Daddy's Gone a Hunting

81

Attorney Noah Green was thoroughly repulsed by his new client, Harry Simon. “Well, he’s not really new. Do you remember that I got him off on a speeding ticket a couple of years ago?” he asked his wife, Helen, on Thursday morning over their usual breakfast of coffee and a bagel at their small law office in lower Manhattan.

They had met in law school and were married the day after they were sworn in to the New York State Bar twenty-six years ago. Optimistically, they had opened a law office with the money that they had suggested their relatives and friends give to them in lieu of other wedding presents. To their deep disappointment, Helen had had several miscarriages and they had never had children.

They had both developed good reputations in the legal community and their practice had thrived. Helen Green concentrated on family law, and most of her clients were women. Many of them had been victims of domestic violence or were seeking child support from their ex-husbands or boyfriends. Noah’s clients were usually people buying or selling their condos, writing their wills, or trying to fight expensive motor vehicle violations. Their private joke was that Helen’s practice often ended up being pro bono and that Noah’s clients paid the bills.

While Noah and Helen had a standing agreement that they would try hard to avoid discussing their cases at the dinner table, Noah had told her the night before about his visit to see Harry Simon, and that now he had to decide whether to approach the police with the information that Simon claimed to have about the night Tracey Sloane had disappeared.

Helen had been initially appalled at the idea that her husband was representing a murderer whose crime had been indisputably captured by a security camera. “Noah, I want you to withdraw,” she pleaded. “We don’t need this. If Simon told you to give this information to the police, then do it and get out.”

“Helen, I don’t like him any more than you do. I didn’t even feel good about getting him off on that speeding ticket. Maybe the radar gun wasn’t working properly, but I did believe that young state trooper when he testified that Harry was driving like a bat out of hell that day and almost cut off a family with a bunch of kids in a station wagon. But, you know, Helen, this is a very high-profile case. Simon can’t really pay much, but he is entitled to an advocate and the publicity could draw in a lot of new clients for me, especially if I’m able to get him a better deal with the information about Sloane.”

Noah and Helen both remembered that they had been students at New York University School of Law when Tracey Sloane vanished. They had occasionally gone to Tommy’s Bistro, where Tracey had worked at the time of her disappearance, and had even talked between themselves about whether she had ever been their waitress. They had concluded that, on the few occasions they had been there, their waitress had been an older woman with a strong Italian accent.

“All right, Noah,” Helen said, reluctantly. “It’s okay with me if you want to represent him.” She added wryly, “But I don’t have to be thrilled about it.”

Noah had spent a restless night, still not sure that it was a good idea to go to the police with Simon’s story about Tracey Sloane getting into some kind of furniture van. But then on Thursday morning, as he finished his bagel and coffee, he decided that Simon really didn’t have anything to lose. The Lower East Side case by itself would put him in prison for the rest of his life. Simon’s only shot at doing less than life without parole was the Sloane information.

“Helen, I’m going to call the DA’s office this afternoon about what Simon knows. I just want to finish up a few things here before I make the call.”

At two minutes of twelve, Helen came rushing into Noah’s office. “Noah, turn on the television, quick. There’s a police press conference that you have to see. The lead-in said that it’s going to be about Tracey Sloane.”

Noah grabbed the remote and clicked it. The small television on the wall of his office went on. The press conference was just about to begin. He heard the solemn voice of the police spokesman announcing it had been confirmed by the medical examiner’s office that the remains of the long-missing Tracey Sloane had been found at the Connelly furniture complex in Long Island City. “The explosion last week created a deep sinkhole in the back of the property and a member of the cleanup crew removing the rubble discovered the remains at five o’clock yesterday evening.”

The spokesman continued: “As of this point, we can release the following limited information. Our investigation has revealed that a homeless man, Clyde Hotchkiss, who had been a decorated veteran of the Vietnam War, had been living for a number of years in a disabled van at the rear of the Connelly property. Before his death at Bellevue Hospital yesterday, which preceded the discovery last night of Tracey Sloane’s remains, Hotchkiss was questioned about the disappearance of Barnard College student Jamie Gordon, whose body was found in the East River a year and a half ago. A notebook with her name on it had been discovered in his van following the explosion. Ms. Gordon had been interviewing homeless people as part of an academic project that she had been working on at the time she went missing.”

“Is there any connection between the two cases?” a reporter shouted.

“Please let me finish,” he responded. “Mr. Hotchkiss acknowledged that Ms. Gordon had climbed into the van and tried to talk to him. He admitted that he became very angry and that he punched her in the face. He claimed that she had then fled the van and moments later, he had heard her cry for help. Before his death, he consistently denied that he had followed her or caused her any other injury.”

The spokesman looked directly at the reporter who had called out the question. “At this point, we have no idea if Mr. Hotchkiss was involved in the disappearance of Tracey Sloane. We do not know where he was living twenty-eight years ago. The fact that her remains were found only yards from where he had been recently living in the van may or may not be significant. At the present time, we do not know. We can state, however, that Clyde Hotchkiss is strongly suspected to be responsible for the death of Jamie Gordon.”

“Helen, they just said that Tracey Sloane’s remains were found at the Connelly Fine Antique Reproductions complex!” Noah exclaimed.

“Yes, they did. I can hear. I know what you’re thinking.”

In his mind, Noah Green was again seeing the furtive expression in Harry Simon’s eyes as he told him that Tracey Sloane had willingly gotten into a black furniture van with gold lettering on the side panel that had the word “antique” on it.

That creep was telling the truth, Noah thought. None of this was public information until two minutes ago. Noah took out his cell phone and called Detective Matt Stevens, who had questioned Simon the previous day. “What’s up, Noah?” he asked.

“What’s up is that I’m on my way in to talk to you. I can represent to you that Harry Simon might have useful information regarding Tracey Sloane’s disappearance, and it’s not what you’re thinking. He didn’t do it but he could end up being a valuable witness. When I was with him yesterday, he told me that he can describe the type of vehicle that she willingly got into the night she disappeared. But he won’t talk unless he has assurance that it will help him in a plea agreement on the Lower East Side case. He’s no fool. He knows the kind of proof that you have with that tape.”

“The thought of giving that creep one day less in prison makes me sick,” Stevens replied. “And, anyhow, I don’t have that kind of authority. That would have to come from the DA himself or one of his top assistants.”

“Well, talk to one of them now. But I’m telling you that what Simon told me was before that press conference, so it’s legit. And if anyone doubts about the timing of his information, I will withdraw as his attorney and become a witness. He may be a useless piece of garbage but in this case I can swear, as an officer of the court, that he talked to me yesterday. And particularly after watching that press conference, I think that what he said is going to help you. I’ll be there in a little while.”

Noah Green put his cell phone in his pocket and looked at his wife. “Wish me luck,” he said.

An hour later, Noah was seated in the impressive private office of Ted Carlyle, the district attorney of Manhattan. Detective Matt Stevens, his expression inscrutable, was next to Carlyle. After expressing his own repulsion at giving Harry Simon anything, DA Carlyle agreed to offer Simon twenty years without parole on the Lower East Side murder of Betsy Trainer if the information about Tracey Sloane proved to be of substantial value.

“If it doesn’t completely pan out, we’re back to life without parole,” Carlyle stated emphatically. “I’ll bury him.”

Green responded, “He will certainly understand that.”

“All right,” Carlyle replied. “Now what are the details that he claims he has?”

“He followed Tracey Sloane from the restaurant the night she disappeared. He saw her get into a furniture van a couple of blocks away.”

Noah could not help savoring the look of astonishment on the faces of the two men. “The van was stopped at a light. Somebody inside it called out to her. The door opened and she willingly got into the van. From where he was a short distance behind her, Simon couldn’t see the driver, but he could see that it was a black furniture van with gold lettering on the side panel that had the word ‘antique’ on it.”

Noah’s voice became firm. “As I said before, I want you to check the time I was with Simon yesterday afternoon. I left him just before five o’clock. It was a few minutes later that Tracey Sloane’s remains were discovered in a sinkhole in the parking lot of the esteemed Connelly Fine Antique Reproductions complex.”

“Why didn’t he tell this to Nick Greco when he was first questioned right after Sloane went missing?” Carlyle demanded.

“I asked him exactly the same question,” Noah replied. “He said that he was afraid about something in his background and that he would end up making himself a suspect.”

“He’s right about that,” Carlyle snapped.