My sister would be in her late thirties now, at least as old as most of these mothers. Weird to think of it that way. I see Camille forever as a teen. It is hard to imagine where she would be now, where she should be now, sitting in one of those chairs, the doofy-happy-concerned-I'm-a-mom-first smile on her face, overfilming her own offspring. I wonder what she would look like today, but again all I see is the teenager who died.
It may appear that I'm somewhat obsessed with death, but there is a huge difference between my sister’s murder and my wife's premature passing. The first, my sister's, led me to my current job and career projectory. I can fight that injustice in the courtroom. And I do. I try to make the world safer, try to put those who would harm others behind bars, try to bring other families something my family never really had, closure.
With the second death, my wife's, I was helpless and screwed up and no matter what I do now, I will never be able to make amends.
The school principal strapped that faux-concerned smile onto her over-lipsticked mouth and headed in the direction of the two cops. She engaged them in conversation, but neither one of them so much as glanced at her. I watched their eyes. When the taller cop, the lead cop for certain, hit my face, he stopped. Neither of us moved for a moment.
He gave his head the slightest tilt, beckoning me outside this safe haven of laughter and tumbling. I made my nod equally slight.
"Where are you going?" Greta asked me.
I don't want to sound unkind, but Greta was the ugly sister. They looked alike, she and my lovely dead bride. You could tell that they were from the same parents. But everything that worked physically with my Jane just doesn't quite make it on Greta. My wife had a prominent nose that somehow made her sexier. Greta has a prominent nose that looks, well, big. My wife's eyes, set far apart, gave her an exotic appeal. On Greta, the wide spacing makes her look somewhat reptilian.
"I'm not sure," I said.
"Business?"
"Could be."
She glanced over at the two probable cops then back at me. "I was going to take Madison to Friendly's for lunch. Do you want me to bring Cara?"
"Sure, that'd be great."
"I could also pick her up after school."
I nodded. "That might help."
Greta kissed my cheek gently then, something she rarely does. I headed off. The peals of children's laughter rolled with me. I opened the door and stepped into the corridor. The two policemen followed me. School corridors never change much either. They have an almost haunted-house echo to them, a strange sort of semisilence and a faint but distinct smell that both soothed and agitated.
"Are you Paul Copeland?" the taller one asked.
"Yes."
He looked at his shorter partner. The shorter guy was meaty with no neck. His head was shaped like a cinder block. His skin was coarse too, adding to the illusion. From around the corner came a class of maybe fourth graders. They were all red-faced from exertion. Probably had just come from the playground. They made their way past us, trailed by their harried teacher. She gave us a strained smile.
"Maybe we should talk outside," the taller one said.
I shrugged. I had no idea what this was about. I had the guile of the innocent, but the experience to know that nothing with cops is what it appears to be. This was not about the big, headline-splashing case I was working on. If it had been, they'd have called my office. I'd have gotten word on my cell or Blackberry.
No, they were here for something else, something personal.
Again I knew that I had done nothing wrong. But I have seen all kinds of suspects in my time and all kinds of reactions. It might surprise you. For example, when the police have a major suspect in custody they often keep them locked in the interrogation room for hours on end. You would think the guilty ones would be climbing walls, but for the most part, it was the opposite. The innocent ones get the most antsy and nervous. They have no idea why they are there or what the police mistakenly think they've done. The guilty often go to sleep.
We stood outside. The sun blazed down. The taller one squinted and raised a hand to shade his eyes. The Cinder Block would not give anyone that satisfaction.
"My name is Detective Tucker York," the taller one said. He took out his badge and then motioned toward the Cinder Block. "This is Detective Don Dillon."
Dillon took out his ID too. They showed them to me. I don't know why they do that. How hard can it be to fake those? "What can I do for you?" I asked.
"Do you mind telling us where you were last night?" York asked.
Sirens should have gone off at a question like that. I should have right away reminded them of whom I was and that I wouldn't answer any questions without an attorney present. But I am an attorney. A damned good one. And that, of course, just makes you more foolish when you represent yourself, not less so. I was also human. When you are rousted by the police, even with all my experience, you want to please. You can't help that feeling.
"I was home."
"Anyone who can verify that?"
"My daughter."
York and Dillon looked back at the school. "That's the girl who was tumbling in there?"
"Yes."
"Anyone else?"
"I don't think so. What's this about?"
York was the one who was doing all the talking. He ignored my question. "Do you know a man named Manolo Santiago?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure."
"Why only pretty sure?"
"Do you know who I am?"
"Yep," York said. He coughed into his fist. "You want us to maybe take a knee or kiss your ring or something?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Good, then we're on the same page."
I did not like his attitude, but I let it slide. "So why are you only 'pretty sure' you don't know Manolo Santiago?"
"I mean, the name isn't familiar. I don't think I know him. But maybe it's someone I prosecuted or was a witness in one of my cases, or hell, maybe I met him at a fund-raiser ten years ago."
York nodded, encouraging me to blabber more. I didn't.
"Do you mind coming with us?"
"Where?"
"It won't take long."
"Won't take long," I repeated. "That doesn't sound like a place."
The two cops exchanged a glance. I tried to look as if I would hold my ground.
"A man named Manolo Santiago was murdered last night."
"Where?"
"His body was in Manhattan. Washington Heights area."
"And what does this have to do with me?"
"We think you might be able to help."
"Help how? I already told you. I don't know him."
"You said" York actually referred to his pad, but it was only for effect; he hadn't written anything while I was talking" that you were 'pretty sure' you didn't know him."
"I'm sure then. Okay? I'm sure."
He snapped the pad closed with dramatic flare. "Mr. Santiago knew you."
"How do you know that?"
"We'd prefer to show you."
"And I'd prefer you tell me."
"Mr. Santiago" York hesitated as though choosing his next words by hand "had certain items on him."
"Items?"
"Yes."
"Could you be more specific?"
"Items," he said, "that point to you."
"Point to me as what?"
"Yo, Mr. DA?"
Dillon-the Cinder Block-had finally spoken.
"It's County Prosecutor," I said.
"Whatever." He cracked his neck and pointed at my chest. "You're really starting to itch my ass."
"Excuse me?" Dillon stepped into my face. "Do we look like we're here for a god damn semantics lesson?" I thought the question was rhetorical, but he waited. Finally I said, "No."