Dog Tags

CHAPTER 62

JUDGES DO NOT CALL ME AT HOME. Not ever. There is more of a chance that the president of the United States will call and invite me to a state dinner, or that Tom Coughlin will call and ask me to quarterback the Giants.

A judge would view such a call as somehow crossing a line that judges have no interest in crossing. If they have something to tell me, and I happen to be at home, they have the court clerk call and summon me to their office.

So when I hear Judge Catchings’s voice on the other end of the phone, at ten PM, I immediately get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I hate stomach-pit feelings, so I gird myself for the worst. I’m in bed with Laurie next to me, and I sit up leaning on one elbow, which is my preferred girding position.

When I say, “Hello, Your Honor,” Laurie sits up, knowing that this must be something important. Tara and Milo are at the end of the bed, but they seem considerably less concerned.

“Mr. Morrison is on the call with us,” the judge says, referring to Eli. Eli stays quiet; he’s here primarily to listen. “Raymond Santiago was shot and killed a little over an hour ago. His killer has not been apprehended, and at this point his identity and whereabouts are unknown.”

My initial reaction to the news has nothing to do with the case. Instead I have what seems to be a surreal comprehension that the young man who was in this house a few hours ago, whom I was talking to and whose protection I arranged, is no longer alive.

Intellectually, I understand that these things happen, but when they do, they still don’t seem quite real or possible.

“What happened to the protection?” I ask. It’s a pretty ridiculous question, but the only one I can think of in the moment.

“He was in the process of being protected when he died,” Judge Catchings says, drily.

Turning my attention to the trial, I would assess this news as an almost total disaster. I qualify it with “almost” because, while the loss of Santiago’s information and testimony is devastating, his murder will surely compel the judge to let us put this line of defense in front of the jury.

“Your Honor, the jury needs to hear this.”

“I agree. I’ll be issuing a ruling to that effect in the morning.”

“Your Honor,” Eli finally says, “our objections to this have not changed.”

“Noted.”

“And we would like an opportunity to be heard once again.”

“Denied. Anything else?”

“Yes,” I say. “I would like to go down to the scene of the crime as soon as I get off this call. I’ll need permission to be arranged for Laurie Collins and me to be allowed in.”

“Mr. Morrison?” the judge asks, the implication obvious.

“I’ll take care of it,” Eli says.

“Good. See you tomorrow, gentlemen.”

As soon as I hang up, I tell Laurie what has happened. We watch television as we dress. The news coverage has begun, and reporters are on the scene with camera crews. Santiago’s name has not yet been released, and the reporters are obviously not aware of any connection between him and the Zimmerman case.

Laurie and I get in the car and head to the crime scene. The officers manning the periphery have been alerted, and we are let in, though cautioned not to interfere with the forensics people doing their work.

We look around, and not surprisingly Laurie sees the events from a cop’s perspective, speculating on how the killer could have known where Santiago was going. “He had to have information,” she says. “There’s no way he could have followed him and pulled that off. He had to be in position, waiting for him to arrive.”

“Where was he?” I ask.

She points. “I would say in either of those buildings. Probably in an upper-floor window. They’ll be able to pinpoint it pretty easily. But the shooter didn’t just show up; this was all set up in advance.”

“Maybe Santiago told the wrong person,” I say.

She shakes her head. “Not possible. Santiago didn’t know where he was going; he didn’t even know he was going into custody until you told him tonight.”

I start to wonder out loud if I could have given it away to someone, but Laurie correctly points out that I didn’t know where Santiago was to be held, either. “The leak had to be with the police,” she says.

We walk toward the lobby of the hotel, which has been set up as a police command center. Captain Dessens and I see each other at the same time.

“Oh, shit,” he says. I often bring out that reaction in people.

“Well, if it isn’t the great protector,” I say.

“What do you want, Carpenter?”

“I want to know who shot my witness.”

“You’ll be the first one I tell when we find out. So…”

“What are they doing here?” I ask, pointing to a uniformed army officer, talking to a man whom Central Casting would send in if I were looking for an FBI agent. I’m surprised they’re here, and very surprised that the army could be here this soon.

“They were waiting to question your boy.”

That really pisses me off, since Santiago was to be my witness. The fact that the feds were going to take first crack at him is both annoying and now moot. I try to talk to them about it, but they wave me off.

As we’re leaving, I walk up to Dessens and say, “See you next week.”

“Where?”

“You’ll be on the witness stand, and I’ll be walking around in front of you. Should be fun.”