I’m torn about whether I want to handle this case at all. On its face it seems a near-certain loser, mainly because there is a very substantial chance Kenny is guilty. My financial and professional situation is such that I have little stomach for securing the release of people who shoot other people and stuff them in closets.
On the other hand, I don’t know that Kenny is guilty, and this case represents a chance to get back into the action. Ever since the Willie Miller trial, I have been very selective in picking my clients, with the result being a lot of downtime. It’s been three months since I’ve been in a courtroom, and I can feel the juices starting to flow. The fact that I could be taking on Dylan is an added, competitive benefit.
Once Kevin leaves, Tara and I take a ride over to the building that houses the Tara Foundation, the dog rescue operation that Willie and I run. More accurately, Willie and I finance it, and Willie and his wife, Sondra, run it. It’s a labor of love for them, and I’ve loved helping them rescue and place over six hundred dogs in our first year.
As we enter, Willie and Sondra are behind the desk while a young couple gets to know one of the dogs, a large yellow Lab mix named Ben. They are sitting on the floor and playing with him, unknowingly making a good impression on Willie, Sondra, and me in the process. As a general rule, people who get on the floor with dogs provide them with good homes.
I overhear Sondra talking to Willie before they see me. “Samuel Jackson?” she says. “Are you out of your mind?”
Apparently, Willie is nearing a final casting decision. Sondra sees me and tries to enlist me in her cause. “Andy, tell him that Samuel Jackson is old enough to be his father.”
“Samuel Jackson is old enough to be your father,” I say as instructed.
“Then what about Danny Glover?” Willie persists.
“Damn,” says Sondra. “Danny Glover is old enough to be Samuel Jackson’s father.”
Willie is getting frustrated, so he turns to me. “You got any ideas?”
I nod. “Sidney Poitier.”
“Who’s he?” asks Willie, and Sondra shares his baffled expression.
“A new guy,” I say. “But he has potential.”
I go off to pet the dogs that have not yet been adopted, and then Tara and I head home. Starting Monday, I’m going to be totally focused on the Schilling case, and until then I’m going to be totally focused on the NBA play-offs.
Between now and tomorrow there are six games, culminating in the Knicks-Pacers game tomorrow night. All the games have betting lines and are therefore totally watchable. I have gotten so used to betting on these games that sometimes I wonder if I’m actually a basketball fan anymore. Would I be watching if I couldn’t wager? I’m confident I’d watch the Knicks, but would I care if Detroit beats Orlando? I’m not sure why, but these are somewhat disconcerting issues to contemplate.
The flip side is even more worrisome. If I could gamble on other events, currently exempt, would I automatically become a fan of those events? If I could wager on ballet, would I be pulling for the team in green tutus? And what about opera? If I could bet that the fat lady would sing before the fat guy, would I become an opera buff?
I’ve got to get control of myself and erase these self-doubts. The last thing I ever want to do is ask my bookie if he has a wagering line on the Joffrey or an over/under on how many haircuts will be given by the barber of Seville.
Tara is a help to me at times like this. She gets me to focus on that which is important: the beer, the potato chips, the dog biscuits, and the couch. I’ve taught her to fetch the remote control, and her soft golden retriever mouth never damages it.
Laurie’s having dinner with some of her girlfriends tonight and then coming over tomorrow to spend the day. She doesn’t seem to be acting strangely anymore, and I would spend time reflecting on how pleased I am by that if I didn’t have to watch these games…
* * * * *
LAURIE COMES INTO the room carrying a blanket. That’s not what’s worrying me. What’s worrying me is that she also has two pillows. I have to assume that she intends for my head to be occupying one of them, which is a problem, because it’s Sunday evening and I have other plans for my head. At least for the next two hours.
“Let’s go,” she says, instantly confirming my fears.
“Go where?”
“Outside. It starts in less than half an hour.” I think she can tell from my blank expression that I have no idea what she is talking about, so she explains. “The eclipse, Andy. Remember?”
I do remember, at least partly. I remember that Laurie had said an eclipse was coming and that it would be really nice if we could lie outside and watch it together. Unfortunately, it never entered my mind that God would have scheduled an eclipse at the same time the Knicks were in their first play-off game in four years.
My mind races for a solution; there must be something it can instruct my mouth to say to get me off this literally astronomical hook. “Now? The eclipse is now?” Suffice it to say, I was hoping to come up with something stronger.
“Eight-thirty-one,” she says, since eclipses are really precise things.
“Just about the beginning of the second quarter,” I say. “Talk about your coincidences.”
“Andy, if you’d rather watch the basketball game…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but based on her tone, an appropriate finish would be, “then you can kiss my ass.”
“No, it’s not that,” I lie. “It’s just that it’s a play-off game, and it’s the Knicks. How often does that happen?”
“The next eclipse won’t happen for over four hundred years,” she counters.
I shake my head. “That’s what they say, but don’t believe it. They always announce that the next one won’t come until 2612, so everybody goes out to see it, but then there’s another one two weeks later. The whole thing is a scam.”
“Who’s doing the scamming?” she asks, a slight gleam in her eye, which could mean that she’s either secretly finding this amusing or planning to kill me.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “It could be the telescope industry, or maybe blanket and pillow manufacturers. But take it from me, these people are not to be trusted.”
“I’ve got an idea,” she says. “Why don’t you tape it?”
“Great!” I say enthusiastically. “I didn’t even know you could tape an eclipse.”
Her expression turns serious; banter time is over. “Andy, we need to talk.”
Maybe there’s a more ominous phrase in the English language than “We need to talk.” Perhaps “Michael Corleone says hello.” Or maybe “I’m afraid the test results are back.” But right now what Laurie just said is enough to send spasms of panic through my gut.
I could be overreacting. Maybe it’s not so bad. “We need to talk.” That’s what people do, they talk, right? But the thing is, a talk is like a drink. It’s fine unless you need to have it. Then it’s a major problem. And I’ve got a feeling Laurie is going to play the U.S. Air Force to my Republican Guard and drop a cluster bomb in the middle of my life.
I take a pillow from Laurie and follow her outside. Tara trails along; she clearly considers this “talk” potentially more entertaining than the Knicks game. We don’t say anything as we align the blanket and pillows to view the stupid eclipse. I’m so intent on what is about to be said that if the sun and moon collided, I wouldn’t notice.
“The sky’s clear; we should be able to see it really well,” she says.
Is she going to chitchat first? I swallow the watermelon in my throat. “What is it you wanted to talk about?” I ask.