He ignored that, launching into the story of his latest brush with the law, a story that, with minor variations, I’d heard many times. As a warm-up, he informed me that the whole thing had been a giant misunderstanding. Apparently he had no idea that there was dope in the bag he was carrying from one lowlife to another. He tried to explain the communication breakdown to the friendly neighborhood policeman, but alas, the officer was less than receptive to his plea.

Part of being a criminal defense attorney is being an editor. Clients tell you all sorts of things that have nothing to do with the case. Ronnie seemed to think that, in addition to me clearing him of all criminal charges, we would have one whale of a civil-rights case against the cops because Ronnie’s forehead got in the way of the car door when he was being helped into the backseat.

“Ronnie, if memory serves, a month ago I hung a jury and pleaded you down to a misdemeanor when you were looking at eighteen months. But when I sent you the bill, you told me to go fuck myself.”

“Nah, boss, you should’ve gotten that payment.”

Interesting how he put that. “I agree, Ronnie, I should have.”

“I don’t know what coulda happened.”

Another misunderstanding, apparently. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

“This is you in a good mood?” He laughed, overcompensating. He gave me the details, including the date of the prelim, the names of a couple of witnesses, and a sincere promise to have twenty-five hundred dollars in my hand by close of business tomorrow.

“Try to get the money legally,” I suggested, prompting more laughter. He was laughing because the odds of my ever receiving payment were longer than the odds of Ronnie Dice becoming a figure skater with the Ice Capades.

TODAY, lunch is a picnic in the park. Talia lays out a checked cloth blanket—part of a picnic set, a wedding present—while little Emily runs around in circles, her arms out straight, emulating an airplane.

Talia has the food—her wonderful chicken salad, new potatoes, and coleslaw—set out on a couple of plates, a lunch for two. She opens a bottle of Evian and calls out to our daughter. “C’mon, honey, let’s eat,” she says.

Emily, still playing the airplane, circles the picnic table and comes in for a safe landing. She picks up one of the small triangles of sandwich her mother has cut and crinkles her nose. “I don’t like it,” she says.

“You like chicken salad, Em. You liked it last week.”

Emily sets the food down and frowns. “I don’t want it.”

Talia puts her hand on Emily’s head of blond curls, her only physical feature owing to me. “You want peanut butter and jelly?” Talia brought an extra sandwich just in case.

Emily looks up into the sun, squinting as the rays beat down on her face. “Is Daddy coming today?”

Talia reaches down and gives our daughter a kiss. “Not today, sweetheart,” she says. “We’ll see him soon.”

You will. You’ll see me soon.

8

HIS NAME WASN’T SMITH, though that was the name he had given to the lawyer, Jason Kolarich. He didn’t expect Kolarich to buy it, but he guessed—correctly—that Kolarich wouldn’t worry too much about the identity of his benefactor, not when that benefactor was offering three hundred dollars an hour, and not when the client was an old friend.

Smith fondled a cuff link as he waited in his client’s office. The office was spacious but simple, the office of a man who paid no heed to the finer details, who freely delegated and expected compliance.

He stood as his client entered from a side door.

“Hello, Carlo,” Smith said.

Carlo dropped his large frame in a plush leather high-back and fixed on Smith. “Tell me about the lawyer,” he said.

“His name is Jason Kolarich. He grew up with Sammy Cutler. Next-door neighbors. Near Forty-seventh and Graynor, Leland Park—well, you know the neighborhood. Mother was a housewife. Father was a grifter. Mostly small-time stuff, card games, and petty rips. He’s doing eight inside now for a mortgage-fraud scam he ran.”

“Where?” Carlo asked. “Where’s he inside?”

Smith thought for a moment. “Marymount.”

Carlo was silent. Smith figured Carlo was thinking about how he could reach someone inside Marymount Penitentiary. Surely, there was a way.

“I don’t know how much Kolarich cares about his dad,” he told Carlo.

Carlo gave Smith a hard glare. He didn’t appreciate the suggestion in Smith’s comment.

“Continue,” Carlo said.

Smith nodded dutifully. “He has a younger brother named Pete. Had some scrapes himself but nothing major. Looks like maybe the apple didn’t fall far from the tree with Pete. He lives here in the city. He likes to engage in the occasional recreational drug.”

Carlo seemed to take note of that.

Smith knew the notes by heart. “Jason Kolarich was a football player, a real good one. A wide receiver. He played ball at State on scholarship for two years. Then he was kicked off the team when he got into a fight with one of his teammates. Put the guy in the hospital.”

“The hospital.” Carlo chuckled, allowed a tight smile. “A fighter.”

“Stayed in school, though,” Smith went on. “Put himself through the last two years, then went to law school. He was a prosecutor for a few years. A pretty good one, from what they say. He was doing felony cases at the criminal courthouse until he went into the private sector. He worked at a law firm called Shaker, Riley and Flemming, which is a very well-established firm in the city. He defended that state senator who was charged with extortion. He won that case.”

“He beat the feds?”

“He beat the feds.”

Carlo seemed impressed. “What about his family? Wife? Kids?”

Smith shook his head. “Kolarich’s wife, Talia, and their baby daughter, Emily, were killed in a car accident four months ago. Their car went off the embankment on a county road heading downstate.”

“Jesus.” Carlo winced. Even Carlo, Smith knew, would be sympathetic. “That’s gotta fuck a guy up pretty bad.”

“Of course,” Smith agreed. “Every day, at lunch, he drives to the cemetery and sits by their graves. He just sits there for an hour, then gets up and goes back to work.”

“Yeah, well—yeah.” Carlo got out of his chair and paced the large room. A guy like Carlo wasn’t comfortable with these kinds of emotions, and predictably, they evolved into anger. “Well, Jesus Christ, what are we getting with this guy? A violent guy who just lost his wife and daughter?”

Smith wasn’t sure of the answer. “He was a rising star at a blue-chip law firm before this all happened. After his wife and daughter died, he dropped off the map, left the law firm, and didn’t reemerge for three months. When he did, he opened up a one-man shop, sharing office space with an old high school friend and handling small-time cases. From what I’ve been able to tell, Kolarich is only halfway back. He works sporadically. Some days, he never leaves his house. Much of the time, he stays out at bars all night but doesn’t make a play for anyone; he just gets drunk and then goes home.” Smith took a minute. “This guy Kolarich will not be reliable, Carlo, but he’s the guy Cutler wanted. He wouldn’t take our people. He wanted Kolarich. And we’re going to do all the heavy lifting, anyway. All he’ll really have to do is show up in court. Hopefully, even he can handle that.”

Carlo was silent for a long while. He walked over to the single picture window in the office and stared, motionless. Finally, he turned his head in Smith’s direction. “And he still has that brother, right?”

“Right.”

“And they’re close? I mean, he gives a flying fuck about this brother? Pete, you said.”

“He seems to, yes.”