I sit at my desk for a while, moving the papers from the right side of the desk over to the left. That makes the desk look left-heavy, so I move half the papers-back to the right. The problem is, with papers now on each side, there's no place for me to put my feet up. So with my feet resting uncomfortably on the floor, I pick up the newspaper and read about the discovery of Alex Dorsey's headless body. In order to sell papers, the media usually try to make murders sound gory and disgusting. In this case, with those qualities preexisting, they are pretending to be embarrassed at having to participate in the revelations.
The meeting with Holbrook this morning, though it wasn't exactly arguing before the Supreme Court, has had an effect on me. I realize that I'm getting ready to get back in the action, that I want a case to sink my legal teeth into.
Since I don't happen to have one right now, and since Edna is paying no attention to me at all, I get up and wander down the hall to Sam Willis's office. Sam has been my accountant ever since I moved into this building.
Actually, Sam and I have exchanged professional services. Sam is nothing short of brilliant in two areas. On the one hand, he is as close as anyone I've met to being a financial genius. He knows everything there is to know about money and the rules that govern it. He also has an amazing and complementary expertise in computers, at least as it relates to financial matters. Sit him at a keyboard, and he is a true maestro.
Just a month or so after we met, Sam was accused of illegal hacking, a crime of which he was guilty. The mitigating circumstance, at least in my mind, was that he was retaliating on behalf of a client who was wronged by a large corporation. I got him off on a technicality, and we've been friends ever since.
The thing I find confusing about Sam is that, even though it must have taken a very significant amount of work and drive to learn all that he knows, he has never seen fit or been able to channel that drive into his own financial success. He should be financial guru to fee corporate stars, but instead his client list reads like a who's who of schleppers. As a former low-income nobody, I had fit right in. When I came into all this money, Sam got so excited I thought he was going to have a stroke.
Sam is in his office with Barry Leiter, a twenty-three-year-old whom Sam hired out of high school. Barry has been putting himself through night school at Rutgers in Newark by working for Sam, who claims that Barry is even better than he is on a computer. Sam clearly likes the idea of having a protege.
Sam and I have this ongoing contest that we call song-talking. The trick is to work song lyrics into a conversation. Just doing it is a plus; doing it without the other person realizing it is a total victory.
"Hey, Sam," I say, "what good is sitting alone in your room? Come hear the music play."
I expect him to ridicule my "Cabaret" opening as the feeble attempt that it is, but he doesn't seem to pay it any attention at all. The look on his face is of a man in real distress. "Hello, Andy," he says with no enthusiasm whatsoever. He then shoots a quick glance at Barry, who takes it as a sign he should leave, which he does.
"What's the matter?" I ask.
Sam sighs. "Everything."
"What does that mean?"
He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "You ever meet my younger brother, Billy? When he came to visit?"
I nod. Billy lives in Pittsburgh, but he came to visit Sam last year and I met him then.
"He's been sick, you know?" I didn't know, but I nod, and Sam continues. "At first nobody noticed, not even him, but he started feeling a little weak, and it seemed like no matter how much he ate, he was losing weight."
"How much weight?" I ask.
"I thought just a few pounds, like five or ten. I've been talking to him on the phone, a few times a week, and he doesn't sound good, but he tells me he's just a little under the weather. That's how he puts it: a little under the weather." Sam shakes his head sadly. I think I see tears in his eyes. This can't be good.
He continues. "So I'm out there this weekend, for my mother's birthday, and I ask where's Billy, and Mom says, 'Up in his room. He's feeling under the weather.' All of a sudden I got a family full of meteorologists, you know? So I go up to his room … man, I'll never forget it as long as I live."
"What?" I prompt, although I dread hearing it.
He composes himself before continuing. "Billy … he … he's like wasting away, Andy. Right in front of me. He was this big guy, remember? Maybe a hundred and ninety pounds. You know what he weighs now? One fifteen. One fifteen! He's like skin and bones, just waiting to die."
I shake my head; there's not much to say.
"So I take one look at him, and I get mad, you know? All these months, he's been lying to me, not telling me how sick he really was. I was so pissed, I just wanted to walk out of there and never come back."
"So what did you do?"
He shrugs. "What could I do? I mean, Billy, all skin and bones like that … I figured, 'he ain't heavy, he's my brother.'"
Sam starts to cackle, recognizing full well that he has taken song-talking to a new level. The fact that he was willing to fake an agonizing, fatal disease for his own brother in the process does nothing to temper his glee.
I hang around for a little while, but nothing I say can take the satisfied smirk off his face, and it starts to get on my nerves. I head back to my office, preferring the company of the oblivious Edna.
Edna is not alone when I get back. Waiting with her is a tall man, maybe six foot two, with short black hair slicked back. He is wearing a leather jacket that without question cost more than it takes to adopt a family of Guatemalan otters. He is probably in his mid-forties and seems to work hard to make himself look more sophisticated than he naturally is. Fonzie joins the country club.
There's no doubt Edna thinks he's got something going for him. She has put down her crossword puzzle and has already gotten him a cup of coffee. For Edna that qualifies as undying devotion.
"Andrew, this is Geoffrey Stynes. Mr. Stynes, Andrew Carpenter." This brings to a total of one the number of occasions on which Edna has referred to me as "Andrew." Clearly, she is trying to match Stynes's sophistication.
Stynes smiles and holds out his hand. "Nice to meet you."
I take his hand and shake it. "Same here. What can I do for you?"
"You can be my lawyer," he says, the smile remaining intact.
"Come on in," I say, and move him toward my office. As he enters, I look back and see Edna giving me the thumbs-up, signifying her approval of him as a client. I close the door behind us, no doubt pissing Edna off, but that's "Andrew" for you.
Most people that come to see me take the chair across from my desk, but Stynes sits on the couch. I bring my chair over to be closer to him as we speak. He seems totally relaxed and at ease, not the demeanor that prospective clients usually display. People in need of a criminal attorney are by definition under pressure, but if Stynes is experiencing any stress at all, he is hiding it extraordinarily well.
"How did you get my name?" I ask.
"Come on, you're famous since the Miller case. Anyway, I've been watching your career for a long time," he says.
I'm puzzled and vaguely disconcerted. "Why have you been following my career?"
The confident smile returns. "For exactly the kind of situation I'm in today."
Before we discuss what situation he might be talking about, I explain some of the basics of hiring an attorney. Included in that is a standard retainer agreement, which Edna prepares and Stynes signs. Though it by no means guarantees that I will accept him as a client, the retainer establishes attorney-client privilege and allows Stynes to speak openly about his reasons for hiring me.
All of this takes about ten minutes, at the end of which Stynes is technically my client, though only for the purposes of this conversation. I will decide whether to take on his case when I hear what that case is.
"Now," I say, "tell me why you need my services."
"There's a slim but real chance I'll be charged with a crime," he says with absolutely no trace of concern.
"A specific crime?"
His smile comes back, now more condescending than before. "Yeah. Real specific."
"And what crime is that?"
"The murder of Alex Dorsey."
Since I am far from the most inscrutable person in this room, I'm sure my face reflects my surprise.
"Have the police contacted you?" I ask.