"Sure did. I said, say goodbye to Hollywood."

Uh-oh. That sounds like a song, but I can't place it, and once again I didn't prepare any material to engage in song-talking compet.i.tion.

"Okay," I say, ready to bail out before I become inundated in lyrics.

Sam goes on. "Then I figured I shouldn't have said it, that it's none of my business. So I said, 'Hey, Adam, don't mind me. California's okay, but I'm in a New York state of mind.'"

Got it. Billy Joel.

"I should go, Sam. Laurie's waiting for me."

He's not quite ready for me to leave. "How are things going with her?" Sam asks.

"Nothing new. Still deciding."

Sam shakes his head in sympathy for my situation. "I think you need to be aggressive. Don't just stand around and wait for her to make the move. Talk to her."

"And say what?"

"Well, I can't put myself in your shoes, but I'll tell you what I said when I was in a similar situation. After I graduated college, this girl and I moved in together. We were thinking of getting married, but she kept threatening to leave. Finally, I told her, 'Hey, babe, I don't care what you say anymore, this is my life. Go ahead with your own life and leave me alone.'"

He's going to keep song-talking until I come up with a response, but none comes to mind at the moment.

"I mean it; you gotta take a stand," he continues. "And don't worry; I know Laurie. She's not gonna move to that hick town. She's an uptown girl; she's been living in her uptown world."

Ah, hah! An idea. "That's not what I'm going to tell her," I say.

"What are you gonna say?" he asks "I'll be honest; I'll tell her the truth. I'll say, 'I just want someone that I can talk to. I love you just the way you are.'"

He nods his understanding. "Good for you, man. But that honesty, it's such a lonely word."

WEEKENDS ARE VERY difficult during a trial. Each day in court is intense and pressure-filled, and when the weekend comes around, the need to withdraw and relax is palpable. But there is no withdrawing, and no relaxing, because there is too much to do, and in the back of my mind I know that the opposition is always working. difficult during a trial. Each day in court is intense and pressure-filled, and when the weekend comes around, the need to withdraw and relax is palpable. But there is no withdrawing, and no relaxing, because there is too much to do, and in the back of my mind I know that the opposition is always working.

I meet Walter Simmons, the Giants' legal VP, for breakfast. I had told him I'd keep him informed of progress, within the confines of lawyer-client privilege. He's been helpful in getting his players to meet with various members of our team, so I feel I owe him this time.

The Giants won their first game last week, but did it by pa.s.sing for three hundred fifty yards and returning two interceptions for touchdowns. The running game gained an anemic sixty-one yards. After I update him on the status of the trial, he says, "Sounds like we should trade for a running back."

"We've got a decent chance," I lie.

"Yeah. And we're going to win the Super Bowl."

I shake my head. "Not without a better kicker. But before too long I may have somebody for you."

He doesn't pick up on it, and I decide against telling him my plans. Since it takes very little physical prowess, he could decide to try it as well. One thing I don't need is more compet.i.tion.

Adam calls me on my cell phone to tell me that he's in the office and that he hopes it's okay with me. "The computer here is much faster than using my laptop at the hotel," he says.

"No problem," I say. "When do you want to update me on progress?"

"Pretty soon. There's a couple more things I need to check out first."

I head home for an afternoon of reading and rereading of case material. First I take Tara for a walk and a short tennis ball toss in the park; I've been feeling guilty at how little time I've spent with her. That guilt is increased when I once again see how much she enjoys it. Afterward, we stop off for a bagel and some water, and by the time we get home, I've thoroughly enjoyed the brief respite away from the case.

I plunge into the material and barely notice the college football game I have on in the background. Laurie comes in at about four carrying grocery bags. She says, "Hi, honey," and comes over to give me a kiss. It's domestic bliss straight out of Ozzie and Harriet, Ozzie and Harriet, and for all my cynicism it feels really good. and for all my cynicism it feels really good.

"Have you seen David and Ricky?" I ask.

She's never seen Ozzie and Harriet, Ozzie and Harriet, since she doesn't watch old reruns as religiously as I do, so she has no idea about whom I'm talking. Once I explain it to her, she doesn't seem interested in it. This isn't working; I need a woman who can be my intellectual equal. since she doesn't watch old reruns as religiously as I do, so she has no idea about whom I'm talking. Once I explain it to her, she doesn't seem interested in it. This isn't working; I need a woman who can be my intellectual equal.

She starts unloading the groceries. "I thought we'd barbecue some seafood tonight."

"Fish?" I ask, my disappointment showing through. "What is there, a hamburger strike going on?"

With all the work I have, the idea of stopping to cook fish is not pleasing. Of course, I have no idea how long it will take because I don't know how long one is supposed to cook fish. I know some should be cooked through, some rare, and some just seared, but I don't have a clue which is which. "I don't have a lot of time," I say.

"I'm going to cook it," she says.

Uh-oh. Another sign of independence. "Are we forgetting who the boy is in this relationship? I am the barbecuer, you are the barbecuee."

"You're a man's man," she says, and then goes off into the kitchen to marinate the fish in whatever the h.e.l.l you marinate fish in. They spend their whole life in liquid, and then they have to soak in liquid before you cook them? The ocean didn't get them wet enough? Hopefully, these particular fish have to marinate for two weeks, but I doubt it.

They're soaking for about ten minutes when the phone rings. Laurie gets it, and from the kitchen I hear her say, "Hi, Vince... What?" She listens some more and then says, "Vince, he's here with me. He's right here." There is a tension in her voice that chills me to the bone.

She comes rushing into the room and goes right to the television, changing the football game to CNN. I stand up-I'm not sure why-and start walking toward the television, as if I'll find out what the h.e.l.l is going on if I'm closer.

I see myself on television; it's footage from a panel show I did some months before. My lips are moving, but the sound is muted so that the announcer can talk over me. I don't hear what he is saying because my eyes are riveted to the blaring message across the bottom of the screen: "Schilling lawyer murdered."

My mind can't process what is going on. Why would they think I was murdered? Can it be Kevin? Is he the person they're calling a Schilling lawyer? Then why are they showing me?

"Andy..." It's Laurie's voice attempting to cut through the confused mess that is my mind. "They're saying that you were shot and killed in your office this afternoon."

And then it hits me, with a searing pain that feels like it explodes my insides. "Let's go," I say, and run toward my car. Laurie is with me every step of the way, and within five minutes we are approaching my office.

We have to park two blocks away because the place is such a mob scene. Laurie knows one of the officers protecting the perimeter, and he lets us through the barricades. Pete Stanton is standing next to a patrol car, in front of the fruit stand below my office.

"Pete..." is all I can manage.

"It's the writer, Andy. Adam. He took two shots in the face and one in the chest. Died instantly."

I can't adequately describe the pain I feel, but I know I've felt it before. Sam Willis had a young a.s.sistant named Barry Leiter who was murdered because he was helping me investigate a case. Like then, I find my legs giving out from under me, and I have to lean against the car for support.

"Why?" I say, but I know why. Adam was blown apart by bullets that were meant for me.

"We just arrested Quintana, Andy. I don't know if we can make it stick, but he ordered it done. No question about it."

"I want to see him," I say, and push off from the car. It's only then that I realize that Laurie has her arm around me, and she keeps that arm around me all the way up the stairs. She is supporting me, and she is sobbing.

There are officers and forensics people everywhere, finishing up their work. They seem to part as we approach, mainly because Pete is with us telling them to. Suddenly, there just inside the office door, we see a body covered by a sheet. I am getting G.o.dd.a.m.n sick of seeing people I care about covered by sheets.

I'm not sure how long we're at the office, probably a couple of hours. Pete has a lot of questions he has to ask me, but he doesn't make me go down to the station to answer them. Sam Willis shows up, having heard the news on television, and he lets us use his office. It's the first time I've ever seen Sam cry.

There is little I can tell Pete that he doesn't already know. He's aware of the incident where Marcus threw Ugly out the window, and he was there the night Marcus stopped Ugly and his friend from breaking into my house and roughing me up.

Pete tells me that Ugly and his friend are still in custody and have been since that night. "That probably cost Adam his life," I say. "Whoever Quintana sent didn't know me by sight... they thought Adam was me."

Pete shakes his head. "Maybe, maybe not. They probably came in shooting and didn't even wait to look. Maybe Adam never knew what was coming."

For the record, and for Pete's tape recorder, I take him through the reason Adam came here in the first place. I also describe Adam's gradual evolution into being helpful on the Schilling case, but I refuse to provide details, citing attorney-client privilege.

Pete tries to probe, to find out as much as he can, explaining that the murder has to be investigated fully. Though he strongly believes that it was a case of mistaken ident.i.ty and that I was the target, the investigation cannot prejudge that. It has to start with the a.s.sumption that Adam was the target and look for reasons why. I understand that, and I'm fine with Pete doing an inventory of the office where Adam was working and taking whatever he needs.

"Just remember that his notes about the Schilling case are privileged, so I'd appreciate it if only you'd look at them first to see if they're relevant. And I'll need them back as soon as you can."

Pete's fine with that and tells me that I can go. As we reach the street, Willie Miller screeches to a halt in his car and jumps out. He sees me, and his eyes just about bug out of his head. "Man, they said you..."

Without another word he hugs me. I can count the number of male hugs I've liked on very few fingers, and I don't like this one, but I appreciate it. After a few moments I break it off. "Adam was killed, Willie. They shot him thinking it was me."

Willie looks at me disbelieving, then his face briefly contorts in a kind of rage I'm not sure I've ever seen before. Without a word, in a lightning-quick move he puts his hand through the front window of his car, smashing it to bits. I know Willie holds a black belt in karate, but it's still an amazing sight to behold.

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Come on, we'll drive you home."

Laurie drives, and after we drop Willie off, we go home. She makes us drinks, and we sit down in the den. I just can't seem to clear my head, to accept as fact what has happened. I don't want to be a part of this; I don't want people to die because of what I do for a living. I don't want to be around this anymore.

"You want to talk, Andy?" Laurie asks.

"All I do is talk."

"It's not your fault," Laurie says. "You couldn't know this was going to happen."

"What do I need this for? I'm a lawyer. Did I cut the cla.s.s in law school when they said that people were going to die just because they knew me?"

"Andy-"

I interrupt. "I want to do what other lawyers do. I want to sue doctors for malpractice because they forgot to remove the sponge after my client's appendectomy. I want to represent huge corporations when they merge with other huge corporations. I want to make cheating husbands pay through the nose in alimony. I want to do everything but what I'm doing."

"No," she says, "you're doing exactly what you should be doing. And you do it better than anyone I know. As one of your former clients, I can say with certainty that you're needed right where you are."

I shake my head, not giving an inch. "No, you've got the right idea," I say. "Findlay is a better place to live than this. I think you should go. I should go with you."

She shakes her head. "You can't run away, Andy. I won't do that, and I won't let you do it either. If I go, if we go, we'll be going toward toward something, not running away." something, not running away."

I know she's right, but I refuse to say so, because then I might have to stop feeling sorry for myself. An old Joe Louis expression pops into my head, as if he were talking about me. "He can run, but he can't hide."

Right now all I want to do is hide.

I TAKE IT UPON TAKE IT UPON myself to call Adam's parents in Kansas and notify them of the death of their son. It is one of the more difficult conversations I've ever had in my life, but I can only imagine how much worse it is for them. They want his body flown home for the funeral service, and I promise I will help them make the arrangements. It's a murder case, so by law an autopsy must take place first, but I don't see any need to mention that right now. myself to call Adam's parents in Kansas and notify them of the death of their son. It is one of the more difficult conversations I've ever had in my life, but I can only imagine how much worse it is for them. They want his body flown home for the funeral service, and I promise I will help them make the arrangements. It's a murder case, so by law an autopsy must take place first, but I don't see any need to mention that right now.

They seem not to want to end the phone call, as if I am their final connection to their son and they want to keep that connection going as long as possible. They show incredible generosity by telling me that they had been receiving phone calls from Adam, telling them how much he enjoyed working with me and how excited he was to be meeting important sportswriters. He'd been meeting football players, not sportswriters, but I certainly don't bother to correct them. Memories are all they have, and I don't want to blur them in any fashion.

I tell them Adam was hoping to buy them a house, that he talked about them lovingly and often. They thank me and finally say goodbye, to retreat into their agony.

In the morning I have Kevin, Sam, Marcus, and Edna join Laurie and me at the house for a rare Sunday meeting. Willie comes over as well, since he wants to be involved in whatever way he can in protecting me and nailing Adam's killer. I'm happy to have him; the trial is not going to stop while we mourn for Adam, and I have to make sure that as a group we are ready to deal with what happened and move on.

We spend the first hour or so talking about Adam and how we felt about him. He had made a very deep impression on each of us with his enthusiasm for life, an enthusiasm that makes his death feel that much more tragic. Marcus even adds two words to the discourse: "Good guy." It's the Marcus equivalent of a normal person delivering an impa.s.sioned twenty-minute eulogy.

Kevin forces us to look at the impact that this horrible event will have on the Schilling case. I've been thinking about asking Judge Harrison for a two-day recess, to give me time to get my head together, as well as helping to catch up on the work Adam was doing.

Kevin thinks a recess is a bad idea, that the publicity from Adam's killing can only have the unintended and ironic effect of helping in Kenny's defense. Despite Judge Harrison's admonition to the jurors not to expose themselves to media coverage of this case, there is no realistic possibility that they haven't heard what has happened. The inescapable conclusion to be reached is that there are murderers, not sitting next to me at the defense table, who are involved in this case. We might be able to convince the jury that it is "reasonable" to a.s.sume that those same people murdered Troy Preston as well.

I think Kevin is probably right, though his point is probably moot, since it is unlikely Judge Harrison would actually grant the recess anyway. So I decide to push on, even though there is nothing I would rather do less.

I ask Sam to bring us up-to-date as best he can on Adam's work, but there isn't much he can offer. Adam had given him specific things to do, and their a.s.signments really didn't overlap. We are not even aware of how Adam put together the list of people he was checking out. When Pete returns Adam's notes, it will make Sam's job easier.

Sam has been working hard, though, and his report on his own progress is very worrisome. He has managed to place Kenny within a three-hour drive of three of the deaths, not including Matt Lane's hunting accident. This is no small revelation: We are talking about four cities in very different parts of the country. To make matters worse, Sam hasn't ruled out Kenny's presence in the other death locations; he just hasn't finished the complicated process of checking.

I am both nearing and dreading the time when I will confront Kenny with what we have learned. His reaction, his explanation, will determine how I handle things and, more important, will most likely determine his entire future.

Laurie brings up the matter of my protection. Quintana is in jail, but Pete has told us off the record that there is little concrete evidence to tie him to Adam's death. He undoubtedly hired someone to do the killing, keeping his own hands clean. There is a real possibility that he will be released, and a just as strong possibility that he will come after me again.

Laurie makes the suggestion that Marcus's total focus be on protecting me and that he recruit some of his more energetic colleagues to help in that endeavor. Marcus grunts his agreement, but it is clear that he considers more aggressive action necessary. He's got a point: Had we let him go after Quintana when he suggested it the first time, Adam would be alive today.

Everybody leaves, and I start to go over my case notes, hoping to get myself emotionally geared up for the resumption of the trial tomorrow. It's not going to be easy, and within a half hour I find myself turning on the television and taking comfort in NFL football.

In the morning Judge Harrison once again calls Dylan and me into his chambers to discuss the events outside of court. He and Dylan express their condolences, and Dylan is somewhat regretful for his comments last time, when he intimated that my revelation of the threat was mostly an attempt to sway the jury.

Harrison unsolicitedly offers me a one-day recess, which I decline. Dylan asks that Harrison poll the jury, to see if they've actually been deligently avoiding press coverage. It's a surprising request and makes me realize just how worried Dylan is about what is taking place outside the courtroom. If the jury admitted to having seen the coverage, the only real remedy would be a mistrial, and I am stunned to realize that apparently Dylan would consider that.

Harrison declines to poll the jury; this is not a judge who is going to give up on this trial. He agrees to admonish the jury in even stronger terms than previously not to expose themselves to any press reports.

Dylan calls Stephen Clement to the stand. Clement is the neighbor of Preston's whom Laurie discovered and who has information that cuts for both the prosecution and the defense. Dylan is making the smart move of calling him, since his ability to question him first will allow him to frame the testimony, both positive and negative.

Clement, under Dylan's questioning, tells the situation in simple, direct terms. He was out walking his dog that night when a car pulled up and Preston got out. He never saw the driver, but he describes the car, with the GIANTS25 license plate. He also knows that the driver was a male, because he heard Preston and the driver arguing.

"Could you tell what they were arguing about?" Dylan asks.

Clement shakes his head. "I really couldn't hear them... I was across the street, and the car was running. It might have been about a woman; the driver might have said, 'You leave her alone.' But I could just as easily be wrong."

"But you were close enough to be sure that they were arguing?" Dylan asks.

"I'm quite certain of that."

Dylan asks what happened next, and Clement says that the car pulled away, at a higher-than-normal speed.

"Did the car return?" Dylan asks.