Deck the Hounds: An Andy Carpenter Mystery

by David Rosenfelt

  This is a unique situation for me.

  I don’t mean because I have provided unsolicited food and shelter to a man wanted for murder, though that is a first also. And I don’t mean because I am reluctant to take him on as a client; I never want any clients. I have been trying to retire for years; I just can’t seem to pull it off.

  The reason it is so unusual is that I am literally the reason he is in prison. I started it by taking him off the streets and bringing him home. Technically he had a choice in the matter, though it was the only way he had any chance of getting his dog back.

  But if that wasn’t enough, I was solely responsible for putting his name in the paper, which had the effect of placing a law enforcement target on his back. I told them who he was and where he was. Now that may turn out to be a service to society in getting a murderer off the street, or it may not.

  I sort of need to know for sure.

  Laurie’s quiet on the way home. I’m not going to start the inevitable conversation; my goal would be to put it off until sometime in the next century. But I am curious what she’s thinking.

  She seems to have had an unnatural obsession with helping Carrigan, though I’m not sure if that attitude is still operative. Laurie and I basically live on opposite sides of the law enforcement tracks. As a defense lawyer, I’m always suspicious of the government, and willing to believe that defendants can be wrongly accused.

  As a former cop, she subscribes to the “they wouldn’t have made the arrest without a damn good reason” approach. She successfully stifles her bias in this regard, or at least hides it, because she now works as an investigator for a defense attorney, namely me.

  It will be interesting to see if she views Carrigan in the same way.

  We get home and head into the kitchen. She starts by wiping off the table, even though it looked pretty well wiped to me. Then she sets down two cups, one for each of us, and brews coffee, which she pours.

  All of this takes about five minutes, during which I am just sitting at the table, watching. It is as if she is the groundskeeper at Yankee Stadium, getting the playing field ready for the game.

  Actually, I’m not just sitting here; I’m also trying to figure out what her point of view will be. If she’s in fact gearing up for “the talk,” then she must want me to defend Carrigan. Because she would know that if she was opposed to it, I would just say “Me too,” and we’d move on.

  She finally sits down and asks, “So what are you thinking?”

  By asking what I’m thinking, she’s clearly trying to get the unimportant stuff out of the way first. “I have no idea whether he’s guilty or innocent,” I say. “But he’s entitled to a good defense. I can tell Billy to put one of his top people on it.”

  Billy is Billy Cameron, the head of the Public Defender’s office. He has some terrific lawyers working for him, very capable of handling this case, wherever it might go.

  “So you don’t want to take the case?” she asks.

  “That’s too limiting. I don’t want to take any case. I’m retired.”

  “You’ve been retired for ten years, but you still keep taking cases.”

  “Those were practice retirements; this is the real thing.”

  She nods. “Okay; you’re entitled to do whatever you want.”

  This is already not going well. “You believe in him?”

  She nods. “For some reason I do. I realize that I have no evidence to support my intuition, but I trust it. So I’m taking the case.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, which is really just a way of buying time. I know what she means, but I don’t know why I’m bothering to buy time. There isn’t enough time in the world for this to end well.

  “I’m taking the case. I’m an investigator, Andy, so I’m going to investigate. And whatever I come up with, good or bad, I will turn over to whichever lawyer Billy assigns to the case.”

  “You think he’s wrongly accused?”

  She shakes her head. “I have no idea. My instinct is to like and trust him, but I obviously could be wrong. But here’s what I’m right about: he’s a veteran who was living on the street, and who claims he is innocent. That’s enough for me to find out the truth, one way or the other. He’s earned that, and I’m going to give it to him.”

  “So you want me to do this?” I ask. I don’t mention that I find it interesting that Carrigan did not seem worried when I told him his name would be in the newspaper story. If he knew he was wanted for murder, that should have panicked him. To bring that up would be to weaken my position; right now if my position was any weaker it would lie down and scream, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”

  “It doesn’t matter what I want,” she says. “You’re a big boy; you’ll make your own decisions.” Laurie is a conversational maestro.

  “If I don’t do it, will there be any sexual repercussions?”

  She smiles; she knows she has me. It’s the look of a winner; Ali smiled the same way when Foreman hit the canvas. “It’s hard to say, but doing this on my own would be really tiring,” she says. “I might want to go right to sleep … EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.”

  “You think you’ve won, don’t you?” I ask.

  She smiles again, another annoying winner’s smile. “Let’s just say I am quietly confident.”

  The first thing I do is contact the court and register as Carrigan’s lawyer.

  This takes a little longer than usual because the court of jurisdiction is not in my home base, Passaic County. The murder took place in Short Hills, which is in Essex County. That’s probably one reason why the Carrigan name didn’t ring a bell when I first heard it.

  If I wind up ultimately representing Carrigan and if we go to trial … two enormous ifs … then we’ll file for a change of venue to move the case to Passaic County. We’d have a decent chance of prevailing, since the victim was a well-known, well-respected citizen in his home community. And it’s not like we’re petitioning to move it to California; Jersey courts usually are willing to accommodate one another.

  But I’m a long way from that; I still feel like I’m going to have to be dragged kicking and screaming into a major role in this case. Of course, Laurie is very capable of doing the dragging, and kicking and screaming has never worked for me before.

  At this point I would ordinarily call a meeting of our whole team. It’s early, so I wouldn’t be giving assignments and getting into the meat of it; it would be mostly to let people know we’ve got a client, and to tell them to be ready.

  But I’m not ready to make that full commitment, so I don’t call the meeting. I do place calls to two of the team members, to give them small assignments that we need to take care of in order to get the ball rolling.

  My first call is to the other lawyer in my basically dormant firm, Hike Lynch. I make it the first call in order to get it over with, since talking to Hike is not exactly a day brightener. Hike is not just a glass half empty guy; he thinks the glass can never hope to be filled again.

  “Hey, Hike. It’s Andy.” I never ask Hike how he is; it would be an unnecessary conversational gambit, since he’s going to tell me anyway.

  “I’ve got food poisoning. I haven’t spent ten minutes off the toilet since Wednesday.”

  “Sorry to hear that. In the future you might want to avoid poisoned food.” I don’t like to show Hike any sympathy; he just uses it to ratchet up his tales of anguish.

  “Thanks, Andy, that’s helpful. I think I threw up a lung.”

  “So you’ve only got one left?”

  I think he comes to the conclusion that he’s not going to get too far with this, so he asks, “Are you calling because we’ve got a client?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. We’re in the exploratory phase right now.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A guy named Don Carrigan. He’s—”

  Hike interrupts. “I read about him. I’ve gotten a lot of reading done, because I haven’t gotten off the toilet in—”

  “I got
the picture, Hike. If you can interrupt your reading and lung-throwing, I need you to contact the Essex County prosecutor’s office so we can start getting the discovery documents.”

  While Hike is completely miserable, he is also a terrific attorney who never fails to accomplish whatever I ask of him. This will be no exception.

  I finally get myself off the call and then place a second call to Sam Willis. In real life Sam is my accountant, with an office just down the hall from mine. But in attorney life Sam is a key, if unusual, investigator for me. Sam is a computer genius, capable of hacking into anything and everything, seemingly at will.

  So I will it, and Sam hacks it … sometimes legally, sometimes not. I’ve come to terms with that, and the coming to terms was not actually that difficult.

  Sam is also wildly enthusiastic about working on my cases; he fancies himself as Eliot Ness with a keyboard. This time I tell him that I want him to dig up as much as he can about two people: Don Carrigan and Steven McMaster, now known in New Jersey legal circles as the murderer and the murderee.

  “I’m on it,” Sam says, and then adds, “Good to be back in the action.”

  “If you do a good job on this, I’ll let you shoot somebody,” I say.

  “You always say that and then you never do,” he says.

  There’s nothing left to do now besides wait for the discovery documents and whatever Sam turns up. Law enforcement didn’t pick Carrigan’s name out of a hat; they have a reason to think he committed this crime. That doesn’t make them right, of course.

  That is still to be determined.

  Zoey is handling the upheaval in her life rather well.

  She’s gone from an unknown existence which left her abandoned on the street, to a new owner who called the frozen pavement their home, to an apartment above our garage, to a life of comfort with two new siblings, Tara and Sebastian.

  It takes me three weeks even to adjust to things like Daylight Savings Time, but Zoey seems a bit more adaptable. Right now she is lying on a large dog bed, butt to butt with Sebastian, though his butt is considerably bigger than hers. They are each energetically working on chewies that Laurie has obviously provided, and the task is consuming their total focus.

  Tara lies on her own bed, also enjoying a chewie, though she eats hers with considerably more dignity. Tara is a very elegant young lady.

  I let them finish before I take them for their morning walk, even though it’s going to leave me pressed for time. I walk them with three leashes, and I’m starting to look like one of those professional dog walkers. But they’re easy to handle; Tara really doesn’t need a leash at all, Zoey is fairly gentle, and Sebastian moves at a glacial pace.

  With that finished, I head to the courthouse for the arraignment. I’ve never actually been to this courthouse, since I’ve never tried a case in Essex County. But Carrigan had been transferred here from Passaic County since I saw him last.

  I let my GPS handle the logistics, and Shirley, my GPS’s disembodied voice lady, performs perfectly. I’ve become completely dependent on her; I think I would drive off a cliff if she told me to.

  Hike is going to meet me here, as is Laurie after she gets Ricky off to school. I told Laurie that I was sure Hike would be willing to pick her up and drive her, and she told me she was sure she would rather go by herself. I understand the sentiment; being stuck in a car with Hike would be the other reason I might want to drive off a cliff.

  I have arranged to meet with Carrigan in an anteroom before the arraignment, mostly to discuss with him what will be happening. It’s basically straightforward: The state of New Jersey will say that he is a murderer, and he’ll say that he isn’t. Then a trial date will be set, and they’ll take him away.

  Carrigan looks none the worse for wear when I see him, which I suppose makes sense. I would think that compared to sleeping on frozen pavement, the Essex County Jail might seem like the Ritz-Carlton.

  “How’s the claustrophobia?” I ask.

  “Lurking under the surface, but the meds are helping. The nurse in Passaic County took care of it, and made sure the medics here knew about it. She speaks pretty highly of you; is there anyone you don’t know?”

  “I only have one Facebook friend,” I say.

  “That’s one more than me.”

  I take him through the procedures of the arraignment, and he mostly nods, asking only a couple of pertinent questions. Carrigan is a quick study; I have to come to understand it and am no longer surprised when he demonstrates it.

  When I get to the part about his being called on to make a plea, he says, “What if I plead guilty?”

  I’m taken aback by it. “Then you’ll be punished as a murderer, and you’ll be represented through the process by a public defender.”

  “Because you only want to defend me if I’m innocent?”

  I nod. “Correct. And innocent is what you told Laurie and me that you were.”

  “I’m innocent of this crime.”

  “But not others?”

  “Let’s say I’ve done things I’m not proud of,” he says, softly.

  “In Iraq?”

  He doesn’t answer. I’ll take that as a yes. “So pleading guilty to a murder you didn’t commit will even the score?”

  “No. But what are we holding on to here? What if we go through this and win? I’m not exactly loving life, you know? Nor am I a productive member of society.”

  “Let’s take things one step at a time, or don’t put the cart before the horse, or we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it; just pick any cliché you want. But for right now, I can’t be a party to you rendering a plea contrary to the facts. So you need to make the call before we head into the courtroom.”

  A long pause, and then he nods. “Okay. The truth. But one thing I have to insist on: we have the trial as soon as possible, even if that goes against my interests. I cannot deal with this confinement for an extended period, even with the medication.”

  “Fair enough,” I say.

  We enter the courtroom and sit at the defense table. Hike is waiting there, and I introduce him to Carrigan. Hike handles himself very well; he doesn’t even tell Carrigan that we’re going to lose and he’ll be executed, which is probably what he’s thinking.

  Laurie is in the gallery just behind us, looking serious and determined. I’ve seen that look before; I’m glad I’m on her side.

  The opposing counsel walks over to shake hands; he’s at least six two and has one of those faces that people other than me consider good-looking. You know, the chiseled features and the little indentation in the chin … I hate chiseled features and indented chins.

  He’s smiling the confident smile of a person who thinks he’s going to win. “I’m Raymond Tasker,” he says. “Better known as the enemy.”

  “Good to meet you, enemy. I’m Andy Carpenter.”

  “You going to plead it out, Andy?”

  “How about if I keep you in suspense?”

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  I don’t like this guy. I know it’s just a first impression, but those are the kind of impressions I’m most comfortable with. Looking too deeply into a person is tiring and not usually worth the trouble. And in this case, especially since he’s the self-identified enemy, I’m going to stick with not liking him.

  Judge Seymour Harris comes into the courtroom and we’re underway. And twenty minutes later, we’re no longer underway. The charges have been announced and Carrigan has said in a firm voice that he is “not guilty.” I must admit it had me in suspense; I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t change his mind.

  Judge Harris asks if there are any other matters to be discussed, and we move for a change of venue. He takes it in stride and asks that each side submit written briefs on the matter, and he sets a tentative trial date, bowing to our demand for a speedy trial. If the change of venue is granted, I will make the same demand in Passaic County.

  I raise the issue of bail, but fo
r a case like this there is no chance it will be granted, and Judge Harris shoots it down immediately. Then he slams his gavel down, and the battle has been officially joined.

  There are a number of situations from which there is no escape … where death is certain.

  Were Ernie Vinson the reflective type, he might ponder them. Maybe some form of extremely deadly disease? Jumping from an airplane without a parachute? Sunbathing at ground zero of a nuclear explosion?

  But he was not the reflective type at all. In fact, Ernie took it as a badge of honor that he did very little thinking of any kind; he just followed his instincts.

  Those instincts had gotten him pretty damn far, and much further than any of the losers he had grown up with. He had money, more than he ever imagined having, and he had earned every penny of it.

  But he had recently cut a corner, then exacerbated the problem, and then lied about it. That left him, at least metaphorically, with a deadly disease and about to bail at 35,000 feet with no parachute into ground zero of an upcoming nuclear explosion.

  Ernie learned of his fate on the local TV news, which in itself was weird. They never mentioned Ernie, of course, because they had no way of knowing that he was part of the story. But they had mentioned Don Carrigan, and that had sealed Ernie’s fate as surely as if they had read his obituary on air.

  To make matters even worse, he was in pain from the damn dog bite from the other night. He had taken some antibiotics that he’d had lying around the house, but they didn’t seem to be doing the trick. Maybe the dog had rabies, and that would kill him and solve his problems.

  The Carrigan revelation left Ernie with very few options, which his instincts immediately laid out for him. He could do nothing, and hope his employers hadn’t seen the story, but he knew very well that they didn’t miss anything. And even if they didn’t know about it yet, they would soon. There would be follow-up stories, and maybe a trial, and the name Don Carrigan would become widely known.

  He could go to the police, rat out his employers, and try to get into a witness protection program. He couldn’t quite see himself in such a program, living out his years in some cookie-cutter suburban house in the middle of nowhere-land. But that really didn’t matter, since he couldn’t rat out those employers enough for the police to protect him.