Outfoxed

by David Rosenfelt

  “Have you checked the GPS?” I ask. The base unit is at the shelter, so Willie would have had to have gone down there early this morning.

  “Just got back,” he says. “Boomer is in Freehold, the address I’ve got is a motel.”

  Freehold is about an hour south of Paterson, and the fact that Boomer is there tells me one of two things. One could be that Brian wanted to get out of the immediate area, where the publicity would be greater and there would be more chance that he would be noticed by someone.

  The other, more likely possibility is that he is simply stopping there on a trip to take him much farther away … he could even be hoping to escape to Mexico.

  I don’t know if I care much about him either way; I certainly don’t if he stabbed two people to death. But I do care about Boomer.

  When we rescue dogs, we enter into a covenant of sorts with them, in that we promise to be responsible for their welfare on a permanent basis, even after they go to a new home. The adopting owners know that if they ever cannot care for their new dog, we are there for them.

  “I’ll pick you up,” Willie says.

  “I need to think this through.”

  “You can think it through while I’m driving over there,” he says, and hangs up. It’s fair to say that Willie doesn’t hang on my every word.

  But I really do need to analyze this situation carefully, especially the legalities of it. While we are going to get Boomer, at the very least we probably also will learn the whereabouts of a fugitive wanted for murder.

  If it were just me, that wouldn’t be a problem. I remain Brian’s lawyer, so I have no obligation whatsoever to report his location to the authorities. In fact, I am prohibited by my oath from doing so.

  Willie’s position is somewhat different. My view is that even as a private citizen he does not have to turn Brian in, but there is one distinction: if he is asked specifically by a member of law enforcement if he knows where Brian is, then he has to surrender the information. Lying to the police is a crime.

  I’m not too worried about this; there would seem to be no reason for law enforcement to think that Willie might have the information. And I’m not breaking privilege by bringing Willie with me; since he has the GPS device, he is actually showing me where Brian is, rather than Brian having revealed it.

  So legally I think we’re fine, but that is not the only consideration. There is also the fact that Brian might have brutally murdered two people with a knife, is on the run, and might be less than welcoming to someone who shows up unannounced.

  Confronting a dangerous killer is something I have done involuntarily a number of times, and it wasn’t on my bucket list in the first place. My instincts about Brian still tell me that he would not do anything to hurt me, but he may be desperate and not completely familiar with the attorney-client-privilege concept.

  I could bring Marcus Clark, a private investigator that I often employ to protect me. I would feel comfortable confronting a Russian tank division with Marcus alongside me, but I’m not sure it’s necessary in this case.

  First of all, it might take a while to reach Marcus, and I don’t want to take a chance by giving Brian and Boomer more time to get farther away. But more important, I’ll have Willie with me.

  Willie is a martial arts expert, and the toughest and most fearless guy I’ve ever met, with the exception of the aforementioned Marcus. Willie spent seven years in prison for a murder he didn’t commit, and I represented him in the successful retrial. He had a number of violent skirmishes in prison, and if there is a prison version of The Ring Magazine, it would list him as undefeated.

  The third and final consideration is what we hope to accomplish, if anything, beyond getting Boomer back. I think I need to play it by ear; we will just have to react in the moment depending on Brian’s actions and attitude.

  I talk it out with Laurie, which is pretty much what I do about every topic more important than what to have for breakfast. She offers to go along, and as a former police officer licensed to carry a gun, she would make us a much more formidable group.

  But Ricky is home, and there’s no one to leave him with. We tend to shy away from having him meet vicious murderers on the run, even the alleged kind, so she’s going to stay here with him.

  Laurie agrees that Willie should be able to handle Brian, but she strangely makes no mention of my potential contribution in a confrontation. Her only suggestion is, “Stay behind Willie.”

  By the time Willie pulls up, I’ve decided that it makes sense for us to go, and I’ve established a few ground rules that Willie needs to be made aware of before we leave. We’ll take ten minutes to talk it out before heading out.

  I go outside and wait for Willie at the curb. He pulls up, reaches over, and opens the passenger door, and says, “Get in.”

  So I do.

  We can talk on the way.

  We switch roles after a few minutes; I drive and Willie gets in the passenger seat. It has nothing to do with our driving abilities; it’s because I don’t have a clue about how to work the GPS device. We need to be watching it, in case Brian and Boomer leave the motel before we get to Freehold.

  So Willie keeps it in his lap, alert for any sign that Boomer is moving. I use the time to tell him his legal obligations, and I extract a promise from him that he will not lie to law enforcement, in the unlikely event that he is ever asked if he knows where Brian is.

  Willie has an intense air about him that I have seen before, and that can be intimidating. He does not take kindly to being wronged, in any fashion. I suspect it’s a natural reaction for someone who had seven years of his life taken away from him.

  But he wants to, he needs to, immediately set things right, no matter what it takes. Boomer is his dog, and he will see to it that Brian regrets having taken him. Whether or not Brian is also a murderer doesn’t factor in to his thinking.

  “They’re moving,” Willie says, watching the GPS device.

  “They left the motel?”

  “Yeah, they’re on the road.”

  “Okay. I’m still going in the direction of the motel. You tell me how I should change the route.”

  Willie informs me that they’re heading for the Garden State Parkway, which makes sense if Brian wants to go south and get farther away from Paterson. He doesn’t seem to be driving particularly fast, a smart move since the last thing he would want is to be pulled over by a cop for speeding.

  I don’t want to be stopped either, but I’m more willing to risk it than Brian, since I am not wanted for murder. So I drive ten miles over the limit, and in the process we manage to make up a lot of ground on Brian and Boomer.

  We’re down near the Asbury Park exit when Willie says, “They’ve stopped.”

  “Did they turn off the road?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” he says. “Maybe he’s going to the bathroom, or getting something to eat.”

  It’s only about three minutes later when Willie says, “They’re just about a half mile from here.”

  About twenty seconds later we see a rest area on the right of the road. I only see one car parked there; I have no idea if it’s Brian’s or not. My guess is that he managed to rent a car, possibly with a fake ID. Who knows where he got that.

  Any question about whose car it is gets answered a few seconds later. There is Brian, near the side of the rest area building, walking Boomer on a leash. I turn off the highway and drive toward the building. There is no way to sneak up on him, so I might as well just drive toward them.

  Brian looks up and sees our car approaching. I can see the look of alarm on his face, but he doesn’t react physically. He just waits until Willie and I get out of the car and approach him.

  “How did you find me?” he asks.

  “There’s a GPS in Boomer’s collar,” I say.

  He smiles and pets Boomer on the head. Boomer in turn smiles and accepts the petting, apparently not understanding the seriousness of the situation. “So Boomer got me out of jail, and he
’s getting me back in.”

  “We’re not here to arrest you, Brian. We’re just here to take Boomer back.”

  He nods. “It’s better for him. Take care of him; he’s a great dog.”

  He leans down and pets and hugs Boomer. Then he hands the leash to me, and says, “I didn’t kill them, Andy.”

  I don’t answer him right away, which is just as well, because he couldn’t possibly hear me anyway. That is because the area is suddenly filled with the deafening sounds of sirens, as three cars come racing toward us, blinding lights flashing. Two are police cars, and the third might well be also, though it is unmarked.

  It is shocking, and while the humans in our group don’t move, Boomer has a different reaction. He pulls away, ripping the leash from my hand and running toward the oncoming cars.

  Brian seems to yell something, though that’s just a guess, since I can’t come close to hearing anything. He runs toward Boomer, who now stands frozen in the path of the cars. Brian grabs him just in time and yanks him out of the way, safe from harm. They both fall to the ground as the cars screech to a stop and the cops jump out.

  There are six officers in all. Five are in uniform, guns drawn. The one not in uniform, with no gun in sight, is Pete.

  They walk over to Brian, still on the ground with Boomer. Boomer, no dummy, senses they are not arriving with good intentions, and he growls at them, causing them to stop. Pete turns to me and says, “Take the dog.”

  I walk over and take Boomer’s leash. “Come on, buddy,” I say, and Boomer allows himself to be led away. I hand the leash to Willie, who pets him to calm him down, and then I walk back to Brian.

  By this point, the officers are cuffing his hands behind his back, and Pete is reading him his rights. When he’s finished, he turns to me and says, “Didn’t know where he was, huh?”

  I ignore that and speak directly to Brian, who has been brought to his feet. “You okay?”

  He nods. “Did you lead them here?”

  “I’m sorry; I must have, but I didn’t intend to.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Don’t say a word to anyone. Not one word to anyone other than me. You understand?”

  He nods again. “Are you my lawyer?”

  My turn to nod. “I’m your lawyer.”

  I’m really annoyed with myself. This does not exactly qualify as a major news event, as I am frequently annoyed with myself. For example, it happens every time I bet on the Giants and they lose by twenty.

  But this time, I really blew it, and I spend the ride back with Willie mentally beating myself up. It never entered my mind that Pete might have me followed, or be following me himself. I didn’t entertain the thought that he might not believe me when I said I didn’t know where Brian was, especially since when I said it I was being truthful.

  I’m also annoyed with Pete for assuming I was lying. Of course, had I known where Brian was at the time, I certainly would have lied, but that isn’t the point. Pete is my friend; if you can’t bullshit your friends, who can you bullshit?

  Legally, Pete was within his rights. He wasn’t in any way invading attorney-client privilege, because he had not obtained any information that intruded on it. Of course, no such information existed anyway, since Brian hadn’t told me where he was.

  What Pete did was smart police work, and what I did was stupid lawyer work.

  Hence my annoyance.

  Willie is mostly silent on the way back; he’s being respectful and letting me think things through. Boomer, sleeping in the backseat, hasn’t been very talkative either.

  We’re about twenty minutes away from home when Willie says, “What happens to Brian now?”

  “He’ll be taken back to the prison, and probably put in solitary, at least for the time being. They’ll charge him with the murders, and throw in the escape charge as well.”

  “He did escape,” Willie says.

  I nod. “Yeah, it’s pretty hard to deny that.”

  “You think he did the murders?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “It’s certainly possible.”

  “You going to represent him?”

  “I don’t know that either. But I’ll definitely take him through the arraignment. And if I don’t continue on, I’ll make sure he gets a good lawyer.”

  “As good as you?” he asks.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He laughs. “You’ll take the case right to the end.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You know why,” he says, with as much smugness as Willie can demonstrate.

  Of course, he’s right, and we both know what we’re talking about. “Those cars were bearing down on us, sirens blasting,” I say. “He was about to be captured and taken back to prison, and what does he do?”

  Willie smiles. “He saves Boomer, even though he could have been run down himself. So you figure a guy who would do that can’t be all bad.”

  “He can’t,” I say.

  “Which is why you’ll stay in it to the end.”

  What Willie doesn’t understand is that as a trained attorney and an officer of the court, I will examine all the relevant legal issues and make a thoughtful and reasoned analysis of my potential role in this case.

  What Willie does understand is that I’ll disregard that analysis and wind up taking the case because Brian risked his life to save Boomer.

  The beneficiary of Brian’s heroism, Boomer, is still sound asleep in the backseat. “Are you going to take him back to the foundation?” I ask.

  “Nah, I think I’ll take him home. He’s had a rough couple of days, and Cash can use the company.”

  Cash is the dog Willie and I found the day we won a ten-million-dollar wrongful arrest judgment for Willie after he was released from prison. Somehow the name seemed appropriate, and Cash went from a stray street dog to a life as a pampered mutt sucking down designer biscuits.

  There’s no sense in me going to the prison now. It will take time for them to reprocess Brian, and I think he’s smart enough to follow my instructions not to say anything.

  I usually like to see an arrested client at the earliest possible moment. They are scared and bewildered by what is happening, and have to adjust to new and intimidating surroundings. I try to calm and reassure them that I am there to help.

  But in this case, Brian is not facing anything new; the prison has been his home for quite a while. He’ll be fine, and I can see him in the morning. It will give me time to think things through. Tomorrow I can find out his side of it.

  All he had a chance to say to me today was, “I didn’t kill them.”

  That’s a start.

  I’m generally okay with most holidays. My favorite is Thanksgiving, a special combination of excellent food and televised football, which kicks off a weekend of excellent leftover food and more televised football. As far as most of the other holidays, my view of them has always been mostly positive, probably because their arrival usually means a day in which courthouses are closed.

  I’ve never liked New Year’s Eve; there’s always too much pressure to have fun. Trying to have fun in those kinds of situations just isn’t fun. At New Year’s Eve parties, you hang out with the same people you’re with all year, but suddenly you’re supposed to wear paper hats and blow on ridiculous plastic noisemakers. The only factor on the plus side is the knowledge that once you get past the Eve part, New Year’s Day is wall-to-wall college football.

  But the one holiday I absolutely hate is Halloween. I don’t mind the kids part; I’m fine with them getting dressed up and getting candy and stuff. I did that myself, in what seems like another lifetime. If the holiday ended there, I’d be good with it.

  It’s the adult portion of it that I can’t stand, and it never lets up. The morning news shows set the table, since all the announcers are costumed as they sit behind their desks. You’ve got people wearing mouse ears and a bushy tail reporting on a plane crash.

  I just don’t get it. I assume the
y have research that says that viewers like it, but I would sure hate to get trapped in an elevator with those viewers.

  Everywhere you look, adults are in ridiculous costumes. Tollbooth operators, tellers in the bank, cashiers in the supermarket … they all spend the day looking ridiculous in some misguided attempt to be funny.

  When I, Andy Carpenter, ascend to my rightful position as undisputed ruler of the world, I will decree that no adult can ever wear a mask, unless that adult is robbing a liquor store.

  While I’m at it, pumpkins are hereby banned from the kingdom. I don’t like the way they look. I don’t like their pies. I don’t like their lattes at Starbucks. I don’t like the faces people carve into them. I don’t like their soup. I don’t like their seeds. So they’re out of here; no exceptions.

  As long as I’m issuing holiday edicts, I think I’ll throw in a couple of December ones. Christmas music is to be allowed for one week only, starting on December eighteenth and ending at midnight on the twenty-fifth.

  Also, and this is an ironclad rule, newscasters are prohibited from pretending to be tracking Santa Claus’s flight from the North Pole. I have no idea why they do it; one certainly doesn’t have to check the comScore numbers to know that news show demographics do not include people of Santa-believing age. And who in their right mind would think it’s funny, year after year after year?

  I know some people are going to disagree with some of my decisions, but if they don’t like them, they shouldn’t have elected me ruler.

  Today is unfortunately October thirty-first, so I’m bombarded with Halloween stuff from the moment I wake up. The difference is that with Ricky in the house, I can’t walk around complaining about it. He’s excited by the holiday, and pumped by the Ironman costume that he and Laurie have come up with for his trick-or-treating tonight.

  Since it’s Saturday, Ricky will be home all day and he and Laurie are going to carve a pumpkin. She knows my feelings about the fruit, or vegetable, or whatever the hell it is, so she isn’t going to ask me to participate. I couldn’t do so anyway, because I have my own fun day planned.