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Dice walked into my office. I told him he was late and he acted like I’d just made a joke. Ronnie was dressed the same as the first time he paid me a visit, in a gray hooded sweatshirt, ratty jeans, and canvas high-tops. He had a painfully youthful look about his eyes that made me think, as I did so often with my clients, that things should have turned out differently for him.
    “Jason Kolarich the man,” he said, getting comfortable in the chair across from me.
    “Ronald Dice the deadbeat.”
    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
    H IS 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