Indefensible by Lee Goodman Page A

“I’ll probably pick up a pizza and be stony-lonesome tonight, if you want to come over and split it with me.”
    â€œYou going to rent one of those boring movies you like to get?”
    â€œYou mean no car chases or buildings getting blown up?”
    â€œYeah, right, no chases, no nothing,” he says. “ Sex Life of the Oyster; Moss-Growing World Championship .”
    â€œYes,” I say, “I’ll probably rent one of those.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” he says. “Sounds like a yawn-fest.”
    â€œWell, I’d love the company.” Maybe he’ll change his mind at about six-fifteen tonight, grab a six-pack, and drive over to pass the evening with me.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    Everyone is excited about this Phippin case: Chip, Dorsey, Upton, me. We’re expecting something big. We have a huge tactical advantage because the perps don’t know we know. There are four agencies involved: the U.S. attorney’s office, the FBI, the state troopers, and now the state attorney general, with dozens of smart people working hard on it, from the forensic scientists on Zander’s body, to computer whizzes, to field agents and detectives. This investigation is in the air like ozone before the rain.
    Another hour passes with no developments. I walk to the men’s room, and I sense staff eyeing me as I pass their cubicles. Also, there are more than the usual number of workers standing in gossipy pods along the hallway. They fall silent as I pass. But on my way back, one young woman, an administrative aide named Kimba, stops me outside my door.
    â€œWe’re confused,” she says with an excited and obsequious tilt of her neck. “Was it your daughter or your ex, or both, who actually witnessed the murder?”
    I laugh. “Ahh, the rumor mill.” I step back into my office, close the door, and stand for a few seconds in light-headed disbelief. Somehow this has morphed into the misperception that not only was there an actual witness to the gangland execution, but that the witness was either Lizzy or Flora. I make my way to the desk and watch my fingers find Upton’s extension on the phone.
    â€œYes, boss?” His comforting baritone voice fills the room, and my eyes fill with gratitude.
    â€œUpton,” I say, “I think I need your help.”

C HAPTER 11
    I t was Upton’s idea to put Tina on the whirlybird with me. “You might need a real lawyer,” he said, making a joke of it to soften me up. What he meant was someone to keep an eye on me, especially if things up north are ugly. The ’copter is Dorsey’s, so to speak, a Bell 407 Ranger, chosen over the Bureau’s because it was on the pad and ready to fly. It lighted on the roof of the federal building just long enough for Tina and me to sprint in under spinning blades, and then, with one shiver, it was in the air again.
    From the air, I watch as we move from the grid of urban streets to the green threads of tree-lined suburban avenues and into the tattered quilting of the outlying farmlands and forests. It is all a work of staggering intricacy.
    It makes me sad.
    â€œI’ve got to get out of this business,” I shout to Tina, who sits beside me. Her answer, instead of a shout, is to put her hand on my knee. She means it as a comforting gesture, and it works. She doesn’t just pat my knee. She rests her hand there for several seconds. And I feel that much more comforted.
    Tina and I sit facing backward, and across from us is a trooper. I put my hand out and yell my name. He does likewise. We shake, but I can’t make out his name. And he’s hard to get a fix on visually. He wears a Smokey hat and looks like a dentist or bank officer; he has an any-guy look.
    I lean toward Tina. “It’s Kenny,” I yell. She shakes her head and leans in closer. “Kenny,” I repeat, not shouting because I’m right in her ear.