Against the Wind (32 page)

“Oh man. This ain’t happening.”

I’m numb. The jury believed that fucking bimbo. Four men that I
know
, that I know, are innocent, have just been sentenced to die.

THE JURY RECONVENES
a week later for the death-penalty phase, which is a formality. I knew that going in—if I didn’t get them off clean, they’d fry. The jury wastes no time. There is nothing redeeming about these men. They are not in any way part of civilized society, and have to be removed from it in the most extreme way possible. They are to be incarcerated until such time as they will be put to death by lethal injection.

The bikers are cuffed, placed in leg irons, led out. I’ve already told them we’ll appeal; it’s automatic in a death-penalty case. If it goes all the way to the Supreme Court they’ll be on Death Row for seven years, maybe longer.

“No hard feelings, I hope,” Robertson says. He’s come over, extended his hand.

I don’t take it.

“They’re innocent, goddam it.” This is heart-breaking.

He doesn’t see it that way; he’s quietly elated.

“The jury said otherwise. That’s how it works.”

“They were framed.”

“You’re pissing against the wind, Will.”

“Someday I’m going to prove it,” I argue hotly. Fuck civility.

“They were guilty, Will,” he says calmly. He’s won; he can afford to be civil. “They were guilty before they ever stepped into the courtroom. And everybody knew it except you.”

“The old ‘we’re gonna give ’em a fair trial and then we’re gonna hang ’em.’” It tastes bitter in my mouth; and true. “You neglected to tell me that part when you called me into this; kind of an important oversight, wouldn’t you say?”

He won’t rise to the bait.

“I thought frontier justice was history, John.”

“Sometimes it’s the only way,” he says, as he turns his back to me and walks out.

The courtroom empties. I don’t want to leave; there’s nothing good out there for me. There’s nothing good in here, either. I’m paralyzed in my own emotions.

Finally, only Mary Lou and I remain. She half-hugs, half-leans against me.

“We did our best.”

“That’s small consolation,” I say.

“Come on. It’s time to go.”

She takes my hand.

“Not yet,” I tell her. “I need space. Please.”

She nods, slowly. “Are you going to handle the appeal?”

“Yes.”

“By yourself?”

“I guess. It’s automatic anyway, at least this part.”

“Do you want help?”

I shrug. I’m lost.

She straightens up, picks up her briefcase. “You know how to reach me if you want to,” she says. I nod.

She starts to say something more, thinks better of it, turns and walks out, her high heels echoing in the empty chamber.

It’s dark when I finally go outside. There’s no one around; to the victor goes the coverage. I get in my car and start home. Tonight is no time for celebration; more for mourning. Either way I’m going to get blasted until I don’t remember why.

I’
M SITTING IN THE BAR
of the Albuquerque Airport, waiting for my flight. In the background the radio’s playing a medley of my favorite Christmas hits: “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” Cheech and Chong’s “Santa Claus and His Old Lady,” “Jingle Bell Rock.” In half an hour I board a plane for Seattle, bearing gifts. Christmas in a strange town, with my daughter in her new digs.

It’ll be my first time there. I could’ve had her for the holidays—that’s part of the agreement Patricia and I made—but it doesn’t seem right, Claudia’s traveling back and forth right out of the box, like a yo-yo. Let her be with both of us, get accustomed to her new surroundings. It’s got to be hard.

I catch the bartender’s eye, cock my finger.
Una más
. José Cuervo, you are a friend of mine. Actually, it’s Johnnie Walker. Same difference.

It’s been a shitty couple of months, to put it mildly. The Monday after the verdict came in I received the final divorce papers. Holly cleaned me out; the house, all the furniture, her car, most of the joint account, the works. What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is mine. Fuck it, I didn’t care, truth be known it’s a relief. The slate wiped clean, no reminders.

I didn’t give her alimony; she works, art gallery management, good money. We didn’t have kids; she was ‘never ready.’ Thank God in retrospect, sharing one is tough enough. She took her own name back, plans on selling the house and moving to Taos. Fine with me—if I never see her again it’ll be too soon.

A week after that, Andy and Fred lowered the boom. They’d decided a long time ago, probably the day they made me take the leave of absence. If I’d won the trial they might’ve reconsidered.

But I lost.

For the record it’s an amicable parting, conflicting directions philosophically about where each of us wanted to go with the practice. It cost them $200,000, but it’s spread out over four years, which won’t do much more than cover my office expenses.

Some of my clients came with me. Fred made vague noises about restricting the exodus, but it was strictly the clients’ choices, I kept my mouth shut. Secretly, of course, I was pleased. Susan came with me, too.

I won’t starve to death, and I’ll have enough work to keep my mind from turning inward, where the self-pitying sleeps.

At least I suckered Holly. Not the way I wanted, but when you’re on a losing streak any victory tastes sweet, even if you have to eat a ton of shit to taste it. She won’t get a penny of the buyout; if they’d made their move two weeks earlier she’d have an extra hundred thousand in her account. She’ll feel cheated and put-upon when she hears about it. Isn’t that too fucking bad. Like I said, I’ll take a victory any way I can get it.

Fred wanted to trip the door, knowing my timetable on the divorce. Andy wouldn’t let him. Someday I’ll have to thank him for that, once I get over hating their chickenshit guts.

Actually, I am already over it. It was finished months ago, the first day they called me out, cut me adrift. This merely formalized it. I don’t wish them ill; we had a lot of good times together, on the way up.

Mary Lou called me when she heard the news. She was distraught, genuinely upset. It’s a terrible injustice, she’d said, kicking you like that when you’re down. Like it doesn’t happen all the time. If you’re not down they can’t kick you, right?

We got together for a drink so she could see first-hand I was all right. What she wanted was to take me home and take care of me. As politely and gently as possible, I turned her down.

Simple reason: if I’d gone home with her I wouldn’t have been able to leave. It would’ve been all lovey-dovey and I’d have wound up moving out of my shitbox and in with her. We’d eat breakfast together and dinner together, terrific meals she’d just whip up after a hard day at the office, or romantic twosomes in quiet little restaurants.

We’d fall in love, for real. And I can’t do that. I’m too damn low to get into any new entanglements. I need space; not that I want it, but I need the discipline. I feel like everybody’s looking at me, feeling sorry for me, which I’m sure they are. I don’t want to bring that into a new relationship. And there’s a sublimated pool of feeling, a small attic in the back of my brain where I keep my bad feelings wrapped up like bundles of old newspapers, that’s down on all women now because of Holly and what she cost me; I loved her once, too. Mary Lou shouldn’t have to carry that burden. When it’s gone, and it will be in time, then I’ll think about a relationship.

Maybe.

If it was just fucking, that would be all right. But it couldn’t be just fucking with her. I tried to explain that. She fought it, said if that’s all it can be now, fine.

Neither of us believed it. That’s why we went home separately.

Since then I haven’t called her. When I get up the guts, she’ll be with someone else.

Shakespeare says “when sorrows come they come not single spies but in battalions.” No shit. The worst came last. Patricia moved a month ago, the weekend after Thanksgiving. They left on a Saturday morning, in her car.

Claudia had spent the last few days with me, our own private Thanksgiving. We shopped together for an organic turkey, which I cooked with the trimmings. She made a pumpkin pie, all by herself, I didn’t have to help her a bit. We hiked in the mountains, fished, played catch with her Dan Marino-autographed football. Everything but talk about her leave-taking.

We saved that for Friday night, sitting on her bed surrounded by her old stuffed toys. Beyond the ‘I’ll miss you’s’ and ‘I’ll call you’s’ and ‘we’ll see lots of each other’ stuff we didn’t really know what to say. It’s uncharted territory, we’ve been separated almost from her birth but we’ve never been separated for real.

I stood outside Patricia’s house and watched as they drove away. Claudia climbed over into the back seat on top of the books and records and pressed her face against the rear window, watching me recede in the distance. I waved to her. It was cold out; we’d had an early snowfall the week before and there were still scattered patchy remnants of ice and snow. I could feel my face stinging from the wind as it blew against my wet cheeks.

The Johnnie Walker tastes good, even better than usual. I’ll nurse it, make it last until I board the plane. “Blue Christmas” by Elvis comes over the radio. Talk about timing; in the movies they’d say it was too on-the-nose. That’s the problem with life sometimes; it doesn’t come out like the movies.

EVEN THOUGH PATRICIA
had told me where they were moving, her new apartment still comes as a surprise. It’s in a high-rise, on the twenty-second floor, practically a penthouse, with great views overlooking Puget Sound. You can almost see to Canada it’s so high. All the furniture is new out-of-the-wrapper, of course, and tastefully understated, as befitting a freshly-successful attorney.

“A decorator did it,” she confesses, a proprietary hand caressing the linen shade of an Anne Taylor table lamp. “I didn’t have the time. It was all done and waiting for me … us … when we got here.”

“
Très chic
,” I say. A blind man could tell that a decorator had done it; maybe that’s because it’s basically unlived-in. No cigarette burns or wine stains. Except for a few Nancy Drew mysteries scattered about the floor, nothing of Claudia either. I wander around, looking out at the views. It’s early evening, Patricia just got back from her office (also newly-decorated, I later discover). She kicks off her pumps, tosses her coat onto an over-stuffed chair. Her clothes are new, too. Tasteful and expensive, a power outfit. Her tits are about the oldest thing she’s got now. I wonder when the face-lift is coming.

“I had to buy a whole new wardrobe,” she explains, noticing my look. “It’s a more formal town for business.” She pauses. “And I’m not buried in the stacks anymore.”

She doesn’t quite pull off throwing the last sentence away. There’s the touch of the defensive in it, the need to justify.

“That’s good,” I answer.

“Anyway,” she says, flitting around the new furniture like a lost hummingbird, “about dinner, why don’t I order in? I would’ve cooked but I didn’t know what your plans were, when you were arriving …” she tails off awkwardly. Suddenly we’re strangers in a way we never were before.

“If it’s okay with you I’d like to take Claudia out,” I say. “The two of us.”

“Oh.” She hesitates. “It’s a school night …” She catches herself. “Sure, of course, Will, whatever you want.”

“So anyway where is she?” I ask. I’m uncomfortable as hell here, it’s not that I feel like an intruder (although I do): I flat-out don’t belong. They’ve been here a month and it’s so settled in its antisepticness, so grown-up. The home of a well-to-do, middle-aged career woman.

“Downstairs with her friend Lily. They’re in the same school together so they come home after school and play. Same grade even. Lily’s mother doesn’t work. I’m so lucky, there’re two girls right here in the building her age. Her two new best friends.”

She’s nervous around me, she can’t stand still. I’d called her office when I landed and she’d arranged to take the rest of the day off and meet me at her place. I came straight over without checking into my hotel, which she’d gotten for me, two blocks away. ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to stay here, Will,’ she’d said, like she’d been thinking about it. I wasn’t sure then: a stirring in my pants, brought on by hearing her low voice over the phone, reminded me of our last encounter, not an unpleasant memory. But seeing her now, I whole-heartedly agree; I have no eyes to stay with the woman standing before me. The new clothes, the new pad, new everything, it’s all great, I’m glad for her, for real I am, but it feels wrong, like a kid playing grown-up in her mother’s oversized shoes. It isn’t her; the Pat I know. Whatever sex appeal she’d had for me is gone, up in smoke somewhere with the T-shirts and running shorts.

She calls down, tells Lily’s mother to send Claudia up right away. “Would you like a drink?” she asks. “I don’t remember; do you drink martinis?”

Martinis? The last time I saw her she was guilt-tripping herself over a beer.

“I’ve been known to,” I say.

“I’ll join you.” She walks into the kitchen, pulls out the gin—Bombay, I admire her taste—the vermouth, pitcher, ice cubes.

“Super dry?” she asks.

“The drier the better.” I watch as she mixes the drinks with a practiced hand. She’s done this before.

“I didn’t know you drank,” I say. “I mean you don’t drink do you?”

“Oh, you know,” she laughs: too loudly, forced. “When everyone else is … actually, I don’t hardly. Once in a while, to unwind.” She hands me my martini, with two olives in it, the same as hers. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” We both sip. I don’t like this. In one month she’s moved into a decorated high-rise, done in her absence and with none of her own particular taste, changed her mode of dress to that of every other upwardly-mobile career woman, and started drinking serious whiskey.

She makes a face at her drink, pops an olive in her mouth.

“It’s an acquired taste,” I say.

“I don’t plan on it becoming much of a habit,” she tells me. “Not enough to acquire a taste; a real taste.”