I am a complete computer incompetent, and every time I try to do something some ad pops up in my face. It takes me forty-five minutes, but I finally get through it. Just before I’m finished, I have an amazing stroke of luck. A message comes on the screen, telling me that if the bar at the top is flashing, I’m a winner. And it’s flashing! I haven’t been online in weeks, and here I am the chosen one. It’s simultaneously thrilling and humbling, so much so that I forget to click the bar to see what I’ve won.
Adam comes in with a request to go with me, and I say yes, mainly because I can’t think of a valid reason to say no. The studio will pay for his ticket, and he calls their travel department and within thirty seconds is booked and ready to go. Of course, he missed out on the flashing bar and the incredible win.
I’ve scheduled a ten o’clock meeting with Kevin and Laurie to assess where we are in our trial preparation. Kevin has been meeting with various members of the Giants, ironic because Kevin knows so little about football, and sports in general, that I could tell him Kenny played shortstop and he’d believe me.
Kenny’s teammates are thoroughly supportive, uniformly claiming to be positive that Kenny could not possibly be guilty of such a crime. Not realizing that I had already talked to Bobby Pollard, the paralyzed trainer who is one of Kenny’s best friends, Kevin has done so as well, and he is especially taken with Bobby’s expressions of loyalty. He is also, as I was, impressed by the fact that Kenny has seen to it that his friend has stayed employed.
Laurie and Marcus have made considerable progress buttressing our contention that Preston was involved with drugs, as both seller and user. Their information is supplemented by things Sam Willis has found out about Preston’s finances. It helps, especially since we have little else to hang our hat on. The evidence against Kenny, while circumstantial, is very compelling, and we have almost nothing to refute it.
On the plus side we haven’t uncovered anything striking or unusual about the relationship between Kenny and Preston. Certainly, there is no obvious motive, at least none that we can see. This is not to say Kenny is innocent; the murder could have been the result of a sudden argument or a rash act clouded by the fog of drugs.
Our meeting ends early, since I have to get to the airport. I’m late and only have time to kiss one of them goodbye, so I choose Laurie over Kevin. It’s a tough call, but I’m paid big bucks to make this kind of decision.
Kevin leaves, and I say to Laurie, “Making any progress on your decision?” I say it nervously because I’m nervous about hearing the answer.
She shakes her head. “Not really. I’m trying not to obsess about it. I just think, when I know, I’ll know.” That’s pretty tough to argue with, so I don’t.
On the way out I walk by Sam Willis’s office, and he yells out for me to stop in. He tells me that he’s been checking into Sandy Walsh, and I instinctively look up to make sure that Laurie hasn’t come in and overheard this. It’s another sign that I’m aware that what I’m doing is nothing to be proud of.
“He’s got real money,” says Sam. “Not as much as you, but loaded.”
“From where?”
“Hard to tell. Maybe investments, maybe family money… but it’s not from his business.”
“What is his business?” I ask.
“Rental car agency. One location in town, one just outside of town. Solid, but not big enough to be responsible for his wealth.”
“Thanks, Sam,” I say, and prepare to leave.
He stops me. “Andy, there’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The guy’s married.”
“Laurie said he wasn’t,” I say.
He shrugs. “Maybe that’s what he told her. Got married three years ago February. Wife’s name is Susan.”
I nod and leave, considering what this news means. It’s a mixed bag. On the one hand, it could result in some pain for Laurie, but on the other hand, it could be used by me to get her to stay.
I wish all my bags were this mixed.
* * * * *
THE TEMPERATURE in Milwaukee when we land is eighty-seven, not quite what I picture when I think of this town. It’s in stark conflict with my mental image of Vince Lombardi prowling the sidelines, smoke coming from his mouth into the frigid air as the Packers march across the frozen tundra in nearby Green Bay.
The airport is modern and efficiently run, and within a very few minutes we’re in a rental car driving the two hours to Hemmings. I drive and Adam takes out his notepad, no doubt making sure he can keep track of how many rest stops we pass.
An hour from Hemmings we pass a sign telling us that we are three miles from the exit for Findlay. I haven’t yet decided whether to check out Laurie’s hometown, but the highway god is obviously throwing it in my face. Am I man enough to resist temptation? I never have been before, so I doubt it.
“Isn’t that where Laurie is from?” Adam asks.
“She told you that?” is my quick response.
Adam reacts to my reaction. “Sure. I didn’t know it was a secret.”
This is the last thing I want to talk about, so I switch the conversation toward Adam’s life. “You like LA?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I love it, but just for now. It’s especially great with my lifestyle; being a writer absolutely beats working. But if I hit it big, I’m out of there.”
“Why?”
“Because when they need you, and you don’t need them, you can work from anywhere. You hardly ever have to go to meetings and schmooze; all you have to do is write.”
“So where would you live?”
He points at the green fields we are passing. “Near my parents in Kansas. I want to have enough money to buy a house for them and one for me. After all these years they deserve a nice house.”
“You wouldn’t miss a big city?” I ask.
“Maybe a little, but I could always go there on vacations. I want to be somewhere I can raise a big family and not have to worry about drive-by shootings.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.
“No,” he says, then laughs. “Why, do I need one of them first?”
We drive on for a while longer, at which point Adam apparently decides it’s my turn. “Are you and Laurie engaged or anything?”
“No,” I say. “I’m a swinging single.”
He laughs. “Yeah, right.”
The terrain gets more and more desolate as we reach Hemmings, which can’t really be called a small town, or a town at all. It’s really just three or four streets of houses in various states of disrepair, surrounding a cardboard box factory.
The houses have deteriorated over the years, yet most have well-kept small lawns and gardens separating them from the street. It is as if the residents do not have the bucks necessary to renovate their homes, but their gardens make the statement that they would if they could.
One of the better-kept homes belongs to Brenda and Calvin Lane, and they are standing on the porch waiting for us as we arrive. I had spoken to Calvin yesterday, alerting him to our coming to see them, and confirming that they would talk to us. He appeared anxious to do so, and their waiting for us on the porch would seem to confirm that.
Within two minutes we are inside on the couch, being barraged by homemade breads, jams, and pastries. Brenda could make a fortune running a bakery on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, but my hunch is that doing so is not on her radar screen.
Calvin thanks us profusely for coming, as if it had been his idea and we were doing them a favor. “When I saw what happened on television, I knew I had to talk to somebody about it.” He seems unconcerned when I tell him I’m representing Kenny; he just wants to tell his story to anyone who will listen.