you have in your checking account?" I ask.
"I don't have no checking account," he says, and then he smiles his broad smile. "But I'm gonna."
The conversation during the rest of the drive to the lawyer's office involves Laurie. Like everybody else who knows her, Willie is concerned, and he has a better idea than most how unjust the justice system can be.
We arrive at the law firm of Bertram, Smith, and Cates, a respected civil litigation firm in Teaneck. I have spoken a couple of times to Stephen Cates, the attorney representing the defendants, and he has been properly noncommittal as to his position, pending this meeting.
He greets us cordially, sits us at a conference table with a large fruit bowl, offers us something to drink, and gets right down to business.
"I understand you've been approached by the daughter of one of my clients," he says, referring to Nicole.
I nod. "I have."
"I apologize for your being put in that position. I, of course, had no idea until after the fact."
"No problem," I say.
He then launches into a long-winded recitation of the position of his clients, and their desire to bring this unhappy matter, or at least this portion of it, to a close. They recognize the negative impact their actions have had on Willie's life, and they have concocted a formula that they believe accurately assigns a financial value to it. He is so busy explaining the formula, he neglects to mention what that value is.
After twenty minutes that seem like two hours, he reaches the end and says, "Do you have any questions?"
Willie, who has had three oranges, two apples, a banana, and a bunch of grapes during this presentation, doesn't waste any time. "How much?" he asks.
Cates seems somewhat taken aback by Willie's directness, but decides to meet it. "We're looking at in the neighborhood of four point three seven million dollars, paid out over seven years."
Willie almost spits up three grapes at the absurdity of the offer. "That may be the neighborhood you're lookin' in," he says. "But not us. We're lookin' uptown." By "us" Willie means he and I, although my intention is to keep him functioning as chief negotiator. He's doing fine, and I prefer to spend my time mentally beating myself up over Barry Leiter's murder.
But Cates turns to me, obviously looking for a weaker link than Willie. "What exactly is your position?"
I look to Willie and he nods, in effect giving me the floor. "Eleven point seven million, paid out over five minutes."
He doesn't blink. "May I ask how you arrived at that figure?"
"Gut instinct," I say. "We consider it a fair figure, and as such it is nonnegotiable. I believe we can get considerably more at trial."
"I see. I'll convey this to my clients."
I tell him that'll be fine, and with Willie grabbing a final orange on the way out, we say our goodbyes.
Willie asks if I can drop him off at his girlfriend's house, which is in a rather depressed area of downtown Paterson. Paterson is a city of over a hundred thousand people and can match any other city blight for blight. Yet whenever anyone in the area refers to "the city," they are talking about New York.
We are about ten blocks from our destination when we almost hit a dog running loose on the street. It looks to be a Lab mix, skinny, worn-out, and frightened from life on the street.
Willie and I are both shaken by the near miss. "Damn, that was close," he says.
"Poor dog. They'll catch him and take him to the pound," I say.
"And then what?"
"And then they'll kill him."
"What?" Willie yells, outrage in his voice. "Stop the car!"
I barely have time to pull over when Willie jumps out, chasing the dog down the street and calling, "Here, dog!"
The dog demonstrates his intelligence by running away from the screaming Willie, so I pull the car up ahead and try to cut him off. I jump out of the car and start chasing him back toward Willie, but again the dog is clever enough to run down an alley.
The chase is on, as Willie and I spend the next twenty minutes running up and down streets and in and out of alleys, all in pursuit of this poor dog. We execute a number of maneuvers to cut him off, but he outsmarts us each time.
The workout in the whirlpool at Vince Sanders's club hasn't quite prepared me for this kind of running. I'm gasping for air