THE ALARM GOES OFFAT SIX A.M. DID I go to school to be a lawyer or a dairy farmer? I take Tara for a quick walk, then shower and head for the office.
I'm in full work mode now, able to totally concentrate on the matter at hand. I find that when I'm in this mind-set, I can drive somewhere and not remember anything about the trip. It amazes me that I don't have accidents, but my instinct must take over.
This morning my mind is in total clutter, trying to juggle a million things that have to be done and examined. Kevin is coming in with a jury consultant for a meeting. I've never had much use for them, always trusting my instincts, but Kevin has convinced me to keep an open mind about it. After that, I'm going over to depose Victor Markham at his lawyer's office.
I arrive at my office at eight-thirty, which is too early for Edna to have gotten in, so I'm surprised when the door is unlocked. I'm also concerned that someone may have broken in during the night, but I look around quickly and don't see anything amiss.
A moment later I don't see anything at all, as either a fist or a baseball bat hits me on the side of the head. The rest is more than a little blurry, but I hear myself scream in slow motion, and fall to the ground.
I look up and see a man wearing a ski mask, and since it hasn't snowed in the office in quite a while, I instinctively cover up. That proves to be a good move, as he kicks me in the stomach and then punches me again in the chest and head.
My mind registers the fact that there is no one around to help me, that this monster can continue to kick and punch me for as long as he wants. Fortunately, he stops after a few more well-placed shots, all of which send shooting pains through my body. He leans over and snarls through his mask.
“You'd better learn how to take a warning, asshole.”
I try to respond, but another kick silences me.
“Next time you're dead, asshole. Dead.”
He moves away and out the door, a beautiful, blurry sight if ever I've seen one.
After a few minutes, I stagger to the phone and call the police. I ask for Pete Stanton and tell him what happened. Then I slump down to the floor and wait for the cavalry to arrive.
The first soldier in the door is Edna, who screams when she sees me. She's no beauty early in the morning either, but apparently I look worse. She responds to the crisis terrifically, getting cold rags to apply to my bruises and helping me to the couch.
The place is soon swarming with paramedics and police. The paramedics want to take me to the hospital, but I refuse. Nothing seems to be broken, although my entire body hurts like hell, and I just can't afford to give up the time. Instead they take me into the back office and attend to me, while the police survey the scene.
The paramedics finally finish, and I drag my bruised and bandaged body into the outer office. The only police officer left is Pete, who is on the phone. He signals for me to wait, mouthing that he's on an important call with his office.
I stagger to the couch and sit down, and after a few minutes Pete hangs up. Rather than come talk to me, he makes another call. I'm not paying much attention, until I hear part of it.
“I've got to stop at the cleaners, and I don't know if I'll have time to get the car washed. So figure me for about seven. Right. Goodbye.” I've been waiting for this?
He hangs up the phone and turns to me. “Okay. Talk to me,” he says.
“Talk to you? About what? About some seven-foot-eight, four-hundred-pound monster who beat the shit out of me? I don't think so. I admit it seemed important at the time, but it pales next to the possibility that you won't have time to get your goddamn car washed. That really puts everything into perspective.”
He laughs; this episode doesn't seem to concern him as much as it does me. He tells me that I've got to answer some questions, as well as provide a description of the assailant.
“I didn't see him, Pete. The son of a bitch was wearing a ski mask.”
“There's nothing you can give me? A distinctive voice, maybe?”
I search my recollection, but come up with almost nothing. “He's got big feet.”
“Well now we're getting somewhere.”
I'm really annoyed. “Look, my house has been broken into, I've been threatened, and now I've been beaten up in my office. Any chance you're seeing a pattern, Sherlock?”
“Andy, I see this every day. It happens all the time, and you defend most of the scumbags who do it.”
I shake my head. “This is not supposed to happen to me. I'm a lawyer, for Christ's sake. When I piss people off they're supposed to stand up and object.”
Pete asks me if I see anything missing in the office, or if there seems to be anything that the intruder had gone through.
There is no evidence of that, and I tell him so.
“Hmmmm,” he hmmms.
“What are you hmmming about?”
“Obviously, the intruder was here just to do what he did, beat and threaten you.”
“That makes me feel much better.”
“What time did you get in?”
“Early. Eight-thirty.”
“Are you always the first one in?”
“No. When I'm due in court I sometimes don't come in until the afternoon.”
“Somebody's been watching and following you, Andy. Any idea who it could be?”
“No.”
“Maybe another pimp looking to take over your stable?”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Believe me, right now it's a lot better looking than your face.”
Pete asks me a lot more questions, and I answer them as best I can. Well, maybe not quite that completely, since I neglect to mention the parts about my father and the money and the picture. My shrink and I are going to have a lot to talk about.
Pete heads back to the office, promising to put his best people on the case. He also makes a reference to our next meeting, which is when he will be testifying as a key witness in the Miller case. It'll be my job to attack Pete in cross-examination, which won't be easy.
As Pete's leaving, Laurie arrives. She hasn't heard about the attack, and the first thing she sees is my battered face.
“Oh, my God. What happened?”
“Sort of a pretrial conference,” I say. Hey, I used to sleep with her. I've got to act brave.
She touches my arm, and I can't help it, I wince in pain. “No touching. Please, no touching.”
She's okay with that. I knew she would be.
I call Nicole and tell her what happened, since I'm afraid she'll hear it through the media. She's concerned and upset, though less so than when the house was broken into. I renew my suggestion that she move out until the danger has passed, and again she refuses.
Kevin shows up soon after and shows a hell of a lot more sympathy than Laurie had. We soon get back into the details of the case, and I almost forget the pain I'm in. Almost, but not quite.
The jury consultant shows up for our meeting. Her name is Marjorie Klayman and to my chagrin I take an immediate liking to her. My father brought me up to believe in the old school of trial lawyering, and jury consultancy is part of the new school. Marjorie is in her thirties, unpretentious in looks, dress, and attitude, and totally self-confident in her ability to help me pick a jury.
She explains what she calls the “science” of the process, which consists of conducting polls among sample jury pools, probing with sophisticated questions about attitude and lifestyle. The responses are then correlated with those people's attitudes toward information about the specific case. I'm not knocked out by what she has to say, but then again how many times can I be knocked out in one day? I hire her on the spot, and give her one week to get back to me. This is generous; jury selection begins in ten days.