“The perception of some kind of influence?”
“Yes.”
I asked him, “If a reporter who knew the defendant gave you some kind of information that might help exonerate her, that would be a good thing, right? Or if you gave a reporter information that would help with a more favorable picture of the defendant? That would be a good thing, and it happens all the time.”
“It’s more that, if anyone found out, the judge, the jurors, they would wonder about what effect the relationship had on the process.”
“You know, we have a code too. Objectivity, or the best attempt at it...” No way could I expect myself to remain impartial in this situation. That train had already left the station. My task would be to acknowledge those barriers to objectivity, to leave no stone unturned, no question unasked, no fact unverified, and follow that path wherever it led. “So this barrier would pertain until after the trial, but what if she is convicted? There would be an appeal, not that I would be writing about that because of the time frame... Would this perception apply forever?”
Sam said, “No, of course not. I mean, there would be people, if this thing between us continued in the future, who would have things to say, but that wouldn’t matter. The only way we can do this is to keep it completely secret, just between us... It would be hard to keep this completely secret.”
“We can’t do that,” I said. “We have to end it right here.”
“That seems pretty impossible.”
“We have to. We have to be adult and recognize that what people see is real to them, even if it’s not really real.”
Sam laughed. “You can tell you’re a professional writer.” He quieted then and pulled me to him. “I thought of doing this the first time I saw you.” He kissed my eyes and the top of my head in a way that I would be able to summon up fifty years from now, when I was a grandmother, and be able to say to myself, I knew what it was like to feel loved.
“How long do we have? Should I leave now?”
“Tomorrow. It’s a risk. But it’s not such a big risk. Nobody expects either of us anywhere. I’d love to get dressed up and take you out to dinner, but that’s not in the cards.”
“And I don’t have any dress-up clothes in my purse.”
I asked him if whatever we were experiencing was big enough that we would want to resume it months from now. The thought made me so sad I wanted to run outside and leave right then, before I fell further down this ladder of stars.
“I don’t know what I feel,” Sam said. “Just that I never felt it before.” He told me there was no one else, not even a contender, and there hadn’t really ever been one.
He said, “We can still talk, right?”
I said, “Not like this.”
“But communicate?”
“Not like this.”
“You’re right,” Sam said. “Just business. It will be easier for both of us. Reenie, you can ask me anything you want. I promise that I’ll always give you a truthful answer, except if it’s about a client and if it would violate attorney-client privilege. Just don’t ever ask me a question unless you really want to know my answer.”
“Me too.”
“I promise,” he said.
Very late, we got busy cooking. Well, he did. I don’t see the point of cooking, especially when people who can actually cook are getting out of prison every week. As we took turns kneading bread to go with the corn-and-shrimp chowder, I asked, “What’s the best thing you’ve ever done?”
Why did I say that?
Why, when I knew that would mean he would ask me what the best thing I’d ever done was, and then, logically, we’d proceed to ask what was the worst thing?
Sam told me, “I turned a pilot at Logan in for being drunk. I told the police. I saw her at breakfast in the airport, before she was wearing her uniform, and she was drunk, she was having a Bloody Mary, and I recognized her when she showed up in the boarding area. She probably lost her job, but there were all those people, a hundred people, flying to Alaska.”
“I meant as a lawyer, but that is so cool, a lot of people wouldn’t have had the courage to do that. And I’ve never been to Alaska.”
He said, “Salmon fishing. I ate salmon for seven days straight.” I thought of my adventures with fried grouper.
“What’s the worst thing?”
“I found a wallet with eight hundred dollars in it and I kept the money. I mailed the wallet back. I was fifteen. I told my dad and he said, ‘You’ll get no joy from it.’ And he was right, I didn’t.” Sam said, “How about you?”
