One Dog Night (3 page)

The Jets are playing the Cowboys tonight, and Pete is late in arriving. I’m hoping he shows up, because I want to ask him about the Noah Galloway arrest, but mainly because I don’t want to be alone with Vince. Even surrounded by two hundred cheering maniacs, I don’t want to be alone with Vince.

There’s a guy, maybe mid-forties, who is pacing around the place, wearing a Cowboys hat and Tony Romo jersey, screaming at whichever TV screen he is nearest. He is shouting instructions to the players, predicting which play will be called, and constantly saying things like, “Time to step up! Time to step up and make a play!”

Sports fans who are not knowledgeable, and even some of the weaker TV analysts, seem to feel that all deficiencies are due to a lack of effort, and “stepping up” is the all-encompassing solution to all competitive problems.

This particular guy is driving Vince nuts, because of his antics, but especially because he’s a Cowboys fan. “If I smash this asshole over the head with a beer bottle, what are my chances of getting off?” he asks.

“Depends if the judge is a Jets fan, but I would say twenty percent.”

“That’s if you were defending me,” he says. “But what if I had a decent lawyer?”

Before I have a chance to answer, Pete mercifully shows up. He takes one look at the TV, sees the Jets are down 7–0, and says, “Shit.”

Vince says, “You got that right.”

We are an eloquent group.

By halftime the Jets are down 14–3, and I ask Pete what is going on with the Galloway arrest.

“Why? You going to represent the son of a bitch?”

“No chance,” I say. I’m independently wealthy from a large inheritance and some big cases, and since I basically don’t like to work, I haven’t taken on a client in months. I also insist on only representing those accused that I consider innocent, and there are not many of them around. “How’d they get him?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. The Feds are too important to confide in us locals.”

There is a constant friction between federal and local authorities, and information is only passed between the two when it’s in the interest of both sides to do so. Clearly this is not one of those cases. “Why are they involved at all?” I ask.

“Interstate commerce.”

His meaning is clear. The FBI has long used the interstate commerce clause of the Constitution to involve themselves in pretty much anything they want. As long as they can demonstrate that the criminal activity has even incidentally crossed state borders, they’re in. In drug cases, since the drugs have clearly not originated in the opium fields of Passaic, the burden of proof is particularly low.

“Why now?” I ask, since the crime took place so long ago.

Pete looks annoyed with the question. “Did I mention the fact that they’re not telling us shit?”

“Had you been working on it? Was there anything new that they could have picked up on?”

“I’ve been working on it since the day it happened. I thought we were on to something recently, but it turns out it was in the wrong direction.”

“‘Dumbass cop says he’s been going in the wrong direction,’” Vince says. “That’s my headline for tomorrow’s paper.”

“That will get you strangled,” Pete says.

Vince points to the Cowboys fan. “You’d strangle me and let that asshole live?”

Pete disregards Vince, which is pretty much the only sane way to handle him, and continues talking about Galloway. He admits that, while he’s glad to see Galloway go down, in fact he’d “strap the guy into the chair” himself, he would much prefer to have made the arrest. It’s understandable; the perpetrator of this crime has been Pete’s “white whale” for years.

That is the limit of Pete’s self-reflection on this subject, at least for the moment. The second half starts, and we all turn back to the game.

Never let it be said we don’t have our priorities straight.

For Danny Butler, it was the turning point.

It wasn’t his first; he’d had a series of momentous moments in his life, moments which dictated his direction for at least a few years to follow. The difference was that this time he was pointed in an upward direction.

Danny had been hooked on prescription drugs, on and off but mostly on, for almost twenty-one years. Like so many other cases of this kind of addiction, it began with debilitating neck pain, the kind that required months of bed rest and three surgeries.

The difference here was that it wasn’t Danny whose neck was in pain; it was his father’s. But the poor guy was so drugged up, and filled so many prescriptions, that it was easy for Danny to take more than his share. And for a seventeen-year-old already on a constant diet of alcohol and marijuana, that was the promised land.

There had been four trips to the “bottom” since then, followed by four rehabs. The longest any of the rehabs worked was fourteen months, but none of the failures was a particular surprise to Danny.

The problem, as he figured it, was that he had nothing to fall back on, and “nothing” included money and a good job. His family had long ago discarded him, he dropped out of high school, and his one serious girlfriend had braces the last time he saw her. So using drugs, Danny introspectively reasoned, was his fall-back position, for lack of anything else.

But this time was going to be different, which was why it was clearly a turning point. This time he would have more money than he ever had before, and a good job. Women wouldn’t be far behind.

Things were pointing upward.

They showed up at Danny’s apartment almost a month ago, though he had no idea how they knew where he lived. It wasn’t even an apartment, just a room without so much as a kitchen, that he rented by the week. That was only his second week there, and he certainly never told anyone about it. Who was there to tell?

So they must have been following him.

They gave their last names, Loney and Camby, and described themselves as concerned citizens. He was sure the latter part was true; it’s what they were really concerned about that remained a mystery.

Loney was obviously in charge, and he was the one who presented the proposition. Danny was to go to the FBI and tell them that when he was in a homeless shelter, the one in Clifton almost six years ago, he became friendly with Noah Galloway.

That much was actually almost true; he remembered Galloway and some of the talks they had together. Galloway was easily as screwed up as Danny was, but he talked to Danny like he was trying to help him, like he was his father or something. It pissed Danny off something fierce.

In one of their little chats, Danny was to report, Galloway had confided in him that he had set the Hamilton Village fire. He swore Danny to secrecy, but it had bothered Danny ever since. Now Danny was fully sober, and he was setting the record straight on everything, including Noah’s confession.

The payment for this was one hundred thousand dollars, in cash. Fifty would be paid when Danny agreed to do it, and the other fifty after Galloway was arrested.

Additionally, Danny would be given a job as a driver for Loney, at a salary of eighty thousand dollars per year, plus overtime. The only condition was that Danny stay completely sober, since Loney’s family would occasionally be among his passengers.

Danny would have done what they were asking for half of what was offered, but since the conversation with Galloway never actually happened, he instinctively felt like he should pretend to have some reservations about lying.

“Did he really set the fire?” Danny asked.

“Absolutely,” Loney said. “And there is evidence that can prove it.”

“So what do you need me for?” Danny asked, and then immediately regretted it. He was afraid he was coming on too strong, and the last thing he wanted was to convince these guys that they didn’t need him.

Loney nodded, as if the question were perfectly reasonable. “Because the evidence can only be uncovered with a search warrant. And there’s no probable cause for one to be issued.”

“You know what ‘probable cause’ is?” Camby asked, and Danny thought he saw Loney look over at him, as if he was annoyed that Camby asked the question. In fact he didn’t get the feeling that Loney had much use for Camby at all.

Danny nodded, even though he wouldn’t know probable cause if it walked into the room and bit him on the ass. “Sure. Makes sense.”

“Good,” Loney said. “Because once the evidence is found, a mass murderer will pay for his crimes. And you’ll be well compensated. It’s a win-win for everyone.”

Danny had to that point lived a life with very few wins, so a “win-win” sounded really good. He spent twelve hours over the next few days rehearsing exactly what he would tell the FBI, and the exact manner in which he would tell it. Lying was not exactly new ground for Danny, and he had no doubt he could pull it off.

And he did. Once they paid him the fifty thousand, half in hundreds and half in twenties, he made an appointment with an FBI agent named Neil Mulcahy, and told him everything. It went off like clockwork, and over the next week Mulcahy had him repeat the tale four times, to at least six other agents.

For a while Danny heard nothing, until he saw on the news that Galloway was arrested. Then he waited for Loney’s call. He wasn’t fearful that his benefactors would renege; they would be afraid that he could recant his testimony and implicate them in the bribe.

In fact, Danny thought he might be able to hold them up for more money, in return for his silence. That would certainly be preferable to a crummy job as a driver.

He would play it by ear and decide just how to take the most advantage of the turning point.

I need to be entertained.

I’ve never been into quiet, reflective thinking, or meditation, or introspection, or any of that stuff.

I can be alone; that’s no problem at all. But if I am I want the TV on, or a book to read, or someone to talk to, or something, anything, to do. My best thinking comes when I’m doing something other than thinking.

But the time I am absolutely at my most comfortable, when I don’t need or want outside diversions at all, is when I’m walking Tara. It’s my version of yoga, but without the bending and chanting.

Tara is a golden retriever. I don’t say she’s my golden retriever, because that would reduce her to a possession, and I don’t think of her in those terms. She is my partner, my friend, and the greatest living creature on the face of the earth, bar none.

I’m over the top about dogs, that’s pretty much a given among everyone I know. My ex-client Willie Miller and I run the Tara Foundation, through which we rescue dogs and place them in good homes. It takes up most of Willie’s time and much of mine, as well as a decent amount of money, but we love it.

I also have frequently handled cases involving dogs, some of which have been my clients. The fact that I’ve been successful at them has done little to reduce the sarcasm and ridicule I receive in the community. Nor has that reaction in any way deterred me.

But Tara is on an entirely different plane, even from other great dogs. I rescued her from the animal shelter at two years old. She’s getting up there in age now, with white showing in her face, and I have been thankful for every day I have had with her. And today is no different.

We plan to head out for our walk at eight in the morning, like always. That gives me time to watch the first hour of
The Today Show,
which is when they cram in the real news of the day. It’s a perfect time for me to watch TV while getting in my exercise on the treadmill, and some day I’m actually going to get a treadmill to try out the theory.

Of course, the show would have more time for news if they’d leave out the fake “good mornings.” Matt or Meredith start the show by teasing the upcoming stories, then they turn to Anne Curry at the news desk, always including a “good morning, Anne.” She responds with “good morning, Matt, good morning, Meredith,” and then launches into her news recap.

Now, it’s not like the news desk is in Iowa; it seems to be maybe fifteen feet away from the anchor desks, in the same studio. Are we to believe that these people have been beamed into place an instant before going on the air, without having had the opportunity to wish each other a good morning? Or is it at all possible that the “good mornings” are in fact contrived by some TV executive, who has decided it would be appealing to the audience to see the warmth and politeness between these talking heads?

The mystery is always solved when the show comes back from the seven-thirty break, and everybody goes through the same “good morning” routine again. I wonder if I’m the only one who is annoyed by this. Perhaps they have market research that shows that the rest of the audience has their collective eyes filled with tears at these heartwarming exchanges.

After they wish Al Roker a heartfelt “good morning” and he gives the weather, the first story is not surprisingly about the arrest of Noah Galloway. Unfortunately, since the FBI is being typically tight-lipped about details, there is little of substance that is added, and it’s basically a rehash of the fire and its devastating and tragic effects. Substantial attention is given to what is known about Galloway, and the potentially serious political ramifications for an administration that was about to place an apparent mass murderer in a position of power and influence.

Dylan Campbell, a county prosecutor that I detest, is shown on camera saying that he is confident the case against Noah is strong. I’m not surprised that the Feds are letting the case be tried locally, and I’m also not surprised that Dylan angled to get the assignment. He would relish the publicity.

While I am not that interested in the skimpy report, Tara seems quite taken with it, barking and moving around in an animated, excited fashion. More likely she is anxious to get started on the walk, so we start out twenty minutes early.

We have three possible routes that we take through Eastside Park and then around to Broadway, where we eat bagels at an outside table, no matter how cold it is. I put butter on my bagel; she eats hers plain. I get coffee; she gets water.

A few people either nod or say hello to me, but everybody stops to pet Tara. She accepts the petting with a smile and a wag of her tail, and has the good manners to stop chewing during the process.