That’s the good news. The bad news is that the theory has nothing to do with the Schilling case. It has to do with football.
My fantasy on the Giants Stadium field yesterday centered on my making the team as a running back or wide receiver, and even my delusional mind knows that is impossible.
I’m going to make it as a placekicker.
Think about this. There are at least two dozen behemoths on every pro roster, weighing in excess of three hundred pounds and able to bench-press Argentina. Yet the kicker is always a little guy, about the size of a late night snack for a defensive lineman.
This leads me to the inescapable conclusion that strength is not a significant factor in placekicking. If it were, then the strongest guys, and not the weakest, would be doing it. What must be necessary to succeed is technique, which the little guys have taken the time to master. There must be a trick to the leg swing, or the body-lean into the ball, or something.
Now, as far as I can tell, there is no reason a thirty-nine-year-old lawyer can’t learn the technique. I’m a smart guy; I’ll get somebody to teach me, and I’ll practice until I’ve got it down pat. I don’t know if the Gramatica brothers can learn torts, but I sure as hell can master a leg sweep.
So now I’ve got a plan. I get Kenny acquitted, and the very grateful Giants offer me a tryout before next season, which gives me months to learn the technique. I become a football hero, and Laurie stays and becomes head cheerleader. The only flaw in that plan is the “Kenny acquitted” part, since I have no idea how the hell to do that.
I get to the office at nine o’clock, a little late for me, but a little early for the shock I receive. Edna is already in and brewing coffee. Eclipses happen with considerably greater frequency than Edna getting in before ten, and I didn’t know she knew where the coffeemaker was.
A casually dressed man of about twenty-five sits across from Edna, and they have a New York Times open on the table between them. She seems to be lecturing him on the intricacies of crossword puzzle solving, a speech she is uniquely qualified to give. Edna is to crossword puzzles what Gretzky was to hockey, alone on a level above all possible competition.
Edna finally notices that I’ve come in, and she reluctantly pauses in her tutorial to introduce the stranger as Adam Strickland. He’s the writer the studio sent to get to know us and see how we operate so that he can write the screenplay more effectively and accurately. I had forgotten he was even coming, and now very sorry that he did. One thing I don’t need now is a distraction from the case.
Adam apologizes for coming on such short notice, though he did call yesterday afternoon. I wasn’t in, but Edna took the call, hence her early arrival.
I invite Adam back into my office. As he gets up, Edna asks, “Do you want me to type up a summary of what we talked about?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve got it.” He smiles and holds up the pad on which he’s been taking notes.
Edna lowers her voice slightly, wary of my overhearing, which I do anyway. “The point is, it’s never been done.”
Adam nods in agreement. “It’s Rocky with a pencil. Thanks for the coffee.”
Edna smiles, confident that she’s gotten her message through. On the way back to my office I stop and get my own coffee. “Rocky with a pencil?” I ask.
“Right,” he says. “Edna was pitching me an idea for a script. It’s about a young girl who grows up with a dream to be the best crossword puzzle player in America. Winds up winning the national title and representing America against the Russian champion in the Olympics.”
“I didn’t know crossword puzzling was an Olympic sport,” I say.
He nods. “She knows the idea needs a little work.”
I take a sip of Edna’s coffee, which is not the greatest way to start the day. It tastes like kerosene, though I doubt kerosene is this lumpy. “Your coming at this time may be a little awkward,” I say.
“Because of the Schilling case?” he asks.
“Yes. I assume you want to observe us, but everything you’d observe would be protected by client privilege. Which means you aren’t allowed to hear it.”
“I thought you’d say that. I may have come up with a solution.”
“I can’t imagine how you could,” I say.
“A close friend of mine is a lawyer, and I talked to him about it. Here’s the plan: You have people that work here that aren’t lawyers, right? Like Edna, or maybe outside investigators. They are bound by the privilege because they work for you, right?”
“Right,” I say, immediately seeing where he’s going.
“So hire me. Pay me a dollar to be your investigator. I’ll be covered by the privilege, and I’ll sign a confidentiality pledge that only you or your client can release me from.”
Surprisingly, the idea is a good one, at least legally. But it’s not good enough to make me want to do it. I just don’t need someone hanging around during the intensity of a murder trial. On the other hand, I signed a contract and committed to this project, so I have an obligation.
“I have my doubts,” I say. “But I’ll talk to my client.”
“It would really mean a lot to me,” he says. “The Schilling case is real drama, you know? And depending on how it comes out, it’s a movie that can get made.”
“What about the Willie Miller case?” I ask. “Isn’t that a movie that will get made?”
He smiles. “I wish, but no way. It’s jerk-off time.”
He’s lost me. “Excuse me? Why is the studio buying it if they don’t plan to make it? Why would they pay you to write it?”
“You’re not going to like this, but think of movie production as a long pipeline,” he says. “Executives, some smart, some idiots, feed projects into the pipeline because they’ve been told the pipe is supposed to be filled. And that’s their job: They’re pipe fillers.”
“So?” is my probing question.
“So the problem is that the other end of the pipe leads to the sewer, which is where ninety-nine percent of the projects wind up.”
“But the theaters are filled with movies,” I point out.
He nods. “Right. Because every once in a while a big-shot producer or director or star punches a hole in the pipe and pulls out a project before it can get to the sewer. But once they do, they patch it back up so nothing else leaks out.”
“Have you ever had a movie made?”
He shakes his head. “Not even close. But the Schilling case could stay out of the sewer. It’s Pride of the Yankees meets In Cold Blood.”
“Do you always talk like that?”
“Pretty much. I’ve loved movies since I was a little kid, and there’s a movie that has dealt with just about every situation ever.”
“Except international crossword puzzle tournaments.”
He smiles. “Searching for Edna Fischer.”
I like this guy. He inhabits another world that coexists on the same planet as mine, but he seems to be honest, enthusiastic, and probably smart. “I’ll talk to Kenny. Can you give me a couple of days?”
He’s fine with that and leaves his number at the Manhattan hotel where he’s staying. “I love New York, and the studio’s paying, so take your time.”
“I recommend the mixed nuts from the minibar,” I say. “Only fourteen dollars, but there’s plenty of cashews.”
Adam leaves, and I open an envelope on my desk with the New York Giants’ logo on it. It’s a letter from Walter Simmons, confirming our discussion and telling me that the reams of information that the team has on Kenny will be sent shortly. He also lists Kenny’s closest friends on the team and assures me that they have been contacted and urged to cooperate.