“You called your client Joey,” she says.
“So?”
“It means you like him. When you don’t like someone, you refer to them by their last name.”
“Don’t analyze me, Collins.”
I meet with Joey in an anteroom a half hour before the arraignment.
The purpose is to brief him on what will happen and prepare him for his role in it. The thirty minutes is probably twenty-five more than I need, since almost nothing will happen, and his entire role will likely consist of uttering four words.
Before we go into the courtroom, he tells me that, to the best of his recollection, the only person he told that he was going to see Haley was his best friend, Archie Sandler. He didn’t tell Archie that the information was to be kept confidential, though in retrospect he regrets telling anyone.
Haley had not made many friends snooping around with his camera, and Gamble should have realized that some people would not look favorably on his talking to Haley. Of course, he never imagined that any negative feedback could have this kind of result.
Before we head into the courtroom, I ask him how he’s doing in the jail and if he needs anything.
“Maybe something to read?”
“You mean like magazines?” I ask.
“That’s fine, but I’d really like some books.”
“What kind?”
“Historical nonfiction is my favorite.” I must have some kind of reaction, because he smiles and adds, “I’m a nerd.”
Judge Madeline Matthews is handling the arraignment, which means she will likely be presiding at trial. In relative terms, this is a positive. Passaic County judges can be ranked into three basic groups. There are those who despise me, those who dislike me a great deal, and those who aren’t crazy about me but don’t recoil when I’m in their courtroom.
Judge Matthews falls into this last category. She’s smart and fair, and while she won’t put up with too much of my bullshit, she’ll tolerate it longer than most. Put another way, she probably views me with contempt, but probably won’t charge me with it.
Hike is waiting for us at the defense table when we arrive. I introduce him to Joey, and Hike and I flank him on his left and right. Hike leans across Joey to say to me, “It’s Judge Matthews.” Then he shakes his head. “Not good … not good.”
Fortunately I’ve already warned Joey about Hike’s unerring ability to see and even predict the worst possible outcome in all situations, so hopefully he is discounting Hike’s view of Judge Matthews.
Sitting behind our table is Cynthia Gamble, Joey’s grandmother. I nod to her, but she just stares me down. This is a woman who demands a total victory and will tolerate nothing less. I have got to come up with a way to make sure she doesn’t talk to Hike.
The judge calls on Dylan to recite the charges that the State of New Jersey is throwing at Joey. He is facing murder in the first degree, which carries a maximum sentence of life imprisonment. I can feel Joey react as Dylan talks; he must realize that he is staring down the possibility of his life being essentially over.
It appears that Judge Matthews will, in fact, also be handling the trial, since she schedules the date by consulting her own calendar. Eventually she calls on Joey to offer his plea, and he does so in a voice trying to be forceful, but quavering a bit.
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
I ask that bail be set and of course Dylan is firmly opposed. I have no chance to win this argument, and Judge Matthews quickly rejects our position. Defendants on trial for murder one do not get out on bail.
Once court is adjourned and Joey is taken away, Dylan comes over to me. “Things have changed; the offer is only good until close of business today.”
“Close of which business?” I ask. “Some businesses are open later than others. There’s a McDonald’s on Route 4 that’s open all night.”
“Five P.M.”
“Got it. We should synchronize our watches.”
He doesn’t consider that worthy of a reply and heads back to his prosecution team. Dylan is practically salivating at the prospect of taking this to trial, and at this point I can’t say that I blame him.
When I get back to the house, Marcus is sitting in the kitchen with Laurie, having coffee. “Marcus, congratulations,” I say. “Wonderful news.”
“Yunh,” he says. Marcus is obviously so excited that he’s verbally gushing.
“Any pictures of the baby?”
“Yunh,” he says, but makes no effort to show me any. Instead, Laurie takes his phone and shows me a few. The baby is in fact adorable and doesn’t look tough or scary. I wonder briefly what Marcus’s own baby pictures looked like, and then I realize that I don’t want to know.
“Marcus has just given me his report on Chico Simmons,” she says. “He’s heading back to the hospital, so I’ll tell you about it.”
I’m relieved to hear this, because any verbal report from Marcus requires subtitles for me to understand it. Once he leaves, Laurie fills me in.
“Chico Simmons, at least until now, has been a typical street gang leader. He has his people and his turf, nothing unusual. Except he’s a bit more ruthless than most.”
“How so?”
“Well, his gang is called X. That’s it—just ‘X.’ But the way he came up with the name is the story. Maybe it’s a myth to frighten his enemies, or maybe not. There’s no way to be sure.”
“What’s the story?” I ask.
“A few years ago, someone was trying to intrude on his turf. So his people grabbed the guy one night and took him to where Chico does business from. It’s apparently a warehouse on Bergen Street. They tied the guy to a chair, and Chico came in. Chico had a marker with him, and he drew an X in the middle of the guy’s forehead.
“Then, while the guy begged for his life, Chico calmly took out his gun and from about two feet away put a bullet right where the X was.”
“Sounds like a fun guy,” I say. “But you said he was a typical street gang leader ‘until now.’ What did you mean?”
“A couple of things. As more traditional organized crime figures have gone down, either as a result of violence or convictions, vacuums have been created that guys like Simmons are anxious to fill. Then, according to Marcus, Simmons has somehow gotten his hands on enough money to entice his street opponents to join him. He’s been able to consolidate his power and expand.”
“Where did he get the money?”
She shrugs. “Marcus doesn’t know, but you can be sure it’s not from wise investments, or an expanding 401(k).”
“Is Marcus aware of any connection between Simmons and Haley, or Simmons and Adams?”
“Not yet, but most of what I told you was things he already knew. He’s just getting into our case now; he doesn’t really know anything helpful yet.”
“I know the feeling.”
Carol Mehlman’s sister Denise was married to George Adams.
He’s wanted for Denise’s murder, or at least he was until his body turned up in the Passaic River. That doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her, but it certainly means he’s no longer the target of a manhunt.
Laurie’s contact in Philadelphia PD, Sergeant Rubin, had expressed doubt to us that George had killed his wife, saying that leaving her body there like that was not Adams’s style. In my view, George’s subsequent murder buttresses Rubin’s point of view.
While I admit I know very little about Adams, to say nothing of his marriage, the pieces just do not seem to fit. It seems highly unlikely that he would kill his wife, run off to New York, and then be gunned down himself. Could someone be avenging his wife’s death that quickly? Who? I don’t think this is the explanation.
And that scenario doesn’t even take into account Adams possessing Truman, the dog owned by still another murder victim. It clearly does not add up, or if it does, I haven’t been able to figure out the math yet.
Laurie has been checking in with Sergeant Rubin periodically, and he’s the one who told us about Carol
Mehlman. He said that she might have some insight into her sister’s death, though that insight is apparently not great, since according to Rubin, the investigation is going nowhere.
Mehlman lives in Freehold, New Jersey, only about an hour’s ride from Paterson. I don’t expect to learn much from her relating to our case, but it’s not that far, and I don’t have anything better to do. Besides, I have a nostalgic fondness for Freehold; my father occasionally took me to the harness track there back in the day.
So here I am.
I had called Carol to set up the meeting and she eagerly jumped at the opportunity. I’m not sure why that is yet, but I’ll no doubt find out soon. When I pull up to her house, she comes out on her porch to greet me, and her handshake turns into a gesture that just about yanks me into the house.
We set up in her den, and she has coffee brewed and ready. She starts off by saying she’s confused about where I fit into this whole thing.
“I can see where you would be,” I say. “There’s another murder case, in northern New Jersey, that George Adams appears to have some involvement in. Someone else has been accused of that murder, and I am his attorney.”
“I’m glad he’s dead,” she says.
“George?”
She nods. “George. I told Denise, everybody in the family told Denise, stay away from that guy. He was rotten from the inside; if you spent five minutes with him, you would know that. But Denise couldn’t see it.”
“Do you think he killed her?”
I expect her to say he is as guilty as hell, but she surprises me. “I don’t know. He worshiped her. It was the strangest thing, but she just had this ability to control him. Everybody knew what he was out there in the world, but with her, he was different.”
“So if he didn’t, who did?”
“I don’t know. Maybe one of the animals that he dealt with was getting back at him. If you wanted to hurt George, you could do it by hurting Denise. I hated him, but he loved my sister.” Then, “And she loved him; she gave up her family to love him.”
“Her family turned against her?”
She nods. “All except me. She was my twin sister. We were like one person.”
I hadn’t realized they were twins. It seems to make the situation sadder and more poignant, but has absolutely nothing to do with why I’m here. In fact, I have no idea why I’m here, other than to find out if Carol can point her finger at another possible killer, at least of her sister.
I’m just trying to accumulate information, any pieces I can find, and I can worry about putting them together later. Too bad they don’t always fit.
“I don’t think George killed her,” Carol says, as if she’s making a final decision on the matter. “Not physically. But the world he inhabited killed her as surely as if he did it himself. It was because of him that she had contact with people like that.”
As I’m leaving, I think of one more question. “Did your sister and George have a dog?”
She reacts as if I just asked her a more significant question than I realize. “Why do you ask that?”
“I’ll tell you, but I’d rather you answer first, if you don’t mind. I have my reasons.”
She hesitates, but then says, “The day before she died, Denise told me that George had called to say he was bringing home a dog. She had always wanted one, but he had been opposed to it.”
“Did she say what kind?”
“Better than that. He sent her a picture and she sent it to me.”
“Can I see it?”
She goes to her phone, finds the email, and shows it to me. “Here it is.”
It doesn’t surprise me that I’m looking at Truman.
I’m very confident we can prove that George Adams had possession of Truman.
Between the chip identifying Truman as James Haley’s dog, Debra’s clear identification of Adams, and finally to the photographic evidence that Carol Mehlman provided, we should have no trouble making the connection clear enough to satisfy the jury. To turn it into a complete slam dunk, Rob Flory reports to Laurie that Adams’s prints are, in fact, on the euthanasia form.
All of this would be great news if this were a civil case involving dog ownership, but it’s unfortunately a murder case that seems to have no other connection to Adams. For example, why the hell would Adams come up to New Jersey to kill Haley, and why would his wife be killed in retribution?
And while I’m throwing out questions I can’t answer, how would Adams know Joey Gamble well enough to frame him? He couldn’t have followed Joey home from Haley’s that night, even if he had seen Joey leaving, because he first went inside to kill Haley.
I’m home tonight and we’ve just finished dinner when Marcus calls Laurie to tell her that he has Archie Sandler, the friend Joey Gamble says he told about going to see Haley that night. She tells Marcus to hold on while she gives me this news.
“What does that mean, he ‘has him’?” I ask. Knowing Marcus, it could mean anything from “sitting in a car with him,” to “jangling him by his collar off the roof of a high rise.”
She asks him, and the answer comes back that Archie actually is in Marcus’s car. “You want him to bring him here?” Laurie asks.
“No. Let’s do this at the office.” I try not to do things like this at the house much. I started that because I didn’t want Ricky exposed to this stuff, but even though he’s at camp, I think it’s a good practice to continue.
Laurie tells Marcus that I’ll meet him at the office in twenty minutes. She offers to go with me, but we agree that it’s probably best that she doesn’t. We don’t know anything about Sandler’s demeanor or attitude, and we don’t want to overwhelm him.
She’s not worried about me going into a potentially dangerous situation because … well … Marcus. If we were going on a top-secret reconnaissance mission in Yemen, she would not be worried about me because … well … Marcus.
Marcus and Archie Sandler are already in my office when I get there. Sandler looks to be in his early twenties, so a bit older than his friend Joey Gamble. He’s also a good five inches taller and thirty pounds heavier.
He’s also scared.
“Hello, Archie. Thanks for coming.”
“I don’t want to be here.” He points to Marcus. “This … guy … he told me that if I didn’t come with him, he’d snap my neck like a twig.”
I smile. “He’s quite a kidder, isn’t he? You should see his stand-up act. You’re free to go anytime, but Marcus and I wanted to give you a chance to help your friend.”
“What friend?”
“Joey Gamble. I’m his attorney. I’ve just got a few questions for you.”
He doesn’t respond to that, so I continue.
“You know who James Haley is, right?”
He nods. “The film guy; the one who got killed.”
“Right. The film guy who got killed. Did you ever meet him?”
“No. He was around that day; he was around for a couple of days. But I didn’t talk to him.”
“Who did talk to him?”
“A couple of guys. I don’t know.”
“Did Joey talk to him?”
He nods reluctantly. “Yeah. Joey.”
“Do you know what they talked about?”
“No.”
“Did Joey tell you he was going to see him at his house that night?” I ask.
“No.”
“Archie, this is not going well. Joey already told me that he told you he was going there. I’m Joey’s lawyer; if you want to help him, then you should be helping me.” I point to Marcus, who has been sitting silently throughout. “And if you cooperate, it will make Marcus very happy. Don’t forget the whole neck-twig thing.”
“Okay. I knew he was going there.”
I nod. “Good. Now we’re moving right along. Who did you share that information with?”
“Some guys; I don’t remember exactly.”
“Archie…” I say, using the most admonishing tone I can muster. I could t
urn to Marcus to help; he may well be the best admonisher in the galaxy.
“I really don’t. It was just a few guys; we were standing in front of the 7-Eleven. Hey, I didn’t think there was any harm in it. Joey hadn’t told me to keep my mouth shut about it. I didn’t know the guy was going to get killed.”
“Was one of guys you told Chico Simmons?”
Sandler reacts; the name Chico Simmons clearly carries some significant meaning, as it did when I mentioned him to Joey. “No. I don’t talk to Chico.”
“So you don’t know if Chico was aware that Joey was going to see Haley. Might the guys you told have mentioned it to him?”
“Chico knows everything that happens on the street,” he says.
“Do you know if Chico met Haley?”
“I don’t know. But whether he did or not, he knew about him.”
I nod. “Because Chico knows everything that happens on the street. Does he know you’re here?”
“If he does, I’m probably a dead man.”
I offer to have Marcus drive Archie wherever he wants to go, but he wants nothing more to do with Marcus or me. In fact, he asks for a head start out of the building so he won’t be seen with us. I’m okay with that, or I would be if it didn’t mean being left alone with Marcus.
Once Archie leaves, the silence in the room is deafening. “How’s the baby?” I ask.
“Yunh.”
“Glad to hear it.”
The Eliot is a boutique luxury hotel on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston.
It is not the type of hotel Frank Silvio would ordinarily choose to stay in. That had nothing to do with the quality of the place, but rather the size. The Eliot has a small lobby and entering means being seen by three bellman and the front-desk people. Silvio prefers large, crowded hotels where anonymity is more easily achieved.
In Silvio’s business, and especially in Silvio’s situation, being noticed is not a positive.
But this was where Mateo Rojas had instructed him to stay. Silvio was not used to taking instructions, never mind orders, from anyone, but in Rojas’s case, he was willing to make an exception.
Bark of Night Page 7