“No question about his guilt?”
“Certainly not for the jury. The issue is not guilt but insanity. The idea is to have him evaluated by some specialists, our doctors, and file a last-minute Hail Mary. First, though, someone has to go in and talk to the man. Right now he’s not accepting visitors.”
“And you think we’ll bond?”
“It’s a long shot, but why not give it a try?”
Mitch took a deep breath and tried to think of another way out. To pass the time he asked, “Who’s got the case?”
“Well, technically, no one. Tad has become quite the jailhouse lawyer and he filed the necessary papers to terminate his attorneys. Amos Patrick represented him for a long time, one of the best down there. You know Amos?”
“I met him once at a conference. Quite the character.”
“Most death row lawyers are real characters.”
“Look, Willie, I have no desire to become known as a death row lawyer. I’ve been there twice and that’s enough. These cases eat at you and become all-consuming. How many of your clients have you watched die?”
Willie closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Mitch whispered, “Sorry.”
“Too many, Mitch. Let’s just say I’ve been there. Look, I’ve talked to Amos, and talked and talked, and he likes the idea. He’ll drive you to the prison, and who knows, maybe Tad will find you interesting enough to have a chat.”
“Sounds like a dead end.”
“In ninety days it will certainly be a dead end, but at least we will have tried.”
Mitch stood and walked to a window. Willie’s view was westward, over the Hudson. “Amos is in Memphis, right?”
“Yes.”
“I really don’t want to go back to Memphis. Too much history.”
“Ancient history, Mitch. Fifteen years ago. You picked the wrong firm and had to leave.”
“Had to leave? Hell, they were trying to kill me down there. People were dying, Willie, and the whole firm went to prison. Along with their clients.”
“They all deserved prison, didn’t they?”
“I suppose, but I got the blame.”
“And they’re all gone now, Mitch. Scattered.”
Mitch returned to his chair and smiled at his friend. “Just curious, Willie. Do people around here talk about me and what happened in Memphis?”
“No, it’s never mentioned. We know the story but no one has the time to gossip about it. You did the right thing, got away, and started over. You’re one of our stars, Mitch, and that’s all that matters at Scully.”
“I don’t want to go back to Memphis.”
“You need the hours. You’re kinda light this year.”
“I’ll catch up. Why can’t you find me some nice little foundation in need of pro bono counsel? Maybe an outfit that feeds hungry kids or delivers clean water to Haiti?”
“You’d be miserable. You prefer action, drama, the ticking clock.”
“Been there, done that.”
“Please. I’m asking for a favor. There’s really no one else. And there’s an excellent chance you won’t get in the prison door.”
“I really don’t want to go back to Memphis.”
“Man up. There’s a direct flight tomorrow at one-thirty out of LaGuardia. Amos is expecting you. If nothing else, you’ll enjoy his company.”
Mitch smiled in defeat. As he stood, he mumbled, “Okay, okay,” and headed to the door. “You know, I think I do remember some Kearnys in Dane County.”
“Attaboy. Go visit Tad. You’re right. He might be a distant cousin.”
“Not distant enough.”
Chapter 2
Most Scully partners, along with many of their rivals in Big Law, as well as countless money runners on Wall Street, scurried from the tall buildings around 6 P.M. and hopped into black sedans driven by professionals. The more important hedge fund stars sat in the spacious rear seats of long European cars they actually owned and were driven by chauffeurs on their payroll. The truly essential masters of the universe had fled the city altogether and lived and worked quietly in Connecticut.
Though he could afford a car service Mitch took the subway, one of his many concessions to frugality and his humble past. He caught the 6:10 train at South Ferry, found a seat on a crowded bench, and, as always, buried his face behind a newspaper. Eye contact was to be avoided. The car was packed with other well-heeled professionals headed north, none of whom had any interest in chatting. There was nothing wrong with riding the subway. It was quick, easy, cheap, and, for the most part, safe. The rub was that the other passengers were, in some fashion, Wall Streeters, and as such were either making plenty of money or on the verge of it. Private sedans were almost within reach. Their subway days were almost over.
Mitch had no time for such nonsense. He flipped through the newspaper, patiently squeezed even closer to other passengers as the car took on more riders, and allowed his mind to drift away to Memphis. He had never said he would never return. Between him and Abby, that promise did not have to be expressed. Getting away from the place had been so frightening that they could not imagine going back for any reason. However, the more he thought about it, the more intrigued he became. It was a quick trip that would probably lead nowhere. He was doing Willie a huge favor, one that would undoubtedly lead to a nice payback.
After twenty-two minutes, he emerged from underground at the Columbus Circle station and began the daily walk to his apartment. It was a splendid April evening, with pleasant skies and temperature, one of those postcard moments when half the city’s population seemed to be outdoors. Mitch, though, hurried home.
Their building was on Sixty-Ninth Street at Columbus Avenue, in the heart of the Upper West Side. Mitch spoke to the doorman, collected the daily mail, and rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor. Clark opened the door and reached up for a hug. At the age of eight, he was still a little boy and unashamed to show his father some affection. Carter, his twin, was slightly more mature and already outgrowing the rituals of physical contact with his father. Mitch would have hugged and kissed Abby and asked about her day, but she had guests in the kitchen. A delicious aroma filled the apartment. Some serious food was being prepared and dinner would be another delight.
The chefs were the Rosario brothers, Marco and Marcello, also twins. They were from a small village in Lombardia in northern Italy, and two years earlier had opened a trattoria near Lincoln Center. It was a hit from day one and was soon awarded two stars by the Times. Reservations were hard to get; the current waiting time was four months for a table. Mitch and Abby had discovered the place and ate there often, anytime they wanted. Abby had the clout to get a table because she was editing the Rosarios’ first cookbook. She also encouraged them to use her modern kitchen to experiment with new recipes, and at least once a week they descended upon the McDeere apartment with bags of ingredients and a near riotous approach to cooking. Abby was right in the middle of it, rattling away in perfect Italian as Carter and Clark watched from the safety of their stools near a counter. Marco and Marcello loved performing for the kids and explained their preparations in thickly accented English. They also chided the boys into repeating Italian words and phrases.
Mitch chuckled at the scene as he tossed his briefcase, took off his jacket, and poured a glass of Chianti. He asked the boys about their homework and received the standard assurances that it was all finished. Marco presented a small platter of bruschetta, placed it on the counter in front of the boys, and informed Mitch that he should not worry about homework and such because the boys were doing important work as taste-testers. Mitch pretended to be sufficiently chastised. He would check the homework later.