Lucidity Page 10

  After he left the hospital Fremmer picked up the 1 train over by Columbia at 116th Street and rode it down to 79th Street, then scootered to the Starbucks on Broadway and 75th Street. Spotting his favorite table in the back corner vacant—a rarity at this hour—he went in and set up shop, opening his laptop to check on Candace’s e-books, all of which had become Amazon bestsellers. He’d just opened her Kindle Direct Publishing dashboard when he felt the Bluetooth headset in his right ear vibrating, announcing an incoming call. He looked at the Caller ID on his phone and recognizing the number, clicked the answer button on the headset.

  “This is Max.”

  “Mr. Fremmer, this is Charlie Mould. I got your message. You wanted to speak to me about Ron Darby.”

  “Yes, thanks for returning my call.”

  “I didn’t quite understand what you were saying in the message,” Mould said. “Are you his attorney? Or do you work for his attorney?”

  “I work with his attorney Carlos Morton,” Fremmer replied, speaking louder than he usually did into the headset’s microphone. His top-of-the-line Plantronics model picked up his voice and cancelled out ambient noise so well that he could talk in a low voice and callers could hear him clearly, even if he was in a noisy room. “I don’t know if you heard about what happened up here in New York—”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Mould said. “I’ve been reading about it. I’ve seen your name in the press, which is why I was a little confused. You know the victim. You’re her book doctor?”

  “More of her co-publisher, but that’s not worth getting into. I went into the police station to answer some background questions about her and ended up meeting Ron. I got concerned he may be getting a raw deal so I put him in touch with Mr. Morton, who’s a lawyer friend of mine.”

  “Raw deal in what way? You think they got the wrong guy?”

  “Knowing what I know that was my gut reaction.”

  Mould seemed surprised by the assertion. He wasn’t the first.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” Fremmer said. “Anyway, the reason I called is that we got a hold of an old Great Valley High yearbook from down there in Malvern. Someone put it up online. And we looked up Ron and we were kind of surprised to discover that he played on the football team in high school. You were the captain and also a friend of his.”

  Fremmer didn’t actually know whether Mould was Ronald’s friend in high school. He was making an educated guess.

  “A captain,” Mould corrected him. “There were three of us.”

  “Sorry. A captain. And you and Ron were friends?”

  “Yeah, sure. But that was a long time ago. I haven’t seen him in probably thirty years.”

  “What position did he play?”

  “Ron? He played defensive back and some wide receiver. A lot of us played both ways. I played safety and running back.”

  “And back then, what kind of guy was he?”

  “What do you mean? Like was he a nutjob?”

  “Well, more like did he show any signs of having mental health issues?”

  “Not that I saw. He was as normal as anybody else, I guess. He dated a cheerleader, did pretty well in school, was popular. I mean, we drank and smoked pot and did some crazy stuff. But it was the seventies. There was a lot of crazy stuff going on, though when you see what’s going on with kids today, it doesn’t seem so crazy.”

  “And about when would you say he started having issues?”

  “Well, he didn’t make it through his first year of college, so I’d say then. Well, I shouldn’t say he didn’t make it. They didn’t kick him out. But I think the story was he just didn’t go back after the summer of his freshman year. He said he was going to take a year off and work. And then he just never went back. And it was very frustrating for his family. He was smoking a lot of dope and just sitting around, you know?”

  “And you saw him then?”

  “I saw him around a little,” Mould said. “During the summers. When I was home. But we started moving in different circles. He started getting, you know, antisocial. And then he kind of disappeared. His parents passed away. His father first and his mom about three or four years later, I believe. And after that I didn’t hear anything about him except that he was kind of drifting around doing odd jobs. Went out to California, I think. Or maybe Arizona.”

  “And he never came to you for anything?”

  “You mean for money?”

  “Or a job?”

  “Back when I was still in college we talked about it once or twice. My family is in the supermarket business. I worked in that business for a while. But the kind of jobs we talked about didn’t interest him. We’re talking stock boy. My dad made everybody start at the bottom and prove themselves. Even I had to.”

  “And now you have your own craft beer company?”

  With the Internet it was hard to keep secrets. Before he ever got on the phone with Charlie Mould he knew a lot about him. But the flipside was Mould also knew a lot about Max Fremmer. Or certainly more than he was saying. One Google search would have brought up a wealth of information.

  “Yeah, we specialize in Belgian-style beers,” Mould went on. “To tell you the truth, it’s been hard to keep up with demand. Been a real boom in craft beer here in central PA the last few years.”

  “Well, let me ask you this, Mr. Mould—”

  “Charlie. No one calls me Mr. Mould.”

  “OK, Charlie. No one calls me Mr. Fremmer either. Let me ask you this. And this is the real reason I called. While you played football with Ron did he take any bad hits? You know, get laid out or anything like that?”

  The line went silent for a moment.

  “You’re asking whether he got concussed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Funny you should mention that because it’s something I’ve been giving some thought to myself. Not about Ron. But just how it pertains to me because, you know, sometimes, I have those little moments were I can’t remember something and it makes you wonder whether it’s just getting old or something else. I played some in college, too.”

  “But how ’bout Ron?”

  “I mean, back then we all got concussions and no one thought anything about it. They held some fingers up and if you got the correct amount you went back in the game. We called it getting woozy. But yeah, I distinctly remember him getting knocked out at least once. They had to hit him with the smelling salts and all that. And one time he didn’t remember playing in the second half. He had a sack and scored a touchdown and the coach gave him the game ball. The next day, he asked me why he got the ball. And I said, ‘You were awesome in the second half.’ He didn’t remember any of it.”

  “So you can definitely say that on two occasions he had what would typically be construed as a concussion by today’s standards.”

  “Yeah, and there were probably other times. A lot of the time it’s you going to make a tackle and the guy’s knee catches you in the head. The knee to the head causes a lot more concussions than you realize.”

  “And you’d be willing go on record about those two incidents you were talking about?”

  “On record? With who?”

  “Well, for instance, if I had a reporter call you would you be willing to speak to her about what you just told me.”

  “What kind of reporter?”

  “Someone from The New York Times.”

  “The Times?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Ron’s getting put through the ringer in the tabloids. He’s become the poster child of the city’s homeless problem. They’re all over the mayor. It’d be good to humanize him a bit.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s in the psychiatric ward at Bellevue. They’re conducting what’s called a 730 exam to see if he’s fit to stand trial.”

  After Fremmer left the police station, Ronald had been taken downtown to Central Booking in the basement of the Tombs, a detention complex that got its nickname from the Egyptian Reviv
alist style of Manhattan’s original house of detention built in 1838. That original building had been demolished long ago but the sobriquet stuck with all subsequent structures that replaced it.

  He was arraigned the next day on attempted murder charges. At the arraignment, Morton had asked for and was granted a 730 exam to be conducted to determine whether Ronald was fit to proceed. According to article 730 of New York Criminal Procedure Law, an incapacitated person was defined as “a defendant who as the result of mental disease or defect lacked capacity to understand the proceedings against him or to assist in his own defense.”

  At Bellevue, a designated state hospital, two qualified psychiatric examiners had been assigned to evaluate Ronald and submit their findings to the court within thirty days. However, with all the media scrutiny, Ronald’s case was on the fast track and Morton thought he might be back in court soon, perhaps within a couple of days. He also thought the DA was ready to go right to a grand jury if Ronald was declared fit.

  “How do you think they’re gonna rule?” Mould asked.

  “Well, I think the problem is Ron goes from saying some pretty whacky stuff to having some pretty coherent moments. And the truth is you gotta be pretty batshit crazy these days not to stand trial. So we’re preparing for him to be indicted.”

  “Maybe he didn’t mean to push her in front of a car,” Mould said. “I mean, from the video, it’s clear he pushed her. But maybe he didn’t see the car. Maybe he just pushed her and she ended up in the street, you know?”

  “It doesn’t really matter. Whoever pushed her caused her injuries. It doesn’t matter whether he intended to or not. He’s going to end up with an attempted murder or murder charge and he’s looking at a doing a lot of time if they can prove he did it.”

  “And what good is my speaking to this reporter going to do?”

  “I think people are sympathetic to the whole concussion angle these days.”

  “You can’t blame football for what he did. You got thousands of guys who played football and they aren’t pushing people in front of cars.”

  “We’re not trying to blame football,” Fremmer said. “We’re just trying to give him a past. All people are seeing now is a disheveled, mountain man type guy. All they’re seeing is his mug shot. But like you said, once upon a time that same guy dated a cheerleader. People need to know that guy and how he ended up living in the streets.”

  “I get it,” Mould said. “And sure, I’ll speak to that reporter if you want. Our Belgian White was actually in The Times a few months back. Got a nice little bump from that. Speaking of which, your victim friend got a couple of big plugs for that smut she writes. My wife says her e-books are on the Amazon bestseller list. She downloaded the first one. Says it isn’t bad but it’s no 50 Shades.”

  “Well, that’s a high bar to get over,” Fremmer said, glancing at the dashboard on his laptop screen. It showed in real time the sales of all her titles. He’d been alternating between 99 cents, $1.99, and $2.99 to maximize revenue. Amazon took 70 percent of the sale price of any book priced below $2.99, but the numbers got reversed at $2.99 or greater. The trick was to get some sales at $2.99 while the book worked its way out of the bestseller list, then drop the price before it lost its Top-100 ranking.

  “You come up with that title?” Mould asked, chuckling.

  “Which one?”

  “Upload in Progress.”

  “I might have,” Fremmer admitted.

  “Well, I’m not the type of guy who gets all holier than thou about how people go about making their livings so long as they’re not hurting anyone of course.”

  Just then Fremmer felt his headset buzzing. Morton’s picture popped up on the screen of his phone.

  “Hold on a sec, Mr. Mould, I have another call coming in.”

  “Charlie.”

  “Yeah, sorry. Charlie. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  He then clicked over to Morton and said: “Hey, I’ll call you right back. I’ve got one of his teammates on the other line.”

  “Anything there?”

  “Yeah, I’ll tell you in a minute.”

  “You ask him about raising some money?”

  “No.”

  “Ask him.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  He clicked back to Mould and said: “Sorry about that.”

  He was still there. “That’s OK,” Mould said.

  “That reporter I was talking about, her name is Christina. I don’t know exactly when or even if she’ll call, but I’m going to give her your number if you don’t mind.”

  “Is there anything I shouldn’t say?”

  “No, say whatever you want. And if you have other people she can speak to, that’d be good. Which reminds me. Do you know if Ron’s got any family or friends who’d be willing to support his defense? Mr. Morton is working pro bono on this, as am I, but I know he’d like to hire some quality investigators to hunt down any sort of exculpatory evidence that might be out there. He’s got a couple of former detectives who usually work for him, but they don’t like to work for free.”

  “He’s got a sister,” Mould said. “Maggie. But he put her through the emotional ringer from what I heard. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with him.”

  “She married or does she still go by Darby?”

  “I think she’s married.” He heard Mould put his hand over the phone and in a muffled voice say: “Honey, you remember the name of the guy who Maggie Darby married?”

  Fremmer couldn’t hear how Honey responded. But after a moment, Mould came back and said: “My wife says she thinks it’s Gilligan. Like the show.”

  “OK, thanks. Like I said, it isn’t for me.”

  “No, I get it. And I’ll tell you what, depending on how things play out, I’ll check with some of the guys who were on the team and maybe we can pass the hat. No promises, though.”

  “Totally understand. You have a good day.”

  He hung up and called Morton back.

  “His teammate says he had at least two concussions,” he told him. “And he’s willing to go on record with that with that reporter I spoke to. I’m going to email her right now with his contact info. Hopefully she calls him.”

  “Well, it’s something,” Morton said. “Might help change the narrative. I’m going to venture that brain-damaged former football player plays slightly better with the public than mentally ill homeless person who stopped taking his meds.”

  “He dated a cheerleader in high school,” Fremmer added.

  “Booyah. Get me pictures. I’m seeing a young man in a light blue tux with ruffles. Did I mention that I got my second death-threat phone call this morning?”

  “The price of fame.”

  “Just some crank. Was from out of state. But I want you to know that if I see a deal he should take, you need to help get him on board. Mr. Darby will not be a long-term client. Your ever hear of Kendra Webdale? There’s a law named after her. She was a promising young writer when a psycho named Andrew Goldstein pushed her in front of a subway in 1999. Two trials and seven years later he finally pleaded guilty to manslaughter. He got twenty-three years.”

  “Have a little faith, Carlos. I saw Candace this morning, by the way.”

  “How she’s doing?”

  “She’s a wreck but still alive.”

  Just then Fremmer looked up from his laptop and saw a young woman, rather stunning, wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses, her dirty-blond hair pulled back into a short ponytail. She was at the end of a short line of customers putting in their order. But instead of facing toward the counter she had her back to the line and appeared to be looking directly at him.

  Morton said something about how it was miracle Candace was alive considering what he’d seen in the video, but Fremmer wasn’t really listening. The woman had the high cheekbones and slim frame of a model, but lacked the height. She was wearing skinny jeans and an unzippered, tight-fitting short black leather jacket over a white T-shirt. A
pair of fashionable platform shoes gave her two, maybe three inches.

  “Do I know you?” Fremmer said.

  “Hang up,” she said.

  “What?” Morton cut in, confused.

  Fremmer stood up to face the woman. “There’s a rather attractive woman here who wants to talk to me,” he said to Carlos. “I don’t know who she is but she seems to know who I am.”

  “Great, I’m getting death threats for representing this guy and you’ve got groupies.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  He took the headset off, clicked the call end button, and put the device in his pocket.

  “Max Fremmer,” he said, extending a hand. But she didn’t take it.

  “I need you to come with me,” she said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Uptown. To the Lucidity Center. Mr. Braden wants to talk to you. He’s upset you haven’t been returning his emails.”

  “Braden? I responded. I told him I don’t have any manuscript. She never gave me anything.”

  “I know. He wants his money back. She’s selling rather well these days.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “You’re her publisher.”

  “I’m her book doctor.”

  The woman smiled. It was the first sign of emotion she’d shown. Fremmer liked it.

  “You and I know that’s just for SEO,” she said.

  Oh, man, he thought. So clean, yet she plays dirty. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m the muscle.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Come on, get your stuff, let’s go. I’ve got an Uber waiting outside.”

  “I don’t get into cars with strangers.”

  She looked at him for a moment, then put her hand up to the left side of her sunglasses and removed them rather deliberately, as if she’d watched Top Gun too many times.

  “You don’t want to piss me off,” she said.

  He noticed that between her eyebrows, she had a scar. It was circular, a little smaller than a dime. It didn’t do anything to diminish her beauty but was slightly sinister.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “Promise to have a drink with me later and I’ll go with you.”