The Tenth Justice - Brad Meltzer [82]
“What about Dad?” Ben asked, putting out a pitcher of cold water and two bottles of soda.
“He called a little while ago. Someone slashed his back tires, so he’s stuck at work.”
“Slashed his tires? Is he okay?” Lisa asked.
“Do you want me to pick him up?” Ben asked.
“He’s fine,” Ben’s mother said. “He said the tow truck would be there soon enough.”
As Ben and Lisa took their places around the table, Ben’s mother brought out a huge bowl of Caesar salad. “Pass me your bowls.”
Suddenly, the door opened and Ben’s father stepped inside. “Hi, everyone,” he announced. He kissed everyone before sitting at the head of the table. “Good timing by me.”
“That was quick,” Ben’s mother said.
“You won’t believe what happened,” Ben’s father said, pulling off his tie. “Right after I called the towing company, I went outside to change the first tire. I figured that would save me time when they eventually came. Anyway, as I’m in the middle of putting on my spare, this guy drives up and notices that my other tire is flat. He offers me the spare in his car and even helps me put it on. And then when I offered to pay him, he said he couldn’t take money for it—that it was Thanksgiving and all.”
“What’d this guy look like?” Ben asked, hoping to sound casual.
“Blond hair, kind of preppy. Nothing special.”
Lisa and Ben exchanged a look.
“Did he say anything else?” Ben tried to remain calm.
“Nope,” Ben’s father said, shoveling a mound of Caesar salad onto his plate. “He said he recognized me from my columns. And get this: He knew that you worked at the Supreme Court. He remembered that story Cary wrote about you—when you first got your clerkship.”
As his palms grew slick with perspiration, Ben dropped his fork, which crashed against his plate.
“Are you okay?” Ben’s mother asked.
Ben wiped his hands on his pants, picked up his fork, and quickly pulled himself together. “I’m fine. I just haven’t eaten all day.”
Surprised by the casualness of Ben’s father’s reaction, Lisa asked, “Are your tires slashed often?”
“Every once in a while. Whenever I write a column about corruption in the city government, my tires are slashed, my windows are shattered. That’s the life of a columnist. Too many enemies.”
“So this is probably no big deal,” Lisa said, hoping Ben was listening.
“Not for me,” Ben’s father said proudly.
In no mood to hear Michael’s speech about the life of a columnist, Ben’s mother asked, “Anything else happen at work?”
“Not really,” Ben’s father said. “It was a pretty slow news day. Someone was shot downtown. There’s a new police corruption exposé that’s running tomorrow. And my son got engaged. Other than that, it was quiet.”
“What?” Ben asked, snapping back into reality.
“Didn’t you see today’s paper?” Ben’s father reached into his briefcase and pulled out a section of the newspaper. “It’s on page twenty-seven,” he said, handing it to Ben.
Opening the paper, Ben turned to the metro section. At the top of the first column was a large picture of Lisa. Underneath the picture, it said: “Margaret and Shep Schulman of Los Angeles announced the engagement of their daughter, Lisa Marie, to Benjamin Addison, son of Sheila and Michael Addison of Newton. A March wedding is planned.” Ben yelled, “What the hell is this?”
“Let me see,” Lisa said as she grabbed the paper. “Who would do this?”
“Idiot roommates,” Ben whispered.
“Does this mean you’re not getting married?” Ben’s father asked.
“Oh, this is funny,” Ben’s mother said when Lisa passed her the paper. “Who did it? Ober? Nathan?”
“Who else?” Lisa said.
Ignoring his family’s reaction, Ben couldn’t get Rick out of his thoughts. “Ben, are you okay?” his father asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Ben said, turning to his father. Motioning toward the newspaper, he added, “I’m sorry about this. I didn’t have a thing to do with it.”
“No, it’s fine,” Ben’s father said. “We like it when we’re completely humiliated. Every self-respecting paper likes to be the victim of a mindless joke every once in a while.”
“You didn’t get in trouble for this, did you?”
“Of course not,” Ben’s father said.