As unfortunate and tragic as the results were—and our hearts go out to the victims and their families—it was an accident, pure and simple. An accident.”
The judge who’d set Carter Drake’s bail at five million dollars had apparently begged to differ.
The newspaper stories had continued for almost a week. There were interviews with grieving parents and outraged school officials. There were calls for tighter seat-belt laws and looser seat-belt laws, the proponents of the latter camp arguing that some of the children might have escaped the fire had they not been restrained, though a look at the extent of the damage shown in the photos strongly suggested otherwise. And there were the funerals, the terrible funerals, accompanied by snapshots of tiny faces smiling out at the camera in happier times.
After that, the coverage dwindled and all but stopped. The exception was the Rockland County Register, which ran editorials daily for nearly three weeks, demanding restoration of the death penalty, “complete with excruciating suffering” for the “cold-blooded killer” of the community’s “most treasured and vulnerable citizens.”
It was midafternoon by the time Jaywalker emerged from the library. He found himself startled by the sudden brightness of the sunshine, and it took his eyes a few moments to make the adjustment. It reminded him of coming out of the movies after a matinee, something he hadn’t done since his wife’s death, a dozen years ago.
He found a phone booth, no mean feat in the Age of the Cell Phone. But Jaywalker had long resisted the ads that promised a powerful network, five bars, and unlimited nighttime and weekend minutes with family and friends. He figured that if he lived long enough, he might just be the last holdout on the planet. Sure, going phoneless meant being inconvenienced from time to time, but that was a small price to pay for the retention of his privacy. Besides, now was no time to get connected, or whatever it was they called it, not while he was still suspended and trying to fly beneath the radar.
Jaywalker had gotten the name of Carter Drake’s business attorney from his newspaper research and found a phone number for him on the Internet. Now he dropped a Samoan penny into the coin slot—they just happened to be the same size as U.S. quarters, so he’d ordered a hundred of them through a Times Square coin dealer for three dollars—and dialed the number.
“PetersonKellnerWhiteandTayler,” said a woman’s voice, as if it were all one name. “How may I direct your call?”
“I’m trying to reach Chester Ludlow,” said Jaywalker.
“Please hold for his administrative aide.”
Jaywalker held, wondering where he’d been while secretaries had turned into administrative aides.
“Mr. Ludlow’s office,” said another female voice.
Jaywalker identified himself and stated his business. If he’d thought doing so might open doors, he was in for a surprise. Over the next fifteen minutes, he sparred first with the administrative aide, and then with a young man who described himself as Ludlow’s executive assistant. Yes, Mr. Ludlow would be more than happy to take a meeting with him, but he billed out at seven hundred and fifty dollars an hour, payable in advance.
“How about six minutes?” Jaywalker asked. He’d neglected to discuss expenses with Amanda, and wasn’t about to spend seven hundred and fifty dollars of his own money, or hers, either—at least not without checking with her first. On the other hand, he figured shelling out seventy-five bucks for a tenth of an hour…
The executive assistant was evidently not amused.
Eventually they settled on a five-minute phone conference, pro bono. Jaywalker was instructed to call Chet back the following day, at 10:15 a.m. “Not any earlier, not any later.”
Fuck you! Jaywalker wanted to say. And fuck Chet, too. Instead he said, “Thank you very much,” and hung up.
Maybe it wasn’t going to be such a picnic after all, this investigator gig.
Next he called Carter Drake’s current lawyer up in New City, a man named Judah Mermelstein. The Samoan pennies were too cumbersome for the job, not to mention too precious, so he used a calling card.
Mermelstein answered his own phone, a sure sign that he was user-friendly and a good indication that he worked on a shoestring budget. Both were attributes that Jaywalker was quite familiar with. As he had with Chester Ludlow’s staff, he explained his business and said he’d like to meet with Mermelstein.
“Sure, sure. C’mon up.”
They agreed on one o’clock the following day. Jaywalker didn’t want to jeopardize his five-minute phone conference with Chet, after all.
The following morning’s five-minute phone conference with Chester Ludlow went pretty much as Jaywalker had expected. Ludlow was brusque, dismissive and completely uninformative. Carter Drake, for whom he’d been doing some complicated mergers-and-acquisi-tions work—the implication being that it was well beyond Jaywalker’s understanding—had phoned the office and said he was the “Audi Assassin,” and that he wanted to turn himself in before the police figured out he was the one they were looking for and came to arrest him. Ludlow had agreed and had accompanied him to state police headquarters. He’d had no idea where it was, he added, “So I set the GPS on my car. We got there, and they took him into custody. And that was pretty much it. Now,” he said, clearing his throat loudly, “if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting—”
“I still have nineteen seconds,” Jaywalker pointed out. Actually, he had no idea how long they’d been talking, but he doubted that Ludlow did, either. “What was the basis of your comment to the press,” he asked, “that Drake hadn’t been drinking or speeding prior to the accident?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I mean,” said Jaywalker, “did Drake actually tell you those things?”
“Drake? No, of course not. As a matter of fact, I never discussed that with him. I had our media department draw up a statement. They’re real pros at that sort of stuff. It’s what they do.”
Great, thought Jaywalker, trial by sound bite. He wanted to ask Ludlow if he had any idea of the damage such a remark could do to Drake’s chances down the line. But he knew he was already into overtime. “Thanks for your time,” he said, and hung up.
The good news was that Ludlow had given him the five minutes pro bono. The bad news was that Jaywalker had pretty much gotten his money’s worth.
The meeting with Judah Mermelstein went somewhat better. It had taken Jaywalker only forty-five minutes to get to Mermelstein’s office, if you didn’t count the two hours spent locating his ancient Mercury in its parking lot, finding a set of booster cables ($14.95), getting a jump start from an obliging cabbie ($10), and coaxing the relic out onto the West Side Highway (priceless).
The first thing Jaywalker noticed about Mermelstein wasn’t his boyish good looks, his black suit, white shirt and conservative tie, or even his firm handshake. It was his yarmulke.
“Do they let you wear that?” Jaywalker asked. “I mean, in court? At trial?” He’d once known a legal aid lawyer in Brooklyn who was also a Catholic priest, and they’d let him wear his clerical collar in court. But all the guy ever did was arraignments; he never went to trial.
“Absolutely,” said Mermelstein. “U.S. Supreme Court, First and Fourteenth Amendments. Freedom of religion, freedom of speech, expression, association, wardrobe, warmth. Not to mention the little-known but all-important freedom to cover one’s bald spot.”
“Cool,” was all Jaywalker could come up with. It was something his daughter might have said, back when she was, oh, seven or so. But it was cool, and he couldn’t help picturing himself delivering a summation before a home-crowd New City jury, two rows of black-dressed orthodox