“Bailiff, remove the jury.”
As I watch the jury file out, I know that Kasten is going to come down on me, even contempt is a possibility. I also know that I'm my father's son, and Kasten has too much respect and friendship for Nelson Carpenter to destroy his first and only born.
Besides, Carmen Herndez is going to be a free man within the hour, which makes this a very good day.
MY CHILDHOODIS FILLED WITH GREAT MEMO-ries, in fact, great ones are the only memories I have. I talked to a shrink about it, and we pretty much agreed that unpleasant things must have happened when I was growing up, but that I had just repressed them. I asked him how long I could go on repressing them, and he said maybe forever. That worked for me, so I left therapy before I could blow it and get in touch with my true feelings.
That was eight years ago. So far, so good.
But if one memory stands out over all others, it's my father and I going to Yankees games. We lived in Paterson, which is where I still have my office. The drive from our house to Yankee Stadium was eight miles on Route 4 to the George Washington Bridge, then the Cross Bronx to the Major Deegan to the stadium. Without traffic it's about twenty-five minutes, which means that in real life it takes about an hour and a half. But I never minded, because I knew at the end I was going to walk through the tunnel and out to our seats, and I would see the most beautiful sight in the world. The Yankee Stadium infield.
The green of that infield was and is unlike any color ever produced anywhere else. You could buy a box of half a million Crayolas and never begin to match that color. Set against it is the understated tan of the dirt part of the infield, which becomes a deep, powerful brown when watered by the groundskeepers. Their job, the job of maintaining the Yankees’ home field, is a heavy but rewarding burden that they shoulder flawlessly.
Today I'm going to get to see that infield, as my father and I have tickets to the game. As always, I pick him up at his house and head for the stadium. The drive there is just as glorious, just as filled with anticipation, as it was in my youth. The only difference is that I'm the one behind the wheel, which can't be right, since when we go to the games I'm eight years old again.
But we'll get there, we'll park in our special place, which gets us out after the game faster than anyone else, my father will become my “Dad,” and everything will be right with the world.
Today the Yankees are playing the Red Sox. I used to hate the Red Sox, just like I hated the Orioles, and the Indians, and the White Sox, and anybody else not in pinstripes. But I don't hate anymore, I'm too arrogant for that. To hate is to grant a level of importance that those teams don't deserve. We dismiss our opponents, we don't hate them. They are not worthy of that.
Our seats are field level boxes, third row behind third base. If there is a more perfect six feet of real estate, I have no idea where it is. I am sucking on a snow cone and wondering why food sold at the seats by vendors tastes better than the same items bought anywhere else, when my father nudges me and points to the scoreboard. He doesn't have to say a word; it's the fourth inning, time to start betting.
I don't know when this started, but I think it was in my early teens. My father and I bet on everything in the fourth inning. We keep track of the bets; at one point, I think I owed him a million dollars. It was a big burden for a high school sophomore, but I won it back and then some. Today he owes me forty-one thousand, three hundred and fifty-five dollars. I'm on a roll.
Trot Nixon steps up to the plate to face Roger Clemens. It's my father's turn to choose the bets because he's behind. His mind calculates the infinite possibilities as if he is planning a legal argument.
“I'll bet you five hundred dollars the first pitch is a strike,” he says with confidence.
“You're on,” I say unnecessarily, since every bet is on. Clemens throws a slider a foot outside. Good start for me, but I don't get cocky. The fourth can be a very long inning.
“Six hundred says he gets a base hit. You give me three to one.”
I just nod this time, he knows he's on. Nixon pops up to center, Williams calls off Knoblauch and handles it easily. I make a fist in triumph. “Yesssss.”
While we're waiting for Garciaparra to come up, my father says, “I was hoping Nicole would join us.”
Not now, Dad. You're supposed to leave the real world out in the parking lot.
“Nicole and I are separated, Dad. You sometimes seem to forget that.” He also forgets that I go back to being eight years old when I'm here. How could I have an estranged wife?
“An old man can't hope?”
“An old man should concentrate on the game, because I'm cleaning the old man's clock.” I'm trying to refocus him, but I'm having a tough time.
He looks at his program, so I think maybe he's getting back to baseball. Unfortunately, he isn't.
“Judge Kasten told me about your stunt in the courtroom.”
Uh, oh. I'm caught, but not backing down. “You mean the stunt that got my client acquitted?”
“I mean the one that could have gotten you disbarred.”
“It was worth the risk,” I parry.
“In the future, you might want to substitute solid preparation for risk taking,” he thrusts. “By the way, how are you doing on the Miller appeal?”
“The ruling could come down anytime,” I say. “I'm hopeful.” Dad is worried about something as trivial as a death sentence in the fourth inning?
“You need to understand that even on a retrial, it's a case you can't win,” he says. “I covered all the bases.” “Speaking of bases, Garciaparra is up.” This seems to work, and our legal careers are moved to the back seat. More fake money is about to be put on the table.
“Garciaparra will foul off the first pitch. Eight hundred bucks. Nine to two.” He seems pretty confident, so I just as confidently tell him that he's on.
Clemens winds up and Garciaparra lines one down the right field line. I'm on my feet. It's curving … it's curving … fair!
“Fair ball! Fair ball! Fair ball!” I scream. I hate cheering for something against the Yankees, and everybody around us is staring at me with disdain, but my competitive juices are flowing. I turn to my father in triumph, and he has bowed his head appropriately in defeat.
“Can't even watch?” I crow. But it's more than that. In a brief, terrible instant, I realize that in fact he can't watch, can't speak, can't even sit up. He falls over and his head hits the railing in front of us, and then he slumps to the ground, his body grotesquely wedged between the seats.
And then I start screaming, screaming louder than anyone has ever screamed in Yankee Stadium. Screaming louder than anyone has ever screamed in any stadium.
But my dad can't hear me, and I'll never be eight years old again.
THE CROWDAT THE FUNERAL SEEMS LARGER THAN the crowd at the stadium, except everyone here finds themselves compelled to talk to me, to convince me they knew my father, and to let me know how sorry they are. It's supposed to make me feel better. It doesn't come close.
The cemetery itself covers miles and miles of gently rolling hills, which would be beautiful and uplifting if they were not dotted by endless rows of headstones. Can there really be this many people buried here? Have their loved ones all felt the same kind of pain I am feeling?
I tell someone I want to deliver the eulogy, but I dread the prospect of it. Laurie tells me I don't have to, that no one will think less of me if I don't. She's right, but I go up there anyway. I look out at the crowd. It seems as if the only people in America not at this funeral must be the ones lying under all those headstones.
“All of you knew Nelson Carpenter in your own way,” I begin. “Like everyone, he had his labels, and he wore them proudly and well. To many he was the District Attorney, a brilliant man whose devotion to justice was complete, and who would go to any lengths to ensure that everybody received fair and impartial treatment under the law.
“To many of you he was simply a friend, and when you had Nelson Carpenter as your friend, you didn't need many others. Because he wasn't simply there if you asked for his help; he had a sixth sense that could see through you, and a generosity that would provide that help without you ever having to ask.
“But I knew Nelson Carpenter as a father, and that makes me luckier than any of you. Because his family was his world, and let me tell you something, there was no better world to live in.”
My throat feels like it is in a vise the entire time, but I don't cry, just like I didn't cry at my mother's funeral three years ago. But I remember having my father to share the pain with then, and I could focus on supporting him. Now it's just me.
Only child becomes even more only.
Afterward I'm walking toward the cars, nodding thank you to the remaining four or five million people who are just now approaching me. Philip Gant, U.S. Senator Philip Gant, soon to be ex-father-in-law Philip Gant, walks toward me.
Philip was my father's oldest friend, and though that friendship always struck me as rather unlikely, it was remarkably strong and enduring. Their relationship is what originally brought their offspring together. Philip was upset when Nicole left me; I always thought that she must have had a harder time breaking the news to him than to me.
Philip dominates every room he is ever in, even rooms with no walls, thousands of people, and rolling hills dotted with headstones. As he comes toward me, everyone else seems to melt away. He taps me on the shoulder with authority. Philip does everything with authority.
“Magnificent eulogy, Andrew. I knew Nelson longer than anyone here, and let me tell you, every word you said was true.”
It is typical of Philip that even when he is trying to be nice, he secures the upper hand, this time by assuming I need his confirmation that I really knew my father.