My plan had been to drive back to my apartment in Philly once I’d shored things up with the new house cleaners. With Tommy home, though, I decided to stick around for a few weeks. I lasted three days. Living with Tommy was like sharing a house with a pack of nocturnal rodents. He was up all night and was loud about it. The television and stereo blaring, shouting matches over the phone with some woman he’d left in Albuquerque, New Mexico. And in the morning, bottles and pizza boxes strewn across the coffee table and floor. Socks and sneakers and T-shirts, even his boxers, left on the furniture.
I suppressed my anger, my disgust. Half a dozen times I sat down with Tommy, described the last three years of my life—the rigors of law school, the imperious professors, my initial concerns that I wasn’t smart enough for an Ivy League law school, being intimidated by the wealth and worldliness of some of my classmates, my hopes and fears about starting to work in the fall at the district attorney’s office. Then I’d pause and wait for Tommy to open up to me. Nothing came out. Unless you counted some sordid story of how he’d nailed two NFL cheerleaders in Dallas. Or how he and his buddy had kicked three other guys’ asses outside a bar in Detroit and spent the weekend in the pokey. Tommy shared nothing about what was going on inside him. The only nanosecond of honest emotion he betrayed was in response to my mention of our father, when a dozen dark colors flashed across his eyes.
In the early afternoon of my fourth day with Tommy, I woke him up on the couch and told him I had to get back to Philadelphia. “But you should stay here as long as you want. I’m going to call the lawyers and tell them to draft something up, to transfer my share of the house to you. I want you to own it by yourself. I have a little money left, and I’ll make enough at the DA’s office to pay my rent.” Tommy thanked me and said he was planning to go down to the lumberyard he’d worked at when he was in high school. He said they’d given him a standing offer to come back anytime he wanted. I told him that was a great idea; then I walked out and drove away.
A month later, with the title to our dad’s house now exclusively in his name, Tommy hired a real estate agent. He had her price the house for a fast sale. As had happened the year our father died, Tommy was on the road before Thanksgiving. This time, though, the first contact I had from—actually, about—Tommy didn’t come in the form of a postcard, but a phone call. Early in February, I received a call at my office from Spencer Watley, a classmate of mine at Penn Law. Like me, Spencer had just begun his career as a prosecutor. Not in Philadelphia, though; he had returned to his home in Pensacola, Florida. Spencer called me to let me know he’d just been assigned a case in which the defendant had badly beaten up another man who, it turned out, was an off-duty police officer. The defendant was Tommy.
“The background check showed he was from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and you’d talked to me about a brother named Tommy. I thought I’d call and give you a heads-up in case your brother couldn’t get through to you.”
I exhaled and asked where Tommy was in the process.
“Still in lockup, waiting for his arraignment. I don’t think he has a public defender yet.”
“What’s the charge going to be?”
Spencer paused before answering. “Aggravated battery.”
I froze. Aggravated battery is a felony that can carry serious jail time.
“It was a cop, Mick. And your brother beat the hell out of him.”
I said nothing.
“Plus, there are all the priors.”
“Priors?”
Spencer read through a long list of messes and altercations Tommy had gotten himself into during the previous three years. Most involved fistfights that were pled out on public nuisance and intoxication charges. Tommy had copped to two assault charges, however, and spent several months in jail. His carefree tour of the Americas and Mexico hadn’t been so carefree, after all.
“He never told me about any of this,” I said, more to myself than to Watley. “Is there anything you can do for him? Reduce the charges to simple battery?”
Spencer paused at the other end of the line. “I’ll see what I can do. But even with simple battery . . . with his record, he’ll still do close to a year.”
I sigh. “A lot better than what he’d face for agg battery. I’ll owe you one, Spencer.”
“A big one.”
It was almost a month before Tommy returned my many calls to his cell phone. By then he’d been out on bail and had rented an apartment in Pensacola until his plea deal was finalized.
“Why did you have to get involved?” he asked, defensive from the outset.
“You’re welcome,” I snapped back.
“I didn’t need your help with this.”
“You were facing an aggravated-battery charge.”
“I could have gotten them to reduce it.”
“You think so? It was a cop, Tommy. And the prosecutor told me about your priors. Why didn’t you tell me about any of that? And what the hell is going on with you that you’re getting into so much trouble?”
“It’s not a big deal. A few dustups is all.”
By now my head was starting to bake. “This shit isn’t a joke, Tommy! You’ve probably already fucked up your chances of getting into Special Forces. And law enforcement isn’t going to touch you now. What happened to all of your plans?”
On the other end of the phone, Tommy laughed bitterly. “My plans are dead. I guess I killed ’em.”
And with that, Tommy hung up.
This is why I’m so concerned about Tommy now. As if going through an endless deathwatch with my father didn’t scar him badly enough, now he seems to be planning to put himself through it all over again—for Lawrence Washington. I figure Tommy’s had his act together for so long that he may not remember his long, hard fall to the bottom. I close my eyes and shake my head.
“Not again,” I say quietly.
Please, God, not again.
13
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
It’s the middle of September. I enter the firm, wave to Angie. The minute I reach my office, she buzzes to tell me our banker, Sandra Linney, is on the line. When I pick up the phone, Sandra says she’s near my building, asks if she can come up and meet with me and Susan. I tell her sure and punch Susan’s extension. The line goes directly to Angie.
“Where’s Susan?” I ask.
“Not here,” Angie answers. “Doctor’s appointment.”
I walk into our office kitchen, brew myself a cup of coffee on the Keurig. By the time I’m finished, Sandra’s at reception and I walk her to my office. She sits across from my desk. She doesn’t look happy.
“Let me guess,” I say. “I’m dying.” Sandra looks puzzled. “That’s what your face looks like. Like a doctor about to tell a patient he has a week to live.”
Sandra forces a smile. “It’s not that bad. But it is bad.” She takes a deep breath. “The bank’s in trouble. We failed a federal stress test, and the government is all over us to clean ourselves up, pull in as much of our unsecured paper as possible.”
I know now where this is going, and the bottom falls out of my stomach. The line of credit to our firm is unsecured. It’s not backed up by real estate or cash, just my signature and Susan’s. “Jesus, Sandra.”
“I don’t have a choice. My bosses say I have to call in the loan.”