Dog Tags

CHAPTER 13

“MAN, I LOVE WHEN YOU DO THIS STUFF,” Willie Miller says. Because he’s my partner in the Tara Foundation, our dog-rescue operation, I’ve come to the foundation building to talk to him about the situation with Milo, and what we might do with him should we get him out.

“What kind of stuff?” I ask.

“Lawyer stuff. Stuff like this thing with Milo. You know, with judges and witnesses and shit. Damn, I should have been a lawyer.”

“Did you ever consider it?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. It would have meant finishing college, and high school, and eighth grade, and seventh grade…” He stops talking, no doubt exhausted by the amount of education he is contemplating.

“It’s not all fun and games,” I say.

“You have fun at my trial?” he asks. Willie was on death row for seven years for a murder he did not commit; we got him off on a retrial.

“I was scared out of my mind at your trial. I thought we were going to lose, right up until the time the verdict came in.”

“Not me,” he says. “I knew it was in the bag all along. I’m lucky like that.”

I refrain from asking him how come, if he’s so lucky, he was wrongly imprisoned for seven years of his life. Instead I ask, “You want to sit at the defense table with me for this one? Kevin’s gone, so you can be my assistant.”

“No shit? Man, that’d be great.” Then, “What does an assistant do?”

“You get me coffee, or soda, or M&M’s, and every once in a while you tell me how great I’m doing.”

“That’s easy,” he says. “I can do that.”

“If we win, what are we gonna do with Milo?”

“You really think somebody’s trying to kill him?” he asks.

“Either that or steal him. The cops seem to think he needs protection.”

Willie thinks for a few moments. “Well, he can’t stay here. Not unless we hire a guard ourselves.”

We talk about it for a while but don’t reach a final decision. We can worry about that later, if we win.

Having recruited a trusty assistant, I head back to the office, where Eddie Lynch is waiting for me with the brief he has written to file with the court. It’s only six pages, minute by legal standards, but it is outstanding in every respect.

“This is absolutely great, Hike,” I say.

He shrugs. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious. It’s exactly what I need.”

“You’re going to need a hell of a lot more than this,” he says.

Buoyed by his optimism, I drive down to the courthouse to fire the opening salvo in the legal war over Milo. I tell Rita Gordon that I want to get a bail hearing on the court’s calendar for my client.

“For Billy Zimmerman?” she asks. “Bail was already denied when the PD was handling his case.”

I shake my head. “Different client. This is for Milo Zimmerman.”

“The dog? You want a bail hearing for the dog?”

“Correct. On an expedited basis. He was entitled to it already. Which judge is assigned to the Zimmerman case?”

“Judge Catchings. I was just going in there now.”

That’s actually a break for me. Of all the judges in Passaic County, he’s probably the one who hates me the least. He also has a terrific, dry sense of humor, which he’s going to need. “Let me talk to him,” I say.

“Sorry, Andy. That’s not the way it works. You want to file a brief?”

“Okay, sure,” I say, taking the envelope out of my pocket. “Here it is.”

“That was convenient. Anything you want me to add to it when I talk to him?” she asks.

“You mean like I won’t be going to the media with this unless he turns me down?”

Rita has seen how my previous cases with dogs have become national news, often making the authorities look bad, so she knows exactly what I’m saying.

“You don’t think he’ll take that as a threat?” she asks, smiling.

“Not if you smile like that when you say it. And maybe bat your eyes a little.”

“How about if I take off my top?”

“Even better.”

She laughs and stands up. “You want to hang out here until I get back?”

“Will he look at it right away?”

“Are you kidding? Absolutely.”

“Okay. I’ll wait. That way if I have to I can call Matt Lauer from here.”

It takes Rita more than forty-five minutes to return to her office. Obviously they had more business to discuss than just New Jersey v. Milo Zimmerman. She finds me stretched out on her couch, hands clasped behind my head.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she says.

“Without a pillow? I don’t think so. Did we get the hearing? It took you long enough.”

“Nine o’clock Wednesday morning. He cleared his calendar.”

“Did he say anything?’

“I couldn’t tell. He was laughing too hard.”