Dog Tags

CHAPTER 8

I NEED TO SPEAK TO BILLY ZIMMERMAN’S LAWYER. That way I can have him get the court to allow me to represent Milo. I have to admit that my semi-involvement in all of this doesn’t feel quite so much like a chore anymore. Not only do I want to get that dog out of his undeserved imprisonment, but I’m more than curious to find out why it is considered necessary to post a twenty-four-hour armed guard outside his cage.

I call Rita Gordon, the court clerk, to find out who is representing Zimmerman. I had a forty-five-minute affair with Rita a few years ago, when Laurie had left for Wisconsin and we were broken up. Rita’s sexual prowess and energy level are such that if the affair had lasted for fifty-five minutes, they would have had to get me out of bed with a soup ladle.

“Hiya, big boy,” she says when she hears that it’s me. She’s taken to calling me big boy lately, and I don’t know what to make of it. I stifle the desire to ask her what she means or if she’s kidding, because I’m afraid to hear the answer.

We banter a bit, since that is the price I have to pay for information. Then I ask, “Who is Billy Zimmerman’s lawyer?”

“Does the name Nobody ring a bell?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he refuses to have a lawyer,” she says. “The PD handled it for the arraignment, but after that Zimmerman said he didn’t need one.”

“So he’s going to represent himself?” I ask.

“As far as I know he hasn’t said that, but eventually he’s going to have to make a decision.”

This is becoming more complicated by the minute. “I need to see him.”

“We all have our needs.”

“Can you get a message to him? Tell him it’s about Milo.”

“Who’s Milo?” she asks.

“His dog.”

“Again with the dogs? Don’t you think you might be overdoing this dog thing?

“Come on, Rita. Tell him I need to talk to him about Milo. Tell him it’s life or death.”

“Is it?”

“No.”

She considers that for a few moments, and then shrugs. “Okay. I’ll get word to him.”

“Thanks.”

With nothing else to do, I head back to the office. It’s not like I have anything to do there; I just feel that if I spend afternoons at home, I’m one step from watching soap operas and eating bonbons. It’s a dignity thing.

Edna isn’t in, which does not exactly qualify as a news event, so I take the time to ponder what I should do about Kevin’s announced departure from the firm. His leaving means that we lose 50 percent of the firm’s lawyers, while retaining the 50 percent, me, that doesn’t like to do any of the work.

This would leave something of a gap, if we had any clients. The fact that we don’t makes the problem somewhat less urgent, but that is subject to change. Despite my best efforts, clients and murder cases seem to show up out of nowhere.

Kevin is a brilliant attorney, and the perfect complement to me. He takes great pleasure and pride in writing detailed legal briefs and obsessing over the minutiae that can be so critical in the course of a trial. I see myself as more of a big-picture strategist, which means I’m lazy and I bore easily.

There’s a good chance I can deal with this minor Milo issue on my own, but in the future I’m going to need somebody, at least on a part-time basis. Kevin’s friend Eddie Lynch is a possibility, though based on my one conversation with him, he could probably talk me onto a window ledge.

Having resolved nothing, not even in my mind, I turn my attention to the Internet to read what I can about the murder that Billy Zimmerman stands accused of. The name of the victim is still being withheld, which is very unusual for this situation.

The victim was standing in front of a relatively expensive club, and is not being described as homeless or a vagrant. It would seem far-fetched that he cannot be identified, and the police are not even claiming that is the case. They simply are not yet releasing his name.

The incident has not been treated by the press as a major story, so I would imagine there is little pressure on the police to be more forthcoming. For now it is just strange, though not nearly as strange as an armed guard around Milo.

Just as I’m preparing to go home, having exhausted myself from thinking nonstop for forty-five minutes, Rita Gordon calls. She has contacted Billy Zimmerman, who had previously been not at all responsive to any contacts from representatives of the justice system.

“Milo was the magic word,” she says. “He says he’ll see you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

I’m a little irritated by a prisoner, no less one I’m doing a favor for, dictating the time of our meeting. “Gee,” I say, “that barely gives me time to find something to wear.”

“Shall I set it up?” she asks, choosing to ignore my sarcasm.

My inclination is to tell her to tell him to shove it, but I can’t get the image of Milo in a cage out of my mind.

“Okay. I’ll be there.”