First degree ac-2

  I call Willie and Kevin and tell them the news. Willie tells me that he's decided what he's going to do with some of the money. I assume he's going to buy a yacht on which he can tool around the inner city, but he tells me otherwise.

  "It's an investment," he says. "But it ain't gonna make any money."

  "Most investments are like that," I say. "But you don't usually know it going in."

  "I want you to come in for half," he says.

  I'm really not in the mood to deal with this insanity now, so I say, "After the trial, we'll talk to cousin Fred."

  Kevin comes over at noon, and along with Laurie and Edna, we sit around waiting for the call that we hope doesn't come for quite a while. At one point I get up and open a window; it's not hot, it's more to let the pressure out.

  At three-thirty, Edna answers the phone and nervously tells me that it's Rita Golden, the court clerk. It takes what seems like an hour and a half for me to walk the eight feet to the phone. There are a lot of things that this could be other than a verdict. The jury could want testimony read back, one of them could be ill, they're ending deliberations for the day, etc., etc. Any of the above would be fine with me.

  "Hello?" is my clever opening line.

  "Andy," Rita says, "there's a verdict. Hatchet wants everyone here at five o'clock."

  "Okay," I say, and she gives me a few more instructions. I hang up, turn, and break the news to Laurie, Kevin, and Edna. They've all been a part of our discussions hoping for a long deliberation, but no one voices the pessimism we all now feel.

  "What time are we leaving?" Laurie asks.

  "In about an hour," I say before dropping a bomb that Rita dropped on me. "Laurie, you're supposed to pack some things. Just in case …" I don't finish the sentence, since it would have sounded something like "Just in case last night was the last one you will ever spend out of prison."

  Laurie nods and goes to the bedroom to pack a suitcase. Kevin hasn't said a word; he's feeling exactly what I'm feeling. It's a sense of powerlessness and fear. The powerlessness comes from the awareness that our ability to influence events is over, and the fear is from knowing that those events have already been decided.

  The truly chilling part is that we both feel we have lost.

  The scene outside the courthouse is chaotic, but they get us through and into the courtroom just before the appointed time. Ever since we got the phone call, I've felt as if I'm watching things in slow motion, yet at the same time realizing that they're moving at high speed.

  Laurie hasn't said a word since we left the house; I don't know how she's bearing up under this pressure. Kevin has been spouting optimistic one-liners, none of which he truly believes. The bottom line is that how any of us are acting and feeling does not matter; the result has been determined, and within moments we are going to have to deal with it, one way or the other.

  Hatchet comes in, issues a stern, cautionary warning against outbursts after the verdict is read, and calls in the jury. Their faces are somber, expressionless; their eyes are averted from both the defense and the prosecution.

  Laurie leans over and whispers in my ear. "Andy, thank you. No matter what happens, you've done an amazing job. And I love you more than you can imagine." I don't know how to respond to a comment as caring and generous as that, so I don't.

  Hatchet instructs the foreman to give the verdict slip to the bailiff, who carries it over to the clerk.

  Hatchet says, "Will the defendant please rise?"

  Laurie stands quickly, almost defiantly. Kevin and I are on our feet a split second later, and I take Laurie's hand. I'm not sure which one the shaking is coming from.

  "The clerk will read the verdict."

  The clerk looks at the form for the first time and seems to read it silently for a few moments, as if she wants to be the only person besides the jury who knows how this ends. There is not another sound in the room, and her words come through so clearly that it is as if I am hearing them through a stethoscope. I know I'm standing on my legs, but I can't feel them.

  "We, the jury, in the case of the State of New Jersey versus Laurie Collins, find the defendant, Laurie Collins … not guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree."

  I'm sure the gallery must be in an uproar, I'm sure Dylan must be upset, I'm sure Hatchet must be banging his gavel, but I'm not aware of any of it. All I'm conscious of is a three-way hug between Laurie, Kevin, and myself, a hug so tight that I think they'll have to carry us from the room in this position and pry us apart at the hospital.

  Laurie tells us both that she loves us, and Kevin, his eyes filled with tears, keeps saying, "It doesn't get any better than this." He's wrong; it would be better than this if Barry Leiter were alive to see it.

  But this is pretty damn good.

  Hatchet thanks the jury, releases Laurie from custody, and adjourns the proceedings. Dylan comes over to offer his surprisingly gracious congratulations, and they take Laurie away for some quick processing and paperwork.

  When she comes back, she has a smile on her face and no bracelet on her ankle.

  She looks great.

  LAURIE DECLINES MY OFFER OF A GET-AWAY-from-it-all vacation to some island paradise. At this point, her idea of paradise is to live her life unshackled, to run errands with impunity, and to sleep in her own house every Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday.

  I've given Edna a couple of weeks off, and in fact haven't even moved the files and things back to my office. If it took me six months to get back in emotional work-mode after the Willie Miller case, I'm figuring six decades this time.

  The press conference was intense after the trial, again bestowing hero status on me. Surprisingly, it hasn't died down, though the focus has switched to Darrin Hobbs. New revelations seem to be leaking from the investigation daily, and it seems that there may have been as many as eight ex-army buddies who have been committing crimes under his protection. It appears almost inevitable that he is going to be arrested and charged.

  I've heard from Cindy Spodek, who is getting the hero treatment from the press and the cold shoulder from most of her colleagues. She tells me that the dominant emotion she feels is relief, and I know exactly what she means.

  The ever-unpredictable Willie Miller has reacted with apparent nonchalance to his sudden wealth, behaving responsibly and prudently. Fred has invested most of the money, leaving some aside for Willie to have some fun. It turns out that Willie's idea of fun is to buy a Volvo, because he's read in Consumer Reports that it's a really safe car.

  Willie, is that you? Willie?

  I'm going to get a firsthand look at the new Willie in a few minutes, as he's coming by the house to pick me up and drive me to what he says is going to be our investment together. He's keeping it a surprise, but I assume it's not going to be anything too formal, since he suggests I bring along Tara.

  Willie pulls up and I get in the beige Volvo. Tara jumps into the backseat with Cash, and I get in the front. After instructing me to put my seat belt on, Willie drives off.

  About fifteen minutes later we pull up at an abandoned, dilapidated building, with an old sign identifying it as once having been called the Haledon Kennels.

  "Come on," Willie says, and gets out of the car before I have the chance to tell him that this would not be a good investment, and I wouldn't want to run a kennel even if it were.

  Willie lets Tara and Cash out of the car, and they walk toward the door with us. It's locked, which is not a problem for Willie because he takes out a key and opens it.

  "You have a key?" is my perceptive question.

  "I should. I own the damn place. We own the damn place." This shows signs of being a disaster.

  We enter and I'm not surprised to discover that inside the dilapidated kennel is a dilapidated kennel.

  "What do you think?" Willie asks, positively beaming.

  I decide to be direct. "I think you're out of your mind."

  He's surprised and wounded. "Why? I thought you love dogs."
>
  "I do. But I don't want to take money from people to stuff their dogs in cages while they go on vacation."

  He laughs. "Is that what you think this is?" He points at Tara and Cash. "Look at them, man. Tara was gonna be killed in the animal shelter, and Cash would have been history if they caught him."

  I'm not understanding. "So?"

  "So we're the shelter," he says. "Come on, man. We rescue dogs from the other shelter, from the street, whatever, and we take care of 'em until we can find them homes. It'll be one of those nonprofit things, like a foundation or something."

  He's finally getting through to me. "Damn," I say in wonderment and admiration.

  "And I'm gonna run the place," he says. "That's gonna be my job."

  I put out my hand and shake his. "And I'm gonna be your partner."

  Willie and I spend the next couple of hours talking about our upcoming partnership. We discuss things like what we're going to do to the place, how we'll take care of the dogs, the need to get veterinary care, etc.

  I've spent the better part of a year looking for a charity to call my own, and Willie comes up with one a week after getting his money. I'm not about to abandon the needy otters, but I'm genuinely excited to have this project. I'm even more excited that Willie has agreed that we can call it the Tara Foundation. Cash doesn't seem to mind.

  I get home and call Laurie to tell her about the venture, but she's not home and I leave a message on her machine for her to call me. Tonight being Thursday, I won't be seeing her. I have no idea where she is. I'm not jealous or insecure, but I wonder how she'd feel about wearing an ankle bracelet so I can monitor her activities.

  I call Danny Rollins for the first time in months and place a bet on the Mets against the Braves. I order a pizza, grab a beer, sit with Tara on the couch, and start watching the game. Life is back to normal, and the last thing I remember before falling asleep is a Mike Piazza home run in the fourth inning.

  When I wake up, the television is off, but so are all the lights. My first reaction is to assume it's a summer power failure, due to overuse of air-conditioning in the hot weather. However, I can see a streetlight on outside, so the outage must be within the house.

  I'm annoyed as I stand, ready to grope around for my flashlight. I hear Tara barking near the back of the house. It is unusual for Tara to bark, and there is always a reason. The last time it was a head being buried on my property. In an instant I go from annoyed to scared, because I know that there is no way Tara would consider a blown circuit breaker a reason to bark.

  On a gut instinct level, I know what is going on.

  Darrin Hobbs.

  I make my way to the phone, but I'm not surprised to discover it has been shut off along with the power. My cell phone is in my car, and I don't think my chances of getting to it are very good.

  I hear Tara come into the room, moving toward the other side of the house. I can use her in this fashion as a sentry, but I know that Hobbs would not hesitate to shoot her.

  "Here, girl. Come here," I whisper.

  She comes to me, and I grab her collar and half coax, half drag her to the closet. I open the closet door and push her inside, closing the door as quietly as I can behind her. She starts barking again, but it's muffled, and she's relatively out of harm's way.

  Now it's just Hobbs and me. A Special Forces killing machine head-to-head with an out-of-shape, chickenshit attorney. I'm not thinking about winning; I'm thinking about escaping … about surviving.

  I inch out of the room, trying to make it to the back door of the house. It's very difficult in the darkness, and with the need to be perfectly quiet.

  "It's show time, asshole."

  It's Hobbs's voice in the darkness, but suddenly it's not completely dark anymore. There is the beam of a flashlight, moving back and forth slowly across the inside of the house. I duck down behind a couch as the beam approaches, but I'm very aware that eventually I will be found. And if I am found, I will be killed.

  I am more physically afraid than I have ever been in my life, but for some reason it is not a debilitating fear. My mind is totally alert, my senses exquisitely tuned, as I try to come up with a strategy for staying alive.

  And then I realize that silence is not my ally … it's his. I need noise, disruption, anything that will attract attention and cause him to move faster and with less caution. If he is free to take his time and methodically hunt me down, he will.

  I peer out and follow the beam of the flashlight. It helps me see where the window is, and I pick up a vase and throw it toward the window. I'm right on the mark, and it crashes through.

  Hobbs turns toward the noise, and I pick up a paperweight and throw it against a lamp, knocking it over and shattering it. All of this is making a racket, but not enough. I start screaming, "Help! Call the police!" at the top of my lungs, all the time moving from hiding place to hiding place.

  The beam of light glances on me once, while I'm on the move, and Hobbs fires his weapon, though the sound is muffled by what must be a silencer. The bullet misses me, but breaks another window. Good.

  I'm near the entrance to the hallway when an opportunity presents itself. I throw a plate down the hall, and Hobbs moves toward the entrance, not knowing that I'm there. Ironically, the flashlight allows me to see him, even though he can't see me. As he nears me, I leap for the light, crashing into it and Hobbs as hard as I can.

  I land on top of him and can hear him swear. The flashlight falls to the ground, casting a reflected aura on us as we fight.

  Fight is probably not the right word for it. I turn into a maniac, desperately trying to hang on to him, trying to rain blows on him, while all he wants to do is separate himself from me so he can take me apart. Or shoot me, if he is still holding the gun.

  We knock over a table, but he manages to back off for a moment and deliver a stinging blow to my forehead. I rush forward again, winding up and blindly throwing as hard a punch as I can. It connects, sending shooting pains through my hand as I land on him and we tumble into a cabinet filled with china and glassware, sending it crashing to the ground with a noise that may be louder than any I have ever heard.

  I feel like I hit him hard. My hand is aching and wet from what feels like blood, either his or my own. I summon the strength to try to do it again, while readying myself for his return barrage. But he's not retaliating, not attacking, not moving, and I realize that I've knocked him unconscious.

  Suddenly, the flashlight moves, rises on its own power, bewildering me, since Hobbs is lying at my feet.

  "Andy, are you okay?" is what Laurie says, as beautifully crafted a sentence as any I've ever heard.

  "I think so. It's Hobbs. I knocked him out."

  I can almost see her grin in the darkness. "So I shouldn't have shot him?"

  She points the light on Hobbs's face, and there is a neat little hole in his forehead, which I don't think was made by my fist.

  "No, you did fine … but it wasn't necessary. I used my right cross. It's the punch against which there is no known defense."

  I go to her and we hug, though I can feel that she is still holding the gun in her hand, just in case. "How did you know to come here?" I ask.

  "Pete called to tell me that they went to arrest Hobbs, but he had taken off. Pete tried to call you, but your phone wasn't working. I was worried, so here I am."

  "And you didn't think I could handle it?" I say with mock offense.

  Suddenly, the house is washed in light, streaming in from police cars outside. "Apparently, Pete had some doubts as well," she says.

  I let Tara out of the closet while Laurie goes outside to bring Pete and the other officers in. That gives me about sixty seconds to figure out a way to spin this so I seem heroic.

  It's not enough time.

  IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE HOW MUCH PROGRESS Willie and I have made in just seven weeks. The renovation of the building is almost complete, we've hired two permanent staff members, and we've arranged for veterinarian care. Willie h
as been amazingly focused and driven, and I thought he was going to cry when I told him I wanted him to be president of the Tara Foundation.

  Laurie is doing great. Her saving my life sort of evened the emotional score, enabling her to stop gushing her gratitude for my keeping her out of prison. I've decided not to belabor the point: that her intervention was not necessary and that neither Hobbs nor anyone else could have survived that right cross.

  Cousin Fred is in the office more than I am, counseling Edna and Kevin on their investments. Laurie is no longer thrilled to have to use her share of the Willie Miller settlement to pay for my legal work, and she's been quibbling over the bills.

  I've told her that the bills are justified, and I thought she had backed off, but she's just presented me with bills of her own. At first glance they seem unfair. Twenty thousand for a pancake seems high, but I could live with it if she weren't charging me for Kevin's.

  And you don't want to know her price for basil.

  More David Rosenfelt!

  Please turn this page for a preview of

  BURY THE LEAD

  available wherever books are sold.

  AS SOON AS I WALK IN, THE WOMAN GIVES ME THE eye.

  This is not quite as promising a situation as it sounds. First of all, I'm in a Laundromat. The actual name is the Law-dromat, owned by my associate Kevin Randall. Kevin uses this business to emotionally, as well as literally, cleanse himself of the rather grimy things we're exposed to in our criminal law practice. In the process he dispenses free legal advice to customers along with detergent and bleach.

  Also, the woman giving me this particular eye is not exactly a supermodel. She's maybe four feet eleven inches tall, rather round, and wearing a coat so bulky she could be hiding a four-gallon jug of Tide under it. Her hair is stringy and most likely not squeaky clean to the touch.