Beach Road (16 page)

This makes Lindgren crankier than usual, and when I finally sit beside him in the shade, he doesn’t
bother to look up from his
Guns & Ammo.

“I pegged you more for
House and Garden
or
O.

”

“You’re late.”
“Unavoidable,” I say. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”
“Halleyville’s lawyers, for one thing. They cornered me last night at the station. That snotty Ivy League
bitch was all over me.”
“About what?”
“Why the call about the gun came directly to me and not through the main switchboard.”
I laugh, but it’s not that funny. “She’s just fishing in the dark.”
“I don’t think so. They’re onto something, and what I’d like to know is what are we going to do about it?”
“Not a thing. You expect me to kill somebody every time you get a heart palpitation? If you were the
worrying type you should have stuck to the police manual and stayed away from drug-dealing slime like
me. Give me your hand.”
“You a fag or something?” Lindgren says, and snorts out a laugh.

“Not that I’m aware of. Open your hand.”
You shouldn’t be a drug dealer if you don’t believe in the healing power of modern pharmacology, and
when Hugo unclenches his fingers, I fill his palm with a dozen lovely white Vicodins.

“These little fellas will chill your ass out.”
“I think we got a real problem,” says Lindgren. “And I thought you’d want to be the first to know. But I’ll
keep an open mind.”
And with that, Lindgren lays two Vicodin on his tongue, slips the rest into his shirt pocket, and marches off
to fight crime in the Hamptons.

Tom
I GUESS THIS is what you would call a high point, and actually, it is. At the very least, it’s a much-needed
break for Kate and me.

Amin greets us as if we’re old pals and leads us through a succession of huge, airy rooms adorned with
Picassos and Pollocks even I can recognize. Then it’s back outside to a flagstone terrace with endless views
of Georgica Pond. I’ve thumbed through the mags with mansions shot like centerfolds, but maybe the real
stuff never gets photographed, because this is way beyond that.

On the terrace a small cocktail party is in full swing, and the moment we step into it, Steven Spielberg,
looking far more accessible without his baseball cap, disentangles himself from a nearby conversation.

“Tom! Kate! So wonderful to finally meet you,” he says as if only the most unlikely of circumstances
could have delayed it this long, and waves over waiters bearing champagne and oysters.

“We feel the same way, Steven.” Kate grins so that I’m not really sure about her point of view here.

“To new friends then,” he says, “and, of course, to Dante Halleyville’s successful defense.” His bright,
merry eyes light up as we take our first sip of his champagne. When I say “his,” I mean that literally, since
it comes from his own Northern California vineyard.

Ten feet away, in front of a three-piece combo, a gorgeous black woman in a floor-length dress sings, “Just
in time, I found you just in time,” and the air is full of silvery murmurings. Yet it’s obvious as the whiskers
on Spielberg’s chin that Kate and I are the center of attention.

Then Steven-we’re on a first-name basis now-raises one hand as if he’s just remembered his hostly
obligations and says, “Come! Let me introduce you.” We follow him from the periphery to the white-
hot center, where the evening quickly slides from over the top to
Twilight Zone.

“George and Julianne,” says Steven, “I’d like you to meet Kate and Tom.” And now we have no
choice but to shoot the breeze with George Clooney and Julianne Moore, both of whom are as
electrically
on
as if they are sitting on the hot seat next to Letterman, Leno, or Jon Stewart. Just as we’re getting
slightly comfortable, it’s time to meet Clive Owen and Kate Winslet, Julia Roberts, Matt Damon, and
Ashley Judd. The only unrecognizable face we’re introduced to belongs to Alan Shales, whose Oscars
are for screenwriting.

There are fewer than a dozen guests on the terrace, but they’re a sizable chunk of A-list Hollywood. They
can’t all just happen to be in the Hamptons this weekend, particularly at this time of year. When I can’t
resist asking about it, Steven says, “I flew them in this afternoon.”
A half hour later, we’re shepherded to a second terrace where a table has been set, and for the next two
hours, Kate and I take turns answering questions about ourselves, our backgrounds, and the case. I guess
we’re entertainment, the flavor of the month that Spielberg, on a whim, has decided to share with a dozen
pals.

But that doesn’t make sense either. These actors and actresses are professional acquaintances of his,
colleagues not buddies. And why are they all staring at Kate and me so intently and hanging on our every
word as if there’s going to be a test on us the next morning? I swear I’m not making this up, but as I’m
saying something about the case, I notice that Clooney and Damon are holding their hands like I do and
sinking into their chairs with the same slouch.

Is that something actors do unconsciously, or am I being
mocked.

Or both? And then it comes to me. The movie about this case is already moving toward production.
Steven has signed on, but everything else is up for grabs. What George and Julianne, Julia and Kate
and Clive are doing at this glam gathering is auditioning.

To play us.

Kate
ALL VISITORS TO the Riverhead Correctional Facility are welcomed with a hospitable placard:

GIVING MONEY, FOOD, OR ANY OTHER CONTRABAND TO AN INMATE IS A FELONY
PUNISHABLE BY UP TO A YEAR IN JAIL. IF YOU ARE CAUGHT BRINGING CONTRABAND
INTO THIS FACILITY YOU WILL STAY HERE.

Tom and I have walked past it umpteen times, but this morning, Tom nudges me and clears his throat.

“Whatever,” I say.

Five minutes later, after stashing our money and keys and passing through metal detectors and locked-off
checkpoints, we are back in the tiny attorney’s room that has become our second office.

But this isn’t going to be a normal workday, and when Dante steps into the room, I point him to the chair
in front of the Mac PowerBook on what’s normally my side of the table. Then I close the door behind me.

“Dante,” I say softly, “we know it’s your birthday Sunday, so we’re giving you a little party.”
As Dante flashes a smile of surprise and affection I won’t forget if I live to be a hundred, Tom slips a pair
of headphones over his head. He hits a key on the computer, and I turn off the lights.

”
Happy birthday, Dante!!!
” marches across the screen to a hip-hop beat, and Dante taps his feet with delight. It’s pretty
amateurish. As auteurs, Tom and I have a ways to go, but after we stumbled out of Spielberg’s
backyard a couple weeks ago, we figured Dante could use a break from reality too.

Following the birthday greeting, the brand-new, not-yet-released Jamie Foxx movie, which we procured
with considerable help from our new best buddy, fills the computer screen, and Dante, eighteen or not,
smiles like the kid he still is. As the opening credits roll, I open my briefcase and hand Dante an important
legal document. That’s not strictly true. What I hand him is a small tub of popcorn. I read the sign. I know
it’s a felony, but it just isn’t a movie without popcorn.

Two hours later, when our feature presentation comes to a close, Tom hits the Return key one last time.
Among the countless things Dante has been unfairly denied over seven months is the dunk contest at the
NBA All-Star Game. No more. Last night we downloaded it into my laptop, and for the next fifteen
minutes, I watch Dante and Tom shake their heads and whisper astute commentary like “Nasty!” and
“Sick!” and “Ridiculous!”
I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun, and I realize that my whole world is inside this little
room.

Dante
I DIDN’T THINK it was possible. Not in this hellhole. Not walking down a long, nasty tunnel, wrists and
ankles in chains, locked up for something I didn’t do.

But I actually feel good. Instead of thinking about how messed up everything is, about my broken-hearted
grandmoms back in her trailer, I’m thinking about what Kate and Tom did this morning. It makes me feel
warm inside.

I guess you live in your head more than anyplace else. If your head is in a good place it doesn’t matter
quite as much if the rest of you isn’t. For the first time since I got here, time doesn’t feel like a stone I got to
drag from one end of the day to the other. It feels like it can pass by on its own.

The tunnel taking me back to my cell runs some two hundred yards before reaching the stairwell up to my
cell block, and because of how unusual the morning’s been, it takes me half of that to notice that the
guard, whose name is Louis, is kind of quiet today. What’s up with that? Most of the time, Louis is a
chatterbox, always wanting to talk hoops and tell me about all his old-school favorites from the eighties
and nineties, but this morning, when I actually feel like talking, he’s not saying a word. I realize it must be
tough, being a prison turnkey.

“I got to use the bathroom,” says Louis. “I’m going to leave you for a minute.”
“Whatever. I’m in no hurry.”
Louis bolts the chain running from my ankle to a pipe along the wall, and when I see his expression as he
steps into the bathroom, everything comes together in a rush. I know what’s happening.

Then I hear heavy footsteps coming fast from the far end of the corridor.

I try to reach for the fire alarm five feet away on the wall, but the way Louis has me attached to the pipe I
can’t reach it. Then I try to rip the pipe off the wall, but I can’t move it, hard as I yank.

A voice from inside a nearby cell cries, “Run, youngblood! Run!”
But how can I run with my hands and feet in chains.

Too late for that. I can’t even grab the fire extinguisher from the wall. The answer has got to be
somewhere in my head. The answer has got to be
somewhere,
and it better come fast.

The pounding footsteps are louder now, and when I look down the corridor again, I see they’ve sent a
brother to do the job. A
big
brother. He fills the corridor like a subway coming through a tunnel.

And now I can see his face-it’s no one I’ve seen before-and something shiny is in his right hand.

I can only take three steps, but it’s enough to reach the bathroom door, the one behind which Louis is
hiding right now, waiting for this to be over so he can jump out and pull the alarm.

I don’t bang on the door like a desperate man who is about to die. I tap on it real soft with my
knuckles, like the one who has just done the killing, and I whisper in a strange voice-
“Louis, it’s done.”

Then I step to the other side of the door real quick. I also start to pray.

My killer is less than ten feet away, close enough for me to see that he’s looking scared too. And I need for
him to see that I’m every bit as big as him, and my fists out front let him know I’m not going down without
a fight. That makes him pause for a second, but just a second.

Then he takes one more step, with his knife held out in front of him like a spear. He lunges at me with the
shiv just as the bathroom door opens, and as I duck down, Louis steps out.

The killer is so startled it gives me time to spring up from my crouch, and holding my fists together, I hit
him right under his chin. I catch him solid with all I got. It knocks him out cold and sends the homemade
knife clattering to the ground at his feet.

Even with both hands and feet manacled I could reach the knife and kill the thug they sent to kill me, but
despite what some people think, I haven’t killed anyone yet and don’t plan to start now.

Raiborne
THE FACT THAT there’s nothing in the forensic reports linking the murders of Michael Walker and
Manny Rodriguez helps me keep my mind off the two dead men for a while. Then I start to get nuts again.
I call Vince Meehan. Vince, who runs the evidence room, gives me the number of the individual who
picked up Rodriguez’s silver crucifix, empty wallet, and packed iPod.

It belongs to a twenty-three-year-old waitress named Moreal Entonces, and a few hours later, I’m at the
counter of a trendy Cuban diner in Nolita listening to Moreal tell me her and Manny’s life story.

This one’s sadder than most. Not just because Moreal and Manny had a cute eighteen-month-old
daughter, but because she really believed in the guy. And the guy actually may have been worth believing
in.

“Manny had talent,” says Moreal, whose caramel skin is the same color as the flan she puts down beside
my coffee. “But he couldn’t catch a break.

“That’s why he was at Cold Ground,” she continues. “Manny was an artist, but he was working as a
gofer for free. Not even that. He bought sandwiches and coffee with his
own
money sometimes, all on a chance that a big-shot producer would give him four minutes of his
precious time.

“And what happens when a producer finally
does
agree to hear his song? Manny gets shot in the back of his head the night before, caught in the middle
of some nonsense he had nothing to do with.”

“What was the song? The last one?” I ask her.

“‘Arroz con Frijoles’: ‘Rice and Beans.’ And that track was something. For real.”

“Is that what your name means, Moreal.

More real.

”

“That’s good. I might even borrow it. But no. In Colombia, where I’m from, Moreal is like Mary or
Martha.”
I nurse my café con leche and scan the pictures of Cuba on the wall-beautiful, ornate streets filled with
big-finned American cars from the fifties. I let Moreal decide when her story is over, and it’s another ten
minutes before I ask the one question I came here to ask.

“Moreal, I know this may sound ridiculous, but had Manny been spending time in the Hamptons?”