“You live around here, John?”
“Nope. Visiting friends, about ten miles outside Jackson Hole.”
“They don’t hunt?”
M laughed. “They’re from New York.”
M didn’t ask Jeremy where he lived, since he had already searched Jeremy’s cabin. In the process he found and took twenty-five thousand dollars in cash, which made it a rather profitable morning—almost worth coming out to the middle of nowhere.
Instead he asked gentle questions about Jeremy’s time in the army, claiming to have been a veteran himself. He wanted to assure himself that Jeremy was not the type to talk about his time in Iraq or what got him discharged.
Jeremy was tight-lipped about it, though he was willing to discuss his private life. After an hour, M felt reasonably certain that Jeremy had not revealed anything about the time in Iraq, and that there was no one he would have confided in.
It was just past noon, and M figured it was time to kill Jeremy. That would give him time to bury the body, get back to town, and get the last flight out.
He had decided to shoot Jeremy in the back. It wasn’t out of cowardice, though M was aware that as a former soldier Jeremy could be a worthy and dangerous adversary. It was basically unfair to Jeremy to do it from the front, and thereby have him experience the fear of knowing death was imminent. M didn’t want him to suffer; Jeremy had only been doing his job.
Just like M was now doing his.
He took out his handgun. He had equipped it with a silencer, more through force of habit and extra carefulness than anything else. Certainly the sound of a gunshot out here during hunting season would not attract attention.
But Jeremy turned around, possibly a result of instinct, possibly by happenstance. As soon as he saw the gun, he knew what was coming. And he knew why.
“You don’t have to do this,” Jeremy said.
“I’m afraid I do.”
M fired three times, though Jeremy was certainly dead from the first shot.
On the way to the airport he called Landon to report on the successful trip. “I’m on my way to Albuquerque now for number three.”
“Have you got somebody back here you can rely on?” Landon asked.
“Of course. What do you need?”
Landon had been disconcerted by the amount of press coverage Milo was getting, and that morning’s paper had carried the news that Andy Carpenter had signed on to represent Zimmerman. Publicity was not in any way desirable; before long the entire world would be looking for the dog, and maybe the envelope.
“I want the dog,” Landon said.
“Now?” M asked. “I thought you wanted to wait.”
“I’m finished waiting. Get me the dog now.”
IF WE EVER LOSE OUR DEMOCRATIC, PERSONAL FREEDOMS, DISCOVERY WILL BE AMONG THE FIRST THINGS TO GO. For someone accused of a crime, I consider it among the most important rights. To tell you the truth, it makes Miranda look like an aging flamenco dancer.
Discovery is the process by which the prosecutor is forced to share the evidence he has, and that he will rely upon at trial, with the defense. It takes away the element of surprise and allows often underfunded defense attorneys to properly prepare their cases.
The discovery documents Eli sends us in the Zimmerman case are limited in scope. That’s not to say they’re not substantial, because they are. They include all the direct evidence against Billy, including very damaging forensics and eyewitness accounts. It is no wonder that Eli has no desire to offer a deal; he must correctly assume that his case is overwhelming.
But what the documents don’t include is background information on Erskine, or any information about the envelope or its possible contents. That is for the defense to probe; the prosecution does not need to dig out those facts to prove its case.
While there is no necessity for the prosecution to prove motive, I’m sure Eli will tell the jury that Billy was seeking revenge against Erskine, blaming him for his devastating injury. Eli will not go near any possibility that Erskine was corrupt, or that other people might have had reason to kill him. That is our job.
I ask Hike to prepare a request for information related to the bombing in Iraq. We could present it to the Defense Department, which would likely take forever to give it to us. Rather than go that route, I’ll ask the court to issue an order that it be provided.
I call Eli and ask that he stipulate no objection to our getting the information. He agrees to do so, not because he wants to be helpful, but because he knows we’ll eventually get it anyway. This way he avoids the possibility that it could lead to a delay in the court proceedings. Except for acquittals and hung juries, delays are the things prosecutors hate most in the world.
Hike and I spend three hours going over the discovery material, exchanging documents after we’ve read them so that we’ll each be sure to see all of it. This is just the beginning; we’ll be reviewing these same documents many times, in addition to others that are sure to follow. There is absolutely no excuse for a lawyer not to be totally knowledgeable about every aspect of the case. If there were I would have found it long ago.
Spending three hours with Hike reminds me of a scene from Take the Money and Run, one of Woody Allen’s earliest and funniest movies. Woody plays Virgil Tibbs, a small-time criminal who unsuccessfully attempts to escape from prison. As punishment, he is locked in a small, underground room with an insurance salesman, who shakes his hand and starts trying to sell him various policies before they are even locked away.
Hike has no interest in selling me insurance, but he has the unerring ability to focus on all that is wrong with the world, combining it with the certain knowledge that nothing can be done to fix it.
“This is not good,” Hike says when we are about to wrap it up for the night.
I nod. “Not so far.”
“You going to recommend he plead it out?”
“Eli already turned me down when I brought it up. I don’t think our client would go for it anyway.”
Hike frowns. “He’s an ex-cop; he must know what he’s up against.”
“He does.”
“You think he did it?”
“No. If he hated Erskine enough to kill him, he wouldn’t have done it this way.”
“Why not?” Hike asks.
“Because it put Milo in danger, and there would have been no reason to. He could have left Milo home, followed Erskine to the club, or anywhere else, and shot him. And if he wanted the envelope, he could have just taken it.”
“No jury is going to buy the he-wouldn’t-put-his-dog-in-danger argument. Unless you get twelve dog nuts like you.”
I nod. “The good news is, there are a lot of dog nuts out there.”
He smiles. “I’ll research if we can challenge a juror for cause based on the fact that he’s sane as it relates to dogs.”
“We’ll break new ground.” I’m stunned to realize that for the first time, I’m enjoying my conversation with Hike. He’s being pessimistic about our chances at trial, but that’s okay, because it’s logical. With what we know right now, we have very little chance.
“You ever have a murder one case?” I ask. “As lead counsel?”
He nods. “Once. I lost. It was the worst experience of my life.”
“Because you lost?”
“No. Because I don’t think he did it. The prosecution had a strong case, but I don’t think he did it. I still work the case; I don’t think a week goes by that I don’t look through the file.”
“And your client… he’s in prison now?”
Hike shakes his head slowly. “He was… for four years. Then he hung himself in his cell.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, because I am. There is no worse feeling imaginable to me than losing a murder case that could have been won.
He nods. “Thanks. Me too. I wouldn’t trade places with you on this case for anything.”
“Why?”
“I believe my client was innocent, and he depended on me to prove it, and now he’s
dead. And you could be headed toward a similar result.”
I nod.
“I’ll help you however I can,” he says. “You just tell me what to do, and it’s done.”
FOR ME, A MURDER CASE OFFICIALLY BEGINS WHEN I GO TO THE SCENE. It gives me a feel, a context, for what happened, and I find that invaluable. It’s the difference between sitting on the fifty-yard line at a football game and reading a newspaper account of the same game.
When Laurie was my full-time investigator, we would go to the scene together. She would view it through the eyes of a trained detective and was able to provide insights that I could never come up with on my own.
This time Laurie asks if she can go along, and I’m delighted to have her. It feels like old times, and there’s nothing wrong with that.
We go there at midnight, since that’s when the murder took place. It gives us more of a feel for what happened, for how it might have looked to both the participants in the crime and the witnesses to it.
As we’re driving toward the club, I look over at Laurie in the passenger seat and see that she is struggling to keep her eyes open. It’s evidence of the lingering effects of her injury; she still tires far more easily than she used to.
When I see her eyes open, I ask, “You okay?”
“I’m completely fine,” she says. “Why?” She asks the question in a challenging way, not wanting to admit to any weaknesses.
“You just seem tired, and it’s late,” I say.
“I’m not tired, and it’s not late,” she says.
I nod. “Right. You’re fresh and it’s no wonder, since it’s so early. But you said last week, and I quote, ‘I need to start listening to the doctor and stop pushing myself.’”
“Do you remember every word of every conversation you’ve ever had?” she asks.
I smile. “It’s a gift.” That’s actually the truth; for some reason words stick in my mind. I’m verbal rather than visual. I could go to the Grand Canyon and forget what it looked like, but I would remember every word I heard while I was there.
I know I shouldn’t push this, but my concern for Laurie overwhelms my self-preservation instinct. “I just don’t want you to overdo it.”
“Riding in a car is overdoing it?”
I can tell she’s really annoyed, so I back down, belatedly but in characteristic fashion. “Nope. It’s definitely not overdoing it. If anything, it’s underdoing it. Way under.”
She still has a slight frown on her face, so I hold up my hand, palm down, near the inside roof of the car. “Overdoing it is up here.” I move my hand down toward the floor. “Your doing-it level is down here. Way, way under.”
We reach the Skybar on River Road and park across the street. The place is very active at this hour, with quite a few people going in and out, and the music from inside spills out onto the street.
I point to the front of the bar, just to the right of the door. “According to Billy, Erskine was standing there for more than an hour. A couple of witnesses confirmed that he was there, but they didn’t know for how long.”
“Where was Billy?” she asks.
I point across the street. “Over there. And Milo was by that tree to the left of the bar.”
“What were they waiting for?”
“An opportunity for Milo to take something,” I say.
“How did he know he’d have the chance?”
I shrug. “Billy said he didn’t know, but he was hopeful. He said, and I quote, ‘A slimeball like Erskine wouldn’t have been standing there for so long for his health. Something had to be going down.’”
She frowns. “He could have been meeting a date who was late showing up.”
I point down the street. “So Billy’s version is that a car drove slowly from that direction, and that Erskine saw him and started walking the other way. The car passed the bar and Erskine met him down there. Billy said the man parked near the corner and came back to meet Erskine.”
We walk to the place where Erskine and the man spoke, and where the murder took place. “Erskine wasn’t running away?” Laurie asks.
I shake my head. “No, it was obviously a prearranged meeting. Billy is positive that Erskine was waiting for this guy to show up.”
The trees and buildings combine to make it particularly dark at the spot of the murder, and I mention that to Laurie. “I’m sure it was by design,” she says. “Otherwise they would have met closer to the bar. Erskine clearly did not realize he had something to fear.”
“So he takes out the envelope, Billy gives Milo the signal, and he springs into action. Then the killer reaches into his inside jacket pocket, and Billy’s surprised to see that it’s a gun.”
“How did he see it?” she says.
“He says there was a gleam of light off the barrel.”
“You see much light here?”
I shake my head; that could be a problem at trial. “No, but it’s possible. It’s pretty cloudy tonight, maybe it was clear the night of the murder. I’ll check that out.”
“Let me check that,” she says.
I nod. “Great. Anyway, Billy says he thought the killer was taking out an envelope or something like that of his own, since bad guys don’t usually carry guns in that pocket.”
“Maybe Erskine thought he was there to make a trade,” she says.
“If it was a trade, he got the bad end of the deal. So Milo jumps into the picture and grabs the envelope out of the killer’s hand as Erskine’s hitting the ground. Billy gets there as the guy is trying to shoot Milo, who’s taking off down the street. Billy grabs the gun as it goes off, knees the guy in the groin, and the guy doubles over. Billy goes to Erskine, and in the meantime the killer jumps up and runs to his car before Billy can see him and react.”
“You ever get kneed in the groin?” she asks. “I would imagine that would slow you down.”
“I haven’t, and this is not the time for a reenactment. I take it you don’t believe Billy’s story?”
“I have my doubts,” she says. “But it’s going to be tough to prove. What about the witnesses?”
“A few came running when they heard the shot, but all they saw was Erskine lying there with Billy holding the gun. Nobody noticed the guy getting away, but they did see Milo running by them with the envelope in his mouth. Scared the shit out of them.”
“And they connected Milo to the shooting?” she asks.
“No, the cops did that once they knew Billy was involved. There were a couple of similar robberies in the general area the month before, and they put two and two together. They caught Milo a couple of hours later, without the envelope.”
After we’ve spent about twenty minutes on the scene, placing ourselves at both Billy’s and Erskine’s vantage points, we’ve learned all we’re going to learn. “Seen enough?” Laurie asks.
“I think so,” I say. I point to the bar, which is still going strong. “You want to go inside and have a drink?”
She shakes her head and smiles. “I don’t think so. I don’t want to overdo it.”
On the way home Laurie says, “Thanks for letting me come, Andy. It felt good.”
“I know what you mean,” I say. “When I’m feeling down, there’s nothing like a murder scene to cheer me up. For some reason I don’t get the same emotional boost from robbery and assault scenes.”
“You know what I’m talking about,” she says.
“Yes, I do.”
SONDRA AND MILO LEFT THE HOUSE AT SIX THIRTY IN THE MORNING. That was standard procedure on the days that the foundation was open. There were always at least twenty-five dogs in runs, waiting their turn to be adopted, so there was much to be done. Feeding, walking, cleaning up… it all had to be done before prospective adopters started showing up at ten o’clock.
The foundation had grown considerably in size and reputation since its inception three years before, and had attracted a number of unpaid, dog-loving volunteers to help with the work. But for most of them, their dog loving didn’t kick
in until at least nine AM, and Sondra was always in long before that.
Sondra loved the work and felt that there was nothing more rewarding than seeing a dog who had recently been in the shelter going off to a new, loving home. The only part she didn’t relish was the process by which she and Willie had to determine if that home was dog-friendly enough. They weren’t about to send a dog off to be tied to a tree in some backyard, or used as a guard. But telling people that they could not adopt one of the dogs still made Sondra uncomfortable.
Willie couldn’t care less about offending anyone. If they weren’t offering the kind of home for the dog that Willie felt acceptable, he had no qualms in letting them know it, often in graphic terms.
Since Milo had come to their home, Sondra had been taking him to the foundation each morning. He stayed in a back room, unseen by the volunteers or potential adopters, to protect his safety and security, just in case.
Sondra spent as much time with him back there as she could. Not because he needed the company; he could amuse himself quite well with a chew toy, and he was happy to sleep the day away or play with dogs who were brought back there to keep him company. It was because she had already grown to love him, as had Willie, in the brief time he’d lived with them.
Not only was Milo playful, affectionate, and hysterically funny, but he was as smart as any dog they had ever been around. He had already learned to manipulate their dog Cash, and Cash had clearly accepted him as his leader.
When Willie and Sondra would sit on the couch watching television, Cash would be up there between them, accepting petting from both. Since there was then no room for Milo, Milo would suddenly start to bark and move toward the doggy door to the outside as if he had heard something out there.
An excited Cash would run outside to see what was going on, whereupon Milo would immediately take Cash’s position on the couch. When Cash returned, disappointed by the lack of action outdoors, he would be relegated to a place on the floor, or another chair, with no one to pet him.
As Willie had directed her, Sondra pulled up to the back of the foundation building, so that Milo would not be seen by cars passing by on the street. She got out of the car and looked briefly around, then reached into her bag for the keys to the building.
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