Bury the Lead

24



TRIALS DO NOT creep up on a lawyer. Birthdays and holidays creep up. The start of the baseball season creeps up. Trials steamroll; one minute it seems like you have plenty of time to prepare, and the next the bailiff is asking you to rise.

The bailiff will be asking us to rise in the case of New Jersey v. Cummings the day after tomorrow. We’re not ready, not even close. But it’s not the timing. Our real problem is, we haven’t made progress refuting the evidence, evidence that seems to increase daily.

Vince has asked me to meet him at Charlie’s tonight for a final pretrial discussion. It’s one I’m dreading, almost as much as I’m dreading the trial itself.

I’d feel better if Laurie were able to join us, but she’s with Sondra tonight. They’re out to dinner, a sort of celebration that Sondra has finally recovered from her injuries. Tomorrow I’m bringing her down to the foundation to meet Willie, who has been asking me every day for weeks when his devoted underling is arriving.

Vince has grown increasingly subdued and depressed over the last few weeks and appears the same when he arrives tonight. We order beers, and I wait for the questions that I know are coming.

He throws me a curve. “I want to announce that Daniel is my son,” he says. “I don’t want it to be a secret anymore.”

Vince has to this point not come forward with his relationship to Daniel. It would be a brave thing to do, since it would expose Vince to the same kind of public scorn and hatred as the rest of us in Daniel’s camp. It is also a piece of news that can only impact Vince’s career and reputation negatively.

“That’s your call, Vince.”

He nods. “But I want to make sure it doesn’t hurt his chances in any way.”

“In the trial? I don’t see why it would. It might even be a slight positive, maybe make him a little more human and worthy of support. But the impact on the trial wouldn’t be big enough either way for you to factor it in.”

“Then I’m going to do it,” he says.

His decision made, I change the subject. “Vince, how well did you know Daniel’s wife?”

“Margaret? I knew her . . . we weren’t close or anything. We went out to dinner a bunch of times.”

“When you visited, did you stay at their house?”

“Nah, I stayed at a hotel. It was easier that way.”

“Did you like her? How were they together?”

I expect a quick “Yes” and “Great,” but that’s not what I get. Vince takes a while to think about it, measuring his answer. “She was always nice to me,” he says, “and I never saw them arguing or anything . . .”

His answer invites a “but . . . ,” so that’s what I give him. “But . . .”

“There is a poem,” he says, “by Edwin Robinson. It’s called ‘Richard Corey.’”

I nod. I’m vaguely familiar with the poem, mainly because Simon and Garfunkel had a song that ripped it off. The fact that Vince is talking about it is rather stunning. Until now I thought his intellectual awareness extended about as far as “knock, knock” jokes.

He continues. “It’s about this really wealthy guy, who everybody in the town thinks has the greatest life in the world. At the end of the poem, they’re all shocked ’cause the guy goes home one night and puts a bullet in his head.”

“So Daniel and Margaret seemed to have a great life, but you didn’t think it was real?”

He nods. “Something like that. She had all this money, and they lived in a great house and had fancy cars and stuff, but there was something missing . . . something a little off. I couldn’t place it then . . . I can’t even place it now . . . but I felt it.”

Vince seems like he’s getting upset, so I try to lighten the moment. “So now I’ve learned that not only did you once have sex, but you’ve also read a poem. What a life you’ve lived.”

My effort at lightening lands with a heavy thud. “Andy, you’ve been on this for a while now. You think Daniel could have done this? Killed those people? Killed Margaret?”

It’s the first time I’ve seen him exhibit any doubt, though I’ve always suspected it had to be there. It’s ironic because I’ve become more and more willing to believe that Daniel is innocent. “I don’t know anything about Margaret, Vince. I can’t really give an opinion on that. These killings here, though, they don’t fit with Daniel. But I’m not going to lie to you . . . I’m not sure, and I definitely could be wrong.”

“Thanks,” he says, and then without another word just gets up and walks out of the place.

This is not at all the Vince I know. Except for the part where he didn’t pay the check.

I pick Sondra up first thing in the morning for the drive over to the foundation. The transformation in her has been remarkable. It’s not just the conservative clothing Laurie has gotten for her; it’s also a change in attitude. Her reluctance to go after this new life has gradually faded, if not to eagerness, then a willingness to give it a shot. Laurie has performed miracles with her.

I’m a little nervous about Sondra and Willie meeting. He could come on with a heavy-handed “me boss, you slave” routine, which might cause her to bail out. On her part, she could decide that, even though she claims to like dogs, feeding them, cleaning their cages, and doing menial paperwork don’t constitute an upward career move.

There is also the potential for a natural clash of personalities. Both are strong-willed and independent, used to taking care of themselves and only themselves. The idea of a close working relationship might be culturally repugnant to either or both of them.

Sondra and I enter the foundation building. Willie is nowhere to be seen, so I tell Sondra to wait as I look for him. He turns out to be in the back, playing with one of the dogs that has kennel cough, a minor ailment but one that is contagious. Dogs that have it must be quarantined for seven days.

“Your assistant is here, Willie.”

He jumps up enthusiastically. “All right! There’s a lot to be done around here, man. Let me get my list.”

He hasn’t met Sondra yet, but he’s actually written down a list of tasks for her to do. “Hold off on the list, Willie. And go easy on her at the beginning, okay? Your personality can take a few decades to get used to.”

He doesn’t respond; I don’t think he’s heard me. He’s too busy rushing to meet his devoted servant.

Willie gets out there before I do, preventing me from making the formal introduction. The first thing I hear is Willie’s voice. “Sondra!”

“Willie! I can’t believe it!” she yells, not concealing her delight.

By the time I get in the room, they are hugging each other and laughing, and Willie is whirling her around. This introduction has gone somewhat better than I expected.

“Let me guess,” I say. “You two know each other.” My hope is that their relationship did not begin with Willie as a customer of hers.

“For a long damn time, man,” Willie says. Then, to Sondra, “How long has it been?”

“Too damn long,” she says.

I’m finally able to ascertain that “damn long” takes them back to high school. They actually dated in their junior year and shared many of the same friends.

“What you been doing?” Willie asks as I cringe.

“Hooking,” says Sondra, and Willie nods, as if she had just said, “Marketing.”

“And writin’ letters,” says Willie. “I really appreciated that. I should have called you when I got out.”

“That’s okay,” Sondra says. “You were busy.”

Willie, seeing I’m puzzled by the conversation, explains that Sondra wrote to him in prison, among other things telling him to hang in there, and that she knew he could never have committed such a crime.

I can’t remember when anything I’ve planned has gone as smoothly as this meeting. Willie starts showing Sondra around the place, so I leave, but there is no way they notice.

On the way out, I hear Willie ask Sondra, “You want a cup of coffee? We got every kind there is.”