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  His left hand shot forward and caught her just above the elbow a split second before she would have tumbled over the cliff.

  “Clark! What the hell! Are you insane?”

  She was shaking, birds flapping their wings inside her rib cage. He was laughing, oblivious to her fear and rage. His failing, she realized then, was an inability to empathize. He had no idea how terror had just clutched at her heart. He was a man of contradictions. On the surface, he was caring and kind, sensitive to her needs. But underneath, there was a coldness that killed her feelings for him.

  “Relax, Victoria,” he said. “I just wanted to change your view of human nature to something more realistic.” He roared with laughter again, the king of the beasts, then turned and walked back toward the car, leaving her there, shivering in the wind.

  She broke up with him the next day.

  -7-

  The Pursuit of Happiness

  Jake Lassiter . . .

  I was smoking weed and feeling groovy.

  On doctor’s instructions. More or less.

  Dr. Gold, carrying a grocery bag, approached the park bench where I’d been planted like a fern for the past hour. I was in South Pointe Park at the tip of Miami Beach. A hundred yards away, a cruise ship flying the Norwegian flag plowed out of Government Cut, headed toward the Caribbean with three thousand fun seekers aboard. If a couple hundred contracted norovirus and spent their vacation pooping out their guts, maybe I could pick up a PI case or two against the cruise line. A hundred yards in the other direction was the beach, which ended at a jetty that formed a barrier to the Cut. A biplane flew along the beach trailing a sign advertising suntan oil. No mention was made of skin cancer.

  “Hey, good-looking!” I called out. “What’s cooking?”

  “Jake, are you high?” Melissa demanded. She was tall, long-legged, and loose-limbed, with reddish-brown hair and light-green eyes.

  I exhaled a long, slow, pungent puff from my vape pen. It looks like one of those silvery cigarette holders an effete villain would be waving around in an old movie. Claude Rains in Notorious, maybe.

  “Jake! Answer me.”

  “I’m invoking my Fifth Amendment right to remain silent.”

  “Damn it.”

  “Also, my right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, as guaranteed by Benjamin Franklin and perhaps Timothy Leary.”

  Looking exasperated, she settled onto the bench next to me, hoisting the grocery bag between us. I leaned across the paper sack and gave her a brush kiss that doubtless carried the faint scent of a vaporized weed called “Krazy Kush.”

  Did I mention that my doctor and I were lovers? No?

  About ten months ago, Melissa moved here to take part in a research program devoted to chronic traumatic encephalopathy. And to be with me.

  CTE is to the National Football League what black lung is to coal mining, the inescapable industrial disease that keeps on giving, and I might be one of its victims. “Might be” because only an autopsy can yield a definitive diagnosis.

  “Seriously, Jake, are you stoned?”

  “I have a prescription.”

  “No, you don’t. Not for psychoactive marijuana with THC.”

  “A legal technicality,” I protested.

  “Your prescription is for cannabis edibles with CBD and nothing else. There’s no need to get high.”

  “Why deprive me of the joy of eating two bags of Fritos at midnight?”

  “Where are those CBD cookies I gave you?”

  “In the dumpster. They taste like chocolate-coated cardboard.”

  Melissa reached in her grocery bags for our sandwiches. A white heron landed in the grass near our bench, considered panhandling, then high-stepped it toward the beach.

  Melissa said, “How are you feeling, Jake?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking that? I could do a triathlon.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Sure, I could. Drinks, dinner, sex.”

  “Let’s get through lunch first and take it from there.” Melissa handed me a big, juicy sub sandwich, then took one for herself. Salami, turkey, and ham with Muenster cheese, onions, and tomatoes, the baguette slathered with mayo and drizzled with Italian dressing. For a slender, fit woman, Melissa had a hearty appetite. I liked that.

  “Getting stoned will not stop the strands of tau protein from hardening in your brain,” she said. “It’s the cannabidiol, the CBD, that’s neuroprotective.”

  “Hey, regular weed has that, too. Why can’t I get a buzz at the same time I get therapy?”

  The question stumped her, and that’s not easy to do. The woman has a bachelor’s degree from Columbia, a master’s in neuroscience and a PhD in molecular science from Yale, a medical degree from Duke, and she’s board certified in neurology and neuropathology.

  Me? After the NFL decided it could sell oceans of beer without me, I went to night law school at the University of Miami and proudly graduated in the top half of the bottom third of my class. In truth, I’ve hit more blocking sleds than law books.

  “Just don’t overdo it,” she said. “It’s not healthy to go through life stoned.” With that, she bit into her sandwich, and a tomato squirted juice over her lower lip. I also like a woman who isn’t dainty at the table, on a park bench, or in bed.

  A twentysomething bare-chested guy in surfer shorts skateboarded past us on the path. He had a tattoo of Chinese symbols running up one arm and around his neck. It probably translated into some wise philosophical saying, which I imagined to be, “Confucius says I am dumb as dirt for getting this tattoo.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you the questions for this month’s university study?”

  “Fire away.”

  “How’s your impulse control?”

  “Excellent. Yesterday, I repressed my impulse to wash and wax the car.”

  “Are you having any suicidal ideations?” she asked between bites.

  “Suicidal, never. Homicidal, frequently.”

  “Do you find your mind wandering?”

  “I do. And may I be perfectly honest?”

  “Please.”

  “My mind wanders to you, Melissa. How thankful I am to have you in my life, and not just sticking needles in my butt. I care for you very deeply.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Jake Lassiter. Getting real. So much better than Jake the Jokester.”

  “Truth is, you make me want to be a better man.”

  She cocked her head and appraised me. “Didn’t Jack Nicholson say that to Helen Hunt in a movie?”

  “Maybe, but if he did, he stole it from me. Point is, I care for you.”

  It’s true, damn it. It’s just never been easy for me to say.

  “And I care deeply for you, Jake.”

  “Which brings us to where we are and where we’re going. We care deeply for each other, but . . .”

  The but hung there a second. Maybe thinking about Solomon and Lord getting married had triggered something in me. But where to go with it? I immediately regretted what I’d just said. I felt like I was prancing through the high-step agility drill on the practice field, trying not to stumble on the grid of intersecting ropes. One misstep and I’d plunge facedown into the web, while my teammates hooted and hollered.

  “But what, Jake?”

  “But nothing. I was being stupid.”

  But with the vague diagnosis of my medical condition, how can we make any plans?

  That’s what I wanted to say but didn’t. I would save my concerns for another day. She didn’t press me for an answer. Didn’t badger me. Gave me my own space to fret. I liked that about Melissa, too.

  Dr. Melissa Gold was a neuropathologist at UCLA. A little more than a year ago, she’d been an expert witness in a case of mine involving a female martial arts fighter who had committed suicide. Based on a brain autopsy, Dr. Gold determined that the young woman had been suffering with CTE. Yeah, just like all those former NFL players who descended into dementia and death.
r />   In California I had taken Dr. Gold out to dinner, where I performed the charming stunt of fainting, facedown, into a platter of smoked pork bellies with roasted blackberries. This came after several weeks of piercing headaches and a few episodes of confused behavior and short-term memory snafus.

  My symptoms were consistent with several very scary illnesses. Senile dementia, Alzheimer’s disease, frontotemporal dementia, and, of course, CTE. They’re pretty much first cousins of each other. Nasty, homicidal cousins.

  My first brain scans were “murky,” to use Dr. Gold’s word. I had misshapen strands of tau protein, but not the stiffened tangles of sludge that indicate full-blown, fatal CTE. She called my condition a “precursor” to the disease. I took this to mean that the Grim Reaper had been spotted in my neighborhood but hadn’t yet rung my doorbell.

  Could the disease be stopped? Could the tangled tau strands be untangled? Melissa didn’t know. We began experimental injections of protein antibodies, but so far the results have been inconclusive.

  In the meantime, studies on rats showed that marijuana—specifically its compound CBD—helped brain tissue recover from injury. Like the rats, I smoke weed, just as I did decades ago after every football game that left me with bumps, bruises . . . and the occasional concussion.

  “If you’re done with the interrogation,” I said between bites, “what did yesterday’s scan show?”

  “We’re getting to that. Are you having any feelings of aggression?”

  “Only when someone I care about is being evasive. What did the scan show?”

  “In a minute. Feelings of depression?”

  “Considering the state of the world, who wouldn’t be?”

  I watched a second cruise ship follow the first one out to sea. It was a big, blocky, ugly vessel that took on the appearance of a twenty-story office building toppled onto its side. I don’t like having dinner with three strangers, much less three thousand, so I’m not a good candidate for a Caribbean cruise.

  “The scan,” I repeated. “Give it to me straight.”

  “The technology has improved dramatically in the last year,” she said. “The ligand, the molecules we injected with radioactive atoms, were specifically chosen because they bind onto the tau protein. It gives us a much clearer picture.”

  “And what did the picture show?”

  She let out a long breath. “More misshapen tau protein than a year ago.”

  “Damn!”

  “But we can’t tell if that’s because of a worsening condition or just a more highly defined picture of your brain tissue. All we can say for certain is that the disease—or precursor to the disease—hasn’t reversed. And . . .”

  “It may have progressed.”

  At the mouth of Government Cut, the giant cruise ship sounded its horn—a loud, elephantine bleat, disturbing the peace of the park.

  “Yes, that’s possible. I wish I had better news. You must think this is such a bum deal.”

  “I’m not gonna whimper about it. What’s your pal at UM say about the scan?”

  “Dr. Hoch believes it’s a fifty-fifty proposition that you’re a step closer to full-blown encephalopathy. But that’s just another way of saying he doesn’t know. He wants you to increase your intake of cannabinoids.”

  “More weed. That’s fine.”

  “He’s also considering adding another experimental drug. He’ll get back to me on that later today, and I’ll let you know at once.”

  “You’re not telling me to get my affairs in order?”

  “Not at all. But I’d like to add meditation and mindfulness to your drug therapies. I could teach you.”

  “Might as well try teaching Pilates to a rhinoceros.”

  “The body-mind connection, Jake. What’s the very first thing I learned about you when we met?”

  “That I was both irresistible and modest.”

  “That you suffered from cognitive dissonance. You’d won a murder trial for a man you were sure was guilty, and it ate you up inside.”

  “And you said I should do something that sounded like pneumonia.”

  “Eudaimonia. A philosophy of Aristotle’s.”

  “Didn’t he believe the sun revolved around the earth?”

  “Virtue ethics, a method of living a fulfilled and contented life. Meditation can help.”

  I thought about it a moment, determined to be earnest and not a wisecracking fool. “What about doing good deeds?”

  “That, too, of course.”

  “Ray Pincher wants me to switch teams and prosecute a case. The sunny side of justice, he calls it.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “At first I was skeptical.”

  “Skepticism is your default mode.”

  “But the more I think about it . . .”

  “Go on, Jake.”

  “I hate to sound so damn earnest, but maybe I could contribute to society in a way I’ve never done.”

  She smiled warmly at me. “Change can be very therapeutic, Jake. Especially good deeds.”

  In the distance, a siren wailed. An ambulance maybe. What they used to call a Miami Beach Limousine, back in the day when the little island was God’s Waiting Room for senior citizens. Maybe one day soon, the limo would come for me. That realization, too, pushed me toward switching teams.

  “I’m gonna do it,” I said. “Represent the people of the great state of Florida. Virtue. Ethics. Good deeds. Maybe I’ll find the key to that contented life you’re always talking about.”

  -8-

  Well and Faithfully Perform

  Judge Melvia Duckworth eyed me a bit suspiciously, or was that my imagination?

  “Put your left hand on the Bible, and raise your right hand,” Her Honor said.

  I did as I was told, and the judge spent a moment examining the back of my left hand.

  “Is there a problem, Your Honor? Is smoke rising from the Good Book when I touch it?”

  She gave me a faint smile. “I just want to give you a moment to consider the ramifications of what you’re doing today.”

  It was just the two of us in her chambers in the Justice Building. Dark wood and leather volumes and the quiet we associate with scholarly pursuits. Melvia Duckworth, a retired army captain, had served in the Judge Advocate Corps. She was a calm and strong presence in court and had always treated me fairly, even when my rambunctiousness would have rankled her more uptight brethren. A petite African-American woman close to sixty, she wore her black robes with a pink filigreed jabot at her neck and stylish eyeglasses with orange frames. The woman liked splashes of color, maybe to offset the austere robes.

  “What’s your concern, Judge?”

  “News travels pretty fast in God’s little acre of the civic center,” she said.

  “News, Your Honor?”

  “Everybody knows about your medical situation, Jake. All those concussions and then your bizarre behavior. Is it true you punched out ASA Flury the other day?”

  “No way, Your Honor. Just a little love tap to get his attention.” I wiggled my right hand’s harmless index finger, which was bent at the knuckle, having once gotten stuck in a lineman’s face mask and broken into three pieces.

  She shook her head, a bit sadly. “Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, Jake. Rumor mill says you’ve got brain damage.”

  “A precursor to brain damage, Judge.”

  “What in the name of General Patton is that?”

  “Some misshapen protein that hasn’t hardened into the tangles that indicate full-blown CTE. Really, I’m fine.”

  She pulled the Bible from beneath my hand and examined me with a judicial gaze. Judge Duckworth had stared into the eyes of murderers and bank robbers and check forgers, as well as the rarest of birds, the innocent man. What did she see now?

  “No symptoms, then, Jake?”

  “An occasional headache.”

  But what occasions they were. A jackhammer inside my skull, eviscerating bone and tissue, work
ing its way toward my optic nerve, ready to puncture my eyes from the inside out. At least that’s how it felt. All accompanied by an explosive flash of searing bright light that seemed to radiate heat.

  She tilted her head, still evaluating me. “What about memory loss?”

  “Nothing anyone else my age hasn’t encountered. Sometimes I open the refrigerator and can’t remember if I wanted milk or a tangerine. Usually, I settle for beer.”

  If the judge found this amusing, she didn’t show it. I chose not to tell her about the occasions I took the wrong exit off I-95 and found myself lost, even though I’ve lived in Miami for most of my wastrel life.

  “I’m doing really well,” I said, without my nose growing or lightning striking me. “I’m undergoing some treatments that’ll slow the growth of those nasty proteins, maybe even stop them in their tracks.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  I still had one hand extended, as if I were expecting a manicure. My other hand pointed toward the ceiling, where the air-conditioning vent exhaled chilled air and likely asbestos pores, too.

  “Are you worried I’m gonna screw the pooch if I have to prosecute a murder case?”

  She gave me a rueful smile. “I surely wouldn’t want you brought up on dereliction-of-duty charges. I just keep wondering why Ray Pincher talked you into enlisting.”

  “When we’re done here, I’m gonna walk across the street and find out.”

  “He’s a slippery one, Jake.”

  I liked her calling me by my given name. Judges only do that if they’re fond of you.

  “He’s the county’s first African-American state attorney,” she continued, “and I’ve always been afraid he’ll do something to set back our cause.”

  “If Ray screws up, that’s on him. Not you or anyone else in the community.”

  She chuckled. “Only a white man would think that, but that’s okay, Jake. Your heart is in the right place.” She slid the Bible back under my extended hand. “Just one thing. If you change your mind, if you think Pincher is leading you into some ambush in Fallujah, hurry yourself back in here, and I’ll let you resign your commission.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “I was army, Jake. Not navy.”