finally alone, Wendy was surprised to see Ed Grayson approach him.
"Uh-oh," she said.
"What?"
Wendy gestured with her chin. Portnoi followed with his eyes. Grayson, a big man with close-cropped gray hair, stood close to Flair Hickory. The two men stared each other down. Grayson kept inching closer, moving into Flair's space. But Flair held his ground.
Portnoi took a few steps toward them. "Mr. Grayson?"
Their faces were inches apart. Grayson swiveled his head in the direction of the voice. He stared at Portnoi.
"Is everything okay?" Portnoi asked.
"Fine," Grayson said.
"Mr. Hickory?"
"We're peachy, Counselor. Just having a friendly chat."
Grayson's eyes locked on Wendy's, and again she didn't like what she saw. Hickory said, "Well, if we're done here, Mr. Grayson . . ."
Grayson said nothing. Hickory turned and left. Grayson came toward Portnoi and Wendy.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" Portnoi asked.
"No."
"May I ask what you were talking to Mr. Hickory about?"
"You can ask." Grayson looked at Wendy. "Do you think the judge bought your story, Ms. Tynes?"
"It wasn't a story," she said.
"But it wasn't exactly the truth either, was it?"
Ed Grayson turned and walked away.
Wendy said, "What the hell was that?"
"Got no idea," Portnoi said. "But don't worry about him. Or Flair either. He's good, but he won't win this round. Go home, have a drink, it'll be fine."
Wendy did not go home. She headed to her TV news studio in Secaucus, New Jersey, overlooking the Meadowlands Sports Complex. The view was never soothing. It was a marsh, swampland, groaning under the weight of constant construction. She checked her e-mail and saw a message from her boss, executive producer Vic Garrett. The message, maybe the longest Vic had ever sent by e-mail, read: "SEE ME NOW."
It was three thirty PM. Her son, Charlie, a senior at Kasselton High School, should have been home by now. She called his cell because he never picked up the home phone. Charlie answered on the fourth ring with his customary greeting: "What?"
"Are you home?" she asked her son.
"Yeah."
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing."
"Do you have homework?"
"A little."
"Did you do it yet?"
"I will."
"Why not do it now?"
"It's just a little. It'll take me ten minutes tops."
"That's my point. If it's only a little, just do it and get it over with."
"I'll do it later."
"But what are you doing now?"
"Nothing."
"So why wait? Why not just do your homework now?"
New day, same conversation. Charlie finally said that he would get to it "in a minute," which was shorthand for "If I say in a minute, maybe you'll stop nagging me."
"I'll probably be home about seven," Wendy said. "You want me to pick up Chinese?"
"Bamboo House," he said.
"Okay. Feed Jersey at four."
Jersey was their dog.
"Okay."
"Don't forget."
"Uh-huh."
"And do your homework?"
"Bye."
Click .
She took a deep breath. Charlie was seventeen now, a senior and a total pain in the ass. They had ended the hunt for college, a suburban activity parents engage in with a ruthlessness that would make a third-world despot blush, with an acceptance to Franklin & Marshall in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Like all teenagers, Charlie was scared and nervous about this huge change in his life, but not nearly so much as his mother. Charlie, her beautiful, moody, pain-in-the-ass of a son, was all she had. It had been the two of them alone for twelve years now, single mom and only child rattling around in the great white suburbs. The years flew by, of course, as they always do with children. Wendy didn't want to let Charlie go. She looked at him every night and saw pain-in-the-ass perfection and, as she had since he was four, wished, Please just let me freeze him here, this age, not one day older or younger, let me freeze my beautiful son here and now and keep him with me just a few days longer.
Because soon she'd be alone.
Another e-mail popped up on her computer screen. Again it was from her boss, Vic Garrett:
"Uh-oh," she said.
"What?"
Wendy gestured with her chin. Portnoi followed with his eyes. Grayson, a big man with close-cropped gray hair, stood close to Flair Hickory. The two men stared each other down. Grayson kept inching closer, moving into Flair's space. But Flair held his ground.
Portnoi took a few steps toward them. "Mr. Grayson?"
Their faces were inches apart. Grayson swiveled his head in the direction of the voice. He stared at Portnoi.
"Is everything okay?" Portnoi asked.
"Fine," Grayson said.
"Mr. Hickory?"
"We're peachy, Counselor. Just having a friendly chat."
Grayson's eyes locked on Wendy's, and again she didn't like what she saw. Hickory said, "Well, if we're done here, Mr. Grayson . . ."
Grayson said nothing. Hickory turned and left. Grayson came toward Portnoi and Wendy.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" Portnoi asked.
"No."
"May I ask what you were talking to Mr. Hickory about?"
"You can ask." Grayson looked at Wendy. "Do you think the judge bought your story, Ms. Tynes?"
"It wasn't a story," she said.
"But it wasn't exactly the truth either, was it?"
Ed Grayson turned and walked away.
Wendy said, "What the hell was that?"
"Got no idea," Portnoi said. "But don't worry about him. Or Flair either. He's good, but he won't win this round. Go home, have a drink, it'll be fine."
Wendy did not go home. She headed to her TV news studio in Secaucus, New Jersey, overlooking the Meadowlands Sports Complex. The view was never soothing. It was a marsh, swampland, groaning under the weight of constant construction. She checked her e-mail and saw a message from her boss, executive producer Vic Garrett. The message, maybe the longest Vic had ever sent by e-mail, read: "SEE ME NOW."
It was three thirty PM. Her son, Charlie, a senior at Kasselton High School, should have been home by now. She called his cell because he never picked up the home phone. Charlie answered on the fourth ring with his customary greeting: "What?"
"Are you home?" she asked her son.
"Yeah."
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing."
"Do you have homework?"
"A little."
"Did you do it yet?"
"I will."
"Why not do it now?"
"It's just a little. It'll take me ten minutes tops."
"That's my point. If it's only a little, just do it and get it over with."
"I'll do it later."
"But what are you doing now?"
"Nothing."
"So why wait? Why not just do your homework now?"
New day, same conversation. Charlie finally said that he would get to it "in a minute," which was shorthand for "If I say in a minute, maybe you'll stop nagging me."
"I'll probably be home about seven," Wendy said. "You want me to pick up Chinese?"
"Bamboo House," he said.
"Okay. Feed Jersey at four."
Jersey was their dog.
"Okay."
"Don't forget."
"Uh-huh."
"And do your homework?"
"Bye."
Click .
She took a deep breath. Charlie was seventeen now, a senior and a total pain in the ass. They had ended the hunt for college, a suburban activity parents engage in with a ruthlessness that would make a third-world despot blush, with an acceptance to Franklin & Marshall in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Like all teenagers, Charlie was scared and nervous about this huge change in his life, but not nearly so much as his mother. Charlie, her beautiful, moody, pain-in-the-ass of a son, was all she had. It had been the two of them alone for twelve years now, single mom and only child rattling around in the great white suburbs. The years flew by, of course, as they always do with children. Wendy didn't want to let Charlie go. She looked at him every night and saw pain-in-the-ass perfection and, as she had since he was four, wished, Please just let me freeze him here, this age, not one day older or younger, let me freeze my beautiful son here and now and keep him with me just a few days longer.
Because soon she'd be alone.
Another e-mail popped up on her computer screen. Again it was from her boss, Vic Garrett:
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