said R.H. “An attorney I used to know. I wonder how I might retain his services.”
“How are you, old friend?” said Tim.
“Looking at jail time,” said R.H. “You might have heard.”
R.H. extended his hand. Tim’s hands were badly frostbitten but he didn’t feel he could deny him. He fought the urge to cry out as R.H. squeezed and pumped.
“Maybe I’m just being a prima donna because my life is on the line, but would it kill you to return my calls?”
“I’ve not been as attentive as I’ve needed to be, R.H.,” he said, leading his client out of the staid lobby into the firm’s quiet interior. “But I haven’t neglected you, despite how it might appear, even as I’ve had to deal with Jane’s upcoming surgery.”
“Uh-huh,” said R.H. “And what kind of cancer is it?”
“I’m afraid it’s spread. It doesn’t look good.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Why are you carrying that backpack?”
“This? Doesn’t it make me look like a schoolboy?”
“And you’re wearing snow boots. Why are you wearing snow boots?”
“There is a funny story about these boots, R.H. You’ll get a kick out of it.”
Suddenly R.H. stopped. He turned to face the wall. One of his knees buckled. Tim thought the older man was having a heart attack. But then R.H. covered his eyes with his hand and tucked the other hand under his arm and began to cry. He looked a little like the disgraced Nixon. His crying built to a steady heaving through thick nostrils. “Why is this happening to me?” he asked, struggling to breathe. “I swear to God in heaven I’m innocent.”
Tim pivoted in front of R.H. to shield him from hallway onlookers. He placed a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t know what to say.
“I’m an innocent man.”
Tim kept his hand there until R.H. pulled out a handkerchief and began to collect himself.
They were arrayed around the conference room table. Peter, the senior associate, had before him the manila envelope that contained the sketch of the man Tim had encountered on the bridge. To Tim’s annoyance Mike Kronish had asked to sit in on the meeting. A secretary put her head in to inform the four men that the detective and the assistant district attorney had arrived.
“We’ll let you know when to bring them in,” said Tim. “Thank you.”
After the door closed Peter opened the envelope and set the sketch before R.H. Tim had sat for an hour with one of the freelancers from the courthouse and considered it a good likeness.
“I don’t recognize him,” R.H. said within five seconds.
“Now, just take your time, R.H. Look long and hard. Clear your mind. There’s no pressure. Take all the time you need.”
“This is the man who showed you the knife?”
Tim nodded. R.H. focused on the sketch again.
“I could stare at this picture until Judgment Day, I still wouldn’t recognize him.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Well, Jesus Christ,” said R.H. “I sure the hell wish I did.”
The secretary ushered in the lead detective and the assistant district attorney. Detective Roy had a pack of cigarettes in the front pocket of his buttondown. He had the fissured skin of a veteran smoker, as if someone had come along and smoothed out the crumpled ball of his face. He filled the conference room with his smoker’s stench and the impertinence of a hostile witness mocking his interrogator. The assistant district attorney was a short, stout woman who upon sitting down declared her hope that no one here was wasting anyone’s time.
Tim pushed the sketch across the table to Detective Roy. The detective pulled it toward him slowly with all the indifference in the world. He puckered his lips as he looked it over and swished air between his two front teeth, disrupting the room’s silence. He passed the sketch to the assistant district attorney who, before looking, lifted her eyeglasses to her forehead, where they sat well perched.
“So he stops you,” said the detective, “he tells you your client’s innocent, he shows you what he claims is the murder weapon, and then he walks away.”
“That’s correct,” said Tim.
“Well, ain’t that just fucking bizarre-o, hey?” The detective turned to the assistant district attorney. “Isn’t that bizarre-o, Thelma?”
“Pretty bizarre,” said Thelma.
“And where again?”
“Just outside the office here. Right as I was leaving for the night.”
“And when?”
“Last week. Tuesday. No, Wednesday.”
“Uh-huh,” said the detective. “Hey-ho. Hundred percent bizarre. Thelma? Bizarre?” The detective turned once again to look at Thelma.
“Does your client recognize the man?” she asked Tim.
“Sure the hell wish I did,” said R.H.
Tim