This time Stella Marz asked for a recess.
* * *
After lunch, Tony began his cross-examination.
All that he could do was show a certain softness of manner; it was too grotesque, perhaps incendiary, to express sympathy on Sam Robb’s behalf or, however much Tony might feel this, for what he was about to do.
“This change in Marcie,” he began. “Did you try to talk to her about it?”
“Yes.” Briefly, Nancy Calder closed her eyes. “She said that I was imagining things.”
“Did you believe her?”
“No.”
“What did you think it was?”
For a long moment, Nancy Calder hesitated. “I didn’t know.”
Tony paused for a moment of his own. “Did you think it was a guy, Mrs. Calder?”
Nancy Calder gave him a silent, somewhat severe look. “She wasn’t dating anyone, Mr. Lord. I had no reason to think it was a ‘guy,’ as you put it.”
Not in that sense, Tony thought. “But you must have been quite worried. From what you say, the change in Marcie included listlessness, weight loss, declining appetite, deteriorating school performance, and disinterest in her own family.”
Nancy Calder sat back, as if shamed by this recitation. “As I said, I was very concerned.”
It was as if they were connected by an invisible string, Tony thought; if he tugged too hard, he would lose her. Tony put his hands in his pockets. “Are you familiar with the symptoms of depression?”
Nancy Calder’s eyes widened. “I’m not a psychologist, Mr. Lord.”
“But did you consider taking Marcie to see one?”
She touched her breastbone, eyes flickering to her husband. “I considered it, yes.”
Tony moved closer. Softly, he asked, “Did you discuss it with your husband?”
“Objection.” Quickly, Stella Marz stepped forward. “Irrelevant. I fail to see what this intrusion on the Calders’ marital privacy has to do with whether this defendant murdered their daughter.”
This was right, Tony knew; as before, he was counting on the judge to let him get away with something. “The question goes to Marcie Calder’s state of mind,” he told Karoly. “It’s quite possible, we contend, that Marcie Calder killed herself. As to which the nature of her family life, the changes in her behavior, and the presence or absence of professional counseling are all directly—perhaps tragically—relevant.”
Unhappily, Judge Karoly nodded. “Objection overruled.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. I’ll ask the question again.” Turning to Nancy Calder, Tony saw that Stella, while retreating to the counsel table, remained standing. “When you suggested to your husband that Marcie receive counseling, did he disagree?”
Once more, Nancy Calder’s fingers traced her breastbone. “Frank believes that families should help themselves and that psychologists are ‘a waste of money.’ Our medical plan doesn’t cover psychiatric counseling.” At the corner of his eye, Tony saw both the nutritionist and an older juror, an Irish warehouseman, glance toward Frank Calder. But Nancy Calder stared at Tony now, as if awakened by the echo of her own response. “But if you’re suggesting that Frank, or anyone, drove our daughter to suicide, then it’s an insult to Marcie’s memory, to her faith, and to her strength of character.”
Pausing, Tony deferred to her anger. “But is it fair to say that Marcie and her father had a difficult relationship?”
Nancy Calder frowned. “There were differences, yes.”
“Marcie considered her father strict, did she not?”
“Sometimes, yes. I think that’s inevitable.”
“But did you ever discuss this with Marcie? Outside her father’s presence, that is.”
Nancy Calder looked fragile now, wearied by her own emotions. “I tried,” she said at last. “I said I’d help her talk to him.…”
“And did Marcie tell you, in words or substance, that she didn’t trust you to keep confidences?”
Once more, tears formed in her eyes. In secret sympathy, Tony recognized this, the moment that a witness stopped resisting. “Yes,” she answered quietly.
“Their disagreements included the subject of premarital sex, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“And what was Mr. Calder’s attitude?”
“That Marcie should remain a virgin.” Her head raised. “That was our attitude, Mr. Lord.”
“But it was your husband, not you, who wanted to send Marcie to an all-women’s college.”
Tony watched Nancy Calder struggle with her loyalties. “Yes,” she said at last.
“Did you ever tell your husband, in words or substance, that he was driving Marcie away?”
Her face was taut now. “Yes.”
“And were you also concerned that, because you yourself were working, both of you were losing touch with Marcie?”
Nancy Calder’s eyes met his with a stinging look of betrayal; Tony saw her regret ever letting him into their home, and fought back regret of his own. “Yes,” she said at last. “Neither of us thought my working was best for the girls.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “But then we were going to have three in college.…”
It was a touching answer, Tony knew. “I understand,” he said. “So you felt a psychologist might reach your daughter, where you could not?”
“Maybe. I didn’t know.”
Tony paused a moment. “Whatever your concerns, they didn’t involve a relationship with Sam Robb, did they?”
“No.” Nancy’s voice was harsh again. “He was Marcie’s track coach, always cheerful and supportive. We could never have imagined he’d been having sex with her.”
Quickly, she looked down again, as if knowing that the answer, however damning she intended it, might also expose her unawareness. In a tone of understanding, Tony asked, “I gather she didn’t talk about Sam Robb at home. Other than as a coach.”
For a moment, she appeared almost grateful. “No. She didn’t.”
Tony paused, taking his time, drawing the jury’s attention back to him. “Was there any older man, other than her father, for whom she seemed to have affection?”
The jury seemed quite still now. Nancy Calder was silent for a time. Then with a veiled upward look at Tony, she answered coolly, “Ernie Nixon, our recreation director. Marcie’s first track coach.”
Stella had prepared her, Tony knew. In a puzzled tone, he asked, “Why does Mr. Nixon come to mind?”
Nancy Calder’s face set. “I don’t know what you’re implying, Mr. Lord. Ernie Nixon gave Marcie confidence, and she was grateful to him. We both were.”
“Did you know she used to visit him?”
She stiffened. “Of course. A lot of young people do.”
Tony watched her for a moment. Softly, he said, “At his home, I meant. Alone.”
“Objection,” Stella called out. “No foundation. There’s been no testimony on this at all.”
It was her first real mistake, Tony thought. “I’d like an answer,” he said to Karoly, adding, with deliberate understatement, “subject to proof, of course. But I believe Ms. Marz plans to call Mr. Nixon herself.”
Karoly hesitated, indecisive. “Objection overruled,” he said to Stella, almost in apology. “But if it turns out there’s no foundation, I’ll ask the jury to disregard the testimony.”
Tony turned to Nancy Calder. Awakened from guilt and grief, she stared at him with fresh anger that was close to feral. “Were you aware,” he asked again, “that Marcie would visit Ernie Nixon in his home, alone, when no one else was there? Not once, or twice, but repeatedly.”
Nancy Calder folded her arms. “No,” she said tersely. “If that’s even true. But Ernie Nixon did not kill Marcie.”
It was a better answer than Tony Lord the defense lawyer could have hoped for; a worse one than the other Tony, whom Ernie Nixon had once befriended, had ever wanted. Softly, he said, “Thank you,” and left Nancy Calder sitting there, a woman out of touch with her husban
d and her daughter, her last few words lingering in the air.
This time Sam Robb had the wisdom not to thank him.
SEVEN
Sweat ran down Sam Robb’s face.
Facing him, Tony dribbled the basketball, eyes on the basket. Suddenly Tony burst by him; with a last stretch, taking him two feet past Sam, he slid under the basket and flipped the ball over his head and into the net.
Collapsing on the cement playground, Sam Robb broke out in delighted laughter. “You’ve still got it,” he said. “I should have hired a fatter, slower lawyer.”
Tony sat next to him, breathing hard. “Wouldn’t help—he’d be too smart to play with you.” He caught his breath. “This really is nuts, you know. What are the rules here—last one to have a massive coronary wins?”
Sam grinned. “I can see the headline now: ‘Hook Shot Proves Fatal to San Francisco Lawyer—Robb Forced to Defend Himself.’ ” He cocked his head. “What are we playing for, Tony?”
Tony wiped his forehead. “Your Athlete of the Year trophy. I still want it.”
“Too late. But you gave it a run, Tony. I’ll say that.” Raising his face to the sun, Sam inhaled deeply, seemingly content. “You ever think about those times? You know, before Alison died, when things were still fun.”
Nearly thirty years later, Tony found, the thought still made him sad. “Sometimes,” he finally answered. “But from the moment I found her, the time before that was like something I saw through the wrong end of a telescope. Too far away to touch.”
Quiet, they gazed across the rolling grass, then Erie Road, Taylor Park with its hedgerows, and, finally, the lake, its waters soft blue in sunshine.
Why are we doing this? Tony asked himself. Middle-aged men playing a Sunday game of basketball with all the ferocity of their youth, if not the skills. When Sam had called to propose this, breaking into Tony’s preparation for Ernie Nixon’s testimony, Tony had thought it pathological—a contest between two old friends and rivals who, if they followed Sam’s competitive instincts, would end their days playing checkers in a rest home, for money. But when he had said this, Sam merely laughed.
“My goals aren’t that long-term,” Sam had answered, and Tony knew that Sam—and perhaps he—needed some relief from the darkness of Marcie Calder’s death, the stifling hermetic quality of a murder trial. So here they were, on a patch of macadam on the crest of a knoll near the recreation center, playing the games of the past. Perhaps Sam’s suggestion was intended as a kindness to them both: the mindless concentration, the moments of exhilaration and release, seemed to have jarred loose other memories, reminding Tony of the resonance of their friendship. It seemed to have the same effect on Sam.
“Remember my sunrise sermon?” he asked.
Tony nodded. “Frightening. You had absolutely no sense, none at all.”
Sam gave him a sideways look. “But you bailed me out,” he said softly. “Just like you’re doing now.”
Idly, Tony spun the ball on his finger. “What I remember is writing you a sermon, which you didn’t use a line of. Instead I seem to recall you satirizing my pitiful sex life, to great acclaim, and saying afterward, ‘I really fucking fooled them.’ ”
Sam’s smile had a reflective quality. “Sometimes you have to bet on yourself, Tony. But I’m still grateful to you. Always.” Standing, he held out his hand to pull Tony upright. “The score’s nine apiece, and it’s my ball.”
Stiffly, Tony rose, knowing that Sam meant to play this to the end.
Sam looked different than he had three months ago; the fat was gone, his face youthful again, his eyes keener. It was strange: he had no career, perhaps no marriage, and, quite possibly, would live out his days in the rancid netherworld of the Ohio State Penitentiary. But adversity, and perhaps Tony’s return, seemed to have given him a purpose—even, in some strange way, to have restored him. The Sam who faced Tony at midcourt was a different man than the shamed and dissipated Sam who, at first meeting, had filled Tony with such sadness and regret.
“No way out,” Sam announced, charging for the basket.
Skittering backward, Tony blocked his path. Abruptly, Sam veered right, bumping Tony with a hard shoulder, and banked in a layup as Tony reeled, ribs hurting from the blow.
“So it’s that way,” Tony said.
From beneath the basket, Sam shot him a pirate’s grin and flipped Tony the ball.
Tony took the ball to half-court, remembering a trick he more recently had used on Christopher, until he had used it once too often. But Sam might have forgotten it.
Tony set it up by taking two jump shots on his next two tries—one in, the other barely missing. Sam’s driving layup put him ahead; they played silently, intensely, watching each other as Tony crouched at half-court. Charging to Sam’s left, he stopped as if to take his jump shot, then dribbled the ball behind his back and left Sam standing there, expecting the shot, as Tony collected the bouncing ball and went to the basket for an easy layup.
“Finesse,” Tony said in his best laconic manner. “And patience.”
Sam’s eyes glinted. “I haven’t forgotten. First time you pulled that on me, I was fifteen. Your team won the scrimmage.”
Taking the ball, Sam went to the spot where Tony had faked his jump shot, and sank one of his own. A few minutes later, when Sam pulled the same trick on him, Tony laughed aloud.
“Fifteen all,” Sam called out. “This is getting worthwhile.”
They both were breathing hard now, chests heaving with the need for air. “Five more points to twenty,” Tony answered. “Let’s take a break.”
“Need one?” Sam asked with an air of challenge.
“No. I’m just hoping that the fun will never end.”
Even as he said this, Tony admitted to himself that it was yet another trick, meant to mock their competition while depriving Sam of the adrenaline rush that might carry him to victory. Sam gave him a sour, knowing smile. “Have it your way,” he said, and sat down on the court again.
They were silent for a time. Interrupted from their challenge, Sam did not find conversation easy. Nor did Tony; he was preoccupied by Sam’s primal need to win, his own response.
“How’re your folks?” Sam asked finally.
“Good, thanks.” Tony realized that, since his return, they had never spoken of parents, save for Sam’s fleeting reference to his mother. “Stacey and I helped them buy a place in Florida—it’s not me, God knows, but Dad’s discovered golf. It keeps him, in my mom’s inimitable words, from ‘driving me to the funny farm.’ ” He smiled a little. “After fifty years, they have their routine down cold—bickering but inseparable. When one of them dies, it’ll be tough on the other, especially if my dad goes first; she’ll have to complain to his wedding picture.” He turned to Sam. “There’s a generation of marriages I really don’t understand. Maybe if I’d stayed married to Marcia, I might.”
“So how can you regret divorcing?”
“Oh, I never said I regret it—I said that I felt guilty. That’s the Catholic way of having what you want.” Briefly, Tony smiled, and then his smile faded. “No, sometimes I’ll wake up and look across the pillow at Stacey, and she’ll be smiling in her sleep. And I realize, in spite of everything…”
He did not need to finish the sentence. Sam studied him, hesitant. Quietly, he asked, “Think you’d have married Alison?”
Tony shook his head in puzzlement. “I have no idea. It’s so funny to think about now.” His voice softened. “But if you’d asked me a moment before I found her, I’d have answered yes.”
Sam gazed out at the lake. “Maybe she’d have met someone else, Tony. Maybe you would have.”
It was a curious remark, Tony thought—true, but irrelevant to the tragedy of Alison. “If she were married to someone else, and happy, that would be more than enough for me.”
When Sam turned to him, as though pondering his last remark, Tony suddenly wondered if his friend had applied the words to his own wife, whom Tony had
also loved. “Did you ever sleep with her?” Sam asked.
With whom? Tony wondered. But the only truth he could tell was the one that no longer mattered. Softly, he answered, “The night she died, for the first time. That’s why she came out again.”
Sam’s eyes first widened, then narrowed in a kind of wince, and though his lips parted, for a moment no sound emerged. “I’m sorry, Tony. I didn’t know.”
Tony was not sure whether this apology was for Sam’s question or for some deeper reappraisal of how wounded Tony had been. Tony supposed it did not matter.
“It stayed with me,” he said at last. “I still have nightmares.”
Sam turned to him. “What kind?”
For a moment, Tony wished they could have talked like this at seventeen. But he did not care to mention his last dream. “There’s only one,” he answered. “The moment I found her. Quite lifelike, if you can call it that, and then I wake up.”
Sam stared at him and then shook his head. “I can never remember my dreams,” he murmured. “Maybe just as well.”
What kind of dreams, Tony wondered, might Sam repress? “It depends on the dream, I suppose.”
Sam propped his chin on tented fingers and, for a much longer time, was silent. “I keep remembering that night at the beach,” he said at last. “You and Alison, me and Sue, and all the things we didn’t know. Ever wish you could hit the rewind button?”
“I used to. Now I wish I could just erase a night.”
As soon as he said it, Tony felt this was a tactless answer. But Sam did not seem to hear it that way. Almost gently, he placed a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “I’ll buy you a beer,” he said. “We can finish the game some other time.”
* * *
When Tony returned to his new quarters, in Steelton—the dreary but convenient Palace Hotel—his notes regarding Ernie Nixon were strewn across his bed. It made him think again that life was full of ironies, of choices, of unintended consequences, which, once recognized, became one’s own responsibility.
Tomorrow Ernie Nixon would take the stand, and Tony Lord the lawyer would be responsible for his own acts. He put the thought aside, imagining his cross-examination.
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