It’s something I occasionally think about. What would I do if I could start over, knowing everything that has happened since? I don’t really know, but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t involve law school. And I’d make a fortune betting on sporting events of which I already know the outcome.
When it’s over I ask Laurie what she would do differently now that she knows how things have worked out. My hope is that maybe she’ll say she wouldn’t have moved to Wisconsin.
“Nothing,” she says. “Because I don’t want to know how things will work out. That’s not what the real world is about.”
“I understand that. I’m just presenting a fake-world hypothetical. What if you could go back, knowing what was going to happen in your life? How would you change it? What would you do differently?”
“I’d eat less chocolate.”
“You’re not taking this seriously,” I say.
She nods. “Correct. Because if I knew what was going to happen in my life, it wouldn’t be living. I take each day as it comes.”
I shake my head in frustration, though I’m not sure why I keep pushing this. “Of course you take each day as it comes. Everybody does; there’s no choice. What I’m trying to do is get you to imagine knowing about the days before they come.”
“Andy, would you like to know what is going to happen before it does?”
“Of course.”
“And it would change your behavior?” she asks.
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, let’s try it. If you keep talking about this, we’re not going to make love tonight, and I’m going to sleep in the guest bedroom.”
“Can we drop this whole thing?” I ask. “I mean, it’s just a stupid movie.”
“Maybe it works after all,” she says.
I SET AN EARLY MEETING with Sam Willis to bring him on board.
Sam has been my accountant for as long as I can remember, and has an office down the hall. In the last couple of years he has also taken on assignments as a key investigator for me, a task that he accomplishes without even leaving his desk.
Sam has mastered cyberspace and can navigate it to find out pretty much anything. He is simply a genius at hacking into government agencies, corporations, or any other entity naive enough to think it is secure. If I need a phone record, or a bank statement, or a witness’s background, all I need to do is put Sam on the case. The fact that it’s not always strictly legal is not something that has kept either of us awake nights.
I set the meeting at nine o’clock, because I’m due in Hatchet’s chambers at ten thirty to give him an update on what is happening with Waggy. It’s a meeting that was arranged before I took Steven on as a client, and I’m hoping the new situation will at least get me off the Waggy hook.
I’m in the office at nine sharp, and Sam arrives ten minutes later. Sam always has a disheveled look about him, and it’s exaggerated in the summer, when he’s hot and sweaty. Today is a particularly stifling day, and he comes in looking much the worse for wear. Sam has often said he would rather the temperature were ten than eighty.
“Hot out there,” I say after he has grabbed a cold soda.
He nods. “You ain’t kidding. Summer in the city. Back of my neck gettin’ dirty and gritty.”
Sam and I are practitioners of a juvenile hobby we call “song-talking,” during which we try to work song lyrics into our conversations. Sam is a master at it; if they gave out rankings in song-talking he would be a black belt.
He’s opened with a Lovin’ Spoonful gambit. Fortunately, I am somewhat familiar with it, so hopefully I can compete. I nod sympathetically. “Isn’t it a pity. There doesn’t seem to be a shadow in the city.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, walking over to the window and looking down on the street. He shakes his head sadly. “All around the people looking half dead, walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head.”
“You’re too good for me,” I say. “You ready to start the meeting?”
“If we have to,” he says, with some resignation.
“I need some help on a case.”
He brightens immediately. “You do? Why didn’t you say so?”
“I just did. That’s how you found out about it.”
“I mean when you called me. I figured you wanted me to do some boring accountant stuff.”
“Sam, you’re an accountant.”
“And you’re a lawyer, but I don’t see you jumping for joy on the judge’s table.”
“Bench,” I say. “The judge sits behind a bench.”
“Whatever. What do you need me to do?”
“Find out whatever you can about Walter Timmerman.”
“The dead drug guy?” he asks.
I nod. “The dead drug guy.”
“What do you want to know about him?”
“Ultimately, I want to know why he’s not still a live drug guy, but don’t limit yourself. I want to know about his money; how he earned it and where he spent it. I want to know who he spoke to on the phone in the last month before he died. If he sent e-mails I want to see them, if he traveled I want to know where he went and who he went with. Basically, anything you can find out about him interests me.”
“What’s the time frame?” he asks.
I just stare at him and frown. He knows that everything is a rush.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Sam. As always, I appreciate it.”
He shrugs. “Hey Andy, you just call out my name, and you know wherever I am, I’ll come running.”
I’m pretty sure he’s doing James Taylor. “Winter, spring, summer, or fall?” I ask.
He nods. “All you have to do is call.”
This could go on forever, so I attempt to end the conversation, though I can’t resist a final jab. “Okay, Sam, we’re done here. My body’s aching and my time is at hand.”
“No problem,” he says. “But Andy…”
“Yes?”
“Remember, you’ve got a friend. Ain’t it good to know? You’ve got a friend.”
Hatchet is handling an arraignment when I arrive at the courthouse, and I have to wait about half an hour outside his chambers. When he finally arrives, he forgets to apologize for the slight, and keeps me waiting another five minutes before calling me in.
Once I come in, he says, “Have you resolved the issue?”
“About the dog?”
“What other issue is there?” he asks.
“Well, Your Honor, as you are well aware, I’m now representing the defendant in the case. It seems like a clear conflict.”
“Then resolve it, and the conflict will go away.”
“Well, Your Honor, there has been something of a change in circumstances regarding the two people seeking custody of the dog. One is dead, and the other is in prison.”
“Well, then I have a new contender for you to consider.” He searches through some notes on his desk. “Judge Parker’s office forwarded this. A man named”-he squints to read the name- “Charles Robinson has contacted the court seeking custody of the dog. He represents himself as a close friend of Walter Timmerman, and a partner of his in the showing of dogs.”
Charles Robinson is someone I’m vaguely familiar with, and I know him to be a multimillionaire who has made his money in oil and real estate. There have always been vague accusations that his dealings are shady, but as far as I know he has never faced any criminal charges. “Thank you, Your Honor, I’ll certainly consider Mr. Robinson. But I do need to make sure the dog is placed in a loving-”
Hatchet interrupts. “Have I given you the impression that I care what happens to this dog?”
“Well-”
“Resolve the matter. Either give him to Robinson or find another solution.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Right away.”
The phone on Hatchet’s desk rings, and he looks at it as if it were from another planet. He picks it up. “Clara, I told you that I was not to be disturbed. Now…” He stops, an expression on his face that I haven’t seen before. “I see… put him on.” Another pause, and then: “Just a moment.”