“Simon has a job, and a purpose, and he should be allowed to finish his work. Then, God willing, he can spend his remaining years being doted on and fed biscuits. Thank you.”
My turn. “I am sure that Ms. Hopson is sincere in what she says. I certainly know for a fact how much she loves dogs. But there is one important way she is wrong.
“She talked about policies that balance the needs of the community with compassion for the dog. But that is a fallacy. Those policies are rigid; that’s why we are here today. And there is no planet on which inflexibility and compassion can coexist; they are by definition incompatible.
“I played for you an example of a high-ranking police official praising Simon and saying that he sees no fundamental difference between canine and human officers. I could have shown you ten other examples of the same statement, made by other high-ranking officials.
“But they are talking the talk without walking the walk. Because a human officer in Simon’s exact situation would get the compassion that Simon is being denied. He or she would get early retirement, and a pension.”
I smile. “As Simon’s attorney, I can tell you that he is happy to forgo his pension. But he is not willing to give up his rights.
“I know something about dog rescue, and I know that there are many, many wonderful dogs, currently homeless and with bleak prospects, who could be trained to do this kind of work. There is no reason to work a dog like Simon until he hobbles in pain from deteriorated hips. We owe him much, much more than that.
“Let the next generation take over, while we honor our elders.
“Simon and Sergeant Douglas and I thank you.”
When I sit down, Corey leans over and says, “Great job. I’m glad I didn’t kill you in the parking lot.”
I expect Judge Markinson to retire to chambers to consider his ruling, and it’s even quite possible that he will delay it and announce it on the court website. But he surprises me.
“I will obviously issue a full, written opinion. But I can safely say that this matter will be allowed to proceed, and I think the plaintiffs have a substantial chance of prevailing on the merits. If the parties cannot arrive at an amicable solution, a trial date will be set.” He stares directly at Sara when he refers to the possibility of a settlement; his meaning is clear.
He adjourns the hearing and Corey asks me what this all means.
“As much fun as it would be to take this to trial,” I say, “I’m pretty sure that Simon is going to be sleeping in a lot.”
“If you want me to, I will represent you.”
I’ve come down to the jail to inform Noah Traynor of my decision. I have second thoughts even as I’m saying it, but the die is cast.
“I want you to,” he says without hesitation. “Thank you. But I also want to be straight; I can’t imagine what your fee is, but right now I am unable to pay it.” He looks at his handcuffs. “And I’m not really in a position to earn a lot of money.”
“I understand. Let’s not worry about that now.”
“I will make good on this, as long as it takes.” He describes what he does for a living: a freelance writer, he sells articles and essays to magazines, both print and online. Then, “Hopefully I’ll be able to write in here.”
“Right now we need to forget about my fee and focus on proving your innocence,” I say, having absolutely no idea if he is innocent.
He sighs. “Sounds good to me. I’m scared as hell.”
“You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t. For now I want you to write down everything you remember about that incident. I want to know where you were the other times you saw Kristen, any friends of hers that you might have met or that she mentioned, anything she ever said that in retrospect seems strange to you, everything and anything. Don’t worry if it seems important; if you remember it, I want to know about it.”
“Okay.”
“Anything else you want to tell me now?”
“This is going to sound a little weird, but I kept a scrapbook about the murder.”
“A scrapbook?” I don’t like the sound of this, and it sounds a bit worse than “weird.” Killers commonly keep a scrapbook of the media coverage of their “work”; it can be a source of demented pride and pleasure to them. Juries tend to look at them with more than a little suspicion.
“Well, not a real scrapbook. I mean, I didn’t paste them down or anything. But I did follow all the media coverage because I was scared I’d be mentioned. I saved it all in an envelope. There might be some information in there that you can use.”
“Where is it?”
“At my house. Julie can give it to you; it’s at the top of the bedroom closet.”
“Okay, I’ll get it.”
As I’m leaving, he says, “During this process, if you learn anything important, good or bad, will you tell me?”
“I’ll keep you as informed as I can. But these things take time.”
He nods. “I know. I just keep thinking about Julie and Danny, especially Danny. Julie is tough, and she understands what’s happening. But Danny…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence; he doesn’t have to. I leave and call Laurie to tell her that I’m heading to the Traynor house, and she says that she’ll meet me there. She seems unusually protective of Julie Traynor. I’m not sure what Laurie is worried about; it’s not like I’m going to say anything mean.
On the way I call Billy Cameron and tell him that I’ve taken the Traynor case. He doesn’t try to talk me out of it; I get the feeling he’s tossing confetti while we’re still on the phone.
“You need any of our clerical staff to help out, let me know,” he says.
“I won’t.”
“Good. Because I can’t spare anyone.” He’s still laughing as he hangs up.
When I get to Julie Traynor’s, Laurie is already there, as is Danny and the dachshund, Murphy. Danny is a cute kid, but humans as a species have a cuteness ceiling that they cannot exceed. Not so with dogs, and especially not with dachshunds. Murphy is at a level beyond adorable.
I join them in a cup of coffee and briefly play a video hockey game with Danny. He destroys me, as Ricky always does. It’s a generational thing.
I had told Laurie why I was coming by, so she goes over to Danny and Murphy to keep them occupied while I talk to Julie. “Noah said there is an envelope at the top of his closet. He wants me to have it.”
She nods, clearly knowing what I’m talking about. She goes into the bedroom and comes out with a thick manila envelope that must weigh two pounds. “Here it is. I hope it helps.”
I nod. “Me too.”
“I feel so much better with you on the case.”
This time I don’t say, Me too.
The climb up Legal Mountain always begins with a meeting.
We get the staff together at the beginning of a case to go over the early details, and to prepare everyone. All of the people in the meeting, most especially me, know we’ve got a daunting task ahead of us that will take huge expenditures of time and effort.
Even though I liken it to mountain climbing, the two have basically no similarity to each other. Legal cases I understand; as much as I might dread them, they make sense and are a necessary evil. They have a purpose and a result, and they serve a societal need. They also have an end result; circumstances are significantly altered no matter how a case ends, at least certainly for the defendant.
Recreational mountain climbing is different; I don’t understand it and I don’t know why it exists at all. It ranks with skydiving and suicide bombing as the three leisure-time activities I am least likely to pursue.
Friends of mine once ascended to the Mount Everest base camp. That didn’t sound so bad or crazy; my initial impression on hearing it was that they probably hung out at the lodge, sipping hot chocolate by the fire. Not only that, but guys called Sherpas carried their stuff for them, sort of like permanently assigned personal bellmen. I figured I could get into that, providing there were enough rest stops and indo
or plumbing.
As I found out more, it turns out that wasn’t quite their experience. Apparently, mountain climbing consists of starting in a place where there is plenty of air to breathe, and gradually reaching an altitude where, if you can find any air at all, you’d better suck it down before it runs out. Finding random pockets of oxygen is like trying to get a final couple of M&M’s out of an already-empty bag.
It’s also freezing cold. Yet despite that it gets colder and the air gets thinner the higher you go, mountain climbers inexplicably keep heading in that direction. That gives new meaning to the phrase counterintuitive.
They live on rations that the North Korean army would turn up their noses at, and at every single moment there is a serious danger of falling thousands of feet to a certain death. Continuing to live often depends on one’s ability to drive metal stakes into solid, frozen rock.
Then, if an avalanche has not swept the climbers away to a frozen suffocation, they make it to the top. They’re so happy to be there that they celebrate the moment by turning around and trying to make it back down to where they started, where the air and food and heat are plentiful. It never seems to dawn on them that they could have just stayed there in the first place.
Nowhere along the entire up-and-down trek is there a flat-screen TV or wireless internet, and good luck trying to find a Sherpa who can tell you how the Giants did that afternoon.
Put in that context, starting a legal case doesn’t seem quite that bad, but I still complain about it. And it all begins with the staff meeting.
As always, we hold it in my office on Van Houten Street in Paterson, on the second floor above the fruit stand owned by Sofia Hernandez, who is my landlord. The conference room is small, but since I’m not planning on expanding my staff anytime soon, it will serve our needs for the foreseeable future.
Present, besides Laurie, Hike, and me, are Sam Willis, Willie Miller, and Marcus Clark. Sam, my accountant and office neighbor in real life, is the computer and technical guy for the team, and his value increases with every case. Willie has no assigned role; he is my former client and current partner in the Tara Foundation dog rescue. But he is also incredibly tough and is fearless. These two qualities I do not possess in abundance, or even in minute quantities, so he often comes in handy.
Marcus Clark is a top-notch investigator, but that is not what makes him unique on the planet. He is the toughest person that was ever invented; he could have handled himself and physically dominated at any time and place in history, and I’m including when dinosaurs roamed the earth.
Marcus has functioned many times as my bodyguard and protector, and if not for him, people would long ago have been talking about me in the past tense. But even though he is on my side, he scares the hell out of me.
Last to arrive is my assistant and self-described office manager, Edna. She likes working even less than I do; the difference is that she doesn’t actually do any work. My taking on a client is enough to put her into a depressed funk that usually lasts until the jury reaches a verdict.
Edna looks and sees that the entire group has already assembled and says, “Sorry I’m here … I mean, sorry I’m late.” It would not take Sigmund Freud to see through Edna.
I stand and open the meeting. “Our client is Noah Traynor. You’ve probably read about him in the newspaper; he has been arrested and charged with the murder of Kristen McNeil, fourteen years ago.
“We’re just getting started, so there’s not much for me to tell you yet. We have copies of media articles written contemporaneously with the crime, and in the years since. It will at the least give you the bare bones, until we receive the discovery.
“Sam, do what you can to supplement this. I’m sure you can find out plenty online, so just feed it to us when you have it.”
While I am talking, Marcus gets up and looks outside the window. I don’t know what he’s doing and am afraid to ask. Even if I did, he would just grunt an answer that I would find incomprehensible. When I’m trying to have a conversation with him, I always find myself wishing I had a Google translator that I could set to “Marcus to English.”
The group has a bunch of questions, few of which I can answer. It’s just too early in the process to know much; that will soon change.
Marcus again gets up and looks out the window, but this time he turns and makes a slight head motion to Laurie. She stands and the two of them go into the reception area to talk about something, though I don’t have a clue what that is.
Moments later they come back, and Laurie says, “We may have a bit of a situation here.”
Nobody, most definitely including me, has the slightest idea what Laurie is talking about.
But the tone in which she has spoken, and that she seems to be channeling something straight from Marcus, is the reason for the dead silence in the room.
Laurie continues, “I don’t want anyone to look out the window, but Marcus had noticed when he arrived a man sitting in a gray Toyota 4Runner near the end of the block, across the street from the check-cashing place. He took notice of it because he’s Marcus, and because there seemed to be no reason for the guy to be there.
“The guy and the car are still there, and he appears to be focused on this direction. It’s possible that he’s watching for a delivery of ripe melons to the fruit stand downstairs, or that he’s doing one of a hundred other things that have nothing to do with us.
“But Marcus is suspicious, and I think we should accept that as serious. Marcus, have I left anything out?”
“Nunh,” Marcus says, adding his typical light conversational wit to what might otherwise be a tense moment. But Marcus does have remarkable instincts in situations like this, so I will be surprised if he’s wrong. Surprised but pleased.
“So here’s what we are going to do,” Laurie says. “Marcus is going to leave here first. If the guy downstairs follows him, then Marcus will successfully deal with him. If not, then Marcus will move into position where he can watch the watcher.”
“You want me to come up behind the guy?” Sam says. “I could be on him before he knows it.” Sam always wants to get in on the action, but except for me and possibly Edna, he would be the least capable person in the room to handle it.
“No, Sam,” says Laurie. “I think we should follow the plan I’ve just laid out.”
“This is not good,” says Hike, who wouldn’t know “good” if he were bathing in it.
Willie doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t have to. He knows that we all know he is ready for anything and everything.
Laurie continues with the plan. “Once Marcus is in place, we’ll all leave gradually, either one at a time or in pairs. Just get in your cars and leave when it’s your turn; if the guy follows you, then Marcus will be there to handle things. If not, you’ve got nothing to worry about.
“Andy, you and I will go last. We’ll leave together, but since we each have our own car here, we’ll obviously split up.”
Everybody nods their agreement at the plan. Marcus leaves first, and about ten minutes later Laurie’s cell phone rings. Marcus says that the guy did not follow him. Marcus is now in position, so we can start sending people down.
We choose Edna and Hike to go next. Edna is picked because she seems the least likely to be the target of surveillance, so we might as well get her out of the way. Hike is included because we’re still here, and it always brightens up a room when Hike leaves it.
In only a few minutes Marcus calls and pronounces Edna and Hike free and clear. Sam Willis goes next, then Willie Miller follows. The subsequent calls come from Marcus: they have not been followed.
But the guy in the Toyota remains in place, apparently watching the office entrance. I know of no reason why Laurie or I would be subject to this kind of scrutiny, and possibly this is a false alarm, but we’re about to find out.
Laurie and I go downstairs and out the front door together. Fortunately our cars are in different directions on the street, so we each go our own way o
nce we’re outside.
I start to drive home, and within three minutes my phone rings. Laurie says, “It’s you.”
“The guy is following me?” I ask, despite already knowing the answer.
“Yes.”
“What should I do?”
“Just drive home as you normally would; Marcus is watching him. I’ll see you at home.”
The rest of the drive takes about fifteen minutes, all of which I spend unsuccessfully trying to figure out what this could be about. Situations like this are usually related to cases I handle, but I haven’t exactly been a workaholic lately.
The obvious possibilities are the Noah Traynor case or my representation of Simon the police dog. It seems inconceivable that it could be the latter; my opposition was the police department and I don’t see any reason they would want to track me. Shoot me, yes. Track me, no.
Of course, my pursuer could be doing more than surveillance; he could be intent on hurting me, or worse. But even the Traynor case doesn’t seem to make any kind of sense as a cause of all this; it hasn’t really begun. I haven’t even read the discovery yet, no less started investigating. Who could I possibly be a threat to?
It’s also possible that it’s from a previous case that is no longer active. Despite my relentlessly sunny disposition, I have definitely made my share of enemies. I’ve even been the cause of a number of people going to prison.
I have no way of knowing if the surveillance, if that’s what it is, started today. We only know about it now because we were with Marcus. This could have been going on for a while; no way would I have picked up on it. If it had been up to me to discover it, it could have started in the Carter administration.
I get home and park next to Laurie’s car in the driveway. I walk to the front door without looking around; I just have to have faith that Marcus is doing his job, and I know he is. But it’s still nerve-racking.
When I get inside, Laurie is just getting off the phone. “Ricky is sleeping over at Will Rubenstein’s tonight,” she says. Because we were going to be in the meeting, Will’s mother, Sally, had picked them both up at school and taken them to their house. “Until we get a better idea what’s going on, it’s best he not be here.”
Dachshund Through the Snow Page 5
