Sam has helped me out with computer investigations in the past, and he enjoys doing so. He sees himself as Kojak with a keyboard. I always pay him for his efforts, but he would most definitely do it for nothing.
Sam is also a master at song-talking, and since he does it at every possible opportunity, proudly describing my “Town Without Pity” conversation with Laurie would only set him off, so I don’t. Instead I tell him what I need, which is to hack into both Center City and Wisconsin state computers to get exactly the same information I just requested of the town clerk.
“No problem,” he says. “When do you need it?”
“Yesterday morning,” I say. “But if that’s a problem, I’ll take it last night.”
“I’m on the case,” he says.
“Can you do it without them letting you know you’ve been in their computers?”
“Duhhhh,” he says, as a way of letting me know that he can certainly do that, and it was stupid of me to ask.
“Gotcha,” I say. “Call me when you’ve made some progress, Sam…”
“Hey, wait a minute, don’t get off yet. I haven’t talked to you in weeks.”a
He’s right; I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to even contact any of my friends. “Sorry,” I say, “what’s doing?”
“Things here are fine,” he says. “How are things in Wisconsin? Nice women?”
“Nice women?” I repeat, to make sure I heard correctly. “Yes, very nice. Very nice women.”
“That’s what I figured,” he says. “I mean, East Coast girls are hip, I really dig those styles they wear. And the southern girls with the way they talk, they knock me out when I’m down there.”
“Bye, Sam,” I say, cutting him off before he can tell me that the Midwest farmers’ daughters will really make me feel all right. He is an incorrigible song-talker.
Marcus and I no sooner arrive back at the house than we receive a faxed letter from Stephen Drummond, refusing our request for the information asked of the town clerk. He cites the town citizens’ right to confidentiality, which means he must think that I, having not gone to Harvard, am a legal idiot.
I turn to Marcus. “Do I look like a legal idiot to you?”
“Unhh,” says Marcus.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
• • • • •
CALVIN HAS ALREADY prepared the motion, called a writ of mandamus, and we file it with the court less than an hour after receiving the refusal by Stephen Drummond to provide the documents. Included in the motion is a claim that the documents are crucial to our preparation of an adequate defense for Jeremy, and we have an expectation that this claim will prompt Judge Morrison to act quickly.
He acts even more quickly than we expected and notifies the parties that he will hear arguments on Monday morning. That gives me an entire weekend to both prepare for the hearing and further familiarize myself with every aspect of the overall case. I’m also going to watch a significant amount of college and pro football. Laurie is working both days, so it will be a guys’ weekend, and I’ll be the only guy participating in it.
I call my bookmaker back in New Jersey to bet on the college football games. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him in more than a month. “Where the hell have you been?” he asks.
I can tell how concerned he is about my well-being, and it’s all I can do to hold back the tears. I place a bet against Wisconsin, sort of my way of getting back at the state for my confinement here. They’re playing Michigan State, but I would have bet against them if they were playing the Bonfire Girls.
Of course, Wisconsin rolls up four hundred yards on the ground and wins 38-7, leaving me thoroughly depressed. The only thing worse that could happen takes place a few minutes after the game, when Calvin comes over and tells me that he’s taking me to a party. He’s dressed ridiculously in gold pants and a green shirt; a sense of fashion is clearly not a requirement for admission to the party.
“A party? Are you insane?” I ask.
“Come on, you’ve got to get in good with the jury pool.”
He’s right, of course. It’s important that I reduce my posture as an outsider and become more accepted by this community before the trial. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
The party is at the home of Shelby and Tom Lassiter, and Calvin is going because Tom is a former client. Calvin informs me that it is something called hot-dish night, a traditional gathering to which everyone brings a hot dish, usually a casserole. The fact that we are bringing no such thing doesn’t seem to faze Calvin, so I’m fine with it as well.
When we enter, I see that almost everyone in the house is wearing a green and gold outfit as flamboyantly ugly as Calvin’s. It looks like a leprechaun convention, but it turns out that it is in honor of tomorrow’s Green Bay Packers game; local residents like to dress in the team colors. As best as I can tell, no one is wearing shoulder pads or a helmet.
Three women stand together off to the side, and they seem to be staring at us. I point that out to Calvin, who says, “Those are my three ex-wives. They call themselves the merry widows.”
“But you’re not dead,” I say.
He nods. “They live in hope.”
Shelby Lassiter comes over to inquire as to whether we want a drink, though she doesn’t seem interested in what type of drink we might want. Moments later we are holding glasses of peppermint schnapps, which doesn’t taste half bad. I try to picture Vince and Pete back at Charlie’s drinking peppermint schnapps; they would sooner sip Dra?248-175?no on the rocks.
The house we’re in is not particularly large, but people keep streaming in. Three couples come in together, probably in their late thirties, and look around the room, waving and nodding hello. I turn my attention away from them, but look back a couple of minutes later when I hear loud and apparently angry talking. I can’t make out most of what they are saying, but the word “murderer” comes through loud and clear.
The rest of the people in the room look as if they are watching a tennis match, glancing first at the commotion, than at Calvin and me, and back and forth, back and forth. It’s making me uncomfortable, but Calvin seems unconcerned, even amused.
“I’ve got a feeling there are detractors in our midst,” I say to Calvin.
He nods. “Story of my life.” Then, “The tall guy that’s the most upset is Donnie Kramer. He’s got twin daughters at the university.”
I understand immediately. “And we’re the defenders of a guy who slashed his daughters’ classmates to death.”
He laughs. “Well, when you put it that way, I’m not that crazy about us either.”
I find myself torn between wanting to leave because of the problems our presence is creating, and wanting to leave because the party is so insufferably boring. “I think we should go,” I say.
“Leaving now in the face of this intolerance would violate every principle I hold dear,” he says.
“There’s a late college game on ESPN,” I say. “And I’ve got a refrigerator full of beer.”
“I’ll get the coats,” he says.
Thus begins twenty-four hours of almost nonstop football watching and beer drinking. Calvin is the perfect couch potato companion; I even feel comfortable allowing him to handle the remote control. Higher praise I cannot bestow on a fellow human.
But all good things must come to an end, and on Monday morning we find ourselves in the courtroom, prepared to argue our motion to get Center City to turn over the information we have requested. At the opposing counsel’s table is not Lester, but Stephen Drummond.