“Interesting,” says Greg, as if this is the first time he has heard this idea. My sense is that Eric wouldn’t say “good morning” without first clearing it with Greg, even if it’s just “off the top” of his head.
“Well, it ain’t that interesting to me,” says Willie. “My mother took off when I was three and left me in a bus station. I ain’t got no family.”
Eric nods. “I understand, and again, I’m just thinking out loud off the top of my head, but I’m talking about for the sake of the story. If your mother was there, supporting you the whole time you were in prison, believing in you…”
Willie is starting to get annoyed, which in itself does not qualify as a rare occurrence. “Yeah, she could have baked me fucking cupcakes. And we could have had a party in the prison. Mom and Dad could have invited all my fucking invisible aunts and uncles and cousins.”
I intervene, partially because I’m concerned that Willie might throw Greg and Eric out the fifth-story window and they might bounce off the top of their heads. It would also necessitate getting two other passionate executives in here, thereby prolonging this meeting. The other reason I jump in is that they are alluding to an area in which I have a real concern, which is taking dramatic license and changing the characters and events. I’ve heard about the extraordinary liberties Hollywood can take with “true” stories, and I don’t want to wind up being portrayed as the lead lawyer of the transvestite wing of Hamas.
We hash this out for a while, and they assure me that the contract will address my concerns. We agree on a price, and they tell me that a writer will be assigned and will want to go back East to meet and get to know all of us.
I stand up. “So that’s it?”
Eric smiles and shakes my hand. “That’s it. Let’s make a movie.”
* * * * *
THE FLIGHT HOME is boring and uneventful, which I view as a major positive when it comes to airplane flights. The movie doesn’t appeal to me, so I don’t put on the headphones. I then spend the next two hours involuntarily trying to lipread everything the characters are saying. Unfortunately, the movie is Dr. Dolittle 2, and my mouse-lipreading skills are not that well developed.
Willie, for his part, uses the time to refine his casting choices. On further reflection he now considers Denzel too old and is leaning toward Will Smith or Ben Affleck, though he has some doubts that Ben could effectively play a black guy. I suggest that as soon as he gets home he call Greg and Eric to discuss it.
Moments after we touch the ground, a flight attendant comes over and leans down to speak with me. “Mr. Carpenter?” she asks.
I get a brief flash of worry. Has something happened while we were in the air? “Yes?”
“There will be someone waiting at the gate to meet you. You have an urgent phone call.”
“Who is it?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, I really don’t know. But I’m sure everything is fine.”
I would take more comfort from her assurances if she knew what the call was about. I fluctuate between intense worry and panic the entire time we taxi to the gate, which seems to take about four hours.
As soon as the plane comes to a halt, Willie and I jump out of our seats and are the first people off the plane. Somebody who works for airline security is there to meet us, and he leads us to one of those motorized carts. We all jump on and are whisked away.
“Do you know what’s going on?” I ask.
The security guy shrugs slightly. “I’m not sure. I think it’s about that football player.”
Before I have a chance to ask what the hell he could possibly be talking about, we arrive at an airport security office. I’m ushered inside, telling the officers that it’s okay for Willie to come in with me. We’re led into a back office, where another security guy stands holding a telephone, which he hands to me.
“Hello?” I say into the phone, dreading what I might hear on the other end.
“It took you long enough.” The voice is that of Lieutenant Pete Stanton, my closest and only friend in the Paterson Police Department.
I’m somewhat relieved already; Pete wouldn’t have started the conversation that way if he had something terrible to tell me. “What the hell is going on?” I ask.
“Kenny Schilling wants to talk to you. And only you. So you’d better get your ass out here.”
If possible, my level of confusion goes up a notch. Kenny Schilling is a running back for the Giants, a third-round pick a few years ago who is just blossoming into a star. I’ve never met the man, though I know Willie counts him as one of his four or five million social friends. “Kenny Schilling?” I ask. “Why would he want to talk to me?”
“Where the hell have you been?” Pete asks.
Annoyance is overtaking my worry; there is simply nothing concerning Kenny Schilling that could represent a disaster in my own life. “I’ve been on a plane, Pete. I just flew in from Fantasyland. Now, tell me what the hell is going on.”
“It looks like Schilling killed Troy Preston. Right now he’s holed up in his house with enough firepower to supply the 3rd Infantry, and every cop in New Jersey outside waiting to blow his head off. Except me. I’m on the phone, ’cause I made the mistake of saying I knew you.”
“Why does he want me?” I ask. “How would he even know my name?”
“He didn’t. He asked for the hot-shit lawyer that’s friends with Willie Miller.”
An airport security car is waiting to take us to Upper Saddle River, which is where they tell us Kenny Schilling lives, and they assure us that our bags will be taken care of. “My bag’s the one you can lift,” I say.
Once in the car, I turn on the radio to learn more about the situation, and discover that it is all anyone is talking about.
Troy Preston, a wide receiver for the Jets, did not show up for scheduled rehab on an injured knee yesterday and did not call in an explanation to the team. This was apparently uncharacteristic, and when he could not be found or contacted, the police were called in. Somehow Kenny Schilling was soon identified as a person who might have knowledge concerning the disappearance, and the police went out to his house to talk to him.
The unconfirmed report is that Schilling brandished a gun, fired a shot (which missed), and turned his house into a fortress. Schilling has refused to talk to the cops, except to ask for me. The media are already referring to me as his attorney, a logical, though totally incorrect, assumption.
This shows signs of being a really long day.
Upper Saddle River is about as pretty a New York suburb as you are going to find in New Jersey. Located off Route 17, it’s an affluent, beautifully wooded community dotted with expensive but not pretentious homes. A number of wealthy athletes, especially on those teams that play in New Jersey like the Giants and Jets, have gravitated to it. As we enter its peaceful serenity, it’s easy to understand why.
Unfortunately, that serenity disappears as we near Kenny Schilling’s house. The street looks like it is hosting a SWAT team convention, and it’s hard to believe that there could be a police car anywhere else in New Jersey. Every car seems to have gun-toting officers crouched behind it; it took less firepower to bring down Saddam Hussein. Kenny Schilling is a threat that they are taking very seriously.
Willie and I are brought into a trailer, where State Police Captain Roger Dessens waits for us. He dispenses with the greetings and pleasantries and immediately brings me up-to-date, though his briefing includes little more than I heard in radio reports. Schilling is a suspect in Preston’s disappearance and possible murder, and his actions are certainly consistent with guilt. Innocent people don’t ordinarily barricade themselves in their homes and fire at police.
“You ready?” Dessens asks, but doesn’t wait for a reply. He picks up the phone and dials a number. After a few moments he talks into the phone. “Okay, Kenny, Carpenter is right here with me.”
He hands me the phone, and I cleverly say, “Hello?”
A clearly agitated voice comes through the phone. “Carpenter?”
“Yes.”
“How do I know it’s you?”
It’s a reasonable question. “Hold on,” I say, and signal to Willie to come over. I hand him the phone. “He isn’t sure it’s me.”
Willie talks into the phone. “Hey, Schill… what’s happenin’?” He says this as if they just met at a bar and the biggest decision confronting them is whether to have Coors or a Bud.
I can’t hear “Schill’s” view of what might be “happenin’,” but after a few moments Willie is talking again. “Yeah, it’s Andy. I’m right here with him. He’s cool. He’ll get you out of this bullshit in no time.”
Looking out over the army of cops assembled to deal with “this bullshit,” I’ve got a feeling Willie’s assessment might be a tad on the wildly optimistic side. Willie hands the phone back to me, and Schilling tells me that he wants me to come into his house. “I need to talk to you.”
I have absolutely no inclination to physically enter this confrontation by going into his house. “We’re talking now,” I say.