Read Online Bury the Lead by David Rosenfelt - Free Book Online Page B

accomplishment, but I am a humble man, and I always share credit when it is warranted. So I want to go on record as saying that if the Academy of Televised Sports Degenerates in America presents me with its award, the coveted ATSDA, even before I thank the academy I will thank my devoted partner, the remote control.
    Without it, I’d be just another commercial-watching loser, unable to control my own fate. But with the remote secure in the palm of my hand, or more often resting on my chest, I am all-powerful. I don’t think I’ve missed an important play since the Carter administration. The remote control, to paraphrase Tom Cruise to Renee Zellweger in Jerry Maguire , “completes me.”
    As I get dressed to attend the charity wine tasting, I turn on the news to see if the world exploded while I was watching the games. I discover that while I have effectively shut out thoughts of the Cummings case during football, I’m the only one who’s done so. Two of the three cable news networks are discussing Daniel’s prospects, and their collective opinion seems to be that the only question is whether he will get a lethal injection or a public beheading. One of the talking heads refers to me as Daniel’s “flamboyant attorney” and warns that my skills are not nearly strong enough to carry the day.
    Sam pulls up outside and beeps the horn. I wave that I’ll be right down, then go through my departure ritual with Tara. Just before I leave, she always jumps up on my bed and I pet her for a short while. Then I put a biscuit on the bed, but she pretends to be uninterested in it. Of course, it’s always gone when I return home.
    Sam Willis is my accountant and friend, not necessarily in that order. He is brilliant when the subject is money, but lacks the ambition to match. As a result, I am probably his only rich client, and when I came into my fortune, he acted like a five-year-old in a toy store.
    As I approach the car, I realize with a small jolt that I have not prepared for what constitutes the competitive aspect of our friendship. We have come to call it song-talking, which basically means smoothly fitting song lyrics into what is otherwise a normal conversation. Sam is an absolute master of it, and the gap between our skills has grown steadily.
    “Hey, Sam, let’s get a move on it, okay?” I say as I get into the passenger seat. “We’ve got a ticket to ride.”
    It’s such a weak opening that I cringe as I say it, and Sam just shakes his head sadly. He knows that true greatness is measured by the stature of one’s opponents, the “Ali needed Frazier” theory. What I’ve just said is further proof to Sam that I’m not exactly his lyrical “Smokin’ Joe.”
    Sam doesn’t even bother to respond in kind, holding his big guns back until later. Instead, he mentions that he saw coverage of the Cummings case on television and that it was mentioned that I’m his lawyer.
    “You gonna need my help?” he asks.
    In addition to being a financial genius and an amazing song-talker, Sam is a computer wizard. I used him to help me on Laurie’s case, and he and his assistant made such great progress that the criminals came after them. Tragically, the assistant, Barry Leiter, was killed in the process, and I will never get over the intense guilt that I feel about it.
    “I don’t think so, Sam.”
    I say this in a tentative way, and Sam immediately understands what is behind my answer. “Because of Barry?” he asks.
    I might as well answer semihonestly, since he’ll see through it if I don’t. “Partly. I just can’t take a chance.”
    “That wasn’t your fault, Andy. We’ve been over this a thousand times.”
    He’s right about that, so I avoid number one thousand and one by not bothering to answer. Instead, I change the subject. “Where is this place we’re going?”
    “Well, I was looking at this map,” he says, holding up the map he’s talking about, “and according to this, it’s only just out of