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Chapter Text

The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly towards us through the dark rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and regarded the house with apprehension. The second-floor windows were unlit. 

“Daisy isn’t home yet,” he said. “Where could she…Where the devil did he take her?”

The events of the past few hours—the row at the Plaza and the death of Myrtle Wilson—had unsettled us all, and with this additional shock I felt as if the axis of the planet had tilted and thrown us off balance. 

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” Tom said decisively. “If you and Jordan want any supper, go and tell the kitchen.” He vanished into the house, a clamor in his wake.

Jordan put her hand on my arm. 

“Won’t you come in, Nick?”

I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan lingered for a moment more. 

“They’re probably fine, you know. Perhaps Gatsby took the long way round.”

I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of this in my expression; for she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the house. 

I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands. Then, as no movement stirred the long drive before me, I raised my head and watched the moonlight reflecting off the water, the green light at the end of the Buchanans’ dock pulsing against the darkness. Across the bay, Gatsby’s house remained dark. 

Time trickled as molasses through a sieve. It could have been any interminable number of minutes or hours when Tom clattered suddenly through the front doors and stared, blinking, down at me. 

“I’m going after her!” he announced brazenly. 

“What?” I stood, not without difficulty. Just over the cusp of thirty, and I was already getting stiff. 

He was already getting into the coupé, whose blue paint glinted dully in the moonlight. “I’m going to find her, I swear it. That common crook deserves everything that’s coming to him!”

Tom surely would have bolted down the drive and begun a sweep of Long Island, but the sound of another engine pierced the night. A Model T emerged from the gloom, and Tom and I watched, frozen, as it rolled up the long drive and drew to a stop alongside the coupé. An officious policeman stepped out from the driver’s side, and Daisy Buchanan from the other. The car’s headlights scattered into a million beams against her skin, transfiguring her into some ethereal creature, stark against the dark night. With a swish of gossamer skirts, she floated towards us, face eerily calm. Tom clambered out of the coupé and seized her shoulders. 

“Where have you been? Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine, Tom. Let’s just go inside.” She turned her face to me, a half-smile pasted on her lips. “Look at you, Nick. Up so late, waiting for me. Were you worried sick?”

Tom drew an arm protectively about her as he addressed the policeman. “Where did you find her?”

The officer could not have been much older than Daisy, if at all. Alerted by the commotion, Jordan had joined us in the drive, and he balked at his sudden intent audience. 

“W-we received a radio alert to apprehend a certain yellow car, sir. Found it on a side road going to West Egg. We arrested the driver, but the dame’s free to go, sir.” 

“Good.” Without another word, Tom ushered Daisy up the steps and back into the house. Jordan trailed after them, but she shot one last glance over her shoulder at me before disappearing through the square of light at the top of the porch. 

“Arrested the driver, you say?” I asked the officer, who had been making to get back into his Model T, and turned around rather reluctantly. 

“Well, he was a suspect…I really can’t say any more, sir.” He did his best to seem apologetic.

“Where are they holding him? And where’s his car?”

“Why, the Tombs, of course. And they towed his car to the nearest station.” He fixed me with suspicion. “Say, you look familiar. You wouldn’t happen to be that…”

“You must be mistaken.” Swiftly, I turned away from him and went up the porch steps to find the butler. I had a taxi to call. 

The taxi dropped me off at my West Egg bungalow. The second it disappeared into the night, I hopped into my old Dodge and drove myself all the way to downtown Manhattan. As I sped down the desolate roads, passing the very crime scene we had just stopped at, a memory of a conversation with Jordan about careless drivers floated through my head, and I swiftly quashed the thought.

Despite the late hour, the city teemed with life. Music and chatter wafted over from both sides of the road, revelers snatching up the last sparks of summer before the crisp autumn air snuffed it out. Unlike them, I could not afford to tarry. I turned the corner, and my destination loomed ahead. The gray-brick façade of the Tombs, reminiscent of some palace along the Loire, masked the horrors within. I parked along the curb, dodged the undertow of passers-by, and went inside.

It took some time for me to acquire the audience I wanted. After some amount of persuasion, and demonstrating my commitment to remain until my request was fulfilled, I was finally ushered down a series of cavernous halls to the visitor’s room. I sat down on the lone chair, pulling it out with an awful ringing screech. A few minutes later, a haggard police officer opened the door on the other side of the room, and the man he was chaperoning sat down across from me. If not for the pane of glass between us, I could have reached out and touched him. 

Gatsby had looked better. At his parties he had been serene and elegant, untouched by the chaos and debauchery surrounding him. Now, under the harsh lighting of the detention center, his pink suit seemed almost obscene; the last wilting rose of the summer. He made an attempt at a wan smile as he met my eyes. 

“Hello, old sport.”

“Gatsby,” I said without preamble, “what happened?”

His brow furrowed, eyes staring distantly at nothing. “Well, a policeman pulled us over. He arrested me—in fact, wanted to arrest both of us—but I convinced him to let Daisy go. Is she all right?”

“She’s fine.”

“I’m worried about her,” he said blithely, oblivious to my perturbed stare. “If Tom tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon—”

I could not reach him, even though he was sitting mere inches away from me. I consider patience, among honesty, to be one of my outstanding qualities, but even so, I found myself at my limit. “Gatsby,” I interrupted, “a woman is dead.”

He winced. “Ah. Yes. Quite a shame. Who was she?”

“Her name was Myrtle Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. What happened?”

Gatsby mulled this over for longer than I thought necessary, so long that the policeman leaning against the wall looked over with curiosity. Finally he said, “I don’t want to drag you into this, old sport.”

His eyes were fixed on the attorney’s badge glinting on my lapel. I had found it imperative to pull it out of my pocket upon entering the Tombs. So he had indeed surmised my intention.

“Someone’s got to defend you,” I said. 

“It’s kind of you to offer, but...” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You see, I plan to plead guilty. So there’s really no need.”

“Guilty or not, you still need an attorney.”

“So I’ll get one. But don’t waste your time on me, old sport.” 

This kind of fatalism was uncharacteristic of Gatsby. It made me suspicious. But something in his expression had shuttered off, and he stifled a yawn in his right hand. I knew I wouldn’t get anything more out of him tonight.

“Think it over,” I said. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” 

“Good night.” He hesitated. “If Daisy should ask after me…”

“I’ll let her know you’re alright.” 

There—a flash of that brilliant smile, a mix of appreciation and relief both. He stood and turned away from me, and I watched him recede into the shadows of the dark hallway beyond. The door slammed shut behind him with an ominous finality. 

Loath to make the trip back to West Egg when I planned to return to Manhattan the very next day, I found myself a table in the library of the Yale Club. My mind was racing, and I thought it would be a good opportunity to study. But I woke to rays of sunlight streaming through the blinds onto the table, and my face in a puddle of drool on the pages of a legal tome. 

I raised my head and discovered that my neck was complaining vehemently about being forced into such an awkward position. After discreetly returning the book to the shelf—some unfortunate lawyer would be in for a surprise later—I procured myself some breakfast in the club lounge. Unfortunately, I had a scant appetite, and overhearing a conversation between two men at a nearby table failed to help matters. 

“What a sordid business. That’s the trouble with these millionaires that pop up out of nowhere.”

“Correct. These days, anyone can play at prosperity. But you can’t teach good comportment.”

“Did you ever attend any of his parties?”

A snort of derision. “Of course not. I wouldn’t be caught dead with such disreputable company.”

I pushed my breakfast away with disgust—though I finished my much-needed cup of coffee—and requested a copy of the morning paper. Sure enough, one of the headlines read, MURDEROUS MILLIONAIRE ARRESTED; Jay Gatsby, 32, runs down victim with automobile. I skimmed the article, which stated the bare facts: Jay Gatsby, a millionaire known for hosting lavish parties at his mansion, had been found driving a car that had been witnessed killing a woman. He had been charged with murder. The trial was tomorrow, August 30, and the prosecutor on the case…

No, it couldn’t be.

A sudden whirlwind in the lounge; a flash of marigold yellow and blinding white teeth.

“What’s up, boys?”

An imposing man swept into the room. Clad in his trademark, well-pressed suit, golden hair styled into a slick wave, I recognized him instantly. I snapped open the newspaper and held it in front of me to obscure my person. 

“Lewint,” one of the men said appreciatively. “You’ll put this scoundrel away, won’t you?”

“‘Course I will! Just trust me. I’ll have him convicted faster than you can say, ‘Lux et veritas!’”

Motionless, my eyes fixed on the page before me, I heard footsteps in my direction. A large, tan hand made quick work of my makeshift blind. 

“And who do we have here? Nicholas Carraway, I thought that was you!”

The grinning face of Alfred Lewint stared down at me. We had been classmates at Yale Law, and he had been, like Tom, a star football player. After graduating, he quickly rose in rank among the prosecutors of New York. Due to rarely losing a case, and his affinity for the color yellow, he had been granted the moniker “Golden Boy.” 

Suave and jocular, his face clean-shaven to perpetuate his youthful charm, the incandescent rays of fortune had always favored Lewint. Born to a wealthy legacy of prosecutors, his name preceded him in every social context. He possessed a smile to rival Gatsby’s, but while Gatsby’s was understanding and reassuring, Lewint’s was simply inevitable. He would turn it on and fix it on his target like a searchlight, and soon enough, he would get what he wanted. 

It was this smile that was focused on me at that very moment. 

“Hello, Alfred,” I said with as much politeness as I could muster.

“Please, call me Alf. Nicky boy, I haven’t seen you since…oh, when was it? That lovely dinner in mid-June?”

Yes, one night when I went over to the Buchanans’, Lewint had been there. He was still quite close with Tom, and any occasion with the two of them together was an opportunity to endlessly recount the epic highs and lows of Bulldog football. 

“Bit of a rough summer for you,” he continued. “Not everyone can have a winning record, after all. But chin up, Nicky boy, I’m sure it’ll get better.” He patted me on the shoulder in the most consoling manner he knew. “Looks like I’m about to extend my winning streak! I pity the poor sod who finds himself across the courtroom from me.”

Unbeknownst to Lewint, I had every intention of becoming that “poor sod” myself. As he launched into a spirited retelling of every case that had contributed to his unbroken winning streak, I politely excused myself and departed.

After extricating myself from Lewint, I made my way back to the Tombs posthaste, where I met a discouraged Gatsby in the visitors’ room.

“It’s no use, old sport,” he said. The shadows under his eyes seemed to have become even darker in the intervening hours, and the pink suit wilted upon his disconsolate frame. “No attorney will take my case.”

I didn’t blame them. Any attorney would balk at the circumstances. There seemed to be no room for doubt that he was guilty, especially when he himself was so insistent on that fact. But I, of all people, could not abandon Gatsby now. Whether it was because of the hospitality he had extended me all summer, or the glimpses he had shown me of his past, or the simple fact that he had no one else to count on, I couldn’t resign myself to a guilty verdict.

“You’ve considered my offer, then?” I said. 

His lips came together in a thin line. He seemed to be struggling with something, deep within himself. Finally he said, “Yes. I would like you to defend me in court.”

I pushed a sheet of paper under the glass that separated us, a request for defense I had prepared late last night. The policeman gave him a pen, and he signed it with a flourish before passing it back to me. 

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, old sport,” he said quickly, “that I didn’t want you to defend me yesterday. I just don’t want you to think less of me. After all, I am guilty.”

“Don’t say that in court tomorrow,” I said. “And are you, Gatsby? Did you kill Myrtle Wilson?”

“Yes. I killed her.”

He said this in the same way he had said “educated at Oxford” to me so long ago, tripping over his words in a rush to get them out. His eyes met mine, grasping at sincerity, but I noticed a hint of desperation in his stare. Maybe it was his body language, or the fact that as his friend and attorney, I wanted him to be innocent. But, in any case, I didn’t believe him. 

“Tell me what happened,” I said. “Exactly what happened at the moment of the accident.”

Gatsby grimaced. “I hit a woman with my car. Must I recount all of the sordid details?”

My patience was fraying thin. “Of course! How did Myrtle Wilson end up in the road, and what happened at the moment when you hit her, and afterwards?”

“All right, old sport,” Gatsby conceded. “Daisy and I—we were driving past the garage. Just as we were passing a car coming the other way, a woman ran out at us, waving. It all happened in an instant, but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew.”

“So you didn’t have any time to slow down or stop?”

He shook his head. “As I said…it happened so fast, and we couldn’t have moved over to avoid her, because of the car.” 

“And what of afterwards? You didn’t stop then, to check if she was okay?”

Gatsby went silent. His eyes drifted down, rested on the wooden countertop. “No, I suppose I didn’t.”

It was impossible to glean information from this man. Everything from his past, to his motivations, to his account of the incident, was shrouded in so many layers of pretense. It was getting on my nerves. “Gatsby, you’re barely telling me anything.” 

“Look, old sport, I’m telling you everything I can,” he snapped, a touch of acerbity marring his composed façade. He took a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling, his face stricken. “I’m sorry.”

“How do you expect me to defend you if I don’t know the whole truth?”

“All you have to know is that I’m guilty.” 

He was a terrible liar, but outstanding in his stubbornness. I sensed that any attempt to force him to disclose whatever he was hiding would end in futility. Gatsby had always benefited from his guests seeing only what he wanted them to see: the opulence of his parties, the aura of mystery he wore like a cloak. As the only person currently on his side, and with Lewint in hot pursuit, I had no option but to play along with whatever scheme he had conjured up. 

“Heard anything from Daisy, old sport?” His attempt at nonchalance was admirable, but his eyes betrayed his naked desperation.

“No, I haven’t.”

“It’s Tom,” he said forcefully. “He’s probably keeping her imprisoned in the house—she’s there all alone, trapped with him—”

He trailed off, his gaze far away. I imagined some part of him was entertaining the idea of breaking out of jail and hightailing it all the way to East Egg to save her. But the reverie dissipated, momentary as the bubbles in a flute of champagne. 

“Would you mind terribly going to check on her for me? If he’s done anything…”

“He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.”

“I don’t trust him, old sport.”

At that point I felt there was more than just the smudged pane of glass that separated us. Not even yesterday’s confrontation and bloodshed, or today’s murder charge, could taint that shimmering dream to which he had clung for five years. 

“I’ll pay her a visit,” I relented. 

“Excellent, old sport, thank you.”

His face broke into that singular smile. With just one expression, he conveyed to me his gratitude and his unceasing belief that I could ensure Daisy’s wellbeing for him. The austerity of the visitor’s room made that smile, like his suit, even more brilliant in comparison. If I looked at it too much, I could even risk forgetting that he was lying to me. 

Chapter Text

The sunlight assailed my vision, and I blinked furiously as I stepped out from the oppressive dimness of the detention center. It was a bright, warm afternoon; the sweltering heat of the day before had been waylaid by a cool breeze that hinted at the approaching autumn. I took the Queensboro Bridge out of the city, and as the unblinking eyes of T.J. Eckleburg advanced into view, I slowed and stopped my Dodge next to George Wilson’s garage.

I had taken advantage of the drive to think, but I was still sorely lacking in time to think over my current situation. Gatsby, stubborn, exasperating, steadfast Gatbsy! Even he refused to take his own side in court. Someone had to look out for him, I told myself. 

I ended up parking next to a rather flashy golden Duesenberg, a shade or two darker than Gatsby’s own Rolls-Royce. Its owner, thankfully, did not appear to be in my immediate vicinity. Instead, there was a general clamor as an armada of police officers surveyed the scene, along with curious onlookers and journalists vying for a glance. I had scarcely exited my car when one such officer confronted me. 

“Sir, civilians aren’t allowed to be this close to the crime scene. Please step outside the cordon.”

“I’m an attorney,” I protested, gesturing at my badge. 

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Sure you are. You could pick up a trinket like that at any old flea market.”

From behind me, a cool voice said, “I can vouch for Mr. Carraway. I have it on good authority that he really is a defense attorney.” 

I turned to see Jordan Baker, who had just stepped out of a taxi. Sporting a golf sweater and skirt, a cloche hat perched jauntily atop her head, she regarded me impassively. 

“Look,” I said hastily to the policeman, “here, I’ve got a letter.”

“Huh. Well, I’ll be!” He looked up from the piece of paper and peered at me closely. “So you really are…that attorney.” 

“I suppose.” 

“If you’d kindly let us in,” Jordan said firmly. “I’m assisting with his investigation.”

“Go right ahead,” the policeman said, and he ushered us in with a disdainful sweep of his arm. 

I waited until he was out of earshot, and then said, “I should think you’d be at the golf course at this hour.”

“I should be,” Jordan replied. She added, “You weren’t so nice to me last night.”

“How could it have mattered then?”

She mulled this over. Then: “I suspected you would be here today. I wanted to confirm for myself.”

“So you wanted to come and gawk along with all those other bystanders?”

She was unperturbed, casting aside my feeble attempt at an insult with a roll of her eyes. “I thought lawyers were supposed to back up their claims with evidence. No, I told you already. I’m assisting with the investigation.” 

“Why? You hardly seemed to care last night.”

“Mind yourself, Nick. But the reason is simple.” Jordan started walking towards the entrance of the garage with long, purposeful strides, and I followed after her. “You need all the help you can get.”

Jordan and I had already briefly visited the crime scene, but under the harsh glare of daylight, it no longer looked as surreal as it had the night before. Around us, clouds of black smoke rose into the air. Every flake of peeling paint and rusted metal jumped out to my examining eyes. Police officers swarmed to and fro, taking samples and examining footprints and who knows what. On the right lane of the road parallel to the garage, an outline of white tape demarcated the area where Myrtle Wilson had lain. Most of the dirt within was stained dark brown. 

“That’s a lot of blood,” Jordan remarked. “She must have died instantly.”

Again, I wondered why Gatsby had not stopped the car. He must have known Myrtle was dead the second he hit her. Of all the people I had met that summer he seemed the least likely to be a reckless driver; he simply had too much to lose. 

“Gatsby said she rushed out into the road,” I said.

“Why on Earth would she do that?”

“He said she looked as if she wanted to speak to them.” 

Jordan shook her head. “Now that’s what I call careless—running into the road to get the attention of a stranger.”

Everything inside the garage was covered in a thin pallid layer of ash, save for Lewint’s suit, which seemed to have siphoned all the vibrancy from its surroundings. His back was turned to us as he reprimanded some unlucky detective. 

Lewint’s caustic voice reverberated throughout the cramped space. “Why did you send away that reporter?” 

“Sir, I thought you wouldn’t appreciate an interruption during your investigation.”

“Pah! Investigating’s what you fellows are for. Of course I’m happy to speak to the press! Now, go and see if you can chase him down.”

“Yes, sir!” 

I took advantage of this distraction to look around. The scene was mostly unchanged from last night: the singular dim lightbulb, the mess of blankets on a nearby workbench, its faint red stains the only hint of the horror it had contained. At the back of the building, I could see the office and its lone shabby sofa whereupon a figure was reclining.

As the detective scurried away, Lewint turned to face us. 

“Took you long enough. That coffee better be piping hot—Oh ho! Why, Nicky boy, I don’t believe this!”

He broke into a booming laugh. 

“Don’t tell me the honorable Nicholas Carraway, Esquire, has dared to challenge me in court? Or, excuse me, what are they calling you these days…”

I braced myself. 

“…the Dead-End Defender?”

I had already seen that title for weeks at that point: in court, in print, and on the lips of anyone who happened to recognize me at Gatsby’s parties, yet it still provoked a nauseous twinge. 

“Yes, I shall be representing Mr. Gatsby in court tomorrow,” I said.

Lewint laughed again. 

“I take back what I said this morning about your summer. Looks like it’s only going to get worse for you, Nicky boy!”

Chortling to himself, he sauntered out of the garage, clapping me rather painfully on the back as he passed. I thought I saw Jordan wince, but when my eyes focused again, her expression remained neutral. 

“Well then!” she said with perfectly calm indignation. 

“It’s not entirely my fault,” I protested, feeling that I had to justify myself to someone. “They were all guilty as charged.” 

“You’ve just had rather bad luck, Nick,” she said, with a rare hint of sympathy. “Now come on— I’m helping you with the investigation, but you have to pull your weight too.” 

The office at the back of the shop was tiny to the point where one person, with arms extended, could touch both walls simultaneously. It held a decrepit sofa, a scuffed desk, and a rickety chair. Now that we were closer to the office, I could see without a doubt that the man inside was George Wilson. He was alone, sank deep into the dilapidated cushions to the point where he seemed almost to disappear. Pallid and insubstantial, clad in a faded shirt and overalls, I heard him moaning and muttering to himself. 

Jordan and I glanced at each other, and silently reached a kind of consensus. I led the way into the office and addressed the stricken man.

“Mr. Wilson”—he looked blearily up at me—“I’m Nicholas Carraway. Would you be willing to tell me what you witnessed last night?”

I had seen Wilson a few times, always in the company of Tom, yet we had never been formally introduced. I didn’t expect him to recognize me, but still I was struck by the vacancy of his gaze. Even if I had stopped by the garage every day that summer, he wouldn’t have known me then.

“Last night?” He shuddered. “Oh my God, he killed her. That yellow car ran her down and didn’t stop…”

With apparent effort his eyes fell upon my attorney’s badge.

“You a lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll find him guilty, right? The killer?” 

“Um”—my eyes flashed to Jordan, who was standing very still— “yes, I will.” 

Wilson nodded shakily. To my abject horror, his hands reached up slowly and seized at my lapels with the desperation of a drowning man. I was pulled into a half-bending position, inches from his contorted face. His breath, hot and sour, flooded my senses. “That man killed her! The man in the yellow car…He’s guilty!”

I tried to pull myself out of his grip, but he clung on, white-knuckled, until another man entered the room. There was a metallic clink on the desk, and then he rushed over and got in between the two of us. 

“George, let go of him,” he said. “He didn’t do nothin’.”

He managed to pry Wilson off of me. Wilson sagged back into the cushions, allowing me a better look at the newcomer. He’d been Wilson’s companion last night, too: a harried-looking man, less than a decade younger than myself. He wiped his hands rather nervously on his stained apron. 

“Sorry about that,” he said on Wilson’s behalf. “I never seen him like this.”

He gestured at the thermos and stack of paper cups on the desk. “You see a man wearing a yellow suit around here?”

“I think he left.”

“Oh.” His shoulders relaxed just a bit. He introduced himself as Michaelis, the proprietor of the coffee joint next door, and Jordan and I shared our names in turn. For a second I thought a spark of recognition flared in his eyes, but by the time he shook my hand it had disappeared, and I wondered if I had just imagined it. 

Abruptly Michaelis crossed over to the desk and poured himself a cup of the coffee that Lewint had abandoned. He gulped down half of it before he sheepishly lowered his cup and asked if we wanted any. Of course, I took him up on the offer. It was good coffee, hot and very strong. Wilson was the only one to refuse, but bolstered by the restorative, Michaelis resumed his task of consoling him. 

“George, have some coffee, it’ll make you feel better.”

Wilson resisted, but after Michaelis put a cup in his hand, it appeared to calm him down somewhat. He sat hunched on the sofa, sipping it slowly. Gradually his subdued muttering became more coherent, and I dared to attempt questioning him again.

“Mr. Wilson, what can you tell me about what happened last night?”

His eyes widened, as if just contemplating the event made it appear fresh before him. “Oh my God, oh my God! She was murdered!” He leveled a shaking finger at the desk. “Look in that drawer there, Mr. Attorney.”

I opened the indicated drawer. Inside was a dog leash of leather and braided silver. 

“Where did you find this?” I asked.

Michaelis shot a warning glance at Wilson.

“George—”

He was either undeterred or didn’t notice. “I seen it on Myrtle’s bureau yesterday. It was all wrapped in paper. She tried to lie to me, but I knew. He bought it for her.”

“Who did?”

“The man in the yellow car, of course!” Wilson’s fevered eyes met mine. “I knew something was up with Myrtle, Mr. Lawyer. She denied it, but she had some funny business going on. We was gonna go away…”

With a blink his gaze was far away again. “Then she ran out to speak to him, and he killed her…didn’t even stop his car…”

Wilson squeezed the coffee cup so hard that some of it sloshed over the top and down his wrist. He appeared fully insensible to the pain. Michaelis gently pried the cup out of his hands and set it on the table. 

“Mr. Michaelis,” I said, “you witnessed the incident, correct? What did you see?”

Michaelis’ overnight vigil had clearly taken a toll; he didn’t look much better than Wilson. Dark circles made caverns beneath his eyes. He closed them and massaged his temples with a hand. “It happened real fast,” he admitted, brow furrowed with concentration. “The car sped by and hit Ms. Wilson. By the time I ran out to her, it was gone.” 

“He didn’t even stop,” echoed Wilson. “Oh my God, he didn’t even stop.” 

Michaelis looked down at his friend, who was rocking back and forth on the sofa, then back at us. Something hardened in his expression. “Maybe you oughta leave,” he said. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting him even more?”

That was when I knew he knew who I was. He must have seen my name in the paper after all. 

“Thank you for your cooperation,” I said. “Jordan, let’s go.”

She followed me out to where I had parked the car, skirt eddying around her shins as she half-jogged to keep up. “Well, that wasn’t particularly useful.”

“I’ll just pick apart their testimony tomorrow,” I agreed. “At least we got a cup of coffee out of it.”

“What’s next?” Jordan demanded. “We have to know more than that if we’re going to stand our ground in court tomorrow.”

I paused, hand on the door of the Dodge. “Hold on, we?”

“Yes, we. You thought I’d stick around for the investigation but not for the trial?”

I threw my hands up in the air. “Honestly, I don’t know why you’re sticking around at all. This isn’t some exciting affair like one of Gatsby’s parties. This is serious!”

“Of course I know that,” Jordan scoffed. “For once, you have someone on your side. But if you’d rather I go back to the course, I have a tournament in two weeks.” 

There was no way Jordan was simply that altruistic. Tomorrow in court, when the strike of the gavel sealed my fate, I didn’t want anyone there to witness it. And yet…I had lost too many cases that summer to believe that doing the same thing over again would have different results. 

“Fine. Get in.” I gestured to the passenger seat. 

To her credit, she didn’t gloat. She simply climbed in, and we drove off. 

Eventually, the gray desolation of the valley of ashes receded, giving way to lush green lawns and sprawling domiciles. The West Egg Police Department was a low-slung brick building, flanked by well-manicured hedges. I parked us in the lot next to the police vehicles. At the far end, cordoned off by sawhorses and rope, stood a familiar yellow vehicle. Several police officers, clustering around it, prevented us from getting a clear view. 

“Can you see anything?” Jordan said as we disembarked and drew closer.

“Not much.” However, enough details were visible for me to confirm that the vehicle was indeed the one that belonged to Gatsby.

Just as we reached the cordon, a voice rang out over the general clamor. 

“Oh no, you don’t!”

Lewint materialized as if out of thin air, turning from where he had been chatting with a gaggle of obsequious police officers. His suit had camouflaged him well against the paint. 

“Nicky boy, you’re so determined to get in my way today! Why don’t you behave like a good underclassman and scamper off?”

He delivered all this with an impeccable grin. 

“We’ve just as much a right to be here as you do,” Jordan said. 

Lewint eyed her with sudden scrutiny, taking in her upturned chin, her golf attire. “Aren’t you that Fairway Flapper? What are you doing at my crime scene? I’d say you have even less of a right to be here than poor ol’ Nicky.”

“I happen to be his co-counsel.” That was news to me. 

He practically guffawed, slapping his knee with mirth. “You! Well! Women these days, now that you can vote, you think you can do anything!”

Jordan was unimpressed. “Naturally. Now, we need a look at that car.”

All of the mocking glee disappeared from Lewint’s face, replaced by contempt. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” I said. 

“It’s very simple. This is my crime scene. I simply cannot have you mucking it up, you see?” Lewint flicked his hands at us in imperious dismissal. “So shoo!”

When we didn’t budge, he heaved a dramatic sigh and gestured to his posse of officers, who pivoted to face us, brass buttons glinting in the sun. “Begone with these ruffians!”

A police officer seized each of my arms and frogmarched me forward. They did the same to Jordan, who attempted to resist by digging her heels into the ground. “Watch the cardigan!” she snapped. 

They escorted us to my poor Dodge and then stood at attention, preventing us from going anywhere near Gatsby’s car. Jordan leaned against the side, frowning, her chin propped on one fist. 

My heart was hammering. Would Lewint continue to plague me for the entirety of this case, appearing around every corner to stymie me like some sort of vengeful phantom? At this point, I had no solid evidence that could help Gatsby escape conviction tomorrow— just as Lewint, and perhaps even Gatsby himself, desired.

“I can see why he and Tom are friends,” Jordan mused. “Well? We could come back later, after Lewint leaves.”

This was the first time she had expressed such reproach towards Tom, but for years she had suffered secondhand the many indignities he had inflicted upon Daisy. Perhaps she had been tolerating him all summer, just as I had. 

“He’ll have officers posted,” I said. “They won’t let us in.” 

“We barely have any information. Did you talk to Gatsby yet?” 

“Yes. He told me he’s guilty.”

“Oh.”

“But I don’t think he’s telling me the whole truth. Gatsby’s a terrible liar. He didn’t want me to defend him in the first place, and he gave me very few details.” 

The words spilled out of me before I could help it. Too often during the summer I had found myself alone as my losing streak stretched on, the other associates loath to interact with me for fear of their own reputations. Perhaps I had missed having co-counsel more than I knew. 

Jordan, the foremost authority on the matter, considered this. Eventually, she shrugged. “Gatsby could have many reasons for lying.”

We both knew what—really, whom—Gatsby would protect at all costs, even at great detriment to himself. 

I was about to give up and drive back to my bungalow to mope—Jordan could find her own way back to the city for all I cared—when the line of police officers parted. Through the gap came a man lugging a tripod and camera. This exertion and the midday heat had caused a flush to bloom on his pale face, and beads of sweat gleamed on his brow. As he passed by he attempted to dab his brow and adjust his tripod at the same time, and this tangle of movements caused the latter to slip from his grasp. I lunged forward and caught it. 

“Why, thank you,” he said rather distractedly as I handed it back to him. Then, as his hand brushed mine during the transfer, “Ah, Mr. Carraway! Good to see you again.” 

He rearranged his belongings so one smooth hand was free to clasp mine. 

“Mr. McKee,” I said. “A pleasure. What are you doing here?”

“Please, call me Chester.” His glasses were starting to slip down his nose, and he pushed them up with his free hand. “I’ve been employed to take some photographs of the crime scene.” 

“Forgive me, but I thought your pursuits were more artistic in nature.”

“Well, yes, but”—a quick, vague smile—“one does have to pay the bills. Besides, Ms. Wilson was an acquaintance of mine.”

Jordan was looking back and forth between us like a spectator at a tennis match. She eventually stepped forward, hand extended. “Jordan Baker.” 

“Charmed, I’m sure.” 

I lowered my voice so the police officers wouldn’t hear. “Chester, we need those photographs.”

“I beg your pardon?”

How much to tell McKee? Our worlds converged so little, I had no idea where his loyalties lay. Jordan opened her mouth, ready to deploy something convincing, but I jumped in before she could. 

“All that prosecutor cares about is winning. We’re trying to find the truth about what happened to Mrs. Wilson.”

McKee looked uneasy. “He did tell me that under no circumstances should I show anyone else the photographs.” 

“Please. It’s absolutely imperative,” I said, not above begging. I waited as he sorted out this dilemma. I could only hope that his memory from earlier in the summer of that cramped and smoky apartment was as strong as mine. 

“Nick’s lost every case he took this summer,” Jordan pointed out. “At least give him a fighting chance.”

“Is that truly necessary?” I asked her. 

“It’s the truth!”

Eventually our supplication outweighed the distant threat of Lewint. McKee let out a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Can you get them to us before the trial?”

“We’ll have to be discreet.” He cast a nervous eye to the officers behind us and lowered his voice even more. “They will take some time to develop. Maybe I can show them to you before I give them to Lewint tomorrow.”

“I would really appreciate that,” I said. 

Despite his misgivings, McKee looked pleased to be of service. He nodded. “Of course, of course.”

“You’ll telephone if anything happens?”

“I’ll find you in the phone book. Once this is settled, Mr. Carraway, I do hope you will join me for lunch someday.”

“I’ll owe you one,” I agreed. 

Mollified, he tipped his hat to us and left. When I turned back to Jordan she was looking at me rather flabbergasted. 

“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” she demanded. 

“What?”

“You and Mr. McKee.”

“We were introduced at a party.”

“Not one of Gatsby’s, surely.” 

“No. It was the day Tom introduced me to Myrtle. Anyway, I hardly see how this is any of your business.” 

Jordan and I were reasonably close, though it was a challenge to decipher what lay beneath her cool demeanor. Both of us had gamely resisted every attempt of Daisy to push us together as a couple. I suppose certain societal pressures might have led me to entertain the idea, but after that disaster back home I had no desire to get myself into another one. Still, there was a limit to the things I thought she was entitled to know. 

Wisely, Jordan dropped the subject and we got in the Dodge once again. I quickly took the driver’s seat before she could entertain any different ideas. 

“I should think you have an idea of where we’re going next?” she asked me. 

“I do,” I said. “Let’s make a house call to our dear friends, the Buchanans.”

Compared to the distance we had driven from the city, the trip over to the Buchanans’ was just a quick jaunt. I pulled up astride the lush verdant lawn, which gave way in the distance to the glittering bay. In the golden light of evening, the house looked much more welcoming than it had the night before. A soft glow emanated from the windows on the ground floor, but the upstairs windows were dark and the driveway empty. 

Jordan and I climbed the porch steps, and she rapped on the door. After thirty seconds of silence she rapped again.

“What exactly did you hope to achieve here?” Jordan asked, not without acerbity. 

“I told Gatsby I would come check on Daisy,” I said. “And it might be helpful for the case.” 

“Ah, of course.” Jordan shook her head. “I shouldn’t have expected anything different.” 

“Gatsby is remarkably fixated on her well-being, considering he’s the one who is in the detention center right now.” 

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about Gatsby.” Jordan arched an eyebrow at me. “I was talking about you.” 

“I’m sure I don’t understand what you mean,” I protested, but at that moment, the door creaked open and a butler peered out. 

“Can I help you?”

“Are Daisy and Tom in?” Jordan inquired. 

“No, miss, they’ve gone away. Each took a valise too.” 

“When?” I exclaimed.

“This morning, sir.” 

“Left no address?” I pressed.

“No.”

“Say when they’d be back?”

“No.” 

“Any idea where they are? How we could reach them?” 

He responded by closing the door. I heard his footsteps on the parquet click into the distance.

“Did you know they were going away?” I asked Jordan. 

“No. I left shortly after you stormed off last night.” 

At a loss, we stood on the quiet porch. The evening had started to cool off, and a crisp breeze blew through the balustrade. 

“I would’ve liked to hear Daisy’s account of the accident,” I said.

“That would’ve been helpful,” Jordan agreed. 

“You didn’t hear anything at all last night?” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

I wanted to believe her. Jordan usually didn’t deign to involve herself in the drama that had ensued that summer, aside from making that request to me on Gatsby’s behalf, but it frustrated me that all the parties I interviewed had been so taciturn. 

“All right.” I would have to wait until court tomorrow to get a chance at the truth. “I suppose we’re done here.”

We escaped East Egg’s opulence and went to a greasy spoon for a subdued dinner, whereupon both of us ordered the blue-plate special. I sat there moodily pushing the food around my plate until Jordan rapped my knuckles with her spoon. 

“Cheer up, Nick!” she scolded me. “It’s not like he’s been sentenced to death just yet.” 

“You’re a natural motivator,” I grumbled. 

“Maybe this is the problem. You’ve given up before the trial even starts.” 

“Great, now you’re psychoanalyzing me like that Freud fellow.” 

Besides, she was wrong. I couldn’t afford to give up, as that would mean leaving Gatsby completely abandoned. He deserved to have at least one person fighting for him. 

She rolled her eyes. “Just trying to help.”

I eventually recovered my appetite. Indeed, I had not eaten since that morning at the Yale Club, and I polished off my portion and Jordan’s leftovers. Afterwards, Jordan took a taxi back to the city, and I drove home. Full of trepidation for the morning, I pored over my trove of legal texts, pretending that reviewing them would help me, and then retired late. My eyes burned from staring at the pages, but despite my efforts, sleep did not come for hours. 

Chapter Text

One would think a traveling circus was performing that very day inside the courthouse. On my way to work, I was besieged by a throng of reporters and spectators, the former shoving cameras in my face and the latter gawking and pointing. 

“Mr. Carraway, do you believe Mr. Gatsby to be guilty?”

“How long do you think you’ll survive in court today?”

Even worse, vendors in front of the courthouse were hawking newspapers and concessions. I nearly broke stride when a man carrying a tower of pretzels stepped into my path. He lost a few unlucky casualties off the top and barked some harsh words at me. I ignored them all and forged onwards.

My eyes still felt heavy from the several hours I had spent fruitlessly trying to extract any helpful information from my textbooks the night before. There was nothing more to do. No further preparation could possibly benefit me. I was about to be at the mercy of the judge, Lewint, and any passing New Yorker who’d seen the hubbub, the lurid headlines and refreshments, and thought watching a murder trial would be a jolly way to pass the time. 

Once I got to the defendant lobby, the situation did not improve. There was no sign of my client, and I sat for some uncomfortable moments in the silent, suffocating room. The door swung open, and I leapt up with relief, but it was only Jordan. 

“Where’s Gatsby?” she inquired, the exact question that had been plaguing me for the last quarter of an hour. While I had donned my reliable walnut-brown wool suit that I always wore in court, she wore, as usual, a golfing ensemble, and perched on one arm of the couch with legs dangling unconcernedly. 

“He should be here,” I said. I was less worried about his whereabouts than those of McKee. Gatsby’s appearance was guaranteed, but McKee might have gone merrily home yesterday and resolved to keep his nose out of the affairs of enemy lawyers from now on. 

An uneasy silence fell upon the room, punctuated only by the loud ticking of the wall clock. After a few more suffocating moments, one of the heavy oak doors swung open. To my relief, McKee appeared, wearing a sharp charcoal-gray suit. His hair had been slicked back with enough pomade to glint under the lights, and his eyes roamed furtively around the room, as if searching for the perfect angle to take a photograph.

“Good morning, Mr. Carraway, Miss Baker,” he said with a respectful nod to each of us.

“Mr. McKee!” I exclaimed, and ignored Jordan’s pointed glance. As McKee strode towards us, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out two photographs, which I seized from his hand. The first showed the front exterior of Gatsby’s car; the second showed the interior dashboard, as if from the driver’s perspective.

“I can’t tell you how helpful this is,” I said.

“You can keep them,” he said nervously. “I took enough for both the defense and the prosecution.” 

Jordan was craning her neck over my shoulder to see the photographs; eventually, I just handed them to her. 

“Curious,” she said, her nose an inch away from the film as she stared at them. 

“If you show them in court…” McKee started. 

“Lewint won’t be happy,” I finished for him. “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll use them to uncover the truth.”

McKee pursed his lips together and took a deep breath as he imagined the might of Lewint’s fury. Finally, he nodded in resignation. 

“I understand.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Just so you know,” he said, “we’ll be lunching at the Waldorf Astoria.” 

At that moment, I would have paid passage for an ocean liner for the two of us to dine in Europe, at all the places Gatsby, in his despondency, had drifted after the war. “That’s fine with me.”

McKee shook my hand, winked, and was off to the prosecution lobby to deliver his second set of pictures to an unsuspecting Lewint. Before the oak doors could fully swing shut, a bailiff pushed them back open, and Gatsby entered the room. 

Gatsby looked gaunt, exhausted. His hair straggled limply across his face, which had taken on a sickly quality against the livid pink of his suit. He walked with a labored, shuffling gait and held both of his arms tight against his chest. I’d never seen him like this before. There was something deeply unnerving about it, like he had been dragged up from the grave. Yet his face still remained calm and composed, an echo of the consummate host who effortlessly charmed anyone fortunate enough to encounter him at his parties. 

“Good morning, old sport. Ah, and Miss Baker.” He managed a pallid smile. “You should be out on the course enjoying the last of the warm weather, not wasting your time on me.”

“Morning to you,” she answered. “Actually, I’m wasting my time on Nick here.” 

He inclined his head. “Mr. Carraway has been quite insistent on serving as my defense.” Addressing me, he said, “Just remember what we talked about, old sport.”

“What, that you’re guilty?”

“Exactly. I’d appreciate it if you'd hasten the trial towards that outcome.” 

“Gatsby, that’s not my job,” I said, exasperated. “My job is to find the truth.” 

“The truth is that I’m guilty—”

We could have gone in rhetorical circles for hours had the bailiff not loudly cleared his throat. “Court is about to commence.” 

Chapter Text

The silence of the defendant lobby was a welcome respite from the ruckus of the courtroom. As the doors slammed shut, I immediately started pacing back and forth across the floor. The trial had barely begun, and already Lewint had succeeded at dragging me down to his level. I thought wistfully of the first time I had set foot in the hallowed halls of Yale Law, and despaired at the loss of the illustrious career that I had envisioned then. But I wouldn’t yield now, not when Gatsby’s future rested on this case. Even if he himself was so willing to throw it away. 

“You know, after hearing about her for so long,” Jordan said thoughtfully, “it’s nice to be able to put a face and a name to Tom’s girl.”

This was entirely beside the point, but I couldn’t spare a rebuke for her, because the doors creaked open, and Gatsby entered the lobby, bailiff trailing behind him. 

“Old sport,” he said grumpily. This annoyed me even further. He had no right to be cross with me. 

“What’s the meaning of this, Gatsby?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“Don’t play dumb! You went behind my back and talked to the prosecution!”

He was unrepentant, folding himself down gingerly onto the couch. “To be frank, I had hoped the trial would have concluded by now. The prosecution was simply the most likely party to help me achieve that goal.” 

“There’s a procedure I have to follow, Gatsby. You may be my client, but I serve the truth, not you.” 

“The truth isn’t absolute,” Jordan murmured. “It’s simply the version of events that most people believe.”

She was perched again on the arm of the couch opposite from Gatsby, with the mildly absorbed air of someone watching a musical up on Broadway. 

“You know I can’t agree with that, Jordan,” I said. 

“I’m telling you,” Gatsby said, “it’s irrelevant. I’m guilty. You’re only prolonging the inevitable, old sport.” 

“What are you protecting, Gatsby?” I retorted. “Whatever it is, it can’t be worth a lifetime in the Tombs.”

His expression shifted then, his carefully constructed veneer of subterfuge slipping for just a second, and it was then that I glimpsed my first inkling of the truth. 

“Gatsby-” I began, but before I could get the question out, he held up his right hand, and I fell silent, like a man compelled. 

“That’s quite enough, old sport,” he said breathlessly. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to fight. But I thought I told you to leave well enough alone.” 

My first instinct was to loudly object, but he was right. More arguing wouldn’t do us any good, and I wasn’t about to waste the whole recess coming to blows with both of them.

“Fine.” 

A stifling silence settled over the lobby as Gatsby sulked, Jordan perched proud as a marble statue, and I steeled myself once again to pursue the truth. 

I stumbled back into the defendant lobby coming down from a rush of adrenaline I hadn’t felt since the war. Even so, I had the misfortune of feeling rather optimistic as the doors of the defendant lobby slammed shut behind Jordan and me. Though Lewint had tried with all his might to erase any evidence of Tom’s involvement, I’d foiled his lies and delayed a guilty verdict for at least one more day. I imagined my name in the paper, this time with a more positive epithet: The Dashing Defender, perhaps. 

Then I remembered how I’d done the exact opposite of what Gatsby had wanted, and that feeling of triumph turned to bile. 

“That’s enough excitement for one day,” Jordan said, stretching out on the couch. “Unless, of course, you had some more investigating planned.” 

“I did, in fact,” I said. “Is Gatsby on his way?” I asked the bailiff, who had just entered behind us. No pink-suited phantasm drifted along in his wake. 

“Mr. Gatsby requested that he be brought directly back to the detention center,” the bailiff reported solemnly. “I was to inform you of this matter.” 

“That little…” I clamped my mouth shut. “What good does he think avoiding me will do him?”

“Probably a wise choice on his part,” Jordan volunteered.

“I’ll just settle things with him later.” If he thought he would avoid further questioning that way, he was sorely mistaken. 

The doors swung open again, and I whirled around, but it was just Evangelos Michaelis. He still carried his now-empty thermos, wringing it nervously between his hands. 

“Mr. Michaelis,” I said, surprised. “What brings you here?” 

“Well…” He hung his head sheepishly. “I wanted to thank you and apologize. See, I saw your name in the paper, and I thought you were one of them crooked lawyers. But it was really the other one who was crooked. He told George to lie.” 

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “Yes, he did.” 

Michaelis shook his head. “Seems like you’re in real hot water, Mr. Carraway. You still think you can find the truth?” 

“I have to try,” I said. Just as Michaelis’ first instinct had been to soothe his frantic friend with coffee, I knew no other way to deal with the situation. All I could do was to keep pushing doggedly forward. “Where did they take Wilson?” I inquired. 

Michaelis shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “They’re holding him overnight. I heard he might be punished for contempt of court. A fine, or…worse.” 

The inside of a cell, or the rundown garage in the valley of ashes. Both impossibly bleak. I wasn’t sure if Wilson would be able to withstand what lay ahead. Going home alone, with the shattering news of his wife’s infidelity, and the void her absence had left. 

Michaelis must have seen the consternation on my face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on him. Poor George might have lost his wife, but I’ll see to it that he ain’t completely alone.” 

His shoulders, previously hunched timidly before the might of the court, straightened slightly at this new purpose. That was how he took his leave, striding out resolutely to meet the afternoon. 

I turned to Jordan. “Let’s go investigate. We don’t have any time to lose.”

She rose slowly from the couch, unhurried. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

Jordan and I went uptown the same way Tom and I had nearly two months ago, on the train. We sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the cramped car as thoughts ran feverishly through my brain, and she ignored all attempts of the other passengers to catch her eye.

My mind raced at the pace of the car, but everything that passed through it was rubbish. I’d managed to buy myself more time, but it wouldn’t matter if I arrived at the courthouse tomorrow with nothing to show for it. It still rankled at me that Gatsby had left the courtroom without seeing me. That even as I was defending him in court, he couldn’t find it in himself to be completely honest with me. So I would have to resort to other measures to obtain the evidence I needed; there were multiple stops on my itinerary that day. 

The chill of impending fall had burned away with the afternoon, and we were all too eager to disembark from the stifling car onto the slightly cooler platform. Jordan followed close behind me, heels clicking on the pavement as she rushed to keep up. 

“Where are we going?” she asked, faintly irritated. I suppose my haste prevented her from keeping her usual unbothered air. 

“Tom’s apartment,” I said, drawing to a stop in front of the gleaming building. 

“Ah,” Jordan said grimly. 

There was no time to tarry, so I pushed my way inside. I had been apprehensive, but there was no trace of Lewint or his cronies. Perhaps he’d simply had enough of us for one day, or perhaps Tom had not been entirely forthcoming with his old college buddy. Soon enough we were riding up as a wan elevator boy stood at attention in the corner. We stepped out into the hallway, and as soon as the elevator started its descent, I turned and tried the filigreed brass knob on the door of Tom’s apartment. 

It was, of course, locked. I had not dared to hope for anything different. 

I rapped on the dark wood, then held my ear close to listen. Not a single sound from inside. That struck me as odd. 

“For heaven’s sake,” Jordan broke into my concentration. “Did we come all this way just for nothing?” 

“No,” I said, distracted. “We’ve got to be thorough about this, Jordan.”

I knocked again and waited for a response. Still, nothing. Bending down and peering through the keyhole likewise yielded nothing. However, it brought my attention to a metal garbage can beside the door that had been put out for the housekeeper. 

I took the lid off and started rummaging. A disgusted expression crawled across Jordan’s face. 

“Nick,” she said urgently, as if she couldn’t bear to be seen in public with me a moment longer. “What are you doing?” 

Old newspapers, food scraps, the contents of an ashtray that stained my fingers. I dug deeper, and at the bottom, my fingers struck something hard. Curious, I pulled the object out. It was a red-and-yellow tin with the words Milk-Bone Dog Biscuits printed on the front. Some great force had crumpled it inwards, leaving large dents in the front and back. When I shook it, something rattled within. I pried off the lid and peered in: the crumbled remains of several Milk-Bones. 

“Looks like our trip was fruitful after all,” I said, holding up the tin from where I was kneeling on the herringbone-patterned wood. 

“Was it really?” 

Her strident tone made me look up. “Of course. Why, it’s important evidence for tomorrow!” 

“Forget all that. Why are you doing this?” Jordan folded her arms, eyes blazing. “Look at you. Running around New York grasping at shadows, digging through trash. This is a lost cause, and everyone, even Gatsby, knows it!” 

My knees ached from the hard floor. It dawned on me that Jordan hated being at a disadvantage. Perhaps she had thought up this speech as we rode the train over here. She abhorred the thought of losing, even a trial with which she was only tangentially involved, and wanted to wash her hands of the whole matter.

“Why don’t you just leave well enough alone?” Jordan continued. “None of this changes the fact that he was driving the car that killed Myrtle.”

I stood, stowing away the tin. Her remarks were just an echo of everything I had been hearing for the past two days from Lewint, the press, and Gatsby himself. How could I possibly explain what moved me to keep fighting when no one else would? The importance of saving Gatsby from his own foolish, dogged hope? 

“I’m going to stay, but you’re free to go,” I said. 

Jordan needed no further dismissal. She gave me one last disdainful look, then turned with a whirl of her skirts and stormed off down the hall. 

It didn’t matter. Hadn’t she only taken up the case because of pity for me? Jordan enjoyed sticking her nose into others’ affairs: Gatsby’s yearning for Daisy, my attempt to defend him. But actually becoming involved in such matters was beneath her. 

Still, I felt strangely bereft at her departure. Without an investigative partner by my side, I found it hard to articulate exactly why the visit to Tom’s apartment gave me such a peculiar feeling. 

“You weren’t driving the car, were you, Gatsby?” 

He sat disconsolate across from me, resembling more an insensible wax statue than a person. A frown bore furrows in his broad forehead. 

“Don’t do this, Nick,” he said. 

I pressed my hands against the glass, leaving sweaty prints behind. “Look me in the eye and tell me you were driving, and I’ll believe you.” 

A deep breath; his eyes bored into mine. “I was—driving the car.” 

There it was again, that hitch in his voice that only happened when he was lying. Like the words were caught in his throat and he had to force them out.

“Daisy was driving the car,” I said. “That’s why you won’t tell me anything.”  

That taciturn stubbornness had been its own confession. Only for Daisy would he risk the fruits of five years’ labor. 

His face contorted with anguish, and he dug the nails of his right hand into the tabletop, clinging onto it for dear life. “Damn it all, Nick! You just have to keep pushing, don’t you?”

“It’s my job,” I said softly. “Finding the truth is my duty. I can’t let you take responsibility for a crime you didn’t commit.” 

“That’s all I want,” Gatsby insisted, his face the same florid shade as his suit. “Does it matter who was driving the car, Nick? That woman would have run out into the road anyway!” 

“We have no way of knowing,” I said. “Maybe she’d have tripped and fallen before reaching the road. Maybe you’d have slammed the brakes in time. The fact remains, Daisy was driving.”

“And I’ll take the fall for her.” 

“Don’t be a simp, Gatsby!” It was my turn to raise my voice. “What do you think is going to happen? She won’t want anything to do with you after you get out of prison.”

Gatsby pressed his lips together. “Of course she will.” 

“Daisy ran off with Tom,” I reminded him. “And I don’t think they were planning on coming back.” 

“She’s just confused.”

I realized then that any attempt to convince him otherwise would be useless. He’d cling to that dream until it finally dissipated with the fog over the bay. I wanted to reach through the glass and throttle him. 

“Believe what you want,” I said. “You know what I have to do tomorrow in court.” 

He had recovered some of his trademark aplomb. “Do what you will, old sport,” he said with a brusque nod.

Maybe the outcome of the trial didn’t even matter to him. It only mattered whether he could prove the depth of his devotion to Daisy. Which led me to ask: did he even really know her at all?

By the time I got back to West Egg, I felt worn out—like one of the oranges from Gatsby’s kitchen, wrung of all its pulp and juice. It was dark, but the almost-full moon sent a pallid shimmer over the water. Extinguished of all its light, Gatsby’s mansion was no longer the shining beacon of merriment it had once been. It blocked half the sky with its imposing turrets and towers. 

I crossed from my lawn to his, climbed the two flights of limestone stairs, and knocked upon one of the great double doors. 

A bemused butler, the same unfriendly one I’d had the misfortune of encountering a few days ago, opened it and stared at me. “Can I help you?” he grumbled. 

“I’m Mr. Gatsby’s attorney,” I said. “He asked me to retrieve a change of clothes for him.” 

He made some sort of exasperated growl at the back of his throat. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.” 

“No,” I said quickly, “I’d prefer to do it myself.” 

He looked at me askance, but my attorney’s badge was still pinned to my lapel, and I finally convinced him to let me in and leave me alone. 

The last time I had been inside the house, Daisy’s presence had transformed it into something glimmering and mythical. Now, with no one but his unfamiliar staff in the house, I was reminded of an empty mausoleum, my steps echoing eerily off the vaulted ceiling as I traversed innumerable stairs and corridors.

Compared to the rest of the house, Gatsby’s quarters bore the most evidence of being lived in. His room had a simplicity the rest of the house lacked. When Gatsby was alone, his most genuine self—whoever that was—existed here. 

His bed had been made, but a few wrinkles marred the bedspread. The cabinets of shirts, when I opened one to keep up the ruse, were folded neatly and sorted by color. I pulled a random assortment of clothes from his bureau, catching a faint whiff of Gatsby’s eau de cologne. Through the window all was placid and still, the green light glowing over the water across the bay. He had probably gazed at that light until it felt as instinctive as breathing. 

In his study, I found what I was looking for. I pulled the newspaper clippings, Gatsby’s monument to a woman who no longer existed, neatly off the wall and concealed them within my breast pocket. My task accomplished, I managed to dodge the unpleasant butler on my way out of the mansion.

Hours later, I lay curled on my side in bed, eyes open and mind racing. Something was still nagging at me, something more insidious than Lewint’s contempt or Jordan and Gatsby’s disapproval. Try as I might, I couldn’t put my finger on it, nor could I calm my mind enough to surrender into sleep.