Oakes can’t conceal his disgust with my questions. “Come on…,” he says.
“Is that a no? Has he ever been arrested or charged before?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Not a member of organized crime? Not part of a canine Cosa Nostra?”
Oakes is not about to be humiliated, so he turns to Judge Catchings for help. “Judge…”
I turn to Judge Catchings as well. “Your Honor, we’ve established that this is Milo’s first arrest. Bail for a first-time offender is certainly warranted. And he can be released on my recognizance; I will assume full responsibility for his future actions.”
“I’ll reserve judgment on that,” he says. “Continue.” Then he adds, sternly, “In a serious manner.”
Before I can ask another question, Oakes says, “The dog is a danger to the community. He could keep stealing things; that’s how he’s been trained.”
“Where was he trained?”
“At the police academy.”
“He learned to be a thief at the police academy?” I ask, and the fifteen or so spectators in the gallery laugh.
Oakes doesn’t seem inclined to answer that question, so I ask another one. “Detective, why is an armed guard stationed outside Milo’s cage?”
“I can’t say,” he mumbles, obviously uncomfortable with the subject.
“You don’t know, or you feel you shouldn’t say?” I ask.
“I can’t say.” His emphasis is on “can’t.”
“Do you want to use a lifeline? Maybe phone a friend?”
Eli objects that I’m being disrespectful to the witness, which I never knew was an official objection, but the judge sustains it anyway, and asks me to rephrase.
“At taxpayers’ expense, an officer is sitting in an animal shelter twenty-four hours a day, and you can’t tell us why?”
“No.”
I turn to Judge Catchings. “Your Honor…”
“Detective Oakes,” he says, “you’re going to have to do better than that.”
Oakes thinks about it for a few moments and then says, “We received a request from the federal authorities.”
Pete was right; the feds are somehow in on this. What is puzzling to me is why they would go to such lengths to guard Milo, but then take no action to intervene in this hearing.
Neither the judge nor Eli seems to know what to make of this, and I certainly can’t shed any light on it. Catchings lets Oakes off the hook, accepting the cryptic reference to the feds as his final answer. I wish I could probe more, but he won’t let me.
My final witness is Juliet Corsinita, a dog trainer whose home and office are in Teaneck, but who has developed a geographically wide clientele. She has a local TV show in which she dispenses training tips, and her dry sense of humor and easy way with dogs have earned her quite a following.
Juliet has a training camp of sorts on her property, and people bring their animals to her for six weeks of “boot camp” during which they learn pretty much all a dog can learn. I’ve watched her in action, and the training is done with love and care; there is no fear or punishment, and certainly no physical violence involved.
As soon as Juliet is called, Eli stands up to object. “Your Honor, I fail to see the relevance. It is my understanding that Ms. Corsinita, whatever her qualifications, has never worked with the dog in question, and has no direct knowledge of the incident itself.”
Eli has obviously had his staff do quick homework on this; when he saw Juliet’s name on the witness list, he must have had someone question her in advance of her appearance.
“Your Honor,” I say, “Ms. Corsinita is being called to testify about my client’s state of mind.” This draws a roar from the gallery and a loud laugh and thigh slap from Willie, whom I will have to admonish about correct conduct at the defense table.
Eli has to stifle a smile himself, and he says, “Your Honor, this has moved from the ridiculous to the bizarre.”
The judge turns to me and asks, “How can Ms. Corsinita possibly testify to this dog’s state of mind? And why is that relevant?”
“Your Honor, Ms. Corsinita is an expert on dogs and how they think. She has studied Milo’s history, and will be able to inform the court substantially as to the general way that a dog in his situation would react. If the court feels it is unhelpful, it can certainly disregard her point of view. There is no jury impact to worry about.”
“It’s a waste of the court’s time,” Eli says. “And it has the potential to further send this proceeding into chaos.”
Judge Catchings stares daggers at Eli; apparently he doesn’t like being accused of running a chaotic courtroom.
“Your Honor,” I say, “I think everyone will agree that Milo is being held on a simple charge of theft. The prosecutor and arresting officer have admitted it. In such cases, when it is a first offense, there are two factors among those to consider as it relates to bail or an outright acquittal. First, is the accused a continuing threat to the community? And second, is he a flight risk?”
Now Judge Catchings turns his withering stare at me. “You do not need to educate the court.”
“I know that, Your Honor. But there is another factor that I would also ask you to consider. In order to be ultimately convicted of this crime, the accused has to know the difference between right and wrong. Ms. Corsinita can help with that.”
Eli jumps from his chair; this is too much. “Right and wrong? He’s a dog!”
“I think Your Honor is already aware of the species we are talking about.”
Judge Catchings shakes his head, probably unhappy with how far afield this has gotten. But the train has left the tracks, and there’s no stopping it now. “I’ll allow the witness,” he says.
Juliet describes the type of training that Milo would have had at the police academy, and I get her to focus on the specific manner in which he was taught to grab weapons out of the hands of dangerous criminals.
“So his job was to take deadly weapons out of the hands of criminals who were using them to threaten people?”
“That’s correct,” she says.
“So he’s a hero?” I ask, and before Eli can voice an objection, Juliet says, “In my mind he certainly is.”
“So let’s assume for the sake of argument that after he left the police force, he was trained to take other items from people who were holding them. Though this is strictly hypothetical, would that have been an easy thing to teach him?”
“Very. I could do it in a day.”
“If he then used that training and took certain items, as directed, would he think he was doing something wrong?”
“Certainly not. That was his training. He would expect and deserve praise.”
“Thank you. Now regarding his future danger to society, what is your view on that?”
She hesitates. “Well, if the person who trained him had control and directed him to steal in the same fashion, he would do that.”
“What if he were under my control, and I gave no such instructions?”
“Then he wouldn’t do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
I turn Juliet over to Eli, who gets her to admit that dogs don’t always behave in completely predictable ways. It’s not exactly a stunning admission, and doesn’t harm our case in any appreciable way, unless the judge is predisposed against us.
Eli has put in an uncharacteristically weak effort. I attribute this to a basic indifference to whether Milo is kept in the shelter or not, and perhaps to some annoyance about being kept in the dark regarding the armed guard. The feds obviously saw fit to deal with the police but not the prosecutor. This is not the best tack to take when the issue could wind up in court.
Eli and I make closing statements, and then I expect Judge Catchings to defer his ruling for at least a few days.
He doesn’t. “It is the opinion of this court that the county has not made a compelling case for depriving this dog of his liberty. I direc
t the defense to present to the court a statement stipulating how Milo will be cared for, and what arrangements and precautions will be made to guarantee that he will not participate in any further actions contrary to the public good.
“Once that statement has been approved by the court, I will order him released to your custody, Mr. Carpenter.”
“Your Honor, can I request that the guard remain on duty at the shelter until you have approved my submitted statement?”
“So ordered. My opinion in its entirety will be posted on the court Web site.”
Game, set, and match.
I GO STRAIGHT FROM THE OFFICE TO THE COUNTY JAIL TO TELL BILLY THE GOOD NEWS. It’s generally very easy for an attorney to see his client, and no previous appointment is necessary. This is especially true during the phase in which the accused has not yet gone to trial or been convicted. This is the time when contact between lawyer and client is most crucial, and there are few roadblocks to overcome.
I’m therefore surprised and annoyed at having to wait an hour before anyone comes out to escort me inside. When they finally arrive, it’s not a uniformed guard, but rather a civilian employee.
This is unusual, but is partially explained when the man says, “The warden wants to see you.”
“Why?” I ask.
“He should be the one to tell you that.”
I’m ushered directly to the warden’s office. His name is Daniel Maddow, and I’ve met him a few times over the years, mostly when I’ve been dissatisfied with the hospitality his people have shown to my clients. He’s been in the job for a while, at least ten years, though he’s no older than forty. He seems to present himself as something of a contradiction; while he has the demeanor of a grizzled veteran who’s seen it all, he talks carefully, in a refined, almost delicate manner.
Maddow gets up from his desk when I come in, and we shake hands. “I’m afraid I have some distressing news,” he says.
“Oh?”
“Mr. Zimmerman was attacked in the lavatory early this morning. He was badly injured.”
“How badly?”
“Three broken ribs, broken clavicle, minor concussion, knife wound on his arm, possibly some internal injuries. My understanding is that none of it is considered life threatening.”
“Who did it?” I ask.
“We believe there were three assailants. We’ve identified one of them, which was fairly easy, because he’s dead.”
“As a result of the same fight?”
“Yes. The man suffered a broken neck. Let’s just say Mr. Zimmerman put up more than a token resistance.”
“How did they get to him? I thought he was in a separate area for protection?”
Maddow nods, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. “He was. There seems to have been some cooperation between the assailants and one or more guards, though we haven’t been able to identify those culpable yet.”
“That is terrible,” I say. “Inexcusable.”
He nods. “Yes, but I’m afraid it reflects the realities of modern prison conditions. We of course have zero tolerance for this type of thing, but unfortunately our level of tolerance is not always a deterrent.”
“Can I see him?”
“I’m sure that can be arranged, but he’s not here at the moment,” he says. “He was transferred to Saint Joseph’s Hospital, where I am told he is in intensive care.”
“What’s going to happen when he comes back here?”
“Believe me, that is a matter that will be intensely analyzed, and adequate security will be provided.”
“You’ll understand if I’m not completely confident with that?” I ask.
He nods. “Certainly.”
Once I leave, I call the hospital and learn that if all goes well, Billy should be out of intensive care by early evening, and I can see him then. I ask for the head nurse on the floor, who in my experience is the person in the hospital who basically runs the place and knows everything that’s going on. I ask her if Billy is being protected, and she assures me that a police officer is there to guard him.
It’s taken a while, but Billy’s finally attained the same status as Milo.
When I get back to the office, I’m surprised to find that Hike is there. “Hey, we won,” I say. “It couldn’t have gone better.”
“For now. If they appeal, who knows?”
“You trying to cheer me up?” I ask.
“Nah, I just came to drop off my bill.”
He hands me a bill for the time he put into writing the brief. It’s lower than I expected; he certainly didn’t pad the hours.
“Great. If you can wait a minute, I’ll give you a check.”
“Where am I going?” he asks. This is obviously a guy who likes to be paid on time.
I write out the check, realizing as I’m doing so that Milo and I never negotiated a fee structure. If he gives me a problem, I’ll just withhold his kibble until he pays, or maybe I’ll send Hike around to collect.
Before Hike leaves, he asks the obvious question. “What are you going to do with the dog when you get him?”
“I’m not sure. You got any ideas?”
“Nope,” he says, and leaves.
Thanks, Hike.
BILLY DOESN’T LEAVE INTENSIVE CARE UNTIL THE MORNING, SO I’M AT THE HOSPITAL AT NINE AM.
The decision has already been made to keep him in the hospital for at least the next few days, rather than transferring him to the prison infirmary. I support the decision and would have fought for it if there was resistance. If solitary confinement in the prison couldn’t prevent this attack, the infirmary would be a shooting gallery.
There are two guards outside Billy’s room when I arrive. He looks like he’s been through a meat grinder, but he does not seem the type to complain about it. “You okay?” I ask. “Are they treating you well?”
“No problem, although what the hell is the deal with this male nurse thing?”
“You’ve got a male nurse?”
“Damn straight; he’s gotta be six foot two. He wanted to sponge me down. I told him if he tried it, he’d be taking my bed in intensive care.”
“Do you need anything?”
He nods. “Yeah. I need you to get me out of here.”
“The hospital?” I ask.
“No… prison. But first tell me about Milo. I heard you got him off.”
“Yes. We prevailed.”
“Man, Pete was right. You must be good. Where’s Milo now?”
“Still at the shelter. I should have him out by tomorrow. Which brings up the question of what I should do with him.”
“Can you hold on to him until you get me out?”
“What makes you think you’re getting out?”
“If you go to the prosecutor, I think he’ll be willing to make a deal.”
“You’re going to plead?”
He shakes his head. “I’m going to trade.”
“Billy, I don’t think you get it. First of all, I’m not your lawyer; I only represented you for the purpose of getting Milo out. Second of all, if I was your lawyer, I wouldn’t put up with this cryptic bullshit.”
He is aware that I’m angry, and backs off immediately. “Okay, I’m sorry, you’re right. I need you to be my lawyer, full-time. I want you to do for me what you did for Milo.”
“No thanks. I’ve got all the clients I need.”
“Do it as a favor for Pete.”
“Been there, done that. Besides, he hasn’t asked me to represent you,” I point out.
“He will.” When I don’t respond, he says, “Come on, man, I’m a wounded veteran. Don’t you care about your country? What do I have to do?” he asks. “Sing ‘God Bless America’?”
There’s something obnoxiously charming about Billy, but I’ve always been able to resist obnoxious charm. Maybe it’s because I possess so much of it myself. The truth is, I don’t want this case; in fact, I don’t want any case. But I also can’t leave him confined to this hospital bed with no one to
help him.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll compromise with you. I’ll handle your plea bargain—”
He interrupts to correct me. “Trade.”
I nod. “Trade. But you’re going to tell me what it is you have to trade. I’m not going in there unless I know what I’m talking about.”
He thinks for a moment, weighing his options, and then nods. “Okay. Jack Erskine… the guy that was killed… if there was ever someone on this planet who deserved to die, it was him.”
ALAN LANDON WAS LISTENING TO THE MOST BORING SPEECH EVER DELIVERED WHEN HIS CELL PHONE RANG. More accurately, it didn’t ring; it vibrated. And it wasn’t his cell phone, at least not his main one. It was his second phone; the one he always answered, no matter what.
Since he was sitting on the dais next to the mayor of New York, and it was the same mayor who was giving the boring speech, answering the phone took some delicate maneuvering. He quietly got up and walked off the stage, hoping that everyone would assume he was going to the restroom. Since the mayor was twenty minutes into a talk on the intricacies of educational reform, the likelihood was that the audience was so close to comatose that they wouldn’t have noticed a hand grenade going off on stage.
As Landon was walking, he opened the phone in his pocket so that the call would go through without cutting to voice mail. He knew the caller would be smart enough to hold on and wait for Landon to answer.
Actually, there was no doubt that Marvin Emerson would hold on. M had called Landon at least thirty times in the last year, and Landon had answered every single time. He also always knew that it was M calling even before he said a word, yet M’s phone ID was blocked. It could only mean one thing: He was the only one who called on that particular phone.
When Landon reached an area in the hallway that afforded him some privacy, he took the phone out of his pocket and spoke into it. “You have news?”
“I do,” said M. “The lawyer pulled it off. The dog is going to be released from the shelter.”
Landon couldn’t help but smile. “Justice triumphs. When will this take place?”
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