"More or less. But it was beside my car or my friend Howard Mansfield's pickup. I don't . . . own a truck," he said, wondering why the hell it suddenly seemed unmanly not to own a truck.
"Okay. Now tell me: You ever drop your gun?"
He smiled self-deprecatingly. "Oh, yeah. That's why they have safeties--for guys like me."
"It ever fall over?"
"You mean . . ."
"You just leaned it up against your--let me guess--Audi or Volvo while getting your ammo box at the end of the day. Or the beginning. The bolt is open, and it tips." He leaned his arm upright at the elbow on his chair and then swung it toward the ground like a pendulum.
"That happened, sure. I know the gun toppled over once when I leaned it against a tree while I was having lunch and another time when I was getting ready to start out in the morning. And, yes, I was leaning it against my . . . Volvo."
"There you go."
"But I don't smoke and I certainly didn't slip a match into the chamber."
"No, but a little dirt got in. Three or four grains of sand. That's all it takes."
"Are you saying three or four grains of sand kept me from extracting the bullet?"
"Yup."
"Have you ever seen that happen before?"
"Yup."
John sat forward in his seat, and turned the chair so that he was angled away from the toe of Mac Ballard's boot. "I wish we had that casing," he said to Tuttle. "I really want that--especially if the lab doesn't find anything wrong with the extractor."
Tuttle steepled the fingers on his hands. "If what Mac is suggesting is a legitimate possibility, we can test it--and we will. We don't need that missing casing. Besides, I'm not sure it matters."
"Excuse me?"
"You're not a defendant."
"No, but I look like an idiot--a complete moron--if the extractor works and we can't find the casing!"
"Calm down. If the extractor does work--and bear in mind, we still don't know if it does--we're still left with three possible reasons for your inability to remove the cartridge," he said, and he listed them on his fingers. "It had a defective casing; the rim was damaged when you were loading and unloading it; some dirt got lodged in the chamber."
"It's number three," Ballard said, and for the first time since he'd sat down he uncrossed his leg.
"Anyway, John, the fact the casing is gone actually gives you a bit of cover. We have three possible theories, if we ever need one. Okay?"
John felt his heart thrumming in his ears, and he imagined his blood pressure positively geysering. It seemed unfair that something as infinitesimal as a grain of sand might have cost his brother-in-law his arm and his family so much.
CHARLOTTE HAD EXPECTED the shrink to have a regular doctor's office--like her orthodontist's office, maybe, or the offices of the specialists her father had visited when they had first returned from New Hampshire. She'd expected a glut of magazines, most of them boring, that she would have to wade through until she found a People from her lifetime or a Vogue from the current season. Instead, there were magazines like Highlights--which she remembered from second and third grade--and Sports Illustrated for Kids and Teen People. There were books, too, some more dog-eared and pawed over than others. The Wind in the Willows. Stuart Little. A couple of Beverly Cleary paperbacks featuring Ramona. Moreover, the place was clearly an apartment--someone's home, it looked like--with mahogany paneling on the walls and the kinds of furniture that Grandmother owned: lots of dark wood, and couches and chairs so plush it was like they belonged in a funhouse. The only difference was that the coffee table and end tables had long, deep scratch marks, which really didn't surprise her since it was pretty clear that Dr. Warwick spent a lot of time with the Barbies and G.I. Joe playground crowd.
She'd never visited Aunt Sara's office in Vermont, but she knew it was part of a group practice. In her mind she had always seen it as a regular physician's workplace: chairs with bony armrests, beige walls, a receptionist behind a sliding glass window. Now she wondered if her aunt's reception area felt more like a living room than a waiting room, too.
Actually, this place didn't feel quite like a living room. Living rooms didn't have a person who looked more like an au pair than a doctor's receptionist sitting behind a delicate writing desk that seemed to belong in a museum. Charlotte guessed the young woman couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty, and she was writing something on the jazziest computer monitor she'd ever seen: It looked as thin as a plastic place mat.
Charlotte decided that she didn't mind having to wait with a Teen People instead of a regular People (though she definitely preferred the more grown-up scoop in the normal edition), and she felt quite content. She was, after all, helping her dad with his lawsuit. Moreover, she really was no longer sure why she had fired Uncle John's gun into the night. Maybe she would learn something. You never knew.
Her mom had picked her up right after second period and was sitting on the couch beside her, reading the short papers she'd had her English literature students write that week. She had a blue Sharpie pen in her hand--blue, she always said, because she feared students brought too much baggage to red--and was scribbling away madly on some poor kid's assignment.
Finally a door opened and a woman Charlotte guessed was her mother's age emerged, though Charlotte had once heard someone observe that heavy people were occasionally older than they looked. And this Dr. Warwick was heavy indeed, a series of round snowballs: midsized ones comprising her bottom and her breasts, a large one to serve as her torso and abdomen, and a smallish (at least in comparison to the rest of her body) one for her head. She was wearing black velvet pants and an ivory silk top that was a tad too clingy for someone so big. Still, this Dr. Warwick had the eyes and smile of a pixie and the most lovely blond spit curls clinging to the sides of her scalp. Charlotte liked her on sight.
She and her mother stood simultaneously to greet the therapist, and after they had made their introductions all around--including the receptionist named Anya who, it turned out, was a psych major at Columbia when she wasn't here three mornings a week--Dr. Warwick ushered her into another room. The doctor had her fingers pressed gently on her shoulder, and Charlotte decided that she liked the feel of this, too.
KEENAN BARRETT studied Paige Sutherland. He wished he had something that resembled her charisma. He wished he exuded the sort of telegenic charm that mattered so much more these days than an ability to frame an argument soundly. Alas, he was anything but magnetic. He was mannered . . . deliberate . . . old school. All qualities, alas, that didn't play well on CNN.
The problem at the moment was that he feared Paige was about to make the kind of mistake that young charismatic lawyers often made: She'd convinced herself that she was so smooth and attractive that she could bluster and bluff her way through anything. He hoped he could disabuse her of this notion and persuade her to rethink her plans.
"I just don't see why it will be relevant," Paige was saying in response to his concern. His office didn't have the sort of small round conference table that Dominique's had, though this was because he liked the way his massive mission desk made everyone with whom he met look small and inconsequential. Right now Paige and Spencer were sitting across from him in two straight-back mission chairs.
"It will be relevant because they are going to want to know why John couldn't extract the bullet," he told her, referring to the writers and reporters who they hoped would be at the press conference next week.
"And I'll tell them we delivered the gun to the lab," she answered.
He glanced at Spencer, who was looking down at the fingers on his right hand. His arm was still in that sling, and since his return Keenan hadn't seen him make any effort to take a single note with his left. Hadn't even seen him pick up a pen. Keenan wasn't completely sure he was listening now, or--if he was--whether he was following the nuances of their conversation. It was as if he'd been shot in the head, not the shoulder. He was so placid. So yielding. So serene. Keenan wonde
red if this was the result of his painkillers or whether the ache in his shoulder and back simply precluded him from concentrating on anything outside his body. Either way, this was a different Spencer from the one who had left for New Hampshire at the end of July, and Keenan wasn't sure what he thought of him. The fellow was certainly more likable. But he wasn't especially helpful. While the old Spencer would have had strong opinions on what they should and should not say at the press conference, this new one hadn't offered more than a sentence or two in the last fifteen minutes.
Keenan decided that he didn't even like his associate's new beard. He understood why Spencer was growing it, but the sad fact was that it made him look a little dim: He resembled the cavemen Keenan saw going to Ranger ice-hockey games at nearby Madison Square Garden, the beefy, lumpish, ancient-looking hominoids who painted their chests red and blue and then took off their shirts for the cameras. This troubled Keenan for a great many reasons, though the foremost right now was the reality that in four days Spencer was going to be the focal point of a press conference.
"If that's all you tell them," he said, directing his response at both the other lawyer and Spencer so he could see if there was anyone home behind those whiskers, "then once the gun's fundamental soundness is revealed--as it will be as soon as Adirondack inspects it--we will lose a sizable measure of our credibility and our message will be undermined. People will not be listening to what we have to say about hunting if they believe the legs have been cut away from beneath Spencer's lawsuit. If the lawsuit appears groundless, we have no forum."
"I'm not going to say the rifle didn't function the way it was meant to. We're contending, pure and simple, that Adirondack has been manufacturing a dangerous product because a bullet remains in the chamber once you unload the magazine. If the extractor had been defective, that would have been a nice bonus--nothing more, nothing less."
"That isn't my point."
"What is your point, Keenan?"
"I believe it is in your client's interest to acknowledge upfront--next Tuesday--that Mr. Seton's weapon worked perfectly. We need to be the first to say it performed exactly as it was designed to, so reporters do not misconstrue what we are claiming and get it into their deadline-obsessed heads that we're implying the rifle was in any way defective. We simply cannot allow Adirondack to trump us in the media in a week or a month or whenever with the announcement that the gun was inspected and no mechanical defects were discovered."
"The gun worked?" It was Spencer, looking up finally from his useless right fingers.
"Spencer," Paige said, smiling gently at her client, "haven't you heard a word we've been saying? Haven't you been listening?"
"I guess the reality only hit me just now."
"Yes," Keenan said, "the gun worked." He couldn't imagine how the hell they were going to put this guy on the dais in a couple of days.
"But we're not going to say that it didn't work," Paige added. "Our point all along--"
"If the gun worked, then why couldn't my brother-in-law get the bullet out?"
"That's exactly the question we need to answer," Keenan said.
"He'd been getting the bullets out for two weeks. Probably more when you factor in the time he spent in his hunter safety courses," Spencer continued.
"We can ask the lab to look into that," Paige said. "But I'm sure it was just your brother-in-law's unfamiliarity with the gun."
"My brother-in-law's a pretty sharp guy. The hunting is appalling, of course. But he's not stupid."
"No, of course he's not," Paige said, though Keenan could tell that she didn't believe that for a minute. "But it may just be that he didn't know how to unload the weapon--which, given its apparent complexity and the fact you have to do two things to unload it, seems plausible enough to me."
"People who are a lot less capable than John do it successfully every day."
Keenan immediately sat forward. "That, Spencer, is a sentence you need to divest yourself of instantly. Do you understand? Expurgate that very thought from your mind this very second. Please."
"Oh, Keenan, I won't say that on Tuesday. I'm just telling you here in the privacy of this office that I agree with you: It's something we need to understand." Then he placed his left hand on the front of the wide desk and pushed himself to his feet.
"Where are you going?" Paige asked. She sounded alarmed.
"To get a dog. I was going to wait till Monday, but if I bring her home today my family will get to spend the weekend bonding with her."
"What? You can't get a dog now," she said, a slight tremor of panic in her voice. Keenan guessed she was afraid that her client--near catatonic for the vast majority of their meeting, and then suddenly sharp but oblivious to the party line for the rest--was losing his mind.
"Why?"
She looked at her watch. "Because it's Friday morning."
"That's not a reason why I can't get a dog, Paige. People all over the world get dogs on Friday mornings."
"I meant we still have work to do."
He paused in the doorway and smiled. "I think you and Keenan do. But I'm all set. I know my lines for Tuesday."
"Do you?"
He nodded.
"So you're just leaving to go get a . . . a companion animal?"
"No, I'm just leaving to go get a pet: a creature that will be completely dependent on my family for its food and its shelter."
"Fine, then: You're just leaving to go get a pet?"
"That idea really disturbs you, doesn't it?"
"It's just . . . weird."
"Would it make the Puritan inside you more content if I got the dog later today?"
"Yes!"
Keenan was surprised at the enthusiasm in Paige's voice. Apparently, she'd never seen a client excuse himself from a meeting with her to go get a dog.
"Okay, then. I'll tell Randy we're getting the dog later--her schedule permitting."
"And then you'll come back here?"
"No. I have plenty of other things to do. We have a Granola Girl on Howard Stern next week, and I want to make sure she knows what she's in for--and that she doesn't have to take her top off, no matter how many goldfish he threatens to kill if she doesn't. And Joan's 'Don't Gobble the Gobbler' campaign needs a little work: It sounds like we disapprove of Thanksgiving, and not just eating turkey. And Dominique's holiday fund-raising letter is pretty extreme. And you know what? Even if none of the projects on my list interests me this morning, I think I could entertain myself just fine by screwing around with my new left-handed keyboard and mouse." When he was finished speaking he gave them a small wave and started down the corridor to his office.
After a moment Paige asked, her voice barely above a whisper, "Do you think he's stable? He just went from a near stupor to this zeal for some dog."
"It's for his daughter. The dog. It's a belated birthday present."
"Keenan?"
"Yes?"
"I'm worried about him. I'm worried about his health."
"You?"
"I know. I'm not just worried about his behavior at the press conference. I'm worried about whatever's going on inside his head. He really does seem . . ."
"Different."
"Uh-huh. Whatever happens, we have to make sure that we get a decent settlement out of Adirondack. He--his family--might really need one."
"Well, then. Let us be certain we do two things. Let us make it absolutely clear at the press conference next Tuesday that Spencer's lawsuit in no way rests on a malfunctioning firearm: We must say crisply and without reservation that the gun worked exactly as Adirondack designed it. Second, let us be certain that we have an explanation for John Seton's inability to extricate that final cartridge from the chamber. Are we in agreement?"
She inhaled deeply, and he thought he detected a slight shudder of real humanity inside the fortress she built from Rene Lezard pinstripes and a coiffure from Richard Stein.
"We are," she said, and he allowed himself a small smile.
SHE TALKED A
BOUT BREARLEY and the musical she was going to be in, and she talked about being a single child. She sank deep into the cushions of the easy chair opposite Dr. Warwick and told her what she liked about her summers in New Hampshire and what she found burdensome and boring. She began with short answers, not because she was trying to be difficult but because there were moments when she honestly wasn't sure what the correct responses were. The truth was that it never had been a big deal to have her mom in the school building with her, and more times than not she actually enjoyed the sensation. But her aunt Sara once told her how much she had disliked being the school secretary's kid when she'd been growing up, and so Charlotte found herself wondering now what it meant that she wasn't disturbed by the fact her mom taught at Brearley.