A casually dressed man of about twenty-five sits across from Edna, and they have a New York Times New York Times open on the table between them. She seems to be lecturing him on the intricacies of crossword puzzle solving, a speech she is uniquely qualified to give. Edna is to crossword puzzles what Gretzky was to hockey, alone on a level above all possible compet.i.tion. open on the table between them. She seems to be lecturing him on the intricacies of crossword puzzle solving, a speech she is uniquely qualified to give. Edna is to crossword puzzles what Gretzky was to hockey, alone on a level above all possible compet.i.tion.

Edna finally notices that I've come in, and she reluctantly pauses in her tutorial to introduce the stranger as Adam Strickland. He's the writer the studio sent to get to know us and see how we operate so that he can write the screenplay more effectively and accurately. I had forgotten he was even coming, and now very sorry that he did. One thing I don't need now is a distraction from the case.

Adam apologizes for coming on such short notice, though he did call yesterday afternoon. I wasn't in, but Edna took the call, hence her early arrival.

I invite Adam back into my office. As he gets up, Edna asks, "Do you want me to type up a summary of what we talked about?"

He shakes his head. "I don't think so. I've got it." He smiles and holds up the pad on which he's been taking notes.

Edna lowers her voice slightly, wary of my overhearing, which I do anyway. "The point is, it's never been done."

Adam nods in agreement. "It's Rocky Rocky with a pencil. Thanks for the coffee." with a pencil. Thanks for the coffee."

Edna smiles, confident that she's gotten her message through. On the way back to my office I stop and get my own coffee. "Rocky with a pencil?" I ask. with a pencil?" I ask.

"Right," he says. "Edna was pitching me an idea for a script. It's about a young girl who grows up with a dream to be the best crossword puzzle player in America. Winds up winning the national t.i.tle and representing America against the Russian champion in the Olympics."

"I didn't know crossword puzzling was an Olympic sport," I say.

He nods. "She knows the idea needs a little work."

I take a sip of Edna's coffee, which is not the greatest way to start the day. It tastes like kerosene, though I doubt kerosene is this lumpy. "Your coming at this time may be a little awkward," I say.

"Because of the Schilling case?" he asks.

"Yes. I a.s.sume you want to observe us, but everything you'd observe would be protected by client privilege. Which means you aren't allowed to hear it."

"I thought you'd say that. I may have come up with a solution."

"I can't imagine how you could," I say.

"A close friend of mine is a lawyer, and I talked to him about it. Here's the plan: You have people that work here that aren't lawyers, right? Like Edna, or maybe outside investigators. They are bound by the privilege because they work for you, right?"

"Right," I say, immediately seeing where he's going.

"So hire me. Pay me a dollar to be your investigator. I'll be covered by the privilege, and I'll sign a confidentiality pledge that only you or your client can release me from."

Surprisingly, the idea is a good one, at least legally. But it's not good enough to make me want to do it. I just don't need someone hanging around during the intensity of a murder trial. On the other hand, I signed a contract and committed to this project, so I have an obligation.

"I have my doubts," I say. "But I'll talk to my client."

"It would really mean a lot to me," he says. "The Schilling case is real drama, you know? And depending on how it comes out, it's a movie that can get made."

"What about the Willie Miller case?" I ask. "Isn't that a movie that will get made?"

He smiles. "I wish, but no way. It's j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. time."

He's lost me. "Excuse me? Why is the studio buying it if they don't plan to make it? Why would they pay you to write it?"

"You're not going to like this, but think of movie production as a long pipeline," he says. "Executives, some smart, some idiots, feed projects into the pipeline because they've been told the pipe is supposed to be filled. And that's their job: They're pipe fillers."

"So?" is my probing question.

"So the problem is that the other end of the pipe leads to the sewer, which is where ninety-nine percent of the projects wind up."

"But the theaters are filled with movies," I point out.

He nods. "Right. Because every once in a while a big-shot producer or director or star punches a hole in the pipe and pulls out a project before it can get to the sewer. But once they do, they patch it back up so nothing else leaks out."

"Have you ever had a movie made?"

He shakes his head. "Not even close. But the Schilling case could stay out of the sewer. It's Pride of the Yankees Pride of the Yankees meets meets In Cold Blood. In Cold Blood."

"Do you always talk like that?"

"Pretty much. I've loved movies since I was a little kid, and there's a movie that has dealt with just about every situation ever."

"Except international crossword puzzle tournaments."

He smiles. "Searching for Edna Fischer." "Searching for Edna Fischer."

I like this guy. He inhabits another world that coexists on the same planet as mine, but he seems to be honest, enthusiastic, and probably smart. "I'll talk to Kenny. Can you give me a couple of days?"

He's fine with that and leaves his number at the Manhattan hotel where he's staying. "I love New York, and the studio's paying, so take your time."

"I recommend the mixed nuts from the minibar," I say. "Only fourteen dollars, but there's plenty of cashews."

Adam leaves, and I open an envelope on my desk with the New York Giants' logo on it. It's a letter from Walter Simmons, confirming our discussion and telling me that the reams of information that the team has on Kenny will be sent shortly. He also lists Kenny's closest friends on the team and a.s.sures me that they have been contacted and urged to cooperate.

Laurie's out learning what she can about Troy Preston, so even though investigating is not my strong suit, I might as well start on this list. The first name on it isn't even a player. It's Bobby Pollard, one of the team's trainers. Simmons has helpfully provided me with phone numbers and addresses, and Pollard's wife, Teri, answers on the first ring.

I explain who I am, and she says that Bobby should be home soon and that she'll call him and tell him I'm coming over. He's distraught over what has happened to Kenny, and she's sure he'd love to be able to help. We agree that I'll be there in thirty minutes. This investigating stuff is not so tough after all.

The Pollards live in Fair Lawn, a nice little town adjacent to Paterson. Its size and location are such that it is really a suburb of Paterson, but the people of Fair Lawn would tend to strangle anyone who made such a reference. All northern New Jersey residents consider themselves connected to New York City, and certainly not to Paterson. This is despite the fact that Fair Lawn is heavily populated with former Patersonians, who escaped in a ma.s.s exodus in the sixties and seventies.

Teri Pollard is standing on the front porch of their modest home when I pull up. Her presence is the only thing that distinguishes this house from the others on the street, and as distinguishing features go, it's a good one. Teri is very attractive in a comfortable, homespun way. I seem to be noticing attractive women more these days; am I getting in practice for a post-Laurie bachelor life?

Teri is also wearing a nurse's uniform. "You're a nurse?" I ask, checking to see if my deductive skills are working properly.

"Yes. Part-time. Most of the time I spend with Bobby."

Teri's smile matches the rest of her, and she invites me into the den. "Would you like something to drink? We have coffee, tea, soda, orange juice, grapefruit juice, and lemonade."

"I'll have a grande decaf cappuccino." When Kramer said it to Elaine's shrink on Seinfeld, Seinfeld, it was funny, but Teri doesn't react. I settle for coffee, and she goes off to get it, leaving me with nothing to do but look around the room. it was funny, but Teri doesn't react. I settle for coffee, and she goes off to get it, leaving me with nothing to do but look around the room.

It is definitely a football player's room, and since Teri doesn't look like the linebacker type, I a.s.sume that this is where Bobby sits and relives some past gridiron glories. The football pictures all show a young man in a high school uniform, so Bobby may have never made it to college ball. It's surprising, because he appears to be a very large, very powerful young man, and just based on this room, it's doubtful that his dedication to the sport waned.

There are a number of pictures of Bobby with Kenny Schilling, many in football uniform. All but one have them in "Pa.s.saic High" uniforms; in the exception their jerseys say "Inside Football" across the front. The pictures also reveal Bobby to be African-American, whereas Teri is white. I do a quick mental calculation and decide that they are young enough not to have encountered too much societal resistance to their union, though I'm sure some still exists.

Teri comes back with the coffee and sees me looking at the pictures. "Bobby was a great player," she says, and then smiles sheepishly. "Not that I would necessarily know a great football player if I saw one, but everybody says he was terrific. The fact that he never played in the NFL with Kenny is something he hasn't fully gotten over, though he'd never admit it."

At that moment the door opens and Bobby comes in. He brings with him the solution to the mystery of why he gave up football, why he never played in the NFL. Bobby, powerful arms propelling his large frame, sits in a wheelchair. I have no idea what put him there, or when it happened, but the sight of him is an instantly saddening story of shattered dreams. It is also an explanation of why Teri is not a full-time nurse; Bobby must need some help getting around.

"Mr. Carpenter?" he asks, though I suppose Teri has already answered that question for him.

"Andy," I say, and wait until he offers his hand before I walk over and shake it. His grip is powerful, his biceps enormous, and my mind processes the fact that this wheelchair-bound invalid could twist me into a pretzel. "Walter Simmons from the Giants gave me your name. He said you might be willing to talk to me about Kenny."

"Kenny's my best friend. I'll help in any way I can."

"I take it you don't think he's guilty."

"No f.u.c.king way."

Teri seems to cringe slightly from the language and excuses herself so that we can talk. As soon as she does, Bobby launches into a spirited defense of Kenny, whom he ranks as sort of a male, football-playing Mother Teresa.

"He's the reason I have my job," says Bobby. "He told the Giants that if they didn't hire me, he'd become a free agent and move to a team that would. He wouldn't back down, so they did."

I doubt that the story is quite how Bobby describes it but it's probably how he believes it. "How long have you known him?"

"Soph.o.m.ore year in high school. That's when I moved to Pa.s.saic and we met on the football field. I was the right guard. He ran right behind my a.s.s for over a thousand yards that year and two thousand each of the next two. Still holds the Jersey state record. Kenny and I were both named high school all-Americans."

Bobby and Teri were both at the bar the night that Preston was killed, and Bobby admits with reluctance that he saw Preston and Kenny leave together. He completely rejects any possibility that Kenny is the killer. "And I told that to the police," he says. "I don't think they wanted to hear it."

The conversation moves back to Bobby's own football career, mainly because that's where he moves it. My guess is that pretty much every conversation he has moves to the same place. He talks about how he was going to attend Ohio State on a full football scholarship. That all came to an end when he was injured in a car crash.

"It happened in Spain," he says. "I was taking a few weeks to travel through Europe. I was on one of those winding roads, and my car went over the edge. I haven't been out of this chair since. If it happened here, with American doctors... who knows if it would have been different, you know?"

I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. Everything Bobby ever wanted disappeared when his car went a few inches off the side of the road. I can almost feel the disappointment in the air, weighing on him.

I'm relieved when the door opens and Teri comes in, still wearing her nurse's uniform. She also has with her a young boy, whom she introduces as Jason, their seven-year-old son. Jason seems tall for his age and has none of his father's offensive lineman bulk. He's either going to be a wide receiver when he grows up or, if he takes after his mother, a nurse.

"I'm off to work, Bobby," Teri says. "Don't let Jason stay up too late."

He smiles. "What do you mean? I thought we'd go out drinking tonight." He taps Jason lightly in the ribs. "Right, big guy?" Jason taps him right back and mimics his "Right, big guy." There seems to be an easy relationship between father and son.

Teri says goodbye to me and leaves. Once she's out of the house, Bobby says, "She works like crazy and takes care of me and Jason. She's unbelievable."

"Can you drive?" I ask.

He nods. "Yup. They make hand controls for cars. But it's still a h.e.l.l of a lot easier when she's with me. The team lets her come on road trips."

Jason asks Bobby to read him a story, and I take advantage of the interruption to say my goodbyes.

I drive back home, no more enlightened about the facts of the case, but liking my client a little more. He has taken good care of this one friend, and on some level it makes it harder for me to believe he killed another one.

LAURIE MAKES MY favorite for dinner, pasta whatever. She seems to add anything lying around into the sauce, and somehow it turns out terrifically. The best part is, she never tells me the ingredients, since if I knew how healthful they were, I probably wouldn't eat them. favorite for dinner, pasta whatever. She seems to add anything lying around into the sauce, and somehow it turns out terrifically. The best part is, she never tells me the ingredients, since if I knew how healthful they were, I probably wouldn't eat them.

We have an agreement that we never discuss business at home, but while we're on a case, we break the agreement pretty much every night. Tonight is no exception, and during dinner she tells me about her initial efforts to investigate the life of Troy Preston.

Mostly working with her own contacts, the picture she's getting of Preston is not a positive one. Word has it that he failed an NFL drug test last season. NFL policy is to put the failed player on probation and mandate counseling. The infraction remains secret until the second offense, at which point there is a four-week suspension. The prosecution's postmortem blood test on Preston indicated that he would have failed another test had one been scheduled any time soon. That's not something he needs to worry about now.

The Jets, according to Laurie's sources, were very worried about Preston and felt that drug use was responsible for his mediocre performance last season. He was never more than an adequate reserve anyway, and with his knee injury he was in danger of being cut from the squad this year.

After dinner we go into the living room, put on an Eagles CD, open a bottle of chardonnay, and read. I had run a Lexis-Nexis search on Kenny, which through the miracle of computers allows me to access pretty much everything that has been written about him. Edna has pared it down to everything not related to game performances, leaving me with a thick book of material to go through.

Laurie reads a mystery, one of probably a hundred she reads every year. It surprises me, because solving mysteries is what she does for a living. I'm a lawyer, and trust me, when I have spare time, you won't catch me reading The Alan Dershowitz Story. The Alan Dershowitz Story.

Tara takes her spot on the couch between us. Music seems to put her in a mellow mood, which Laurie and I augment by simultaneously petting her. My a.s.signed zone is the top of her head, while Laurie focuses on scratching Tara's stomach.

Laurie and I haven't discussed her possible move back to Findlay since the night of that stupid eclipse. I keep forming sentences to address it, but none of them sound right while taking the route to my mouth, so I don't let them out.

"This is so nice," Laurie says with total accuracy.

I need to let her feel how nice this is without saying anything about the possibility of her leaving and ruining it. I have to let her deal with this on her own; my advocating a position is not going to help. "It is nice," I agree. "Completely nice. Totally nice. As long as you and I and Tara live here in New Jersey, we will have this permanent niceness." In case you haven't noticed by now, I'm an idiot.

"Andy...," she says in a gentle admonishment. Then, "I do love you, you know."

"I know," I lie, since that is no longer something I know. I've pretty much broken it down to a simple proposition: If she stays, she loves me; if she leaves, she doesn't.

Usually, we have CNN on as background noise, but lately, we're unable to do that because their policy seems to be "all Kenny Schilling, all the time." n.o.body on these shows has any knowledge whatsoever about the case, but that doesn't stop them from predicting a conviction.

I get up and walk around the house, bringing my winegla.s.s with me. I grew up in this house, then lived in two apartments and two houses before coming back here. I could barely describe anything about those other places, yet I know every square inch of this house. Even when I wasn't living here, it was completely vivid in my mind.

No matter what I look at, the memories come flooding back. Wiffle ball games, playing gin with my father, stoopball, trying a puff of a cigarette in the bas.e.m.e.nt, eating my mother's cinnamon cake, having the Silvers, our next-door neighbors, over to watch baseball games on TV... my history was played out here. I left it behind me once, and I won't do so again.

I am painfully aware that Laurie's history is in Findlay. Not in a house, maybe, and I'm sure that her memories aren't as relentlessly pleasant as are mine. But it is where she became who she is, and she's being drawn back to it. I understand it all too well.

I need to stop thinking about it. She will make her decision, one way or the other, and that will be that. If my mother were alive, she would say, "Whatever happens, it's all for the best." I never believed it when she used to say it, and I don't believe it now. If Laurie leaves, it will not be for the best. It will be unacceptably awful, but I will accept it. Kicking and screaming, I will accept it.

I wake up in the morning resolved to focus on nothing but Kenny Schilling. My first stop is out to the jail to talk with him. He's less anxious and frightened than the last time I saw him, but more withdrawn and depressed. These are common reactions, and they must have something to do with the self-protective nature of the human mind.

I begin by telling him that I have decided to stay on his case, though he had always a.s.sumed that I would. I lay out my considerable fees for him, and he nods without any real reaction at all. Money is not an issue for him right now, though until a month ago he was a relatively low-paid player. The Giants are sticking with him and paying him according to his huge new contract. As far as my fees go, if I get him acquitted, it will be the best money he ever spent. If he's convicted, all the money in the world won't help him.

With the money issue out of the way, I start my questioning. "So tell me about the drugs," I say.

"There weren't any. I don't do drugs."

"They were found in your blood. The same drug was found in Troy Preston."

"They're lying. They're trying to put me away."

"Who's they?" I ask.

"The police."

"Why would the police want to put you away?"