The Exchange: After The Firm

He had called with the welcome news that the latest death row case had not materialized, and for that they were both relieved. He had not mentioned the detour to see Lamar Quin. She poured him a glass of wine and they talked for an hour. He assured her more than once that there was no nostalgia for the old days. They had left nothing in Memphis.

When he began to nod off, she ushered him to the bed-room.

Five hours later, at exactly 6 A.M., the alarm clock pinged as always and Mitch crawled out of bed, leaving his wife behind. His first chore of the morning was to prepare the coffee. While it was brewing, he opened his laptop and found The Commercial Appeal, the Memphis daily. On the front page of the metro section the headline read: Tad Kearny Found Dead by Suicide. The story could have been written by the warden himself. There was no doubt about the cause of death. No idea how the “convicted cop killer” found an electrical cord. Death row inmates were allowed two ten-minute showers per week, during which they were “unmonitored.” Prison officials were scratching their heads, but hey, it’s prison and suicides happen all the time. Tad was about to get the needle anyway and he’d fired his lawyers. Did anyone really care? The wife of one of the dead DEA agents was quoted as saying, “We’re very disappointed. We wanted to be there and watch him take his last breath.”

His last lawyer, Amos Patrick of Memphis, was contacted but had no comment.

The Nashville Tennessean was even less sympathetic. The condemned man had murdered three fine officers of the law “in cold blood,” to coin an original term. The jury had spoken. The system had worked. May he rest in peace.

Mitch poured a cup of coffee, drank it black, and mumbled a prayer for Tad, then another one of thanks for dodging another messy, hopeless case. Assuming he had met Tad and somehow convinced him to sign on, Mitch would have spent the next ninety days scrambling to prove his client was legally insane. If he got lucky and found the right doctor, he would then frantically race to find a court that would listen. Every possible court had already said no to Tad. Every remaining strategy, and there were precious few, was a desperate long shot. Mitch would fly back and forth from New York to Memphis and Nashville, stay in budget motels, rack up thousands of miles with Hertz and Avis, and eat food that was a far cry from the delightful cuisine that came from Abby’s kitchen. He would miss her and the twins, fall far behind with his paying clients, lose a month of sleep, and then spend the last forty-eight hours at the prison either yelling into the phone or staring at Tad through a row of bars and lying about their chances.

“Good morning,” Abby said as she patted his shoulder. She poured a cup and sat at the table. “Any good news from around the world?”

He closed his laptop and smiled at her. “The usual. A recession is looming. Our invasion of Iraq looks even more misguided. The climate is heating up. Nothing new, really.”

“Lovely.”

“A couple of stories from down there about Tad Kearny killing himself.”

“It’s so tragic.”

“It is, but my file is closed. And I’ve decided that my career as a death row lawyer is over.”

“I think I’ve heard that before.”

“Well, this time I’m serious.”

“We’ll see. Are you working late tonight?”

“No. I’ll be home around six, I think.”

“Good. Remember that Laotian restaurant in the Village, about two months ago?”

“Sure. How could I forget? Something Vang.”

“Bida Vang.”

“And the chef has a last name with at least ten syllables.”

“He goes by ‘Chan’ and he’s decided to do a cookbook. He’ll be here tonight to destroy the kitchen.”

“Wonderful. What’s on the menu?”

“Far too much, but he wants to experiment. He mentioned an herbal sausage and fried coconut rice, among others. Might want to skip lunch.”

Clark emerged from the darkness and went straight to his mother for a hug. Carter would be five minutes behind. Mitch poured two small glasses of orange juice and asked what was on tap at school that day. As always, Clark woke up slow and said little over breakfast. Carter, the chatterbox, usually handled both ends of the morning conversation.

When the boys agreed on waffles and bananas, Mitch left the kitchen and went to shower. At 7:45 on the dot, the three guys hugged Abby goodbye and left for school. When he wasn’t out of town, and when the weather permitted, Mitch walked the twins to school. The River Latin School was only four blocks away and the walk was always a delight, especially when their father was with them. Near the school, other boys emerged, and it was obvious they had the same destination. They wore the uniform — navy blazer, white shirt, and khakis. The shoes were free of the dress code and were a startling mix of high-end basketball sneakers, L.L.Bean hiking boots, dirty buckskins, and traditional loafers.