I arrive at the courthouse having not even thought what the jury's question might be, since requests from juries are rarely revealing. They usually focus on a specific piece of evidence, but that in itself reveals nothing. They could be looking at the evidence because they are skeptical of it or because they give it real credibility and importance to the case.

This situation is slightly different. The jury wants to know if they can see police reports related to the other deaths of the young football players. Judge Harrison tells them they cannot, that only evidence introduced at trial is to be considered, and these reports were not part of the trial record. He says this patiently, even though he had made the point in his charge to the jury just before they went out. They essentially dragged us down here to answer a question that has already been answered.

I'm encouraged, though, because at least they're paying attention to our defense and not rejecting it out of hand. It's a small sign of hope, and I'm quite willing to shed a tiny bit of my pessimism and grab on to it.

Even during my self-imposed isolation during a verdict wait, I quite willingly have Laurie sleep over on our regular nights. I might be a hermit, but I'm not a crazed hermit. She is also quiet and reserved, and between us we're not a terribly fun couple.

I know she's finalizing her decision, but I'm past dwelling on it by now. I'm actually starting to get a little annoyed; it probably didn't take Truman as long to decide to drop the A-bomb.

I meet every day with Kenny Schilling, who acts as stoic as he can. The strain is starting to line his face to the point where he's looking like a paint-by-numbers drawing. I also talk on the phone each day with his wife, Tanya, who is better at verbalizing just how agonizing this process is. I am not able to give either of them any indication of how things will go or when.

Bobby Pollard has stayed out of the public eye, and I a.s.sume and hope that the authorities are digging into the nuts and bolts of the case we presented. Teri, ever the amazingly supportive wife, has made a public statement supporting her husband and declaring him innocent, but I can't imagine that she isn't feeling horribly betrayed.

The call comes from Rita Gordon on the morning of day six. "It's showtime, Andy," she says. "The judge wants all parties here at eleven A.M. A.M."

"Okay" is the cleverest response I can come up with.

I'M TOLD THAT a heavyweight championship fight has the most "electricity" of any live event, but I can't imagine how it could be more charged than this courtroom. The entire country has followed this case, hanging on every word, a.n.a.lyzing every nuance, and it has all come down to this. A young athlete, a member of the "celebrity cla.s.s," is going to learn whether he's heading for death row or back to the locker room. a heavyweight championship fight has the most "electricity" of any live event, but I can't imagine how it could be more charged than this courtroom. The entire country has followed this case, hanging on every word, a.n.a.lyzing every nuance, and it has all come down to this. A young athlete, a member of the "celebrity cla.s.s," is going to learn whether he's heading for death row or back to the locker room.

Just before Judge Harrison comes into the room, I walk over to Tanya Schilling to shake her hand. I have a million things I could say, and I'm sure she does as well, but neither of us says a word.

As I head back to my seat at the defense table, I see that a bunch of Kenny's teammates, as well as Walter Simmons, have managed to get seats. I briefly wonder whether they got them from scalpers; I can imagine these seats would go for a lot of money.

Kenny is brought in and takes his seat. As Judge Harrison comes in, Kenny takes a deep breath, and I can see him trying to steady himself. He has handled himself with dignity throughout the trial, and he's not about to stop now.

The jury is led in, looking at neither the prosecution nor the defense. They haven't been able to take their eyes off Kenny since jury selection, and now they're looking away. If I were rating signs, this would not be a good one.

Judge Harrison asks the foreman if his jury has reached a verdict, and I find myself hoping he'll say no. He doesn't, and Harrison directs the clerk to retrieve the verdict slip from him. The clerk does so and hands it to Harrison.

Harrison reads it, his face impa.s.sive, then hands it back to the clerk. He asks Kenny to stand, and Kenny, Kevin, and I stand as one. I have my hand on his left shoulder, and Kevin has his hand on his right. Kenny turns to Tanya and actually smiles, a gesture of immense strength and generosity.

I can almost feel the gallery behind me, inching forward, as if that will let them hear the verdict sooner.

The clerk starts to read. "In the matter of The State of New Jersey v. Kenneth Schilling, The State of New Jersey v. Kenneth Schilling, we the jury find the defendant, Kenneth Schilling, not guilty of murder in the first degree." we the jury find the defendant, Kenneth Schilling, not guilty of murder in the first degree."

Kenny whirls as if avoiding a tackle and reaches for Tanya. Their hug is so hard it looks like one of them is going to break. He outweighs her by over a hundred pounds, but I'm not sure which one I'd bet on.

After a short while Kenny spreads his arms to include Kevin and me in the embrace. As group hugs go, it's a good one. Kenny and Tanya are crying, while Kevin and I are laughing. But we're all making the same point in our own way... it doesn't get much better than this.

Judge Harrison gets order in his courtroom and officially releases Kenny, who's got to do some paperwork. Tanya waits for him while Kevin and I go outside to answer a few questions from the a.s.sembled media.

When we get to the area set up for the press briefing, we see something unusual going on. Rather than waiting for us to arrive, the press is gathered around a TV monitor, watching a cable news station. They are watching the news, when they're supposed to be covering it.

"What's going on?" I say, a little miffed that n.o.body is paying much attention to me. One of the reporters answers, "Bobby Pollard is threatening to kill his wife."

I start walking toward the television monitor when a uniformed officer comes over to me and grabs my arm. "Mr. Carpenter, Lieutenant Stanton asks that you come with me immediately."

He quickly starts leading me away, and when I look back, I see that Kevin is lost in the crowd. Within moments we're in a police car, heading toward Fair Lawn, and I ask the officer to bring me up-to-date.

"Pollard's wife called 911. He's in their house with a gun, and she said he's going crazy, threatening to kill everyone."

"Why does Pete want me there?" I ask, but he shrugs and says he has no idea.

We arrive near the Pollard house in a few minutes, and the scene is a middle-cla.s.s version of the standoff at Kenny Schilling's house. This case has ironically come full circle, except this time there is no way I'm going in.

I see Pete, who is second-in-command to his captain. It turns out that I have no real function here; Pete tells me that they figured that since I know the players, they might have some questions I could answer. I'm told to stay in the police command van and wait, which I'm more than happy to do.

In the van one of the sergeants plays back a copy of the 911 call. Teri Pollard's voice is the sound of pure panic. "This is Teri Pollard. My husband has a gun. I'm afraid he's going to-it's okay, honey, I'm just calling to get you some help, that's all... just some help." I can't hear Bobby's voice through the tape, but it's obvious she's talking to him.

She continues. "Please. He left the room. Send officers quickly... please!"

The dispatcher asks for her address and, after she gives it, asks if there is anyone else in the house. Teri says no, that their son is staying at her mother's in Connecticut. The call is then cut off, suddenly and with no explanation.

"Has there been any contact with her or Bobby since?" I ask.

"No," he says. "We've been calling in, but n.o.body answers the phone. But no gunshots either."

Then, in literally a sudden blast of irony, a gunshot rings out, seemingly from inside the house. I hear a policeman from the forward lines near the house yell, "Move!" and I see a SWAT team head toward the house and break in from all sides in a beautifully coordinated movement.

Maybe thirty seconds pa.s.s, though they seem like three hours, and a voice yells out, "Clear!" Pete and a bunch of other officers head for the house and enter. The sergeant I am with does so as well, so I tag along with him. I'm not sure if he even notices me, but he doesn't tell me to stay back.

There are at least a dozen officers in the house, all talking, but above the din I can hear a woman crying, a frighteningly pained sound. I move toward the den, which is where the sound is coming from. It's the room in which I talked to the Pollards on two previous occasions.

Teri Pollard is on the couch, hysterical, while Bobby is dead on the floor, against the wall, his head a b.l.o.o.d.y mess. Next to his outstretched hand lies a gun, more effective than a thousand justice systems.

LAURIE AND T TARA are waiting for me when I get home. My two favorite ladies. are waiting for me when I get home. My two favorite ladies.

We all go for a walk around the neighborhood. I haven't been spending nearly enough time with Tara, and I want to change that now. She seems to be getting more white in her face each day, a sign of advancing age in golden retrievers. In Tara's case it's less significant than in other goldens, because Tara is going to live forever.

The scene at the Pollards' and the lingering depression over Adam's death have really taken their toll on me, and I'm feeling little of the euphoria that I would ordinarily feel after a victory like the one in court today. For that reason I didn't schedule the party we have at Charlie's after every positive jury verdict.

"You were brilliant, Andy," Laurie says. "I don't know that there's another lawyer in the country that could have gotten Kenny acquitted with the evidence they had."

"Adam did it. I was nowhere until Adam came up with the answer."

"He helped, but you led the team, and you got it done. Don't take that away from yourself."

"It was awful at the Pollards' house today," I say. "I'm just so tired of all this death and pain. And I keep saying that, and yet I don't change anything."

"You're doing what you were meant to do, in the place you were meant to do it. And I think that down deep you know that."

I shake my head. "Not right now I don't."

"If not for you, Kenny Schilling's life would be over, and Bobby Pollard would still be out there killing. The death and pain would be much worse."

"But I wouldn't have to look at it."

We walk for a while longer, and I say, "What Teri Pollard went through is beyond awful. This man she devoted herself to, every day of her life, completely betrayed her. And then, after she stayed, after she forgave him, he left her to deal with everything alone."

"She's a strong woman," Laurie says. "She'll rely on the core of that strength, and she'll get through it."

"You're a more optimistic person than I am."

"I don't think so," she says. "You're just more honest about it. I have as many doubts as anyone, but I learned a long time ago that it doesn't help to give in to them. That we have to do what we think is best and deal with the consequences."

We walk another block in silence, and I say, "You're leaving." It's a statement, not a question, that comes from some hidden place of certainty and dread.

"Yes, Andy. I am."

I feel like a house is sitting on top of me, but it hasn't been dropped suddenly. It's more like it's been lowered on me. I've seen it coming for a while, but even though it was huge and obvious, I just couldn't seem to get out of the way.

I don't say anything, I can't say anything, so she continues. "I wish more than anything in the world that you would come with me, but I know you won't, and I'm not sure that you should. But I will always love you."

I want to tell Laurie that I love her, and that I hate her, and that I don't want her to go, and that I want her to get the h.e.l.l out of my life this very instant.

What I say is, "Have a nice life."

And then Laurie keeps walking, but Tara and I turn and walk back home.

PEOPLE TELL ME that the intense pain is going to wear off. They say that it will gradually become a dull ache and eventually disappear. I hope they're right, because a dull ache sounds pretty good right now. that the intense pain is going to wear off. They say that it will gradually become a dull ache and eventually disappear. I hope they're right, because a dull ache sounds pretty good right now.

Of course, my circle of friends is not renowned for their sensitivity and depth of human emotion, so they could be wrong. The agony I currently feel over losing Laurie could stay with me, which right now would seem to be more than I can stand.

I tell myself to apply logic. If she left me, she doesn't love me. If she doesn't love me, then I haven't lost that much by her leaving. If I haven't lost that much, it shouldn't hurt like this. But it does, and logic loses out. I can count the times that logic has lost out in my mind on very few fingers.

Even gambling on sports doesn't help. In normal times a Sunday spent gambling on televised games allows me to escape from anything, but Laurie's leaving is the Alcatraz of emotional problems. I can't get away from it, no matter what I do.

I spend half of my time waiting for the phone to ring, hoping that Laurie is calling to change her mind and beg my forgiveness. The other half of my time I spend considering whether to call and tell her I'll be on the first plane to Findlay. But she won't call, and neither will I, not now, not ever.

Tonight Pete, Kevin, Vince, and Sam have taken me to Charlie's to watch Monday Night Football. Monday Night Football. The Giants are playing the Eagles, which would be a big deal if I gave a s.h.i.t about it. I don't. The Giants are playing the Eagles, which would be a big deal if I gave a s.h.i.t about it. I don't.

Halftime has apparently been designated as the time to convince me to get on with my life. They've got women to fix me up with, vacations I should take, and cases I should start working on. None of those things have any appeal, and I tell them so. The chance of my going on a blind date, or taking on a new case, is about equal in likelihood to my setting fire to myself. Maybe less.

Sam drives me home and is sensitive enough not to song-talk, though he would have no shortage of sad tunes to pick from. Instead, he thanks me for the opportunity I gave him to work on the case; it's something he loves and would like to do more of in the future.

I remind him that both Barry Leiter and Adam have died in the last couple of years doing the same kind of work. "Why don't you do something safer, like become a fighter pilot or work for the bomb squad?" I ask.

Sam drops me off at home, and I open the door to a tail-wagging Tara. I believe she knows I need more love and support than usual, and she's trying to provide it. I appreciate it, but this may be that rare job bigger than Tara.

I get into bed and take a few minutes to convince myself that tomorrow will be a better day. I mean, the fact is that Laurie was my girlfriend. girlfriend. Nothing more, nothing less. It's just not that big a deal. Who's going to feel sorry for you just because you and your Nothing more, nothing less. It's just not that big a deal. Who's going to feel sorry for you just because you and your girlfriend girlfriend broke up? It's not exactly high up on the list of personal tragedies. In fact, if somebody hears you say it, the question they would be expected to ask is something like, "Well, then, who are you going to take to the prom?" broke up? It's not exactly high up on the list of personal tragedies. In fact, if somebody hears you say it, the question they would be expected to ask is something like, "Well, then, who are you going to take to the prom?"

With that self-administered pep talk having failed once again to get through to me, I remember that I had set up a therapy session with Carlotta Abbruzze tomorrow, hoping that she could help me deal with Laurie's leaving. My view now is that the only way Carlotta can help me is if she calls Laurie and talks her into coming back.

In the morning I take Tara for a walk, and we're halfway through it when I realize I had scheduled a meeting with Kenny Schilling at his house at ten. After every case I wait a while and then meet with the client. It's to go over my final bill, but, more important, to find out how the client is adjusting and to answer any remaining questions he or she has. It's always nice when that meeting is not in prison.

Kenny and Tanya graciously welcome me into their home, and Tanya goes off to get coffee. Kenny's wearing a sweat suit, aptly named because it's drenched with sweat.

"Sorry I didn't get dressed all fancy for my lawyer," he says with a smile, "but I've got to get in shape."

"I won't keep you long," I say, and we quickly go over my bill, which despite its large size draws no objection from him. It's actually less than the estimate I had given him at the start of the trial.

"I still can't believe Bobby killed all those people," Kenny says.

"Could you believe he wasn't paralyzed?" I ask.

"No, that just blew me away."

Kenny and Tanya have very few questions; they're still flushed with relief that their lives haven't been permanently derailed. I finish my coffee and get up to leave.

"Man, can't you stay another couple of hours? I need an excuse not to work out."

"That's probably the only athletic thing we have in common. Hey, let me ask you a question," I say, and then describe in detail my plan to become a placekicker for the Giants.

"That sounds pretty good," he says.

"You think it could work?"

"Not a chance in h.e.l.l," he says, and laughs.

He's challenging my manhood. "Be careful or I'll be on that field before you will," I say.

He shakes his head. "I don't think so. They're looking to activate me next week in time for the game at Cincinnati."

Tanya stands to pick up the coffee cups. "Don't remind me," she says, smiling.

The comment surprises me. "You don't want him to play?"

"Not in Cincinnati. I've got bad memories of that. But this time I'm going... Watching it on television was horrible."

Kenny explains. "I got my bell rung in the fourth quarter when we were out there two years ago. I was out cold. Late hit."

I nod. "I think I remember that."

"Only time that ever happened to me. Man, that was scary as h.e.l.l. Next thing I knew it was four hours later in the hospital. I didn't even know who won. Bobby had to tell me." He shakes his head sadly, probably at the awareness that Bobby won't be there to tell him anything anymore.

I head out to the car, and I'm three blocks away when it hits me. I drive the three blocks back to the house about twice as fast, then jump out and pop open the trunk. I've brought a lot of my case files with me, in case I needed to refer to them to answer any questions about my bill, and now I pore through them until I find the piece of information I need.

Tanya Schilling is surprised to find me standing there when she answers the doorbell. "Sorry, but I need to talk to Kenny."

"Sure, come on in," she says. "He's still in the den goofing off."

She goes into the kitchen while I go back into the den. Kenny is also surprised by my reappearance. "Hey, you forget something?"