As details of the investigation emerged, it turned out that the story’s timing couldn’t have been worse. The police and DA’s office had been finalizing plans to conduct a major sting that supposedly would have uncovered additional key players as yet unknown to the authorities. When the grand jury came to light, the cop ring shut itself down, and its members crawled back under their rocks.
The prosecutor in charge of the grand jury, Devlin Walker, is now fit to be tied. He’s subpoenaed Yamura to appear before the grand jury to find out her source and what else she might know.
I tell Angie I’ll take the call. As I pick up the receiver, I tell Tommy, “Whoever Yamura’s sources are, they’re in deep shit.” I put the receiver to my ear.
Yamura introduces herself and tells me that, given the subpoena she’s received, she wants to hire her own defense attorney. Channel 6 and ABC already have a squad of lawyers assigned to the case, but she doesn’t trust them.
“I can see you tomorrow at four,” I say as I type the appointment into my computer. I hang up and look at Tommy.
“When does she have to go before the grand jury?” Tommy asks.
“Monday.” Four days from now. “Subpoena says to bring all of her notes and her laptop as well.”
“She may as well bring her own frying pan, too.”
“It’s almost noon. You up for some lunch?”
“Can’t today,” he says, jumping up. “Gotta see a man about a horse.”
I watch Tommy leave, wondering why he came into the office at all. My glum demeanor might have turned him away just now, but more often it’s Tommy who’s in a bad mood. My brother’s a testy, unpredictable person, but I give him a lot of leeway considering all he’s been through. Susan is less tolerant of him, and we’ve gotten into it a couple of times about Tommy’s continued employment at the firm. But he’s proven invaluable in a number of cases, and I’ve won the argument so far.
When Tommy’s gone, I reach for the Inquirer on my desk. The front page features a story about David Hanson, an old friend of mine from law school. David is general counsel at Hanson World Industries, a Fortune 500 company headquartered in Philadelphia. HWI has never gone public. Its shares are owned by the direct lineal heirs of its founders, those heirs being David himself; his half brother, Edwin, who’s the CEO; and two-or three-score cousins, aunts, and uncles. Today’s article is all about a complex business arrangement that David has put together between HWI and a collection of companies in China and Japan. If the deal goes through, it will bring hundreds of jobs and millions of dollars to Philadelphia. The article paints a shining picture of my old friend. Then again, I’ve never known any account to portray David in less than glowing terms.
My phone rings and I see that, somehow, it’s already 12:30. Angie’s at lunch, so calls coming in for me ring directly to my line. I pick up the receiver. It’s Jennifer Yamura again. She wants to move up our meeting. We agree on a time, then I hang up and finish reading the feature about David Hanson. I toss the newspaper back onto my desk, stand, and look out the window.
About forty-five minutes later, I’m walking east on Walnut Street, Rittenhouse Square behind me to the west. Overhead, the sky is a brilliant blue, the temperature an even eighty degrees with low humidity and a light breeze. The people I pass on the sidewalk seem upbeat, happy. I wish I could say the same for myself.
That’s when I see her. Half a block down Walnut, walking toward me. My wife. Piper is five foot six with a lithe runner’s body and well-toned calves. Even carrying a large shopping bag, she glides almost weightlessly on the pavement. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty turning men’s heads on the street.
Piper spots me and her eyes flash with surprise, then flatten as she forces a smile. We approach each other and stop. Despite the weather, the air between us feels frigid.
“What are you doing in town?” I ask. “I thought you were going to spend the day at the mall, have lunch with one of your girlfriends.” That’s what she’d told me this morning.
“It’s too nice to spend the day inside a mall. So I thought I’d drive into Center City, check out the shops.” Piper nods to the stuffed Lululemon bag.
“I wish I’d have bought stock in that company,” I say.
“My parents have Gabby for the night,” she says, referring to our six-year-old daughter. “She loves the new car, by the way.”
Over the weekend, Piper bought a BMW convertible without telling me.
“Did you set up the automatic pay thing through the bank account? The first payment’s due the middle of next month, I think.”
Livid with Piper, I pause before answering. I’m an expert at masking my emotions, but it’s all I can do to restrain myself. I smile, jaw tight. “It’s all arranged.”
A moment later, Piper and I part ways. I turn to watch her, my heart rent with fury and sorrow.
Back in the office, I sit at my desk and try to will the day’s difficulties into their own compartments. I’m a savant when it comes to compartmentalizing. I can store something away in my mind for hours, days, weeks. Sometimes forever.
I start checking my e-mails but quit halfway through. I pick up the phone to return an important call but hang up after it rings once on the other end. There’s a draft of an appellate brief on my desk, and I pick it up, start to edit it, but toss it aside after a page or two. I’m just too distracted to work. My insides are roiling.
I close my eyes, open them, take five deep breaths, then five more. It doesn’t help, so I decide to go for a run. I rip off my work clothes, throw them onto my desk in a heap, and put on the running clothes I always bring with me to work. I’m flying the instant I leave the building.
My normal run is a ten-mile loop along the Schuylkill River. Today, I take it way too fast and am wiped out when I get back to the office. I dry myself off with paper towels in the bathroom, change back into my work clothes, and try to get some work done.
My mind is still spinning, and I realize it’s hopeless. I leave the office, get my car, and head home. Passing 30th Street Station, I call Piper. I can’t reach her at home, so I call her on her cell. She says she decided to go to the mall after all and that she’ll get home about the same time I do. I tell her I’ll pick up something for dinner at Whole Foods . . . not that I’ll be able to eat anything.