Nicole doesn't seem terribly impressed by the place. She has this hang-up about wanting edible food when she goes to a restaurant, and her meal doesn't seem to measure up. I make the mistake of inquiring as to how her salad is.
“Actually,” she says, “I've never said this about salad before … but it's too tough.”
I nod with characteristic understanding. “Same thing with the burgers. It's good for your teeth.”
She smiles and takes my hand. “It's just good to be together.”
At this point I'm thinking that she might be right. Things are getting more comfortable, more like old times. Of course, old times led to our separating, but I'm willing to overlook that right now.
I've known Nicole since I was fourteen; my father and Philip Gant were old friends who had gone on to Yale Law School together. They both then went on to work in the District Attorney's office. Though it became my father's life and passion, it was a résumé-builder for Philip, and after four years he left crime fighting behind to fight for votes.
Tevye would have been thrilled with our courtship; it was the closest thing to an arranged marriage as the United States Constitution permits. We were introduced at a charity ball at Nicole's family's country club, an important enough event that my mother bought me a new navy blazer and khaki pants. I went reluctantly, much preferring to waste time hanging out with my friends than to meet this ritzy prep school girl. I was cool, my friends were cool, the ice cream stand we hung out at was cool, and the country club was said to be very definitely uncool.
For an uncool place, it had some of the coolest things in it I had ever seen, and one of the coolest was Nicole. She was gorgeous, five foot eight, with curly black hair, bare shoulders sloping down from a perfect neck, and a smile that brightened up the entire room. But most importantly, most significantly, most amazingly, she had cleavage! Yes, actual cleavage! And she wore a dress that revealed it! In retrospect, there wasn't that much of it, but at that age, on that night, it felt like I was staring into the Lincoln Tunnel.
I almost choked on my tongue when we were introduced, but as the night wore on things became more comfortable. I regaled her with stories of my baseball prowess, and she told me about her trip through the Orient with her family. She had a slightly rebellious air about her, and a smile that said she realized how absurdly ostentatious these surroundings were, but that was tough, because she was damn well going to enjoy them. She was funny, smart-and she touched my arm when she talked.
I think we both knew from that night on that we were going to wind up together. School and family obligations conspired to keep us mostly apart over the next eight years, but we never lost touch. We'd even talk about our respective relationships, as if they were just passing, unthreatening fancies until we got back to the real thing. Each other.
When I was in my third year of law school it somehow simultaneously dawned on us that the time was right, and we started dating seriously. Less than ten months later we were married, followed by a wedding reception, the cost of which could have fed Guatemala for three months.
It seems too simplistic to say that we grew apart, that our respective lifestyles finally lost their capacity to blend together. But as near as I can tell, that's basically what happened, and when Nicole finally left me, the dominant feeling I was experiencing changed from sadness to relief.
But now she's telling me that it's good to be together, and I'm buying into it. I made a lifelong commitment to this woman, and that is what I'm trying to fulfill. What this world needs are more honorable, responsible people like me.
Now she has said that this feels right, and I raise my bottle of beer. “I'll drink to that. How's your father?”
“Very busy. They're still hassling over that crime bill … trying to pass it before the summer recess. But he's really happy we're working things out.”
A few days ago she said we were “trying” to work things out. I guess we must have succeeded while I wasn't paying attention.
“My father would have been just as happy. It must be a father thing.”
She nods as if that is sound wisdom. “Any luck with Nelson's mysterious money?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. You know, all those years I thought I married you for your money, and now it turns out you married me for mine.”
She laughs. “Twenty-two million dollars? To us Gants, that's tipping money.”
She's joking, but not that far off. Nicole comes from real money, money so old it was originally called wampum.
She leans forward seductively. It's a lean she has mastered. “But you rich men do excite me.”
I give her a sexy lean of my own, but I'm not quite as good at it. “When I stand on my wallet I'm six foot four.”
“What about when you're lying down?” she purrs.
We haven't had sex since she came back, so there's more excitement here than I remember. We're like two kids teasing each other, but both knowing where it will wind up.
“How about coming back to our place?” is my clever response. It seems to work pretty well, because the next thing I know we're back home, standing next to our bed, slowly undressing each other.
Tara's outside the room, pawing at the door. Nicole has always felt uncomfortable having Tara in the room when we have sex. Right now I don't even hear Tara's whimpering; Nicole has my undivided attention. This is not feeling like a husband-wife thing, and I can sense she's a little nervous. Join the club.
“Andy, I haven't been with anyone else since we separated.”
“I know,” I respond. “I've had you followed.”
I have this problem; I joke at inappropriate times. Also at appropriate times, though there don't seem to be that many of them anymore.
“What about you?” she asks. “Have you been with anyone?”
I nod, though she can't see me in the dark. “The Olympic girls’ volleyball team, Michelle Pfeiffer, the women's division of the Teamsters, the White sisters, Vanna, Betty, and Reggie-”
She interrupts, which is just as well, since there's no telling how long I would have babbled on. “I had forgotten that about you,” she says.
“What?”
“You never shut up.”
With that she prepares to shut me up, except for an occasional moan. She does a really good job of it, but hell, somebody had to.
I have a great night's sleep, which carries right through the usually effective wake-up call planted in my brain. I gulp down a cup of coffee and some M amp;M's and head for the office. I'm feeling good for the first time in a while; the idea of diving headlong into the Miller case is actually appealing.
I stop off at Cal Morris's newsstand, not for superstition purposes, but rather to read what the media is saying about Willie's prospects. For the time being they're buying the prosecution line about this being merely a technicality, and that the result will be the same the second time around. I know in my gut they're probably right, so I bypass my gut and make a mental note to meet with the press and push our point of view. That is, as soon as we come up with a point of view.
On the way into the office I'm stopped by Sofý, standing and waiting for me in front of her fruit stand. She hands me two cantaloupes, the second installment on her son's legal bills.
“Thank you,” I say. “You know, the best thing about being paid in cantaloupes is that they don't bounce.”
She doesn't come close to getting the joke. If a joke is told in a fruit stand and nobody gets it, did it make a sound?
As I enter the office, I see Laurie sitting there, waiting for me. The smell of annoyance is in the air.
“Good morning,” I cheerily volunteer. It doesn't get the response I hope for. Actually, it doesn't get any response.
I look at my watch. Uh, oh. “You're pissed off because I'm late.”
“Forty-five minutes late. Which wouldn't mean much if the meeting were called for three P.M. But since it was called for eight A.M., forty-five minutes is a very long time.”
“Sor
ry. I had a late night.” I can see Laurie react, but it's too late, the words have already left my mouth. Maybe I've said stupider things in my life, but I can't remember when. This isn't pouring gasoline on a fire, it's more like pouring freon on a frozen tundra.
Laurie, to her credit, doesn't say anything. Which means the ball is still in my court. “Okay … you're right … I'm a shit-head.”
“Let's not let that obvious fact interfere with our work, okay? And let's keep each of our personal lives personal.”
She's right, at least for now. The strain between us is not likely to go away, and eventually it will have to be dealt with. We both know that. But this is not the time, not with the Miller case staring us in the face. Edna is of course not in yet, so I make some coffee and we get right to work.
Laurie has spent the previous night reading the transcript of the first trial, which makes me even guiltier about how I spent the night. Her reaction is rather predictable.
“It's a disaster. Openand-shut,” she says.
This is Laurie's style. She's an optimist in life, a total pessimist in work. Not only does she assume that all clients are guilty, she assumes they are going to be found guilty as well. One would think it would then fall to me to be encouraging, to be a motivator, but it's really not necessary. Laurie is a total pro; she'll do the best that can be done for the client, despite her personal views.
We start talking about the case, and she asks why Willie's lawyer, a man named Robert Hinton, didn't plead it out last time. It's a question I've wondered myself, and I make a note to ask Willie about it. Maybe Willie adamantly refused to plead down for a crime he didn't commit in the first place. It's also possible that my father wouldn't go for it. Even though he wasn't the death penalty type, he may well have been under a lot of pressure to take this one all the way.
I ask Laurie if she's ever heard of Hinton, but she hasn't and neither have I. We're going to have to find him; he should be able to give us some insight that the cold transcripts don't provide.
What the transcripts do provide is a version of the fateful night that appears devastating to Willie's case. According to the prosecution, Willie Miller left work an hour before the murder, went on a drinking binge, and came back through the alley and into the back door. He went into the ladies’ room, where he came upon Denise McGregor. Willie allegedly hit Denise over the head and dragged her out into the alley, where he slashed her with a steak knife from the bar.
Cathy Pearl, a thirty-five-year-old waitress from a nearby diner, came through the alley on the way home from work and saw Willie standing over the body. He ran off, dumping the knife in a trash can three blocks away, before settling into a doorway and collapsing in a drunken stupor.
As if that weren't enough, there were scratch marks all over Willie's face, and his blood and skin were found under Denise's fingernails. Just to add another positive character trait for the jury to consider, there were needle marks in Willie's arms. It is such an airtight case that I am suspicious of it.
Laurie believes every word of the government's case, while I say that is for a jury to decide.
“They already have,” she notes.
“The conviction has been set aside,” I point out.
“He admits it.”
“No, he doesn't dispute it. He can't remember anything. He was too drunk.”
“Andy, read the transcript. This is not exactly a major whodunit.”
“It reads like a frame-up to me.”
She laughs derisively. “You're amazing,” is what she says, but what she means is that I am an asshole.
“Thank you, but enough about me. What do we know about the victim?”
Laurie recites the facts that I already know. Denise McGregor worked as a reporter for a local newspaper, the Newark Star-Ledger. No information was ever turned up to show that she had any enemies, anyone who would have had reason to kill her. According to testimony, she had been dating Edward Markham for about three months, and she was out with him on the night of her death. This reminds me of the picture I found in the attic, so I take it out of a drawer and show it to Laurie.
“Isn't that Victor Markham?”
“I have no idea what Victor Markham looks like,” she says. But then she points at the man standing next to him in the picture. “But I think I recognize him.”
He doesn't look at all familiar to me, and Laurie tells me that she thinks it's Frank Brownfield, a real estate developer who has built ugly malls all over the New York metropolitan area. Laurie has a friend who works for him, and she had met Brownfield about a year ago. All this does is add to the puzzle; my father never mentioned knowing Brownfield either.
Laurie turns the picture over and reads the date, June 14, 1965, off the back.
“Now, that's weird.”
“What?” I ask.
She digs a piece of paper out of her purse and confirms her recollection. “The cashier check your father got for the two million. It was deposited on June 17, 1965.”
Less than a week after my father posed for a picture with the future Who's Who of American industry, all of whom he never admitted knowing, he received two million dollars, which he never admitted having. If these two facts aren't related, then we're talking serious coincidence here.
Laurie asks if she should check further, but I've got to get my priorities straight. I tell her I need her working full-time on the Miller case, and we agree she'll find Hinton, Willie's lawyer, to get his notes and impressions from the first trial. Meanwhile, I'm going to kill one witness with two stones and have a chat with Victor Markham.
MY GUESSIS THAT VICTOR MARKHAM NEVER GETS LOST on the way to work. First of all, he no doubt gets into the back seat of a car and says to the chauffeur, “Take me to my office.” But if by some chance he were left to fend for himself, he would just have to look up. There, towering over the office buildings in Paramus, are the huge words “Markham Plaza” emblazoned across the top.
If he got to the underground parking lot and was somehow still unsure that he had reached the right place, he would be reassured as he took a ticket from the machine. A computer-generated female voice would say to him, “Welcome to Markham Plaza. Please take a ticket. Have a good day.”
“Thank you, I will,” I reply graciously when the machine welcomes me. I think that perhaps this particular computer-generated female might have a crush on me, but when I pull into the lot I hear her welcoming the guy in the next car just as warmly. Women.
I take the elevator up to the lobby, which is large enough for the Knicks to play their home games. I enter another elevator, and this time a computer-generated male voice addresses me. “Welcome to Markham Plaza. Please press the floor of your choice.”
“Will do,” I say. “By the way, there's a gal in the parking lot you might like. Short, a little metallic-looking, but a good personality.”
Unfortunately, a couple is getting on the elevator behind me, and they hear my conversation.
I smile lamely at them. “The elevator talks.” Heh, heh.
They don't respond, and we have an uncomfortable ride up, especially for them. They're the ones trapped in an elevator with a lunatic.
The reception area outside Victor's office is nothing short of spectacular. I'm pondering the cost of the paintings on the walls, when I realize that I could probably afford them. I've got to get used to the concept; I am the most nouveau of all the nouveau riche in the country.
Victor's secretary, Eleanor, appears to have a permanent scowl on her face. Clearly her job is to protect Victor, and I doubt that Norman Schwarzkopf could lead a battalion past her without an appointment. Fortunately, I have one, and she buzzes me through.
I enter Victor's office, which makes the reception area look Third World. Victor is at his desk. He's tall, graying at the temples, wearing a three-piece suit which strains slightly to contain his rather bulky midsection. I don't think I've ever sat at my desk without taking off my jacket, but there's Victor wearing all three pieces, si
tting back in his deep leather chair, staring out at the world as if he hasn't got a care in it. And there's really no reason that he should.
“Mr. Markham, my name is Andy Carp-”
He cuts me off. “I know who you are. I'm sorry about your father. Good man.”
“Yes, I wanted to talk-”
He does it again. “You wanted to talk about that killer.” He means Willie Miller, but I doubt he even knows his name. “I won't help you with that,” he goes on. “You shouldn't have gotten a new trial. It's a waste of taxpayer money. End of discussion.”
Since this hasn't really been a discussion, I consider his announcement of its ending to be premature. “Actually, I thought that since-”
And again. “Since I have influence, and since the victim was my son's girlfriend, I could talk to the governor, get that scum's sentence reduced to life in prison. Forget it. As I said, end of discussion.”
This is getting annoying. “I like beer,” I say quickly.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demands.
“Nothing. I just wanted to see if I could get in one complete sentence without you interrupting, and ‘I like beer’ was the quickest sentence I could think of.”
This is the point where the gruff, overpowering type usually laughs grudgingly and warms up. Victor, unfortunately, doesn't seem to be familiar with that stereotype. He looks at me with the same respect he would a roach that he just found in his Rice Krispies.
“You're as big a wiseass as I've heard.”
“Thank you very much.” That's my second sentence in a row, so I'm feeling pretty chipper.
“What do you want? I'm a busy man.”
I had been planning to talk to him about the Miller case, but he's made it clear that the only way I'll get any answers about that is to take his deposition under oath. I smoothly switch to plan B, taking out the photograph and laying it on his desk. “I was curious about when and where this picture was taken.”
For the first time, I see a human reaction. I can't tell what it is, maybe a gas pain, but something has gotten through his outer crust. A moment later it's gone, and he's back in control.
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