Teri Pollard is on the couch, hysterical, while Bobby is dead on the floor, against the wall, his head a bloody mess. Next to his outstretched hand lies a gun, more effective than a thousand justice systems.
* * * * *
LAURIE AND TARA are waiting for me when I get home. My two favorite ladies.
We all go for a walk around the neighborhood. I haven’t been spending nearly enough time with Tara, and I want to change that now. She seems to be getting more white in her face each day, a sign of advancing age in golden retrievers. In Tara’s case it’s less significant than in other goldens, because Tara is going to live forever.
The scene at the Pollards’ and the lingering depression over Adam’s death have really taken their toll on me, and I’m feeling little of the euphoria that I would ordinarily feel after a victory like the one in court today. For that reason I didn’t schedule the party we have at Charlie’s after every positive jury verdict.
“You were brilliant, Andy,” Laurie says. “I don’t know that there’s another lawyer in the country that could have gotten Kenny acquitted with the evidence they had.”
“Adam did it. I was nowhere until Adam came up with the answer.”
“He helped, but you led the team, and you got it done. Don’t take that away from yourself.”
“It was awful at the Pollards’ house today,” I say. “I’m just so tired of all this death and pain. And I keep saying that, and yet I don’t change anything.”
“You’re doing what you were meant to do, in the place you were meant to do it. And I think that down deep you know that.”
I shake my head. “Not right now I don’t.”
“If not for you, Kenny Schilling’s life would be over, and Bobby Pollard would still be out there killing. The death and pain would be much worse.”
“But I wouldn’t have to look at it.”
We walk for a while longer, and I say, “What Teri Pollard went through is beyond awful. This man she devoted herself to, every day of her life, completely betrayed her. And then, after she stayed, after she forgave him, he left her to deal with everything alone.”
“She’s a strong woman,” Laurie says. “She’ll rely on the core of that strength, and she’ll get through it.”
“You’re a more optimistic person than I am.”
“I don’t think so,” she says. “You’re just more honest about it. I have as many doubts as anyone, but I learned a long time ago that it doesn’t help to give in to them. That we have to do what we think is best and deal with the consequences.”
We walk another block in silence, and I say, “You’re leaving.” It’s a statement, not a question, that comes from some hidden place of certainty and dread.
“Yes, Andy. I am.”
I feel like a house is sitting on top of me, but it hasn’t been dropped suddenly. It’s more like it’s been lowered on me. I’ve seen it coming for a while, but even though it was huge and obvious, I just couldn’t seem to get out of the way.
I don’t say anything, I can’t say anything, so she continues. “I wish more than anything in the world that you would come with me, but I know you won’t, and I’m not sure that you should. But I will always love you.”
I want to tell Laurie that I love her, and that I hate her, and that I don’t want her to go, and that I want her to get the hell out of my life this very instant.
What I say is, “Have a nice life.”
And then Laurie keeps walking, but Tara and I turn and walk back home.
* * * * *
PEOPLE TELL ME that the intense pain is going to wear off. They say that it will gradually become a dull ache and eventually disappear. I hope they’re right, because a dull ache sounds pretty good right now.
Of course, my circle of friends is not renowned for their sensitivity and depth of human emotion, so they could be wrong. The agony I currently feel over losing Laurie could stay with me, which right now would seem to be more than I can stand.
I tell myself to apply logic. If she left me, she doesn’t love me. If she doesn’t love me, then I haven’t lost that much by her leaving. If I haven’t lost that much, it shouldn’t hurt like this. But it does, and logic loses out. I can count the times that logic has lost out in my mind on very few fingers.
Even gambling on sports doesn’t help. In normal times a Sunday spent gambling on televised games allows me to escape from anything, but Laurie’s leaving is the Alcatraz of emotional problems. I can’t get away from it, no matter what I do.
I spend half of my time waiting for the phone to ring, hoping that Laurie is calling to change her mind and beg my forgiveness. The other half of my time I spend considering whether to call and tell her I’ll be on the first plane to Findlay. But she won’t call, and neither will I, not now, not ever.
Tonight Pete, Kevin, Vince, and Sam have taken me to Charlie’s to watch Monday Night Football. The Giants are playing the Eagles, which would be a big deal if I gave a shit about it. I don’t.
Halftime has apparently been designated as the time to convince me to get on with my life. They’ve got women to fix me up with, vacations I should take, and cases I should start working on. None of those things have any appeal, and I tell them so. The chance of my going on a blind date, or taking on a new case, is about equal in likelihood to my setting fire to myself. Maybe less.
Sam drives me home and is sensitive enough not to song-talk, though he would have no shortage of sad tunes to pick from. Instead, he thanks me for the opportunity I gave him to work on the case; it’s something he loves and would like to do more of in the future.
I remind him that both Barry Leiter and Adam have died in the last couple of years doing the same kind of work. “Why don’t you do something safer, like become a fighter pilot or work for the bomb squad?” I ask.
Sam drops me off at home, and I open the door to a tail-wagging Tara. I believe she knows I need more love and support than usual, and she’s trying to provide it. I appreciate it, but this may be that rare job bigger than Tara.
I get into bed and take a few minutes to convince myself that tomorrow will be a better day. I mean, the fact is that Laurie was my girlfriend. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s just not that big a deal. Who’s going to feel sorry for you just because you and your girlfriend broke up? It’s not exactly high up on the list of personal tragedies. In fact, if somebody hears you say it, the question they would be expected to ask is something like, “Well, then, who are you going to take to the prom?”
With that self-administered pep talk having failed once again to get through to me, I remember that I had set up a therapy session with Carlotta Abbruzze tomorrow, hoping that she could help me deal with Laurie’s leaving. My view now is that the only way Carlotta can help me is if she calls Laurie and talks her into coming back.
In the morning I take Tara for a walk, and we’re halfway through it when I realize I had scheduled a meeting with Kenny Schilling at his house at ten. After every case I wait a while and then meet with the client. It’s to go over my final bill, but, more important, to find out how the client is adjusting and to answer any remaining questions he or she has. It’s always nice when that meeting is not in prison.
Kenny and Tanya graciously welcome me into their home, and Tanya goes off to get coffee. Kenny’s wearing a sweat suit, aptly named because it’s drenched with sweat.
“Sorry I didn’t get dressed all fancy for my lawyer,” he says with a smile, “but I’ve got to get in shape.”
“I won’t keep you long,” I say, and we quickly go over my bill, which despite its large size draws no objection from him. It’s actually less than the estimate I had given him at the start of the trial.