I say, “So am I.”
“Do you think he’s a killer?”
“No.”
“Even after what Harrington just told us?”
“Even then.”
“You must have a pretty good reason.”
“The best,” I say. “I don’t want him to be a killer.”
Jimmy gets Kenny’s attention and mouths “Scotch.” Kenny emerges from behind the bar with a glass and a bottle of Dewar’s. Jimmy does the pour himself. It’s a good one.
“From the time I started working for you,” Jimmy says, “you’ve told me that once you decide to defend somebody standing up on a murder charge, there’s one question you never ask: whether or not they did it.”
I don’t respond right away. It’s late and I’m not in the mood to have this conversation right now. And I’m starting to feel slightly nauseous again, which could mean another long, bad night once I get home and get into bed.
But Jimmy always finishes what he starts.
“You told me the reason you didn’t ask,” he continues, “is because when it came to you putting up the best defense you had in you, it didn’t matter one way or the other.”
I reach across the table then, cover his hand with mine, and give it a quick, affectionate squeeze.
Then proceed to tell him the exact same thing I told Paul Harrington before he walked out of the bar.
“I lied,” I say to Jimmy Cunniff.
TWENTY-FOUR
AS LOUSY AS I feel, I don’t go straight home.
I drive to the beach instead, telling myself I would apologize to Rip the dog later for not stopping to pick him up.
They told me before I left Meier that the drugs I am taking affected everybody differently. I assured them that I had learned how to manage chemo and that I would certainly be able to learn what I was calling my ADCs. Antibody drug conjugates. Such a joy and a comfort.
I didn’t really start feeling sick until after I returned home. Nausea. Fatigue. Vomiting. So far it’s all been no better than chemo, I’m just not hooked up to any machines. But now I am feeling sick just about every damn day.
Being in the presence of Paul Harrington hasn’t helped matters much.
I haven’t said anything about this to Jimmy or Ben Kalinsky or Dr. Sam Wylie, or even my sister, who understands what I’m experiencing more than any of them. But I’m starting to wonder, every damn day, how I’ll be able to get through jury selection if I don’t start to feel better. Or more like myself, whatever that means anymore.
Much less a trial.
For now, though, for tonight, I just want to breathe in some clean air, the cleanest air I’ve ever known, even as close to the sky as I was in the mountains of Switzerland.
My air, near the ocean.
I don’t drive to Indian Wells, because even alone out here in the night I know I’ll see the scene I’ve been playing and replaying inside my head: Ben kneeling in the sand and proposing to me all over again. I feel no need to return to what I now think of as the scene of my crime.
I drive the extra mile east to Atlantic Avenue Beach instead, get out of my car, take off my sneakers as soon as I reach the end of the parking lot. I feel the sand underneath my bare feet, am breathing in that air, listening to the waves.
Suddenly I don’t feel as sick.
Another miracle drug.
When I’m here, especially at night, alone or with Rip, I can almost convince myself that I’m going to beat this thing.
