Adam looks stunned when Laurie and Marcus enter, and it’s easy to understand why. There could not be two human beings on this planet who look more different, yet each has achieved a type of physical near perfection. Laurie is white, tall, blond, and breathtakingly beautiful, with a face that combines intelligence, compassion, and more than a modicum of toughness. Marcus is African-American, short, bald, and carved from burnished steel, with a perpetual scowl so fearsome that my initial instinct is invariably to back away from him, even though he’s on my side.
What Marcus and Laurie have in common is that they are both talented investigators, though their styles are as different as their looks. Laurie is smart and relentless, pushing and probing, until she learns what she has to learn. People provide Marcus with information in the hope that he will continue to let them live. And sometimes he does.
I introduce them to Adam, mentioning that Adam is a writer.
“Books?” asks Marcus, a man of few words.
“Movies,” says Adam. He says it nervously, because when people talk to Marcus, the goal is not to say the wrong thing. “I write screenplays, and-”
“Rambo?” interrupts Marcus.
“Uh, no. I didn’t write Rambo,” says Adam, glancing quickly at me in the hope I’ll jump in and help, which I won’t. “But I liked it. It was a wonderful film. They… they were wonderful films… all the Rambos.”
Marcus just shakes his head and sits down, no longer interested in Adam or his portfolio. He also doesn’t say a word as I go over everything I know about Paul Moreno and Cesar Quintana. I’m speaking strictly for Marcus’s benefit, since Laurie already knows all of this, having been my date for Pete’s birthday extravaganza.
When I’m finished, it’s time to give out the assignments. I say to Marcus, “I’d like you to find out everything you can about Quintana and whatever connections he has to Troy Preston or Kenny Schilling.”
Marcus just stares at me, not saying a word. Also not a nod or a blink or a shrug or any other human response. It’s disorienting, but it’s pure Marcus.
I continue. “Be careful, these guys are very dangerous.”
Again I get the Marcus stare, but no other reaction.
“I’m glad we had this chat,” I say. “I always find these exchanges of ideas very helpful.”
Apparently also satisfied with the discussion, Marcus gets up and leaves.
“Jesus Christ,” says Adam. “Godzilla meets Shaft. Are we sure he’s on our side?”
“Let’s put it this way,” I say. “If we find out he’s sleeping with the fishes, we’re in big trouble.”
With that, I leave to begin what may be an impossible project. I’m going to attempt to reverse the tide of public opinion that has been building against Kenny, the overwhelming feeling that he must be guilty.
While Kenny has always been relatively popular, this belief in his guilt amounts to mass wishful thinking, by both the public and the press. The media see this as a monster story, sure to sell newspapers and lift Nielsen ratings for months. The public views it as entertainment, much more fascinating and exciting than whether Britney and Justin will get back together. They are looking forward to following the soap opera that will lead up to and include the trial.
All of this anticipated fun for everyone would be wiped away if something came out to vindicate Kenny and lead to the charges being dropped. So while no one would ever admit it, the wishful thinking is that he is guilty, so the show can go on.
I’ve decided to let our developing defense point of view leak out into the public discourse, but I can’t do so openly. I have to do it in a sneaky, underhanded manner, which our system fortunately encourages. My only dilemma was in deciding which member of the press to make my partner, since the number of willing candidates would literally number in the thousands.
I briefly considered whether to go national, to slip my story to Time, Newsweek, or one of the cable outlets. The advantage would be immediate widespread coverage, but in this situation it’s just not necessary. Any story, no matter its origin, will be picked up in the hurricane that has become this case and spread everywhere. I could plant this in the afternoon with a stringer for the Okefenokee Swamp Gazette, and it would be the lead on CNN before nightfall.
Once I made the decision to do this locally, the choice of whom to go to was a difficult one. Vince Sanders, editor of one of the local papers, has helped me a number of times in the past. He’s also a good friend, which is the main reason I can’t go to him. I can’t have my fingerprints on this. Everybody will assume I’m behind it anyway, but if Vince breaks the story, they’ll know it for an actual fact. Vince is going to kill me for not going to him, but I’ll make it up to him later on.
I narrowed my choice down to two or three prospects and finally settled on Karen Spivey, a real pro who has covered the courthouse beat for as long as I can remember. She’s a no-frills, old-fashioned reporter who grabs a story in her teeth and pulls on it until all the facts come out. She’s also done me a bunch of favors in the past, and it’s nice to be able to repay one.
I called Karen yesterday and told her that I had a scoop for her but that it was off the record-“background,” as it’s known in reporter jargon. We agreed to meet at the duck pond in Ridgewood, an out-of-the-way place where we’d be unlikely to be seen. Her office is in Clifton, but she was quite willing to travel the half hour or so to get to Ridgewood. The truth is, she was so excited to hear from me that she would have agreed to meet me in Beirut.
I stop on the way and pick up Tara, since the duck pond ranks with her favorite places on earth. We don’t even bring along her favorite tennis ball, since throwing it causes a commotion that makes the ducks swim away from us. Tara likes them close-up, where she can observe them.
We arrive before Karen, and Tara immediately goes into staring mode, watching every move the ducks make. They watch her just as carefully; it’s as if they’re all here because they’re writing a dissertation on the habits of the other species. The ducks don’t seem at all threatened by Tara, though they shy away whenever other dogs show up.
Karen arrives, and as she gets out of her car and looks toward me, I point at a deserted picnic area. I call Tara to come along with me as I go to meet her, though Tara would much rather stay and watch the ducks. I don’t like to take her away from them, but I care for Tara as I would a child, and you don’t leave children alone at the duck pond or anywhere else.
Karen, in her business suit, looks completely out of place in these surroundings. Her reputation is that she works twenty-four hours a day, and it’s unlikely her job brings her to very many duck ponds.
“Thanks for coming, Karen,” I say, pretending that she’s done me a favor.
She taps her foot on the ground. “What is all this green stuff?”
“Grass. And the brown material under that is dirt.”
She shakes her head, as if in wonderment. “Damn. I heard about this stuff. But I didn’t realize there was any around here.”
“Next time I’ll show you flowers.”
“You do that. Are we going to make small talk all day?” Her trip to nature is over; she’s back to business.
“Unless you confirm that we’re off the record.”