by Grant Mccrea
Old Lace.
Yes, Jack, I know. It was a joke.
He managed a wan smile.
Come on, man, buck up. Even if that story’s true, and frankly it sounds apocryphal to me, the guy pissed FitzGibbon off. But you’re on his side. You’re a schmooze. You won’t piss him off. Nothing to worry about.
Kennedy was silent.
I gave him an under-the-eyebrows look.
All right, all right, he said. I guess I ought to lighten up.
Good, I said. Now let’s get down to something more meaningful. Golf on Sunday? You can take me to your club.
It’s the middle of winter, Rick.
Right.
And anyway it’s my sister’s birthday.
Your sister’s birthday? Jack, you’ve got to get your priorities straight.
I know, I know. But my mom will kill me if I don’t go. You know how it is.
Actually, Jack, I don’t. But that’s all right. I can try to imagine it.
Shit, Rick, don’t rub it in. And stop calling me Jack.
On my way back to the office I pondered the implications of this new FitzGibbon story. Did it mean anything? I doubted it.
But maybe.
Everything was Delphic. Equivocation, ambivalence, ambiguity.
Just as it should be, I could hear Dorita say.
Just as it should be.
27.
WHEN I GOT HOME THAT NIGHT I got the silent treatment. I didn’t know why. Melissa got ideas in her head. Instead of airing them and working out whatever problem she was having, she’d do the silent thing. If I asked if anything was wrong, she’d say, ‘No, no, nothing at all.’ In a tone that clearly said the opposite.
No amount of insistence would make her open up.
So I’d long ago stopped trying.
She’d always been like that.
But as with so many other things, it had gotten worse with time.
The doorbell rang. Melissa scuttled upstairs.
It was Jake, coming over to see the bookcase space. I’d forgotten about my invitation. But I was glad to see him. Maybe his presence would brighten the evening.
I ushered him into the living room.
Jake looked about the room nervously. I could see that he was a little taken aback. Our house wasn’t lavish, by New York standards. But there was furniture. There were carpets. Things on the wall. Everything arranged for aesthetic effect. For a young man from a humble background, one still living hand to mouth as he waited to become a movie star, it probably looked pretty darn alien.
Melissa will be down in a sec, I said. I think you’ll like each other.
He looked terrified at the thought. Stage fright, I guessed.
He leaned in toward me. Aftershave. The scent reminded me of the night I’d met him at the Wolf’s Lair.
Melissa returned. She’d put on a dress I hadn’t seen in years, black and red and seductive. She launched into her best hostess routine. She came across the room, arms outstretched.
I’ve heard so much about you, she said, with a touch too much enthusiasm, and kissed him on both cheeks.
She grabbed his hands. Held him at arms’ length. Admired him. Like he was a visiting prince.
It was a role she knew well, but one she hadn’t played in a good long time. There was something forced about it. Fragile.
Jake looked uncomfortable. I was sure he wasn’t accustomed to the ways of the upwardly striving upper middle class.
Welcome to our home, Melissa said, expertly dimming her smile from effervescent to charming and slightly flirtatious. Can I offer you a drink? I’m sorry to say we don’t keep alcohol in the house. But tea? Iced tea? Orange juice? We have just about anything else.
That’s okay, said Jake. I don’t need anything.
Are you sure?
Yes, I’m fine.
Sit, sit, she said. Make yourself comfortable.
He sat nervously on the armchair, perched forward.
We made small talk. Melissa asked some polite questions about his acting career. He replied in short sentences.
Lots of auditions, mostly, he said. Close calls. Small local repertory. Nothing big yet.
He kept looking over at me. As if for help. He was not the jovial Jake I knew from the Wolf’s Lair. He was an overmatched child.
Well, I thought, take the drunk out of the bar. Tell him there’s no booze around. God knows what you’ll get. I was reminded of mornings waking up in a strange apartment after a fine night of casual sex. The morning made everything different. There wasn’t a daylight protocol.
I took him upstairs, showed him the space where I thought we might put the bookcase. He became all business. He’d brought a tape measure. He handled it with a practiced nonchalance.
Sure, he said. No problem. I can get some nice maple. It’ll match the molding. I’ll sketch it out for you. Twelve hundred, say?
I was a little taken aback. I had expected five, maybe six hundred.
I figured you wanted it first class, he said apologetically. I could use pine, stain it red, he added, without conviction.
No, no, I said. Let’s do the maple. Twelve hundred is fine.
I didn’t want to be an ungracious host.
Back in the living room, there were a few more minutes of overly polite conversation. The weather. The latest Brad Pitt vehicle. Jake was clearly anxious to leave. Melissa asked for a cup of tea. Jake declined again. I went to the kitchen to make the tea. I warmed myself a glass of milk.
When I returned Jake was sitting on the couch next to Melissa.
Good, I thought. She’s actually relating to somebody.
Got to be going, said Jake.
Okay, I said, a little surprised. Nice of you to come over.
Melissa looked relieved. Jake looked relieved. I felt relieved.
Melissa rose. Jake got up. Cheeks were kissed. I took him to the door.
Uh, listen, he whispered on the way. I wonder if I could ask you a favor?
Sure, I said, wondering what he thought I was doing, hiring him to build a bookcase I didn’t really need.
I’m a little short, he whispered. You think you could front me a couple hundred?
Gee, I said, I’d like to help you out. I really would. But I’m tapped out this week. Nothing I can do. Sorry.
I shrugged.
It didn’t feel like a convincing performance. I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be.
Hey, he said, that’s okay. That’s okay.
He left. I returned to the living room.
He’s sweet, isn’t he? she said.
I guess, I said.
And kind of cute.
Right.
It was an odd thing for her to say. Quite out of character.
Her smile was forced. Like a child caught doing something bad.
28.
I HAD A HEARING in the Lockwood case. Some poor kid had died of a rare form of brain cancer. The grieving parents, understandably, needed someone to blame. They sued our client, a local manufacturing company. Unfortunately for them, there was no known cause, environmental or otherwise, for the disease. So proving causation was going to be a problem. We’d made a motion to exclude some crucial expert evidence about groundwater contamination. Without it, without the veneer of objectivity of a professionally disinterested expert witness, the other side would have to rely on the testimony of a weasel-eyed company engineer named Cecil Crepe. I kid you not. And although it was pronounced ‘Crep’ and not ‘Creep,’ I was not at all sure that a jury would attend to the distinction. So I wasn’t about to let them have their expert without a fight.
I took Vinnie Price with me. Vinnie was my favorite associate. He was an up-and-comer. A spit-polished young man with a burning ambition and a way with a client.
These shortcomings were redeemed by a wicked sense of humor.
When we arrived in court Vinnie and I were introduced to the learned counsel representing the plaintiff, a man named Trumbull. A pillar of the local Episcopalian
church. Trumbull had thick mats of hair growing out of his ears. In state court, you sit side by side at the same table with opposing counsel, the dais in between. So each time Trumbull got up to speak, we had an unobstructed view of the vegetation. Moss, it was. It was like thick moss on a rotting tree trunk. It was a marvel of nature.
There were probably many other notable things about him. He may even have been a powerful advocate. But all Vinnie and I could talk about later was earwigs.
The judge had decided he’d hear from the expert before deciding the motion. Usually these things are decided on the papers, and oral argument from the lawyers. So we were already ahead of the game. I was looking forward to cross-examining the guy.
Cross-examination is an art and a science. Perhaps a little sport as well. You need laser-like focus on the only goal. To manipulate, bully or seduce the target into saying things he doesn’t want to say. There’s an infinite variety of techniques. The key is to adapt them to the target and the situation at hand. That ability is what separates the world-class cross-examiner from the merely competent. Anyone can recite the standard questions. Do the routine song and dance. Elicit the testimony they already knew was in the bag. But the masters of the trade, those who have the talent, the cojones and the will, they can push that envelope. Identify and maximize the weakness of the witness.
Everybody, even the slickest and the smartest, has a weakness.
Many times, it’s ego.
This guy had a big one.
He was good, but after a couple of hours of sparring I managed to maneuver him into testifying that a pool of contaminants in the groundwater – ‘DNAPL,’ if you really must know, dense non-aqueous phase liquids – wasn’t actually ‘touching’ the water, because not ‘all of it’ was in contact with the water. Now, I knew what he meant to say. He meant that the contaminants weren’t all mixed up with the water. But I didn’t care what he meant. I was quite happy to use what he said. I swept my arm through the air, my index finger alighting on the dais in front of me.
Am I touching this dais? I asked, raising my eyebrows.
He sat and stared at me for a while. Damn it, I could see him thinking, I have to say no.
And he did. He had to say no, because all of my finger was not in contact with the dais, nor was all of the dais in contact with my finger. So, by his definition, I wasn’t touching the dais. He had to say no, or take back what he’d said before. Either way, he was going to look like what he was – a well-paid flack.
He said yes.
The judge had had enough.
Witness excused, he said.
It was sweet. As always when we won, I left the courtroom pumped, elated, full of myself, high-fiving with Vinnie and crowing about my skill.
Vinnie, I said, let me know when my honorary Ph.D. in groundwater science comes in.
You’ll be the first to know, boss, he said.
It’s what kept me coming back to the office. The once-a-month or sometimes better chance to be the star on the judicial stage. To have my words, my oh so eloquent words, slice through the air and puncture the pretensions of whatever inflated excuse for an argument or a witness the other side had dared to drag into the courtroom.
If only the feeling would last. But it never did. If it got me through the day it was a major event. Some days, it didn’t get me through the cab ride back to the office.
This was a good one, though. I was still humming a happy tune when I strode past Judy into my office. I was about to pick up the phone and summon Dorita, to regale her with my tale of splendiferous advocacy, when Judy interrupted.
Mr. Warwick wants to see you, she said.
The sonofabitch, I thought. He won’t even let me enjoy myself for ten minutes.
There wasn’t any reason to put off the inevitable. The magic of my morning’s victory had vanished the moment I’d heard Warwick’s name. I trudged the length of the thirtieth floor, smiled at Cherise. She nodded me in.
Redman! Warwick said, with uncharacteristic warmth.
Charles, I said.
Everyone called him Charles. We all pretended to an informality we never actually felt in his presence. In return, he called everyone by their last name. It was a territorial thing, I think. Though I wasn’t sure exactly how the metaphor worked, I knew it bore some quite precise relationship to dogs pissing on lampposts.
I was just talking to FitzGibbon, Warwick said. He seems quite smitten with you.
I’m glad to hear that, I said, ignoring the homoerotic choice of phrase.
Good job, said Warwick. This could be the start of great things for you.
I forced a smile.
Thanks, I said. I’ll stay on it.
Excellent, he said. We’ll have that morale problem licked in no time.
I gave that one a pass.
On the way out, I gave Cherise a wink. I figured I owed her one.
To the uninitiated, that brief conversation might not have seemed so bad. But in reality it was fraught with import. Venom. Spleen. Fear.
Morale, shit. The only morale Warwick gave two shits about was his own. And his morale was fed by power, nothing else. The right to squash, humiliate and defile with boundless guile and glee.
I don’t know, maybe he had a good side. I just hadn’t seen it for a while.
What made it worse, we’d come up in the business together. Worked side by side in the trenches. Reviewed documents in dingy conference rooms for days on end, until we fairly bled to death from paper cuts. Drank at the same bars. Chased the same women in those same bars. We’d actually had some fun together, back then.
It was hard to imagine now.
I called Dorita.
It was too late to crow about my morning triumph over the moss-eared man. But at least I had Warwick to bitch about.
Dorita wasn’t in her office.
That only left one thing.
29.
SHEILA SPECIALIZED IN ADDICTION. Junkies, drunks, cokeheads, aspirin freaks, whatever. She got a lot of cancellations.
I called her up. Her three o’clock had OD’d, so she had a slot for me. I decided to walk over. It was a nice day.
Her office was in an upscale building in the east seventies, otherwise residential. You’d never have known the office was there. I supposed most of the residents didn’t. I was quite sure that the lunching ladies with Pekingese I passed on my way into the building would have been quite scandalized to know that back behind their very own marble-floored palm-plastered lobby, eight hours a day, fifty-five minutes at a time, sat, weeping, whining and rationalizing, scores of the city’s most hopeless slaves to substance.
The doormen, on the other hand, certainly knew. They knew everything. And being even more snobbish than their tenants, though also professionally discreet, they never failed to give me a tiny nod and a subtle sneer. Which I invariably returned.
I didn’t have to wait. The door was open. Sheila was in her recliner. I always called her Sheila. I liked the name. It reminded me of old Jack Lemmon movies. I knew she didn’t approve, though she never said so. But whenever she left me a voice mail she never said, ‘It’s Sheila’; she always said, ‘It’s Dr. Schwartz.’ And I would always make it a point to begin my return voice mail with, ‘Hi Sheila, got your message.’
That was the extent of my rebellion, though. We actually had a very good relationship.
I hoped so, for two hundred bucks an hour.
We talked about Warwick. She nodded sympathetically. She said the right things. What a terrible man, she said.
She made me feel better.
We got down to work.
You were telling me about your father, last time, she said.
Yes, of course, I said. Father, Warwick. Not subtle. But possibly effective. Yes, I was twelve.
When he died, I meant. He was thirty-seven. Keeled right over. Face in the lasagna. I wasn’t there. I heard about it later. Aneurism, they said. I envisioned a dark-clawed beast, stalking the unwary in the night. The dreaded
Aneurism. The reality was simpler, more insidious. A vessel burst, the bleeding uncontrolled. Invisible.
After that, only women. Mother, sister, wife, daughter. I’d never had a son. I didn’t have a brother, either, anymore. My brother died. But don’t feel sorry for me. I barely remembered him. I was four. He was three. He’d had a fever. They took him away. He never came back. It was really only from stories I was told that I remembered him at all. It was years after the fact that I began to miss him. To regret.
Twelve years should be enough, I said, to have generated one fond memory.
You would think, Sheila said.
But I don’t have any. Not one. No hugs. No kisses. Not a pat on the shoulder. Not a good word. Nothing.
That’s terrible.
Her sympathy was palpable, genuine.
Not really, I said. I mean, he didn’t beat me or anything. I didn’t grow up in a war zone. I have all my limbs. People endure worse things. And even if he lacked the skills to love a child, he did leave me something. He went to work every day. A real job. In the copper mine. Not a pussy job like mine. He never missed a day. Never complained. If he’d been sick a day in his life, he sure didn’t let us know about it.
He set an example for you.
That’s what I’m saying. Something in me always makes me slog ahead. Never give in. Keep on keeping on. And I know what it is. It’s what he gave me.
But there’s more to being a parent than setting an example, Sheila said. It would have been one thing if you had gotten some love from your mother.
Right, I laughed.
My memories of my mother were far more vivid. Most of them involved humiliation. But Sheila and I had been through all that.
It’s a terrible thing, she said. It’s a huge gap in a person’s life. I don’t know if you can ever fill it.
I liked it that she’d say such things. I was quite sure that they weren’t in the shrink manual.
I don’t know either, I said.
Really, I thought, wasn’t all this the worst kind of self-indulgence? Who the hell had nice parents? Warm, loving, Leave It to Beaver folks? Nobody I knew, that’s for sure.