Christopher Buckley - Thank You for Smoking

Carlinsky's already close-set eyes narrowed so much that Nick thought they were going to combine into one big eye, like the ones on the prison guards on the planet Alar.

"Nick, how can I help you if you won't help me?"

"Steve, I don't know how my fingerprints got on the boxes."

Carlinsky pensively made a steeple with his hands. "Let's review."

"Again?"

"They have ten boxes of NicArrest nicotine patches with your fingerprints all over them at a rental cabin in Virginia that was rented sight unseen over the phone. They have a record of calls made to that cabin from your office phone, the second call on the morning of the abduction, and a piece of paper found in your apartment with the phone number of the cabin. Okay, now any paralegal in my office could get that last piece of evidence thrown out on illegal search, and anyone could have placed the call to the cabin from your office— provided we can establish that you weren't in the office at the time it was placed. But the boxes. The boxes are a problem. As evidence goes, fingerprints are very, very tough. I'd rather go up against a DNA match than fingerprints. Do you know why?" Carlinsky was the kind who waited until you said, Why?

"Why?" Nick said.

"Because your average District of Columbia jury does not understand DNA. And being lectured about it makes them feel like they're back in high school, flunking biology. You have to present it to them so sloowly and caarefully that it makes them feel like idiots. They resent you for it, and little good comes of making a jury feel inadequate. But fingerprints — fingerprints are easy to grasp. Much easier than DNA, or such precious bodily fluids as blood or urine or sperm."

"Are you saying your job would be easier if they found boxes of nicotine patches with my blood or sp.?"

"Nick, are you all right? Wait, we have work to do. Where are you going?"

"To kill someone," Nick said, heading out the door.

Nick stormed out of the Hill Building overlooking Farragut Square and made his way down I Street toward the Academy offices in what passers-by could not have mistaken for anything other than what is usually called a towering rage. The only question he was still trying to resolve in his mind was — what instrument to use on Jeannette. His first impulse was to drag her, by that tight little bun of hair, to his balcony and toss her ten stories down into the fountain. He mused on other, less spectacular but equally efficient ways to devise her demise. But it is a scientific fact — and not one of Erhardt's — that in moments of stress we lose twenty-five percent of our powers of reason, and so as the first flush of rage subsided, fantasies of listening to Jeannette's death gurgle as his hands throttled her lovely neck were displaced by images of him being carted out of the Academy by the men in white and being taken across the river to Saint Elizabeth's, where his new padded-cellmate John Hinckley could critique for him, over and over and over, Jodie Foster's performance in The Silence of the Lambs.

There were no hurrahs this time for the returning conqueror as Nick made his way through the Academy. It was downright awkward. People kept saying, "Oh — Nick. " and kept right on going. Only Gomez O'Neal, whom he met by the coffee machine, greeted him with sympathy. "You okay, Nick?"

"Fine, fine," grinding away on his back molars.

Gomez put his hand on his shoulder. "You hang in there."

Coffee in hand, Nick made his way past a gauntlet of averted glances toward BR's office.

"Oh — Nick…" BR's secretary said. "He's busy. He's in with Jeannette."

Nick thought there might be one superfluous word in that sentence. He barged right in, rather hoping he'd catch them in flagrante, whacking each other with riding crops, but they were only going over papers.

"Morning," Nick said.

BR and Jeannette stared in surprise. "Are you all right?" BR asked.

"Fine, fine. There's something about staying up all night protesting your innocence to FBI agents that I find invigorating."

"Would you excuse us?" BR said to Jeannette.

"No, please," Nick said. "I certainly don't have anything to hide from Jeannette."

BR leaned back in his big black leather chair. "How do you think we ought to proceed?"

"In terms of what?"

"In terms of your situation."

"Oh that. Well, as you say, Steve Carlinsky's the best there is. I'm sure he'll figure out something. That's why you're paying him $450 an hour."

"I meant more in terms of the immediate situation. I don't need to tell you what kind of press we're getting. I have a responsibility to think of the organization. Jeannette thought a leave of absence might make sense."

"I have no objections if Jeannette wants to take a leave of absence."

"Uh, I think we're talking about you taking a leave of absence."

"Much too much to do. Finisterre, Mr. Jolly Roger's Neighborhood, Project Hollywood. Gotta keep up the Big Mo." Nick smiled. "Neo-Puritans never sleep."

"I'm not sure that's advisable, at this point. You've sort of become. "

"A liability?"

"An issue, certainly." BR held up the morning papers. "Your Ms. Holloway seems to be in hot pursuit of her first Pulitzer. She does have good sources."

"Not as good as the FBI's. Now they have sources."

"We're getting a hell of a lot of calls about this. Very, very angry calls."

"Yes, I can imagine what they must think." "Jeannette's office has fielded one hundred seventy-eight calls this morning."

"Jeannette's office?"

"We obviously can't refer calls about you to your office."

"No, no. Naturally. Well, Jeannette can certainly handle it. In fact, I appreciate Jeannette's abilities more and more each day. But I'm not sure that a leave of absence is a good idea."

"And why is that?"

"Because," Nick grinned, "it would send the signal that you all think I'm guilty. Which of course is not the case. Bight?" BR and Jeannette stared.

"I mean, the notion that I would cover myself with nicotine patches to the point of giving myself several heart attacks, and throw up a hundred times, and then leave the empty boxes all over the cabin for the FBI to find, once they were tipped off. And call the cabin from my office phone on the morning I abduct myself. And leave the number of the cabin right out in the open in my apartment. I mean, who would believe that a smart guy like me would be so FUCKING STUPID ?!" Jeannette started.

"Sorry," Nick said. "Don't know what got into me. Anyway, I know my colleagues, my trench mates, my brothers- and sisters-in-arms, could never believe that I'd be capable of such ineptitude. So," he said brightly, "let's fight this all the way to the Supreme Court."

BR said, "Do we have a defense strategy'?"

"You bet. We're going to find the people who made me into the asshole."

"Do you have any idea who those might be?"

"Well," Nick said pensively, "they would have to be people who really despise me. But in my case that comes to about four-fifths of the U.S. population. Two hundred million. Sort of a big suspect pool, isn't it? You know, they'll probably be thrilled to see me get sent off to play love slave to the Aryan Brotherhood for ten to fifteen."

"I'm not sure it's going to come to that," BR said. "We ought to be able to get you into some minimum-security place."

"Oh," Nick said, "I wouldn't count on it. Carlinsky says he's never seen prosecutors so pissed off. Evil yuppie scum devises cheap stunt to promote himself and cancer. He says they're out for blood." Nick grinned. "Mine."

"Well," BR said, leaning forward in a way suggesting that he was tired of badinage about Nick having to spend his next decade behind bars being gang-banged by people with swastika tattoos. "Carlinsky is the best, and we are behind you. But I think under the circumstances a leave of absence does make sense."