“Andy…” is how she starts, which is already a bad sign. I’m the only other person here, so if she feels she has to specify whom she’s talking to, it must mean that what she has to say is very significant. “Andy, you know that my father and mother split up when I was fifteen.”
I wait without speaking, partially because I am aware of her parents’ divorce, but mainly because I want this to go as fast as possible.
“My father got custody simply because my mother didn’t contest it. She no longer wanted a family-I don’t know and it doesn’t really matter why-and he made it easy for her. He found a job here and took me with him. One day I was living in Findlay, and the next day I wasn’t. I literally never even said goodbye to my friends.”
She takes a deep breath. “And I never went back. Not once. Not even a phone call. My mother died five years ago without me seeing or talking to her. That’s how she wanted it, and it was fine with me.”
With her voice cracking as she says this, it doesn’t take a keenly analytical mind to know that it wasn’t really fine with her.
She goes on. “In the process I cut off from my friends, my boyfriend at the time, everybody. I’m sure they must have heard where I had gone, but they wouldn’t have had any way to contact me, and I certainly never contacted them. I never even considered it.”
“Until this weekend” is my first verbal contribution.
She nods. “Until this weekend. I’ve been nervous about going back, but when I saw how it was for you to get back into this house… I know it’s different because you never left this area… but it gave me extra motivation.
“And it was wonderful,” she continues. “Better than I could have imagined. Not just seeing my old friends, though that was great. It was about going home, about reconnecting with how I became who I am. I even met three cousins I never knew. I have family, Andy.”
“That’s great,” I say.
“I was stunned by the impact the whole thing had on me, Andy. When I drove past my grammar school, I started to cry.”
That impact and the resulting emotions are clear as a bell, and it makes me feel for her. For a moment I even stop thinking about myself and how whatever is going to be said will affect me. But only for a moment.
“I had a boyfriend named Sandy. Sandy Walsh.”
“Uh-oh,” I say involuntarily.
“He’s a businessman and sort of an unelected consultant to the town.”
“Married?”
“A less significant question would be hard to imagine,” Laurie says, “but no, he’s not married.”
I simply cannot stand the suspense anymore. “Laurie,” I say, “I’m a little nervous about where this is going, and you know how anxious I am to watch the eclipse, so can you get to the bottom line?”
She nods. “Sandy talked to the city manager, and they offered me a job. They’ve been aware of my career; I’m like a mini-hometown hero. A captain’s position is going to be opening up on the police force, and Chief Helling is approaching retirement age. If all goes well, I could be chief of police within two years. It’s not a huge department, but there are twelve officers, and they do real police work.”
Kaboom.
“You’re moving back to Findlay?” I ask.
“Right now all I’m doing is talking to you about it. The captain’s slot won’t open for at least three months, so Sandy is giving me plenty of time. He knows what a big decision this is.”
“That Sandy’s a sensitive guy,” I marvel.
“Andy, please don’t react this way. I’m talking to you because I trust you and I love you.”
Her words function as a temporary petulance-remover. “I’m sorry, I’ll try to be understanding, and a person for you to talk to, but I just don’t want you to leave. We can talk for the next twelve years, and I still won’t want you to leave.”
“You know how much I’ve wanted to get back into police work,” she says, “and in a position like that, I could really make a difference.”
Laurie was working for the Paterson Police Department when she told what she knew about the crooked lieutenant she was working for. When the issue was whitewashed, she left in protest. Her family has been in police work for generations, and she’s never felt fully comfortable with leaving. “You make a difference here, Laurie.”
“Thank you, but this is different. And you could be the best attorney in Findlay,” she says. Her smile says she’s kidding, but only slightly. “I had forgotten what an amazingly wonderful place it is to live.”
“So you want me to move to Findlay?” I ask, my voice betraying more incredulousness than I would have liked, but less than I feel. “Is good old Sandy offering me the town justice of the peace job? Great! You arrest the jaywalkers, and I’ll put ’em away for good. And then on Saturday nights we can get all dressed up, head down to the bakery, and watch the new bread-slicing machine.”
“Andy, please. I’m not saying you should move. I’m not even saying I should move. I’m just putting everything on the table.” She looks up from this grass table just as the eclipse is starting. “God, that’s spectacular,” she says.
“Yippee-skippee,” I say. “Now I can’t wait for 2612.”
* * * * *
THREE SECONDS AFTER I wake up I have that awful feeling. It’s the one where you’ve forgotten something really bad while you were asleep, and the sudden remembrance of it in the morning is like experiencing it fresh all over again. Why doesn’t that happen with good things?
Laurie may leave. That is a simple fact; I can’t change it. Or if I can change it, I don’t know how, which is almost as bad.
A number of months ago we talked about marriage. She didn’t feel she needed it, but loved me and was willing to marry if it was important to me. I didn’t force the issue, but what if I had? How would it impact on this situation, on her decision? Would she even consider leaving her husband behind?
But we’re not married, and I’m not her husband, so what the hell is the difference?
I know it’s immature, but the chances of my taking on Kenny Schilling’s case just went up very substantially. I need something else to think about, and the total focus and intensity of a murder case and trial are a perfect diversion.
I can feel this diversion start to take effect as I arrive at the courthouse for the arraignment. The streets surrounding the place are mobbed with press, and this will not change for the duration of the case. Clearly, the public view is that Kenny is guilty. This is true not because he is widely disliked; in fact, he’s been a fairly popular player. The fact is that the public always assumes that if someone is charged with a crime, then he or she is guilty. While our system purports to have a presumption of innocence, the public has a presumption of guilt. Unfortunately, the public makes up the jury.
I have to confess that this sentiment against Kenny also contributes to my desire to represent him. Great basketball players like Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, and Kobe Bryant have always said that what they love most is winning on the road, against the odds in hostile environments. I can’t shoot a jump shot into the Passaic River, but I know what they mean. It’s not something I’m necessarily proud of, but the legal “game” is more fun, more challenging, when I’m expected to lose.
Kevin and I meet with Kenny in an anteroom before the arraignment. He’s more composed than he was in the jail, more anxious to know what he can do to help in his own defense. I tell him to write down everything he can remember about his relationship with Troy Preston, whether or not he thinks a particular detail is important.
I describe what will take place during the arraignment. It’s basically a formality and one in which Kenny’s only role will be to plead. The rest will be up to me, although in truth my role is limited as well. This is the prosecution’s day, and Dylan will try to make as much of it as possible.