I tell Adam that I will meet him back at the office, that there is something I need to talk to Sam about privately. Adam leaves, and Sam makes the logical assumption that I want to discuss my personal finances, which is not at all what I want to discuss.
“There’s somebody else I want you to check out.” I say it hesitantly because I’m more than a little ashamed of what I’m doing. “His name is Sandy Walsh. He lives in Findlay, Wisconsin.”
Sam writes down the name. “You want to tell me why?”
As long as I’m doing something this slimy, I might as well at least come clean as to why. “He’s Laurie’s old boyfriend… he’s offered her a job back in Findlay. She’s thinking of moving there.”
He shakes his head in sympathy; he likes Laurie and knows how devastated I would be if she left. “You think she will?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
He shakes his head again. “Just walking out on you and going back to her hometown… damn, there must be fifty ways to leave your lover.”
I’m going through this torture, and he’s actually song-talking Simon and Garfunkel. The mind boggles. “This might not be the best time for song-talking,” I say.
“Sorry, sometimes I can’t help it. What do you want me to find out about this guy?”
“That he’s a slimeball. Maybe a crook, a terrorist… whatever you can come up with. Something that will make Laurie decide to stay here.”
“I assume you don’t want her to know about this?”
I nod. “That’s a safe assumption. It’s not my proudest moment.”
“Jeez, Andy… I thought you guys were gonna get married.”
“We talked about it. Maybe we should have; things were going well enough. I certainly didn’t expect anything like this.”
“Ain’t it always like that?” he asks.
“What?”
“I mean, the relationship goes on, you think you’re making progress… I don’t know… sometimes it just seems the nearer your destination, the more you’re slip-sliding away.” He smiles slightly, hoping I won’t take offense at his inability to stop song-talking.
I don’t. “Just for that you can pay the check,” I say.
He nods. “Who do you want me to look into first, Preston or this Walsh guy?”
“Preston,” I say with some reluctance.
“I’ll get on them both right away,” he says, understanding. “You can count on it.”
I stand up to leave. “You’re like a bridge over troubled water,” I say.
He smiles. “I will ease your mind.”
* * * * *
I MAKE IT A POINT to meet frequently with my clients during the pretrial period. It’s not vital to their defense; the truth is that as time goes on, they have less and less to contribute. This is usually because they’ve already told me everything they know, though I’m not sure that’s the case with Kenny Schilling. But with Kenny, as with all my clients, my visiting is vital to their sanity, and they are generally desperate to see me and learn whatever is going on in their case.
My visit to the jail this morning finds Kenny in surprisingly good spirits. A guard has slipped him the morning newspaper, and he’s read Karen’s story raising the possibility that Preston was the victim of a drug killing. It’s the first positive news Kenny’s heard in a very long time, and though it’s totally speculative and publicly denied by Dylan, he chooses to be euphoric over it.
“So you think this Quintana guy could have done it?” he asks.
“Somebody did,” I say, deflecting the question. “Preston didn’t go in that closet and shoot himself, did he?”
“He sure as shit didn’t,” he says, laughing and punching me in the arm, which seems to be his way of being jovial. Since he’s a two-hundred-thirty-pound professional football player with a punch that can dent iron, I’m going to have to give him any future good news over the phone.
Kenny’s been getting visits from some of his teammates on the Giants, and that has made him more upbeat as well. I’m always torn in situations like this over how much to level with the client. His situation is fairly grim at the moment, but it would do no good to bring him down emotionally. There will be plenty of time for that later.
My next stop is back at my office, to receive a chemistry lecture from a professor at Fairleigh Dickinson University, located off Route 4 in Teaneck. The professor, Marianna Davila, will serve as my expert witness on the subject should I need one at trial. I’ve used her before and have always enjoyed the interaction. She’s a very pleasant, attractive young woman who has developed an incongruous reputation as one of the leading authorities on street drugs in North Jersey.
I find with experts in any field that it is counterproductive for me to ask other than general questions early on in our discussions. I don’t want to lead them where I want to go; there’ll be plenty of time for that when I get them on the stand. I want the raw facts first, and then I can figure out how I want to manipulate them.
I have Kevin and Adam sit in on the meeting, and I start by telling Marianna that we are meeting on a matter relating to the Kenny Schilling case. She tries not to show it, but I see her perk up. I know from past conversations that she wouldn’t know a football from an aardvark, but no one is immune from the barrage of media coverage this case has gotten. And it’s only beginning.
“Tell us about Rohypnol,” I say.
“Its nonproprietary name is flunitrazepam” is how she starts, and my eyelids begin drooping. “There is no medically accepted use for it in the United States, and it’s produced almost exclusively outside the country. It’s most prevalent in the U.S. in the South and Southwest, but lately, it’s gotten up here in much bigger quantities. Most of it comes out of Mexico.”
“How long does it take to have an effect?” I ask.
“Usually, thirty minutes to an hour, but it peaks in maybe two hours. Blackouts are possible for eight to twenty-four hours after taking it, which is why its main use is as a date-rape drug.” Anticipating my next question, she says, “It lasts in the bloodstream for up to seventy-two hours.”
“What kind of a high does it give?” Kevin asks.
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t. It’s more of a low. Think Valium, only way stronger. Very relaxing… gives a feeling of peace, serenity, when users know what they’re doing.”
We continue to question Marianna, whose knowledge of the subject seems complete. She’ll make a fine witness if we need her, especially since she says that Rohypnol could absolutely be slipped into a drink.
Marianna leaves, and Adam does as well. I doubt it’s a coincidence; Adam seemed to be so taken with her that he didn’t even take notes while she talked.
I have to wait for Laurie to come by with the report on where she and Marcus stand in their investigation. I’ve structured it so that Laurie is in charge of the overall investigative efforts, and Marcus reports through her. Basically, I’ve set it up this way because I’m afraid of Marcus and Laurie isn’t.
Laurie’s not due for about an hour, so I play a game of sock basketball. It’s a game where I take a pair of rolled-up socks and shoot it at the ledge above the door, which serves as the basket. I set up mock games, and it serves as a stress-reducer and confidence-builder, mainly because I always win.
I’m the Knicks this time, and we beat the Lakers 108-14, the highlight being my thirty-one blocked shots of Shaquille O’Neal. After the twentieth block he gets in my face, but I stare him down. When it comes to nonexistent three-hundred-pound, seven-foot basketball players, I make intimidating eye contact.
Destroying Shaq makes me work up a sweat, compounded by the fact that Edna doesn’t believe in air conditioners and instead keeps the windows open so that we can have fresh air. It’s a concept I’ve never understood. Where do air conditioners get their air in the first place? Don’t they just cool off the same air we always breathe? Or is there some mysterious tubing that leads from some stale air factory direct to our air conditioners? Edna seems to think the air that comes from the dirty city streets through our windows is straight from the Rockies, although I don’t remember seeing too many Coors commercials shot against the backdrop of Market Street in Paterson.