Mortenson had said Ma and Pa, but there in the office, after hours, we were like the king and queen of the place. Sometimes I would stand at Schiff’s window, and she would come up beside me and say, “Get to work.” While I took calls from Schiff and Mortenson and ran into the file room to tell them which judge had presided over a certain case or what date a judgment was rendered, she spent an hour ordering lunch or performing what she called her “Goldilocks test,” in which she sat in a series of chairs until she found the most comfortable. She called the local radio station and asked for her favorite songs to be played. The top drawer of the desk by the beige cage was filled with the Mr. Tipton letters, which carped about her lack of focus and drive; they were heaped in a pile to prove the point. Once, she went missing in the middle of the day; I patrolled the office until I found her in the stairwell, smoking a cigarette. She looked as though she had been crying. And more than once, when we were at work late, she took a glass out of Schiff’s cabinet and filled it with whiskey. “To pleasure,” she said, and then corrected herself. “To a few minutes of freedom.” Her refusal to focus on work didn’t bother me so long as she stayed late with me in our kingdom, but after that first week, she abdicated. She left earlier and earlier, sometimes even when the sun was still out. On those evenings, the office was dulclass="underline" gray, flat, and silent.
But wonderful things happen in the dullest places. Sitting there in the conference room one night, knocking my foot against one of the legs of the table, I saw a comet streak across the sky. The janitor was the only other one there. He had just finished emptying the wastebaskets in the room. The air conditioner had started to power down for the night, and it was getting warm. I was trying to power down, as well, seeking what I would have described as peace, though I have realized as I have grown older that it is closer to humility. Just then, in the corner of the window, I saw what looked like a star moving.
I motioned to the janitor, asked him to verify what I was seeing. The comet moved more slowly, and it was larger to my eye than I would have expected. It passed behind a tree and reappeared. Now it was in the dead middle of the window, perfectly positioned to make a statement, and it flared brilliantly, like a piece of music, and vanished. “That was something,” he said.
I went immediately to Schiff’s office and dialed Lisa’s number. This violated one of our unspoken rules, that when one of us was at home, the other did not intrude. “There was a shooting star, and it was huge,” I said, throwing something extra into my tone to excuse myself. “It almost went all the way across the window.”
“You’re still at the office?”
I went for broke. “Yeah. I could come over.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Well, then, you could stay late tomorrow.”
“Good night, Jim,” she said, but not unkindly, and she lowered the phone and then raised it again. “Ask me again one of these days,” she said. Her tone gave enough away that I did not need to take the chance the next day, or the day after that. We kissed once in the stairwell, and once out by her car, and once when she was driving me home she stopped the car, got out, and let me press her up against the driver’s side door. She said only my name, which almost made me forget myself.
SCHIFF AND MORTENSON HAD enjoyed some success with their trips and so they made more of them. That meant time for me and Lisa, but also an awareness that there was never enough time. They were always back too soon for my tastes, Mortenson in particular. He liked to look at Lisa, and though I could not blame him for that, I started to worry that he was looking not out of interest but with a professional eye. She was not, as I have said, working very hard, and a good manager could have put her right out of the office. That would have been worse for me than if I was fired directly.
Cases shifted and settled through June, and by the end of the month one in particular had moved to the front of the pack: the shooting in a motel complex in Georgia of a college football star. The young man, Lorenzo Francis, was staying at the motel with his girlfriend. When an off-duty policeman who was also a motel guest saw what he thought was a drug transaction, he confronted the football player, who denied the accusation. After a scuffle, shots were fired, and Francis was hit by two bullets, one of which severed his spine and left him paralyzed. The officer remembered an attempted flight across a courtyard, but Schiff and Mortenson meant to show that the angle at which the bullet entered the body disproved this story, particularly with regard to location — in short, that he could not have been where he said he was when the shot was fired. To demonstrate this, they planned to use a model of the apartment complex.
This seemed like an opportunity for me to help myself. I went in to see Mortenson. “You need a model built?” I said.
“That’s the word on the street,” he said.
“You should ask Lisa,” I said.
“Lisa?” He said the name as if he had not thought of her for days.
“Not to make it,” I said, rushing forward. “I mean, maybe. But you should ask her because she takes architecture classes and I’m sure she knows people.”
“That’s a good idea,” he said. When he turned, I saw a phone number on the paper. It was hers. He was already planning on calling. I did not even know if he was going to give me credit for the idea. I had parleyed and gained nothing.
Lisa went directly in to speak to Mortenson. I sat outside at her desk. I tried to see the office from her perspective, but it was difficult, since I could see her in the scene. Mortenson laughed and rubbed his bald head. She sat down and made her case: an architecture student would benefit the firm in this regard. A model was precisely what a student was trained to produce. She knew good people. Whatever they paid for the model, could they pay her as well for organizing it? There was something in her expression that was so strong it was almost a scent. Mortenson laughed again, and I had the sudden sense that it was all beyond me.
Mortenson buzzed the desk and asked me in. I entered the conference room and stood there wrapped in the sense that I had intruded. “There’s one guy I think would be especially good,” Lisa said. “His name is Jeff. I don’t know him all that well, but he’s the best model-builder in the class. He could do cutaway views, maybe even put some little lightbulbs in to show where the different people were. He has little kids and he’s always talking about how he needs more money. I think he’d do it for cheap.”
“Hi, there,” Mortenson said to me. And to Lisa: “Lightbulbs. That’s a great idea.” And back to me: “Do you need her for something?”
“Something’s wrong with the printer,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be right there.” She was quick to the door.
JEFF LELAND WORE HIGH-TOP SNEAKERS and a sweatshirt and his hair was held back in a ponytail. He sat so nervously that he should have stood: he jiggled his knee, fretted his wedding ring. I went to get him. “Hello,” I said.
“Hi,” he said. “Jeff. You must be Jim.” I didn’t like the way he said my name, or even his own. He was too easy by half, and that intimidated me. Now it seems comical, to have been intimidated by a man who was at most twenty-four or twenty-five.
“Follow me,” I said. “Mr. Schiff and Mr. Mortenson are waiting.”
I dropped Leland off. As I was leaving, Schiff called to me. “Stay,” he said. I listened with professional interest, possibly for the first time in my life, as Schiff and Mortenson explained the case. The next day, when I told Lisa about the conversation, I found that I could replay a few notes but not reproduce the whole tune. Mortenson had drawn Jeff in by talking about his outfit. “Say that the cops see a guy dressed like you,” he said, “and they assume he’s up to no good. Is that just cause? And assume that this guy, the guy dressed like you, takes off at a clip, because he’s afraid of what’s going to happen to him, to his girlfriend. Do the cops call out to him? Do they order him to stop? Or do they just draw their weapons and fire at this guy who’s like you?”