“I've got to find out where he got it in the first place.”
Laurie has an annoying habit of dribbling out information, and she is dribbling away now. “The plot thickens. The brokerage records show it was a single cashier's check … so there's no way to trace it from this end.”
This is incredibly frustrating, so I spend the next ten minutes brainstorming ideas with Laurie about how to go about getting more information. We collectively come to the conclusion that she already had come to: The only way to find out more is to look back into my father's life.
Laurie thinks I should drop it, that there's nothing to be gained by going further. The unspoken concern is that there's something to be lost, that my father did something to acquire that money that was so untoward that he could not bring himself to tell anyone about it or even touch it for thirty-five years.
The prospect of going further is frightening, but I have no choice. I don't want to feel like I didn't know a big piece of my father, though the evidence clearly shows that I didn't. We discuss how to proceed, and I'm thinking that I want to take the lead in this rather than Laurie.
The phone rings and we wait for Edna to answer it. By the fourth ring it is clear that she's not going to; 48 across must be requiring all of her considerable powers of concentration. I pick up the receiver and am jolted by the voice of Judge Henderson's clerk. Hatchet wants to see me about the Miller case. It can only mean that the decision has come down from the Court of Appeals.
I grab my jacket and start heading for the door, but Laurie walks along with me and asks if we're still having dinner tonight. It's the moment of truth, and I almost choke on my tongue.
“Laurie … Nicole's back in town … we … the situation …” The actual words, when spoken, are even wimpier than they look on paper.
Her tone is instantly challenging. “Talk, Andy. Nicole's back in town and that means what?”
“I'm not sure. Part of me says it's over and part of me feels like I should see where it goes.”
“And you think I'm going to hang around while your parts fight it out? Forget it, Andy.”
“I know this is difficult … but if you'll just try and understand …” I'm dying here and she shows no sign of letting me off the hook.
“Oh, I understand. I understand that your wife, the wife who walked out on you, has decided she might give you a second chance, and you're jumping at it. Well, you can jump through this particular hoop without me.”
I start to blabber some more, but she dismissively points out that Hatchet Henderson doesn't like to be kept waiting. Her saying this is both true and at the same time an act of mercy, and I'm able to leave with what little dignity I have left.
Even though I'm not actually going into the courtroom, but only into the judge's chambers, I decide against risking pissing off the superstition god, and I stop at Cal Morris's newsstand. I've already gotten the paper today, so I pick up a Baseball Weekly, which I will never read. Cal and I go through our conversation in a perfunctory fashion; I'm too nervous to hear what the judge will say to put my heart into it.
Judge Walter Henderson, better known as Hatchet Henderson, is a large, imposing hulk of a man who stays in shape by adhering to a no-carbohydrate, no-fat, all-lawyer diet. He terrorizes all who appear before him, though me less than most. I've developed the ability to step back and view him as a caricature of the “mean judge,” and my reaction is usually amusement. He instinctively knows that, and it drives him crazy.
Hatchet absolutely refuses to engage in the small talk that constitutes social relationships between normal human beings. “Hello” is to him meaningless and wasteful chitchat; every word he says or allows himself to hear must provide information. Right now that's fine with me, because information is what I'm waiting for. I'm going to learn whether Willie Miller is going to die or be granted another trial.
Hatchet's clerk ushers me into his chambers, which is famous for how dark Hatchet keeps it. The drapes are drawn and the Great One reads a brief at his desk in the sparse light of a table lamp.
He doesn't look up, but he knows I'm there. He also knows that I know the game, which is to stand there like an idiot and wait for him to speak. It can go on for a while, and this time it goes on for ten excruciating minutes.
Finally, he talks without looking up. “Speak.”
I'm now free to open my mouth. “Nice to see you again, Judge.”
“Sorry about your father.” For him that is an amazing burst of humanity.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“Top man. Top man.” He's positively gushing. “One of the best.”
“Thank you,” I reply again.
“You said that already.” Hatchet is back in character. “The decision is coming down today from Appeals. You're getting your retrial.”
There it is. Willie is saved, at least for the time being. Hatchet said it with such a lack of emotion that it took me off guard, though of course I would have expected nothing else.
I'm going to be humble about this. “That's good news. It's the right decision.”
“Bullshit.”
I nod agreeably. “That's another way of looking at it.”
He takes off his glasses and stares at me, peering through the darkness. This is not a good sign. There is a possibility I will never be heard from again.
“You got the retrial on a technicality.” He says “technicality” with such intense disdain that his teeth are clenched. It comes out “technically,” but I don't think I'll point this out. What I think I'll do is just listen.
“You'll need a hell of a lot more in court,” he continues. “There was enough evidence to convict Miller ten times over, and that's not going to change.”
“Well …” I begin.
“Bullshit.” I wonder how he knew what I was going to say?
“Your father did a good job prosecuting that case, but Daffy-fucking-Duck could have nailed Miller. And your courtroom stunts, should you be crazy enough to risk contempt and try them, won't help.”
A question forms on my lips, but I hesitate to ask because I dread the answer. I can't help myself. “Has a judge been assigned?”
“You're looking at him,” he says with obvious relish.
“Wonderful,” I lie. Other than the fact that I just got twenty-two million dollars dropped in my lap, and my client isn't going to be executed anytime soon, this has been a rough couple of days.
“You know,” he says, “there are some people that refer to me behind my back as Hatchet Henderson.”
“No!” I'm flabbergasted. “Why would they do that?”
“Because I cut the balls off lawyers in my courtroom who piss me off.”
“As well you should.”
“Trial is set for four weeks from today. I want your motions filed within ten days.”
This is simply unacceptable. Four weeks is not nearly enough time. I don't care if they call him Hatchet, I'm not going to let him walk all over me. “Judge, I need more time. The preparation involved will take-”
He cuts me off. “You've got four weeks.”
I'm raging with anger now. There is no way this asshole is going to railroad me and my client into this. “Four weeks,” I nod.
I realize that Hatchet is looking back at the papers on his desk. He's effectively dismissed me.
“Nice talking to you, Judge.” He doesn't respond; I have ceased to exist. Without saying another word, I turn and leave, closing the door behind me. I don't say goodbye. That'll teach him.
My next stop is out to the prison to tell Willie the good news in person. It's the first one of these visits I've looked forward to, although I'm already starting to focus on just how difficult this trial is going to be.