Authors: James Patterson
Car doors open and slam shut, and then heavy footsteps clomp up the steep stairs. It sounds as if there are
three or four people coming, and based on the creaking, they’re all large and probably males.
I reach for the baseball bat I’ve been keeping beside the desk and look over at Kate. She returns my
nervous smile and shrugs, but the glint in her eye says, “Bring it on.”
Tom
THE HEAD THAT pokes through the door doesn’t belong to a drunken local lout. It’s Calvin Coles, the
minister at Riverhead Baptist. Calvin has been over a couple times in the last few months and apologizes
for the lateness of the visit as two other formidable black men, both wearing dark suits, follow him into the
room. The heads of all three nearly scrape the low ceiling.
Coles smiles awkwardly and introduces his companions, as if it’s necessary. One is Reverend Marvin
Shields, the other Ronnie Montgomery, the dapper black attorney who became a celeb after winning the
acquittal of former Major League Baseball star Lorenzo Lewis for the murder of his wife.
“I’ve got some very exciting news,” says Reverend Shields, stepping forward and clasping my hands in
both of his. “After some serious cajoling and arm twisting, Mr. Montgomery has generously volunteered to
take over Dante Halleyville’s defense.”
“The trial starts in a few days,” says Kate, her voice calm, her eyes red hot.
Ronnie Montgomery responds with a condescending smile. “Obviously, I’m going to ask for an extension,”
he says. “And I have no reason to believe I won’t get it.”
“Have you spoken to Dante?” I finally say.
“I wanted to come here first,” says Montgomery, “as a professional courtesy.”
Montgomery takes in our modest office, conveying with a shrug what it suggests about our
inappropriateness for this huge case and about our chances in the upcoming trial.
“I know you mean well, and I’m sure you’ve worked terribly hard. And both of you are welcome to stay
on to help with the transition. But you’re way out of your depth here, and Dante Halleyville deserves
more.”
When Montgomery serves up another condescending smile, I’m kind of sorry I put down that baseball bat.
Tom
THE NEXT MORNING as Kate’s Jetta pulls into the lot behind the Riverhead Correctional Facility, Ronnie
Montgomery’s black Mercedes limo pulls out. This is the end of the line for us. It’s like arriving for your
last day of work to find your replacement already sitting in your chair, cleaning out your desk.
But Kate and I adhere to our routine. We park in our spot, exchange pleasant greetings with Mike and Billy
at the front desk, and stash our watches and keys in locker number 1924.
For presumably the last time, Sheila, the only female guard at the maximum-security jail, who has
somehow worked here twenty-three years, escorts us through the sliding steel gates into the purgatory of
the attorney rooms. Dante, having just met with Montgomery, is already there.
He looks at his feet and says, “We’ve got to talk.”
Kate and I sink into our seats at the small metal table. I bite my tongue and wait for the ax. I haven’t felt
this awful in a long time.
“I just had a visit from Ronnie Montgomery,” says Dante. “The brother that got off the baseball player
Lorenzo Lewis.”
“He stopped by our office last night,” says Kate.
“Then I guess you already know he’s offered to take the case. He said he hasn’t lost a trial in fifteen
years.”
“Might be true,” says Kate.
“He said that this is the most important decision I’ll ever make. That I need to take some time with it.”
“What’d you say?”
“Time’s up, Mr. Montgomery. I already lost ten months in here. I know what I got to do.”
“Which is what?” I ask.
“You got to understand this ain’t personal. Lorenzo Lewis’s clothes were smeared with his wife’s blood.
When the cops arrived he locked himself in his bathroom, took thirty sleeping pills, and called his mama.
Montgomery still got him off.”
“That was a unique case,” says Kate, “but we won’t take it personally.”
“You sure?”
“For Christ’s sake, Dante, what did you tell him?”
“I told him, no thanks, bro’. I like the lawyers I got.
“You think I’m crazy?” says Dante, pointing a long finger at Kate and smiling as though she’s just been
Punk’d. “I hire Montgomery, and everyone, including the jury, is going to assume I’m as guilty as Lorenzo
Lewis. Plus, I figure Montgomery used up his luck for three lifetimes on that other case. Kate, you crying
on me, girl?”
Kate
DANTE’S GRANDMOM MARIE bows her head and reaches for my hand, which I gratefully give her.
“Thank you, Lord, for the abundance we are about to receive,” she says. “Thank you for the strength
to endure this terrible, terrible ordeal and most of all for delivering such dedicated attorneys as Tom
and Kate. Bless this meal, oh Lord, and please find it in your heart to keep an eye out for my grandson
Dante. My
innocent
grandson. Amen.”
Saturday evening, two days before the trial, and every friend Tom and I have left sits around Macklin’s
dining room table. With only Mack and Marie; Tom’s brother, Jeff, and nephew Sean; Clarence and his
wife, Vernell, there’s plenty of leg and elbow room.
“To this time next year,” says Mack, raising a glass and trying as always to lighten the mood. “When
Dante sits next to us, stuffs his face, and tells barely believable tales of Shaq and Kobe, Amare and
LeBron.”
The guest list for the meal is short, but the table groans under a rarely seen combination of Caribbean and
Irish standards. After almost a year in near isolation, the company means more than the food to me. But
the food is wonderful too. We’re in the process of eating way too much of it when the ringing of Tom’s cell
pierces the room. “I better answer it,” he says.
He pulls it from his pocket and raises one hand in apology as the blood drains from his face.
“We’ve got to turn on Fox News,” he tells everybody.
Half of us are already in the living room with our desserts, and the rest shuffle over and twist a chair to
face Mack’s antique Zenith. Sean finds channel 16 just as the anchor turns it over to a field reporter.
“I’m live in Queens,” says a perky blonde, “directly across from St. John’s Law School, alma mater of
Tom Dunleavy, cocounsel in the capital murder trial of Dante Halleyville. According to documents just
obtained by Fox, Dunleavy, a star basketball player at St. John’s, was accepted into the law school despite
grades a full point below the admission minimum.”
“Quite a scoop,” says Macklin, snorting.
“Despite graduating in the bottom fifth of his class,” continues the reporter, “Dunleavy was hired by the
Brooklyn Public Defender’s Office, where he received mediocre evaluations.
“The most troubling allegation, however, is that in 1997, Dunleavy had someone take the Law Boards for
him.
“According to copies of the test obtained by Fox and examined by independent handwriting experts,
Dunleavy’s exams, on which he scored surprisingly well for a student with his grades, were taken by
someone who is
right-handed.
Dunleavy, a two-time All-American, is
left-handed.
“If this is true, Dante Halleyville, who faces capital punishment and whose trial begins in forty-eight hours,
has put his life in the hands of someone who is not even a lawyer.”
Tom
AT 9:00 P.M. the following night, the somber-faced clerk for Suffolk County Supreme Court judge
Richard Rothstein waves me, Kate, and District Attorney Dominic Ioli into his well-appointed chambers,
where we take our seats at a long mahogany table.
Ioli, a loquacious career pol with a full head of gray hair, makes a couple stabs at idle chatter, but
when he sees we’re in no mood, he abandons the effort and thumbs through his
Times.
I know this much about Dominic Ioli-he’s a whole lot smarter than he looks, and he rarely loses.
When Judge Rothstein strides in, wearing khakis and a button-down white shirt, his penetrating black eyes
and long sharp nose tell me I’m exactly the kind of dumb Irish jock he’s got no time or use for.
Bypassing pleasantries, he turns to Ioli and asks, “What’s your office’s position on this, Dominic?”
“We haven’t had time to fully assess the charges,” he says, “but I don’t think it matters. Whatever decision
this court makes should be beyond reproach. If defense stays on, we leave the door wide open for appeal.
Assigning new counsel will require a delay, but it’s better to spend that time now than to have to come
back and do this all over again.”
“Sounds reasonable,” says Rothstein, and turns his eyes on me. “Dunleavy?”
I’m prepared to argue forcefully, but I have no intention of getting down on my knees for anyone. “Your
Honor, the grades and evaluations are what they are,” I say in an offhanded tone. “But I’m sure in your
career you’ve come across at least a couple of excellent attorneys who weren’t brilliant law students. For
all I know, the district attorney is one of them.”
Encouraged by the hint of a smile in Rothstein’s eyes, I barge ahead.
“So the only charge that matters is that I had someone take the Law Boards for me, and that’s absolutely
false. Here’s a copy of X-rays of my left wrist, taken the night before I took the boards, and here’s a record
of my visit to Saint Vincent’s emergency room April 5, 1997.
“I was playing a pickup game at the Cage in the Village that night and took a hard fall. I could have gotten
a medical extension, but I’d spent months preparing and, frankly, at that point, wasn’t sure I wanted to be
a lawyer. I decided to take them right-handed and let the scores decide for me.”
“You telling me you passed the bar writing with your wrong hand, Dunleavy?”
“I don’t have a wrong hand. I’m ambidextrous.”
“The multiple choice maybe, but the essay?”
“It’s the truth,” I say, looking straight into his eyes. “Take it or leave it.”
“We’ll see,” says Rothstein, and slides a legal pad across the table. Then he reaches behind him and blindly
grabs a book off the shelf.
“You’re in luck, Dunleavy-Joyce’s
Ulysses.
I’ll dictate the first line, you jot it down right-handed as fast as you can. Ready?”
“It’s been seven years since I’ve had to do this.”
“What do you care? You don’t have a wrong hand. Ready?”
“Yup.”
“‘Stately, plump Buck Mulligan,’” reads Rothstein with pleasure, “‘came from the stairhead, bearing a
bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.’”
I scribble furiously and slide the pad back.
“Now I know why you went to your right so well, Dunleavy,” says Rothstein, the smile in his eyes moving
down to his thin lips. “Your handwriting’s better than mine. By the way, I made a couple phone calls this
afternoon, and it turns out this rumor came out of the offices of Ronnie Montgomery. I’ll see you in court
tomorrow morning.”
“But, Your Honor,” says Ioli.
“I’ll see you too, Dominic.”
Kate
DRAINED BY THE test in Rothstein’s chambers, Tom slowly drives my car through Riverhead toward the
Sunrise Highway. Neither of us says a word.
The full moon lights up the road, and some of that light spills onto the front seat where Tom’s right hand
lies on the armrest between us.
To be honest, I’ve always loved Tom’s strong hands, with their thick, raised veins running from his
battered knuckles to his wrists. In two decades of basketball, every finger has been dislocated so many
times that not one of them is straight. They’ve become a kind of relief map of his life revealing everything
he’s been through.
Without really thinking about it, I lay my hand on his.
Tom’s hand jumps, and he looks at me, stunned. Then, just as quickly, he turns away.
Why’d I do it.
I’m not really sure. It could have been for the balls and charm he showed winning over Rothstein and
pulling victory out of his hat one more time, or maybe it’s everything the two of us have been through
in the last year. Or, I’ve just wanted to do it for months.
But I don’t regret it-and to let Tom know it was no accident but an intentional piece of insanity, I wrap
my fingers around his.
For the next half hour, the car is filled with a very different kind of quiet. “I’ll pick you up at seven thirty”
is the only thing Tom says the whole way, but by the time he pulls up in front of Mack’s house, I feel as if
we’ve been talking for hours.
“Get a good night’s sleep,” I say, and hop out of the car. “You did good, Tom. I’m proud of you.”
And that makes Tom smile in a way that I haven’t seen since we were both kids.
Part Four
Cold Play
Kate
AT 8:15 A.M. the sprawling parking lot in front of the Arthur M. Cromarty Court Complex is overrun with
media. TV news trucks occupy the half-dozen rows closest to the courthouse; thick black cable stretches
over the cement in every possible direction.
Network and cable reporters, comfortably rumpled from the waist down and impeccably dressed and
groomed above it, their faces caked with makeup, stand inside circles of white-hot light and file their first
remotes.
Tom and I weave our way through the chaos and park. Then we walk briskly toward the entrance of the
complex, hurrying to get safely inside before getting grabbed by the journalistic mob.
Our timing is good, because at that moment every TV camera in the lot is aimed at an elegant black man
standing dramatically on the courthouse steps. As we hustle past, I see that it’s none other than T. Smitty
Wilson. I guess he’s finally come to pay his respects.
Inside, three hundred or more spectators pack forty rows, and they are split straight down the middle of the
courtroom. Dante’s supporters, who have arrived from as far away as California, fill the left half of the
room. On the right are those who have traveled a much shorter distance to support the families of the
victims. I’ve known most of them my entire life.