“Meanwhile I was in prison.”
“Are you going to keep blaming me for that?”
Lamar folded the wax paper around the remnants of his wrap and shoved it aside. “No, Mitch. As of today I’m letting go.”
“Thanks. Me too.”
“So how did Scully and Pershing enter the picture?”
“After three years it was time to move on. Both of us wanted a career and a family. We settled in London, and, on a whim, I went to the Scully office there and asked around. A law degree from Harvard opens a lot of doors. They offered a position as an associate and I took it. After two years in London we decided to return to the States. Plus, Abby was pregnant and we wanted to raise the kids here. That’s my story.”
“I like yours better than mine.”
“You seem content.”
“We’re happy and healthy. Nothing else matters.”
Mitch rattled the ice in his empty cup. The wrap and the salad were finished, as was lunch.
Lamar smiled and said, “Several years ago I was in New York, a small business matter for a client. I took a cab down to 110 Broad Street, your building, and I stood outside and looked up at the tower, eighty floors. A spectacular building but only one of a thousand. International headquarters of Scully and Pershing, the largest law firm the world has ever known, but just another name on the crowded directory. I went inside and marveled at the atrium. Banks of elevators. Escalators running in all directions. Baffling modern art that cost a fortune. I sat on a bench and watched the people come and go, the frantic hustling of young well-dressed professionals, half of them on their phones, frowning, talking importantly. All sprinting at a breakneck pace to make the next dollar. I wasn’t looking for you, Mitch, but I was certainly thinking about you. I asked myself: ‘What if he saw me and walked over right now? What would I say? What would he say?’ I had no answer, but I did feel a twinge of pride that you, an old friend, had indeed made the big time. You survived Bendini and you’re now playing on a world stage.”
“I wish I’d seen you sitting there.”
“It’s impossible because no one looks up. No one takes a moment to appreciate the surroundings, the art, the architecture. ‘Rat race’ is the perfect description of it.”
“I’m happy there, Lamar. We have a good life.”
“Then I’m happy for you.”
“If you ever come back to the city, we would love to host you and Kay.”
Lamar smiled and shook his head. “Mitch, my old pal, that’ll never happen.”
Chapter 5
It was almost midnight when Mitch stepped off the elevator and entered his apartment. The return trip was finally over and nothing had gone as scheduled. Delays ruled the evening: boarding, taxiing, taking off, even the cold dinner was served late. It took half an hour to get a cab at LaGuardia, and a wreck on the Queensboro Bridge wasted another forty minutes. His day had begun on time with a quiet breakfast at the Peabody. After that, nothing had gone as planned.
But he was home and little else mattered. The twins had been sleeping for hours. Normally, Abby would have been too, but she was on the sofa reading and waiting. He kissed her and asked, “Why are you still up?”
“Because I want to hear all about your trip.”
He had called with the welcome news that the latest death row case had not materialized, and for that they were both relieved. He had not mentioned the detour to see Lamar Quin. She poured him a glass of wine and they talked for an hour. He assured her more than once that there was no nostalgia for the old days. They had left nothing in Memphis.
When he began to nod off, she ushered him to the bed-room.
Five hours later, at exactly 6 A.M., the alarm clock pinged as always and Mitch crawled out of bed, leaving his wife behind. His first chore of the morning was to prepare the coffee. While it was brewing, he opened his laptop and found The Commercial Appeal, the Memphis daily. On the front page of the metro section the headline read: Tad Kearny Found Dead by Suicide. The story could have been written by the warden himself. There was no doubt about the cause of death. No idea how the “convicted cop killer” found an electrical cord. Death row inmates were allowed two ten-minute showers per week, during which they were “unmonitored.” Prison officials were scratching their heads, but hey, it’s prison and suicides happen all the time. Tad was about to get the needle anyway and he’d fired his lawyers. Did anyone really care? The wife of one of the dead DEA agents was quoted as saying, “We’re very disappointed. We wanted to be there and watch him take his last breath.”
His last lawyer, Amos Patrick of Memphis, was contacted but had no comment.
The Nashville Tennessean was even less sympathetic. The condemned man had murdered three fine officers of the law “in cold blood,” to coin an original term. The jury had spoken. The system had worked. May he rest in peace.
Mitch poured a cup of coffee, drank it black, and mumbled a prayer for Tad, then another one of thanks for dodging another messy, hopeless case. Assuming he had met Tad and somehow convinced him to sign on, Mitch would have spent the next ninety days scrambling to prove his client was legally insane. If he got lucky and found the right doctor, he would then frantically race to find a court that would listen. Every possible court had already said no to Tad. Every remaining strategy, and there were precious few, was a desperate long shot. Mitch would fly back and forth from New York to Memphis and Nashville, stay in budget motels, rack up thousands of miles with Hertz and Avis, and eat food that was a far cry from the delightful cuisine that came from Abby’s kitchen. He would miss her and the twins, fall far behind with his paying clients, lose a month of sleep, and then spend the last forty-eight hours at the prison either yelling into the phone or staring at Tad through a row of bars and lying about their chances.
“Good morning,” Abby said as she patted his shoulder. She poured a cup and sat at the table. “Any good news from around the world?”
He closed his laptop and smiled at her. “The usual. A recession is looming. Our invasion of Iraq looks even more misguided. The climate is heating up. Nothing new, really.”
“Lovely.”
“A couple of stories from down there about Tad Kearny killing himself.”
“It’s so tragic.”
“It is, but my file is closed. And I’ve decided that my career as a death row lawyer is over.”
“I think I’ve heard that before.”
“Well, this time I’m serious.”
“We’ll see. Are you working late tonight?”
“No. I’ll be home around six, I think.”
“Good. Remember that Laotian restaurant in the Village, about two months ago?”
“Sure. How could I forget? Something Vang.”
“Bida Vang.”
“And the chef has a last name with at least ten syllables.”
“He goes by ‘Chan’ and he’s decided to do a cookbook. He’ll be here tonight to destroy the kitchen.”
“Wonderful. What’s on the menu?”
“Far too much, but he wants to experiment. He mentioned an herbal sausage and fried coconut rice, among others. Might want to skip lunch.”
Clark emerged from the darkness and went straight to his mother for a hug. Carter would be five minutes behind. Mitch poured two small glasses of orange juice and asked what was on tap at school that day. As always, Clark woke up slow and said little over breakfast. Carter, the chatterbox, usually handled both ends of the morning conversation.