33
Understanding that I had made a decision made me feel almost euphoric. It could turn out to be the wrong decision, even a disastrous one. But that didn’t seem to matter.
Nathaniel MacLeod and his number one disciple, Esther Rabinowitz, might have explained it as brain chemistry. They might have said that a state of indecision creates chemicals that make us uncomfortable in order to push us into choosing, and then, when the choice is made, those chemicals go away, that pain goes away, and it’s replaced by a chemical reward. Everybody with their own internal dope dealer.
Interesting theory. Whether it was right or not, when I sat down to dinner with Gwen and Angie, I looked at them and was filled with love. When we said grace, I felt the grace of God’s love and of having a family, and I felt gratitude for being together and having food and a home.
“We have to spend more time together,” I said to Angie out of the closeness I felt.
“Okay,” she said.
“What’ll we do?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” my daughter said in a kind of awkward but pleased way. What do you do with your dad?
“Help you with your homework, with school projects maybe?”
She didn’t look exactly thrilled about that. “Well, Mom helps me a lot,” she said. “And I’m doing pretty well anyway.”
“Yeah,” I said. I never liked it when my parents, all four different ones, tried to help me with school. Which wasn’t very often and just turned into them telling me what I was doing wrong. Or them getting frustrated because they understood the material even less than I did.
“We could play basketball together,” I said.
The two of them looked at me as if I’d said the lamest thing in history. My only excuse was that she used to like basketball, and we did play together sometimes, but that had faded fast with the arrival of puberty. Now she was a cheerleader. Something I didn’t know how to do.
“Alright, alright, alright,” I said.
“And where are you going to find the time?” Gwen said.
“It’s important,” I said. “I’ll find the time.”
“And work?”
Our mortgage, health insurance—which is huge—car payments, Angie’s school fees—in spite of the discount we get because Gwen works at CTM—the phones, the cable TV, the credit cards, my business expenses, tithing, and all the secular taxes—it goes on and on. We make it, but I have to put in a lot of hours to make it.
“Hey,” I said, “you want to come to work with me sometime?”
“Yeah, cool,” Angie said.
“Do you think that’s actually a good idea?” Gwen asked.
“Come on, Gwen, you know that what I do isn’t what’s on TV. I mostly look things up, deliver papers, interview witnesses, maybe find people.”
Angie looked disappointed. She wanted it be exciting, of course.
“She’d be in the way.”
“We could try it some time and if didn’t work, then . . . ” I shrugged. We’d drop it. “But it might be fun.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Angie said.
“Fine,” Gwen said. “If it’s what you two want. But you’ll be careful?”
“Of course,” I said. I would never take her out if I thought anything remotely dangerous would happen. Then I said to Angie, “The next day you’re off school, and I’m working, you’ll come with me. Alright?”
“Yes, Dad,” she said to me with a smile that made me melt.
“And besides,” I said to Gwen. “You do more than your fair share. I should do more.”
“You do fine,” she said, but I could see that she was pleased.
We had pie and whipped cream for dessert.
I’d printed out the captured image of MacLeod’s “little angel.” I couldn’t go up to CTM and start asking, who’s this girl? In the circumstance, there was no one up there I could trust. But I could trust Gwen, who worked with the choir regularly and knew them all and most of the gossip.
After we did the dishes, and while Angie was in her room doing her homework, I showed the picture to Gwen and asked, “Can you tell me who this is? I think she’s in the choir.”
“Nicole Chandler,” she said instantly, with a tone of annoyance.
“You don’t like her?”
It was nothing that serious. “She missed her last four rehearsals and the last two services. Without a call, or a by your leave. Just didn’t show up. It’s inconsiderate.”
“Do you know much about her?”
“Not a lot.”
“Could you do me a favor? Get her address and phone and such for me. Even ask around if anything’s up with her.”
“Is she the runaway?”
“No. But she might have something to do with it. But she might not. And if I start asking around, people will immediately make more of it than maybe they should. I don’t want that to happen. For a bunch of reasons. So don’t say anything to anyone. Just, you know, ‘What’s up with Nicole? Is she ever going to show up for rehearsals?’ Just casual, normal, alright?”
“Of course. I can do that. I’ve been dying to play PI with you. But I have to take Angie for her checkup tomorrow.”
“Oh, let me do it. I have to go downtown anyway. It’s practically on the way. I can drop her off, take care of my business, and then pick her up. Give me a chance to spend time with her.”
“That’s a good idea. I’m glad you want to do that.”
“Me too,” I said.
“What do you have to do downtown?”
“William Thatcher Grantham III of Grantham, Glume, Wattly, and Goldfarb called to inform me that my services are no longer needed. I mean on the Nazami thing. It was Manny’s case, and they’re dropping it. I have to give them my final bill. I figured it would be better to, you know, drop by, remind them that I’m friendly and useful. They pay top dollar.”
“But you’re done working on it?”
“I don’t have a client,” I said.
“What if his new lawyer wants you to keep on it?”
“He’s gonna get a court-appointed,” I said with a shrug. We don’t have public defenders here. The court appoints from a pool of lawyers willing to work for $35 an hour, $45 an hour in court. The quality of their work is related to the rate of compensation. People who know defense lawyers just from TV and books—super clever, fully strategic, with knowledge of the law, doing research and calling experts—have no idea of what the realities are. Most of those guys handle a case the way a cook at McDonald’s assembles your order, except if you asked them to hold the onions, they’d screw it up.
If your life depends on it, rob a liquor store so you can pay a good lawyer.
Indigent defendants are entitled to a defense. To do that adequately, if the facts are at all in question, means they are entitled to an investigator too. In recognition of that reality, the state will pay for one. The state has set our compensation rate at $10 an hour. You can do better working at a Cumberland Farms convenience store. At least that comes with benefits, sick days, unemployment insurance, and worker’s comp.
There are some old guys who have full pensions from something else and do a decent job. But I can’t afford government wages. With one exception: working as a licensed crime scene investigator, which I am. That comes under the expert witness category, and the rate is $125 an hour. And that’s just fine. But that wasn’t what was at issue in the Nazami case.
“I mean, even if I were willing to work on it, who would pay me?” I asked. An excellent point. Who was going to pay me? “So that’s it. Kid meets with his new lawyer, five, ten minutes maybe. Lawyer calls the DA. They make the deal. And it’s all over. It’s gone and we can all forget about it.”