* * * * *
LAURIE MAKES MY favorite for dinner, pasta whatever. She seems to add anything lying around into the sauce, and somehow it turns out terrifically. The best part is, she never tells me the ingredients, since if I knew how healthful they were, I probably wouldn’t eat them.
We have an agreement that we never discuss business at home, but while we’re on a case, we break the agreement pretty much every night. Tonight is no exception, and during dinner she tells me about her initial efforts to investigate the life of Troy Preston.
Mostly working with her own contacts, the picture she’s getting of Preston is not a positive one. Word has it that he failed an NFL drug test last season. NFL policy is to put the failed player on probation and mandate counseling. The infraction remains secret until the second offense, at which point there is a four-week suspension. The prosecution’s postmortem blood test on Preston indicated that he would have failed another test had one been scheduled any time soon. That’s not something he needs to worry about now.
The Jets, according to Laurie’s sources, were very worried about Preston and felt that drug use was responsible for his mediocre performance last season. He was never more than an adequate reserve anyway, and with his knee injury he was in danger of being cut from the squad this year.
After dinner we go into the living room, put on an Eagles CD, open a bottle of chardonnay, and read. I had run a Lexis-Nexis search on Kenny, which through the miracle of computers allows me to access pretty much everything that has been written about him. Edna has pared it down to everything not related to game performances, leaving me with a thick book of material to go through.
Laurie reads a mystery, one of probably a hundred she reads every year. It surprises me, because solving mysteries is what she does for a living. I’m a lawyer, and trust me, when I have spare time, you won’t catch me reading The Alan Dershowitz Story.
Tara takes her spot on the couch between us. Music seems to put her in a mellow mood, which Laurie and I augment by simultaneously petting her. My assigned zone is the top of her head, while Laurie focuses on scratching Tara’s stomach.
Laurie and I haven’t discussed her possible move back to Findlay since the night of that stupid eclipse. I keep forming sentences to address it, but none of them sound right while taking the route to my mouth, so I don’t let them out.
“This is so nice,” Laurie says with total accuracy.
I need to let her feel how nice this is without saying anything about the possibility of her leaving and ruining it. I have to let her deal with this on her own; my advocating a position is not going to help. “It is nice,” I agree. “Completely nice. Totally nice. As long as you and I and Tara live here in New Jersey, we will have this permanent niceness.” In case you haven’t noticed by now, I’m an idiot.
“Andy…,” she says in a gentle admonishment. Then, “I do love you, you know.”
“I know,” I lie, since that is no longer something I know. I’ve pretty much broken it down to a simple proposition: If she stays, she loves me; if she leaves, she doesn’t.
Usually, we have CNN on as background noise, but lately, we’re unable to do that because their policy seems to be “all Kenny Schilling, all the time.” Nobody on these shows has any knowledge whatsoever about the case, but that doesn’t stop them from predicting a conviction.
I get up and walk around the house, bringing my wineglass with me. I grew up in this house, then lived in two apartments and two houses before coming back here. I could barely describe anything about those other places, yet I know every square inch of this house. Even when I wasn’t living here, it was completely vivid in my mind.
No matter what I look at, the memories come flooding back. Wiffle ball games, playing gin with my father, stoopball, trying a puff of a cigarette in the basement, eating my mother’s cinnamon cake, having the Silvers, our next-door neighbors, over to watch baseball games on TV… my history was played out here. I left it behind me once, and I won’t do so again.
I am painfully aware that Laurie’s history is in Findlay. Not in a house, maybe, and I’m sure that her memories aren’t as relentlessly pleasant as are mine. But it is where she became who she is, and she’s being drawn back to it. I understand it all too well.
I need to stop thinking about it. She will make her decision, one way or the other, and that will be that. If my mother were alive, she would say, “Whatever happens, it’s all for the best.” I never believed it when she used to say it, and I don’t believe it now. If Laurie leaves, it will not be for the best. It will be unacceptably awful, but I will accept it. Kicking and screaming, I will accept it.
I wake up in the morning resolved to focus on nothing but Kenny Schilling. My first stop is out to the jail to talk with him. He’s less anxious and frightened than the last time I saw him, but more withdrawn and depressed. These are common reactions, and they must have something to do with the self-protective nature of the human mind.
I begin by telling him that I have decided to stay on his case, though he had always assumed that I would. I lay out my considerable fees for him, and he nods without any real reaction at all. Money is not an issue for him right now, though until a month ago he was a relatively low-paid player. The Giants are sticking with him and paying him according to his huge new contract. As far as my fees go, if I get him acquitted, it will be the best money he ever spent. If he’s convicted, all the money in the world won’t help him.
With the money issue out of the way, I start my questioning. “So tell me about the drugs,” I say.
“There weren’t any. I don’t do drugs.”
“They were found in your blood. The same drug was found in Troy Preston.”
“They’re lying. They’re trying to put me away.”
“Who’s they?” I ask.
“The police.”
“Why would the police want to put you away?”
“I don’t know. But I didn’t take no drugs.”
His insistence on this point is surprising. Drug use in itself does not come close to a proof of murder. He could be protecting his public image, but his current incarceration on first-degree murder charges has blown that out of the water much more effectively anyway. It is extraordinarily unlikely that the police have conspired to frame him by faking the blood tests, though I will look into any possible motivations for their doing that.
The other possibility of course is that both the police and Kenny are being honest and that the drug was slipped to him. I need to consult an expert to find out if that is possible.
“Could someone have slipped you the drug without you knowing it?”
He grabs on to this like a life preserver. “Yeah, that must be it! Somebody put it in my drink or food or something. Maybe Troy did… he was there.”
Once again the persistent “why” question rears its ugly head. “Why would he do that?”
He shakes his head, having discovered that this particular life preserver can’t support his weight. “I don’t know. But there’s gotta be a reason.”
I have Kenny rehash his relationship with Troy Preston, starting with their meeting at the high school all-star weekend. It turns out that they also spent a couple of days together at the NFL combine before they were drafted. The combine is a place where rookies come to demonstrate their physical skills to assembled NFL executives.
Kenny claims to have racked his brain trying to think of something relevant to Preston’s murder, but he just can’t come up with anything. “There’s… there’s just nothing.”
I detect a hesitation, mainly because there was a hesitation. “What were you going to say?” I ask.