uninterested in it. Of course, it’s always gone when I return home.
Sam Willis is my accountant and friend, not necessarily in that order. He is brilliant when the subject is money, but lacks the ambition to match. As a result, I am probably his only rich client, and when I came into my fortune, he acted like a five-year-old in a toy store.
As I approach the car, I realize with a small jolt that I have not prepared for what constitutes the competitive aspect of our friendship. We have come to call it song-talking, which basically means smoothly fitting song lyrics into what is otherwise a normal conversation. Sam is an absolute master of it, and the gap between our skills has grown steadily.
“Hey, Sam, let’s get a move on it, okay?” I say as I get into the passenger seat. “We’ve got a ticket to ride.”
It’s such a weak opening that I cringe as I say it, and Sam just shakes his head sadly. He knows that true greatness is measured by the stature of one’s opponents, the “Ali needed Frazier” theory. What I’ve just said is further proof to Sam that I’m not exactly his lyrical “Smokin’ Joe.”
Sam doesn’t even bother to respond in kind, holding his big guns back until later. Instead, he mentions that he saw coverage of the Cummings case on television and that it was mentioned that I’m his lawyer.
“You gonna need my help?” he asks.
In addition to being a financial genius and an amazing song-talker, Sam is a computer wizard. I used him to help me on Laurie’s case, and he and his assistant made such great progress that the criminals came after them. Tragically, the assistant, Barry Leiter, was killed in the process, and I will never get over the intense guilt that I feel about it.
“I don’t think so, Sam.”
I say this in a tentative way, and Sam immediately understands what is behind my answer. “Because of Barry?” he asks.