Bury the Lead - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,18
IN THE RESERVES, stationed in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri,” relates Vince. “Putting in my six months so I could get out of going to Vietnam. I got a weekend pass, I met Daniel’s mother, she got pregnant, end of story.”
My keen intuition is telling me that her pregnancy was in fact not the end of the story, so I probe further. “So you’ve kept in touch with Daniel all these years?” I ask.
He shakes his head with some sadness. “No. His mother never told me about him . . . we had no contact at all. Then, when he was eighteen, he contacted me. Since then I’ve tried to do what I can. I mean, I’m not Ward Cleaver, but I’ve done okay. I’ve been there when he needed me. I paid for the parts of college that his scholarship didn’t cover.”
Vince, a responsible father. The mind boggles. I wouldn’t trust him to watch my beer.
“Where is his mother now?” Laurie asks, helping me out. She knows that I have trouble speaking when I’m totally incredulous.
“She died about three years ago,” Vince says.
“I don’t suppose it was of natural causes?” It’s an obnoxious question to ask, but Vince doesn’t seem to notice.
“Yeah, some kind of cancer,” he says. “I’m not sure . . . we didn’t really have a relationship . . . it was just that one night.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me this?” I ask. “I mean, having a son, that’s the kind of thing people usually mention.”
“You always tell me everything?” is his challenge back, knowing that our friendship is not nearly that intimate. “I mean, we’re guys, right?”
I see Laurie roll her eyes, one of the few eye signs I can actually read.
“We sure are, and proud of it. The Two Musketeers.” I’m trying to lighten things up a little.
“I guess I was ashamed,” Vince says, some emotion getting through the gruff exterior. “I missed so much . . . I never saw him grow up.”
“How could you know?” Laurie asks.
“I guess I couldn’t. But I sure never tried to find out. Then when he wanted to go into journalism, I figured I could help him more if people didn’t know he was my kid.”
“Makes sense,” I say, even though I’m not sure it does.
“So you’ll stay on the case?” Vince asks. “You’ll defend him?”
I’m in a bit of a quandary here. I’ve pretty much decided there is no way I’m going to take on this case, but I have no idea how to tell this to Vince. “I’ll defend him” is what I say, probably not the best way to get my point across.
He smiles, and I can tell he’s relieved, because he reaches out to shake with his right hand and grab a french fry with his left. “Thanks, Andy. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. And believe me, Daniel can pay your fee, no problem.”
My nod is pained; my client can pay for his defense against charges of murder with the money he inherited from his murdered wife. “Why don’t you ask Laurie if she’ll work on it with me?” I ask, fully subscribing to the “misery loves company” theory.
Vince’s head turns toward Laurie as if it’s on a swivel. “Will you?”
She reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Of course.”
Vince goes at the french fries with both hands; he’s feeling a hell of a lot better. “I really surprised you, didn’t I?” he asks, smiling for the first time.
I nod. “You sure did. I still can’t believe it. You actually had sex with someone.”
We hang around for a few more minutes and then leave. Laurie and I don’t go home together, since it’s Thursday and we only stay together on Sundays, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It’s one of the goofy little rules we’ve set up to keep our relationship from moving too fast, though by now I’ve forgotten why fast is a bad thing.
Tara is waiting for me when I get home, and we go for a long walk. I hate walking, yet love walking with Tara. If she weren’t around, I would drive to the front curb to get the mail. Fortunately, I don’t have to even think about that, since she will always be around.
During the walk I make another attempt at introspection, trying to understand my feelings about friendship. A murder case is an enormous undertaking, and this one is bigger than most. It will dominate my life for months. I don’t want to do it, yet