The records are not here, which is not a big deal, since Sam Willis is getting them for me by hacking in the phone company’s computers. I should have them by tomorrow.
My default position is usually to believe my clients; in fact, I no longer take cases in which I don’t believe in their innocence. In this case, I have strong doubts, though I recognize that those doubts may be partially fueled by my petty jealousies. Is there such a thing as a non-petty jealousy?
If I get to the point where I absolutely believe that Kramer is guilty of murder, I am going to drop him as a client. I’ll find him a good attorney if he wants me to, but it won’t be me.
That is nonnegotiable.
I’ll just have to find someone to tell Laurie.
I hate visiting clients in jail. Maybe I should have thought of that before I became a criminal defense attorney, because jail is where most of my clients hang out. I should have been a sports agent, so I could hang out in stadiums. Or a travel agent, so I could … you get the picture.
But as the late, great Hyman Roth said, “This is the business we have chosen.” I never got the feeling that Hyman regretted his choice as much as I have. I became a criminal attorney because my father was a respected member of the justice system as a district attorney. I don’t have a clue what Hyman’s father did.
Today is Labor Day, an added irony as I ponder my occupation while waiting to be let in to speak to Kramer. Maybe speak is the wrong word; confront might be more accurate. But we’ll see; I’m more comfortable with speaking than confronting. I’m more comfortable with a lot of things than confronting.
But I do it, because this is the business I’ve chosen.
Kramer is brought into the attorney visiting room, and I guess he is good at judging faces, because the first thing he says is, “You aren’t here with good news.”
“I would say that’s probably accurate.”
“Let’s hear it.”
I nod. “We got the initial discovery documents, which include some of the forensics and all of the photographs of the crime scene.”
“And?”
“No knife. No reference to it, no photograph of it, nothing.”
He doesn’t say anything for at least fifteen seconds as he digests it. He either knows there never was a knife and is therefore not surprised, or he knows there was and is shocked. I try to read his face and come to the conclusion that I don’t have the vaguest idea as to what he’s thinking.
But he says, “That’s simply not possible.” Which are exactly the words Laurie used.
“We’re not dealing in possibilities,” I say. “We’re dealing in fact. When the police arrived, there was no weapon.”
“And when I left, there was,” Kramer says. “Pete wouldn’t have ditched it; it’s not his style. And he wouldn’t have any reason to do so, or at least none that I know of. Besides, at that point, he couldn’t even have known I was involved.”
“Right.”
“Which means someone else was there. Someone else had to take it.”
“That doesn’t make a lot of sense either.”
He suspects where I might be going with this. “Nor does me making up the story,” he says.
“I’m aware of that.”
Suddenly, he slams the table with his cuffed hands. “Damn! Somebody is setting me up! They’re trying to take my life away!”
It’s a surprising show of emotion from someone who has so far seemed amazingly cool and collected considering his situation. He’s obviously realizing what he’s up against.
He calms down as quickly as he erupted. “Have you seen the video yet?” he asks.
He’s referring to the security camera that covered the area where the truck was parked. If someone took the knife and left, the video should have captured it. “No, it wasn’t part of the first round of discovery. But it will be interesting to see.”
“You don’t believe me?” he asks, though it is as much a statement and a question.
“Doesn’t matter what I believe,” I say, lying through my teeth.
“Come on. Of course it does.”
“I don’t have an explanation for this, but I don’t think you’re dumb enough to have made up a story that could be so easily shown to be total bullshit.”
He smiles, now fully in control again. “My eyes are filling with tears.”
I return the smile. “Glad we could share this special moment.”
“Have you talked to the prosecutor yet?” he asks.
“She called me this morning, but I haven’t called back yet. Wanted to talk to you first.”
“I’m not pleading it out,” he says. “I’m not letting them win without a fight.”
“Okay.”
“It looks bad now, but I did not commit a murder. I’m not going to say I did.”
I nod and stand up. “I’ll get back to you.”
I turn to leave and then stop. “Let’s assume for a moment that you were set up, that there was someone on that truck. Or someone that showed up after you left and removed the weapon. It makes this more than a revenge move by Zimmer; it means someone else wanted you out of the way.”
“Right.”
“So who might that be, and why?”
He pauses. “Something for me to think about.”
“Think hard,” I say. “And write your thoughts down. I’ll be waiting.”
I start heading home and then take a detour toward the rest stop on the Garden State Parkway. I haven’t been to highway rest stops this often since my aunt Mary in Philadelphia accidentally used spoiled milk in the bread pudding on Thanksgiving when I was twelve.
The truck is still here, and the same two poor cops are guarding it. They recognize me, but not with a smile. I don’t ask for permission to enter, I just do so, and they don’t try to stop me. I guess Pete’s instructions to grant me entry are still in effect.
I board the truck and go to the back to check and see what the rear exit is like. Not only is there a large door, typical of a tractor trailer, which raises from the bottom to the top, but there is also a more traditional door with three steps that can be lowered down from it. It would have been easy for someone to exit from back here.
I also check and see that there are two storage rooms we didn’t notice before, where someone easily could have hidden. They contain mostly pet supplies, and there are no signs that the cops dusted for prints back here. I make a mental note to ask for it to be done.
I exit the truck through the back door and walk through the woods out to the highway. Then I loop around and come back through the automobile entrance. The cops seem surprised to see me; they hadn’t realized I had left.
Next, I go toward where the security camera is, to see what it covers. I’m unable to tell exactly because it is so high up, and I can’t see what it sees and what it doesn’t. I’ll know when I get the video.
On the way home, I call Pete and ask for the rooms to be checked for prints. I also tell him that I was just at the scene, and I want a copy of the security camera tape for the past two hours.
“Why should I do all this, Sherlock?”
“Because I asked you to. And because you are dedicated to truth and justice. And because if you don’t, I’ll ask for a court order. And because I’ll point out that you wouldn’t do it on your own when I get you on the stand. And because I will never buy you another beer in your entire stinking, wretched life.”
“Done,” he says.
The video isn’t a disaster, and at this point, disaster avoidance feels like a triumph. It arrived this morning along with more discovery, and while it doesn’t show the presence of anyone else who might have been on the truck, it doesn’t preclude the possibility.
The way the truck was positioned relative to the camera, it is possible that someone exited through the back and was shielded by the truck itself as that person made an escape. Taking the view most favorable to our side, the strange way the truck was parked could have been intentionally placed there so as
to do that shielding.
That’s the relatively good news. Part of the bad news is that everything is ambiguous enough that I am stuck on this case; I don’t really have grounds to withdraw. I’m of course not talking about grounds to present to the court; I’m talking about making a case to Laurie.
I am a tower of legal jelly.
The really bad news is that our self-defense case just went down the drain. We have a victim who previously was beaten up by our client, and we would be contending that he attacked our client without being able to show he had a weapon. Even if we could get a jury to believe that, they’d never buy that Kramer needed to shoot and kill him to save himself. It just wouldn’t fly.
So we are going to have to claim that this was a well-orchestrated attempt to frame Kramer for murder. Of course, that has its own logical problem. Was Zimmer trying to frame Kramer for his own murder? Strange way to commit suicide. And if not him, then who? We have no idea.
Kramer said that Zimmer took a solid swing at him with a deadly weapon. I have to assume that Zimmer was trying to connect, which means that Zimmer was trying to kill him, not frame him.
Zimmer’s accomplice, whoever that might have been, could have had a backup plan. He would either watch Zimmer kill Kramer, or if Kramer prevailed, frame him for Zimmer’s death. It had to be planned in advance; the decision to take the knife and escape while shielded from the camera by the truck was not a spur-of-the-moment move.
If I’m right, then under this scenario, Zimmer’s partner would win as long as someone on that truck wound up dead. If I’m wrong, then Laurie’s ex-boyfriend is a cold-blooded murderer, and I always hoped she had better taste in men than that.
At the very least, we have a new strategy to pursue. It’s not necessary to call another meeting; there’s no sense upsetting Edna. The only person besides Laurie and me that needs to know the strategy is Hike, so I call him and ask him to come over to the house.
“Okay,” he says, reluctance oozing from his mouth. “Can I bring Darlene?”
“Who’s Darlene?”
“My fiancée.”
This statement would ordinarily make me drop the phone, but I’m talking hands-free in the car, so there is no phone to drop. “Did I get a wrong number? Is this Hike Lynch? The lawyer?”
“What do you mean?”
“Hike, you’ve never mentioned a fiancée. You’ve never mentioned a girlfriend. You’ve never mentioned a woman at all.”
“I met her in South Carolina. We hit it off. She makes me laugh.”
I’ve never heard Hike laugh. I’ve heard him moan, and whine, and mutter, but I didn’t know he had “laugh” in his repertoire. “Hike, definitely bring her,” I say. “I want to meet the woman who makes you laugh.”
When I get home, I update Laurie on what I’ve learned, or more accurately, haven’t learned. She subscribes to the “third person on the truck” theory; she would subscribe to the “tooth fairy is the killer” theory rather than admit the possibility that Kramer could be the murderer.
“Oh, Willie called,” she says. “He’s gone over all the records for the dogs that were on the truck. He doesn’t see anything relating to rescue groups or people up here that were waiting for them.”
“Okay. I’m going to see the guy who owns the truck tomorrow.”
I tell Laurie that Hike is coming over with his fiancée, and she seems to take it in stride. He apparently had previously mentioned it to her. “She makes him laugh,” Laurie says.
Hike and Darlene arrive in about fifteen minutes. Darlene has a weak, hesitant smile and maybe seems a little nervous as she holds on to Hike’s arm while he introduces us. She’s wearing a light jacket, which seems a bit strange in the ninety-degree weather, and I offer to take it for her.
“No, thank you, I have a chill.”
I’m surprised by this. We have the air-conditioning on in the house, but it’s so warm out that it’s having trouble keeping up. “Would you like me to turn down the air-conditioning?” I ask.
“That would be nice, thank you,” she says, surprising me and leaving me sorry I offered.
“I’ll do it,” Laurie says and walks over to the thermostat and does so. Then she says, “Darlene, why don’t you and I go in the den while Andy and Hike talk about the case?”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
She starts to follow Laurie into the den but stops short when she sees Tara and Sebastian in there. “Oh, you have dogs?”
“Yes,” Laurie says. “Do you have a dog?”
“No. I had a bad experience with one when I was little, at my grandmother’s house.”
“Were you bitten?” I ask.
“No,” she says, but she seems disinclined to provide further information. Maybe she and the dog argued over politics or sports.
Hike jumps in. “Andy loves dogs.”
“Oh,” Darlene says and turns to me. “Why?”
I don’t answer; I need to cut this off. Darlene makes Hike look like Jimmy Kimmel.
I take Tara and Sebastian into the kitchen with Hike while Laurie heads into the den with laugh-a-minute Darlene. I want to get this over with before the un-air-conditioned house hits 112 degrees.
Hike agrees with the strategy, though he clearly thinks that Kramer is guilty. He almost always thinks our clients are guilty, and even when he doesn’t, he thinks we’re going to lose.
Once we’re done, he says, “So what do you think of Darlene?”
“Seems very nice,” I say. “And she makes you laugh. When are you getting married?”
“Haven’t set a date yet,” he says.
“Will you live up here or down there?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know that either. We haven’t made real plans yet. Right now, we’re just having fun and loving life.”
“It won’t always be all fun and games and wild living, Hike. Someday, you’ll settle down in a house in the suburbs … you, Darlene, two kids, no air-conditioning, and no dog.”
I’d offered to meet at George Davenport’s office, but he said he doesn’t have one. So instead he suggested a coffee shop in a strip mall on Route 4, about ten minutes from my house. When I enter, a man I assume is Davenport is sitting at a booth near the back, with a cup of coffee and a laptop computer in front of him. The reason I assume it’s him is that there are only three patrons in the place, and the other two are women.
Davenport is a big guy; he looks like he was shoehorned into the bench against the wall. When I walk toward him, he says, “Carpenter?”
“That’s me.”
He reaches to shake my hand. “George Davenport.”
I sit across from him and order coffee from the waiter who has come over. “I’ve seen you on television,” he says.
I’ve been in the media fairly often on high-profile cases. “I look even better in person, don’t you think?” I ask.
He laughs. “If you say so. So you’re the lawyer for the guy that murdered Zimmer?”
“I’m the lawyer for the guy accused of murdering Zimmer.”
He nods. “Right. My mistake.”
“What can you tell me about the late Mr. Zimmer?”
He shrugs. “Truth is I don’t know that much about him. I placed an ad in that Craigslist thing, and he applied. I met with him, checked to make sure he had a license to drive a rig, and hired him.”
“How long ago?’
“About four weeks. Maybe five. I could check.”
“How often did he bring dogs up for you?”
“Every other week. I’ve got two drivers. They alternate weeks,” he says. “This was Zimmer’s third run. Of course, now I don’t have my truck, because the cops haven’t released it yet.”
“So what were Zimmer’s responsibilities?”
“He had a list of shelters down South; it’s pretty bad for unwanted animals down there. He’d call and make arrangements to get the dogs that they wanted to send up North. Then he had a list of shelters and rescue groups up here that would
take the dogs, and he just matched them up.”
“Then he’d drive from here?”
He nods. “Right. He’d leave on a Tuesday, spend a couple of days down there making stops, and head back up North to make whatever stops he had set up.”
“You make money doing this?” I ask.
“You make money as a lawyer? It’s what I do; it’s my occupation.”
“So it’s not about the dogs?”
He seems a bit insulted by this. “Hey, I’m saving the damn dogs, aren’t I? But at the end of the day, they’re dogs, right? And dogs are dogs.”
“You have a pen?” I ask. “Because I want to write that down; it’s really profound.” I pretend to write. “Dogs are dogs.”
He ignores the sarcasm. “So I’m doing a good thing, but I’m providing a service, and I’m getting paid for it.”
“You mind if I ask how much?”
“A hundred fifty a pop.”
“Not bad; not bad at all. Who pays the money?”
“The rescue groups that receive them. Then they charge the families that wind up taking them an adoption fee, so that makes them whole. So people wind up fine, and the dogs do even better.”
“Do your drivers tell you where they are getting the dogs and dropping them off for each trip?” I ask.
“Sure. They email me a list.”
“There were no records on Zimmer’s truck about any drop-offs he had arranged.”
“There had to be,” he says. “He must have been keeping track somehow.”
“Did he email you?”
He shrugs. “Let’s see.” He starts typing into the computer and after a minute says, “That’s weird. Never got it. First time that’s happened.”
“Any idea why?”
“None. You think the dogs have something to do with him getting killed?”
“I’m just gathering the facts,” I say, but the truth is I do not believe the dogs could have had anything to do with any of this. How could they have? I think Zimmer had a lot on his mind, and planning to confront and maybe kill Kramer would have been his first priority. Doing paperwork would have taken a distant back seat to that.
Rescued Page 5
