privilege. He’s been helpful in getting his players to meet with various members of our team, so I feel I owe him this time.
The Giants won their first game last week, but did it by passing for three hundred fifty yards and returning two interceptions for touchdowns. The running game gained an anemic sixty-one yards. After I update him on the status of the trial, he says, “Sounds like we should trade for a running back.”
“We’ve got a decent chance,” I lie.
“Yeah. And we’re going to win the Super Bowl.”
I shake my head. “Not without a better kicker. But before too long I may have somebody for you.”
He doesn’t pick up on it, and I decide against telling him my plans. Since it takes very little physical prowess, he could decide to try it as well. One thing I don’t need is more competition.
Adam calls me on my cell phone to tell me that he’s in the office and that he hopes it’s okay with me. “The computer here is much faster than using my laptop at the hotel,” he says.
“No problem,” I say. “When do you want to update me on progress?”
“Pretty soon. There’s a couple more things I need to check out first.”
I head home for an afternoon of reading and rereading of case material. First I take Tara for a walk and a short tennis ball toss in the park; I’ve been feeling guilty at how little time I’ve spent with her. That guilt is increased when I once again see how much she enjoys it. Afterward, we stop off for a bagel and some water, and by the time we get home, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the brief respite away from the case.
I plunge into the material and barely notice the college football game I have on in the background. Laurie comes in at about four carrying grocery bags. She says, “Hi, honey,” and comes over to give me a kiss. It’s domestic bliss straight out of Ozzie and Harriet, and for all my cynicism it feels really good.
“Have you seen David and Ricky?” I ask.
She’s never seen Ozzie and Harriet, since she doesn’t watch old reruns as religiously as I do, so she has no idea about whom I’m talking. Once I explain it to her, she doesn’t seem interested in it. This isn’t working; I need a woman who can be my intellectual equal.
She starts unloading the groceries. “I thought we’d barbecue some seafood tonight.”
“Fish?” I ask, my disappointment showing through. “What is there, a hamburger strike going on?”
With all the work I have, the idea of stopping to cook fish is not pleasing. Of course, I have no idea how long it will take because I don’t know how long one is supposed to cook fish. I know some should be cooked through, some rare, and some just seared, but I don’t have a clue which is which. “I don’t have a lot of time,” I say.
“I’m going to cook it,” she says.
Uh-oh. Another sign of independence. “Are we forgetting who the boy is in this relationship? I am the barbecuer, you are the barbecuee.”
“You’re a man’s man,” she says, and then goes off into the kitchen to marinate the fish in whatever the hell you marinate fish in. They spend their whole life in liquid, and then they have to soak in liquid before you cook them? The ocean didn’t get them wet enough? Hopefully, these particular fish have to marinate for two weeks, but I doubt it.
They’re soaking for about ten minutes when the phone rings. Laurie gets it, and from the kitchen I hear her say, “Hi, Vince… What?” She listens some more and then says, “Vince, he’s here with me. He’s right here.” There is a tension in her voice that chills me to the bone.
She comes rushing into the room and goes right to the television, changing the football game to CNN. I stand up—I’m not sure why—and start walking toward the television, as if I’ll find out what the hell is going on if I’m closer.
I see myself on television; it’s footage from a panel show I did some months before. My lips are moving, but the sound is muted so that the announcer can talk over me. I don’t hear what he is saying because my eyes are riveted to the blaring message across the bottom of the screen: “Schilling lawyer murdered.”
My mind can’t process what is going on. Why would they think I was murdered? Can