One Dog Night (10 page)

“Why of course?”

“He was born there. That’s where he grew up.”

I’m talking to Becky, but I can hear Dylan salivating. He’s going to talk about how Noah knows people there, people with whom he learned to do drugs, and they killed Danny Butler at their friend Noah’s behest.

He won’t have any evidence of it, or at least I hope he won’t, but he’ll have one advantage. It will sound true, and the jury will think it makes logical sense that it’s true.

And unfortunately, as trials go, that’s all that matters. Because the idea that trials are a search for the truth is just a myth. Trials are a search for that which the jury will believe is the truth.

“Senator Ryan, this is Brett Fowler. Thank you for taking my call.”

“You told my assistant it was urgent,” Ryan said, though the truth was he would have taken the call anyway. Fowler was very well connected in Washington, and though Ryan never used him in his role as consultant, he was always worth talking to.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is,” Fowler said. “I’m afraid it is.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well, please understand that I am simply acting as an intermediary here, but I have some instructions for you.”

“Is that right?” Even though Ryan was worried about where this could be going, he wasn’t about to let a political flack start issuing instructions to a senator of his stature.

“Yes, sir. When you leave the office tonight, you’ll find a package on the passenger seat of your car. Don’t open it until you get home, but when you do please examine it carefully.”

“What is it?” Ryan asked. “What the hell is this about?”

“Please, Senator, just do as I say. Believe me, it’s better for both of us if you do. After you are familiar with the contents of the package, we will need to meet.”

“I don’t like this,” Ryan said. “I don’t like the mystery, and I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”

“Senator, it is what it is. You’ll see that soon enough. Just call me when you are ready to meet.”

The package was waiting in the car, just as Fowler had said. But Ryan was not about to wait until he got home to open it, and he did so before he even pulled out of the parking lot.

It was a DVD, unmarked, and the thought of what might be on it made Ryan sick to his stomach. And with no DVD player in the car, all he could do was as he was told—to go home and play it.

When he arrived home, he realized that he had forgotten that his daughter and future son-in-law were over for dinner. After saying hello to them and his wife, Linda, he said that he had to make an important call.

He went into his office, locked the door, and watched as his worst fears were realized. There he was, in the Amsterdam hotel, having sex with a prostitute and ingesting cocaine. He was looking at the end of his career, his marriage, and life as he knew it.

He called Fowler, who answered the phone with a calm, “Hello, Senator. Thanks for calling.”

“You stinking son of a bitch.”

“I see no reason for name-calling, Senator. For instance, I didn’t address you as a cheating, cocaine-snorting pervert, even though the evidence certainly would support such a characterization.”

“What do you want?” Ryan asked.

“I’ll tell you at breakfast tomorrow. Believe me, it won’t be nearly as bad as you think. By next week this can all be behind you.”

*   *   *

They met at the restaurant in the Madison Hotel, on Fifteenth Street Northwest, a perfectly normal spot for a senator to be having breakfast. Fowler was already there when Ryan arrived, which was to be expected considering their relative status.

An outside observer would never have thought there was anything wrong, or that Ryan was not in charge of the meeting. But of course to Ryan something was very wrong, and he most definitely was not in charge.

Fowler tried to make small talk at first but Ryan was having none of it. “Just tell me what you want,” he said.

“It’s not what I want, Senator. But the people I represent do have a request.”

“Who are those people?”

Fowler laughed. “I’m afraid that’s privileged, Senator. Very, very privileged.”

“I’m waiting,” Ryan said.

“You have a bill coming out of your committee this week. I believe it is number D427967, regulating certain mining activities. It is not a terribly significant piece of legislation, and is expected to be passed easily by both houses and signed by the President. No controversy at all, which in this political climate is remarkable, don’t you think?”

Ryan obviously knew of the legislation, and knew that Fowler was characterizing its certain passage accurately. “What about it?”

“Certain amendments, also enjoying widespread support, will be added in the next two days. There is an additional amendment that you will add in your capacity as ranking minority member. It will seem insignificant, and in fact is of little importance, and should sail through by acclamation.”

“And what if I don’t?”

Fowler shook his head, as if saddened. “Senator, please … don’t embarrass yourself.”

“Then what if I do as you ask?”

“When you do,” Fowler said, leaving no doubt that “if” was not the correct word for this situation, “then the content of the video will never be disseminated, and you will not be called upon in this manner again. You have my word; I work for honorable people.”

“What is the amendment?”

Fowler took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to him. “It’s in here.”

Ryan did not want to wait to see what was in there, so he opened the envelope and took out the piece of paper. It was four paragraphs of legislative language, so he read it closely and carefully. Then he turned to Fowler.

“Done,” he said.

Sam Willis has spent three days online learning as much as he can about the victims.

In my experience, three days is enough time for Sam to fully chronicle every event that has happened in the history of the world, with special attention to New Jersey.

But as research projects go, this one is proving very difficult. That’s because for the most part the people who died lived on the fringe of society, many not in the workforce, and had done little to document their impact on the world.

We know how they died, but the challenge we face is finding out how they lived.

“Twenty-six people,” Sam says. “Twelve men, eight women, six kids, four of them boys. One survivor, a twelve-year-old boy who jumped out a window. He lost three family members that day.”

The images that my mind conjures about that fire are horrible, and obviously the jury will feel the same way. They will also want to be able to assign blame, to at least partially right the wrong. And Noah will be the one sitting in the crosshairs.

I look quickly through the information that Sam has assembled, long enough to know it won’t help us, and I say, “This isn’t enough. I’ve got to know more about them.”

“There’s very little out there about these people, Andy. We’re not talking about CEOs, you know? Even the ones that I could find out where they were employed, some of them had given fake documentation.”

“What about other family members, friends, friends of friends? I need to know these people, Sam, so I can know if they could have been the targets.”

“I’m trying, Andy, but so far it’s not there. I don’t even have three names.”

“What do you mean?”

“Three of the victims were never identified. No one came forward to say who they were, and the cops assumed they were transients. They figured the targets were the guys in 1-C, and they were probably right.”

I agree with Sam; the police probably were correct about that. But once again we butt up against the reality of courtroom life; it doesn’t matter if it’s true. It only matters if the jury buys it.

“We’re going to need to get out in the field for this, Andy. Pound the pavement. Shoe-leather time.”

“Shoe-leather time?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do, and you’re probably right. But that’s why we have Laurie, and it’s especially why we have Marcus. They go out in the field and get information.”

“You don’t think I can do that?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I lie. The image of Sam loose on the streets with his gun is not a pretty one. “But your special gift is to get information by working a computer keyboard. Fingertip time.”

I finally get Sam to leave, and I call Pete. He’s not in, so I try him on his cell. When he answers, I can hear street noises in the background.

“Hey, Pete, what’s going on?”

“What’s going on? You calling to chitchat? I’m out arresting lowlifes and criminals, so you can put them back on the street.”

“Always happy to help. I’ve got a question about the Galloway case.”

A few moments of silence, and then, “Yeah?”

“Danny Butler knew all the facts behind the arson, stuff that forensics confirmed.”

“So?”

“So I want to know if he could have gotten a look at the police documents, the murder book.” The investigatory record that detectives keep when investigating a homicide is called the “murder book.”

“You want to know if a slimeball like Danny Butler saw my murder book?” Pete asks, obviously insulted by the question.

“Yes.”

“Definitely. We posted it on scumbag.com so Danny and his friends could familiarize themselves with it.”

“So it’s not possible?” I ask, knowing his answer but still needing to hear it.

“No, it’s not possible. For the last two years that book has been in my wall safe at home. It’s been bedtime reading. You think Butler broke into my house? Or you think he read it, and then waited two years to talk about it?”

“I don’t suppose you have any idea how Butler found out the details?”

“Maybe your client told him.”

“He didn’t,” I say. “I’m sure of it.”

“So prove it.”

“I’m trying to, but I’m six years late to the party. You’ve been there all this time, dancing and drinking the punch. I need a road map, or at least a place to start.”

Pete is quiet for a few moments, then seems to make a decision. “Start with ‘Double J.’”

“Who is ‘Double J,’ and why should I talk to him? Or her.”

“You’ll find him, but you’ll need Marcus to talk to him.”

“Why?”

“Just take my word for it. If you deal with this guy, make sure Marcus is there. No matter what. You send him a letter, have Marcus mail it. Am I making myself clear?”

Pete is insulting my manhood, fragile as that may be. “You don’t think I can handle myself?”

“Andy, you so much as ask this guy what time it is without Marcus around, and Laurie will be going to singles bars.”

Neither Laurie nor Marcus has ever heard of the guy Pete called “Double J.”

So Laurie instructs Marcus to ask around, a process which works slightly more than ninety-nine percent of the time. When Marcus wants anything, especially answers, people have a tendency to want to accommodate him. It’s called a “self-preservation instinct.”

So I’m not surprised when Laurie reports six hours later that Marcus has not only found Double J, he’s already learned quite a bit about him. He’s a drug dealer whose base of operations six years ago was the ill-fated house which was burned to the ground.

Apparently Double J has stepped up in the world, because he now lives and works in the big city, New York. He’s located in the Bronx on Andrews Avenue, an area that will never be confused with Park Avenue.

I need to talk to him, even though I don’t quite know why. Pete implied that he had information that was helpful, or at least relevant, to Noah’s case, and I’m sure that must be true. Pete also described him as extremely dangerous, and Pete’s a pretty good authority on that kind of stuff.

“I need to ask him some questions,” I tell Laurie. “I don’t suppose Marcus got his e-mail address?”

“No, I don’t suppose he did,” she says. “You’re going to have to go see him, and I’m going with you.”

“Pete said I needed to bring Marcus.”

“Of course we’ll bring Marcus.”

Laurie asks Marcus when the best time would be to go, and he says Double J is apparently always there at around eight
P.M.
, before he goes off to do whatever it is that comprises his nightly ritual.

The idea of barging in on a dangerous drug dealer at night in that neighborhood runs counter to every instinct I have. “It’s dark at night,” I say.

“Wow,” Laurie says. “You don’t miss a thing.”

We head off at seven o’clock in my car, with Laurie in the passenger seat and Marcus in the back. It’s about an hour’s drive, and Marcus doesn’t say a word. If we drove to New Zealand, Marcus wouldn’t say a word.

This is a very rundown, very tough area of the city. Vacant lots abound, strewn with rubble, and some of the houses are boarded up and unoccupied. If there are streetlights, they’re not working, and the moonlight is not doing the trick.

If Marcus were not with us, I wouldn’t get out of the car if it was on fire.

I park in front of the house that Marcus identifies as Double J’s. If there are any lights on inside, they’re not visible from the street. Just as I’m getting out of the car, I realize too late that I should have written out questions for Marcus to have given Double J, sort of like an essay test. Then he could have brought it home to me, and I could have graded it.

Marcus leads the way along the concrete path to the house. Laurie and I stay a few steps behind, and I notice that her right hand is at her side, slightly behind her leg. I think, but I’m not sure, that she’s holding a weapon there.

I hope she is. I hope it’s a bazooka.

We reach the front door, and Marcus opts not to knock or ring a bell. Instead he opens it and goes in. He doesn’t hesitate; it’s as if he’s just come from the office and has headed home to the little woman for a home-cooked meal.

Marcus is amazingly quiet for a man his size. Laurie and I follow his lead and are quiet as well, though I’m afraid that whoever is in the house can hear my heart pounding. When I set out to become a lawyer, I never imagined myself in a situation like this, and suffice it to say I’m not going to run into any of my law school buddies in this house.

“Should we wait out here?” I whisper to Laurie.