The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 01

* * * * *

The hearing was held at month five, and it took four days to present our witnesses and make our arguments. When it was done, Jim Parker told me to take the rest of the week off and not come back until Monday morning.

"Sandy," I called out as I entered the condo.

No answer.

I tried her cell phone.

No answer.

I called her office.

Voice mail answered.

I phoned her folks.

They hadn't heard from her in weeks.

I phoned a few of our friends.

Two were cold to me, the third just hemmed and hawed.

* * * * *

It was nearly midnight. I was sitting on the patio overlooking the dark, sinewy waters of the Mississippi four stories below as it made its way to the Gulf. My feet were up on the railing and a nice little Taylor guitar was across my lap. I was absentmindedly playing a series of songs, chord progressions, little snippets of melodies, and generally feeling sorry for myself and wondering where Sandy was when I heard the sliding glass door open behind me.

"What're you doing out here?" she said, her voice flat.

"Waiting for you."

"Why?"

"Because you're my wife. Because I finally got done with that case today. The hearing at least. I've got the next three days off, and I wanted to spend as much of that time with you as possible."

"Just like that?"

"Just like what?"

"You spend the past five months all but ignoring me, doing your best to drive me away, and now you just wanna show up and say, 'Hey, it's all over. We can get back to normal now.'"

I thought about that while I plucked out some notes with my fingers. Sandy seemed content to wait me out.

"I'm sorry," I finally offered.

"You say that. You keep saying that. But you didn't change."

"How would you know?"

"What d'ya mean, 'How would I know?'"

"I mean, Sandy, that you've been gone most of the past three months, too. I've been taking time off to try and spend time with you, but you've always been gone. No one knows where you are, you're not answering your phone, your friends treat me like shit when I call them. So where have you been?"

"Same as you," she said, her voice a challenge. "At work. Figured if you wanted to work your way to the top this quickly, I might as well do the same."

"But no one answers the phone when I call there."

"Because it's easier to get work done without having to answer the phone every time it rings."

I nodded, still playing that guitar and watching that slow, sludgy line of brown water below.

"I'm going to bed," she finally announced.

Still I sat there. And I was there six hours later when she awoke, got ready, and left for work without a word to me.

* * * * *

I spent the weekend alone, walking the riverfront, drinking beer in quiet taverns, and playing guitar on our patio above the river.

I didn't know where Sandy was, and she wasn't saying. It was a tense silence the few times we were in the same room together, like neither of us wanted to back down and take the first step.

Then again, I'd taken the first step–or so I thought–on Thursday night, and she'd knocked my feet out from under me. We seemed precariously close to a permanent fissure in our young marriage, and I didn't know how to close the gap and get back to where we were. Sandy, for her part, didn't seem interested in trying.

* * * * *

I was up to my elbows editing a final draft of an appellate brief at eleven on Monday morning when my secretary stuck her head in the door.

"You're not gonna believe this," she said.

"What?"

"The District Clerk's office just called. You're to be in front of Judge Duesterboeck at two."

"Problem?"

"Decision's in."

I sat back, speechless. We'd just finished the hearing four days before. Decisions in these matters usually took weeks or months. They were never decided in days. I knew there was no way this was gonna be good. The only way the judge was coming back so quickly was if he was denying the Petition for Writ.

My lunch hour was spent trying to keep down a glass of iced tea and keep my head up, which kept falling to my chest in disappointment and shame. I'd busted my ass on this case, and I wanted Napoleon Bonaparte Bonaroo to again walk the streets a free man, which was what he deserved and what the justice system owed him.

It was in this mindset that I dragged myself into the Federal courtroom and to counsel table in front of the bench. Adding to my embarrassment and depression, a traffic accident had held me up, so I was ten minutes late.

"Glad to see you could make it, counsel," Judge Duesterboeck grumbled.

I lifted my eyes and mumbled my apologies.

In response, he grinned like the Cheshire Cat and said, "All counsel approach the bench."

Margie Layne, the pudgy forty-something attorney for the State strode toward the bench with confidence while I lingered at counsel table for a moment.

"Don't be shy, Mister Roberts," the judge said. "The Petition's being granted. The Writ's issued."

Margie froze halfway to the bench, turning to look at me. Her face was a mask of shock. She'd read the timing of this the same as me, apparently, and was stunned she'd lost.

Slowly, not believing what was happening, I forced one foot in front of the other and made my way to the bench, walking past Margie Layne still frozen in the middle of the room.

Judge Duesterboeck slid two thick stapled piles of paper toward me. "One's for you and one's for her. The original's already with the Clerk."

Looking from the written decision, which had to be well over a hundred pages, to Duesterboeck then back to the decision again, I reached out and took both copies, standing there like an idiot unsure how to proceed.

"The Marshall's office is serving the Writ on the warden as we speak, and Mister Bonaroo should be released in a couple of hours."

"Thanks," I finally managed.

He just shrugged.

Margie finally found her words. "Your Honor, the State requests that Mister Bonaroo not be released until– "

"Save it, counsel," he snapped. "Your request is denied. He's being released on his own recognizance. You want it changed, take it up with the Circuit Court."

This, of course, she was in no position to do. The decision had come down so quickly that nothing was ready for the inevitable appeal to the Sixth Circuit.

Jesus H. Christ in a handbasket, I finally realized. I've done it. A fucking grand slam on my first case. A fucking grand slam.

"And for the record, Mister Roberts," Duesterboeck said as he stood, "very nice job. Unfortunately, that means you're probably going to be getting more of these."

With that, he left.

I turned and looked at Margie. She glared in return. I tried to mask my emotions, but I knew a stupid smile was spreading over my face as I held out her copy of the decision. She snatched the bundle of papers from my hand and said, "This isn't over."

She stormed out of the room. I stood there for a moment, savoring my victory however short lived it may prove to be, then grabbed my briefcase and strode out.

I'd arrived.

* * * * *

I sat to the side, waiting for them to finish scanning the decision. My boss, Harvey Fairstein, finished first. He's an old hand at this and knew exactly what to scan. Once finished, he put his copy of the decision in his lap and looked up, flashing me a broad smile. Five minutes later, Jim Parker finished his reading, closed the decision, slid it to the side, and stood, extending his arm toward me.

"Absolutely brilliant, young man."

I stood and shook his hand. "Thanks."

"No, Mark. I mean it. I don't know how you did it–I suspect old Leland's got a hard on for someone in the State system; maybe one of the justices on our State Supreme Court–but this cannot be assailed. He wrote it airtight, and there's no way in hell he had it done in four days. He's been working on this for weeks. Hell, Scalia himself wouldn't touch it."

Harvey slapped me on the back. "He's right. I'll bet ten bucks they don't bother appealing."

I looked skeptical at that one.

"Seriously, Mark. They're funded by the taxpayers. Their case was shit, and they knew it. I don't really know how the appellate courts let this stand for so long. Not to mention that fucking dimwit at trial. Still, I think you've won."

"When will we know for sure?" I asked.

Harvey shrugged. "Best guess? Close of business tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Because if they're taking it up to the Sixth Circuit, they're gonna file something by then requesting that bail be revoked or at least set ridiculously high. Doesn't take long to do, and they should have it on file while they still know where Nap Bonaroo is."

I nodded, remembering Nap the first time I'd met him and the four days I'd seen him in court. He'd been frail and pale and all jittery. He wasn't cut out for prison, and I had no doubt he wouldn't last much longer if he had to go back there.

Parker's phone rang.

"Yes?"

Pause.

"Okay. You get on the phone to the press, and we're on our way."

He hung up the phone and turned to us. "Bonaroo's still in lockup at the Federal section of County. They were getting ready to transport him this morning when they got the call from the Clerk. The Writ's been served on Warden Tompkins, and he's authorized Bonaroo to be released here. They've already taken care of the paperwork on their end and faxed it over to County. Let's go."

"Where?"

Parker looked confused for a moment, then laughed. "Mark, this is huge news. This guy's been sitting in prison for ten years for a crime he didn't commit. Add to that police brutality and a series of bad decisions by the courts and you've got the lead story on tonight's news. Front pages tomorrow."

"And?"

"And you think I'm gonna let this firm miss out on the opportunity at all this free advertising? You think we're gonna miss this shot at introducing our new golden boy to the world?" Then his eyes narrowed, and he said, "You know, you really need to keep your hair cut shorter. And please tell me you've got a freshly starched shirt in your office. Please."

I shrugged, smiling. "Sorry, boss."

"He can play it as the harried young lawyer who's been burning the midnight oil for this poor fella," Harvey offered.

Parker thought about it, then said. "Good idea. Rub your chin a lot, Mark. Make it look like you're really tired from all of this. Just plain worn down, okay?"

I nodded.

"Good. Now let's get moving. They'll all be there in fifteen minutes, and you need to be there first."

* * * * *

Jim and Harvey were right. There were a gaggle of reporters, photographers, and cameramen waiting for us when Jim, Harvey, Nap, and I walked out the front door of that jailhouse. Jim and Harvey stayed back, and Harvey gave me a firm nudge in the back toward the podium already set up at the top of the steps. Apparently, jailhouses are used to this kind of thing, but I sure as hell wasn't.

The questions were shot fast and furious at Nap and me. Nap played his part perfectly, which is to say he was just himself, scared and relieved and speechless and clueless. I think I did pretty well, too, since the adrenalin rush had passed and left me weary to the bone. I rubbed my eyes and stroked my jawbone and even managed a few yawns.

The press ate it up.

Then the questions took a right turn and caught me flatfooted.

"You think the State's gonna appeal?"

"I don't know."

"Have you talked about it with your father-in-law?"

I was immediately on guard.

"Absolutely not."

"Still, Mister Roberts, if they don't appeal, you think it's because he's doing you a favor? You being family and all."

"If that were the case," I said, "then why did I have to bother with a hearing in the first place? No, sir, Governor Truelson is a great man. An honest man. He works for the taxpayers, and I worked here for Mister Bonaroo. The taxpayers were more than ably represented by Margaret Layne, and she busted her rear end to represent their interests. But as the District Court's decision made clear, this never should've happened. Ever. And it all happened way before Patrick Truelson was Governor."

"Does that mean things are a bit tense between you and the missus?" another reporter asked.

I felt it happen and couldn't stop it. I just sagged at the question. "I will only say that I've been spending day and night at the office, seven days a week for the past five months, working on this case. Trying to free an innocent man. That has, understandably, taken a toll on a young marriage. It has required adjustments and sacrifice. Still, I love my wife, she loves me, and I want to take a moment to thank her with all of my heart for standing by me during this time."

"Was it all worth it?" someone shouted.

I shot a look of annoyance, then thought over my last answer. Then I turned to Nap, standing beside me looking meek and befuddled. Next to him was his mother, who was somewhere in her mid-sixties but looked twenty years older. All sagging weathered skin and bones. Her gray, stringy hair hung in a tangle, and her clothes were threadbare and faded. She gave me a nearly toothless smile while tears ran down her cheeks.

"It's not a question of whether it was worth it," I said, my eyes on Nap and his tiny, wizened mother as my voice grew thick and raspy with emotion. "It's a question of whether it was the right thing to do. And the answer to that is yes."

My eyes welled up with tears as Mama Bonaroo stepped closer, threw her arms around me, and buried her face in my shirt. She sobbed her thanks as Nap joined in the hug, then she started squeezing us both so tight I thought I was gonna suffocate. That old bird could hug something fierce.

The press pushed in closer and flashbulbs were exploding all over the place, but we ignored them for that moment. I wanted to enjoy the feeling of helping someone. A real person instead of some faceless corporation. A real person who'd been wronged, but now had their life back thanks to me.

Inwardly, I figured this feeling of satisfaction and pride would provide at least some measure of solace as my marriage disintegrated.

* * * * *

Jim and Harvey insisted on taking me out to dinner and drinks to celebrate. Knowing Sandy would be wherever until God knows when–and not wanting to piss off my two bosses–I accepted.

"My God," Jim Parker kept saying, "you were just the best. That whole group hug thing? All them tears? Boy, you're gonna be on CNN, sure as hell."

"Yeah," Harvey agreed. "Just perfect. We're gonna be up to our eyeballs in the shit for awhile."

"The new clients," Parker said, rubbing his hands together at the thought of all that extra dough rolling through the doors.

* * * * *

Sandy was sitting on the couch when I got home, the lamp beside her casting the only light in the dark condo.

I stopped two steps in and stood there, looking at her.

"Hey," I finally said.

"Hey," she whispered back.

I was fidgety, unsure what this meant.

"Saw you on the news," she said, her eyes in her lap.

"Uh, yeah. I won."

She looked back up at me and I saw the silvery streaks running down her cheeks. "They really needed the help, didn't they?"

"Yeah," I said, my voice going husky, "they really needed the help."

"He didn't do it, did he?"

"No."

"And his mother. She looked so . . . just so sad and beaten down. And she looked at you like you were God. Like you were just the most incredible . . . like you were the only luck they'd either of 'em seen in forever."

"She was just happy to get her boy out of prison, I s'pose."

Sandy sniffled, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "You think maybe you can just sit here with me for awhile? Maybe just . . . ."

She waited for me to move and, when I didn't, looked back into her lap. "I'm– "

"Don't say it," I said. "Let's just forget it, can we?"

She looked back up, searching my face for meaning. I tossed my jacket over the back of the chair and walked to the couch, kneeling in front of her.

"It'll never happen again," I said. "I promise. Next time they'll have to get someone to cover everything else for me."

She shook her head. "No. This happens again, you do whatever it takes to help him. Or her or whoever. You . . . I feel so selfish, Mark. Like a class A bitch."

"You're not a bitch."

"I just thought you were leaving me. You know, you didn't want to come home and you were just using this as an excuse to . . . I don't know, to make it less painful when you finally moved out."

"I won't do that," I said. "We're in this for the long haul, right?"

She searched my face again. It was like she couldn't trust what I was saying and wanted me to reassure her. "The long haul?"

I nodded, then grinned and shrugged. "Well, at least until you get tired of me, right?"

She laughed through her tears, which made her hiccup a couple of times. "Who says I'm not already tired of you?"

Before I could answer, she leaned over and pulled me in and held me until her tears had dried and my shirt was wet for the second time that day.

And for the second time that day, also, I felt my body sag with relief. Moreover, I realized, I really did feel like a superhero. Like Superman. It was like I'd dodged two bullets in one day.

* * * * *

And that's the way it played out for the next three years. Everything went back to normal. Sandy and I both worked our sixty-hour weeks; we spent quiet evenings and relaxed weekends together; and we both moved up in our respective careers. For three years, it was all so good again.

Until Governor Truelson decided to try his hand at making a run for the White House.

That's when I learned for the first time in my life how it felt to be betrayed.

And not just by someone I loved, but by almost everyone I loved.