Rescued

by David Rosenfelt

  Now her expression is bemused, leading me to believe the prosecution is not quite intimidated. “What is your defense?”

  “Innocence, purity, and goodness.”

  Another laugh. “I’m just glad I’ll be there the day you argue that to the jury.”

  “Good. It will give you something to look forward to. Are we done here?”

  “I’ll take one more shot at this. Andy, I don’t need or want this to pad my résumé, and the state doesn’t need the expense of a trial. If you want to talk to your client about this, you’ve got forty-eight hours. But I can only make this offer once.”

  “Carla, I rejected it thirty seconds ago. So technically, you’re already making the offer twice.”

  She smiles. “Then yes, we’re done here. And just so you’ll know, I lied about not wanting to pad my résumé. This will fit in very nicely. So now we can get to the chitchat. How long have you and Laurie been together?”

  “Married three years, together for seven.”

  “Laurie is wonderful,” she says.

  “I am keenly aware of that.”

  “You must have something going for you that isn’t readily apparent,” she says. “I mean, besides the wiseass attitude.”

  “I’m an onion. One has to peel me one layer at a time.”

  “I hear you’re a good lawyer.”

  “Stop … I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”

  The meeting was a waste of time in terms of learning more about the prosecution’s case. I already knew what she recounted, and that’s either because she was too smart to say more or because that’s all she has.

  But the fact of the matter is that right now they have more than enough and plenty to convince a jury. Even though I am quite sure that Kramer will not take her offer, I do feel an obligation to relay it, and I can’t even say he’d be wrong to take it. The likelihood is that he’s going to get worse at trial.

  At this point, we basically have no defense, which is not a really good position for the defense to be in. The truth, or at least the truth as our client presents it, is that he was acting in self-defense, that Zimmer lured him there to kill him.

  But so far, we truly have no evidence of that to point to. What evidence there is shows that Zimmer had no weapon except his bare hands, and no one would believe that he would reasonably use that approach to kill Kramer, especially since Kramer had previously demonstrated an ability to dominate Zimmer physically.

  The only thing I can think of, and it’s just grasping at straws, is that there was someone else on the truck who took the weapon. But at this point I wouldn’t dare tell that to the jury, because the video camera footage doesn’t back me up.

  So my efforts thus far have been to show Zimmer to be a bad guy, capable of doing the luring and killing. But even if I can show that, even if I could somehow present testimony that Zimmer wanted Kramer dead, I still cannot demonstrate our version of what happened on that truck.

  I have to trust Kramer’s version, whether I fully believe it or not. So I need to focus on Zimmer’s motive. He waited a long time to get his revenge. If he was self-motivated, then we’re in trouble. If someone else put him up to it, maybe the third person on the truck, then we have a shot. Especially if that third person is the source of Zimmer’s sudden receipt of $75,000.

  But we need to know who and why.

  Getting put in dangerous situations is not why I went to law school. Actually, I can’t remember why I went to law school at all. I think it was probably a combination of me following in my father’s footsteps and not being able to hit the curveball. So with major-league baseball eliminated as a possibility, I went the father route.

  But Nelson Carpenter, my dad, is a perfect example of what I’m talking about. He had a long and very distinguished career as a criminal prosecutor, and I can’t ever recall a situation in which he was at risk of physical violence. Yet it seems to happen to me all the time.

  Tonight will be an excellent example. I’ll be going to the bar where Zimmer had hung out to talk to his buddies. The bartender described the potential meeting in a rather ominous fashion. I’m a total coward, but on the Carpenter scare-o-meter, it only ranks at about a four out of ten.

  I’m just going to ask a few questions, and though they might be enough to annoy the Gang of Four, I won’t press it that much. And the important thing is that the meeting will convene in a public place, from which I could back out at a time of my choosing. Backing out is a specialty of mine.

  But because there is at least some danger, Laurie and I commence the obligatory pre-danger conference. Laurie believes I would have trouble defending myself in a contentious Girl Scout gathering, and while I pretend otherwise, she happens to be right.

  So she insists on going with me to the bar. As a former cop, and an investigator licensed to carry a firearm, she can easily handle the situation. As a lawyer licensed to carry a briefcase, we both know I would be less effective.

  But since I also spend time pretending to be a real man, I refuse to put her in danger. “I can deal with this,” I say.

  “Really?” she asks. “When did you develop that capability?”

  “There’s a whole side of me you don’t know. A fearless, throw-caution-to-the-wind side.”

  “You don’t like wind. It messes up your hair.”

  I nod. “Right. But I deal with it, because of the fearless thing. Besides, you can’t go with me to beat up four hoods in a bar; we don’t have a babysitter.”

  “You’re not going alone.”

  Thus we have gotten to the same place we always get in these arguments. It’s a decision that eases her mind and also indulges my pathetic need to not depend on a woman.

  We say it at the same time.

  “Marcus.”

  The bartender said that Zimmer’s friends arrive at nine o’clock, so I want to get there within ten minutes after that. There’s no reason to give them time to drink and get a buzz; the soberer they are, the less likely they are to mess with Marcus.

  The way we usually work situations like this is Marcus picks me up and we drive to the meeting place. Marcus then goes in with me and intervenes if I need intervening. But his very presence sets an intervention-discouraging tone.

  I have decided to play this one a little differently, mainly because I’m not that worried. Marcus is going to arrive at eight thirty and take a seat at the bar. Then he’ll call me when the group arrives, and I’ll show up a few minutes later.

  Without them knowing that Marcus is with me, the conversation might go more smoothly, and I might learn more of whatever there is to learn. If it doesn’t go smoothly, Marcus will be there.

  Laurie hugs me when I leave; she does it more intensely than if I were going to mail a letter. I think she probably assumes I can come back from a mailbox relatively intact.

  I park about four blocks from the bar and wait for Marcus’s call. It comes at nine o’clock sharp; Zimmer’s pals are obviously prompt creatures of habit.

  Just like every time I face possible danger, my instinct is to turn around and go home, but I overcome it and drive to the bar.

  I walk in and see that it’s more crowded than this morning, but not exactly packed. There are maybe fifteen or so patrons, three of whom are standing at the pool table in one corner. In another corner, hard to miss, are the four guys the bartender spoke about. Three of them are large and tough looking, at least by my standards. The fourth is average size and tough looking.

  Marcus sits at the bar, nursing a beer and watching me enter. His seat is about fifteen feet from the table where the guys are sitting. I walk straight toward the table, and as I get close, I grab a chair from an adjacent table and pull it along with me.

  “Hey, guys, you mind if I join you for a few minutes?” I say as I sit down.

  “You the lawyer working for the guy that killed Zim?” asks one of the large ones. He’s also the one closest to my chair.

  This question tells me a couple of things. One is that
the bartender passed the word to these guys about me and the fact that I’d be here. The other is that Zimmer’s friends called him “Zim.”

  These are the kinds of clues that I need.

  “I’m trying to figure out who killed him, and I’m hoping you can help with that.”

  “You got thirty seconds to get out of here, or tomorrow another lawyer will be trying to figure out who killed you.”

  “I just have a few questions. If Zimmer was your friend, you should want to find out the truth.”

  “Now you got ten seconds,” the big guy says, even though I don’t think twenty seconds had passed since his last warning.

  I look toward the bar and say loudly, “Oh, my God, it’s Marcus Clark! Marcus, come on over here. I want you to meet my friends.”

  Marcus is at the table in about two seconds, but he doesn’t seem to have rushed. Marcus appears to glide.

  “Talk about a coincidence,” I say. “Marcus, what are you doing here?”

  Marcus just grunts; it sounds like nfft.

  “Well, that explains it,” I say. “Guys, meet Marcus Clark. Marcus, these are Zim’s buddies. Guys, Marcus is my buddy.”

  The big guy says, “Now you and your friend both have five seconds to get the hell out of here.”

  “I’m confused,” I say. “Is that five seconds for each of us, or five total?”

  He clearly has timing issues, but doesn’t seem inclined to discuss them, because he stands up, no doubt to enforce his threat. I’m not particularly concerned; the closer Marcus is, the braver I get.

  Marcus doesn’t even seem to move, but he must have, because the man drops back to his seat, and his head moves forward and down to the table. There is a slight thud when it hits, the group hasn’t had time to order any food, so there aren’t any french fries or chicken wings on the table to cushion the impact.

  Nobody else in the place seems to hear the thud or notice what has happened. Marcus must be like a physical ventriloquist; he does things with his body but you can’t tell that he moved. At the end of this particular lightning-fast demonstration of his skill, there are still four of Zimmer’s friends at the table, but only three are conscious.

  The three of them seem stunned into silence, so I jump back in. “So let’s get back to the questions, only we should talk softly, so we don’t wake up your friend here.”

  “How did he do that?” The speaker is the guy next to the unconscious one. He didn’t see Marcus move either.

  “No, I meant let’s get back to my questions, not yours. Why did Zimmer call Kramer to set up a meeting?”

  The three of them look at each other, then at their unconscious friend, and then at Marcus. Then the new lead speaker says, “We don’t know; Zim never mentioned anything about it.”

  “Had you noticed anything different about him in the weeks before he died? Did he talk about anything unusual? Or act strangely?” I’m floundering here; I know so little that I don’t know what to ask.

  “He started spending money. Buying drinks for everybody, talking about the stuff he was going to do.”

  “Where did he get the money?” I ask.

  This time the man hesitates; this cooperation thing is not coming naturally to him.

  “The answer is really important to Marcus,” I say.

  “I don’t know. He said he made some contacts; that pretty soon he was going to be set up for good. He said he’d introduce us when the time was right.”

  “Who were the contacts?”

  “I told you, I don’t know. But just ’cause Zim said it doesn’t mean it was true. He could bullshit with the best of them.”

  A few more questions do not get us any new information; Zimmer may have used these guys as drinking buddies rather than confiding buddies. Marcus and I get up to leave, just as the unconscious guy is starting to stir.

  “Tell him it was a pleasure meeting him,” I say.

  As I am leaving, I hear one of the three buddies ask the others, “Did you see him do that?”

  Victor Andreson was a semi-frequent patron of the Marriott Marquis hotel in Times Square.

  He visited almost every time he was in New York on business, which was probably eight or ten times a year.

  Victor didn’t stay there as a guest. It was a perfectly fine hotel, but he was used to much more elite accommodations. Victor came to this hotel for a very specific reason.

  He used a very upscale escort service, and they took a room that he reimbursed them for as part of the overall cost. It was always a suite, because even as a visitor, Victor had certain standards.

  Victor chose the hotel, because while he wasn’t a huge celebrity, he had been featured in many business publications and had done quite a few television interviews over the years. The chance of being recognized was slim, but in a huge place like this hotel, he could more easily achieve anonymity.

  It was always the same room, 1431, but rarely the same woman waiting there for him. Victor wanted it that way, and the service had never provided anyone that left him disappointed.

  He never wanted to stop at the desk to get a key, because he wanted to avoid all personal contact. It reduced the chance of someone realizing who he was. So he went up to the fourteenth floor and knocked on the door.

  Today, it was a woman who gave her name as Nancy who opened it. He had no idea if that was her real name, and it was of no consequence to him either way. All he cared about was that she was beautiful, and she certainly was, and that she was talented, and she proceeded to demonstrate that once the door was closed.

  Victor had no interest in staying around after they were done. He never did, but in this case, he was running late for a dinner meeting, so he made an even quicker getaway than usual. He gave Nancy three hundred-dollar bills as a tip for a job well done and never expected to see her again.

  Once Manning saw Victor leave the hotel, he went up to the fourteenth floor and knocked on the door. Nancy opened it to let him in; she was expecting him.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “Fine. Seemed like a nice guy.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, he’s terrific. But his life is about to take a turn for the worse. You got his prints?”

  “All over the room. Should even be some on those hundreds.” She pointed to the bills he had left on the night table. She then realized she shouldn’t have mentioned that but tried, “Can I keep them?”

  “There’s others where those came from. We already agreed on a price.”

  She smiled; the price they agreed on was more than all she had made in the past year.

  “So now I make the call?”

  “No,” Manning said and then turned and slapped her hard across the face, drawing blood. Then he did it twice more, examined his work, and did it twice more again. It left her cowering in the corner of the room, crying.

  “You didn’t have to hit me so hard,” she said through her sobs.

  “I’ll do what I want when I want,” Manning said. “You need to be more grateful; you’re making a lot of money. And you know what? There are some people that don’t give a damn about you. I am the only reason you will stay alive. You understand?”

  Nancy didn’t answer, so Manning repeated, with more of an edge in his voice, “You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now you make the call,” he said. “You remember the number? It’s 911.”

  Kenny Zimmer apparently waited two years after his assault by Kramer to attempt revenge.

  I doubt that he believed in the “revenge is a dish best served cold” theory, so there has to be another reason for the delay. And another reason beyond revenge.

  That reason clearly must be money. Suddenly Zimmer got a benefactor who gave him seventy-five grand and maybe promised more in the future. I believe that the sudden influx of money, and the sudden desire to contact Kramer and get revenge, are without question related.

  The seventy-five would make a nice down payment on a hit, and I don’t see what else Kenny had
to offer that would be of similar value. This theory also fits in neatly with the “third person on the truck” assumption.

  We are going to be forced into a self-defense approach at trial. Not only is it the truth, but we have to justify Kramer’s actions in the moment. Regardless of the background between Kramer and Zimmer, and regardless of Zimmer’s reason for wanting him on that truck, we have to get the jury to believe that Kramer did not simply take out his gun and shoot an unarmed man.

  But Carla is right; based on the available evidence, the case is a slam dunk for the prosecution. So we have to demonstrate at the very least that Zimmer wanted Kramer dead when he lured him onto that truck. And we have to further show at least the viability that there was a third person there, a person who could have removed the weapon and would have had a reason to.

  We have been looking at Zimmer’s life, and we must continue to do so, but that is not where the ultimate answer can be found. The answer is in Kramer’s life, because Kramer is the straw that stirred this drink. Kramer is the one who someone wanted out of the picture; Zimmer was simply the vehicle sent to make it happen.

  I had asked Kramer to prepare three lists. One should include all his current clients, one his less recent clients, and the other anyone who might have enough of a grudge against him to want him dead. None of the information about the relationship between him and his clients would be privileged, because Kramer is an investigator, not an attorney.

  Hike is down at the jail getting the lists from Kramer, which gives me some time to go down to the foundation and see how things are going with the new dogs. I had asked Sondra to check with rescue groups in New England to learn if they had been expecting any dogs from this collection, and she tells me that she’s finished doing so.

  “None of the groups or shelters know anything about these dogs, Andy. I’m not sure where he was going with them.”

  “Have any of them offered to take any?”

  “A few, but not really enough to make it worthwhile. Willie thinks we should place them ourselves; you know how he gets. But this time I agree.”