Sam goes on. “Then I figured I shouldn’t have said it, that it’s none of my business. So I said, ‘Hey, Adam, don’t mind me. California’s okay, but I’m in a New York state of mind.’”
Got it. Billy Joel.
“I should go, Sam. Laurie’s waiting for me.”
He’s not quite ready for me to leave. “How are things going with her?” Sam asks.
“Nothing new. Still deciding.”
Sam shakes his head in sympathy for my situation. “I think you need to be aggressive. Don’t just stand around and wait for her to make the move. Talk to her.”
“And say what?”
“Well, I can’t put myself in your shoes, but I’ll tell you what I said when I was in a similar situation. After I graduated college, this girl and I moved in together. We were thinking of getting married, but she kept threatening to leave. Finally, I told her, ‘Hey, babe, I don’t care what you say anymore, this is my life. Go ahead with your own life and leave me alone.’”
He’s going to keep song-talking until I come up with a response, but none comes to mind at the moment.
“I mean it; you gotta take a stand,” he continues. “And don’t worry; I know Laurie. She’s not gonna move to that hick town. She’s an uptown girl; she’s been living in her uptown world.”
Ah, hah! An idea. “That’s not what I’m going to tell her,” I say.
“What are you gonna say?” he asks
“I’ll be honest; I’ll tell her the truth. I’ll say, ‘I just want someone that I can talk to. I love you just the way you are.’”
He nods his understanding. “Good for you, man. But that honesty, it’s such a lonely word.”
* * * * *
WEEKENDS ARE VERY difficult during a trial. Each day in court is intense and pressure-filled, and when the weekend comes around, the need to withdraw and relax is palpable. But there is no withdrawing, and no relaxing, because there is too much to do, and in the back of my mind I know that the opposition is always working.
I meet Walter Simmons, the Giants’ legal VP, for breakfast. I had told him I’d keep him informed of progress, within the confines of lawyer-client privilege. He’s been helpful in getting his players to meet with various members of our team, so I feel I owe him this time.
The Giants won their first game last week, but did it by passing for three hundred fifty yards and returning two interceptions for touchdowns. The running game gained an anemic sixty-one yards. After I update him on the status of the trial, he says, “Sounds like we should trade for a running back.”
“We’ve got a decent chance,” I lie.
“Yeah. And we’re going to win the Super Bowl.”
I shake my head. “Not without a better kicker. But before too long I may have somebody for you.”
He doesn’t pick up on it, and I decide against telling him my plans. Since it takes very little physical prowess, he could decide to try it as well. One thing I don’t need is more competition.
Adam calls me on my cell phone to tell me that he’s in the office and that he hopes it’s okay with me. “The computer here is much faster than using my laptop at the hotel,” he says.
“No problem,” I say. “When do you want to update me on progress?”
“Pretty soon. There’s a couple more things I need to check out first.”
I head home for an afternoon of reading and rereading of case material. First I take Tara for a walk and a short tennis ball toss in the park; I’ve been feeling guilty at how little time I’ve spent with her. That guilt is increased when I once again see how much she enjoys it. Afterward, we stop off for a bagel and some water, and by the time we get home, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the brief respite away from the case.
I plunge into the material and barely notice the college football game I have on in the background. Laurie comes in at about four carrying grocery bags. She says, “Hi, honey,” and comes over to give me a kiss. It’s domestic bliss straight out of Ozzie and Harriet, and for all my cynicism it feels really good.
“Have you seen David and Ricky?” I ask.
She’s never seen Ozzie and Harriet, since she doesn’t watch old reruns as religiously as I do, so she has no idea about whom I’m talking. Once I explain it to her, she doesn’t seem interested in it. This isn’t working; I need a woman who can be my intellectual equal.
She starts unloading the groceries. “I thought we’d barbecue some seafood tonight.”
“Fish?” I ask, my disappointment showing through. “What is there, a hamburger strike going on?”
With all the work I have, the idea of stopping to cook fish is not pleasing. Of course, I have no idea how long it will take because I don’t know how long one is supposed to cook fish. I know some should be cooked through, some rare, and some just seared, but I don’t have a clue which is which. “I don’t have a lot of time,” I say.
“I’m going to cook it,” she says.
Uh-oh. Another sign of independence. “Are we forgetting who the boy is in this relationship? I am the barbecuer, you are the barbecuee.”
“You’re a man’s man,” she says, and then goes off into the kitchen to marinate the fish in whatever the hell you marinate fish in. They spend their whole life in liquid, and then they have to soak in liquid before you cook them? The ocean didn’t get them wet enough? Hopefully, these particular fish have to marinate for two weeks, but I doubt it.
They’re soaking for about ten minutes when the phone rings. Laurie gets it, and from the kitchen I hear her say, “Hi, Vince… What?” She listens some more and then says, “Vince, he’s here with me. He’s right here.” There is a tension in her voice that chills me to the bone.
She comes rushing into the room and goes right to the television, changing the football game to CNN. I stand up-I’m not sure why-and start walking toward the television, as if I’ll find out what the hell is going on if I’m closer.
I see myself on television; it’s footage from a panel show I did some months before. My lips are moving, but the sound is muted so that the announcer can talk over me. I don’t hear what he is saying because my eyes are riveted to the blaring message across the bottom of the screen: “Schilling lawyer murdered.”
My mind can’t process what is going on. Why would they think I was murdered? Can it be Kevin? Is he the person they’re calling a Schilling lawyer? Then why are they showing me?
“Andy…” It’s Laurie’s voice attempting to cut through the confused mess that is my mind. “They’re saying that you were shot and killed in your office this afternoon.”
And then it hits me, with a searing pain that feels like it explodes my insides. “Let’s go,” I say, and run toward my car. Laurie is with me every step of the way, and within five minutes we are approaching my office.
We have to park two blocks away because the place is such a mob scene. Laurie knows one of the officers protecting the perimeter, and he lets us through the barricades. Pete Stanton is standing next to a patrol car, in front of the fruit stand below my office.
“Pete…” is all I can manage.
“It’s the writer, Andy. Adam. He took two shots in the face and one in the chest. Died instantly.”
I can’t adequately describe the pain I feel, but I know I’ve felt it before. Sam Willis had a young assistant named Barry Leiter who was murdered because he was helping me investigate a case. Like then, I find my legs giving out from under me, and I have to lean against the car for support.
“Why?” I say, but I know why. Adam was blown apart by bullets that were meant for me.
“We just arrested Quintana, Andy. I don’t know if we can make it stick, but he ordered it done. No question about it.”
“I want to see him,” I say, and push off from the car. It’s only then that I realize that Laurie has her arm around me, and she keeps that arm around me all the way up the stairs. She is supporting me, and she is sobbing.
There are officers and forensics people everywhere, finishing up their work. They seem to part as we approach, mainly because Pete is with us telling them to. Suddenly, there just inside the office door, we see a body covered by a sheet. I am getting goddamn sick of seeing people I care about covered by sheets.