I slept. I woke. It was black outside. I willed myself back to sleep. I woke again. The sun was up.
My feet were clammy. I could tell I smelled. I made myself take a shower. I avoided the mirror. Last time I’d looked, I’d seen small veins sprouting on my nose. I’d tried to console myself. Just the Second Law of Thermodynamics at work. Entropy. All things tend toward a state of maximum disorder. There was nothing I could do about it. It was a law. And I was a lawyer. I was bound to uphold the law.
I trudged to Kelly’s room.
Wake up, I said. It’s a beautiful day.
I know, she mumbled, turning over and putting a pillow over her head, I can’t wait til I’m awake.
Oh, all right, I said. I guess you’ve earned a late morning. I’m not sure how.
For being me, she mumbled.
That’ll do, I said.
At the office the air was heavy and gray. I answered some calls. I read some faxes and e-mails. I delegated some trivial tasks.
I had to get out of there.
I made an appointment to see the Assistant District Attorney in charge of Jules’s case. Some hotshot young guy, I’d been told. I knew I wasn’t going to get much out of him. But it was a good idea to feel him out. See which way the wind was blowing.
The ADA’s office was at the end of a long narrow corridor in an old gray building in lower Manhattan. The door was closed. The receptionist asked me to wait outside for a few minutes. While he finished a phone call.
There was nowhere to sit. I amused myself by examining the bulletin board. It was plastered with the usual bureaucratic detritus. Badly photocopied wanted posters. Employee of the month announcement, eight months out of date. Tattered menus from the many local take-out joints.
The office door opened. The ADA waved me in.
Hi, he said. Russell Graham.
He shook my hand with a firm grip. He had a strong chin and a Roman nose. A generic name. I could tell he was going places.
He shared a small room, replete with the usual government-issue squalor. Battered gray filing cabinets. Ancient oak swivel chairs. Ink stains. Piles of dusty files that looked as if they hadn’t been consulted since the Great Depression. And, speaking of depression, a rumpled colleague, asleep with his head on his desk, his nose dangerously close to an ashtray overflowing with chewed cigar butts.
Russell, I said loudly. Pleased to meet you. Rick Redman. I’m representing Jules FitzGibbon.
The rumpled fellow lifted his head. Rubbed his eyes. Looked around in confusion. Scuttled out the door.
Russell gave me a rueful smile. Made no comment.
Good to meet you, he said.
You might change your mind about that later, I said.
He laughed good-naturedly.
How can I help you? he asked.
Well, frankly, I said, I don’t know anything about this Larry Silver case. I’d be happy to hear whatever you’re willing to share with me.
There was a pause while he thought about that.
There’s not much to tell, he said. It seems to be pretty straightforward. At least six neighbors heard the fight. The kid is found dead in the alley an hour later. Blunt trauma. That’s about it.
So I gather Jules is a suspect?
I think you can assume that.
Stupid question, I guess, I said with a grin.
He didn’t return the smile.
Any other suspects? I asked.
I’m not sure that I’m at liberty to tell you that.
I understand.
At the appropriate time.
Yes.
What about physical evidence?
You know, I’d like to help you. Or at least, I’d like to help you within the constraints of my duty to the State. Now, it’s no secret to you, I’m sure, that Mr. FitzGibbon, the father, is rather well connected. In fact, he’s the chairman of and biggest single contributor to the mayor’s antidrug campaign.
So I understand.
Of course, that would never affect the way we prosecute the case. But, well, you understand.
I wasn’t sure I did. I tried to say so as diplomatically as I could. With a questioning look.
Let’s just say, said the ADA, that I’m likely to be weighing my words perhaps a bit more carefully than I would in other circumstances.
I understand, I said. Of course. But if there’s anything you can tell me. About any physical evidence. That you’re at liberty to reveal.
I’m sorry, said Russell Graham, ADA, with a sorrowful shake of the head that seemed almost genuine. But there’s not much to say. We’re doing the usual forensics. You’ll get them when you’re entitled to them.
If and when.
If and when, he smiled.
I was just wondering, I said. If Jules did it, why would he leave the body right there? In an alley? Right after a loud fight that everybody in his building must have heard? Doesn’t really make sense, does it?
Crimes of passion, said the ADA with a hint of irony. People aren’t always thinking too clearly.
Crimes of passion?
They were in the middle of a fight. Uncontrolled anger. People don’t act rationally. Or maybe he was trying to hide the body, put it in the Dumpster, and somebody came along. Scared him away.
All right. I see you have your theories. All I can say is, he says he didn’t do it. So I’m not sure there’s anything more to talk about. Right now, anyway.
I understand.
Clearly he did. And clearly this wasn’t going anywhere.
I’d been hoping for some kind of response. Something about the kind of plea that might be available if the kid got charged. A crime of passion, after all. He’d said it himself. Not first degree. Plead it down to manslaughter. Depraved indifference. Whatever. I sat for a moment, waiting for Russell Graham, ADA, to say something that might go somewhere.
His smile was obliging.
No words followed.
Damn, I thought. This guy’s no fun.
I had to get something out of him before I left.
Could I ask you one favor? I said.
Ask away.
Well, if you do end up charging Jules, down the road?
Yes?
Let’s not do the perp walk thing, okay? Handcuffs and all that? I can bring him in.
Well, said the ADA evenly, I’ll certainly take that into consideration.
I appreciate that. I’ll be in touch.
You know where to reach me.
I left the building with a spring in my step, bursting with pride at my show of wit and investigative acumen.
FitzGibbon’s kid was in good hands.