Dog Tags

by David Rosenfelt

  “Get to the favor part,” I say.

  “All in good time. Anyway, Billy was also in the National Guard, and he volunteered to go to Iraq. He was there less than a year and got his leg blown off. So he comes back and gets screwed by everybody. Medical care is bad; it was like they were doing him a favor by treating him. And all he could do on the force was get a desk job, which is not for Billy. So he told them to shove it.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted his old job back, working the streets.”

  “With one leg?”

  “He has a prosthetic; it works fine,” Pete says. “He could outrun you.”

  “So can my grandmother,” Vince says.

  “Both your grandmothers are dead,” I say.

  He nods. “Either one of them could still spot you ten yards in the hundred and wipe the track with you.”

  I’m not going to get anywhere by talking to Vince, so I turn my attention back to Pete. “So he wants me to represent him?” I ask, cringing.

  “Maybe. We didn’t talk about it,” Pete says. “But that’s down the road.”

  The answer surprises me. “What’s up the road?”

  “His dog.”

  “He wants me to take his dog?” I ask, my relief probably showing through. Willie and I have already placed hundreds of dogs through our foundation, and adding one is no hardship at all.

  “No. He wants you to defend his dog.”

  “From what?”

  “The government.”

  “HE’S LIKE A CELEBRITY HERE, ANDY.”

  Fred Brandenberger is talking about Milo, who has been placed in the Passaic County Animal Shelter. Fred is the shelter director, a thankless job in a world in which there are far more dogs and cats than available homes.

  I am following through on Pete’s request for me to try to help his friend by helping his friend’s dog. The first step in that process is to visit with my new “client,” whom Fred tells me is occupying a special dog run in the back of the shelter.

  “What do you mean by ‘celebrity’?” I ask.

  “Well, for one thing, four cops came with animal control when they brought him in. Then they told me I couldn’t take him out, not even for a walk.”

  It hits me that it’s probably the dog I saw under police siege the other night. “Is it a German shepherd?” I ask.

  “How did you know?”

  “I was there when the arrest went down. But you can do whatever you want with him,” I say. “This is your show here.”

  “I don’t think so,” he says. “You’ll see what I mean in a second.”

  Fred brings me into a back room that I’ve never been in before, and which I didn’t realize existed. The room is completely empty except for a large dog run against the back wall. In that run is the same German shepherd, pacing in his five-by-eight space, as if frustrated and not completely understanding or tolerating the fact that he is a prisoner. When they say that someone is acting like a caged animal, this is literally what they’re talking about.

  I’ve got a thing about dogs; I am totally and completely crazy about them. I thumb through Dog Fancy the way most guys look at the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. And this dog is even more spectacular than he looked in the dark the other night; there is immediately no doubt that he does not belong in these circumstances, and I am going to change them.

  He is getting out.

  Sitting on a chair in front of the run, and complicating matters considerably, is a uniformed police officer. He stands when he sees us, and lets his hand rest on his holstered gun.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “Guarding the dog?”

  “Who are you?”

  We seem to be asking a lot of questions, but none of them are getting answered. I decide to break that streak. “I’m the dog’s lawyer.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Which part didn’t you understand? I’m Milo’s lawyer, and I’m here to discuss the case with my client. If you’ll excuse us…”

  “Forget it,” he says. “Nobody gets near that dog.”

  “Except for me,” Fred offers. “I get to feed him and clean up after him.”

  “Why are you guarding my client?”

  “Because they assigned me here,” the officer says. “You think I decided to do this on my own?”

  This isn’t turning into a very productive conversation. “Why did they assign you here?”

  He shrugs. “Beats the shit out of me. But nobody’s going near that dog.” He nods toward Fred. “Except this guy.”

  I’m not going to get anywhere with him, and I sort of have nowhere to get anyway. It’s not like I was going to have a meaningful client conference with Milo; I just wanted to get another look at him. He’s a spectaular, powerful dog who certainly doesn’t look like he needs an armed guard to protect him. It annoys me to see him locked up like this.

  “Okay,” I say, and then look past him so I can talk directly to Milo. “Milo, don’t talk to anybody about anything. Anybody asks you something, refer them to your lawyer. If you need anything, cigarettes, reading material, whatever, just tell the guard.”

  The officer looks like he’s going to shoot me, so Fred and I go back into the main area. “You have no idea what this is about?” I ask.

  “Nope. They came in like they were dealing with Al Capone and wouldn’t tell me anything. But there’s a guard there twenty-four hours; maybe they think somebody is going to try to steal him. Stealing dogs is not usually a problem here.”

  Fred is referring to the fact that he frequently has the very unpleasant task of having to put down some of the dogs here. It’s why Willie and I have our foundation.

  I call Pete from my car and tell him what happened, and I’m surprised when he doesn’t sound surprised at all. “Yeah, I was going to call you,” he says. “I just heard about the guard.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “I don’t know, but the situation is locked down. And the word is that the FBI is involved.”

  “FBI? Who did your friend kill?”

  “What happened to innocent until proven guilty?” he asks.

  “All of a sudden you’re an ACLU member? Who is your friend alleged to have killed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So I suppose you don’t know where the dog fits in?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Thanks. Your involving me in this situation has really affected my life in a positive way.”

  “You bailing out?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Because you got a look at the dog, right? You saw him in a cage and you want to get him out.”

  I’m annoyed that he’s right, and I can’t think of a quick comeback, so I don’t say anything.

  He laughs, knowing full well that he’s scored a point. “You actually prefer dogs to humans.”

  “Maybe I need to start hanging out with a better class of humans.”

  Click.

  I NEED TO SPEAK TO BILLY ZIMMERMAN’S LAWYER. That way I can have him get the court to allow me to represent Milo. I have to admit that my semi-involvement in all of this doesn’t feel quite so much like a chore anymore. Not only do I want to get that dog out of his undeserved imprisonment, but I’m more than curious to find out why it is considered necessary to post a twenty-four-hour armed guard outside his cage.

  I call Rita Gordon, the court clerk, to find out who is representing Zimmerman. I had a forty-five-minute affair with Rita a few years ago, when Laurie had left for Wisconsin and we were broken up. Rita’s sexual prowess and energy level are such that if the affair had lasted for fifty-five minutes, they would have had to get me out of bed with a soup ladle.

  “Hiya, big boy,” she says when she hears that it’s me. She’s taken to calling me big boy lately, and I don’t know what to make of it. I stifle the desire to ask her what she means or if she’s kidding, because I’m afraid to he
ar the answer.

  We banter a bit, since that is the price I have to pay for information. Then I ask, “Who is Billy Zimmerman’s lawyer?”

  “Does the name Nobody ring a bell?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he refuses to have a lawyer,” she says. “The PD handled it for the arraignment, but after that Zimmerman said he didn’t need one.”

  “So he’s going to represent himself?” I ask.

  “As far as I know he hasn’t said that, but eventually he’s going to have to make a decision.”

  This is becoming more complicated by the minute. “I need to see him.”

  “We all have our needs.”

  “Can you get a message to him? Tell him it’s about Milo.”

  “Who’s Milo?” she asks.

  “His dog.”

  “Again with the dogs? Don’t you think you might be overdoing this dog thing?

  “Come on, Rita. Tell him I need to talk to him about Milo. Tell him it’s life or death.”

  “Is it?”

  “No.”

  She considers that for a few moments, and then shrugs. “Okay. I’ll get word to him.”

  “Thanks.”

  With nothing else to do, I head back to the office. It’s not like I have anything to do there; I just feel that if I spend afternoons at home, I’m one step from watching soap operas and eating bonbons. It’s a dignity thing.

  Edna isn’t in, which does not exactly qualify as a news event, so I take the time to ponder what I should do about Kevin’s announced departure from the firm. His leaving means that we lose 50 percent of the firm’s lawyers, while retaining the 50 percent, me, that doesn’t like to do any of the work.

  This would leave something of a gap, if we had any clients. The fact that we don’t makes the problem somewhat less urgent, but that is subject to change. Despite my best efforts, clients and murder cases seem to show up out of nowhere.

  Kevin is a brilliant attorney, and the perfect complement to me. He takes great pleasure and pride in writing detailed legal briefs and obsessing over the minutiae that can be so critical in the course of a trial. I see myself as more of a big-picture strategist, which means I’m lazy and I bore easily.

  There’s a good chance I can deal with this minor Milo issue on my own, but in the future I’m going to need somebody, at least on a part-time basis. Kevin’s friend Eddie Lynch is a possibility, though based on my one conversation with him, he could probably talk me onto a window ledge.

  Having resolved nothing, not even in my mind, I turn my attention to the Internet to read what I can about the murder that Billy Zimmerman stands accused of. The name of the victim is still being withheld, which is very unusual for this situation.

  The victim was standing in front of a relatively expensive club, and is not being described as homeless or a vagrant. It would seem far-fetched that he cannot be identified, and the police are not even claiming that is the case. They simply are not yet releasing his name.

  The incident has not been treated by the press as a major story, so I would imagine there is little pressure on the police to be more forthcoming. For now it is just strange, though not nearly as strange as an armed guard around Milo.

  Just as I’m preparing to go home, having exhausted myself from thinking nonstop for forty-five minutes, Rita Gordon calls. She has contacted Billy Zimmerman, who had previously been not at all responsive to any contacts from representatives of the justice system.

  “Milo was the magic word,” she says. “He says he’ll see you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  I’m a little irritated by a prisoner, no less one I’m doing a favor for, dictating the time of our meeting. “Gee,” I say, “that barely gives me time to find something to wear.”

  “Shall I set it up?” she asks, choosing to ignore my sarcasm.

  My inclination is to tell her to tell him to shove it, but I can’t get the image of Milo in a cage out of my mind.

  “Okay. I’ll be there.”

  BILLY ZIMMERMAN ISN’T JUST ANY COUNTY JAIL INMATE. He gets special accommodations, separate from the others awaiting their turn at the justice system. That’s because Billy is a former cop, and that’s a group that generally doesn’t do well in this type of environment. For instance, they get stabbed a lot.

  Beyond the separation from the other inmates, the treatment former cops get from the guards can be hit or miss. Some guards feel a kinship with the prisoner, a carryover bond from his former career. Others view the ex-cop as a traitor, a turncoat, and someone even more despicable than the average crook.

  When Billy is first brought out to see me in a private room set up for the occasion, my guess is that he’s one of the lucky ones. He seems relaxed, surprisingly so, for a man facing a murder charge. Billy has to know how difficult this is going to be, and he must be aware that he may literally never spend another day enjoying freedom. Yet if he’s panicked or tormented, he’s hiding it well.

  “Hey, Andy Carpenter, right?” He extends his hands to shake mine, an awkward movement since his hands are cuffed together. I extend both of mine in sort of a solidarity gesture, and we do a four-handed shake.

  “Right.”

  “Thanks for coming. Pete said I could count on you.”

  “Pete’s a good friend.”

  He nods vigorously. “Of mine, too. Stand-up guy.”

  Since I’m pissed off that Pete got me into this in the first place, I’m of a mind to cut short the Pete-praising portion of the conversation. “He said you wanted me to help your dog, which I am trying to do.”

  He nods. “Good. That’s great.”

  “I tried to contact your lawyer about this, but you don’t seem to have one.”

  Another nod. “Right. No problem. You can talk to me.”

  There’s something weird going on here; his affect is one of being in charge of his situation, and it doesn’t come close to fitting with the facts as I know them.

  “Okay,” I say. “I went to see Milo, who is currently at the county shelter.”

  “Is he all right?” Billy asks, the first concern I’ve seen so far.

  “He’s fine. He’s being treated basically like you are, away from the other prisoners.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “The unusual part is that there’s an armed guard outside his cage.”

  Still another nod. “Good.”

  I’m obviously pleasing him, even though I don’t have a clue as to what I’m talking about. “You have any idea why the guard is there?”

  “So nobody can come in and steal him.”

  “Why would they want to do that?” I ask.

  “I can’t get into that right now. But I’m sure there are people who think he can help them.”

  “People think Milo can help them? How? Why?”

  He holds his hands out, palms upward, and shrugs. “Sorry, I really can’t go there.”

  I’ve had more than enough of this, so I stand up. “I’ve got to tell you, Pete is a good friend, but nobody is that good a friend. I like to help dogs, and I would have helped yours. But there’s plenty of dogs in that shelter who don’t have armed guards to protect them, so I’m going to focus my efforts on helping them.”

  For the first time, I see worry in his face. “Hey, come on, I’m not trying to be difficult. It’s just that the things you’re asking… I really can’t go there.”

  “I understand,” I say. “So I’m going to go there.” I point to the door so he’ll know what I’m talking about, and then start walking toward it. My hope is that he won’t say anything until I’m safely out the other side.

  “Wait. Please,” he says, in a tone that no longer contains arrogance or confidence. It has just enough vulnerability to stop a sucker like me in my tracks. I stare at him and don’t say anything; if this is going to get anywhere, he’s going to have to do the talking.

  “I need you to be my lawyer,” he says.

  That is something I have a
singular lack of interest in. “We’re talking about Milo,” I say. “Besides, I thought you didn’t want or need a lawyer?”

  “I don’t. But if I’m going to tell you anything, I have to be sure you’re bound by confidentiality. The only way I can be sure of that is if I hire you as my attorney.”

  He’s right about that, of course, so I nod. I tell him that I’ll draw up an agreement in which he can hire me for a finite time for a fee of one dollar. For now the agreement can be verbal, and I will honor it.

  He thinks for a few moments, and then seems to decide that this will be acceptable. Lucky me.

  Once that’s accomplished, he says, “Okay, here’s what I can tell you. When I returned from Iraq, I tried to get my old job back on the force. There was no way.”

  “Why?”

  “They told me that with the economy and all, there was a freeze on hiring, that they might be able to give me a part-time desk job. It was bullshit; they had no interest in a one-legged cop. They always viewed me as a pain in the ass anyway.”

  “Were you?”

  “A pain in the ass?” He laughs. “Sure. A major one. Anyway, Milo used to be my partner on the job; he rode in the squad car with me. And I found out he was about to get dumped as well.”

  “For being a pain in the ass?” I ask.

  “No, for being too old. He was about to turn seven. That’s the limit for the department. So when I made the request, they were happy to give him to me.”

  “Why did you want him?”

  He looks surprised by the question. “I love that dog; it sounds stupid, but he is my best friend in the entire world. Pete told me you’re a dog nut, so you should get it.”

  “I get it,” I say, because I do.

  “Milo was trained to disarm perpetrators. He was amazing at it; the best in the department. Somebody would be holding a gun one second, and the next thing you know Milo is flying through the air and taking it right out of his hand.”

  “So?”

  “So once I got him back, I enhanced that training a little bit. Now he can take anything he wants from anyone; he could take the fillings out of your teeth.”