“I pretty much haven’t changed since I was eleven years old,” I say. “Wait a minute… I just started eating mushrooms a few months ago. And I’ve got a couple of hairs growing on my left ear… that’s new…”
He laughs. “I don’t think that’ll do it.”
“So how can I help?”
“What about if you had a disease?” he asks.
“I don’t think I want to help that bad.”
“No,” he says, “what about if I create a disease for you to have while you’re handling the Miller trial? Life-threatening, but you don’t let it stop you. You’re fighting for your life and Willie’s at the same time, staring your own mortality and his right in the face.”
“How does that help you?” I ask.
“It’s a catalyst for your change… your arc. Gives you a new perspective… that kind of thing. Terms of Endearment meets Anatomy of a Murder.”
“I don’t like it,” I say, “but as long as the pipe is going to take the whole project into the sewer, I don’t care either way.”
He takes this as a yes. “You got any preference? I mean, for the disease.”
I think about it for a moment; it isn’t every day one gets to pick the ailment he will heroically fight. “Just something that doesn’t hurt and can’t be sexually transmitted.”
He nods. “That makes sense.”
* * * * *
VINCE IS WAITING for us at our regular table when we get to Charlie’s. He’s watching a Mets-Yankees interleague game on the large-screen TV, and the first thing I do is look at the score, which will be a sure predictor of his mood. Vince is a die-hard Mets fan, but the Yankees are ahead 5-1. It could get ugly.
At least for the moment Vince has nothing obnoxious to say, because he has a hamburger stuffed into his mouth. All of us, Laurie, Pete, Vince, myself… we all have different reasons why Charlie’s is our favorite restaurant. Vince’s reason is that when he orders a hamburger, they don’t assume he wants it with cheese. Other restaurants start with the cheeseburger, and that’s what you get unless you specifically direct them to remove the cheese. Vince says that the historic status quo in America is just a hamburger, no cheese, and he resents that the cheese-ites, as he calls them, have taken over. Vince needs some significant therapy.
I introduce Adam to Vince and explain Adam’s presence. Vince, no doubt anticipating his portrayal in the movie, flashes the charming side of his personality, which in his case means eliminating most grunting and spitting. Once we get the pleasantries and ordering of our food and beer out of the way, I try to get to the heart of the matter. Laurie is waiting for me at home, and that is a far more appealing prospect than this boys-night-out.
“So tell me about Schilling,” I say.
As if on cue, Adam takes out his notepad and pen, causing Vince to give me a wary glance. “It’s okay,” I say, “he’s sworn to secrecy.”
Vince nods, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “You screwed me by giving away that story on Quintana.”
“We’ve been through that,” I say. “I apologized. I begged for your forgiveness.”
He sneers. “That was all bullshit.”
I have the advantage of knowing that Vince can never stay mad at me. I defended his son, Daniel, last year on another headline-making case. Daniel was accused of being a serial killer of women, when in fact the actual killer was contacting him and providing information that would eventually frame him. I won an acquittal, though Daniel was subsequently murdered by the real killer. In the process I learned some secrets about Daniel that would hurt Vince terribly if ever publicly revealed. All in all, the episode won me “friend points” with Vince that can never be erased.
Vince finally gets around to what he has to tell me. “I’ve got something on your boy. In return I want to be your media contact until this is over. You got a story to plant, I’m your gardener.”
“What if what you have isn’t good? What if I know it already?”
“Then the deal is off,” he says, which both surprises and worries me, since he’s confident his bad news is significant.
“Fine,” I say as the waitress arrives with our beer.
“Six years ago Schilling was involved in another shooting death.”
Adam reacts, almost coughing up his beer. “Tell me about it,” I say to Vince, though I dread hearing it.
“He went out hunting with some buddies, in a town called Hemmings, about two hours outside of Milwaukee. One of the group got shot.”
“By who?” I ask.
“They couldn’t pin it on anybody… finally classified it as an accident. But there are people that believed Schilling was involved. He had argued with the dead guy an hour before it happened.”
If this piece of news is as Vince describes it, I instinctively know three things. One, this is not good. Two, it will come out whether Vince breaks the story or not. And three, when it comes out, it will create a media firestorm, further messing with prospective jurors’ minds. “Can you give me the particulars? Names, places…”
Vince takes out a piece of paper from his coat pocket and hands it to me. “You’ve got three days to find out what you can before the shit hits the fan.”
It’s very important to me that I get on this before the entire world is after the same information I am. “Three days? Come on, Vince, you can do better than that.”
He shakes his head. “Nope. I go with it on Monday. Somebody could be beating me to it right now.”
I inhale my hamburger and beer and head home, leaving Adam behind to hang out with Vince. It’ll be a clash of the titans, Adam’s irresistible upbeat enthusiasm versus Vince’s immovable grouchiness. Adam may be in over his head. My guess is that within an hour Vince’ll have him writing The Vince Sanders Story.
Laurie is waiting for me when I get home, and I’m anxious to talk to her about the information Vince has given me. Laurie, it turns out, is anxious to have sex. I weigh my options, debating with myself whether to talk or have sex, while I’m ripping my clothes off. Then, since I’m not comfortable with naked talking, I decide to go with the sex.
After we’re finished, I decide to go with sleep rather than talk, but Laurie again has other ideas. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something,” she says.
I nod and tell her about the shooting in Wisconsin.
“You want me to go out there to check it out?” she asks.
I’m jolted awake by the realization that Hemmings must be reasonably close to Findlay, her hometown and possible future place of employment. “No,” I say, “I need you working here. I’m the one with the least to do right now, so I should go.”
Laurie doesn’t argue with me, acknowledging that she really is busy and adding that Wisconsin will likely be a temporary safe haven from the danger of Quintana, just in case Moreno hasn’t successfully called him off.
She doesn’t try to dissuade me, nor does she mention the proximity to Findlay. It pops into my head that maybe I should go to Findlay and check out the place, maybe personally catch this Sandy Walsh loser doing something slimy. I doubt I’ll have time, but the thought is pleasant and intriguing enough to let me sleep with a smile on my face.
The next morning I get into the office before Edna, which is not exactly a news event. I decide to go online and make my own travel arrangements to Wisconsin, to leave late this afternoon.
I am a complete computer incompetent, and every time I try to do something some ad pops up in my face. It takes me forty-five minutes, but I finally get through it. Just before I’m finished, I have an amazing stroke of luck. A message comes on the screen, telling me that if the bar at the top is flashing, I’m a winner. And it’s flashing! I haven’t been online in weeks, and here I am the chosen one. It’s simultaneously thrilling and humbling, so much so that I forget to click the bar to see what I’ve won.
Adam comes in with a request to go with me, and I say yes, mainly because I can’t think of a valid reason to say no. The studio will pay for his ti
cket, and he calls their travel department and within thirty seconds is booked and ready to go. Of course, he missed out on the flashing bar and the incredible win.
I’ve scheduled a ten o’clock meeting with Kevin and Laurie to assess where we are in our trial preparation. Kevin has been meeting with various members of the Giants, ironic because Kevin knows so little about football, and sports in general, that I could tell him Kenny played shortstop and he’d believe me.
Kenny’s teammates are thoroughly supportive, uniformly claiming to be positive that Kenny could not possibly be guilty of such a crime. Not realizing that I had already talked to Bobby Pollard, the paralyzed trainer who is one of Kenny’s best friends, Kevin has done so as well, and he is especially taken with Bobby’s expressions of loyalty. He is also, as I was, impressed by the fact that Kenny has seen to it that his friend has stayed employed.
Laurie and Marcus have made considerable progress buttressing our contention that Preston was involved with drugs, as both seller and user. Their information is supplemented by things Sam Willis has found out about Preston’s finances. It helps, especially since we have little else to hang our hat on. The evidence against Kenny, while circumstantial, is very compelling, and we have almost nothing to refute it.
On the plus side we haven’t uncovered anything striking or unusual about the relationship between Kenny and Preston. Certainly, there is no obvious motive, at least none that we can see. This is not to say Kenny is innocent; the murder could have been the result of a sudden argument or a rash act clouded by the fog of drugs.
Our meeting ends early, since I have to get to the airport. I’m late and only have time to kiss one of them goodbye, so I choose Laurie over Kevin. It’s a tough call, but I’m paid big bucks to make this kind of decision.
Kevin leaves, and I say to Laurie, “Making any progress on your decision?” I say it nervously because I’m nervous about hearing the answer.
She shakes her head. “Not really. I’m trying not to obsess about it. I just think, when I know, I’ll know.” That’s pretty tough to argue with, so I don’t.
On the way out I walk by Sam Willis’s office, and he yells out for me to stop in. He tells me that he’s been checking into Sandy Walsh, and I instinctively look up to make sure that Laurie hasn’t come in and overheard this. It’s another sign that I’m aware that what I’m doing is nothing to be proud of.
“He’s got real money,” says Sam. “Not as much as you, but loaded.”
“From where?”
“Hard to tell. Maybe investments, maybe family money… but it’s not from his business.”
“What is his business?” I ask.
“Rental car agency. One location in town, one just outside of town. Solid, but not big enough to be responsible for his wealth.”
“Thanks, Sam,” I say, and prepare to leave.
He stops me. “Andy, there’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The guy’s married.”
“Laurie said he wasn’t,” I say.
He shrugs. “Maybe that’s what he told her. Got married three years ago February. Wife’s name is Susan.”
I nod and leave, considering what this news means. It’s a mixed bag. On the one hand, it could result in some pain for Laurie, but on the other hand, it could be used by me to get her to stay.
I wish all my bags were this mixed.
* * * * *
THE TEMPERATURE in Milwaukee when we land is eighty-seven, not quite what I picture when I think of this town. It’s in stark conflict with my mental image of Vince Lombardi prowling the sidelines, smoke coming from his mouth into the frigid air as the Packers march across the frozen tundra in nearby Green Bay.
The airport is modern and efficiently run, and within a very few minutes we’re in a rental car driving the two hours to Hemmings. I drive and Adam takes out his notepad, no doubt making sure he can keep track of how many rest stops we pass.
An hour from Hemmings we pass a sign telling us that we are three miles from the exit for Findlay. I haven’t yet decided whether to check out Laurie’s hometown, but the highway god is obviously throwing it in my face. Am I man enough to resist temptation? I never have been before, so I doubt it.
“Isn’t that where Laurie is from?” Adam asks.
“She told you that?” is my quick response.
Adam reacts to my reaction. “Sure. I didn’t know it was a secret.”
This is the last thing I want to talk about, so I switch the conversation toward Adam’s life. “You like LA?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I love it, but just for now. It’s especially great with my lifestyle; being a writer absolutely beats working. But if I hit it big, I’m out of there.”
“Why?”
“Because when they need you, and you don’t need them, you can work from anywhere. You hardly ever have to go to meetings and schmooze; all you have to do is write.”
“So where would you live?”
He points at the green fields we are passing. “Near my parents in Kansas. I want to have enough money to buy a house for them and one for me. After all these years they deserve a nice house.”
“You wouldn’t miss a big city?” I ask.
“Maybe a little, but I could always go there on vacations. I want to be somewhere I can raise a big family and not have to worry about drive-by shootings.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.
“No,” he says, then laughs. “Why, do I need one of them first?”
We drive on for a while longer, at which point Adam apparently decides it’s my turn. “Are you and Laurie engaged or anything?”
“No,” I say. “I’m a swinging single.”
He laughs. “Yeah, right.”
The terrain gets more and more desolate as we reach Hemmings, which can’t really be called a small town, or a town at all. It’s really just three or four streets of houses in various states of disrepair, surrounding a cardboard box factory.
The houses have deteriorated over the years, yet most have well-kept small lawns and gardens separating them from the street. It is as if the residents do not have the bucks necessary to renovate their homes, but their gardens make the statement that they would if they could.
One of the better-kept homes belongs to Brenda and Calvin Lane, and they are standing on the porch waiting for us as we arrive. I had spoken to Calvin yesterday, alerting him to our coming to see them, and confirming that they would talk to us. He appeared anxious to do so, and their waiting for us on the porch would seem to confirm that.
Within two minutes we are inside on the couch, being barraged by homemade breads, jams, and pastries. Brenda could make a fortune running a bakery on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, but my hunch is that doing so is not on her radar screen.
Calvin thanks us profusely for coming, as if it had been his idea and we were doing them a favor. “When I saw what happened on television, I knew I had to talk to somebody about it.” He seems unconcerned when I tell him I’m representing Kenny; he just wants to tell his story to anyone who will listen.
“I told him it was silly,” says Brenda, “but he wouldn’t listen.” She laughs. “He never does.”
“I think getting things out in the open is always a good thing,” I say. “What is it that’s bothering you?”
“It’ll be five and a half years this November that we lost our Matt,” Calvin says, and for the first time I notice that some of the pictures on the wall are of a strapping young man. A few of them are in football uniform.
Now that the conversation has turned to their son, their movements are as if choreographed. Calvin moves his chair closer to me, and Brenda brings out a photo album to show Adam. Clearly, they think I’m the guy to talk to about this matter, and in this case they’re right.
I can hear Brenda start to identify the pictures that Adam is looking at; as if she has to entertain him while Calvin is telling me his story. They start in kindergarten and peewee football, so
apparently, it’s going to take Calvin a while.
“He was a great kid… a great kid,” says Calvin. “Not a week goes by we don’t look at those pictures.”
“What happened to him?” I ask, trying to move this along, but feeling a little bad about doing so. Talking about their boy is clearly one of their favorite pastimes.
Calvin goes on to tell me the story of a fateful November weekend, just after Matt’s freshman season as a University of Wisconsin football player had come to an end. Matt had a fine year; he was a top player his entire young life, and the coach at Wisconsin was predicting huge things for him.
A bunch of guys whom Matt knew, mostly football players, had come up to do some camping. They weren’t all from Wisconsin-some were from big cities-but Matt was going to educate them in the ways of the wild. They’d do some camping, fishing, maybe a little hunting, and in the process drink far more than their share of beer.
It was a trip from which Matt never returned. He took a few of the guys hunting and was the victim of what was ruled a tragic accident. The police version is that a hunter must have shot at motion in the woods, thinking it was a deer when in fact it was Matt. This despite the fact that the hunter apparently fled and was never identified, and the additional fact that Matt was wearing the bright orange jacket designed to prevent just such accidents.
Kenny Schilling was there that day, having previously established a friendship with Matt through football. The police questioned each of the young men thoroughly, and Calvin did as well, trying to understand why this young life had been snuffed out.
Calvin says that Kenny had aroused his suspicions at the time, but Brenda’s slight accompanying groan indicates that she doesn’t share that feeling. Kenny had been tentative in describing his whereabouts and had not returned to the camp after the shooting until well after the others.
“And I heard him arguing with Matt about an hour before they left,” Calvin says.
This time Brenda’s groan from across the room is louder. “They were probably arguing about football,” she says. “They always argued about football. Big deal.”
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