wonder how many of them have less money than I do, and I figure I'm only in the middle of the pack. Just wait until I get my fee from the Willie Miller case.
We engage in meaningless chitchat until we finish lunch, at which point I take out the picture and ask Philip if he recognizes any of the men. He initially only recognizes my father, so I mention Markham and Brownfield. He has spent time with both men on a number of occasions, and while these are much younger versions, he does think it could be them, though he's far from sure.
“Why is this important to you, Andy?”
I tell him about the money, which he's already heard about from Nicole, and how the picture may well be related to that. I tell him I'm interested because Markham and Brownfield denied it so hard. What I don't tell him is the main reason, that I need to learn about my father in death what I obviously never knew in life. To voice this would seem somehow like a betrayal of my father, and I'm not about to come close to that with Philip.
“So how can I help you?” he asks.
“Well, with your connections in the business community, and your access to information …”
“You want me to check out Brownfield?”
I nod. “And maybe learn something about what he and Markham were doing thirty-five years ago. See if there was a connection between them.”
“Or with your father?”
There's no way around it. “Or with my father.”
He promises he'll do what he can, and I have no doubt that he will. Then he gets down to his own agenda for the meeting.
“How are things with Nicole?”
“Good. Really good.” I say this with sincerity, and in fact it may be true. Of course, if Nicole had attacked me the night before with a meat cleaver, I still would have told Philip, “Good. Really good.”
He's pleased; this obviously confirms what Nicole had told him last night. “Excellent,” he says. “I'd hate to have to break in another son-in-law.”
He asks if I have time for a cup of coffee, and I tell him that I don't. I thank him for his help, and then I say something I probably shouldn't say to my father-in-law.
“I've got to take care of a hooker.”
Philip asks me what the hell I am talking about, which forces me to stay there another five minutes as I explain about Wanda, Cal's daughter. But I finally get away so that I can drive to court to deal with Wanda's case. This seems like a particularly appropriate time to indulge my superstition, and I stop off at Cal's newsstand on the way. It is closed for the first time in my memory. I assume that Cal is going to be at court supporting his daughter.
I arrive at the court and arrange to meet Wanda in an anteroom. When I walk in, she is sitting at a table. She's all of sixteen, with a face at least ten years older and sadder. The sight of her jolts me.
There is one thing that virtually all of my clients bring to our first meetings … the look of fear. All but the most hardened criminals are genuinely afraid of the process they are about to go through, knowing full well that it can end with them being locked in a steel cage. Many of them feign a lack of concern, but if you look deep into their eyes, you can see the fear. In a weird way it's one of the things that I like about my job; if I do it well I take away the fear.
That fear is not present in Wanda. Her eyes tell me that this is a piece of cake for her, that she's faced much worse. Her eyes scare the hell out of me.
When I enter, Wanda looks at me as if a gnat had flown in through an open window.
“Wanda?”
“Yeah.”
“My name's Andy Carpenter. I'm a friend of your father. He's hired me to represent you.”
Wanda doesn't seem to consider this worthy of a reply. I clearly haven't charmed her yet.
“Is he coming today?”
“Who?” she asks.
“Your father.”
She laughs a short, humorless laugh, which unnerves me a little more. “No, I don't think so.” And then she laughs again.
I explain to her that I am her attorney, and I detail the charges facing her. She takes it in with a minimum of reaction, as if she's heard it all many times before. I