I overhear Laurie doing the ordering, and to my horror I actually hear her get artichoke on her pizza. I believe in live and let live, but there should absolutely be a law against artichoke pizza.
Kevin arrives at the same time as the pizza delivery man, and Marcus shows up thirty seconds later. We decide to postpone our trial-day rehash until after dinner, and we dig right in on the pizza.
Marcus eating pizza is a sight to behold. He takes three slices at a time and lays one on top of the other, face-to-face, with the third one in the middle. Then he eats it as a pizza sandwich, in maybe three bites.
Laurie, Kevin, and I don’t eat the crusts; instead we feed them to Tara and Waggy. But of course we wouldn’t dare suggest that to Marcus. At least I wouldn’t.
After Marcus has had four such sandwiches, he stands up, a strange look on his face, and walks toward the back of the house. He doesn’t say a word, which is not exactly a news event where Marcus is concerned.
“Where’s he going?” asks Kevin.
“Maybe he’s going hunting for more pizzas,” I say. “They’re in season.”
The three of us continue eating the cheese portion of the pizza and feeding the crusts to Tara and Waggy. Waggy tries to butt in and get every piece, which clearly annoys Tara, but she’s too lady-like to do anything about it. She leaves it to us to make sure she gets her fair share.
Marcus comes back holding what appears to be a hamburger in his hand. “Where’d you get that?” Laurie asks.
“I don’t think hamburger hunting season starts until September,” I say to Marcus. “I hope the game warden didn’t see you.”
Marcus puts the hamburger at the edge of the table. “Yard,” he says, which I assume means he found it in the yard. It takes a moment for the significance of this to hit me, and during that same moment Waggy moves toward the burger.
“NNNNNNOOOOO!” I scream, as loud as I can, and I make a dive toward Waggy and the table. Waggy, forced to decide whether to keep moving toward the hamburger, or to get out of the way of this screaming, middle-aged lunatic, makes the wise choice. He backs away, huddled down toward the floor, fearful.
I grab the hamburger and, without thinking, run into the kitchen and throw it into the sink. By this time, everyone has followed me into the kitchen, no doubt amazed at behavior that is bizarre, even by my standards.
“What is going on?” Laurie asks.
For the first time in my memory, I am more interested in talking to Marcus than Laurie. “That was in the yard?” I ask. “Just lying there?”
He nods. “Yuh.”
“Did you hear anything? Is that what made you go outside?”
“Yuh,” he repeats. This conversation is moving right along.
“You think somebody threw it there?” Laurie asks, as it starts to dawn on her. “You think it could be poison?”
“You’d be amazed at how few hamburgers are thrown into my yard at night,” I say, which is another way for me to say yes.
“We need to get it tested,” Kevin says.
I call Pete Stanton, tell him that I am reporting a possible crime, and ask him to come out with a forensics team.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Somebody threw a hamburger into my backyard.”
“Those bastards,” he says. “I’m sending out a SWAT team, and I’ll tell them to bring ketchup.”
“I think they were trying to poison Waggy,” I say.
“Who the hell is Waggy?”
“Walter Timmerman’s dog. Trust me on this one, Pete. There are some things I haven’t told you about the Timmerman murder and Jimmy Childs.”
“Are you going to tell me when I get there?”
“If I have to.”
“If you don’t, I’m not going to get there.”
I agree to tell him the story, and he’s there within twenty minutes with two officers and a forensics expert. Within fifteen minutes, only Pete remains, and the hamburger has been taken away for a rush test.
“Okay,” Pete says after they’ve left. “Let’s hear it.”
I’m not sure why I haven’t told Pete that Childs had killed the Timmermans and been targeting Waggy; I guess it’s just a habit for me to err on the side of not sharing information with anyone not on the defense team. But there’s nothing about any of it that causes any additional jeopardy for Steven, and I’m not breaking a confidence, so I bring Pete up to date.
“Marcus is sure about this?” Pete says, directing the question at me even though Marcus is in the room. Pete has as much trouble talking to Marcus as I do.
“Marcus is not involved in this in any way,” I say. “The anonymous caller who told me Childs was in the river sounded quite sure, though.”
“But he didn’t say why Childs killed the Timmermans, or why he wanted to kill their dog?”
I shake my head. “No, he didn’t mention that.”
“Have you used your tremendous investigating skills to uncover the reason?”
“Not quite.”
He pauses a few moments to take this all in. “So your client is on trial for two murders, and not only do you know he’s innocent, but you know who actually did it.”
“Yes,” I say.
“And you can’t do shit about it.”
“Not yet.”
He shakes his head in amazement at my predicament. “You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I actually feel sorry for you.”
“That’s a great comfort.”
Laurie, Kevin, Pete, and I kick it around for another half an hour, accomplishing absolutely nothing. Pete’s cell phone rings, and he answers it. “Stanton.”
He listens for a while, says “thanks,” and disconnects the call.
“Two ounces of pure arsenic. If the dog had eaten that, he’d have been dead inside of a minute.”
“Hatchet better rule in our favor,” I say. “We cannot let this dog leave this house.” I look over at the dog in question, Waggy, who is chewing on a toy and doesn’t seem distressed by the goings-on.
But I sure as hell am.
IT DOESN’T TAKE LONG for my worry to prove justified. Even though it is Saturday, Hatchet issues a ruling on the court Web site directing me to turn Waggy over to Robinson immediately. Robinson is hereby named Waggy’s custodian, though the ruling is deemed temporary, and can be revisited at the conclusion of the Timmerman trial. Hatchet does not promise to reconsider his decision in the event Steven is acquitted; he merely retains the right to do so.
Hatchet also directs that Waggy be housed at Pam Potter’s training facility for the first month, to be evaluated as to his promise as a show dog. It seems to be a concession to me, but the ruling as a whole is a disaster.
Hatchet’s ruling also makes it clear that an appeal will be of no avail. He will not stay his ruling, which means that Waggy will be with Robinson while the appeal is considered. This won’t exactly be a high-priority case for an appeals court, and a decision could take months. With the danger Waggy is in, hours could be too long.
Kevin agrees to take Waggy to Potter’s facility, since I can’t bring myself to do so, and I tell him to ask for a tour when he gets there, and to remember everything he can about the place.
“Why?” he asks.
“So that I can make sure Waggy’s well taken care of and safe,” I lie.
I go upstairs, where Waggy is hanging out with Tara. “Waggy,” I say, “you’re going somewhere with Kevin, but you won’t be there long.”
Waggy seems happy enough about the turn of events, smiling all the while. Tara, however, is significantly wiser, and she stares at me. It is not a trusting look.
“I’m telling you, it won’t be long.” If Tara is mollified, you can’t tell it by her stare. “What, you don’t believe me?”
She walks over and licks Waggy’s head, which I take as her way of telling me that Waggy is her friend, and nobody screws around with Tara’s friend.
I have known Tara for eight years and have never lied to
her, and right now, right this minute, she thinks I’m full of shit.
“Tara, he will be back here tomorrow night.”
“I’M NOT GOING TO KIDNAP WAGGY,”
I say to Laurie, Kevin, and Marcus.
“You called us here on Sunday morning to tell us that?” Kevin asks.
“Yes, but I would like to discuss, purely on a hypothetical basis, how it could be done if someone wanted to do it.”
“Hypothetically,” Laurie says.
I nod. “Yes. Perhaps we could then take the information and provide it to his new owner as a guide to how he can protect him better.”
“It’s good that it’s hypothetical,” Kevin says, “because if you were really to kidnap him, you would be committing a felony and could face prison time, to say nothing of the loss of your license to practice law.”
Everybody in the room knows I am serious about this, and everybody also knows that Kevin is right. Taking Waggy will not be fun and games; it is a serious crime that I am considering.
On the other hand, two attempts have been made on Waggy’s young life, and he is now very possibly also in the control of the man who has ordered those attempts. My desire not to break the law is strong, but not quite as strong as my desire to prevent this dog from being killed.
“You’re certainly right about that,” I say. “So let’s leave it as a hypothetical, and let’s start by you describing the training facility where Waggy is being kept. Take your time, and do it as completely as you can.”
Kevin describes the place in extraordinary detail. It is a large indoor facility about twenty yards from Potter’s house. It has twenty holding areas, larger than normal dog runs but too small to be called rooms, and each has an entrance accessible from outside. Unfortunately, he has no idea which one Waggy will be kept in.
Once Kevin is finished, I suggest that he leave. Kevin is far too dedicated to the law to participate in a crime, no matter how worthy he considers its purpose. He seems grateful for the opportunity to get out now, but cautions me to be very careful.
Once Kevin is gone, I ask, “If I were to announce a change in this from hypothetical to real, would either of you want to leave?” I’ve already talked to Laurie about this, and she has great reservations. She’s a police officer, but she’s a dog lover, and at this moment I don’t know what she’ll decide.
“I’m staying,” she says.
“Marcus?” I ask.
He nods. “We get the dog.”
“Good. I thank you, and Waggy thanks you.”
We spend the next few hours planning the operation, and though it seems like a solid approach, I’m feeling very uncomfortable about it. I’m going to be crossing a line I’ve never crossed before, and it is a very disconcerting feeling.
Laurie will have no active part in the kidnapping; it will just be Marcus and me. Getting in and out would ordinarily not present a major problem, but it will be complicated by the dogs barking like crazy when we arrive on the scene. This will no doubt be exacerbated by the fact that we will have to search room by room until we happen upon Waggy.
The plan is to bring Waggy back here, at least until we can figure out something else to do with him. I don’t want to involve more people in this, so asking Willie to take him is out. For the time being he can stay inside, with quick walks out to a small secluded yard on one side near the back of the house, and Marcus will stay around to ward off any intruders.
But first we have to get him, and we wait until cover of darkness to do so. It is Marcus’s idea to bring Tara with us; it’s possible that her sense of smell will lead us to Waggy’s room, so that the operation can be done much more quickly.
The three of us get to the house at almost midnight. It is in an isolated area of Mahwah, and there is little doubt that Potter chose this secluded setting so that there would not be neighbors for her barking dogs to annoy. Obviously, the lack of neighbors works very much in our favor.
We all had different ideas for how to pull this off, but Laurie came up with the best one. We park about two hundred yards away, and both put on gloves. Marcus gets out by himself and throws a few rocks close enough so that the dogs can hear them. They start to bark in unison, and within two minutes lights go on in Pam Potter’s house.
From my vantage point at the car, I can see her go out to the dog compound and look around, trying to see what set them off. When she can’t find any obvious disturbance, she goes back into her house. Within another minute, the lights go back off in the house.
Tara and I start walking toward the compound, with Tara on a leash. I assume Marcus is executing the next part of the plan, which is to place devices on the front and back doors of the house that will prevent those doors from being opened from the inside. If Potter gets up again to check on what is happening with the dogs, she’ll find she can’t get out of her house. By the time she realizes it and calls 911, we hope to be long gone with Waggy.
Marcus meets us about fifty yards from the house. “Did you lock her in?” I whisper.
“Yuh.”
“Let’s go.” We move toward the compound with the dogs in it. In the moonlight, it appears to be exactly as Kevin described it.
“Tara, we need you to find Waggy. Find Waggy.” As I say it, I cringe with some embarrassment; I feel like Timmy talking to Lassie. But Tara wags her tail, and we head for the dogs.
We’re about fifteen yards from the compound when the dogs sense our presence and start to bark. Tara leads us down a long row of rooms, and I’m afraid she’s just checking out the place, not Waggy-hunting. But suddenly she stops, and there’s Waggy, tail pounding and reveling in the excitement of it all.
Marcus takes out a device and breaks the lock, then steps in and slaps a leash on Waggy. As he does so, I can see the lights go on in the house again. Within moments Potter is going to find out that she’s a prisoner, and will call 911. It suddenly strikes me as a mistake that we didn’t cut the phone line; I assume that Marcus could have easily accomplished that.
Within seconds we’re running to the car, and we get in and drive away, with Marcus and me in the front seat, and Tara and Waggy in the back. I’m exhilarated by what we have accomplished; there’s a Bonnie-and-Clyde feeling to it. The only problem is that I want to be Clyde, but Marcus would be rather miscast for the role of Bonnie.
I listen intently for sirens all the way home, but there are none. When we get there, Laurie is waiting anxiously for us. We update her on how flawlessly her plan went, and then Marcus and Waggy head down to their hiding place in the basement, while Laurie, Tara, and I go upstairs to bed.
I lie in bed for an hour, unable to sleep. What we did tonight almost seems surreal. But it wasn’t. In fact, the justice system has some very real terms for it, like “breaking and entering,” and “grand larceny.”
Laurie wakes up and sees me with my eyes open. “Can’t sleep?”
“No,” I say. “Not so far.”
“Does the fact that you’re now a felon have anything to do with it?”
“No. I’m just planning my next job. I’m thinking maybe a bank.”
“Good night, Andy.” “Good night, Bonnie.”
THEY’RE GROWING A STRANGE CROP of college professors these days, and Dr. Stanley McCarty is as strange as they come. First of all, he looks like he’s about seventeen years old, with hair halfway down to his shoulders. He is wearing jeans and sneakers, with a white buttondown shirt that is buttoned all the way to the neck.
When Sam introduces him to me, he doesn’t make any gesture to shake hands, but instead says “hey” and walks past me into the house. He goes to the large-screen TV on the wall in the den and spends about three minutes examining it, even seeming to caress it. Then he says, “Very cool,” and comes back to Sam and me.
I’ve got a feeling that if I bring him in as an expert witness, Hatchet will hold him in contempt before he even opens his mouth.
“So my man here says you need to talk to me,” McCarty says, and I have to ass
ume that Sam has earned the designation “my man” in record time.
“I do,” I say. “Thanks for coming over.”
“No prob.”
“You work with DNA?” I ask.
He smiles. “The whole world works with DNA.”
“But it’s your specialty?”
“Hey, I never thought of myself as having a specialty, but let’s go with genetics.”
“Did you know Walter Timmerman?” I ask.
“Met him once. Didn’t really know him, which is okay, because he didn’t know me, either.”
By this point in the conversation, Sam and I have made eye contact at least a dozen times. If malicious eye contact could kill, Sam’s song-talking days would be over for good.
“I need to find out what Timmerman was working on when he died,” I say.
“You got his notes?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“What do you have?”
“Pretty much nothing.”
“Nothing?” he asks.
“Basically. At least no real facts.”
McCarty looks at Sam, as if I’m the lunatic in the room. He may be right. Then he turns back to me. “You see the problem here, right?”
I nod as I hand him a copy of the e-mail that Robert Jacoby sent to Timmerman, expressing surprise that he had sent him his own DNA to test. “Take a look at this.”
McCarty takes the e-mail and reads it. He’s either the slowest reader in America, or he’s reading it a number of times. Finally, he nods. “Okay. What else?”
“The FBI had an entire task force assigned to Timmerman, all because of what he was working on. They said it was important to national security.”
McCarty just nods, silently, so I go on. “And I believe that Timmerman was murdered because of that same work.”
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