Calvin’s three ex-wives, the ones he referred to as the merry widows, are here and sitting together. They’re all softly sobbing, and all in all don’t look very merry.
One of the nonhumorous moments comes when one of Calvin’s friends describes how he lost his leg in combat in Vietnam, an episode that earned him the Silver Star. Apparently, his bone cancer story was just as fake as his mountain boulder story. I find myself hoping that his death is one of his more elaborate lies and he’ll show up and laugh at us for buying it. Unfortunately, he doesn’t make an appearance, at least not today.
The media are back out in full force, covering the funeral as a major news event. I’m always amazed at how quickly media people can mobilize themselves to appear when something happens; I have this image of them as firefighters, waiting for a phone call to propel them down their poles and onto their vans.
The reason they are here is that they don’t think Calvin’s death was an accident any more than Laurie and I do. Actually, they don’t have the slightest idea how or why Calvin died, but murder sells a hell of a lot more newspapers and generates far higher ratings than a simple automobile accident.
Laurie and her fellow officers are on duty at the funeral so as to ensure that there is no additional violence. I’ve asked her to update me on the progress of her investigation into Calvin’s death, but she has properly told me I have to go through Lester or the court. At this point those reports would not be due us in discovery because it has not been established that the death is related to the Jeremy Davidson case.
Marcus surprises me by attending the funeral with me. He does so, according to Laurie, not for my protection, but to show his respect for Calvin. It’s a nice gesture, and I appreciate it on Calvin’s behalf.
Marcus and I walk back to the house, and I realize how dramatically the landscape of this small town has changed. It seems like every few hundred feet there is a television truck with a satellite on its roof, and newscasters are stopping townspeople and interviewing them on the street. They want their opinion as to whether Calvin’s death was really accidental and their view of Jeremy’s guilt or innocence. They’re after local opinions, and they’re in luck, because everybody has one.
As we approach the house, I am stunned to see Kevin, my associate, standing on the porch. At least I think it’s Kevin; he’s buried under so much clothing that he’s twice his normal size, and round in shape. It’s almost as if someone put an air hose up his ass. It’s maybe thirty degrees, and I’ve gotten used to the weather, but apparently, the hypochondriac Kevin is worried about catching a cold.
“I heard about what happened to… ,” he starts.
“Calvin,” I say.
He nods. “Calvin. And I thought you might need some help.”
Kevin has made the kind of terrific gesture that only a good friend would make, but one that immediately triggers my overactive guilt gland. “What about Carol and the wedding?” I ask. “And then the honeymoon?”
“I asked Carol to marry me. She said no.”
“Gee, I’m sorry, Kev. Maybe she’ll change her mind.”
He shakes his head. “After she said no, she said ‘never.’ ”
“She said ‘never’?”
He nods. “Right before she said ‘not in a million years.’ So I was thinking I should come here and pitch in… if you want me.”
Kevin is a terrific attorney; there’s no question that I want him, and I tell him so. But I remind him about the pitfalls, like the need to be rather flexible with our fee structure and the fact that the person he’s replacing was killed while doing his job. None of this deters him, so I welcome him on board.
“But, Kev, it’s not winter yet. You might not need quite so much clothing. This is Wisconsin in October… not the Russian front in January.”
“It’s a preemptive action,” he says. “If I catch a cold early in the season, I have it all winter. Remember how much I was sneezing last year?”
I don’t remember anything about his sneezing, but I don’t want to hurt him by saying so, so I nod. “That was a nightmare,” I say.
We go into the house, and Kevin begins to describe in excruciating detail his other cold-prevention measures. When he starts listing the different forms of zinc he takes, Marcus, who has barely said a word since Kevin arrived, shakes his head and goes upstairs.
“Marcus is staying here?” Kevin asks.
“Yes.”
“Have you got room for me as well?”
This is getting worse by the day; pretty soon the house is going to need a resident adviser. “Sure. There’s an extra bedroom next to his.”
“I’m going to need to keep the house at a minimum of seventy-two point five degrees,” he says. “For my sinuses. Are you going to be okay with that?”
“Seventy-two point five?” I ask.
He nods. “Minimum.”
“Okay with me,” I say. “But why don’t you clear it with Marcus?”
• • • • •
THE FAX MACHINE in the kitchen is already going full blast when I wake up in the morning. As I walk toward it, I notice that Kevin is wearing an overcoat while cooking breakfast, and one of the windows is open. My guess is that Marcus didn’t think much of his 72.5 temperature plan.
Marcus, meanwhile, sits shirtless at the kitchen table, drinking an entire pitcher of orange juice without seeming to pause to swallow.
I feel like I’m in a fraternity house: Phi Loony Toony.
I check the fax coming in and am not surprised that Sam has once again come through, providing us with copies of the same documents that we’re scheduled to receive from Stephen Drummond. Right now they’re of no value to us, but when Drummond provides us with his, we’ll be ready to swing into action.
Word has come from Lester that he will not provide us with investigative reports on Calvin’s death in discovery, claiming, as I anticipated, that it is not related to Jeremy’s case. Judge Morrison has agreed to my request for an urgent hearing on the matter, and it’s been scheduled for three o’clock this afternoon.
For breakfast Kevin and I eat the five percent of the food that Marcus leaves behind, and then we continue the process of familiarizing ourselves with every bit of the prosecution evidence. More discovery documents are coming in every day, and the new ones are the ones I read. Kevin, since he just arrived, has started from the beginning.
Very often discovery documents contain an item that is understated so as to seem an insignificant fact, yet it will turn out to be a key part of the prosecution’s case. It is for that reason that I must know everything before I enter the courtroom; there must be absolutely no chance that I will be surprised.
It is while I’m reading through a new statement by one of the people at the bar the night of the murder that I find something that troubles me. I take Kevin and we drive out to the bar, which I have visited twice before. It is basically midway between Center City and Findlay.
We park in the lot and get out, taking the statements with us, so that we can re-create in our minds what took place.
“Jeremy’s truck was here,” I say, “and Liz’s car was parked over there.”
“Right. Under the light.” He adds that last fact because Jeremy said he couldn’t see who was in the car with her, yet the prosecution will use the presence of the light to try to discredit that.
“So she gets out of the car and comes over here, they talk, then argue, and she leaves. Then, according to Jeremy, he debates whether to go into the bar and get drunk, decides against it, and goes home.” I point. “Which is that way.”
“Shit,” Kevin says, realizing what I’m getting at.
I hold up one of the statements. “But Stacy Martin of Lancaster says she was leaving the parking lot at the same time as Jeremy and that she drove off behind him, going west.” I point in the opposite direction that I pointed before.