I hadn’t recognized Durelle or Carelli from their pictures and just assumed that it was because they were taken years ago. In fact, Winston had altered their faces enough to be consistent with new identities, as he had done with Stacy.
Karen was targeted out of fear that because of her closeness to Stacy, she might see through it and recognize her. The night before she was shot, Franklin heard me agreeing to let her accompany me to Short Hills to see Hamadi. Their fear was that she might see Stacy then or shortly thereafter.
Stacy had obviously only pretended to be a witness for the government, to deflect suspicion from her. She was actually a key conspirator but allowed herself to be put into WITSEC, knowing full well she would not remain there.
“When is your client getting out of jail?” Pete asks.
“I’m working on it.”
“Let me see if I understand this,” he says. “You lose a murder case in which there was no murder, and you can’t spring your client even though the victim turned up?”
“These things are complicated.”
Pete nods. “I know one thing for sure. Clarence Darrow, you ain’t.”
“CHECK YOUR E-MAIL.”
That is the short and to-the-point message from Alice Massengale that is on my answering machine when I return from my morning walk with Tara and Reggie. Tara is clearly loving having Reggie back, so much so that I’m thinking maybe I should get another dog when he leaves. I’ll have to discuss it with her.
I turn on my computer, and I see an e-mail from Massengale, which seems to contain a document to be downloaded. After ten minutes of trying, I am forced to admit that downloading is simply not something at which I have the required expertise.
I am about to call Sam Willis, when the doorbell rings. It is Karen, coming over to find out in person if we’ve made any progress in getting Richard out of jail. The situation is even more frustrating to her than to me.
“Do you know how to download something from an e-mail?” I ask.
“You don’t?” is her incredulous response.
“Of course I do. It’s just that you said you wanted to help out on Richard’s case, and—”
“Where is it?”
I take her over to the computer, and she sits down. She makes a few clicks with the mouse, and within thirty seconds she is jumping up and down and screaming with pure joy.
My instincts tell me this is good news, but I sit down and look at the screen to find out just how good. The document Massengale sent is a letter, for me to sign, essentially agreeing on behalf of the government to the terms as I presented them to her.
Richard is going to be free, and Richard is going to be rich.
Karen prints out the agreement, and I sign it. She offers to hand-deliver it to Massengale’s office so I can focus on the mechanics of getting Richard out of jail.
I place a call to Hawpe’s office and am pleased to learn that the process has already begun. Massengale had assumed I would find the terms acceptable, since they were my terms, and had taken the initial necessary steps.
Once I’ve done all I can over the phone, I head down to the prison. It is my opinion, based on very substantial feedback over the years, that I can be even more obnoxious and annoying in person than on the phone.
Even under my relentless prodding, there is a limit to how fast the bureaucracy will move, and it’s not until three o’clock that I get to enjoy the sight of Richard Evans walking through the prison doors to freedom.
He sees me immediately and comes over. We just stare at each other for a few moments.
“It took you long enough,” I say.
He smiles. “Sorry—I was tied up.”
With that we hug. I’m not a big fan of hugs, and man hugs are my least favorite, but this one is okay.
“Come on,” I say. “There’s somebody at my house who wants to see you.”
When we pull up to my house, Karen, Reggie, and Tara are on the porch waiting for us. Richard has the door open even before I bring the car to a full stop, and he heads for the porch. He doesn’t quite get there, because Reggie comes bounding down the steps and leaps on him.
Within moments Richard and Reggie are on the ground, with Richard on his knees, hugging and petting him. Reggie’s tail is wagging a mile a minute, and he seems to be doing his best to lick the skin off Richard’s face.
“You saved me, buddy. You saved me.” Richard says it over and over, punctuated by laughs. Reggie doesn’t comment, so I assume he agrees and is being modest. And Reggie did save Richard’s life, as certainly as Lassie ever saved anyone.
“Is this great, or what?” says Karen, constantly dabbing at her eyes. She comes over to hug Richard, but Reggie doesn’t seem to be in the mood to share.
Yes, it’s definitely great.
Tara stands off to the side, watching the scene, clearly bewildered that she is not receiving any of this affection. She comes over to me, and I pick up the slack and pet her, but she knows she’s getting the short end of the stick.
We go into the house, and I fill Richard in on what I have learned from Pete or figured out on my own.
“Do you have any idea where Reggie was all these years?” he asks.
I nod. “With Stacy. She drugged you on the boat, and when you were unconscious, she left on another boat with one of her partners. She took Reggie with her.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I think she genuinely loved him. It’s why she had him taken from my house.”
“So how did he get away from her?”
“There was a storm last March, and a tree fell and badly damaged the house she was living in. My guess is that Reggie was home alone and that he took off when that happened.”
“Where did he go?” Richard asks.
“Looking for you. The guy who found him, Warren Shaheen, lived only about six blocks from your old house.”
This causes Richard to hug Reggie once again and call him an “amazing dog.” He’s got that right.
“So Stacy was with me because of my job? So they could work their customs scam?”
“I can’t say that for sure, Richard.” My statement is true; I can’t say it for sure, but I believe he is right. And I believe she found a more willing conspirator in Franklin, which set this whole thing in motion.
“What are you going to do now?” I ask.
“Well, I have to find a place to live, I have to earn a living, and I have to pay your fee. Because if anyone has earned his money, it’s you.”
I look over at Karen and smile. “You didn’t tell him?” she asks.
I have not told Richard about the monetary settlement. “No, I thought I’d leave that pleasure to you.”
“What are you two talking about?” Richard asks.
“Let’s put it this way,” says Karen as she points to Reggie and Tara. “These guys are going to be sleeping in Gucci dog beds.”
About the Author
DAVID ROSENFELT was the marketing president for Tri-Star Pictures before becoming a writer of novels and screenplays. His debut novel, Open and Shut, won Edgar® and Shamus award nominations. First Degree, his second novel, was a Publishers Weekly selection for one of the top mysteries of the year, and Bury the Lead was chosen as a Today Show Book Club pick. He and his wife established the Tara Foundation, which has rescued over four thousand dogs, mostly golden retrievers. For more information about the author, you can visit his Web site at www.davidrosenfelt.com.
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“ANDY CARPENTER, LAWYER to the Dogs.”
That was the USA Today headline on a piece that ran about me a couple of months ago. It was a favorable story overall, but the headline was obviously designed to make a humorous comparison between me and those celebrity attorneys who are often referred to as “lawyers to the
stars.”
While you would naturally think it would have exposed me to ridicule from my colleagues in the legal profession and my friends, it really hasn’t. This is because I don’t hang out with colleagues in the legal profession, and my friends already have plenty of other reasons to ridicule me.
Actually, referring to me this way makes perfect sense. Last year I went to court to defend a golden retriever who had been scheduled to die at the hands of the animal control system here in Paterson, New Jersey. I saved his life, and the media ate it up with a spoon. Then I learned that the dog was a witness to a murder five years prior, and I successfully defended his owner, the man who had been wrongly convicted and imprisoned for that murder.
Three months ago I cemented my reputation as a dog lunatic by representing all the dogs in the Passaic County Animal Shelter in a class action suit. I correctly claimed that my clients were being treated inhumanely, a legally difficult posture since the opposition took the position that a key part of “humane” is “human,” and my clients fell a little short in that area.
With the media covering it as if it were the trial of the century, we won, and living conditions in the shelters have been improved dramatically. I’m in a good position to confirm this, because my former client Willie Miller and I run a dog-rescue operation called the Tara Foundation, named after my own golden retriever. We are in the shelters frequently to rescue dogs to place in homes, and if we see any slippage back to the old policies, we’re not exactly shy about pointing it out.
Since that stirring court victory, I’ve been on a three-month vacation from work. I find that my vacations are getting longer and longer, almost to the point that vacationing is my status quo, from which I take infrequent “work breaks.” Two things enable me to do this: my mostly inherited wealth, and my laziness.
Unfortunately, my extended siesta is about to come to an unwelcome conclusion. I’ve been summoned to the courthouse by Judge Henry Henderson, nicknamed “Hatchet” by lawyers who have practiced in his court. It’s not exactly a term of endearment.
Hatchet’s not inviting me to make a social call, and it’s unlikely we’ll be sipping tea. He doesn’t like me and finds me rather annoying, which doesn’t make him particularly unique. The problem is that he’s in a position to do something about it.
Hatchet has been assigned to a murder case that has dominated the local media. Walter Timmerman, a man who could accurately be referred to as a semi-titan in the pharmaceutical industry, was murdered three weeks ago. It was not your everyday case of “semi-titan-murdering”; he wasn’t killed on the golf course at the country club, or by an intruder breaking into his mansion. Timmerman was killed at night in the most run-down area of downtown Paterson, a neighborhood filled with hookers and drug dealers, not caddies or butlers.
Within twenty-four hours, police arrested a twenty-two-year-old Hispanic man for the crime. He was in possession of Timmerman’s wallet the day after the murder. The police are operating on the safe assumption that Timmerman did not give the wallet to this young man for safekeeping, knowing he was soon to be murdered.
This is where I am unfortunately going to enter the picture. The accused cannot afford an attorney, so the court will appoint one for him. I have not handled pro bono work in years, but I’m on the list, and Hatchet is obviously going to stick me with this case.
I arrive at the courthouse at eight thirty, which is when Hatchet has instructed me to be in his chambers. The arraignment is at nine, and since I haven’t even met my client-to-be, I’ll have to ask for a postponement. I’ll try to get it postponed for fifty years, but I’ll probably have to settle for a few days.
I’m surprised when I arrive to see Billy “Bulldog” Cameron, the attorney who runs the Public Defender’s Office in Passaic County. I’ve never had a conversation of more than three sentences with Billy in which he hasn’t mentioned that he’s overworked and underfunded. Since both those things are true, and since I’m personally underworked and overfunded, I usually nod sympathetically.
This time I don’t have time to nod, because I’m in danger of being late for my meeting with Hatchet. Lawyers who arrive late to Hatchet’s chambers are often never heard of or seen again, except for occasional body parts that wash up on shore. I also don’t get to ask Billy what he’s doing here. If I’m going to get stuck with this client, then he’s off the hook, because I’m on it.
I hate being on hooks.
“YOU’RE LATE,” SAYS Hatchet, which is technically true by thirty-five seconds.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor. There was an accident on Market Street, and—”
He interrupts. “You are under the impression that I want to hear a story about your morning drive?”
“Probably not.”
“For the purpose of this meeting, I will do the talking, and you will do the listening, with very few exceptions.”
I start to say Yes, sir, but don’t, because I don’t know if that is one of the allowable exceptions. Instead I just listen.
“I have an assignment for you, one that you are uniquely qualified to handle.”
I nod, because if I cringe it will piss him off.
“Are you at all familiar with the case before me, the Timmerman murder?”
“Only what I’ve read in the paper and seen on television.” I wish I had more of a connection to the case, like if I were a cousin of the victim, or if I were one of the suspects in the case. It would disqualify me from being involved. Unfortunately, I checked my family tree, and there’s not a Timmerman to be found.
“It would seem to be a straightforward murder case, if such a thing existed,” he says and then chuckles, so I assume that what he said passes in Hatchet-land for a joke. “But the victim was a prominent man of great wealth.”
I nod again. It’s sort of nice being in a conversation in which I have no responsibilities.
“I’m told that you haven’t taken on any pro bono work in over two years.”
Another nod from me.
“I assume you’re ready and willing to fulfill your civic responsibility now?” he asks. “You may speak.”
I have to clear my throat from lack of use before responding. “Actually, Your Honor, my schedule is such that a murder case wouldn’t really—”
He interrupts again. “Who said anything about you participating in a murder case?”
“Well, I thought—”
“A lawyer thinking. Now, that’s a novel concept. You are not being assigned to represent the accused. The Public Defender’s Office is handling that.”
Relief and confusion are fighting for a dominant position in my mind, and I’m actually surprised that confusion is winning. “Then why am I here?”
“I’ve been asked to handle a related matter that is technically before Judge Parker in the probate court. He has taken ill, and I said I would do it because of my unfortunate familiarity with you. Are you aware that the victim was very much involved with show dogs?”
“No,” I say. While I rescue dogs, I have little or no knowledge of dog shows or breeders.
“Well, he was, and he had a seven-month-old, apparently a descendant of a champion, that his widow and son are fighting over. The animal was not included in the will.”
This may not be so bad. “So because of my experience with dogs, you want me to help adjudicate it?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Glad to help, Your Honor. Civic responsibility is my middle name.”
“I’ll remember to include it on the Christmas card. I assume you have a satisfactory place to keep your client?”
“My client?”
He nods. “The dog. You will retain possession of him until the issue is resolved.”
“I’m representing a dog in a custody fight? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”
“I wouldn’t categorize it as ‘asking,’ ” he says.
“I already have a dog, Your Honor.”
“And now you have two.”
“Can you keep a secret? A really big one?”
DON’T TELL A SOUL
A Novel
by
DAVID ROSENFELT
Tim Wallace’s wife died in a boating accident several months ago. On New Year’s Eve, his two best friends finally convince him to go out for the first time since Maggie’s death—and that’s when Tim’s life goes from bad to worse. A drunken man confesses to a months-old murder, says “Now it’s your problem,” and walks away.
When the man turns out to have been telling the truth, Tim’s life is put under the microscope by the cops, and they’re not giving up. But neither is Tim. He’s determined to uncover the truth—even if it kills him.
“This fast-paced and brightly written tale spins along…. Don’t Tell a Soul is a humdinger.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Stellar… Rosenfelt keeps the plot hopping and popping as he reveals a complex frame-up of major proportions… terrifying and enlightening.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred)
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