“Yes, I certainly know how that is.”
“And they usually are guilty,” she says.
We’re talking about an issue on which Laurie and I have always taken opposite sides. She’s an officer of the law, and I’m a defense attorney, so we have a naturally different point of view as to the guilt or innocence of the average accused. She says toh-may-toh and I say toh-mah-toh.
“But in this case he’s not.”
“Probably not,” she grudgingly admits. The ironic thing is that Laurie’s more convinced of Jeremy’s innocence than I am. “Andy, this is not a town full of vigilantes. I just can’t see people firebombing a house out of anger or frustration. People here are inclined to let the justice system run its course.”
“Of course, it just takes one who isn’t so inclined,” I point out.
She nods. “That’s true.”
“What about the Centurions?” I ask. “Are they the vigilante types?”
She looks quickly at me, surprised by the question. “Well, haven’t you been the busy boy.” Then, “I don’t know… they certainly do not have a history of violence. At least not one that I’m aware of.”
“What can you tell me about them?”
“Not too much… although there were some newspaper articles written about them maybe five years ago. You might want to read them. But I do know that their town couldn’t be any more closed off from the world if they put up barbed wire. But they don’t really have to, because nobody wants to get in, and it sure seems like nobody wants to get out.”
“But Elizabeth Barlow was out,” I say. “She was out and going to college.”
She nods. “That’s true; I should have mentioned that. Some of them, mostly Elizabeth’s age, leave the community for training that they can only get in the outside world. That’s how they get their doctors, lawyers… Elizabeth was going to be a lawyer.”
“But they always go back?” I ask.
“As far as I know. It’s the way the community remains totally self-sufficient.”
“I met one of the members of their police force.”
She seems surprised by this but doesn’t probe. “It’s not really a police force; they’re not accredited by the state. But it doesn’t matter, because I don’t know of any crime ever being committed there. We technically have jurisdiction over them, and they have access to the state police, as we do. But to my knowledge they’ve never called them or us. Not once.”
We arrive at the Davidson house, and it is still a busy place. The fire seems to have been extinguished, but I count four fire trucks, two state police cars, one Findlay police car besides Laurie’s, and an ambulance.
We get out, and Laurie leads me toward the house. It’s a one-story, ranch-style farmhouse, with a small building attached to it that looks like a barn but is apparently a guesthouse. That is where the firebomb landed, destroying about thirty percent of the place. Firemen are still applying water to the damaged area, but they have already won the battle.
Laurie introduces me to Lieutenant Cliff Parsons, who responded to the first emergency call and has been supervising what is a crime scene. I recognize his name because Calvin’s case file shows that he was the officer who arrested Jeremy. It’s not exactly a massive coincidence; there aren’t that many ranking officers in the Findlay Police Department.
Parsons is about my age, tall, well built, and good-looking, exactly the kind of guy I don’t want Laurie working with. To make matters worse, Calvin mentioned that he was once an Army Airborne Ranger. The closest I can come to that is that I used to watch The Lone Ranger, and I was sitting in the third row behind the goal when the Rangers won the Stanley Cup. Actually, when it comes to raw, physical courage, I’d like to have seen him try to fight through the crowds on the way out of Madison Square Garden that night.
Laurie asks Parsons to bring her up-to-date, but he hesitates, glancing at me. “Don’t worry,” she says. “He’s not a problem.”
“Stop,” I say, trying to control my blushing. “I’m no better than any of you.”
Parsons describes what they know so far, which is not a hell of a lot. An unknown person drove up and threw what amounts to a sophisticated Molotov cocktail at the house. It went through a window of the attached guesthouse, and the attacker apparently drove off immediately afterward.
Richard was home alone in the main house at the time. He called 911, and firemen were on the scene in just a few minutes. The damage is not nearly as great as it could have been, in both physical and human terms.
Parsons, it turns out, is the person in the department assigned to any trouble that may happen concerning Center City. It’s not exactly time-consuming for him, since no trouble is ever reported in Center City. But Laurie asks him my question concerning whether it’s likely that the Centurions are behind this.
Parsons’s response is to shrug. “Somebody did it. No reason it couldn’t have been them. It was their girls that got killed, so they certainly have the most reason to be pissed off.”
I see Richard Davidson standing with a woman at the end of the driveway, and I walk over to them. He introduces me to his wife, Allie.
I express my regrets at what happened and ask if they have any idea who might have done it.
“It has to be someone from Center City,” Richard says. “They blame Jeremy for the murders.”
“Might there be people in Findlay who do so as well?” I ask.
“No, people here know better,” is his quick response.
Allie shakes her head. “We don’t know that, Richard. We only know what people tell us; we don’t know what they are thinking.”
Richard turns to me. “You’ve got to help our son, Mr. Carpenter. Please… I’d like to say we can handle this on our own, but there’s no way.”
I deflect the request as best I can, and I’m relieved when Laurie and Parsons come over to question the Davidsons. I fade off into the background, and it gives me time to reflect on the situation.
Six hours ago I had decided not to take on the case. Since then, the Davidsons’ house has been firebombed, I’ve had sex with Laurie, and I’ve discovered that the hotel has ESPN. To say the least, these are new factors to consider.
The truth is, the most important new factor is what happened at this house. I simultaneously possess a lack of physical courage and a refusal to back down from bullies. It’s amazing I’ve lived as long as I have. But it’s becoming obvious that powerful forces, both inside and outside the justice system, are lining up against Jeremy and his family. It makes me want to stand with them.
Laurie finishes what she’s doing and leaves Parsons behind to secure the scene. She drives me back to the hotel, not having learned much more than she knew before.
“Parsons says whoever did it knew what they were doing,” she informs me. “He knows much more than I do about these things, and he says the firebomb was well constructed. The fire chief said the same.”
“The world seems to be lining up against Jeremy Davidson,” I say as we are reaching the hotel.
She pulls over in front and turns to look at me.
“This is going to make you stay and take the case,” she says. It’s a statement, not a question.
“Yup,” I say.
“And my being here complicates things.”
“Yup.”
“We need to talk at some point… you know, about how things will be between us while you’re here.”
“Yup.”
“I’m the arresting officer, you’re the defense attorney. It’s a rather unusual situation.”
“Yup.”
“I don’t want to behave in a way that could… you know… hurt you again.”
“Yup.”
“Do you remember how much I used to hate when you went into your ‘yup’ mode?”
“Yup.”
“Yet I seem to want to kiss you good night.”
“Go for it,” I say, and she does, after looking around first to make sure no one can see us. She brea
ks it off quickly and drives away.
Do I think I’m in for an interesting few months?
Yup.
• • • • •
AS SOON AS Tara and I are back from our morning walk, I call Richard Davidson. Ironically, the call is forwarded to the hotel that I’m already in; Richard and Allie spent the night here, since they couldn’t stay at home. We agree to meet for breakfast at the local diner, but before I leave I call Calvin to tell him that I’m going to take the case.
“Because they set fire to his house?” he asks.
“Partially,” I say. “Things like that bug me.”
“You multilegged people can be mighty strange. But whatever works for you, partner,” he says.
Richard Davidson is already at a booth in the back when I arrive. On the way toward the booth it feels like every eye in the place is staring at me. That may be because when I check it out, it turns out that in fact every eye in the place is staring at me. News is both rare and quick to travel in a town like this, and arriving as an outsider to take on a double murder case has made me a person of significant interest.
Richard greets me with a warm handshake and tells me that they are going to start rebuilding the damaged area of their house immediately. He seems quite upbeat about it, which is rather amazing. If my son was charged with murder and my house firebombed, I’d be up on a roof somewhere with a high-powered rifle.
I offer to help in any way I can, but if he needs me to so much as drive in a nail, he’s in big trouble. Fortunately, I can help him in another way. “I’m willing to defend your son,” I say.
His relief is palpable. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that.”
“I’ll need to talk to Jeremy, to make sure he wants me to represent him.”
“He does. He definitely does.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “But I’ll need him to personally confirm that.”
He nods. “No problem. But I’ll be paying your fee.”
“That’s fine,” I repeat, and proceed to tell him that my fee is two hundred thousand dollars, which can move up or down depending on the length of the trial and the number of expert witnesses we will need to call and pay. I add that I will pay Calvin from the money Richard pays me.
I think I see him flinch when I tell him my fee, but it could just be a tic. “No problem,” he says. Then there is a rather uncomfortable silence, which he breaks with, “Here’s how I’d like to work this, if it’s okay with you. I’d like to give you twenty-five hundred now, and the remainder as soon as I get a mortgage on the farm.”
It’s all I can do not to moan. I’ve got almost twenty-five million dollars in the bank, and this guy is mortgaging his farm to pay me to help his son? “You’re mortgaging the farm?” I ask, just in case I heard wrong. I’m hoping what he really said was, “And the remainder as soon as I can have the money wired from my Swiss bank account.”
He nods. “Right. But don’t worry. Even with the damage from the fire, it’s worth at least that.”
“Why don’t you give me the twenty-five hundred and hold off on selling the farm until we get a better idea of how things are going to proceed?”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Positive.”
He comes with me to the jail, and within a few minutes we’re in to see Jeremy. Jeremy shares his father’s relief that I’m going to represent him. I tell Jeremy that he will have to sign a document appointing me as his counsel, and he vows to sign it the moment he gets it.
My next stop is the courthouse, where I fill out an application for pro hac vice, which will be presented to the judge. It’s to allow me to practice on this occasion in Wisconsin, even though I’ve never taken or passed the bar here. It’s a mere formality, and the clerk assures me it will be acted on quickly. This case is going to be a high priority in the Findlay judicial system.
I’ve got to rent a house; there is no way I can spend any length of time in that hotel. I stop off at the only real estate agent in town, Janice Taylor, who tells me that I am one lucky guy. It turns out, and I want to pinch myself to make sure that it’s true, that ninety-five-year-old Betty Camden recently died, and her family decided just this week to put her place up for rent.
Janice takes me over to see it, and it further turns out that Betty, bless her dear heart, had a yard that Tara will like to play in. She also has a houseful of furniture, which may be antiques or just old stuff. I can never tell the difference. If antiques are things from another time period that are highly valued in their old age, wouldn’t my sweatpants qualify?
Sealing the deal is the fact that the late, great Betty also had cable television, so I take the place even before I hear what the rent is. Besides, what am I worried about? I’ve got a twenty-five-hundred-dollar retainer.
I’m going to need to go back to Paterson to get some more things, close up the house, etc., but I want to do it quickly. Therefore, I don’t want to drive, and since I still won’t put Tara in the bottom of a plane, I call Laurie at her office. I bring her up-to-date on what’s going on and ask her if I can leave Tara with her for a few days. She makes no effort to conceal her delight at the prospect, especially since tomorrow is Saturday and she’ll have a couple of days off to play with her. Tara will be thrilled.
Tara and I spend a quiet evening by the television set and get to sleep early. Laurie comes by at seven in the morning to pick Tara up; I briefly wonder why she didn’t want me to drop her off. Is there some reason she doesn’t want me to see where she lives or who she’s living with? Doesn’t she know I’ll just pump Tara for the information when I get back?
“By the way,” I say as they get into the car, “that Lieutenant Parsons guy I met the other night… not much in the looks department, huh?”
“You don’t think so?” she asks with fake surprise.
“You and he good friends?”
She nods. “I’ve known him since grammar school.”
“So you know his wife also?” I ask, growing more pathetic by the moment.
“He’s not married,” she says. Then, “Andy, do you think in a million years I would stoop to having a relationship with someone who works for me?”
“You worked for me,” I point out.
She nods. “I never said you wouldn’t stoop that low.” She and Tara then pull away, leaving me with still another conversational defeat.
I fly from the nearby Carwell Airport to Milwaukee, from where I’ll fly to Newark. It’s not until I’m on the plane that the full impact of what has transpired hits me. I’m going to be spending months in Findlay, Wisconsin, working a probably unwinnable case. And in the background, or the foreground, or who knows where, will be Laurie.
After landing I head straight for my office, where I’ve arranged for Edna to be waiting for me. I had called ahead and asked her to find me temporary legal secretarial help that can freelance for me in Findlay.
She surprises me by being on top of things; she has located a firm in Milwaukee that will provide whatever secretarial help I need. She also promises to check in on my house every few days to make sure it hasn’t burned down.
I had also asked Kevin to do some research on Center City and the Centurion religion, and he’s characteristically prepared a complete report on it, which is waiting on my desk.
I go through some paperwork, trying to clear things away, since I’ll be spending so much time in Findlay. The clearing process is made easier by the fact that I have no current cases, so it barely takes me a half hour.
I head down to the Tara Foundation to tell Willie Miller the news. I dread doing this, since I’m essentially abandoning him and leaving him with the total responsibility of caring for the rescue dogs. First I tell him about the situation in Findlay and then the fact that I’m planning to spend quite a while there.
“Don’t worry about it, man,” he says. “Sondra and I got it covered.”
“You can hire some help, you know. I’ll pay for it.”
“Not nec
essary. I’m telling ya, Sondra and I got it covered.” He can see I’m feeling guilty, and he tries to head it off. “Andy, we like doing this, you know?”
I nod. “I know, but I still appreciate how easy you’re making it for me.”
“I’m more worried about what you’re running into up there,” he says.
“How’s that?”
“Firebombing houses ain’t something you’d be real good at dealing with, you know?”
Until this moment I haven’t thought about myself being in any kind of personal danger, but Willie might be right. People who hate someone so much that they’ll firebomb his house might not take too kindly to the lawyer trying to get him off. “I can take care of myself,” I say, even though we both know I can’t.
“Oh, yeah,” he mocks, “I forgot.” Then, “Why don’t you bring Marcus with you?”
Willie is talking about Marcus Clark, who I’ve employed as a freelance private investigator on recent cases. Marcus has a number of unusual attributes, but the one that most stands out is that he is the scariest, toughest person on the face of the planet. Bringing Marcus to Findlay would be like bringing a bazooka to a Tupperware party.
“I think I’ll wait and see how things go.” While Marcus and Findlay would not be a great fit, Willie’s question causes me to focus on the fact that I will need an investigator up there. My not thinking about that until now is a sign of how poorly prepared I am at this point. When I get to Findlay, I’ll ask Calvin for a recommendation. I can also ask Laurie; she’ll be familiar with the local talent, and she knows what I look for in an investigator.
I spend my last evening in civilization at Charlie’s with Pete and Vince, watching sports and overdosing on crisp french fries and beer. Their attitude about my going is similar to what it would be if I were being sent to Afghanistan to chase after the Taliban; they’ve decided that I must be miserable, and they take it upon themselves to make me feel better.
Pete says, “I had a cousin who lived in Indiana, which is like around the block from Wisconsin, and he said it’s not even that cold in the winter.”
Vince nods vigorously. “Right. You don’t really feel it. It’s a dry cold.”
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