First degree

"My message today has not changed. The evidence has been presented, the facts are clear. The defense has been even more illusory than I expected, presenting a wild tale of Green Berets, frame-ups, and conspiracies.

"In the process, an FBI agent has been shown to have lied. I won't dispute that; we all saw it before our eyes. But what does that mean to this case? No evidence was presented implicating him in the murder you are here to judge. In fact, as a federal officer, he had nothing to do with this case whatsoever; it was handled by the Paterson police. Nor did anyone come up here and say he had a grudge against this defendant. Why would he have framed her? It doesn't make any sense.

"Yes, Agent Hobbs lied, perhaps to hide his embarrassment at his relationship with criminals and a cop gone bad. It's interesting, it's troublesome, and it will be investigated, but it has nothing--I repeat nothing whatsoever--to do with the murder of Alex Dorsey.

"The state has proved its case, proved it well beyond a reasonable doubt, and I ask you to return a verdict of guilty against Laurie Collins for the murder of Lieutenant Alex Dorsey."

I get up to give our closing argument aware that we have a big hill to climb. In a perfect world, a lawyer wants to be able to recap and summarize the compelling evidence he has presented during the course of the trial. This case being tried in a less-than-perfect world, I have the task of explaining what the hell our evidence has to do with it.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there is absolutely nothing in Laurie Collins's background, not a shred, which would indicate she could possibly be capable of a brutal act such as the murder of Alex Dorsey. On the contrary, her entire life has been devoted to furthering the public good and the cause of justice.

"The prosecutor says she did it, and points to certain items of evidence. I say she was framed, and that the same evidence was planted to further that end.

"But Mr. Campbell completely rejects the idea of a frame-up moments after he tells you that the reason he first charged Oscar Garcia with the crime is because he was framed! Mr. Garcia could be framed, but Ms. Collins could not? Why doesn't he explain that?

"And let's look at what he does say about it. He says that Ms. Collins framed Garcia to avenge one of these grudges that he thinks she carries around. Yet an FBI agent, Cindy Spodek, testified that she made the call accusing Garcia. Ms. Collins had nothing to do with it. Mr. Campbell was wrong about that, as he has been wrong about so much in this case.

"Which brings me to Special Agent Hobbs. Even Mr. Campbell admits Hobbs perjured himself. Now, I don't know exactly what Mr. Hobbs did, or why he did it, but I'm going to give you a theory. It may be right, or it may be wrong, or the truth may be somewhere in the middle.

"I think the evidence shows that Hobbs led a squad, much of the same squad he led in the military. I think they got into positions where they could abuse the system and commit crimes, and Hobbs was in a position to protect them and to take a healthy cut of their profits.

"And he did protect Dorsey, but it got to a point where he couldn't protect him anymore. Dorsey didn't want to go to prison, and he threatened Hobbs with exposure. Dorsey may well have intended to fake his own death, but that wasn't good enough for Hobbs, and he either killed him or had Cahill kill him. And when Murdoch was going to talk to me, Hobbs had him killed as well.

"Before killing Dorsey, he either tricked him or forced him to tape a message to Ms. Collins, which he played in a phone call to her, making us think Dorsey was alive. Because as the actual murderer trying to deflect attention from himself, Hobbs had a very strong interest in Ms. Collins getting convicted.

"Now, as I've said, this is just a theory, though I believe it is plausible given the facts before you. Don't you have to admit it's possible? I believe that you do. Can you say beyond a reasonable doubt that I'm wrong? I don't think so.

"One of the many unusual aspects of this case is the fact that the lawyer for the defendant was a key witness in the defense. I sat up there and told you that Roger Cahill confessed the murder to me and told me about the bloody clothing behind the stadium, clothing he said was his own. I also told you that I sent Ms. Collins out there to retrieve the clothing.

"If I was telling the truth, Ms. Collins is innocent. It's as simple as that. You may or may not believe me, but can you say beyond a reasonable doubt I was lying? I don't think so. And if you can't, then you must vote to acquit.

"I know Laurie Collins very well, probably better than I know anyone in the world. She could no more commit a murder like this than she could get up and fly out the window.

"A murder of anyone, no matter what their actions in life, is a tragedy. Please don't compound that tragedy by turning Ms. Collins into another victim. She is innocent, and she has been put through hell. I ask you to do what is right and give Laurie Collins her life back."

As I turn and walk back toward Laurie at the defense table, I experience a totally selfish moment. I realize that the life I have been fighting for as much as Laurie's is my own.

I simply cannot envision living my life while Laurie wastes away in prison. It would be an incomprehensibly horrible existence, and the knowledge that twelve strangers can turn it into a reality bores a panic-filled hole in my stomach.

Kevin and Laurie shake my hand and whisper that I was wonderful, but the jury sits impassive, not looking at me, or Laurie, or anyone else. I want to go over and shake them until they understand who the good guys are. And I want to memorize their faces so that if they convict the woman I love for murder, I can hunt each one of them down, cut off their ugly heads, and set their stinking bodies on fire.

Hatchet reads them his version of the law, which when boiled down from its one-hour length, basically says, "If you think she's guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, vote guilty." He sends them off to deliberate, though they inform him that since it's late, they're going to get started in the morning.

Kevin comes over again tonight, basically out of force of habit, since there's nothing else we can do. I'm going to be hard-pressed to stick to my usual style of waiting for a verdict, which is to be totally alone (except for Tara), totally obnoxious to anyone who interrupts that solitude, and totally superstitious.

I can't be alone, at least not in my house, since Laurie is confined there for the duration. I don't want to be obnoxious, since she is no doubt going through a greater agony than I am. The only thing I can be is superstitious, so I'm sure I will do that with a vengeance.

I know we shouldn't, but we are physically unable to avoid watching news coverage of the verdict watch. Some commentators give us a decent chance, but most feel that if the jurors follow a strict interpretation of the law, we'll probably lose. All agree that if not for the Hobbs revelations, we'd be dead in the water.

The area of most agreement is that the longer it takes to reach a verdict, the better off we are. If the jury rejects our theories about Hobbs as irrelevant, they'll vote quickly to convict. If they're willing to accept them, or at least examine them, it will take considerably longer. Of course, this "longer the better" theory does not take into account the likelihood that we will soon all have strokes and die from stress waiting for the jury to come back.

We're eating breakfast at nine A.M. when Laurie and I make eye contact and realize that at that very moment, the jury is meeting to begin the process of deciding her fate. It's enough to make me choke on my pancakes.

The doorbell rings and we get a FedEx delivery. It's from the opposing law firm in the Willie Miller suit, and inside is a cashier's check for more than eleven million dollars. Since two hundred thousand dollars of it is Edna's, she is more than happy to take it to the bank and deposit it.

I call Willie and Kevin and tell them the news. Willie tells me that he's decided what he's going to do with some of the money. I assume he's going to buy a yacht on which he can tool around the inner city, but he tells me otherwise.

"It's an investment," he says. "But it ain't gonna make any money."

"Most investments are like that," I say. "But you don't usually know it going in."

"I want you to come in for half," he says.

I'm really not in the mood to deal with this insanity now, so I say, "After the trial, we'll talk to cousin Fred."

Kevin comes over at noon, and along with Laurie and Edna, we sit around waiting for the call that we hope doesn't come for quite a while. At one point I get up and open a window; it's not hot, it's more to let the pressure out.

At three-thirty, Edna answers the phone and nervously tells me that it's Rita Golden, the court clerk. It takes what seems like an hour and a half for me to walk the eight feet to the phone. There are a lot of things that this could be other than a verdict. The jury could want testimony read back, one of them could be ill, they're ending deliberations for the day, etc., etc. Any of the above would be fine with me.

"Hello?" is my clever opening line.

"Andy," Rita says, "there's a verdict. Hatchet wants everyone here at five o'clock."

"Okay," I say, and she gives me a few more instructions. I hang up, turn, and break the news to Laurie, Kevin, and Edna. They've all been a part of our discussions hoping for a long deliberation, but no one voices the pessimism we all now feel.

"What time are we leaving?" Laurie asks.

"In about an hour," I say before dropping a bomb that Rita dropped on me. "Laurie, you're supposed to pack some things. Just in case …" I don't finish the sentence, since it would have sounded something like "Just in case last night was the last one you will ever spend out of prison."

Laurie nods and goes to the bedroom to pack a suitcase. Kevin hasn't said a word; he's feeling exactly what I'm feeling. It's a sense of powerlessness and fear. The powerlessness comes from the awareness that our ability to influence events is over, and the fear is from knowing that those events have already been decided.

The truly chilling part is that we both feel we have lost.

The scene outside the courthouse is chaotic, but they get us through and into the courtroom just before the appointed time. Ever since we got the phone call, I've felt as if I'm watching things in slow motion, yet at the same time realizing that they're moving at high speed.

Laurie hasn't said a word since we left the house; I don't know how she's bearing up under this pressure. Kevin has been spouting optimistic one-liners, none of which he truly believes. The bottom line is that how any of us are acting and feeling does not matter; the result has been determined, and within moments we are going to have to deal with it, one way or the other.

Hatchet comes in, issues a stern, cautionary warning against outbursts after the verdict is read, and calls in the jury. Their faces are somber, expressionless; their eyes are averted from both the defense and the prosecution.

Laurie leans over and whispers in my ear. "Andy, thank you. No matter what happens, you've done an amazing job. And I love you more than you can imagine." I don't know how to respond to a comment as caring and generous as that, so I don't.

Hatchet instructs the foreman to give the verdict slip to the bailiff, who carries it over to the clerk.

Hatchet says, "Will the defendant please rise?"

Laurie stands quickly, almost defiantly. Kevin and I are on our feet a split second later, and I take Laurie's hand. I'm not sure which one the shaking is coming from.

"The clerk will read the verdict."

The clerk looks at the form for the first time and seems to read it silently for a few moments, as if she wants to be the only person besides the jury who knows how this ends. There is not another sound in the room, and her words come through so clearly that it is as if I am hearing them through a stethoscope. I know I'm standing on my legs, but I can't feel them.

"We, the jury, in the case of the State of New Jersey versus Laurie Collins, find the defendant, Laurie Collins … not guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree."

I'm sure the gallery must be in an uproar, I'm sure Dylan must be upset, I'm sure Hatchet must be banging his gavel, but I'm not aware of any of it. All I'm conscious of is a three-way hug between Laurie, Kevin, and myself, a hug so tight that I think they'll have to carry us from the room in this position and pry us apart at the hospital.

Laurie tells us both that she loves us, and Kevin, his eyes filled with tears, keeps saying, "It doesn't get any better than this." He's wrong; it would be better than this if Barry Leiter were alive to see it.

But this is pretty damn good.

Hatchet thanks the jury, releases Laurie from custody, and adjourns the proceedings. Dylan comes over to offer his surprisingly gracious congratulations, and they take Laurie away for some quick processing and paperwork.

When she comes back, she has a smile on her face and no bracelet on her ankle.

She looks great.

LAURIE DECLINES MY OFFER OF A GET-AWAY-from-it-all vacation to some island paradise. At this point, her idea of paradise is to live her life unshackled, to run errands with impunity, and to sleep in her own house every Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday.

I've given Edna a couple of weeks off, and in fact haven't even moved the files and things back to my office. If it took me six months to get back in emotional work-mode after the Willie Miller case, I'm figuring six decades this time.

The press conference was intense after the trial, again bestowing hero status on me. Surprisingly, it hasn't died down, though the focus has switched to Darrin Hobbs. New revelations seem to be leaking from the investigation daily, and it seems that there may have been as many as eight ex-army buddies who have been committing crimes under his protection. It appears almost inevitable that he is going to be arrested and charged.

I've heard from Cindy Spodek, who is getting the hero treatment from the press and the cold shoulder from most of her colleagues. She tells me that the dominant emotion she feels is relief, and I know exactly what she means.

The ever-unpredictable Willie Miller has reacted with apparent nonchalance to his sudden wealth, behaving responsibly and prudently. Fred has invested most of the money, leaving some aside for Willie to have some fun. It turns out that Willie's idea of fun is to buy a Volvo, because he's read in Consumer Reports that it's a really safe car.

Willie, is that you? Willie?

I'm going to get a firsthand look at the new Willie in a few minutes, as he's coming by the house to pick me up and drive me to what he says is going to be our investment together. He's keeping it a surprise, but I assume it's not going to be anything too formal, since he suggests I bring along Tara.

Willie pulls up and I get in the beige Volvo. Tara jumps into the backseat with Cash, and I get in the front. After instructing me to put my seat belt on, Willie drives off.

About fifteen minutes later we pull up at an abandoned, dilapidated building, with an old sign identifying it as once having been called the Haledon Kennels.

"Come on," Willie says, and gets out of the car before I have the chance to tell him that this would not be a good investment, and I wouldn't want to run a kennel even if it were.

Willie lets Tara and Cash out of the car, and they walk toward the door with us. It's locked, which is not a problem for Willie because he takes out a key and opens it.

"You have a key?" is my perceptive question.

"I should. I own the damn place. We own the damn place." This shows signs of being a disaster.

We enter and I'm not surprised to discover that inside the dilapidated kennel is a dilapidated kennel.

"What do you think?" Willie asks, positively beaming.

I decide to be direct. "I think you're out of your mind."

He's surprised and wounded. "Why? I thought you love dogs."

"I do. But I don't want to take money from people to stuff their dogs in cages while they go on vacation."

He laughs. "Is that what you think this is?" He points at Tara and Cash. "Look at them, man. Tara was gonna be killed in the animal shelter, and Cash would have been history if they caught him."

I'm not understanding. "So?"

"So we're the shelter," he says. "Come on, man. We rescue dogs from the other shelter, from the street, whatever, and we take care of 'em until we can find them homes. It'll be one of those nonprofit things, like a foundation or something."

He's finally getting through to me. "Damn," I say in wonderment and admiration.

"And I'm gonna run the place," he says. "That's gonna be my job."

I put out my hand and shake his. "And I'm gonna be your partner."

Willie and I spend the next couple of hours talking about our upcoming partnership. We discuss things like what we're going to do to the place, how we'll take care of the dogs, the need to get veterinary care, etc.

I've spent the better part of a year looking for a charity to call my own, and Willie comes up with one a week after getting his money. I'm not about to abandon the needy otters, but I'm genuinely excited to have this project. I'm even more excited that Willie has agreed that we can call it the Tara Foundation. Cash doesn't seem to mind.

I get home and call Laurie to tell her about the venture, but she's not home and I leave a message on her machine for her to call me. Tonight being Thursday, I won't be seeing her. I have no idea where she is. I'm not jealous or insecure, but I wonder how she'd feel about wearing an ankle bracelet so I can monitor her activities.

I call Danny Rollins for the first time in months and place a bet on the Mets against the Braves. I order a pizza, grab a beer, sit with Tara on the couch, and start watching the game. Life is back to normal, and the last thing I remember before falling asleep is a Mike Piazza home run in the fourth inning.

When I wake up, the television is off, but so are all the lights. My first reaction is to assume it's a summer power failure, due to overuse of air-conditioning in the hot weather. However, I can see a streetlight on outside, so the outage must be within the house.

I'm annoyed as I stand, ready to grope around for my flashlight. I hear Tara barking near the back of the house. It is unusual for Tara to bark, and there is always a reason. The last time it was a head being buried on my property. In an instant I go from annoyed to scared, because I know that there is no way Tara would consider a blown circuit breaker a reason to bark.

On a gut instinct level, I know what is going on.

Darrin Hobbs.

I make my way to the phone, but I'm not surprised to discover it has been shut off along with the power. My cell phone is in my car, and I don't think my chances of getting to it are very good.

I hear Tara come into the room, moving toward the other side of the house. I can use her in this fashion as a sentry, but I know that Hobbs would not hesitate to shoot her.

"Here, girl. Come here," I whisper.

She comes to me, and I grab her collar and half coax, half drag her to the closet. I open the closet door and push her inside, closing the door as quietly as I can behind her. She starts barking again, but it's muffled, and she's relatively out of harm's way.

Now it's just Hobbs and me. A Special Forces killing machine head-to-head with an out-of-shape, chickenshit attorney. I'm not thinking about winning; I'm thinking about escaping … about surviving.

I inch out of the room, trying to make it to the back door of the house. It's very difficult in the darkness, and with the need to be perfectly quiet.

"It's show time, asshole."

It's Hobbs's voice in the darkness, but suddenly it's not completely dark anymore. There is the beam of a flashlight, moving back and forth slowly across the inside of the house. I duck down behind a couch as the beam approaches, but I'm very aware that eventually I will be found. And if I am found, I will be killed.

I am more physically afraid than I have ever been in my life, but for some reason it is not a debilitating fear. My mind is totally alert, my senses exquisitely tuned, as I try to come up with a strategy for staying alive.

And then I realize that silence is not my ally … it's his. I need noise, disruption, anything that will attract attention and cause him to move faster and with less caution. If he is free to take his time and methodically hunt me down, he will.

I peer out and follow the beam of the flashlight. It helps me see where the window is, and I pick up a vase and throw it toward the window. I'm right on the mark, and it crashes through.

Hobbs turns toward the noise, and I pick up a paperweight and throw it against a lamp, knocking it over and shattering it. All of this is making a racket, but not enough. I start screaming, "Help! Call the police!" at the top of my lungs, all the time moving from hiding place to hiding place.

The beam of light glances on me once, while I'm on the move, and Hobbs fires his weapon, though the sound is muffled by what must be a silencer. The bullet misses me, but breaks another window. Good.

I'm near the entrance to the hallway when an opportunity presents itself. I throw a plate down the hall, and Hobbs moves toward the entrance, not knowing that I'm there. Ironically, the flashlight allows me to see him, even though he can't see me. As he nears me, I leap for the light, crashing into it and Hobbs as hard as I can.

I land on top of him and can hear him swear. The flashlight falls to the ground, casting a reflected aura on us as we fight.

Fight is probably not the right word for it. I turn into a maniac, desperately trying to hang on to him, trying to rain blows on him, while all he wants to do is separate himself from me so he can take me apart. Or shoot me, if he is still holding the gun.

We knock over a table, but he manages to back off for a moment and deliver a stinging blow to my forehead. I rush forward again, winding up and blindly throwing as hard a punch as I can. It connects, sending shooting pains through my hand as I land on him and we tumble into a cabinet filled with china and glassware, sending it crashing to the ground with a noise that may be louder than any I have ever heard.

I feel like I hit him hard. My hand is aching and wet from what feels like blood, either his or my own. I summon the strength to try to do it again, while readying myself for his return barrage. But he's not retaliating, not attacking, not moving, and I realize that I've knocked him unconscious.

Suddenly, the flashlight moves, rises on its own power, bewildering me, since Hobbs is lying at my feet.

"Andy, are you okay?" is what Laurie says, as beautifully crafted a sentence as any I've ever heard.

"I think so. It's Hobbs. I knocked him out."

I can almost see her grin in the darkness. "So I shouldn't have shot him?"

She points the light on Hobbs's face, and there is a neat little hole in his forehead, which I don't think was made by my fist.

"No, you did fine … but it wasn't necessary. I used my right cross. It's the punch against which there is no known defense."

I go to her and we hug, though I can feel that she is still holding the gun in her hand, just in case. "How did you know to come here?" I ask.

"Pete called to tell me that they went to arrest Hobbs, but he had taken off. Pete tried to call you, but your phone wasn't working. I was worried, so here I am."

"And you didn't think I could handle it?" I say with mock offense.

Suddenly, the house is washed in light, streaming in from police cars outside. "Apparently, Pete had some doubts as well," she says.

I let Tara out of the closet while Laurie goes outside to bring Pete and the other officers in. That gives me about sixty seconds to figure out a way to spin this so I seem heroic.

It's not enough time.

IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE HOW MUCH PROGRESS Willie and I have made in just seven weeks. The renovation of the building is almost complete, we've hired two permanent staff members, and we've arranged for veterinarian care. Willie has been amazingly focused and driven, and I thought he was going to cry when I told him I wanted him to be president of the Tara Foundation.

Laurie is doing great. Her saving my life sort of evened the emotional score, enabling her to stop gushing her gratitude for my keeping her out of prison. I've decided not to belabor the point: that her intervention was not necessary and that neither Hobbs nor anyone else could have survived that right cross.

Cousin Fred is in the office more than I am, counseling Edna and Kevin on their investments. Laurie is no longer thrilled to have to use her share of the Willie Miller settlement to pay for my legal work, and she's been quibbling over the bills.

I've told her that the bills are justified, and I thought she had backed off, but she's just presented me with bills of her own. At first glance they seem unfair. Twenty thousand for a pancake seems high, but I could live with it if she weren't charging me for Kevin's.

And you don't want to know her price for basil.

More David Rosenfelt!

Please turn this page for a preview of

BURY THE LEAD

available wherever books are sold.

AS SOON AS I WALK IN, THE WOMAN GIVES ME THE eye.

This is not quite as promising a situation as it sounds. First of all, I'm in a Laundromat. The actual name is the Law-dromat, owned by my associate Kevin Randall. Kevin uses this business to emotionally, as well as literally, cleanse himself of the rather grimy things we're exposed to in our criminal law practice. In the process he dispenses free legal advice to customers along with detergent and bleach.

Also, the woman giving me this particular eye is not exactly a supermodel. She's maybe four feet eleven inches tall, rather round, and wearing a coat so bulky she could be hiding a four-gallon jug of Tide under it. Her hair is stringy and most likely not squeaky clean to the touch.

Truth be told, even if we were in a nightclub and the woman looked more like Halle than Boysen Berry, I doubt I could accurately gauge the situation. I'm no better than average-looking myself and thus have almost no experience with women giving me the eye. In fact, though I'm not in the habit of counting offered body parts, it's safe to say that over the years I've gotten the finger more than the eye. And I've probably gotten the boot more than both of them combined.

To totally close off any romantic possibilities in this encounter, I remain in love with, and totally faithful to, one Laurie Collins. So no matter how this round stranger tries to tempt me, I'm not about to engage in an early evening bout of tawdry Laundromat sex.

I notice that the woman's eyes start alternating between me and the door, though no one else is entering. And as I move in her general direction, she starts to inch toward that door. This woman is afraid of me.

"Hi," I say, figuring a clever opening like that will put her at ease. Instead, she just nods slightly and seems to draw inward, as if she wants to become invisible. "Kevin around?" I ask.

The woman mutters, "No … I don't know … ," then gathers her clothes, which she hadn't yet put into the machine, and quickly leaves. In the process she bangs into Kevin's cousin Billy, who is just coming in. Billy runs the place when Kevin is not around.

"Hey, Andy. What's with her?" Billy asks.

"I'm not sure. I think she was afraid she might succumb to my charms."

He nods. "We've been getting a lot of that lately."

"What do you mean?"

Billy just points toward a shelf high up in the corner of the room, and for the first time I realize that there is a television up there. It's turned to local news, though the sound is off. There was a day when that would have been a problem, but now all the stations have that annoying crawl along the bottom of the screen.

The subject of the newscast is the murder of a woman last night in Passaic, the third such murder in the last three weeks. The killer has chosen to communicate and taunt the police through Daniel Cummings, a reporter for a local newspaper, and in the process has created a media furor. The woman who just left is not alone in her fear; the entire community seems gripped by it.

"They making any progress?" I ask, referring to the police.

Billy shrugs. "They're appealing to the guy to give himself up."

I nod. "That should do the trick. Where's Kevin?"

"Doctor."

"Is he sick?" I ask, though I know better. Kevin has as many admirable qualities as anyone I know, but he happens to be a total hypochondriac.

Billy laughs. "Yeah. He thinks his tongue is swollen and turning black. Kept sticking it out at me to look at."

"Was it swollen?"

He shakes his head. "Nope."

"Black?"

"Nope."

"Did you tell him that?" I ask.

"Nope. I told him he should get it checked out, that he might be getting 'fat black tongue' disease." He shrugs and explains, "I'm a little short this month; I needed the hours."

I nod; the more time Kevin spends at the doctor the more time Billy gets to work here. I hand an envelope to Billy; it had come to the office for Kevin. "Give this to him, okay?"

"You making deliveries now?" he asks.

"I'm on my way to the foundation."

Billy nods. "Listen, do me a favor? When you see Kevin, tell him his tongue looks like a bowling ball."

"No problem."

NORTHERN NEW JERSEY EXISTS IN A SORT of twilight zone. That is, if it exists at all. It is a densely populated, diverse collection of cities and towns, yet it has no identity. Half of it is a suburb of New York City, and the other half a suburb of Philadelphia. The Giants and Jets play in Jersey, yet deny its existence, referring to themselves as "New York".

The most embarrassing part is that all the major TV stations that cover North Jersey are based in New York. Ottumwa, Iowa, has its own network affiliates, but North Jersey doesn't. It should thus come as no surprise that those same stations treat Jerseyites as second-class citizens.

Stories about New Jersey are barely covered, unless they are simply too juicy to overlook. The recent murders have successfully crossed that high-juice threshold, and the networks are all over them. Even more pumped up are the national cable networks, and I've been invited to serve as an uninformed panelist on$$$[MS PAGE NO 147]$$$ eleven of the shows that specialize in uninformed panels. I've accepted three of those invitations, and in the process I fit right in by bringing absolutely nothing of value to the public discourse.

My appeal to these shows is based on the fact that I've successfully handled a couple of high-profile murder cases in the last couple of years. I must've gotten on some list that is shared among TV news producers. "Let's see …", I can hear them say as they check that list when a New Jersey crime story comes up "Here it is … Andy Carpenter. Let's get him. That'll fill twenty minutes."

The one question always posed to me on these shows is whether I would be willing to defend the murderer when he is caught. I point out that he wouldn't legally be a murderer until he's been tried and convicted, but this distinction is basically lost on the questioner and, I suspect, the viewing public. I ultimately and lamely say that I would consider it based on the circumstances, and I can almost feel that public recoiling in shock. "How," they collectively wonder, "could you defend that animal?"

I don't really have to worry about any of that, though, because the police don't seem terribly close to catching this particular animal. Instead, I can focus on other animals, specifically dogs. Right now I am on my way to the building that houses the Tara Foundation, a converted kennel that Willie Miller and I have turned into a dog rescue operation. We've self-financed it, which does not represent a major sacrifice. I inherited twenty-two million dollars last year, and about five months ago I secured ten million dollars for Willie in a civil suit against the people who conspired to wrongfully put him on death row for seven years. To put it another way, we are both filthy rich.

The foundation is named after my own golden retriever, Tara, whose official name is Tara, Greatest Living Creature on This or Any Other Planet. Willie is foolish enough to believe that his dog, Cash, is up there in Tara's class. I only occasionally mock this notion, since Willie is my partner, the foundation was his idea, and he does most of the work.

What we do is rescue dogs from animal shelters, where they are about to be put to sleep, and then find them good homes. People come to us at the foundation, meet the dogs, and then have to endure a fairly rigorous application process to determine if we consider them to have a satisfactory home for our dogs.

As I enter the building, Willie is interviewing a fortyish couple who are interested in adopting Tyler, a three-year-old black Lab mix. Willie introduces me to the couple, Stan and Julie Harrington, and Stan makes it clear that he knows me from my TV appearances.

I take a seat across the room as Willie continues the interview. The Harringtons alternate answering, slightly anxious and clearly trying to ascertain what it is that Willie wants to hear.

"Where would the dog sleep?" Willie asks innocently, as if he's just curious. Tyler, the dog whose sleep location is the subject being discussed, sits alongside Willie, his curiosity piqued as well.

This time Julie, fashionably and therefore incongruously dressed for these surroundings, brightens. "Oh, we've got a wonderful doghouse in the backyard."

Stan nods in vigorous agreement, unaware that his wife has just blown what little chance they had of adopting Tyler. "I built it myself. It's huge. There are people who would like to live in it." He chuckles at the thought, then turns to Tyler. "Wouldn't you like a great big doghouse?" He speaks in a form of baby talk.

Maybe it's my imagination, but from my vantage point across the room, Tyler seems to edge closer to Willie, apparently aware that this couple are not going to become his new parents. And that great big outside doghouse that some people would like is definitely not going to be the place where he sleeps.

Willie and I have rather rigid ideas of what represents a good home for a dog. Stan and Julie have just demonstrated that, in our eyes, their home doesn't make the cut. It is an unbending rule of the Tara Foundation that dogs must be allowed to sleep in the house.

I expect Willie to immediately terminate the session and send the Harringtons on their way, but for some reason he decides to delay the inevitable. He asks a question that sounds like a challenge. "Why do you guys want a dog?"

I see a quick flash of annoyance on Stan's face. He doesn't think he should have to answer all these questions; he should, be able to buy a dog like he can buy anything else. "I had dogs when I was growing up," he allows. "I'm a dog person."

Willie doesn't seem moved by this revelation, and Julie, sensing things are not going well, jumps in. "He'll be like a member of our family. And he can guard--"

Willie interrupts, incredulous. "You want a guard dog?" He points to Tyler, who doesn't seem that offended. "You think he's a guard dog?"

His tone causes me to get up and walk toward them. Willie's generally been on his good behavior, but he can be volatile, and he's a black belt in karate, so there is always the potential for things to get a little ugly.

"Mr. and Mrs. Harrington," I say, "I'm afraid we don't have any guard dogs up for adoption."

Stan is getting frustrated. "We didn't mean a guard dog. We just want a dog that will bark if someone enters the property." He holds up a newspaper that is on the desk. "I mean with what's going on …"

He is of course referring to the murder last night in Passaic, the third victim of the serial killer who has dominated the news. It is pretty much all anyone is talking about. "Julie's alone in the house all day," he points out.

"Then why don't you adopt a goddamn burglar alarm?" Willie asks, standing and getting a tad hostile. I shoot him a look that says, "I'll handle this," but he disregards it. "Or maybe you can adopt a fucking Secret Service agent." These dogs are like his kids, and he's not about to put them in the line of fire.

Stan gets up. He's not going to confront Willie, since in addition to being a "dog person," he's a "sane person." "I can see this was a mistake," he says. "Come on, Julie." She's a little slow, so he helps her to her feet and guides her toward the door. The last thing I hear her say before they exit is, "But what about the dog?"

Willie shakes his head in disgust. "Losers." Then he turns to me. "You know why losers like that come here? They don't want no dog. They come here because of you, because they think you're hot shit."

Now I get annoyed, an increasingly frequent occurrence of late. "Fine. It's my fault. Okay? Does that make you happy?"

He grins widely; Willie can change moods even faster than I can. He taps me on the shoulder. "Hey, lighten up, huh? You can't help it if you're hot shit."

Willie is only partially right about why people like the Harringtons come here. The two big cases in the past year have made me a celebrity lawyer of sorts. But one of those cases was Willie's, and as a wrongfully convicted man set free, he's become a big shot in his own right. So people come here because they've heard of both of us and it's a cool thing to do, rather than go to breeders or pet stores or whatever.

"We've placed thirty-one dogs," I say. "That's not bad for five weeks."

He nods. "Damn right. Not bad at all." Then, "You going to the meeting tomorrow?"

He's talking about an informal investment group I made the mistake of organizing. I've regretted it from day one, which was about two months ago.

I nod reluctantly just as the phone rings, which now and always sends the twenty-five dogs at the foundation into a barking frenzy. I pick it up and shout into the receiver, "Hold on!" I then wait the thirty seconds or so that it takes for the dogs to quiet down before I speak into the phone again. "Hello?"

"How can you stand that barking?" It's Vince Sanders, editor of what passes as the local newspaper in Paterson. Vince is always pissed off about something; this time the dogs just happened to have given him a good reason.

"Fine, Vince, how are you?"

"Did you hear what I said?" he snarls.

"I hang on your every word."

"Then hang on these. Come down to my office."

"When?" I ask.

"When? A year from August, bozo."

Although the "when" question didn't go too well, I decide to try another one. "Why?"

"You're still a lawyer, aren't you?"

"You want to hire me?"

He doesn't consider this a question worth answering. "Be here in twenty minutes."

Click.

VINCE SHOULD BE A HAPPY CAMPER THESE days. His paper's circulation has gone through the roof since the murders began, mainly because Daniel Cummings, through whom the killer has chosen to speak to the public and police, is one of Vince's reporters.

Vince brought Cummings in about six months ago from somewhere in Ohio, I think Cleveland. He made him his top crime reporter, although Cummings can't be more than thirty. I've only met him once, but he's a pretty easy guy for a defense attorney to dislike, a strong law-and-order type who clearly believes in a presumption of guilt.

I've known Vince for about a year. He's cantankerous and obnoxious on the surface, but when you chip that away and dig deeper, you find him to be surly and disagreeable. You probably could say Vince and I have become good friends, if your definition of "friends" isn't too rigid. We're not "Ya-Ya Brotherhood" types, but we hang out some in sports bars and trade insults, which fits my definition pretty well.

Vince usually starts off our conversations with five minutes of complaining, but he doesn't do that when I arrive this time. Instead, he offers me a chair and starts telling me what's on his mind, almost like a normal human would do. "I want to hire you," he says.

Since I'm a criminal attorney, I'm surprised. Under all the bluster, Vince is a straightforward, ethical guy. "Are you in some kind of trouble?" I ask.

"Of course not. I want you to represent the paper. Not officially. Like a consultant."

Vince's paper is owned by a newspaper syndicate, which employs lawyers by the barrelful. "You already have lawyers. What do you need me for?"

"They're idiots. Besides, you'll be dealing only with me. They won't even know about you. You'll be my own private idiot."

I'm not understanding any of this. "So you're going to pay me?"

"Pay you? Are you out of your mind?"

My friends share two common views about money. They think they don't have enough, and that I have too much. "This is what I do for a living, Vince. I'm a lawyer. I got an A in money grubbing in law school."

He throws up his arms in an exaggerated gesture. "Fine. You want my money? No problem." He yells out so he can be heard beyond the closed office door. "Shirley! Don't mail that check to the Orphans Fund! I need it to pay the big-time lawyer!" He turns to me, shaking his head in disgust. "It's just as well. Little brats don't have parents, they think that entitles them to three meals a day."

I know that Vince is lying; I would know that even if he had a secretary named Shirley. But I'm not going to get any money out of him, and I'm curious as to what is going on, so I accept a jelly donut as a retainer. For the rather rotund Vince, it's a significant payment.

Vince describes his concern about the newspaper's position in the Daniel Cummings matter. He has no idea why the killer has chosen Cummings as his conduit, and though he loves the resulting boost in circulation, as a journalist he's uncomfortable that his newspaper seems to have become part of the story.

"These last couple of weeks there have been more cops in here than reporters," he says.

"But you've been cooperating?"

"Of course. I mean, there's no source to protect, right? Daniel's only source is the killer, and he has no idea who he is."

"So what are you worried about?" I ask.

"I'm not sure. Nothing specific, but who knows where this is gonna go? Who knows what the cops are gonna ask us to do?"

This doesn't seem like Vince; he's usually far more confident and decisive than this. "Okay," I say, "I'll keep an eye on things. I'll have to talk to Cummings."

Vince nods. "I told him you would. Just so you'll know, he's not thrilled about it."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "He seems to think you're a major pain in the ass."

"You told him that?"

"I didn't use the word 'major.' I used the word 'total.' He also doesn't want you interfering with how he does his job."

I nod. "I don't expect to. Is he a good reporter?"

"As good as any I've ever had," he says. "When do you want to talk to him?"

"How's tomorrow morning? Around eleven? And I'll want the stories he's written on the murders to read through tonight. Plus the stories in the other papers."

"Done," he says. "Laurie back yet?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Maybe if you'd take on some clients, she wouldn't have to go work for somebody else. Hey, why don't you put her on this case?"

Laurie is a former police officer whom I employ as my private investigator. There is no way she'd want to work on this. "First of all, this isn't a 'case,'" I say. "Second of all, she likes to be paid in money, not donuts."

He takes a big bite out of a glazed one. "Women don't know what they're missing."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DAVID ROSENFELT was the former marketing president for Tri-Star Pictures before becoming a writer of novels and screenplays. For more information about the author, please visit his Web site at www.davidrosenfelt.com