I drifted in and out of sleep. I stayed suspended in that dreamy state. To live a half-life, suspended between dream and blissful blank sleep, alive and not alive, I mused. Maybe death was something like this. Dreaming, I thought, not for the first time, might be practice for the afterlife.
I finally dragged myself out of bed. Out of the house. It was closer to eleven o’clock than ten. I felt vague and dirty.
At the corner, waiting for the light to change, I remembered. Where was I going?
Things were different now.
I walked back to the house. I sat on the couch.
It made me uncomfortable. It was someone else’s couch.
I got up.
I sat in the armchair.
I considered the options.
I couldn’t go to work. I couldn’t stay in the house. The ghosts would suck me dry.
There was only one option. I packed up the laptop. I stuffed my index cards into the computer bag.
I went to Starbucks.
I was surprised to find one of the big plush armchairs free. I plugged in the laptop. I set my papers on the chair. To discourage interlopers. I went to the counter. I ordered a tall skinny latte. I smiled at the fellow at the cash. I cooed at some babies in strollers. I nodded at my fellow laptop geeks. I eavesdropped on some chatter from the three girls studying for the bar exam. I took my coffee to my chair. I fired up the computer. I thanked the Lord for wireless access. I checked my voice mail, e-mail. Nothing urgent. I opened the Times. I sat back. I looked around.
Hey, I thought. This isn’t half bad. I could get used to it.
I was halfway through the Times when the laptop beeped. E-mail. I opened it up. It was from a name I didn’t recognize. There was an attachment. Virus warnings went off in my head.
My cell phone rang. I picked it up. It was Butch.
Don’t delete it, he said.
What?
Download it.
Okay.
Butch hung up.
I downloaded the attachment. Opened it up. PDF files. I took a look. Scanned documents. Old. It didn’t take me long to recognize them. The trust file.
Shit. Had to love that Butch.
I spent a few hours reading musty documents. Without the must. This time I had the luxury. It was my only case. What else was I going to do? I plowed through it all. Every page. Every dusty word of every convoluted clause of every will and trust deed, until I got back to the FitzGibbon trusts again. ‘Twenty million dollars to his issue, upon reaching their maturity.’ An old-fashioned word, ‘issue.’ Babies issuing from the womb. Women as vessels. From which issued the fathers’ progeny. Very quaint. I could hear the protests, if someone used it now.
I called Dorita. Gave her my new office address. She said she’d come by later. But only after five. She had stuff to do.
Damn. Stuff to do. Never thought I’d feel a twinge of jealousy at those words.
I was edgy. All those lattes. I didn’t want to leave my comfy chair. Some pregnant woman would purloin it, the second I got up. But I had to get out of there. Take a walk. Air out the pores. Come back at five. Where to go, though?
Might as well drop in and see how the client’s doing. Sure. Why not?
Jules was there. I was a little disconcerted. I didn’t really have anything to talk to him about. I didn’t want to ask directly about another sibling, the phone records. I wanted to do some more research first. Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. Besides, I thought, suddenly seized with fear, what if Lisa had made up some story? Exaggerated my role in her attempted seduction? Made him hate me, because I’d pushed her away, or for whatever twisted reason? Who knew the depths of the female mind? I’d be another pawn in a new and different Futterman game.
I thought of going home.
Jules opened the door. Turned his back on me. Sprawled on the couch.
Everything seemed normal.
I sighed a provisional sigh of relief.
So, Jules said, you solve the case, lawyer guy?
No. But I’ve learned a few things.
Spit it out.
He had a new and disconcerting arrogance to him.
Nothing I’ve confirmed, I said, warily.
Jesus, he said. I think I’ll tell Dad to stop paying you.
Are you talking to him?
No.
Then that’ll be a little tough.
I have my ways.
More power to your ways, I said. You got a beer?
Jules snorted. In a you-got-me-there kind of way. Went to the fridge.
I took this to be an excellent sign.
He brought me an Anchor Steam. One for himself. He sprawled back on the couch.
You seem very relaxed, I said.
Shouldn’t I?
For a guy charged with murder.
He fixed me with a stare.
I didn’t do nothing, he said. Why should I be worried?
No reason. Kind of a stressful experience, though, I would think.
I guess, he said, taking a pull off the beer.
Smoke? he said, pulling out a pack of my favorites.
I took one. He lit them both.
Something had happened. The lost boy in him had vanished.
I drank my beer. Tried to bond a bit. Talked a bit about the Rangers.
The atmosphere was as conducive as it was going to get. I plunged in.
Listen, I said, there’s one thing.
Yo, brotha.
I was talking to the ADA. You know, the Assistant District Attorney?
Yo, you think I’m stupid?
Actually, no. I think you’re a very bright guy, Jules. I just wanted to make sure you knew what I was talking about.
I always know what you’re talking about, lawyer guy, he said, taking a good haul off the beer.
He told me about some phone records, I lied.
He gave me a straight-ahead look.
Calls from your cell phone.
And?
To your father’s office.
Silence.
Four or five of them. In the days before Larry Silver’s murder.
Jules narrowed his eyes. Looked straight at me.
And?
Well, given how you and your dad don’t seem to be talking to each other and all, the ADA thought it was a little strange.
Strange. Yes. Strange.
He took another big slug off of his beer.
Whose side did you say you were on? he asked.
Jules. You don’t seem to be getting it. I’ve tried to explain to you. I’m your lawyer. I’m on your side. All the way. No questions asked. But if I’m going to do my best for you, if I’m going to defend you to the best of my abilities, I can’t be flying in the dark. I need the facts. I need all the facts. Then I can take the facts and turn them into a story that the ADA will buy. I can’t be going to him with a ‘Shit, I don’t know what that’s all about.’ Because then he’ll be making up his own story. The story he makes up might not be so good for you. And I’m telling you, Jules, right now. That’s just what his story’s looking like. Not too damn good.
Jules laughed.
Sure, dude, he said. I hear ya.
He still seemed way too calm. I waited.
Nothing.
The preliminary hearing’s in two weeks, I said.
He looked at me.
I’d gotten his attention, at least.
You seen that show? he asked. The one with the puppets making phony phone calls?
Uh, yeah. I’ve seen the commercials for it, anyway.
It got me some ideas. Call up the old man. Get him a little crazy.
Ah. I see.
Just fooling around with the old fart. Yeah. I get it.
I was lying again. I didn’t get a thing. I certainly didn’t believe his lame-ass story.
Okay, I said. Just wanted to check that out.
Sure. No sweat.
I got up to leave.
The street outside was cold and empty. I wondered. What had turned Jules from scared and confused to this caricature of cool? He and Daddy were somehow in cahoots in this thing? Jesus. But that couldn’t be. It conflicted with just about every other piece of evidence I had.