by David Ellis
Mandy takes a seat across from me. She is wearing a blue suit today, with gold buttons that run all the way up and close the suit jacket at the neck. She has pulled her hair back in a clip, temporarily restraining the unmanageable locks.
Mandy holds up a paper with my caption on it. “They want your blood.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I mean literally. They want samples of hair and blood.”
“But if I admit I was there, what’s the point?” I watch her eyes fall. She nods without much enthusiasm.
“Unless,” I continue, “that’s not what I’m going to say.”
Mandy plays with a file. “We need to keep our options open, Marty.”
“You don’t believe me? Even after the shrink?”
She starts, then chews her lip. “It’s not that. It’s a question of what’s the best defense for you. The state doesn’t have a strong case against you, Marty. It might be better to just sit back and make them prove it.”
I work this over in my mind. “It’s because of Rachel and me.”
Mandy puts her hands together in front of her, choosing her words carefully. “If we say that you were trying to save Rachel’s life, and the state can prove that you two were having an affair, we get hurt. Very bad. Especially if we deny it.”
“We should deny it,” I say. “Because it’s not true. How many times am I going to have to say it, Mandy? Rachel and I were not having an affair.”
Mandy raises her hands in surrender. “I’m on your side, Marty.”
“Why don’t you believe me?”
She sighs. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you. But it’s pretty clear that you have strong feelings for her, Marty. Maybe you think you’re protecting her by denying it. You’re a nice guy who’s trying to do the right thing. But Rachel is not on trial here. You are. And if you two were having an affair, I imagine Roger Ogren will find out. What I’m trying to tell you is you’d only be hurting yourself.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Well, this conversation is pointless. Because it’s not true.”
She appraises me. She has seen more than her share of liars, and she probably fancies herself pretty apt at spotting them. “Let me ask you this, then,” she says. “We know they’re going to try to prove this relationship, whether it’s true or not. Right?”
“Right.”
“What will they come up with?”
“You mean, like, credit card receipts from hotels or something?”
Mandy holds her hands out. “Anything.”
“Nothing.” I shake my head defiantly. “Nothing.”
“Roger Ogren will ask around the foundation. What are people going to say?”
“I don’t know. No one will say we were sleeping together.”
“But he’ll ask about little things. How often did you interact? Were you flirtatious? Did you arrive at functions together? Leave together?”
I think of that first night, at the casino fund-raiser. When I drove Rachel home. And the next Monday, when I had lunch with Jerry Lazarus, Nate Hornsby, and another guy from the foundation, Vic Silas, whom Nate had brought along.
The three of them were waiting for me at the table in the tiny Chinese restaurant near my building. We made it through five minutes of small talk, with Laz and Hornsby wearing smug expressions, before they got to the point. Boy, that fund-raiser last weekend was something, wasn’t it? Have a good time, did ya? And all that cleaning up to do?
Jerry Lazarus looked over at Nate. “Now, Nater, Marty left a little before us, didn’t he?”
He had me smiling now; I kind of enjoyed the fact that I had left with Rachel.
“I think he gave someone a ride home,” said Nate.
“A woman . . .” Jerry mumbled, turning his hand in little circles. “A woman . . . on the tall side, real good-looking . . .”
“All right,” I said. “You had a point to make, Jerry?”
He waved his hand. “Not at all.” But I saw the twinkle in his eye. “I was just wondering how your ride home with Rachel was.”
It was the reason, I realized, that a lunch had been scheduled so soon after we were all together. They were looking for the dope on Rachel and me, like schoolgirls awaiting the latest gossip. Did you just drop her off? Did she invite you in for a nightcap? I knew I had to keep it cool, lest I be accused of protesting too much.
“Hey,” Laz said, showing me his palms, “you don’t want to tell us what happened, that’s your business.”
I cocked my head at Jerry. “Enough.”
“No reason to be defensive.” Jerry, of course, did his best to egg me on.
“Listen,” I said. “I wish I had a story to tell. But I don’t. Okay?”
All three of them assured me it was okay.
“Like I said.” Jerry drew a horizontal line in the air. “None of my business.”
I admit, I was enjoying this. But I’m not a kiss-and-tell type, especially when I was looking for a lot more than one night with Rachel. Something told me that full disclosure was not advisable here.
“I was worried about you, that’s all,” Jerry said. “I mean, when I got home, a good two and a half hours after you left, and I called your house”—he made eye contact with me and smiled—“and no one answered, I thought maybe you had car trouble or something.”
I know that at that moment, I turned a bright shade of red. Nate and Vic enjoyed watching me squirm. And Laz smelled blood.
“And I figured Rachel wouldn’t know anything about cars. And her husband, of course, had been called away to surgery. Those things can take hours.”
I dropped my head but tried to maintain a poker face. Silas was snickering.
“So what was it?” Nate joined in. “What was the delay?”
“Was it car trouble?” Laz asked. “Is that what it was?”
I looked up at them. I scanned the table again to look at my attackers, three guys in suits and ties who were nothing more than little kids playing grown-ups. Three hunters who had just trapped their prey. With all the seriousness I could muster, I said, “Yeah, it was car trouble,” before I burst into laughter.
“I fucking knew it,” Nate said, pounding the table. Vic Silas smiled broadly. Laz just threw his napkin at me.
“Anything come to mind?” Mandy asks. “Anything anyone could’ve seen?”
“I think I drove Rachel home once or twice.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Well, sure, Mandy, I’m sure a lot of people saw us. We weren’t being secretive or anything. There was no reason to be secretive.”
“Would it strike anyone as unusual that you were driving her home?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know why it would. We live by each other.”
“Well, did anyone else ever drive her home?”
“Jesus, Mandy, what am I, her social coordinator? I’m sure from time to time, other people drove her home, too. Honestly, I have no idea.”
Mandy straightens up in her chair. “I’m not asking you these questions to annoy you, Marty. I just want to know what Roger Ogren is going to find out.”
I rest my hands on the marble table. “Okay. We were friendly, I would say that. I would say I was one of her closer friends. I imagine that Ogren will find people who said we were good friends. Were we flirtatious? I don’t know. Rachel, she’s one of those people who’s very outgoing. You could probably say she flirts with a lot of people.” I smile at Mandy and rest a hand on my chest. “I, on the other hand, do not flirt.”
Mandy’s eyes narrow. “Please.”
“I’m wounded. Me, flirt?”
She jabs a finger in my direction. She likes to do that. “I’ve seen your act, Kalish. You’re the worst kind of flirt. The kind that acts all serious, low-key, the brooding type. The sincere type. The most dangerous kind.”
It’s always interesting, the things people say about you. I don’t know if she’s right or not. But what I do know is, I’m suddenly enjoying this conversation. It’s
one of the subtle things I’ve missed since I was arrested, the give-and-take. Even with the few remaining friends I have, the most I get is sympathy, a caution in their choice of words and topics. Nothing but somber conversations. Mandy treats me like a normal person. She makes fun of me, she argues with me.
“Do I flirt with you?” I ask.
“You probably flirt with every woman you meet.”
“Including you?”
Mandy flashes me a look, blushes a little. “You’re doing it right now.” She allows a smile to creep in. “Now, back to the subject. What else will Ogren find out?”
“So, I ask you about yourself, get to know you a little. That’s flirting?”
“Marty. Change of subject.”
“I compliment you on your clothes. That makes me a flirt.”
“Did you ever see Rachel outside the foundation work?”
“That’s no fun. Tell me what I do. How I flirt.”
Mandy rests her hands on the table and tightens her mouth. “I will not indulge you, Mr. Kalish. We are here to discuss some things having to do with your case. Not to analyze your social skills.”
I give in. “Suit yourself.”
“Did you ever see Rachel outside the foundation work?”
I lose my smile. “No.”
“Never?”
I pause before repeating it. “No. Really, Mandy. I’ve told you everything.”
Mandy’s eyes narrow slightly as she returns to her notes. “Oh. We got our judge. You’ll be tried before Judge Mackiewicz.”
“Is that good?”
She smiles. “Jake is a pretty good draw, yeah. He used to be sheriff. Pretty hard-nosed guy, but a decent judge. Not a Rhodes scholar. But fair.”
“You tried cases in front of him?”
“Yeah. My first felony assignment was in front of him.”
“So when do I get the pleasure?”
“In a couple of weeks. Knowing Judge Mack, he’ll push for an early trial date.”
“Is that what we want?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Why?”
Mandy leans back in her chair. “They’re still building their case. See, usually they gather the evidence and then arrest the suspect. Here, it didn’t really work that way. They had some suspicions about you, sure, but not connected to the murder. They just thought you might be her lover. So they tried to get you to admit that.”
“Yeah. They kept coming back to that.”
She opens her hands. “Sure. Once you admit to the affair, then the ball starts rolling. If you’re the lover, then you’re the one who came through the door. Or, you know who did.” She leans back in her chair. “My point is, they have almost nothing connecting you to the murder. The quicker we try this case, the better.”
I raise a hand. “Wait a minute. If I admit I did it, then we gain nothing by moving fast. Because we’ve done the work for them.”
Mandy looks away. A hand comes off the table and hangs precariously before closing to a fist. “That’s true. . . .”
“Why is it, Mandy, that you guys are so convinced I’m gonna say I didn’t do it when I’m telling you I did?”
“You wouldn’t take the stand, Marty. Not if we go that way. But if they can’t prove a romantic link between you and Rachel, and they don’t come up with any other evidence between now and the trial, then their case is weak. Really, it’s almost nothing.”
I get out of my chair and move to the window. Late morning, and the streets below are littered with hurried bodies. “So the quicker we try this, the less likely they’ll find the body. Or the gun.”
“Right.”
“And you don’t have a problem with saying I didn’t do it when you know different.”
“I don’t have a problem with starting with the presumption of innocence and making them prove otherwise,” she says. “I have no problem saying to the jury, the state has failed to show beyond a reasonable doubt that Marty is the killer. That’s why you hired us, Marty.”
I feel the sudden desire to leave. To leave this room, to leave this case. I check my watch. It’s not quite eleven in the morning. “Early lunch?” I ask.
33
AFTER A CAB RIDE OVER THE RIVER, MANDY AND I are in a dark restaurant with grungy wooden tables, even dirtier floors, and country rock blaring out of the speakers. We’ve beaten the lunch rush, leaving Mandy, me, and a waitress in her mid-fifties with way too much bleached-blond hair who smacks her bubble gum.
Mandy has promised me that this place has the best sloppy barbecue pork sandwiches in town. Maybe not my first choice for lunch, but I’m pretty excited about doing anything social with another human being.
“This isn’t a place I would expect my lawyer to take me,” I say.
“No?” Mandy puts her mouth over the straw. Strictly soft drinks. This is a working lunch.
“You think Paul would come here with us?”
Mandy starts to laugh, pulling her lips away from the straw just in time. “This isn’t exactly his kind of place,” she agrees. “Actually, it’s hard to get anyone from the firm over to this place.”
“They prefer white tablecloths and waiters in red jackets.”
“Oh, come on, they’re not all that bad.” She rolls her eyes.
I smile at her and sip from my drink. She looks around the restaurant, humming with the music.
“Don’t tell me you like this music,” I warn her.
“Don’t tell me you don’t!” she says with a laugh. She points over to an open area in the restaurant, separated by railings that form a square. “Every Thursday night, a bunch of the Assistant County Attorneys come here for the two-step.”
I put a hand on my face, weary. “I’m gonna try not to picture that in my head.”
“Oh, Mr. Kalish. You horribly sheltered man.”
I study her a minute, while she takes another sip and continues to hum. I don’t know what is most impressive about her. At moments I think it is her animation, how easily she lights up at humor, how willingly she allows in happiness. At other times it’s just the fact that she is so comfortable around me, a confessed murderer.
“You don’t really strike me as a big-firm lawyer,” I observe.
She looks at me suspiciously, eyebrows crooked. “No?”
“No.”
She turns her face, so she’s staring at me sideways, almost threatening were it not for the wry smile. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. You’re not—you’re so—”
“Plain-Jane?”
“Well, in a good way, yeah. I mean, earthy, you know? You’re not stuffy or artificial. Not like some of your coworkers.”
She smirks. “You said that, not me.”
“Why did you join this firm?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. Change of scenery.”
This time I point the finger. “That’s the same thing you said last time I asked you.”
She blanches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’ve got that line down pretty well.”
She gives a half smile and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Okay, how’s this: It’s the best civil litigation shop in town.” She uses her straw to chop at the ice in her glass.
Here I go again, pushing. But this is the first normal conversation I’ve had with someone besides myself in weeks, and I hate to see it end abruptly.
The waitress shows up and drops a tray of food in front of me that could literally make my heart stop. An unbelievably large stack of shredded pork smothered in barbecue sauce, a side of potato slices dripping with cheddar cheese. Mandy already has her napkin stuffed in her blouse, and she dives in.
“Why did you become a lawyer?” I ask with a mouthful of food. I always find it interesting why people choose the jobs they do.
“It’s the closest thing in adult life to a contact sport.”
I laugh at this. True enough.
“Why didn’t you want to be a lawyer?” she asks.
“Because it’s
the closest thing in adult life to a contact sport.”
She wipes the red sauce from her mouth. “No, really. You started law school.”
“I went to law school because my dad was a lawyer.”
“Why’d you leave? After two years? The last year is cake.”
I take a wipe at my hands. “When I was a second-year, I interviewed with firms for a summer position. One of the lawyers on campus asked me why I wanted to be an attorney. I didn’t have an answer.”
Mandy nods, chopping at her ice again. “So why did you become an investment banker?”
“Nobody ever asked me why I wanted to be one.”
She laughs, one of those little polite noises, but she looks a little concerned. “Fair enough.”
I push my food away and throw my napkin on the plate. “My father died during my first year of law school. I kept plugging along, thinking I wanted to do this for him. But then I realized he wouldn’t want me to do something that I didn’t want to do. So I quit, and joined an MBA program. The truth is, it was the fastest way to make a lot of money.” I make an apologetic face. “You know, retire at forty-five and all that.”
Mandy gives me a sympathetic smile. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make money.”
“It’s no reason to choose a career. If there’s one good thing that has come out of all this, it’s that I’ve realized that much.”
She smiles at me. “There’s hope for you yet.”
“It’s the only thing keeping me going.”
“What about your mom?” Mandy asks. “Is she still alive?”
“No.” I wipe my hands once again on the napkin. “No.”
Mandy expects more, but when nothing comes, just says, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug.
“You lost your parents pretty young.”
“I lost my dad when I was twenty-three. I guess that’s pretty young.”
Mandy watches me, the curiosity showing only in a brief twitch of her thick eyebrows.
“She died when I was eight,” I say in a flat voice.
“Oh. I—didn’t mean to pry.”
I wave her off; no problem. “You know. What doesn’t kill us . . .”
She starts to nod, then freezes. She looks at me.