The Arraignment by Steve Martini

stretchers and moved into the ambulance. I can see part of Nick’s face outside of the mask as they wheel him past. It is ashen, a hue of blue-gray. His eyes are partly open, a lifeless expression that you know is not good.
    Before I can turn for my car, the ambulance and its cargo are gone. I would guess to the trauma center, but given the medical facilities in this town I would have better odds playing roulette. Instead of guessing, I head to the car and ply thecell phone. It takes me ten minutes of calling information before I find the right hospital, only to be told that the ambulance has arrived but no information can be given out. The nurse wants to know if I am family. I tell her no. She asks my name and phone number. I tell her I will call back later and hang up. There is nothing I can do. In a daze, I head for the office. One of those episodes when you drive, arrive at a destination, and don’t know how you got there. I’m parked on the street outside my office, sitting in the driver’s seat, not knowing how long I’ve been here.
    I shake my head, wipe my forehead. For a moment I think I am imagining it. But my hands are trembling. I turn the key in the ignition halfway and turn on the radio, and push buttons for local stations. I break into one of them and hear the words:
“. . . outside of the federal courthouse in downtown San Diego. At this time we don’t know how many people have been injured. Again, it was a drive-by shooting.”
    I reach for the control and turn up the volume.
“According to confirmed reports, two men are dead.”
    My mind has already registered the fact, but hearing it somehow makes it real.
“The identities of the two victims are being withheld pending notification of next of kin. According to police, the motive for the shootings is unknown. There have been no arrests and police say the investigation is continuing. We’ll bring you further details at the hour.”
    The rest of that day and the day after seem largely a haze of nightmarish images, of dark dreams that I can escape by awakening only to discover that I am not dreaming.
     
    Fortunately, the cops do not get around to me until three days after the fact. At first, I thought maybe my name might have been on Nick’s calendar. When they didn’t show up that first day, I knew it wasn’t.
    A double murder involving a prominent lawyer in front of a federal courthouse is front-page news. The local channels and the papers are hitting it hard, the cops fanning the flames, feeding them information, none of it favorable to Nick. As a criminal defense lawyer, Nick was infamous, the kind of advocate who took no prisoners in a courtroom. It has already been leaked that there was an envelope with four thousand dollars in cash in Nick’s coat pocket when they undressed the body at the morgue. That there was a name scrawled on the envelope is all that authorities are saying. It is enough for readers to draw unsavory conclusions.
    The police are saying nothing about motive, though reporters have ferreted out that Metz was under indictment. They have referred to Metz only as a prominent businessman. The key clue for the press is Nick. They have dwelled on the fact that he specialized in major narcotic cases both in the U.S. Attorney’s Office and in private practice, and from this they have pieced sketchy conclusions, offering just enough for readers to speculate.
    As for the authorities, they are saying nothing. Under the circumstances, Nick’s passing is not likely to result in the dedication of any lofty limestone memorials by civic groups.
    Cameras and a steady gaggle of reporters have been staked out in front of the security gates leading to Dana’s house down in the Cays. I have seen the images on the nightly news—the widow in dark glasses being chauffeured through the phalanx by friends, one in particular, a tall gentleman, slicked-down dark hair with a little gray at the temples, and wearing a sport coat and slacks that look