Free Bury the Lead by David Rosenfelt

reach, down the block, on a beach, under a tree . . .”
    My heart sinks, not because Sam has chosen West Side Story , but because lately he has elevated his song-talking game to a new level. He hammers me with themes, using different but related songs throughout an entire evening. Recently, we were discussing vacations, and in the course of an hour he welcomed me to the “Hotel California,” promising that I would get a taste of “life in the fast lane” in a “New York Minute.”
    He’s still looking at the map. “Wait a minute . . . on second thought it looks like it’s around the corner . . . or whistling down the river.”
    Our destination turns out to be nowhere near the river. It’s a culinary institute in lower Westchester, and we are two of about eighty people there to taste wine for charity. We’re divided into groups of twenty and put into what seem like typical classrooms. The only difference is that on tables in front of each chair are five glasses of wine.
    “This is gonna be great,” Sam says.
    “Yeah. Yippie,” I say, not quite sharing his enthusiasm.
    Sam lifts up one glass in a toast. “Come on, Andy, cheer up. We’re gonna rock it tonight. We’re gonna jazz it up and have us a ball.”
    “Do me one favor, will you, Sam? Just don’t tell me you feel pretty, oh so pretty.”
    The “class” begins, and I am immediately transformed to another planet, a place where people spin wine around in their glass, analyze it as if it’s a top-secret formula, and use words like “flinty,” “oaky,” and “brassy” to describe the taste. Not having previously chewed on flint, oak, or brass, I have no idea what those things taste like, which puts me at a considerable disadvantage. I’m not even sure what they mean when they say a wine is dry; I spilled some and had to mop it up with my napkin just like I would something wet.
    My sense is that this particular charity’s goal is not to educate me, but rather to get me so sloshed that I won’t realize how big a check I’m writing when they make their pitch at the end. I fool them by taking little tastes, mainly because I know that I’m going to have to drive Sam home, as he is downing flinty drinks with his left hand and dry, oaky ones with his right.
    I write my check and we head out toward the cars. Our walk takes a little longer than it should, since we are stopped by about a dozen reporters, as well as three or four cameramen with television lights.
    “Hey, Andy,” one of them calls out, “have you heard what they’re saying about Cummings?”
    Nothing good can come from that question, and I cringe in anticipation. I could fake it and give a “no comment,” but I want to know what has happened, and when I find out, I might well have a comment.
    “No, I haven’t. I’ve been inside, toasting to charity.”
    Another reporter jumps in. “They’re not talking on the record, but they’re saying he also murdered his wife.”
    “I assume the ‘they’ you’re talking about is the prosecution. Unlike Tucker Zachry, we intend to prove our case in a courtroom. Thanks for coming, people. I recommend the wine, although it’s a little oaky.”
    I start walking toward the car. Behind me, with the cameras off, I hear the incorrigible Sam explaining my cranky mood in terms that only Officer Krupke could understand. “He’s very upset. He never had the love that every child oughta get.”
    I lead Sam to the car, and I get in the driver’s seat. Sam looks at me with genuine concern. “Is your boy innocent?” he asks.
    “That’s what we’re going to find out.”
    Sam can read me, and he knows I have some very real doubts about that innocence. “I thought you always had to believe in your clients.”
    “Belief is an evolving concept.”
    “But you’re sure you want to represent him?” he asks.
    “I’m sure,” I say without conviction.
    Sam shakes his head disapprovingly. “I don’t think you should.”
    Just what I need, more