FELDMAN KNEW A LAWYER HE would trust with his life.  Joe Bari was an old college friend.  The last he had heard, Bari was still practicing law in Roads Port, seventy miles east of Richmond, on the tip of the Lower Peninsula. 

“Mr. Bari’s office.”

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Bari.  Tell him that Paul Feldman is calling.”

Joseph Mahoney Bari, son of a second generation Italian businessman and a third generation Irish mother, was the star litigator in a small but influential law firm in Roads Port, Virginia.

Like many successful men, he had worked hard as a young man, in school and out.  He had been obedient and respectful, and had harbored a secret, raging ambition.  He also harbored the memory of a biting resentment at the prejudice he suffered as a youngster in the South.  He was often shunned because of his Italian-Irish-Catholic heritage and his smooth olive complexion, but that was all in the past.  This was the New South, and jokes based on ethnic background were déclassé and skin color was never mentioned in any company for any reason.

Bari had been good at sports and popular with the girls.  Oddly, his buddies thought, he had become best friends with Paul Feldman, the gangly kid he sat next to in his college history class. 

“Paul, is that you?  How the hell are you, buddy?  I’ve been meaning to call.  How’s Marian?”

“It’s good to hear your voice, Joe.  Listen, I’m in some trouble and I’d like to come down to Roads Port to talk to you about it.”

“Sure, Paul.  Come ahead.  You stay with me while you’re here, you understand?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, if you can fit me in.”

“Of course I can fit you in, for Christ’s sake.  Where are you calling from, Paul?

“Richmond.”

The two friends had decreasing contact over the years, not out of ill will or boredom, but simply due to the difficulties of living in different cities.   Friends have to work at friendship when they are separated, and most simply don’t have the time or the energy left over after work and family.

Joe tried to imagine what trouble was brewing in his friend’s life - divorce, probably.  Paul hadn’t answered his question about Marian.  That was it.  Paul and Marian were splitting up and Paul wanted him to handle the divorce.           

READING THE PAPER over breakfast next morning, Joe had discovered to his horror that it wasn’t divorce his friend was coming to see him about, it was murder— of a cop. 

     Feldman got off the elevator and stopped at the receptionist’s desk.  “I’m Paul Feldman.  I called yesterday  . . .”

Joe Bari hurried from his office, a big grin on his face.  “Paul!  It’s you!”  He grabbed Feldman’s hand in a crushing handshake.  “How are you, buddy?  I’ve been meaning to call– it’s been what, a couple of years?”

As the two men entered Bari’s office, Feldman, tears streaming down his cheeks, embraced him, “Yes, two years at least.  It seems like twenty.”

Bari was deeply touched, but he refused to give in to the moment.  They had serious business to discuss and emotion would only get in the way. “How is that possible?  How’s Marian?”

“She’s okay, I think.  Listen Joe, there’s going to be trouble, and I need to talk to you about it.”

“That’s what you said on the phone.”  Joe Bari gestured for Feldman to sit down on the sofa, rather than the client’s chair in front of Joe’s walnut desk, an antique given to him as a wedding present by his well-off in-laws.  “Since you’re down here on the Lower Peninsula, you stay with Ann and me.  No argument, okay?”

Joe Bari went to his desk, fingered the intercom and asked that coffee and pastry be brought into the office.

“Joe, I’m a suspect in a murder that took place in my home.”

“Yes, I know,” Joe said as he sat down facing Feldman on the sofa.  “There was a brief piece in this morning’s paper and something on TV.  Apparently, a police detective was shot in your home.”

“I was at the airport when it happened, Joe.  I couldn’t have killed that man and I didn’t.”

“You weren’t arrested, so that’s good.  Did you make a statement to the cops?”

“I gave some detective a stripped down account of the facts, and when he got pushy, I said I wanted to talk to a lawyer.”

“Good going, Paul,” said Bari, leaning over to give his shoulder a friendly punch.

“I remembered you gave that advice to the crowd at a party one night years ago.  Everyone laughed.  I never dreamed that one day I’d be following it.”

Bari’s secretary opened the door and set the silver tray service on the coffee table in front of the sofa.  “Will there be anything else, Joe?”

“No, thank you, Helen.  Just close the door if you will.”

After the door clicked shut, Feldman said, “I’d like a drink if you have something here.”

Bari went to a cabinet adjoining the bookshelves and took out a bottle of hundred proof brandy and a cut crystal tumbler.  He put the setup on the coffee table and poured three fingers of brandy.  Feldman quickly drank half of it, shuddered, and put down the glass.

“Hey, it’s terrific to see you, Paul.  Are you still reading Plato?”

Feldman laughed.  “Oh, yes, just like in college.  I’m still one of the ‘Philosopher Kings of Agate Street.’”

“Damn, I haven’t thought about our house on Agate Street in years,” Bari said, pausing, his memories of those bygone days off campus seeping back into his mind.

“Those were great days, Joe,” Feldman said, almost sadly.  “The off-campus salon, students dropping over to discuss all kinds of stuff-- everything from Aristotle to football; horse racing to sex.”

Bari had always deeply valued his friendship with Paul Feldman because Feldman was the genuine article:  a true intellectual, even at twenty.  From their discussions, often continuing on late into the night, Joe Bari learned how to think.  After that, the remainder of his academic life was a breeze. 

Feldman polished off the glass of brandy, and shook his head when Bari offered more.  “First, I want you to know that I had nothing to do with the murder.  I was supposed to go on a business trip . . .” Feldman gave his old friend a concise story of his illness at the airport and what he saw when he returned home.

“What’s the story at work, Paul?”

“Tom Orbis, the company president called and offered his support. Anything I needed.  When I told him that I might be charged with murder, he couldn’t believe it.  Good old Tom.  In fact, he laughed.  He told me to take paid leave until this thing was settled.  Everyone should have such a boss.”

Bari hadn’t seen Paul Feldman in two years, but he thought that his friend had aged more than that.  “Listen carefully.  Don’t speak to anyone about this, except Marian, and be careful what you say to her.  The paper said that Marian was present when it happened.  Is that right?”

“Yes, but I’d rather not talk about Marian right at this moment, if you don’t mind.  Can we return to her later?”

Trouble.  “Sure Paul.  I’ll represent you, you know that, but you’ve got to promise me something.  You won’t think it matters, but it’s all important.  You’ve got to take care of yourself while this is going on.  You look like hell.  Go see a doctor and get him to prescribe something to help you.  You’ve got to eat right too.  No missing meals even if you’re not hungry.  Do I have your promise you’ll do that?”  It was one thing to look owlish, which Paul did naturally.  It was another thing to look like a scarecrow, particularly in front of a jury if, god forbid, it came to that.

Feldman smiled weakly, “Thanks Joe.”

“What do you think happened?  Take your time.”

Bari knew the Richmond cops weren’t about to let this case go into the unsolved pile along with hundreds before it.  Richmond, Virginia wasn’t the country’s crime capital, but its murder rate was a respectable fifth, right after Detroit.

No, this was different: a cop killing.   Tradition in police departments the world over held that you threw everything at the case until it was solved, and then you made sure the killer got the max, which was, in Virginia,  death by lethal injection.

What this meant to Bari, was that his friend would be charged very soon, simply because the cop was killed in his house and his wife knew a lot more about it than she was telling.  Bari’s law stated that anytime a guy buys it in the presence of a 10 plus babe, which Marian was, indisputably, there was always a lot more.

“Marian had complained to me recently of hearing noises outside at night.  I told her to report it.  The last time was two nights ago.  She said the detective was there investigating the possibility of vandalism or attempted burglary.  

“She said he had been there only a few minutes when somebody shot him, probably from the bedroom door that opens onto the hallway.  She didn’t see the shooter.  Apparently she and the detective were looking at the bedroom window and trying to get it open when the shot was fired.  In that position, their backs would be to the door.  After the shot was fired and she collected herself, she called 911, and that’s all she knows.”

“Were you tested for gun powder residue?” asked Bari.

“Yes, but they didn’t tell me the results.  Doesn’t matter, because the results are negative; I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”

“How about Marian . . . was she tested?”

Feldman tried to hide his reaction, Bari noticed.  “I don’t know.  We’ve only spoken briefly since it happened and I didn’t think to ask her.”

Oh, shit, Bari thought.  Paul suspected Marian of doing more than simply reporting an attempted burglary.  “I’d like for you and Marian to stay with Ann and me for a couple of days.  I want you to call Marian and tell her that you’ve talked to me and you want her to drive down and be our guest.”  They stood up together, and Bari put his hand on his friend’s shoulder as they walked out and down the hall to the firm’s reception area.  “Drive over to the house when you leave here.  Ann will be looking for you.”

Bari knew that the tension between Paul and Marian Feldman would stick out like a herd of zebras.  Something had to be done before the media spotted it and pounced.                

THE RAIN AND snow took a breather, and, to mixed reviews, the sun made an appearance.  It wasn’t the decadent Florida sun that warmed bougainvilleas and magnolias; it was the puritanical Virginia sun that sent temperatures plummeting.  Joe Bari hated the cold.

“Sonofabitch,” he muttered, as he carefully negotiated the icy entry stairs.  Bari called for coffee before hanging up his top coat and muffler.

“Helen, will you call the super and tell him to do something about all that goddamn ice on the entryway stairs? Then get in touch with Cammy and tell him to get over here.  Thanks, Helen.  And get that den mother look off your face.  I look stupid in a hat.” 

His colleagues at the firm envied Bari his attractive, super-competent secretary.  Helen Wythe had been his legal secretary since Bari graduated from law school and joined the firm.  She was twenty years Bari’s senior and she did cluck from time to time if he failed to wear a hat or go out without a top coat in cold weather.

“Cammy says he’ll be right over if he doesn’t slide into a ditch first,” said Helen.  “Personally, I hope he does crash into a ditch.   I can’t stand that ugly thing he drives.” 

“Cammy” was the nickname for Washington Sizemore Brown, Bari’s private investigator.  Cammy was short for chameleon.  Fitting, because he was perfectly believable as a homeless drunk or a college professor, and he loved it when his assignments called on his acting talents. 

Just as a great line makes a great quarterback, a great investigator makes a great lawyer; and no PI in the entire South could touch Washington Sizemore Brown, a.k.a., Cammy.

Cammy’s father, now living an ill-gotten retirement in Smithfield, Virginia, had been a PI and a numbers banker, a bootlegger, a dealer in stolen merchandise, a pool/cards/dice hustler and a pimp.  It’s stretching the concept to the breaking point to say that he was a good father, but the fact was he always kept Cammy with him when Cammy wasn’t supposed to be in school and many times when he was.

Cammy seemed to have absorbed everything he heard and saw, and when he decided to hang out a shingle, his dad’s connections became his connections.  He was on a first-name basis with judges, secretaries, scam artists, detectives and beat cops by the score all over the state-- hell, they’d seen him come up-- and there was no denying the value of such a Rolodex to a man in Cammy’s line of work.  

If a payoff was indicated, as it so frequently was, there was never a need to pussyfoot around to see who would take and who wouldn’t.  Cammy could walk right up to the man with the juice or the information, a man he would already know well, and with little preamble, grease him, and get what he wanted.  Bing, bam, boom.

Cammy was also blessed with an impressive physical appearance.  He was six-two, with Denzel Washington’s good looks.  And when he turned on the charm, panties dropped and doors opened. 

When it came to appreciation, Joe Bari would have been first in line to praise the work Cammy did for him.  He would have been lost without him.  Even so, Bari tried several times to get Cammy interested in show business.  A career in TV or movies would have allowed his acting talents to bloom, and would have paid a lot more, although Cammy didn’t do badly right where he was.

“You rang?”

“Yeah, come on in, Cammy, this could be a big one.  A cop was killed in my client’s home in Richmond yesterday morning.  They haven’t arrested him yet, but it’s only a matter of time.  A few days, maybe.”

“Yeah, I saw it on channel ten an hour ago.”

“It’s more than just a straight up murder; Paul Feldman is a damn close friend.  We were roommates in college.  I was his best man, he was mine.  He’s innocent; I’d stake my life on it.  How busy are you right now?  Can you give this case some undivided attention?”

“I got a few things, nothing that Aaron can’t see to till I’m done with this.”  Aaron was Cammy’s sharp new assistant, a recent graduate of John Mason University’s department of criminal justice.  At first, Cammy had trouble getting used to Aaron’s geeky enthusiasm, but he now seemed to be “working out,” as Cammy told Bari a few months back.

“You’ve got contacts on the Richmond P.D.”  This was Joe Bari’s educated assumption, because Cammy had never given up his sources to Bari or anyone else.  “I want you to go to Richmond and see if you can get the police report and a copy of the lead detective’s field notes,” said Bari, pacing and reading from a yellow legal pad.  “The investigation will more than likely be ongoing, so those notes won’t be on file and they won’t be easy to put your hands on.”

“Amen to that,” said Cammy.

“Also, find out what you can about the dead cop and my client’s wife.  And while you’re at it, talk to some of Paul’s neighbors.  If they saw Paul or his car before the cops got there, we’re dead.  You’ll need some expense money; I’ll have Helen write you a check for five thousand.”

“Better make it twenty.” Cammy frowned at Bari’s consistently unrealistic assessment of the market he dealt in.  “The stuff you want won’t come cheap.  I hope Mr. Paul Feldman is loaded. I have the feeling that his defense is going to get very expensive very soon.”

OVER THE NEXT two days, before Marian arrived, Ann Bari tried valiantly to lift Feldman’s spirits.  Difficult, because he mostly wanted to stay in the guest bedroom and read and watch television, but Ann, on her husband’s instructions, insisted they spend the day in some distracting activity.  Joe was right, of course.  When his friend’s attention was diverted, he was less likely to sink into the dismal swamp of depression.

To that end, they took the full tour of Colonial Williamsburg, thirty miles west of Roads Port, and had lunch at one of its many inns.  They were served by College of William & Mary students who waited tables costumed in period garb.

They drove to Yorktown and saw where the French, the Colonial Army and the Virginia Militia hemmed in General Cornwallis two centuries ago and ended the Revolutionary War.  Afterward they took a long walking tour of the battlefields between Yorktown and Williamsburg.

Before she and Bari were married, Ann worked as a docent for Colonial Williamsburg.  She loved that job and was good at it, so she gave the preoccupied Feldman some lively lectures on Colonial history, which he enjoyed despite the strong undertow of anxiety and depression that threatened to overwhelm him at every turn.

They could see their breath as they walked along.  All at once, Ann felt the need to reassure him.  “Paul, I’m glad you have Joe.  He’s smart, and he’ll fight harder for you than anyone else.”

“Yes, I know.  There’s no one else I’d rather have on my side now.”

IN THE EVENINGS, the two friends got caught up.  “Tell me about Rocket Science.  What’s it like to work for a big outfit like that?” Bari asked.

“I’ve loved it,” answered Feldman.  “There’s been quite a bit of resentment recently because I’m about to be made vice president in charge of development.  Goes with the territory.  I suppose we all love what we’re good at, and I’ve made some significant contributions to the company.”  Feldman paused and looked at the embers in the library fireplace.  “But I honestly don’t know what effect the detective’s death will have on my job.  I wish to hell I knew what really happened at my home on February fifteenth.” 

“Paul, this is Joe you’re talking to.  If there’s anything you want to tell me, go ahead.  Your worries are my worries.  Besides being your friend, I’m your lawyer, and I need to know everything.”

Paul shook his head, “No, I’m utterly at sea.  I have no idea what’s happened to our lives in the last three days.”

“JOE, THIS IS Cammy.  I’m going to fax you the police and autopsy reports.  I should be back in town with the rest tomorrow or the day after.”

“Excellent, Cam.”  Good old Cammy, what in hell would I do without you?  “Come by the office the minute you get in.”

The police report and crime scene photographs gave all the usual information about the time of the 911 call, the position and condition of the body, the bloodstains, and statements given by the “subjects.”

The autopsy report stated that Detective Carey was shot once with a 9mm lead slug from a distance of about ten feet.  The shot entered the occipital lobe and lodged in the medulla, causing massive trauma to the brain and instantaneous death.  The estimated time of death was ten a.m.  The report went on to state that there had been recent sexual activity, and ballistics confirmed that the bullet in Carey’s brain was fired from his own gun.

CAMMY RETURNED WITH a copy of Detective Ditsel’s field notes on the morning of the fourth day.  That afternoon Marian arrived at Bari’s office and was ushered in immediately.

“Marian, what a vision you are,” said Bari, all welcoming smiles and handshakes and pecks on the cheek.  “How are you?”

“After all that buttering up, wary.  How are you, Joe?”

Marian, who would look delectable in sackcloth, was dressed in anything but.  She was elegant in a white Irish sweater, tailored tan wool slacks, and medium heels, and Bari struggled to disguise the fact that she took his breath away.

“Marian, you know Paul asked me to represent him if he’s indicted for Detective Carey’s homicide.”  Bari chose his words carefully.  It wasn’t murder until somebody was charged with murder.  “If you both are indicted, which is unlikely, in my opinion, I could represent only one of you, because your interests would be in potential conflict, you understand.”

Marian appeared more interested in Bari’s desk than in his legal opinions.  “Beautiful.  Where did you get it?”

“Ann’s parents gave it to me as a wedding present.”

“Leave it to me in your will, Joe,” said Marian with a small ironic laugh.

“Done,” said Bari, sharing her laugh and pausing to shift gears.  “I’d like you to tell me what happened at your home the morning of the fifteenth.”

Marian gave her lustrous hair, black and shiny as a limousine, a small toss and turned her unblinking blue eyes directly on him.  Her voice was strictly business. “My understanding is that even though you can’t represent us both if we are charged, you can and do represent us both now.  Correct?”

“Well, if you like, Marian, but . . .”

“And everything I say to you is privileged and confidential?”

“Yes, of course,” said Bari, against his better judgment.

Marian told of being awakened and frightened by noises on successive nights and of waking her husband who had heard them too. “It wasn’t a tree limb scratching against the side of the house.  It was purposeful, like someone trying to get in.  Paul said I should report it.  May I smoke?”

Joe rose to come around his desk and light her cigarette with the desk set lighter he never used.  Too late.  Marian had retrieved a thin gold lighter from her purse and with one quick efficient motion lit her cigarette and put the lighter away.

“I called Detective Carey to investigate, because I had met him at a benefit once and he gave me his card.  It seemed easier and a lot faster than reporting it to some bored desk sergeant at police headquarters.”   Marian inhaled deeply and resumed her story, and with each word the tendrils of smoke exhaled from her mouth rose up through her nose until finally she blew the remainder toward the ceiling.  As Joe watched this performance, a kind of paralysis set in, as though he had been charmed by a cobra.

“As we were trying to open a window that had been painted shut, there was a deafening roar and Detective Carey dropped to the floor.  Christ!  He was dead!  Someone had shot him.  I could see the bullet hole in the back of his head.”  Marian had the barest hint of a lisp, which Joe would have considered a defect in other women.  In Marian, it tripled her desirability.

“I was in shock and I was terrified.  I thought maybe the shot was fired by the person who tried to break in the night before.  If so, the bullet might have been meant for me.  I was reeling, and here was this poor man on my bedroom floor, shot in the head.  When I collected myself, I called 911.”  As if to punctuate the end of her story, Marian stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray supplied by Bari.

“The medical examiner estimates the time of death at least an hour before your call to 911,” he lied.

“No, that’s all wrong.  Ten minutes at the outside.”

“Marian, I have to ask this.”  Bari made his tone as gentle as he could. “Were you and Detective Carey lovers?”

“Absurd.”

“The detective investigating the case believes the victim was undressed when he died, and that someone - you - redressed him.  That would account for some of the time discrepancy.”

“Bullshit.”

Here Bari hesitated.  He looked down and rearranged some items on his desk before going on.

“Actually, Marian, I know that you and Carey had been lovers once or twice a week for the past several months, and if I know it, the cops know it, or soon will.”

Marian stiffened, but said nothing, and lit another cigarette.

“In fact, there was evidence of sexual activity discovered during the autopsy.”

Marian leaned back in her seat and draped her arms over it carelessly.  “And what the hell might that be?” she asked, dropping all pretense and clearly enjoying herself now.

“There was sperm in his urethra and traces of human feces on his penis,” said Bari.

“He couldn’t wipe his ass, so what?” asked Marian, with an infuriating smirk and another artful hair toss that would have buckled Bari’s knees had he been standing.

“The feces weren’t his,” said Bari, showing his trump card at last.

“Fuck you, Joe.”