Bark of Night

by David Rosenfelt

  Another sustained objection from Dylan; business as usual.

  I move on. “Lieutenant, Mr. Haley had a very expensive video camera that was not taken. Any theories on that?”

  He shrugs. “Might have been too large, and could have attracted attention if the perpetrator was seen leaving.”

  “What about the film?”

  “Film?”

  “Actually, I’m sorry, Mr. Haley shot in digital. Did you find the digital cards, or his computer, or his backup hard drive?”

  “No.”

  “Did you find them in Mr. Gamble’s yard?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Any theories why not?”

  He shakes his head. “I couldn’t say.”

  “Do you know what was on the missing video?”

  “No.”

  “Could it have been something the killer was afraid of?”

  “I have no evidence to that effect.”

  “Sounds like you looked really hard for it.”

  Before I let Crenshaw off the stand, I show him a map of the outside of Joey’s house, demonstrating that someone could be behind his garage and be undetected by someone in the house. Crenshaw doesn’t quite go that far, but agrees that it’s possible.

  At its core the case is exactly what it seemed to be when it started. Joey has been placed at the murder/robbery scene and had the stolen items and murder weapon in his possession.

  In the world of prosecutors, that’s about as good as it gets.

  There is a heightened feeling of tension in the courtroom today.

  That frequently happens when the prosecution has completed their case and the defense is about to begin. Jurors and onlookers have basically heard nothing positive from our side, and they sense that this is the moment we have to put up or shut up.

  My guess is that most are betting on us shutting up.

  I’ve taken to nodding hello to Cynthia Gamble, Joey’s grandmother, in her first-row seat every morning. She always nods back, but never looks particularly happy about it. She is smart enough to know that while we have picked at the prosecution witnesses with varying degrees of success, we haven’t laid a glove on the crux of their case.

  This time when I nod, she stands and comes over to me. “I hope you’re ready,” she says.

  I nod. “You and me both.”

  “Time to stop making debating points and start changing minds.”

  This is one smart, tough lady.

  Our defense strategy falls into three distinct areas. One is the traditional one, trying to create reasonable doubt that Joey did the crime based on the available facts and evidence. That has already proven to be difficult, if not impossible.

  Joey was at the scene and had the murder weapon and stolen items in his possession. He has no alibi, no witnesses to swear he was at a birthday party or board meeting while the killing was taking place.

  The second area concerns George Adams. There will be no problem with admissibility, and the fact that Adams was himself a violent criminal certainly works in our favor. But while Laurie and I don’t believe in coincidences and therefore don’t believe that Truman just happened to wind up in the hands of a murderer, that doesn’t necessarily mean the jury shares our coincidence aversion.

  The third area is simultaneously the most promising and most difficult. This concerns Florida and drugs and Chico Simmons and Frank Silvio and all the tentacles that spread from them. I have no doubt in my mind that whatever Haley learned in Florida provided the motive for his murder, but I so far cannot make any connection between all of that and our case. Until I can, the jury will not hear a word of it.

  I have so far received no response from Cindy or the DEA about my insistence on information before I agree to meet with them. Marcus has also had nothing eventful to report from his vantage point in Florida. Those are things I cannot control; all I can do is wait.

  But the defense we mount is something I can control, and it starts as Judge Matthews looks at me and says, “Call your first witness.”

  Here goes.

  I call Debra Drake, Dr. Dowling’s receptionist, to the stand. After identifying her and describing her occupation, I introduce as evidence a photograph of George Adams. “Have you ever met this person?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yes. He brought in a dog and requested that he be euthanized. It was a French bulldog, and he said his name was Buster.”

  “Was he a regular client?”

  “No, he had never been in our office before. Nor had that dog.”

  “Did he pay for the euthanization and sign a form?”

  “Yes,” she says. “He paid one hundred ninety-five dollars in cash and signed the form ‘Charlie Henderson.’”

  I introduce the signed euthanasia form, have her identify it, and then let her off the stand.

  Dylan asks how long “Henderson” was in the office.

  “Not more than five minutes. Maybe not even that long,” Debra says.

  “But you’re positive you can identify him?”

  She nods. “Yes, sir. He was a gruff, scary person, so he made an impression on me.”

  Next I call Dr. Dowling, who basically tells the exact story he told me that first day in his office, except for the part about Tara being “fine, really fine.” He describes scanning the microchip embedded in the dog and eventually learning that his real owner was James Haley, and that the dog’s real name was Truman.

  “And then I made the connection that Mr. Haley was the man who was murdered that week, so I talked to you about it.”

  “What did I tell you?” I ask.

  “Under no circumstances was I to kill Truman.”

  The jury and onlookers laugh at that. “And did you?” I ask.

  “No, he’s safe.”

  Dylan goes at Dowling a bit harder than he did Debra. “Dr. Dowling, this man who brought Truman into your office, did he say how he got possession of him?”

  “No. He claimed to be the owner.”

  “Could he have found him stray?” Dylan asks.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Here is a hypothetical; tell me if it’s possible. Someone broke into Mr. Haley’s house, killed him, and left the back door open. The dog then ran out the back door and someone else found him. Is that possible?”

  “I suppose, but that’s really not my area of expertise.”

  “I understand, but isn’t that what stray dogs are? Dogs that have run off and are found by someone who is not their owner?”

  “But why would he pay to have him killed?” Dowling asks. “He could have just taken him to a shelter.” If he wasn’t already, the response makes Dowling my favorite all-time vet. Dylan gets the remark stricken from the record as unresponsive, but the damage is done.

  Next I call Carol Mehlman, twin sister of Adams’s murdered wife, Denise. I think I have already done a lot to establish the fact that Adams had taken Truman, but Carol’s testimony furthers that cause. Carol shows the photograph of the dog that her sister emailed to her and explains how Denise had told her George said he was bringing the dog home to her.

  That didn’t quite work out.

  Last up today is Sergeant Jack Rubin from Philadelphia. He came to town last night and had dinner with Laurie and me. They dragged me to a seafood restaurant and they each had a dozen oysters, sucking down those disgusting things with what seemed like great pleasure.

  I would not eat an oyster under penalty of death, and I said so.

  “You need to be willing to move out of your comfort zone,” Laurie had said, as Rubin nodded his agreement.

  “It is comfortable in my comfort zone,” I said. “The reason I even maintain a comfort zone is because I find it comforting. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable.”

  “Is he always like this?” Rubin asked.

  Laurie nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “That’s a shame,” Rubin said.

  Rubin proves to be a better witness than he was a dinner companion. My goal is for him to
convey to the jury that Adams was a murderer for organized crime in Philadelphia, and he does that completely and colorfully.

  “This was a really bad guy,” Rubin says, summing up. “There were no cops as pallbearers at his funeral, that I can tell you.”

  “He’s dead?” I ask, feigning surprise.

  Before Dylan can object, Rubin says, “He was murdered last month; his body turned up in the Passaic River.” Then, “I can think of bigger tragedies.”

  “Just curious,” I say. “When Mr. Adams was murdered, was Mr. Gamble already sitting in jail as a result of being charged in this case?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he’s not a suspect?”

  Rubin smiles. “I would think not.”

  Tara leads the life she wants and one that I aspire to.

  She is surrounded all day by those she loves and who love her, she has absolutely no responsibilities, she takes leisurely walks in the park, she never has to get dressed up, and she has all her meals served to her.

  I think the reason our lives went in such different directions goes back to a crucial youthful decision we both made. I decided to go to law school, and she decided not to.

  That is why I am stressed out at having the life of a young, innocent man in my legal hands. I need to find a way to save him, which also will have the side benefit of preventing his grandmother from killing me. If I fail, if they take Joey Gamble away and lock him up for the rest of his life, I am going to have a hell of a lot of trouble living with it, and with myself.

  Today is our version of forensics day. First up is Rob Flory, the ex-forensics cop and the member of our team who took the fingerprints off the euthanasia form. He identifies the prints on the form as belonging to George Adams. He’s a very professional, very credible witness, and I’m quite sure his testimony firmly proves the fact that George Adams had James Haley’s dog, Truman.

  I let Flory off the stand briefly, with instructions that he is still under oath and will be recalled shortly. My next witness is Tommy Halitzky, manager of the Park Village apartments in Hawthorne. He is there simply to confirm that George Adams stayed there and that he used the name Charlie Henderson, the same name he used at Dowling’s office, to rent an apartment.

  Rob Flory comes back to describe his forensic examination of Adams’s apartment. He found Adams’s fingerprints, as he had also done on the euthanasia form, and he also recovered dog hair from the apartment and did DNA lab tests on it.

  I smile. “Did you find a match?”

  “Yes. I also tested hair from the dog known as Truman. The hair in Adams’s apartment was definitely Truman’s.”

  Next I call Mark Jamieson, the former Paterson police lieutenant who had joined our team, along with Rob Flory, for the inspection of Adams’s apartment.

  He describes exactly what went on and says that it was all captured on video, should the court want to see it. He then says that we found Adams’s phone. “It was hidden under clothing in a drawer.”

  “Did you examine the phone?” I ask.

  “Eventually, yes,” he says, and then talks about the photograph of Frank Silvio and newspaper accounts that Adams had hidden in the Cloud.

  Dylan’s cross of Jamieson is low-key, as was his cross of Flory, and he acts sort of bemused by all this. His basic approach is that this is all interesting, but what the hell does it have to do with the murder of James Haley?

  It’s a good question, and one Jamieson and Flory can’t effectively answer. It’s going to be hard to expect the jury to answer it either.

  On redirect, I ask Jamieson if he knows where Frank Silvio is.

  “He’s dead,” he says. “Murdered just a few days ago.”

  I repeat the questions I had for Rob Flory about George Adams. “Just curious,” I say. “When Mr. Silvio was murdered, was Mr. Gamble already sitting in jail as a result of being charged in this case?”

  “Yes.”

  “And his being in jail would be a pretty good alibi as it relates to Mr. Silvio’s murder, would it not?”

  He nods. “I would say so.”

  I want the jury to know that people are dropping like flies here, that there are real murderers out on the street, hovering over this case.

  I think I’m successfully making that point.

  When the court day ends, I turn on my cell phone and play a message from Cindy Spodek, asking me to call her, which I do.

  “Andy, I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but the DEA did exactly what you want.”

  “I’m well respected in the law enforcement community,” I say. “Admired and revered.”

  “You’re a pain in the ass,” she says. “And everybody knows it. But you do seem to have them over a barrel, and I suggest you deliver the goods.”

  “It all depends on what’s in the material. When will I have it?”

  “It’s being couriered to you today. It might be at your house already.”

  As soon as I hang up, I call Janet Carlson, heretofore known as the best-looking coroner in America. “Janet, I need you desperately.”

  She laughs. “That’s been said to me a number of times, Andy, and it never ends well.”

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  Another laugh. “That usually doesn’t work out either. Are you and Laurie having issues?”

  “No, this is work-related, and it is life-or-death important. Can you come over? Laurie will be there to protect you, and you can have anything you want for dinner.”

  “Is this related to the death of that homeless man that we talked about? There are still issues there that trouble me.”

  “It’s about that and much more,” I say. “You can be a hero.”

  “Okay, I’m intrigued and I’ll come over.”

  “Great. What do you want for dinner?” I ask.

  “Prime rib, baked potato, and crème brûlée for dessert.”

  “We’re having pizza.”

  “Perfect.”

  Janet has been in my office for two hours.

  After Laurie and I told her what we were looking for, she retreated in there with all the information the DEA had accumulated on the other murders around the country. It included autopsy reports and toxicology results. I also received a report as to when each person was last seen before his body was discovered, but that is not something that concerns Janet.

  I brought the pizza in to her when it arrived, but she barely looked up, so I got the hell out of here. I don’t want to distract her in any way; the answer that she comes out of there with will be the answer to everything.

  So all we can do is wait and go about our business. We tuck Ricky into bed and I take Tara and Sebastian on their nighttime walk. I make it a fairly short one, in case Janet finishes. I’m as anxious to hear her verdict as I am to hear the verdict at the end of a trial.

  Five minutes after I get back, the door to my office opens and Janet is standing there. “This is simply amazing,” she says.

  An hour later, after she has taken us through the results case by case, Janet leaves with our sincere thanks and four slices of cold pizza. Laurie and I are just sitting down to discuss our next steps when the phone rings.

  I answer it, and it’s Cindy Spodek. “I’m not sure why they always want me to be the contact to you,” she says. “I’m either just cursed, or maybe they have this weird idea that I can control you.”

  “I am putty in your hands,” I say.

  “Have you gone through the materials?”

  “I have, and I’m ready to meet with the DEA.”

  “Good,” she says. “Tomorrow?”

  “I can’t tomorrow; it’s Friday and I’m in court. How about Saturday morning?”

  “Can it wait that long? They won’t be happy about this; they seem pretty anxious.”

  “Cindy, I know everything, and I know for a fact it can wait.” I don’t tell her that the fifth of the month is the target date, based on what Lorna Diaz said about Grobin getting the money, and it’s a week away. T
he more information I can hold to use at the meeting, the better.

  I wake up in the morning and take Tara and Sebastian out for a walk. As I walk, I try to focus on the court day ahead. It’s mostly a day of biding time; this trial is going to be decided in my meeting tomorrow and in what is to follow.

  My first witness is Willis Senack, the cousin of Christopher Tolbert who paid for his funeral. After I set up who he is and the details of Tolbert’s death, I ask him if he ever met James Haley.

  “Yes. He came to Chris’s funeral. I found out later that he wanted to shoot footage of it, but the funeral director didn’t give him permission. But I did sit for an interview with him afterward.”

  “Why was he there?” I ask.

  “Well, he said it was part of a film he was doing about living in the inner city. He asked me a bunch of questions about Chris, many of which I couldn’t answer because I really didn’t know him that well.”

  “Was there a specific area he was interested in?”

  He nods. “Drug usage. He wanted to know if Chris had been involved with drugs, if he had been an addict.”

  “What was your answer?”

  “I told him that to my knowledge he hadn’t been.”

  Dylan doesn’t even bother to question Senack; he must be wondering why I bothered to call him. Nothing Senack said has anything to do with Haley’s murder, nor does it help Joey in any way.

  Next up is Benjamin Smolen, the owner of a sporting goods store in downtown Paterson. Joey has worked for him for the last two years, though the employment obviously ended when Joey was arrested.

  Smolen is here as a character witness, and he’s a good one. He speaks about Joey’s resisting gang influences and wanting to earn enough money to go to college. He presents an impressive portrait of a young man.

  Dylan basically shrugs him off, limiting his cross-examination to getting Smolen to admit that he has no idea where Joey was the night of the murder or what happened in Haley’s house while Joey was there.