Dog Tags (12 page)

“Why?” he asks.

“Because there’s a good chance Erskine was killed for it. If we know why it was so important to someone, we’re a hell of a
lot closer to figuring out who that someone is.”

We kick this around a little longer, and I tell Billy to write down everything he knows about Erskine. “Even if it’s a rumor
and you have no idea if it’s true, write it down and tell me that.”

He nods. “Okay, I’ll get right on it. How’s Milo doing?”

“He’s fine and somewhere safe.”

“Thanks for doing that,” he says. “I was feeling awful that I put him in that situation.”

Every time Billy says something like that, I like him a little more,
and regret my taking on a new client a little less. “Starting right now you have to worry about yourself.”

“So you’re going to do this?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. I am, if you still want me.”

“I absolutely do. But we need to talk about your fee,” he says. “The problem is, no matter how much it is, I can’t pay it.”

I shrug. “Then we need to get you and Milo back out there stealing again.”

He laughs. “Sounds good to me.”

I leave and reflect on what has been a long day at work. I take less satisfaction in that than other people might, because
I hate long days at work. I hate short days at work also, just not as much.

The truth is, today wasn’t so bad, especially getting Milo sprung. It pains me to admit it, even to myself, but Laurie was
probably right that I ought to be back in the action occasionally; that I need to intellectually engage in that fashion to
stay sharp.

Now that I think of it, I hope she was right. Because a murder trial requires a lot of very long, very stressful workdays,
and there will be little time to think of anything else if we hope to win.

And there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, worse than losing.

T
RIALS, LIKE FOOTBALL GAMES, ARE WON OR LOST BY TEAMS, NOT INDIVIDUALS.
The lawyers, the investigators, the expert witnesses, and the client are all integral to the process, and must function smoothly
together. It is much more difficult than it sounds.

Teamwork is, in fact, one of the many built-in advantages that the prosecution side generally has in its favor. The same people,
all employed by the government, work together on many cases throughout the year. There is usually a substantial familiarity
among the lawyers, police, forensics people, and expert witnesses on the prosecution side, and they don’t have to waste time
trying to develop a cohesive unit.

This morning I am convening a meeting of the team that will attempt to earn an acquittal and release for Billy Zimmerman.
The only newcomer to the team, meaning someone who hasn’t worked with this group previously, is Hike Lynch. He’ll share the
lawyering duties with me, though I’ll be in first position.

Laurie will run the investigative unit, with Marcus Clark supporting her. Sam Willis, my accountant and an absolute computer
genius, will provide all of us any information we need that can be
found online. Which is a valuable resource, since everything that has ever taken place in recorded human history can be found
online, especially if the person sitting at the computer is a brilliant hacker with no concern for legalities.

Providing further support will be Willie Miller, who brings no particular talent to the operation other than a desire to help
out and the toughness and fearlessness to tackle any task I give him. Then there is Edna, reluctantly prepared to do whatever
it is that Edna does.

The meeting is scheduled to start at ten o’clock, and at the appointed time everybody is here except for Marcus and Edna.
Willie and Laurie already met Hike at the wedding, so I introduce him to Sam.

Sam and Hike inhabit opposite ends of the emotional spectrum. It’s not that Sam is an out-and-out optimist. It’s more that
he’s enthusiastic about tackling new projects, especially those that involve investigative work on my criminal cases. Hike
approaches each task as if it’s a root canal, and one that ultimately will fail to avert the extraction of the offending tooth.

“Let’s get started,” I say. “Laurie, you can fill Marcus in on whatever he misses.” This is already a plus of allowing Laurie
to participate in the case. She is pretty much the only person I know who has always demonstrated an ability to effectively
communicate with Marcus, and who isn’t petrified to do so.

I go over the parameters of the case as I know them, which doesn’t take very long, since there’s not a hell of a lot that
I know. “The discovery material should be here this afternoon,” I say. “Hike and I will go over it, and then we’ll be able
to plan our initial strategy.”

“Have you traced the license plate yet?” Laurie asks. She’s talking about the plate Billy saw on the murderer’s car.

“Not yet. But I’ll take care of it.”

“Where does the dog fit in?” she asks.

“At this point he doesn’t. I just want to keep him hidden and protected.”

There isn’t that much for me to say, at least not until we’ve gone through the discovery. All I want is for everybody to be
on the same page as we get started. I’m about to end the meeting when the door opens and Marcus comes in.

He doesn’t say a word, which for Marcus is business as usual. The only sounds in the room are his footsteps as he moves toward
a chair, and the involuntary gasp from Hike at seeing him.

I can’t remember the first time I met Marcus, I’m sure my subconscious has blocked it rather than allow me to relive it in
my mind. I would guess there is about a 70 percent chance I pissed in my pants; either that or I ran away.

Marcus is the most powerful, most menacing-looking human being I have ever seen. His entire manner is uncompromising; to look
at him is not only to know that he could kill you, but also to know that it wouldn’t faze him.

“Hike, this is Marcus,” I say.

“Unh,” says Marcus.

At first Hike doesn’t say a word; he just stares at Marcus, openmouthed for at least twenty seconds. Then he manages a feeble,
“Hey.”

“Marcus, Laurie will bring you up to date on where we stand, and you’ll get your assignments from her as well.”

He nods at Laurie, the hint of a smile on his face. She is the only person I have ever seen him show any warmth toward.

“Great. We’re done here,” I say.

I ask Hike to stay as the others leave, because I want him to go over the discovery material with me when it arrives. I need
to know how far his abilities extend, and whether I can expect him to help in strategy or just be a legal mechanic. I can
deal with it either way; I just have to know.

“Kevin told me about him,” Hike says.

“Marcus?”

He nods. “Kevin says he got used to him. That after a while he wasn’t so scared to be in the same room with him.”

“I agree,” I say. “I’m not nearly as afraid as I used to be. My teeth don’t even chatter anymore. You just have to remember
that he’s on our side.”

Hike nods. “That’s a good thing.”

“And the other thing is, if he bothers you, just smack him around a little, and he backs off.”

Hike doesn’t say anything, possibly pondering this concept.

“That’s a joke,” I say, just in case.

He nods. “I picked up on that.”

While we’re waiting, I call Pete Stanton. “I’m taking your friend’s case,” I say.

“More than just the dog?”

“More than just the dog. I’m defending Billy on the murder charge.”

“That doesn’t count as a favor,” he says. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“It counts,” I say.

“It does not.”

“Do you want to start buying your own beer, effective immediately?”

“Okay,” he says. “It counts.”

“Glad we cleared that up. Now here’s a chance for you to return the favor.”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“It’s no big deal,” I say. “I just want you to trace a license plate.”

“I’m supposed to use city resources, provided by the taxpayers, to do your work?”

“You want to get your friend out of prison?”

“Give me the plate number.”

I do so, and Pete tells me he’ll have the information within twenty-four hours. “Is that it, I hope?” he asks.

“Almost. Billy says the shooter was six foot five, maybe taller. That ring any bells for you?”

“Maybe we should arrest the Knicks,” he says.

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know?”

“Of course I know. But once I get you the plate number, we’re even,” he says.

“We are not even. We’re not close to even. I am putting in months of my life on this, and you’re tracing a license plate.
That is not in the same ballpark as even.”

“Okay,” he says. “But you’re still buying the beer.”

J
EREMY
I
VERSON HAD NO IDEA THAT ONE OF HIS PARTNERS WAS DEAD.
He and Donovan Chambers had dropped out of touch and gone their separate ways after returning home from the war. Chambers
had never told him he was going to live in the Caribbean, and the truth was that Jeremy wouldn’t have cared anyway. They had
done a job together; it wasn’t like they were best friends.

Jeremy was aware that Erskine was dead; he had seen that on television, when they were talking about that dog. The news didn’t
come as a surprise to him. Pretty much everybody he knew hated Erskine, so it made sense that eventually somebody would take
a shot at him. Jeremy just hoped it had nothing to do with the Iraq operation. If it did, it could have ominous consequences
for himself, although he was well hidden from the world.

Jeremy basically hadn’t touched the money, other than to provide for some basics like a place to live, some decent civilian
clothes, and three hunting rifles. He realized that he was in a state of emotional limbo, unable to decide in which direction
he should go. He instinctively knew that whatever first steps he took, they would influence his life forever.

The only real decision Jeremy had made since returning was to make a clean break with his past. It wasn’t a great sacrifice;
all that was left back home in Missoula was an alcoholic mother and an ex-wife whom he learned had filed for divorce while
he was in Iraq. Mail call wasn’t much fun that day.

Jeremy had rented a cabin about thirty miles from Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He drove through the town on the way out there, and
was struck by how the rich people had taken over the place. He found it pretty funny to realize that he could afford to live
there if he wanted to.

He didn’t want to.

Except for occasional trips into town for food and other supplies, Jeremy pretty much stayed to himself at the cabin. He had
some success at the bar with the local women; money even helped at that. But he had no interest in establishing any relationships,
at least not until he felt more ready to face the world.

So like every other day, Jeremy woke up that morning with the choice of going hunting or hanging out in the cabin and watching
television. The only sports on were baseball games, and Jeremy wasn’t that big a fan. He was more into football and basketball.
So Jeremy made the decision he had been making almost every day, to go hunting.

He found it strange how much he enjoyed hunting, since he’d never particularly liked it growing up. But now it was something
about the solitude; he could get lost in it and love doing so.

It was around eleven o’clock that Jeremy happened upon another hunter, a large but seemingly agreeable man, alone and dressed
in orange hunting garb like Jeremy.

“Mornin’,” said Jeremy. “Any luck so far?”

The man grinned and held up a bag that was obviously empty. “Not a bit. But that’s okay; just being out here is enough for
me.”

“I know what you mean.” He reached out his hand to shake. “Name’s Jeremy.”

“John. John Burney.”

Jeremy had no way of knowing, and no inclination to suspect, that the man was lying about his name. Even if the man had given
his real name, Marvin Emerson, or his nickname, M, it would have meant nothing to Jeremy.

“You live around here, John?”

“Nope. Visiting friends, about ten miles outside Jackson Hole.”