Sudden Death (9 page)

I
MAKE IT A POINT
to meet frequently with my clients during the pretrial period. It’s not vital to their defense; the truth is that as time goes on, they have less and less to contribute. This is usually because they’ve already told me everything they know, though I’m not sure that’s the case with Kenny Schilling. But with Kenny, as with all my clients, my visiting is vital to their sanity, and they are generally desperate to see me and learn whatever is going on in their case.

My visit to the jail this morning finds Kenny in surprisingly good spirits. A guard has slipped him the morning newspaper, and he’s read Karen’s story raising the possibility that Preston was the victim of a drug killing. It’s the first positive news Kenny’s heard in a very long time, and though it’s totally speculative and publicly denied by Dylan, he chooses to be euphoric over it.

“So you think this Quintana guy could have done it?” he asks.

“Somebody did,” I say, deflecting the question. “Preston didn’t go in that closet and shoot himself, did he?”

“He sure as shit didn’t,” he says, laughing and punching me in the arm, which seems to be his way of being jovial. Since he’s a two-hundred-thirty-pound professional football player with a punch that can dent iron, I’m going to have to give him any future good news over the phone.

Kenny’s been getting visits from some of his teammates on the Giants, and that has made him more upbeat as well. I’m always torn in situations like this over how much to level with the client. His situation is fairly grim at the moment, but it would do no good to bring him down emotionally. There will be plenty of time for that later.

My next stop is back at my office, to receive a chemistry lecture from a professor at Fairleigh Dickinson University, located off Route 4 in Teaneck. The professor, Marianna Davila, will serve as my expert witness on the subject should I need one at trial. I’ve used her before and have always enjoyed the interaction. She’s a very pleasant, attractive young woman who has developed an incongruous reputation as one of the leading authorities on street drugs in North Jersey.

I find with experts in any field that it is counterproductive for me to ask other than general questions early on in our discussions. I don’t want to lead them where I want to go; there’ll be plenty of time for that when I get them on the stand. I want the raw facts first, and then I can figure out how I want to manipulate them.

I have Kevin and Adam sit in on the meeting, and I start by telling Marianna that we are meeting on a matter relating to the Kenny Schilling case. She tries not to show it, but I see her perk up. I know from past conversations that she wouldn’t know a football from an aardvark, but no one is immune from the barrage of media coverage this case has gotten. And it’s only beginning.

“Tell us about Rohypnol,” I say.

“Its nonproprietary name is flunitrazepam” is how she starts, and my eyelids begin drooping. “There is no medically accepted use for it in the United States, and it’s produced almost exclusively outside the country. It’s most prevalent in the U.S. in the South and Southwest, but lately, it’s gotten up here in much bigger quantities. Most of it comes out of Mexico.”

“How long does it take to have an effect?” I ask.

“Usually, thirty minutes to an hour, but it peaks in maybe two hours. Blackouts are possible for eight to twenty-four hours after taking it, which is why its main use is as a date-rape drug.” Anticipating my next question, she says, “It lasts in the bloodstream for up to seventy-two hours.”

“What kind of a high does it give?” Kevin asks.

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t. It’s more of a low. Think Valium, only way stronger. Very relaxing… gives a feeling of peace, serenity, when users know what they’re doing.”

We continue to question Marianna, whose knowledge of the subject seems complete. She’ll make a fine witness if we need her, especially since she says that Rohypnol could absolutely be slipped into a drink.

Marianna leaves, and Adam does as well. I doubt it’s a coincidence; Adam seemed to be so taken with her that he didn’t even take notes while she talked.

I have to wait for Laurie to come by with the report on where she and Marcus stand in their investigation. I’ve structured it so that Laurie is in charge of the overall investigative efforts, and Marcus reports through her. Basically, I’ve set it up this way because I’m afraid of Marcus and Laurie isn’t.

Laurie’s not due for about an hour, so I play a game of sock basketball. It’s a game where I take a pair of rolled-up socks and shoot it at the ledge above the door, which serves as the basket. I set up mock games, and it serves as a stress-reducer and confidence-builder, mainly because I always win.

I’m the Knicks this time, and we beat the Lakers 108–14, the highlight being my thirty-one blocked shots of Shaquille O’Neal. After the twentieth block he gets in my face, but I stare him down. When it comes to nonexistent three-hundred-pound, seven-foot basketball players, I make intimidating eye contact.

Destroying Shaq makes me work up a sweat, compounded by the fact that Edna doesn’t believe in air conditioners and instead keeps the windows open so that we can have fresh air. It’s a concept I’ve never understood. Where do air conditioners get their air in the first place? Don’t they just cool off the same air we always breathe? Or is there some mysterious tubing that leads from some stale air factory direct to our air conditioners? Edna seems to think the air that comes from the dirty city streets through our windows is straight from the Rockies, although I don’t remember seeing too many Coors commercials shot against the backdrop of Market Street in Paterson.

I wash up in the bathroom down the hall and then go back to the office to wait for Laurie and do some paperwork. It turns out that the paperwork part is going to be difficult because sitting at my desk is a large, very ugly man.

“This place is a shithole,” Ugly says.

My first instinct is to run for it, figuring that no normal person, even a nonlarge, nonugly one, would enter my office and sit like that at my desk if he was up to any good. But it seems like a particularly cowardly and ridiculous thing to do; this is my office, and I should at least be able to find out what he is doing here before I bail out.

“Sorry it’s not up to your standards,” I say, “and by the way, who the hell are you?”

Ugly shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is who sent me and what he wants.”

“Fine. Who sent you?”

“My boss. He doesn’t like you talking about him.”

“Cesar Quintana?” I ask.

“Didn’t I just say he doesn’t like you talking about him?”

“So that’s why you’re here, to ask me to be quiet?”

Ugly laughs and stands up, walking slowly around the desk. I start to gauge the distance between myself and the open door. “Right. I’m asking you to be quiet. And if you don’t get quiet, he’ll come see you himself, cut your tongue out, and strangle you with it.”

He moves slowly as he talks, sort of toward me but at an angle. He’s not stalking, just ambling. I move as well, and before I know it, I have been outmaneuvered to the point where I don’t think I can make it to the door before he gets to me. This is not good, and for a moment I consider whether to move toward the double windows overlooking the street. Since Edna left them open, I could call out into the fresh air for help.

I can’t think of anything to say, and my guess is, it wouldn’t matter anyway. Ugly has been given an agenda, whatever that might be, and he wouldn’t likely be entrusted by his boss to make decisions or changes in the moment based on circumstances.

For some reason I notice that he has a bit of a gut and is not in the best of shape. I contemplate whether this gives me any advantage at all and quickly realize that it does not. We’re not going to run the marathon, nor am I going to bob and weave for ten rounds. He might huff and puff a little, but it’s nothing that will stop him from kicking the shit out of me, if that is his mission.

I’m so intent on his motions that for a moment I don’t realize that he is still talking. “… has something that my boss wants. So you get it from him, and maybe we can let you live.”

“What?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your client. You get it from him, give it to me, and we’ll be fine.”

This is a little bewildering. “Get what?”

“Ask your client. He’ll know. And tell him if he doesn’t come up with it, we can get to him in prison.”

“Why don’t you tell me what it is?” I ask, and I can immediately tell that I’m starting to piss him off. He’s won the strategic maneuvering game, and I can’t make it to the door. He starts to move toward me, more threatening now, and I back up toward the window, finally leaning against the wall next to it.

One moment I see him coming toward me, and the next moment my view is blocked by Marcus Clark, standing between us and facing Ugly. I assume he came in through the door and walked across the room, but he managed to do it without either of us noticing him. I know this because I see a flash of surprise on Ugly’s face, but no real concern. He’s not afraid of Marcus, which makes him an idiot. But he does seem to realize that Marcus will be somewhat more difficult to contend with than I am.

“Step aside, friend,” Ugly says.

Marcus, ever the gregarious conversationalist, just stands there and doesn’t say a word.

“I’m not going to tell you again,” Ugly says, and then without waiting for a response, pulls his fist back to take a swing at Marcus. It is safe to say that Ugly is not a Rhodes scholar.

Marcus’s movement is so quick as to be imperceptible, but the thud of his fist hitting Ugly’s stomach echoes through the office. It is followed by a gasp and then gagging, as Ugly doubles over in stunned agony. As he leans over, Marcus picks him up over his shoulder, so that the very large Ugly is completely off the ground.

“Put him down, Marcus.” The voice is Laurie’s, and I look up to see that she has just joined the party. “Come on, Marcus, put him down.”

Marcus looks over at her, nods, then walks a few feet and drops Ugly out the open double windows. I hear a thud as he lands and some screams from people one floor below on the street.

“I think she meant to put him down in the office,” I say, but Marcus seems unconcerned with his mistake.

Laurie and I go to the window and look down. Ugly had crashed through one of the awnings above the fruit stand, crushing it. He then landed in a display of cantaloupes, which I hope were ripe enough to have cushioned his fall.

As startled bystanders come over, Ugly staggers to his feet, still apparently more hurt from the effects of Marcus’s punch than his fall. He makes it to a nearby parked car, opens the door, and falls into the passenger seat. The driver, who was waiting for him, pulls out.

“I’ll be right back,” I say. “I’ve got to go buy some cantaloupes.”

I go downstairs to pay Sofia Hernandez, the owner of the fruit stand, enough money to take care of the damage and aggravation. She’s amazingly calm about it, as if thugs falling from the sky are an unfortunate but expected part of doing business.

I’m ready to go back upstairs when Pete Stanton pulls up, along with two other cars with patrolmen. Pete comes over to me, a grin on his face. “When I heard on the radio that the guy came flying out of your office window, I had to take the call.”

“Thanks for caring,” I say, and suggest that he come upstairs. “Marcus is up there.”

Pete nods in understanding. “Ah, the human launching pad.”

Pete comes up, and Laurie and I watch with barely concealed amusement as he tries to question Marcus. If a transcript could be done of this interview, and there were a thousand words spoken, Pete would be shown to have spoken nine hundred and seventy of them. Marcus simply has little to say, whether he is talking to Pete, the SS, or anyone else.

Finally, Pete turns to me as a witness to the events. I ask Marcus if I can speak for him, and he both nods and grunts, which represents a ringing endorsement of me as his spokesman.

I describe Ugly, though it is a basic, not very helpful description. I have no comprehension of how some people can remember faces as well as they do. More amazing is how they can describe them. It’s not even just a question of memory; if you gave me a picture of someone to refer to, I still couldn’t describe him or her well enough for a police artist to draw.

When I am finished, Pete says, “He sounds like any one of a hundred people who work for Quintana.”

“Except this one can fly,” I point out.

“Right. Now, exactly how did that come about?”

“It’s pretty simple,” I say. “He was hassling me, Marcus asked that he stop, he attacked Marcus, Marcus picked him up, Laurie asked Marcus to put him down, and Marcus put him down.”

“Outside the window,” Pete says.

Laurie says, “My mistake was in not telling Marcus which side of the window to put him down on.”

“The guy was having trouble breathing,” I say, “and Marcus has heard Edna mention that the air is fresher out there. He was doing him a favor.”

“After this, Quintana’s going to send people after you in bunches,” Pete says, injecting some depressing reality. “Is Marcus always going to be there?”