Dog Tags

by David Rosenfelt

  “You did a hell of a job,” Billy says as we shake hands.

  “That remains to be seen,” I say.

  He shook his head. “I’ve seen it already. No matter what the jury says.”

  It’s a generous thing for him to say, especially with the stress he must be under, but it’s consistent with his attitude throughout the trial. He’s done nothing to make me sorry I took the case, even though he hasn’t paid me a dime.

  I go home and Laurie greets me with a kiss and a glass of wine. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been around while you’re waiting for a verdict,” she says. “Are you still as nuts as ever?”

  I nod. “Some things never change.” I become a complete basket case while waiting for a verdict. I adhere to ridiculous superstitions and am generally impossible to be around.

  “You want me to move into a hotel?” she asks. It’s a serious question; she doesn’t want to intrude on my space or make things more difficult for me by my feeling I have to be civil.

  “That nuts I’m not,” I say. “Besides, we still have a lot of work to do.”

  We are going to continue our investigation, even more energetically now that I’m not tied down to being in court every day. If Billy is convicted, then I will use the results of that investigation for an appeal. If he’s acquitted, I’ll turn over everything we know to Benson and be done with it. Then he can have the responsibility for preventing whatever is going to happen for himself.

  Usually I dread hearing that the jury has reached a verdict, but this time I’m semi-eager for it. The sooner I can tell Benson what I know, without damaging Billy’s interests, the better.

  CHAPLIN NEVER REPORTED THE MUGGING TO LAW ENFORCEMENT. He immediately decided not to contact the police, and never regretted that decision.

  But he did tell Landon about it, and that was a move he did regret.

  Landon did not believe in coincidences, and even if he did, this one would have been so over-the-top as to defy credibility. For Chaplin to have been mugged, and for the muggers to take his cell phone, simply had to relate to what was going on. And it had to do with Carpenter.

  Landon’s number was on that cell phone, of that he was certain. It had to be there at least three or four times. Which meant that Carpenter would come after him. And when he did, it would be through Chaplin.

  Chaplin was scared; Landon could tell that from the first sentence of their conversation. This had hit home, more powerfully than even the death of his two colleagues. Someone had invaded his property, had hit him in the head and knocked him out, and that scared the hell out of him.

  It was no longer just numbers moving through computers and bank accounts, and it had become personally dangerous. And Chaplin was not the type to handle that kind of danger.

  “We need to meet,” Landon had said.

  “Why?”

  “To plan our strategy. We have to keep the upper hand in this.”

  Chaplin couldn’t believe that Landon felt they still had the upper hand, and he certainly didn’t want to meet with Landon.

  But he wasn’t capable of refusing, so he tried another approach. “I don’t think we should be seen together right now,” he said.

  “I agree,” Landon said, giving Chaplin momentary hope before dashing it. “So it needs to be someplace out of the way.”

  Landon suggested they meet the next night at a place just outside Stamford, Connecticut. It was an empty building, originally a medical center, but it had been foreclosed on when the economy went bad. Landon owned the building and could get a key.

  Best of all, there was a long, narrow road for almost half a mile leading to the building. If either of them was for any reason being followed, he would be able to detect it and could abort the meeting. “But we won’t be followed,” Landon said, departing from his norm and saying what he really believed.

  Landon’s next phone call was to M, to explain what was going on and what he needed him to do. He detailed it clearly and concisely, and it took him almost three minutes to do so.

  M’s response was a little shorter. “Got it,” he said.

  “No problem?” Landon asked.

  “I don’t believe in problems.”

  They got off the phone, and M got ready to go. He was actually looking forward to it; sitting around and doing nothing was starting to drive him crazy.

  “You okay here without me?” M asked, although he already knew the answer.

  “Of course,” Jason Greer answered. “It will be good to get rid of you.”

  M smiled, partially because he knew Greer was telling the truth. M was not an easy guy to hang around with; he made people uncomfortable. Always had, always would. “If for any reason I’m not back in time, you can handle things?”

  “I can handle things,” Greer said, and M also knew that was true. For this specific job, it was M who was unnecessary. Greer was well trained and more than tough enough to do the job.

  M got ready to leave, fully prepared himself to handle what had to be done. But first he made a phone call to find out exactly what that consisted of.

  The answer made him very happy.

  What would not have made him happy, had he realized it, was that as he was leaving the hotel, he was seen by one Jesse Barrett. Barrett and M had briefly worked together on a job in Chicago, a job that resulted in the untimely death of two people.

  M didn’t notice Barrett, and Barrett was not about to call out to him. In the moment, Barrett considered M a source of potential profit, mainly because the word was out that Joseph Russo was looking for him.

  TODAY SHOWS EVERY SIGN OF BEING WORSE THAN YESTERDAY, and that is really saying something. All I did yesterday was hang out in the house, grumbling occasionally and waiting for the phone to ring.

  Laurie kept away from me, and Milo and Tara made the intelligent decision to stay with her. We’ve sent Marcus away as well; with the trial over, our being at home all the time, and the envelope found, his protective services no longer seem necessary.

  After coming over for a while to talk about the case, even Hike said I was too downbeat to spend time with. Hike!

  Each hour feels like a week, and what I plan to do is break up each day by going to the prison to talk to Billy. He has to be a bigger basket case than I am, since it’s his freedom on the line. But I also have the added pressure of worrying about Benson’s ominous prediction of “blood” being shed, while Billy is appropriately only worried about Billy.

  Just as I’m about to leave I get a call from Benson. “We need to talk,” he says.

  “We already talked.” Since he called me, rather than the reverse, I may have the upper hand, so I don’t want to blow it by seeming too anxious.

  “Now we really need to talk. How fast can you be here?”

  “It’ll take a while,” I say.

  “Come on, all you’re doing is sitting with your thumb up your ass waiting for a verdict. Get down here.”

  I agree to do so, and forty-five minutes later I’m in his office. He doesn’t waste any time. “We have reason to believe that there will soon be a strategic attack on a key element of the infrastructure of the United States. We don’t know what the target will be, when the attack will take place, or who is behind it.”

  “You have my attention.”

  “Good. If you have information that can prevent this event, you need to tell it to me now.”

  “We’ve already had this conversation. My client is facing life in prison for a crime that you know he didn’t commit. You need to fix that first.”

  “That’s going to be taken care of,” he says.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I can’t say. Just trust me; it’s being taken care of.”

  “When?”

  “Today.”

  “When it happens, I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Carpenter, people are going to die. Is that what you want? Your client will not be convicted; I give you my word.”

  I have n
o idea where this is coming from, and I’m torn as to what to do. I believe that Benson is telling me the truth as he sees it, but that does not mean it will turn out as he says. Too many things can go wrong; he’s got too many bosses that can potentially intervene.

  I make a decision that I’ll give him part of what he is looking for, and hold back the rest for now. “I don’t know that much,” I say. “But the guy you should be looking for is Alan Landon.”

  “Alan Landon.” He doesn’t say it as a question, it’s more like he’s letting it roll around in his mind, thinking about it.

  “My belief is that he has been investing heavily in commodities like oil and rhodium, and then taking advantage of incidents that have sent the prices way up. There may be other examples, but I’m only aware of those two.”

  He nods. “Okay. What else?”

  I reach into the briefcase I brought and take out the envelope that Milo dug up, and that Erskine gave to his killer that night. It’s in a clear, plastic cover, to preserve any trace evidence that might still be on it.

  “This is what Erskine was carrying that night, although you may have seen it already.”

  He looks at me as if he’s about to say something, but then stays silent and opens the envelope. He looks at the empty pages, and then the “Kiss My Ass” type on the last page. He then makes a facial expression, somewhere between a frown and a grin, and puts it back in the envelope.

  If I had to guess, I’d say he was surprised by what he just saw, and I’m surprised that he’s surprised.

  “You got the dog to find it?”

  I nod. “Milo.” For some reason, it irritates me when people refer to him as “the dog.” I am aware that the irritation is not a sign of mental health on my part. “I got him to trust me.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “I have suspicions that I’m working on. When I confirm them, we can talk again.” I’m not being straight with him. For instance, I’m more sure that Chaplin is dirty than I am Landon. But I think Landon is more dangerous, so that’s why I gave him to Benson. When Billy is out of jail, I will be more forthcoming,

  “Maybe you’ll confirm them when the trial is over,” he says, understanding the situation.

  “We can hope,” I say.

  On the way back, I call Hike and relate my conversation, and tell him that something is about to happen.

  “How the hell can they stop a trial?” he asks. “After all this time they’re going to say, Damn, we had agents who saw the whole thing, but we forgot to mention it?”

  “It’ll be interesting to see,” I say, and I head home. I’m not going to go to the prison, because Billy will ask me a million questions that I won’t be able to answer. We’re going to find out soon enough.

  “Soon enough” is at two o’clock in the afternoon, when Rita Gordon calls from the courthouse. “The judge wants you here in forty-five minutes,” she says.

  “A verdict?” I ask, though I doubt that’s what it could be.

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “Andy, just get down here, okay? It’s important.”

  HIKE AND I GET TO THE COURTROOM WITH FIVE MINUTES TO SPARE.

  Eli shows up looking confused, and he shrugs at me as if he has no idea what’s going on. I return the shrug, but I’m sure I’m more informed than he is. While I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen, I know it’s going to mean the end of the trial.

  Billy is brought in, looking nervous and concerned. He’s afraid that a verdict is reached; I think he’s been hoping for a hung jury. “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, but it’s not a verdict.”

  “Does the jury have a question?”

  “If they do, I haven’t heard it.”

  The bailiff comes over and informs first me, and then Eli, that Judge Catchings wants to see us in his chambers. He doesn’t say lead counsel only, so I bring Hike with me, and Eli brings his second counsel as well.

  I always hate going to a judge’s chambers. It feels like I’m being dragged to the principal’s office, mostly because I’m usually being called there because the judge is pissed off at me. That’s not the case this time.

  Judge Catchings sits behind his desk, not wearing his robe and looking weary. “I’ve been informed of very serious juror misconduct, and I’ve confirmed it to be true.”

  “What kind of misconduct?” Eli asks.

  “One of the jurors visited the murder scene on his own, though I had prohibited it repeatedly. The same juror watched media coverage of the trial.”

  Eli is not completely getting it; or maybe he just doesn’t want to. A mistrial is a nightmare for the prosecution, in some ways worse than an acquittal. “You can bring in one of the alternates, Your Honor. It’s only been a day and a half; you can instruct them to commence their deliberations from the beginning.”

  Catchings shakes his head. “The juror has conveyed to the other jurors his feelings based on his visit to the scene, and the coverage he watched on television. The entire panel is contaminated.”

  We throw out some more questions, until all the details come out. In addition to going to the scene one night last week, the juror had watched the CNN coverage, in particular an appearance by Douglas Burns, a defense attorney often called upon as an expert commentator by various networks. I’ve seen him many times; he’s got an outstanding legal mind, honed by his earlier days as a prosecutor.

  His point of view on this case was basically that Billy should be acquitted, and I assume he gave cogent arguments that I would have agreed with. More importantly, the juror seemed to agree with them, and came in and tried to convince his colleagues on the panel.

  Somebody had conveyed this information anonymously to the court, and Catchings confirmed all of it. “I have no choice but to declare a mistrial,” he says.

  “Which juror was it?” I ask.

  “Number nine,” he says, confirming my hunch. He was the juror who seemed far too anxious to be on the panel.

  “Had the jury taken any votes?” Eli asks. “Did you happen to find that out?”

  Catchings nods. “Ten to two for conviction.”

  It’s all Eli can do to stifle a moan, and we head back to the courtroom for Catchings to announce it officially. As soon as I see Billy, I tell him the news.

  His relief is obvious. “I’ll take the mistrial; I thought we were going to lose.”

  “We were,” I say. “The jury was ten–two against.”

  Billy’s no dummy; he knows how this works. “With those kind of numbers they’ll retry the case.”

  “Billy, I’m going to tell you something, but at this point I can’t answer the questions you’ll have about what I’m going to say. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I strongly believe you will never be convicted of this crime. You will not even be retried for this crime. You’re going to stay in jail for a while, but it will be a short time.”

  He grins. “I can think of a few questions to ask, but for now I’ll just sit with this awhile.”

  “Thank you.”

  Billy is taken away. I’m happy he’s going to get off, but I’m feeling very uneasy about the turn that things have taken. For all my cynicism, I believe in the criminal justice system, and I take my role as an officer of the court seriously.

  This has been an abuse of the system. Juror number nine was planted there by the FBI, to be used as they saw fit. There might have been others as well, since it was possible that number nine might not have made the panel in the first place.

  This worked out in my favor, and in Billy’s.

  But it stinks.

  ALAN LANDON WAS ALREADY WAITING IN THE DESERTED BUILDING WHEN CHAPLIN ARRIVED.

  Chaplin was surprised when he saw him, because Landon’s car was not there. Perhaps a limo dropped him off and would come back for him; nothing that people with this kind of money did surprised Chaplin.

  “Sorry if I’m late,” Chaplin said, tho
ugh he knew that he wasn’t.

  Landon looked at his watch. “You’re not late. Thanks for coming. Sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink.”

  “No problem.”

  “This situation has the potential to become a bit of a mess,” Landon said.

  “There’s no way Carpenter can prove anything. These are foreign companies, fully insulated. No one can tie you to them, and all I’m doing is executing trades for a client.” Chaplin believed what he was saying; he’d had time to think it through, and his confidence increased in the process.

  “I’m not sure I agree,” Landon said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because there are people who know the truth, and people have a tendency to talk.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Chaplin asks.

  “Well, for instance, you.”

  A quick flash of panic hit Chaplin, but he recovered quickly. “I’m certainly not going to say anything; I’d wind up going to jail.”

  “Unless you got immunity in return for turning me in.”

  “Come on, Alan. I would never do that.”

  “Do you believe him?” Landon asked.

  Chaplin was confused. “Do I believe who?”

  “Not for me to say.” The voice was coming from behind Chaplin, and he whirled to see who it was. It was M, and though Chaplin had never met him, he was scared to death. The gun in M’s hand told him all he needed to know.

  Chaplin turned back to Landon. “Alan, please…”

  “I’m sorry, Jonathan. When it comes to money, I’m a risk taker. But in things like this, I don’t take chances.”

  “But I swear I won’t say anything. Please, Alan, I’m begging you.”

  “Don’t, Jonathan, it’s unseemly. M…”

  M didn’t hesitate; he fired three shots. All three hit Alan Landon directly in the chest, a grouping separated by no more than a few centimeters. Landon was blown back against the wall, dead long before he hit the ground. And long before he had time to realize what had happened.