Play Dead

Reggie is going to be the main event.

* * * * *

“THE DEFENSE CALLS Reggie Evans,” I say, and everyone turns toward the rear of the courtroom.

The door opens, and Karen walks in with Reggie alongside her on a leash. She looks serious but relaxed, and he seems a little scared. I can tell this because his tail is down behind him, a sure sign that he is not comfortable. As Laurie instructed, Karen reaches down and pets him gently on the side of his head, and the net effect is to keep him amazingly calm.

Reggie handles pressure a hell of a lot better than I would.

Everybody in the gallery strains to get a look at them as they walk down the long aisle toward the front of the room. It reminds me of the footage I’ve seen of the Ali-Foreman fight in Zaire, as Ali and his entourage worked their way down to the ring.

Karen brings Reggie all the way to the witness stand. He has not seen Richard yet, because he’s facing the other direction. This is how we planned it. I even had Richard wear aftershave to mask his scent. It’s unlikely Reggie would have smelled him from this distance, with this many people, but I didn’t want to take any chances. This had to be fully choreographed.

“Your Honor,” I say, “with the court’s permission, Mr. Evans will take over.”

“Go ahead,” Judge Gordon says, and Karen turns toward Richard, who is about twenty feet away from her. In the process, Reggie turns as well.

Reggie is looking in Richard’s general direction, without reacting, for about five seconds, but it feels like five hours. The thud that can be heard in the courtroom is my heart hitting the floor, as my plan appears not to be working.

Suddenly, Reggie seems to focus in on Richard, and it is as if he had been jolted by electricity. He explodes toward Richard, and the leash comes out of Karen’s hand. “Oh, my God, I’m sorry!” she lies, since letting him get away is exactly what I’ve instructed her to do. But her apparent distress is so real that even I almost believe it.

Reggie flies through the air and lands on Richard, knocking him backward over his chair. The three bailiffs don’t have a clue what to do, and no apparent desire to try to restrain Reggie. I doubt that their handcuffs would fit on his paws, anyway. For now they are just content to watch.

Even Judge Gordon seems mesmerized by the spectacle, though he recovers fairly quickly. He starts to slam his gavel down, yelling for order, though none is forthcoming.

Richard, a look of pure joy on his face, finally makes it to his feet. “Sit, Reggie,” he says, and Reggie immediately assumes a sitting position, as if waiting for the next command. The only sign to connect him to the chaos he has just caused is the fact that he is panting from the exertion.

It is a demonstration stunning in its simplicity; just by those two words Richard said all there was to say. No reasonable person could have witnessed what just took place and continue to have any doubt that Reggie is Richard’s dog.

It turns out that Coletti is not a reasonable person. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench?” she asks.

Judge Gordon grants her request, and Coletti and I walk up for a private conference. “Your Honor, the defense should be admonished for that performance. It runs completely counter to what was agreed upon. The dog was supposed to be kept on the leash, under control.”

I laugh. “Under control? It would have taken a marine battalion to keep him under control. He was seeing his owner for the first time in five years.”

“That ownership is still to be determined,” Coletti says.

“Were you in the courtroom just now?” Judge Gordon asks her. “Did you see what I saw?”

“I saw a demonstration that might well have been staged,” she says.

I shake my head in exaggerated amazement. “Staged? He’s a dog; he’s not DeNiro.”

“Ms. Colletti,” Judge Gordon says, “if the state wants to continue this, then the defendant can put the dog through whatever tricks they have planned. But I am telling you, as far as the court is concerned, this is the defendant’s dog.”

Coletti can tell that she has pushed this as far as possible. “We can end it here.”

We both go back to our respective tables. Reggie is once again standing near the witness stand, held on the leash by Karen.

“No further questions,” I say. “The witness is excused.”

Karen and Reggie leave the courtroom, and both Coletti and I announce that we have no more witnesses. Coletti stands to give her closing argument.

“Your Honor, five years ago a lengthy investigation focused on the murder of Stacy Harriman. Hundreds of hours of work went into it by experienced, dedicated professional law enforcement officers.

“They determined that there was probable cause that Mr. Evans committed the crime. Their work was reviewed by the county attorney, who agreed with their conclusions and filed murder charges against Mr. Evans.

“A four-week trial then took place, during which Mr. Evans was ably defended. He entered that trial with the presumption of innocence and retained the right to challenge his accusers. At the conclusion of that trial, a jury of his peers deliberated for eight hours before unanimously voting to convict him.

“What has changed since then? We have now learned that Mr. Evans had infinitesimal traces of campene in his system. This might be significant, if we could be sure how it got there.

“And we know that a golden retriever seems to be the dog that Mr. Evans used to own. This also might be significant if Mr. Evans had been convicted of murdering that golden retriever, or even of dognapping. But no such charges were ever filed.

“Your Honor, the defense has not even come close to meeting its burden. To grant a new trial on this flimsy evidence would be to discredit the original trial, and there is certainly no reason to do that.”

Coletti sits down, and as she does, I stand up immediately. She has presented a reasonably convincing argument, and I don’t want it to stand unchallenged for a moment longer than necessary.

“Your Honor, I was not involved in Mr. Evans’s original trial, but I have carefully read the transcript. Most of what I read was presented by the prosecution, since the great majority of the witnesses called were theirs.

“The prosecution contended back then that Mr. Evans sustained his facial bruise from falling out of bed. When Dr. King came in here and said that it could not have happened that way, they backpedaled and said it could have happened as he was staggering around the room.

“The prosecution contended back then that Mr. Evans swallowed a bottle of pills. Yet we find out today that they cannot find any pharmacy that prescribed the pills, and that Mr. Evans would have had to eat them dry, without using water. Such a technique would have been masochistic, in addition to being suicidal.

“The prosecution contended back then that Mr. Evans’s dog was on board the boat; they presented eyewitnesses that were quite clear about it. They told the jury that he killed that dog by throwing him overboard, and then described the act as evidence of his depravity.

“Now we know with certainty that they were wrong. We know that Reggie is very much alive and that rumors of his death were, shall we say, exaggerated. There is nothing anywhere in all the hundreds of hours of investigative work, or anything presented at trial, that can come close to explaining what you saw in court here today. Reggie’s very existence means that someone else was on the boat that night, and it is very likely that the same someone else was the murderer. Certainly, there is nothing in the record that says otherwise.

“Reggie is alive, and because of that, the prosecution’s theories are dead in the water.

“Also revealing is what the prosecution didn’t say in that trial back then. They offered no evidence of motive, and no claim that Mr. Evans had ever showed violent or suicidal tendencies.

“Now, I am aware that they were not obligated to present motive, but juries usually want to hear it. But back then it wasn’t necessary, because the evidence as presented seemed so clear. Well, now it’s not so clear, and the absence of motive and previous tendencies becomes far more significant.

“Your Honor, we are not talking about reasonable doubt here. We are talking about overwhelming doubt. If we knew then what we know now, only the most overzealous of prosecutors would have brought the case to trial. And there’s not a jury in America that would have voted to convict.

“Richard Evans has spent five years of his life in prison for a crime he did not commit. The love of his life was murdered, and he was not allowed the space and freedom to grieve. He himself was nearly killed, and no one looked for, much less found, the actual guilty party.

“The truth, as always, will ultimately win out. It sometimes comes in strange shapes and sizes, and this time it came walking in on four paws. But it is the truth, and by recognizing it, you can start the process of giving Richard Evans his life back.”

* * * * *

I’VE NEVER BEEN much of a fan of self-discipline.

It generally collides head on with my enjoyment drive and rarely survives the collision. It makes no sense to try to force myself to do something I don’t want to do, since if there were a good reason to do it, I would want to do it in the first place.

But we are now entering a phase where self-discipline must rear its ugly head. It is going to take anywhere from a week to a couple of months for Judge Gordon to announce his decision about a possible new trial for Richard. We must work hard toward preparing for that trial, while knowing that if it’s not granted, our efforts will be totally wasted.

The thing I can most liken it to is betting a parley, which is a bet that requires winning two games to be a winner. If one of those games has already been played but I don’t know the result, I would root for my team in the second game, knowing that it might be a waste of time because, if I lost the first game, the second one doesn’t matter.

I’m going to have to work to develop a compelling case for Richard, but if we didn’t win the hearing, then it won’t matter.

At times like this I am particularly glad I have Kevin as my partner. He will keep me moving forward, both because he is a more dedicated attorney than I and because he is a more optimistic one.

Kevin thinks our performance in the hearing was a winning one-a “slam down,” as he puts it. Kevin is not a sports fan in any sense, and what he means to say is “slam dunk.” Or maybe “grand slam.” Or “touchdown.” With Kevin it’s often hard to tell.

I arrange to meet him at the office at nine o’clock in the morning, which will give us an hour alone before Edna arrives. We spend only ten minutes rehashing the hearing; we did the best we could and just have to take it on faith that it was good enough.

So now we have to start investigating full-time, which would be easier if we had the slightest idea how to do that. All we know is that a supposedly dead Army guy tried to kill me and that the government tried to bug my conversations. The list of things we don’t know could fill the Library of Congress.

“It has to involve Richard’s job at customs,” Kevin says, advancing his theory. “The bad guys who tried to kill you must be smuggling contraband into the country, and they’re afraid you’re going to find out something that screws up their operation. The government is tapping your phone to learn whatever it is that you come up with.”

Neither Kevin nor I have any idea how to penetrate the customs operation at the Port of Newark. Keith Franklin, who told Karen he would call, has still not done so, and we’ll have to get her to contact him again.

Edna arrives and dives into the New York Times crossword puzzle. She likes to get it done before lunch so she doesn’t have it hanging over her head when she gets back. That way she can devote the afternoon to talking with family and friends on the phone. Her niece, Cassie, is getting married, which is creating more family controversy than was contained in an entire season of Dallas.

About twenty minutes later the phone rings, and when Edna shows no inclination to answer it, Kevin does. After saying hello, he listens for a moment and hands me the phone. “Keith Franklin,” he says, a triumphant smile on his face.

“Mr. Franklin, I’ve been expecting your call.”

“Yes… I’m sorry it took so long. I wanted to make sure this was serious.”

“It’s very serious. That much I can assure you.”

“I know,” he says. “I saw the coverage of Richard’s hearing.”

“I believe that Richard’s work had something to do with the murder, but I need your help to find out exactly what.”

“I really can’t talk about it now… not here.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

He tells me he’ll meet me in Eastside Park at nine o’clock tonight, down by the baseball field. It is clear that he does not want to be seen or heard talking to me. That in itself may be very significant, somewhat significant, or of no significance at all. As with everything else involved with this case, I don’t have the slightest idea.

I agree, and he says, “Will you be alone?”

“Why is that important?”

“Karen told me I could trust you, so I will,” he says. “But only you.”

When I hang up I tell Kevin what was said. “I’m not crazy about the sound of that,” he says. “He could be setting you up.”

“Why would he? We approached him; he didn’t come to us. And Richard vouched for him; he said he’s a friend. There’s no reason to think he’s on the other side.”

“Except for the fact that so far everybody seems to be on the other side,” Kevin says.

“You mean like hit men and the United States government?”

He nods. “That’s what I mean.”

“But we’ve got Marcus. Advantage, us.”

Laurie’s reaction when I get home and bring her up to date is the same as Kevin’s. “Are you sure Marcus is watching out for you?” she asks.

I shrug. “He’s never let me down before. But I must tell you, I resent the fact that you think I need Marcus for protection. I can handle myself when things get rough.”

“Since when?”

“Since always,” I say. “You may not know this, but when I was a kid, and the other kids were at the library or the ballet, you know what I was doing? I was at home watching boxing on television.”

“Andy, you’re a great lawyer and a wonderful man, and I love you completely. But you’d be in major trouble if you got in the ring with the Olson twins.”

“What does that prove? There’s two of them.”

The situation is becoming very stressful for Laurie. She has to go back home in three days and can’t stand that she will be leaving me in what she considers a dangerous situation. In the old days, meaning last year, she would have been on the defense team and would be taking an active role. Now she’s on the sidelines watching, and having trouble with it.

I spend the rest of the day hanging out with Laurie, Tara, and Reggie, as appealing a threesome as ever existed. I’m not feeling overly nervous about my upcoming meeting in the darkened park. Since I requested the meeting, there’s little reason to consider Franklin a danger.

At nine o’clock I park my car by the baseball field and walk the few hundred yards across the field to the old pavilion. It’s empty now, but when I was younger it had a snack bar with some of the best french fries in history. My father would take me there after my team lost a game or I played badly, to cheer me up. I went there a lot.

I stand in front of the pavilion as instructed, waiting for Franklin. There is some moonlight, but he is only ten yards from me before I see him. He came from the opposite direction and is so quiet he must be wearing moccasins.

“Hello, Mr. Carpenter.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“How is Richard doing?”

“He’s okay, but he really needs your help.”

“I’m not sure what I can do.”

“I am operating under the premise that Richard was intended to be a murder victim, set up to look like he was perpetrating a murder-suicide. It could not have been to prevent him from revealing something he knew, since he would still be aware of it. It must have been to get him out of the way, so that he would not prevent something that was going to happen.”

“Roy Chaney took over when Richard… left.”

“I know. I spoke to him.”

He seems surprised by this. “You did?”

“Yes. Is he a friend of yours?”

His response is instantaneous. “No.” Then: “I don’t trust him.”

“You think he could be doing something illegal?”

“I’m not sure,” he says. “But since he came in, guys have gotten transferred out of his section, and they brought in new people from the outside. They’re a real tight group-not very friendly with the rest of us.”

“So it’s possible Richard was taken out to enable some people to do illegal business, with Chaney allowing it to happen?” I ask.

He answers my question with a question. “You think whatever it was is still going on?”

I nod. “Probably. A lot of people are nervous about what I might turn up. If it was over, they wouldn’t be quite as worried.”

“So what is it you want me to do?” he asks.

“I don’t even know enough yet to be specific. I just want you to be alert to anything, maybe ask around discreetly. And carefully, very carefully.”

He promises that he will and, before he leaves, asks that I give his best to Richard. “I feel bad that I stopped going to see him,” he says. “It’s just that-”

“He understands.”

Franklin leaves, and I head back for my car. It’s gotten even darker, and I can barely find it. I’ll be glad when I get out of here.

I reach the car, open the door, and get in. I turn on the car and flick on the lights at the same time, and when I look through the front window I get a jolt comparable to maybe six or seven million volts of electricity sent through my body. It doesn’t kill me, but it makes me scream really loud.

There, lying on the front of the car, face pressed against the windshield, is a really large man. He’s also really ugly, a condition made even more severe by the fact that his large nose seems to be bleeding, perhaps from the impact on the windshield.

I’m not quite sure what to do next. I can’t drive like this, but neither am I inclined to get out of the car. The guy could be dead, and dead bodies freak me out. Even worse, he could be alive. Live bodies that look like this freak me out even more.

The next jolt is a tapping on the driver’s window, which makes me jump so much that I literally hit my head on the roof of the car. I turn and see Marcus signaling me to roll down the window.

I do so, and Marcus sort of nods in the direction of Windshield Man and says, “Out.”

“Him?” I ask, assuming that Marcus is talking about Windshield Man. “Is he just out, or dead?”

“He wants you to get out of the car, Andy. Which would be a good idea, since we’re going to be here a while.” It’s Laurie’s voice, which represents still another surprise.

I get out of the car, but before I can say anything, Laurie says, “Let’s take a walk. You can show me this part of the park.”

“It’s dark,” I point out.

“That’s okay,” she says. “I’ve got a good imagination.”

So Laurie and I go for a walk in the park, leaving Marcus behind with Windshield Man, whose moans indicate he is regaining consciousness. “Any chance you’ll tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s pretty simple,” she says. “Marcus was watching out for you, and he saw this guy following you. Marcus then put him on your car for safekeeping.”

“Who is he?”

“That’s what Marcus is in the process of finding out.”

“Did he see who I was meeting with?”

“No,” Laurie says. “Marcus intercepted him before Franklin got here.”

“The amazing thing,” I say, “is that you happened to show up in the same place and at the same time as Marcus and I. Talk about a small world…”

“Amazing,” she admits.

“What exactly were you doing here?”

“I wasn’t sure Marcus was covering you, so I figured I’d watch your back, just in case.”

I could give Laurie grief about being here, but I won’t. She was here to protect me, to make sure nothing bad happened. It turned out she wasn’t needed, but she could have been. Besides, no matter how much grief I might give her, she’d still do it again in the same circumstances-not that she’ll have the chance, since she’ll be back in Wisconsin in three days.

“How long will Marcus need?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t think very long.”

We start walking back across the baseball field. “So this is the scene of your greatest imaginary athletic accomplishments?” she asks.

“Yup,” I say. “Right over there is where I didn’t hit the game-winning home run against Clifton. And the very spot we’re standing on is where I didn’t make a diving catch to beat Garfield.”

“You must be very proud.”

I nod. “I am. But as great as those fake moments were, I never dreamed that one day I’d be back here with a big ugly guy facedown and bleeding on the hood of my car, with my girlfriend here to protect me. You can’t see it in the dark, but my eyes are filled with tears.”

We head back to the car, and Laurie wisely calls out so that Marcus will know it’s us. Suddenly the lights go on in the car, and we can see that Marcus has turned them on. Windshield Man is sitting on the curb, in front of the car. The headlights are shining right at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

He looks thoroughly dejected and defeated. Marcus can do that to you.

Laurie asks Marcus to bring us up to date on what he has learned. Bringing up to date is not Marcus’s strong point; he’s not the most communicative guy in the world. But Laurie is better at drawing him out than I am, and before I know it, one-and two-syllable words are pouring out of him.

Windshield Man is a low-level member of the Dominic Petrone organization. Petrone is a charming, intelligent man who just happens to control the most powerful crime family in New Jersey. I have had dealings with Petrone in the past; we have even helped each other on a number of occasions. It is not something I’ve been comfortable with, mainly because there’s always a chance that he will get annoyed and have me killed.

Windshield Man has been assigned to keep an eye on me and report back on my actions. Marcus is positive that he was not sent to do me harm, and Marcus’s instincts in the area of doing harm are usually quite accurate.

This conversation is conducted within earshot of Windshield Man, who seems to show no interest in it at all. He perks up a bit when Marcus inquires what I would like to do with him. The way he asks the question, I assume my options range from letting him go to dumping his dismembered body in the river.

I opt for letting him go, after Marcus and Laurie assure me that he will not go back and accurately report what has happened to his mob bosses. To do so would not be good for his job security, or his life expectancy.

We send Windshield Man walking off into the darkness. “I’m gonna miss his wit,” I say. Laurie and I get into the car to leave, and Marcus declines a ride. I have no idea how he got here, but he’s clearly going back the same way.

It’s only a five-minute ride home, and Laurie and I talk about the situation while taking Tara and Reggie for their nightly walk.

“The list of things I don’t understand keeps getting longer,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for instance, let’s assume Petrone sent someone to kill me on the highway. Why would he then have Windshield Man just watching me? What have I done in the last two weeks that could have changed Petrone’s mind about killing me?”

“I don’t think you can make that assumption. Maybe it wasn’t Petrone who sent the shooter on the highway,” she says.

“You think there are other crime bosses out there sending hoods out after me? Maybe there’s a competition to see who can kill me first.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. But while it’s obvious that Petrone has an interest in this, he clearly isn’t the only one.”

“Keep going…,” I prompt.

“Well, there’s whoever planted the tap on your phone. Whether it’s some secret government agency or just someone with access to their equipment, it wasn’t Petrone. And don’t forget, there is also the person who murdered Stacy Harriman.”

“That could be Petrone,” I say.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so-it’s not his style.”

“To set it up to look like a murder-suicide? If he was doing it so that he could get Richard out of the way, so he could smuggle something into the country, that was the best way for him. He left no reason for anyone to suspect it had to do with Richard’s job.”

“I understand that,” she says. “But it falls apart with the pills-or the injection. Doing it that way was leaving it to chance. Petrone would have set it up to look like Richard put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. It removes the chance of survival.”

It’s a good point, and one I hadn’t thought of. “So how do I find out what interest Petrone has in this?”

“You could ask him,” she says.

Yes, I could.

* * * * *

VINCE SANDERS KNOWS pretty much every person in America.

And those he doesn’t know, he can get to. He has a Rolodex slightly larger than Poland. It has always struck me as an incongruity that a person as disagreeable as Vince would connect himself to humanity in this fashion, but I’ve come to believe he wants to be able to genuinely dislike as many people as possible.

Vince has always had a relationship with Petrone, and he has occasionally served as a conduit between me and the crime boss. Now that I have decided to confront Petrone and question him about his connection to the Evans case, my logical move is to contact Vince and ask him to set it up.

“Why should I?” he asks.

“What do you mean, why should you?”

“Which part of the question didn’t you understand? Why should I get you in to see Petrone?”

“Because we’re friends and because it’s important to me.”

“You want to try again?” he asks.

“Because it’s in connection with the Evans case, and if a big story comes out of it, you’ll be the first to get it.”

“Always happy to help a friend,” he says. “You got a tuxedo?”

“I do.”

“Then put it on; I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock tonight.”

I’m not understanding this. “I need to wear a tuxedo to meet with Dominic Petrone?”

“Tonight you do. Read my newspaper.”

Click.

A quick check of Vince’s paper reveals that there is a charity function tonight. The publisher of Vince’s paper is on the board of directors of the charity, as is Dominic Petrone. It is characteristic of Petrone; when he is not peddling drugs, employing hookers, laundering money, and killing his enemies, he is one heck of a public-spirited guy.

To pass the time, I join Kevin as he leaves to interview Gale Chaplin, a former neighbor of Richard and Stacy’s in Hawthorne. During the trial she proved to be a damaging witness, describing how Stacy had told her of difficulties she and Richard had been having in their relationship. She had also, according to Gale, expressed worry about Richard’s “temper.” She was the only witness to say anything like this, and it proved harmful to Richard’s case.

Chaplin and her family moved a couple of months ago to a town house complex just off Route 4 in Englewood. It’s a very desirable location because of its proximity to the George Washington Bridge and, therefore, to New York City.

She seems quite proud of the place, and when Kevin makes the mistake of admiring it, she takes that as an invitation to give us what she calls the “grand tour.” It is three stories high, and by the time we get to the top floor, I am too out of breath to give much more than admiring grunts. If I ever moved in here, the first thing I would do is interview elevator salesmen.

We finally settle in the kitchen, and Chaplin offers us coffee and cheesecake. Cheesecake is not something I understand. I consider the place for cheese to be on top of a pizza, and I reject any notion that a pizza topping can also be a cake. For instance, I would be similarly opposed to pepperoni cake.

I’ve planned to let Kevin take the lead in the questioning, but when she starts telling us in excruciating detail how much the value of the house has gone up in just the two months they’ve lived here, I feel compelled to intervene. “As I’m sure Kevin told you, we’d like to talk to you about your testimony at the Richard Evans trial.”

She nods. “I read about what’s happening; is it really Reggie? He was such a sweet dog.”

“Yes, it’s definitely him. That has been established.”

“So there may be a new trial?”

“We certainly hope so,” I say. “You spoke about Ms. Harriman confiding in you that she and Richard were having problems…”

“Yes.”

“And that she was fearful of him, of his temper.”

“Yes.”

“Were you and she close?” Kevin asks.

“No, not at all. But she came over for coffee one day, and it just started pouring out. Like she had been holding it in and had to finally tell someone.”

“Did it surprise you?”

She nods vigorously. “Very much; my husband, Frank, and I had liked Richard. He was always such a nice neighbor. But when the murder happened, I felt like I had to tell what I knew.”

“How long before the murder was your conversation?”

“About two weeks,” she says.

“And she never mentioned anything after that?”

“No, I don’t think we even talked again. She was never really that friendly; most of the time she just seemed to keep to herself. I don’t think she was a very happy person.”

“Why do you say that?” Kevin asks.

“Well, for instance, we both grew up near Minneapolis, but she wouldn’t talk much about it. She seemed well read and quite capable of talking about many subjects, as long as the subject wasn’t herself.”

“Any idea why that was?”

“Well, Richard mentioned one day that she had a difficult childhood. And then there were the problems with Richard. People from abusive households often enter into abusive relationships when they become adults. Don’t they?”

I’m not really up for psychobabble now; I’m in my pretuxedo bad mood. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I say. “I TiVo’d Dr. Phil.”

Kevin and I leave, and I drop him off at the office before heading home. He’s worried about my meeting with Petrone but agrees to my request to call Marcus and tell him not to interfere.

I had left a message for Laurie that I was going to a black-tie gathering, and told her she was more than welcome to come along. My investigative instincts help me anticipate her answer before she says anything; she is wearing sweatpants and has put my tuxedo out on the bed.

I don’t know much about fashion history, and as an example, I don’t know who invented the tuxedo. But whoever the father of the tuxedo might have been, he should have been neutered as a child. The tuxedo is as dumb an item as exists on the planet.

Actually, maybe the invention was a joint effort; maybe it was idiocy by committee. One dope created the bow tie, another the suspenders, another the iridescent shoes, and still another the ridiculous cummerbund.

As bad as each item is, when they are put together, especially on my body, they reach a perfect symmetry of awfulness. If you put me in Giants Stadium with sixty thousand men wearing tuxedos, I would still feel as though everybody were staring at me. I don’t just feel stupid when I wear a tuxedo. I am by definition stupid, or I wouldn’t be wearing one.

I go outside at 6:55 to wait for Vince to arrive, and he is characteristically late. That leaves me standing, penguin style, in front of the house, waving to smiling neighbors dressed in normal clothing.

Vince finally arrives, and I get in the car. He is dressed in khaki pants and a sports jacket with a shirt open at the neck.

“Well, don’t you look snappy!” he says.

I’m about to take my cummerbund off and strangle him with it. “You told me to wear a tuxedo.”

He laughs. “I was kidding. It’s a casino night. Where do you think we’re going, Monte Carlo?”

“So nobody else is going to be dressed like this?” I ask.

Another laugh. “You got that right.”

I tell Vince to wait, and I go back into the house. Within ten minutes I’m dressed like a normal human being and back in the car. “That was your idea of a joke?” I ask.

“No, the way you looked in that monkey suit is my idea of a joke.”

I’m so pissed at Vince that I don’t talk to him for the twenty-minute ride to our destination. He spends most of the time whistling and listening to the Mets game; I don’t think my silent treatment is bringing him to his knees.

The charity event is being held at a ballroom called the Fiesta, on Route 17 in Hasbrouck Heights. Vince parks in the general parking area rather than using the valet service, explaining that with the valet it will take too long to get out. The true reason is that this way there will be no one for him to have to tip.

We walk into the lobby, where we are required to pay for entry and to buy chips. It costs me five hundred dollars, plus another five hundred for Vince, who seems to have forgotten where his checkbook might be. Vince tells me that it’s tax deductible, as if I should be grateful for the opportunity he’s giving me.

Once I’ve paid we enter the ballroom, which is already quite crowded. There are bars in all four corners of the room, and blackjack, roulette, and craps tables are set up throughout. The only people wearing tuxedos are the dealers.

Casino nights are among the more ridiculous inventions of modern man. The chips we have purchased are merely props that give us something to gamble with; they are not worth any money. The only problem is that gambling is one hundred percent about money; it is essential to the process.

I glance over at a blackjack table where a woman is agonizing over whether to double down with eleven against a dealer showing nine. She just can’t decide whether she wants to risk five worthless chips or ten worthless chips. Her children’s college education might well be on the line.

Gambling without money is like playing baseball without a bat and a ball. It’s goofy. Yet everywhere I look, people are laughing and having fun. What kind of a world is this? Why can’t these people spend their time doing something productive, something worthwhile?

They need only look at me to follow my example. I am here to meet with the leading crime figure in New Jersey, to find out if he is trying to kill me. My mother would be proud.

“Where’s Petrone?” I ask Vince.

“How the hell should I know?”

“You said he’d be here and that he would talk to me.”

“And he will. Just relax; play some blackjack.”

I hold up the chips with disdain. “With these?”

“I’ll take them,” he says, and goes off to play with both his chips and mine.

“I’ll be at the bar,” I say, and that’s exactly where I head.

I’m on my third Bloody Mary when two men, each ten years younger, four inches taller, and forty pounds heavier than me, walk over. Their very presence is menacing to me, and I instantly wish I were at one of the tables playing fake blackjack.

“This way,” one of them says, and they start walking toward the back exit door. My mind decides to follow them, but my legs don’t seem to be impressed, and I just stand there without moving.

The two men are out the door before they realize I’m not behind them, and they come back. “You coming, or what?”

I nod, and with an enormous effort, I actually start moving. I follow them out the door and down a corridor. They stop, and one of the men frisks me to make sure I’m not armed or wearing a wire.

I’m not a big frisking fan, whether I’m the frisker or the friskee. I prefer the honor system, but these two guys don’t seem familiar with that system. They probably didn’t go to West Point.

Satisfied that I’m not carrying an M-16 in my pocket, they then open a door and stand by it, waiting for me to enter. I do so, and they follow me in.

Petrone sits in an armchair, watching the Mets game on a large-screen television. It appears that we are in some kind of reception area where pictures are taken of wedding couples or Bar Mitzvah boys who have their parties in this facility.

Both men take positions, standing with their backs to the walls. “What’s the score?” I ask.

Petrone doesn’t answer or even acknowledge my presence. It’s not until the end of the inning leads to a commercial that he looks at me. “I understand you want to talk to me,” he says. “You have three minutes.”

I nod; right now three minutes feels like two too many. “I am representing Richard Evans. He did not murder his fiancée.”

Petrone doesn’t say a word, just waits for me to continue.

“I need to find out what really happened, and I think the truth is tied into his job with U.S. Customs.”

Still no response, which is not unreasonable, since I haven’t asked a question.

“I’ve been followed, shot at, and had my phone tapped, and I have reason to believe that you know a great deal about what is going on, and why.”

Still no response; he just stares at me. I don’t think it’s with admiration.

“You can jump in whenever you want,” I say.

“I have not ordered that you be killed; it is not something that interests me either way,” he says. “That is why you are still alive. But you have the potential to interfere with something that does interest me, and you would be well advised to be very careful.”

“So you didn’t have me shot at on the turnpike?”

He doesn’t respond, and I assume it’s because he’s already answered the question by saying he didn’t order me killed. Instead he looks at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”

“Okay. I have no desire to interfere in your activities; all I want to do is get an innocent man out of jail. But to help me in my noninterference, can you tell me anything about the night of the murder?”

He thinks for a few moments, as if measuring his response. “You lawyers have a tendency to go from A to B to C to D. Sometimes A doesn’t lead to D. Sometimes they are on two entirely different roads.”

“That might be a little cryptic for me,” I say. “Can I assume you have no interest in the Evans case? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“That is what I’m telling you. But I am also telling you to be very careful.”

He turns back to the game, thus announcing that my presence is no longer welcome. I turn and leave, and the two men follow me until I’m back in the main casino room.

I spot Vince at a craps table, his arm around the woman standing next to him. There is a large pile of chips in front of them. “Okay,” I say. “I spoke to him. Let’s get out of here.”

He turns and looks at me, then at the woman he has his arm around, then back at me. Finally he picks up one of his chips and hands it to me. “Here, kid. Get yourself a cab.”

* * * * *

I WAKE UP to the whirring sound of my exercise bike.

It is not a sound that I hear frequently, since I have long treated the bike as a piece of furniture. Of course, it has more than just aesthetic value; I use the handlebars as a place to hang shirts.

Once I am able to pry my eyes open, I look over and see Laurie pedaling furiously. Her energy level is now inversely proportional to my self-esteem. We made love last night, and it left me so exhausted that it feels as if it will take someone with a shovel to get me out of bed. Yet either I have been unable to remotely tire Laurie out, or she is in a desperate rush to get somewhere but isn’t aware that the bike is stationary.

“What time is it?” I ask.

Laurie looks over at me, then at her watch, while continuing to pedal. “Four thirty.”

I look toward the window. “And it’s dark already?”

“In the morning, Andy. It’s four thirty in the morning.”

Tara and Reggie are paying no attention to this repartee; they are sound asleep on their beds. “Are you delivering newspapers or just out for a scenic ride?”

“I’m sorry, Andy. I exercise when I’m feeling stress.”

“You exercise every day of your life.”

“But I usually wait until six.”

“Why so stressed?” I ask.

She stops pedaling, comes over and sits on the side of the bed. “Today is my last day here. I leave tomorrow morning.”

I knew that, but it still hits me like a two-by-four in the head. I say this despite having no idea what a two-by-four actually is.

“How about if we spend it together?” I ask.

She smiles. “I’d like that. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, how about if we get dressed and go into the city?” I don’t have to specify which city; any time someone in North Jersey mentions “the city,” they’re talking about New York.

Laurie reacts, surprised that I would say that, since she knows I’m not a big fan of driving into the city. “What for?”

“I thought maybe we could spend some time in the Bronx talking to people who knew one of the guys that tried to kill me.”

She smiles again. “You really know how to show a girl a good time.”

I shrug. “I’m just an incurable romantic.”

Antwan Cooper, the driver for Archie Durelle the night they shot at Sam Willis and me, lived on Andrews Avenue in the Bronx. It is just across the street from the campus of Bronx Community College, which took it over from NYU in the seventies.

The campus seems like an idyllic oasis in the midst of what is a very depressed, run-down area. The people who live in houses like Antwan’s have a hell of a lot more to worry about in their daily lives than chemistry homework.

Laurie and I pull up in front of the house, which seems to defy the laws of physical construction just by the fact that it is standing. There are holes in the structure where there should not be holes, and boards over where there should be holes, such as the windows. Above the front door there is the outline of Greek lettering, indicating that this was once a fraternity or sorority house.

Sitting on the stairs is a very large young man who looks frozen in time, like a statue. His 250 or so pounds are sort of folded over, his chin resting almost on his knees. His clothing is nondescript except for a Mets hat and outlandish new sneakers that probably set him back two hundred and fifty dollars. He gives absolutely no indication that he has even seen us pull up, or that he is alive.

We get out of the car, and I immediately realize that Laurie and I are about to reverse the traditional male-female roles, as we always do in situations like this. I am by nature a physical coward, and what I perceive to be dangerous surroundings intimidate me. She is a trained police officer, used to threatening situations, and if she is worried, she certainly does not show it. Laurie and I both know that I’m glad she’s here.

I am still somewhat nervous about this. We are going to try to talk to people who were friends or family of a man who tried to murder me, who was killed in the process, and we are doing so in a place that does not exactly look open and inviting.

“We don’t need to be doing this,” I say.

“It’ll be fine, Andy.”

“We haven’t even gotten the new trial.”

Before she can answer, a car pulls up behind ours, and Marcus gets out. He most likely has judged this to be a time when staying in the background is not enough, and he wants to be present and accounted for if unpleasantness should break out. Suffice it to say that his presence changes my outlook somewhat.

I dare somebody to mess with Marcus and me.

Laurie and I approach the house, and Statue Man finally moves, albeit slightly. He tilts his head to follow our progress, and the look on his face is not particularly welcoming.

“Can you tell us what apartment Antwan Cooper lived in?”

“Get lost.”

“We’re looking for someone who knew him, maybe a family member that we can talk to.”

“Get fucking lost,” he says, slowly standing up. This is not going well.

“Tell him the number.” It’s Marcus’s voice; he has approached and is standing just behind us.

Statue Man looks over and sees Marcus. He sizes him up for a moment, then looks back at me. “Two B,” says Statue Man.

We reach the front door and I attempt to ring the bell, though no sound can be heard. Laurie doesn’t do or say anything, so I knock on the door a few times, but it doesn’t seem to attract any attention. “We appear to be thwarted,” I say.

Laurie frowns and turns the doorknob. The door swings wide open. I graciously let her enter first. The interior is predictably depressing, with a narrow, dark corridor with six apartment doors, and a staircase leading upstairs. Since Statue Man said we should go to 2-B, we head up the stairs. As we climb, I look back and see that Marcus has taken a position at the bottom of the stairs, thereby positioning himself as an impenetrable barrier between Statue Man and us. If the Alamo walls were that reliable, Davy Crockett would have spent his declining years in a condo in Boca Raton.

The second floor is identical to the first, and the B apartment is the second door on the right. Since I am apparently the designated knocker, I try my luck.

“Yeah?” a voice calls out from within the apartment.

“We want to talk to you about Antwan Cooper,” I say through the door.

“You cops?”

That’s a tough question to answer, and not just because Laurie is a cop and I’m not. It’s tough because I’m not sure which answer will get whoever’s inside to open the door and talk to us.

I decide to avoid the question. “Can we come in?”

“Nobody’s stopping you.”

I take that as an invitation to open the door, but Laurie motions for me to wait a moment. She has apparently decided that caution is called for, and she takes out her handgun, concealing it at her side. She gives me the okay, and I open the door.

The apartment is sparsely furnished but looks neat and cared for. Sitting at a small table is a teenager, maybe fifteen years old. He is obviously whom we were speaking with, but his voice sounds older. His eyes look even older than that.

“So, you cops?”

“I’m a lawyer,” I say. “Did you know Antwan Cooper?”

“They want to talk about Pops,” he says, and I realize he’s talking to someone else. I look over, and there’s a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway between this room and the kitchen. She is holding a kitchen towel in her hand.

She looks at us. “What about?”

“Was he your husband?”

She looks at me evenly and says with considerable pride, “He was. Now, who are you?”

“My name is Andy Carpenter. This is Laurie Collins. Just before your husband died, the passenger in the car he was driving tried to kill me.”

“I’m sorry about that. I’m sure Antwan meant you no harm.”

“Do you know why he was driving the car?”

“That man paid him five hundred dollars.”

“Archie Durelle?”

“I didn’t know his name,” she says. “But Antwan knew him. He trusted him. Said when you fight next to a man, that was all you needed to know about him.”

“Were they in the Army together?” Laurie asks.

“Yes. But Antwan didn’t recognize him at first. I think ’cause he hadn’t seen him in a long time. He just showed up one day, said he needed a favor, and that he would pay Antwan five hundred dollars.”

“And Antwan didn’t ask what the favor was?”

She looks at me as if I’m not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. “It was five hundred dollars.”

“What happened to the money?” Laurie asks.

“He had it when he died. You think I’ll ever see it?” It’s a rhetorical question; she knows the answer all too well.

I reach into my pocket and take out a fistful of cash. I’ve taken to carrying a lot of it lately, ever since a cash machine ate my card a couple of months ago. I have a little over six hundred dollars, which I put on the table. “Thank you for the information,” I say. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

As we turn to leave, the teenager says, “How’d you get past Little Antwan downstairs?”

He must be talking about Statue Man, who could only be called “little” in comparison to the Chrysler Building. “You call him ‘Little Antwan’?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s downstairs talking to little Marcus.”

We leave, and once we close the door behind us, Laurie says with a smile, “Now you’re paying for information?”

“Why not? Who am I, Sixty Minutes?”

* * * * *

LAURIE COMES BACK to the office with me for a meeting with Kevin.

These meetings are basically of dubious value, since all we seem to do is list the things we don’t understand in our preparation for a trial we don’t know will even take place.

It’s the first chance I’ve had to tell Kevin about my meeting with Petrone. When I get to the part where Petrone denied trying to have me killed, Kevin asks, “And you believed him?”

“I did.”

“Just because that’s what he said?”

I nod. “As stupid as it might sound, yes. I’ve had dealings with him before, and he’s always told me the truth, or nothing at all. And he had nothing to gain by lying.”

“Andy, the guy has had a lot of people murdered. How many confessions has he made?”

“I think Andy’s right,” Laurie says. “If he admitted that he was behind the shooting, there’s nothing Andy could have done about it. He could still easily have denied it later. And if he is trying to scare Andy off of the case, saying that he was out to kill him would have been more effective.”

I nod. “You got that right.”

“Okay,” Kevin says. “Petrone wasn’t trying to kill you, but somebody was. Unless it was a random shooting.”

I shake my head. “No chance. Durelle specifically went to hire Cooper to be the driver for the attempt. He paid him five hundred bucks. Random shooters don’t do that kind of thing.”

“So the question is, who was Durelle and what did he have against you?”

“Right,” I say. “And I’m betting the answer has to do with the Army. That’s how Durelle knew Cooper, and Durelle was in the service when he apparently faked his own death. And it also might explain why the government was tapping my phone. Cindy Spodek said it could have been the Defense Intelligence Agency.”

“This sounds like a job for my brother-in-law,” Kevin says. “I’m glad I send him a birthday card every year.”

Kevin’s brother-in-law is Colonel Franklin Prentice, stationed at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. He was nice enough to help us on a previous case, and at the time he was only a lieutenant colonel. Now that’s he’s moved up a notch, maybe we can get him to solve the case for us.

Kevin will call him to learn all he can about Archie Durelle, the shooter who was killed in the helicopter crash and who came back to life. I’m particularly interested in whatever contact he and Antwan Cooper had in the service, and who else was on the copter with Durelle when it went down. If Durelle didn’t die, maybe they didn’t, either.

Laurie and I head home to enjoy our last night together before she goes back to Wisconsin. Wild and crazy pair that we are, we’re going to spend it by ordering in a pizza and watching a movie on DVD. We each have our role to play. I order the pizza and she chooses the movie.

She chooses Inherit the Wind, which is one of the few lawyer movies that I can tolerate. I especially like when Spencer Tracy, playing Clarence Darrow, gets to crucify the opposing lawyer, William Jennings Bryan, played by Fredric March. I’ve wanted to cross-examine a few prosecutors in my day. The fact that the prosecutor then literally collapses and dies when making a speech in the courtroom is as good an ending as you’re going to find anywhere.

We eat the pizza while watching the movie, carefully saving the crusts for Tara and Reggie. They have completely different eating styles. Tara virtually inhales the crusts in a matter of moments, while Reggie savors them, chewing slowly and carefully, then licking his lips clean after each one. The net effect is to have Tara finished and watching him, probably hoping in vain that he won’t finish. It must drive her nuts.

Laurie and I share a bottle of Rombauer chardonnay, though the dogs don’t get to sample it. Our drinking styles mirror the way the dogs eat. Laurie slips her wine slowly, while I chug it down like an ice-cold Pepsi on a hot day.

I know nothing about wine, but this tastes pretty good. Of course, in this setting I could serenely sip gasoline. “Mr. Carpenter, might I recommend an ’88 Chevron? Or perhaps a ’91 Texaco? Both are fruity and quite flammable.”

Laurie doesn’t say much all night, and it isn’t until we’ve made love that she decides it’s time to talk. It’s unfortunate, because I have already come to the conclusion that it’s time to sleep.

“Andy, I’m going to tell you something because I think we should be open and honest.”

Uh-oh, I think, bracing for what is going to come next.

“I’m taking a risk by saying this.”

I don’t say anything, because I find it hard to talk and cringe at the same time.

“Andy, I think that if you told me the only way to keep us together would be for me to move back here, I would move. That’s how important you are to me.”

This conversation just took a turn for the better. “I feel the same way about you,” I say, and then worry that I may have just offered to move to Wisconsin.

If I made the offer, thankfully she doesn’t pick up on it. “I love where I live, Andy, and I love my job, but I would give it all up if that were necessary to keep you.”

My mind is racing for a way to appear understanding and generous and yet actually get her to move back here. “I would never want you to give that up,” I say. My mind obviously didn’t pull off the trick.

“And you’ll tell me if that changes? Because right now I love you more than ever.”

“I’ll tell you,” I say, knowing I won’t, because then she’d love me less than ever.

In the morning we have a quick breakfast, and I drive Laurie to the airport. We don’t talk about when we will see each other again, because we both know it might be quite a while. She’s used up her vacation, and if we get the new trial for Richard, I’m going to be intensely occupied with it.

I’ll still be jealous and worried about what she might be doing in Wisconsin, and who she might be doing it with. That usually begins about twenty-four hours after she gets on the plane to go home. She has never given me any reason to be concerned; my jealousy is more about my insecurity than her lack of trustworthiness.

“I wish I could stay and help you,” Laurie says.

“You’ve got your own criminals to catch.”

“You’ll keep me updated on what’s going on?”

She’s feeling left out; she’s not used to seeing me work a case without her having a role as my investigator. “I will.”

“I’m sorry, Andy. I’m having a tough time with this.”

“Move back here, Laurie. That’s the only way I’ll ever be completely happy.” That’s what my mind is thinking. What my mouth winds up saying is, “It’ll be fine, Laurie. It’ll be fine.”

And maybe it will. And maybe it won’t.

* * * * *

IN MY NEXT life I want to be an Army colonel.

Okay, maybe it’s not my first choice. But if I can’t be the starting quarterback for the Giants, or an all-star shortstop for the Yankees, then Army colonel is right up there on the list.

People listen to colonels. They follow their orders and don’t ask questions. They don’t ask if they can do it later or why it has to be done at all. Working for a colonel, Edna wouldn’t last ten minutes. What’s a five-letter word for “you’re out of a job, woman”?

The second-best thing to being a colonel is having one on our side, and thanks to Kevin’s sister’s choice of a husband, we have a beauty. I’m sure Kevin would have preferred that she marry an internist, but this has worked out pretty well.

Kevin has explained to Colonel Prentice that we need his help, and after asking a few questions, he made a phone call, and here we are at Fort Monmouth.

It’s the second time we’ve been to Fort Monmouth, and the place still does not look like an army base. It looks more like a collection of civilian office buildings, which is probably what it is about to be. The Army is closing Fort Monmouth as part of their overall base-closing plans. The town, like other towns facing the same situation, is quite upset about it. The base is a source of jobs and revenue that is hard to replace.

Last time Colonel Prentice helped us, he did so by sending us down here to meet with Captain Gary Reid, and he’s done the same thing this time. Captain Reid is now Major Reid, and he greets us just as crisply and politely this time. He informs us that he has already processed Kevin’s telephone request and has copies of the documents we need. They cannot leave the post or be recopied, he says, but we are free to sit in a private office and study them as long as we want. We are also allowed to take notes.

Archie Durelle’s Army record is relatively distinguished. He enlisted in 1994 and entered infantry training. He reached the rank of sergeant by the time he was sent to Afghanistan in 2001, and was a participant in the overthrow of the Taliban. He won a Purple Heart for his efforts, the result of a laceration from shrapnel.

It was about three months later that he was hitching a ride on a helicopter back to Kabul. The chopper crashed in a remote area, and Durelle was killed along with the pilot, a Special Forces officer named Mike Carelli, and two others. One was Captain Gary Winston, an Army surgeon whose tour of duty was up in just three days, and the other was Lieutenant Anthony Banks, a special services officer assigned to assist in Afghani reconstruction. It took a while for the American command to realize that the chopper had gone down, and another significant amount of time to find and reach the wreckage.

By the time search and rescue arrived on the scene, the enemy forces had been there first. The bodies and anything else of value had long since been carted off-at least, that’s what the report said. We now know the truth is that Durelle’s body was never there at all; if it had been, he wouldn’t have made it to the New Jersey Turnpike with a gun in his hand-a gun that was shooting bullets at me.

There are pictures of all the victims in the file, but I never would have recognized Durelle. I got only a brief glimpse of him on the highway, and I’m sure I was paying more attention to the gun in his hand. Also, the picture is at least eight to ten years old.

If Durelle had a family, it’s not listed in these reports, so instead we copy down the names of the others allegedly on the downed chopper, along with any family contacts they had. I have no idea if the others were involved with Durelle in anything criminal, but it’s an avenue we need to pursue.

We leave the base, having gotten all the available information, but disappointed with what we got. I had no reason to expect any kind of smoking gun, but it would have been nice to gain a little insight into what the hell is going on.

There isn’t exactly a lot of insight waiting for us back at the office, either. Keith Franklin has left a cryptic message that indicates he has been keeping his eyes open but has not detected anything unusual about Roy Chaney’s operations at customs.

Karen Evans is also waiting for us, and I can tell that the stress of waiting for a ruling on the new trial is straining even her natural level of exuberance. She’s been visiting Richard every day at the jail, which makes me feel a little better, since I haven’t been getting there as often as I should.

“How’s he doing?” I ask.

“Not great,” she says. “I’m trying to keep him upbeat, but he knows everything’s riding on this. Not knowing when the answer is coming is pretty tough, also. Even for me.”

I nod. “How about the solitary confinement? How’s he handling that?”

She smiles. “I think he likes it, at least for now. He hadn’t made a lot of friends there anyway.”

“I wish I had some news for both of you,” I say.

She nods. “I know… and I don’t want to be a pain, but is it okay if I hang around here more? It feels like if I’m here I’m closer to hearing the good news.”

“What about your dress designing?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I’ve been working on that at night; I haven’t been sleeping much. So what do you say?”

There’s no reason to deny her that request, so I don’t. “Sure. Come by anytime.”

I hang around for a while longer and then head for home. That doesn’t cheer me up a hell of a lot, either, since Laurie is back in Wisconsin. But Tara and Reggie are both there, tails wagging and smiles on their faces, and I reward them for their good mood with a two-hour walk in the park.

When we get back I turn on the television to the local news and then play the message on my blinking answering machine. In this way, the newscaster and the court clerk give me the message simultaneously: A decision has been reached in the Evans case, and it will be announced at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.

I spend the rest of the night fielding calls about the upcoming decision, from Laurie, Kevin, Karen, and an assortment of media types. I profess confidence to everyone outside our team; if we get the new trial, it is best if it appears we had expected nothing less. If we don’t get the trial, then nothing else matters anyway.

Karen professes certainty that the news will be good, though I can’t tell if she believes it or is trying to convince herself. Laurie is supportive and hopeful but really has no more idea about what awaits us than I do. Kevin is typically pragmatic, insisting that we plan our first steps after the new trial is granted. It’s the right approach, because we will have to move quickly to be ready for trial. And if there’s no trial to be ready for, then we’ll still push toward another appeal.

In a lot of ways this is even worse than waiting for a verdict. When the jury reaches a decision, there is the possibility that the client will be free and exonerated. Here we’re just hoping for the chance to get to a jury. So in a way, a bad decision is devastating, but a good decision is just the beginning.

Tara and Reggie seem to reflect my stress, getting close to me, as if being supportive. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I actually feel as though I owe Reggie something, and I don’t want to let him down. And not reuniting him with Richard would be letting him down.

Before I go to sleep I pet Reggie’s head. “Big day tomorrow, buddy,” I say.

He just looks at me, as if not willing to let me off the hook that easily. I look over and see Tara staring as well, supporting her friend against the hand that feeds her.

I pet him again. “No matter what happens, you’ve always got a home here.”

Again he stares at me, the same way he stared at me that first day in the kennel.

I pet him a final time. “All right. Don’t mention this publicly, but we’re gonna win.”

* * * * *

“WHAT HAPPENS TODAY affects only the timing, not the ultimate result.”

I say this as Kevin and I are meeting in a court anteroom with Richard and Karen. In fifteen minutes Judge Gordon is going to announce his ruling, and I’m trying to cushion them against the psychological devastation of a loss.

“We are going to find out the truth, and we’ll prove your innocence in court. If Judge Gordon rules against us, it will only delay our victory, not prevent it.”

Richard is in the process of establishing himself as unique among all the people I have ever defended. To this point he has not once asked me if I think we are going to win or lose. Usually defendants bombard me with the question, as if asking it repeatedly is going to unearth some secret truth that I am otherwise sworn to defend. Richard either senses that I have no idea what is going to happen, or thinks I have an idea and doesn’t want to hear what it is.

At nine o’clock sharp we enter the courtroom, which is packed to capacity and has all the energy of a major trial verdict moment. I have been to some huge prizefights, including the first Tyson-Holyfield, and the electricity that courses through a courtroom at moments like these is similar to the feeling at those venues, albeit on a much smaller scale. One side is going to lose, and one will win, and nothing will be the same afterward.

Karen takes her seat directly behind us as Janine Coletti and the rest of her team occupy their places at the prosecution table. Coletti nods at me and smiles and doesn’t appear at all nervous, which has the effect of making me nervous.

The five minutes that pass until the bailiff announces Judge Gordon’s entry feel like five hours. Mercifully, he gets right down to it. “I’m going to make a very brief statement, and post the entire decision on the court Web site,” he says.

Kevin looks over at me, a worried expression on his face. I know what he’s thinking. The overwhelming percentage of people in the room want Richard to get a new trial. If Judge Gordon is going to deliver bad news, he might want to do it quickly and let the Web site do the rest.

This is the way nervous, worried lawyers think.

The judge then goes into all that led to his decision. It goes on for three or four minutes, leading me to start calculating whether my bad-news theory might be wrong.

It’s an art form to give a lengthy preamble to a decision, listing the facts used to make the judgment, without giving away what the final decision will be. Judge Gordon has mastered it, and it takes me by surprise when he pauses and says, “Therefore…”

He pauses after the word, a delay that serves as a silent drumroll. I can feel Richard tense up next to me, and I can only imagine Karen behind me. She must have exploded by now.

Judge Gordon continues, “… it is the decision of this court that the defense has met its burden, and a new trial is hereby granted in the case of New Jersey versus Evans, said trial to commence on June fourteenth.”

There is not an explosion of noise in the courtroom; it is more the sound of a hundred people exhaling at once. Richard lowers his head into his hands and keeps it there until Karen vaults out of her seat and starts pounding him on the back and shoulders in triumph.

He turns and hugs her and then does the same to Kevin and me. Judge Gordon is considerate enough to let this emotional scene play out for a brief while before gaveling order into the courtroom.

The judge has set a trial date for six weeks from today. It’s rushed, but Richard has already told me that he doesn’t want to wait a moment longer than necessary.

I pursue the matter of bail, but it is almost never granted in first-degree murder trials, and Judge Gordon does not make an exception here. Richard is disappointed, but I’ve prepared him for it.

The proceedings end, and the bailiffs come over to take Richard away. “You did great,” he says to me.

“It’s only the beginning, Richard. I know you know that, but I’ve got to say it anyway. The case starts now.”

He smiles and nods, having expected me to temper his enthusiasm. “Give Reggie a hug for me,” he says.

“That I can do.”

Kevin and I head back to the office, rejuvenated by our triumph and by the certainty that we will now get our day in court. We both know that it will be like starting a six-week marathon; a murder trial takes total concentration and an incredible intensity.

Unfortunately, as soon as we start our meeting we have to face the fact that Judge Gordon’s decision does nothing toward helping us understand what the hell is going on here. If we’re going to tell a jury that Stacy was murdered and Richard was set up by some evil third party, we had better be prepared to credibly advance a theory of why it happened and who that third party might be.

The only two areas that seem to hold potential answers right now are the customs operations at the Port of Newark and the Army connection to Archie Durelle. There is little I can do about the customs area other than hope that Keith Franklin comes up with something, so I decide to focus on the Army and Durelle.

I make a couple of calls to set up meetings for tomorrow and then head for home. I give Tara and Reggie some celebratory biscuits, and then we go out for a long walk.

After I take them home I head for Charlie’s to watch some baseball and drink some beer with Pete and Vince. “Congratulations,” Pete says in a surprising burst of humanity.

“You gonna win?” Vince asks.

“Is this off the record?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

I shrug. “I hope so.”

He frowns his disdain. “You sure I can’t use that? Because that’s the kind of quote that sells newspapers.”

I update Pete on what we learned about the chopper crash, and I give him the names of Mike Carelli, Dr. Gary Winston, and Anthony Banks, the other people on the flight, just in case he has anything on them. He says that certainly nothing comes to mind, but that he’ll check.

“I called a friend in the State Police to see if I could find out any progress they’re making on the highway shooting,” Pete says.

“Thanks.” I had asked him to do that; even though the shooters were dead, a full investigation would certainly take place. “You find out anything?”

He nods. “The case was turned over to the FBI.”

This is a stunning development. “FBI? Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” he asks with annoyance. “You think I get letters confused? Maybe they said they’re turning over the case to the DMV? Or maybe LBJ?”

His sarcasm doesn’t make a dent on me; I’m too focused on this news. “What the hell could the FBI have to do with an attempted murder on a New Jersey highway?”

“That, counselor, is something you might want to figure out.”

* * * * *

IF YOU WANT to live thirty stories above New Jersey, the place to do it is in Fort Lee at Sunset Towers. It sits on the edge of the Hudson River and offers its upscale tenants spectacular views of the New York skyline. Its lobby and basement areas include a grocery store, cleaners, and drugstore, making running errands an easy jog. The place is so classy that the doorman is called a concierge.

I’ve come here to see Donna Banks, widow of Anthony Banks, the second lieutenant who, the records show, died in the same helicopter crash as Archie Durelle. I called yesterday and explained who I was, though I did not say why I wanted to talk to her about her husband. She agreed to see me this morning, though she did not seem pleased about it.

I left Kevin the job of trying to reach Cynthia Carelli, the widow of Mike Carelli, the chopper pilot listed as killed in the same crash as Durelle and Banks. She lives in Seattle, a rather long trip to make in person, considering the small likelihood that he has anything to do with our case.

I stop at the “concierge” and tell him that I am here to see Ms. Banks. He nods, picks up the phone, and dials her number. There must be hundreds of apartments in this building, and his not having to look up the number is impressive.

He receives confirmation that I am expected and sends me up to her twenty-third-floor apartment. The high-speed elevator has me there within seconds, and Donna Banks answers the door within a few moments of my ringing the bell. She is an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, but dressed and carrying a handbag as if ready to go out. Not a good sign if I’m hoping to have a long interview.

“Ms. Banks, thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Come in, but I don’t have a lot of time. I’m quite busy,” she says.

I nod agreeably as I enter. “We could do this some other time, when you’re not as rushed.”

“I’m afraid I always seem to be rushed.”

“What is it you do?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

I shrug. “I mean your work-what it is that keeps you so busy?”

She seems taken aback by the question. “Volunteer work… and I have many friends… You said you needed to talk about Anthony.”

I sit down without being offered the opportunity and take a glance around the apartment. It is expensively furnished, and neat to the point that it doesn’t even looked lived in. “Are you married, Ms. Banks?”

“No. I’m sorry, but I really am in a hurry, Mr. Carpenter. Can we chitchat a little less and get to why you’re here?”

“Sure. How much did the Army share with you about the circumstances of your husband’s death?”

“They said he was on a helicopter that went down in enemy territory. They weren’t sure at the time if hostile fire was involved.”

“And did they ever become sure?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t pursue it.”

“Does the name Archie Durelle mean anything to you?”

“No.” Her answer was instantaneous; she’s not exactly racking her brain to remember.

“Antwan Cooper?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had any reason to question the Army’s account of the helicopter crash?”

“No. The circumstances are not important. Anthony was important, and his death was important. Whether they were shot down or had a mechanical failure doesn’t change anything.”

I ask a few more questions and get similarly unresponsive answers. When she takes out her car keys and stands up, it’s rather clear that her volunteer work and friends can’t wait another minute. I thank her for her time and leave.

There is nothing about this woman that I trust. She was completely uncomfortable talking to me, yet if that came from an ongoing grief over her husband’s death, she hid it really well. There I was, asking what should have seemed like out-of-the-blue questions about the event that turned her into a widow, yet she showed no curiosity about where I was coming from. All she cared about was when I would leave.

I don’t believe she was rushed, and I test that by waiting at the elevator for five minutes. Even though she had her handbag and car keys in hand, there’s no sign of her.

I go down and get my car out of the underground parking garage. I wait another half hour, positioned to see the garage exit and the front door of the building. It’s my version of a stakeout, without the doughnuts.

She doesn’t show up, which comes as no surprise to me. I head back to the office, calling Sam Willis on my cell phone as I drive. I tell him that I have another job for him.

“Great!” he says, making no effort to conceal his delight. He’s probably hoping it results in another high-speed highway shooting.

“The woman’s name is Donna Banks. She lives in apartment twenty-three-G in Sunset Towers in Fort Lee. I don’t have the exact address, but you can get it.”

“Pretty swanky apartment,” he says.

“Right. I want you to find out the source of that swank.”

“What does that mean?”

“I want to know how she can afford it. She doesn’t work, and she’s the widow of a soldier. Maybe her name is Banks because her family owns a bunch of them, but I want to know for sure.”

“Got it.”

“No problem?” I ask. I’m always amazed at Sam’s ability to access any information he needs.

“Not so far. Anything else?”

“Yes. I left her apartment at ten thirty-five this morning. I want to know if she called anyone shortly after I left, and if so, who.”

“Gotcha. Which do you want me to get on first? Although neither will take very long.”

“I guess her source of income.”

“Then say it, Andy.”

“Say what?”

“Come on, play the game. You’re asking me to find out where she gets her cash. So say it.”

“Sam…”

“Say it.”

“Okay. Show me the money.”

“Thatta boy. I’ll get right on it.”

I hang up and call the office, to make sure Kevin is around. I want to tell him about Donna Banks and my distrust of her. He’ll think my suspicions are unfounded and vague, which they are, but he’ll trust my instincts.

Kevin is there, and he tells me that his conversation with Cynthia Carelli yielded little. She has remarried and was reticent to discuss her previous husband with a stranger over the phone. Kevin did get her to say that she had no reason to question anything the Army told her about the crash, and he came down on the side of believing her. If we’re going to pursue that further, it will have to be in Seattle.

I don’t get a chance to tell Kevin much about Donna Banks, because we receive a phone call from Daniel Hawpe, the head prosecutor of Somerset County, and therefore Janine Coletti’s boss. He would very much like to meet with me as soon as possible at his office. He has cleared his schedule for the day, so whenever I arrive will be fine.

It is an unusual development on a number of levels. Just the fact that Hawpe, rather than Coletti, made the call is a surprise, but the entire tone is strange. Prosecutors as a rule spend every free minute they have complaining that they never have a free minute. They wear their overwork as a badge of honor, and for someone on Hawpe’s level to clear an afternoon’s schedule for a defense attorney might well get him drummed out of the prosecutors’ union.

Kevin is busy working on some pretrial motions, so I decide to drive down there myself. I arrive at about three o’clock, and Hawpe’s assistant just about lights up when she sees me. “Mr. Hawpe said to bring you right in,” she says. “Can I get you something to drink?”

I’m starting to let this feeling of power go to my head; I almost demand a pipe and slippers. But instead I let myself be led into Hawpe’s office.

There are basically three types of prosecutors. The first group consists of those who love their work, feel that they are contributing to society, and are likely to do this for the rest of their working life.

Then there is the group that sees it as a launching point to the other side, the defense side, where there is more money to be made. Having spent time as a prosecutor gives a defense attorney some additional credibility. It’s like hiring an ex-IRS agent to represent you in an audit. You feel that you’re better off having someone who’s been on the “inside.”

The third group, and the one to which Daniel Hawpe belongs, consists of people who view the prosecutor’s office as a stepping-stone to higher and greater political office. Hawpe is maybe thirty-five, tall, and good-looking and might as well be wearing a sign on his forehead that says, “One day you will be calling me Governor Hawpe.”

But for now he starts off by telling me to call him “Daniel,” and I, ever gracious, give him permission to use “Andy.”

“Andy, I’ve been following your career; you’ve won some great cases. I told Janine Coletti you were going to be a handful at the hearing.”

“Is she joining us for this meeting?” I ask.

“She’s been reassigned. I’m going to handle this from now on.”

This is a surprise, and probably unfair to her. She did a decent, albeit unspectacular, job. “She’s a good attorney,” I say.

He nods vigorously. “Damn good. Damn good. This is no reflection on her; we’re just going to take this case in a new direction.”

“Which direction might that be?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“It’s time to wrap this up, Andy. We don’t need another trial, even though I think we’d win it. And Evans certainly doesn’t need it. It’s time to plead it out.”

I’m not surprised that he’s making the offer, though the speed with which he’s making it is quite unusual. We only got the new trial yesterday. By doing it in this manner, he’s looking more than a little anxious, and thereby hurting his negotiating position. He must know that but clearly isn’t bothered by it.

“What’s your offer?” I ask.

“Time served plus ten. He’ll be up for parole in five, and we won’t oppose it as long as he’s a good boy in prison.”

It’s a shocking offer. In the original trial, the prosecution went for life without the possibility of parole and got it. Now we’ve got some new forensic evidence and a dog that didn’t die, and Richard can be out in five years. It’s generous to the point of nonsensical, and if we accept it, it will be an embarrassment for his office.

“I’ll convey it to my client,” I say. “But he’s already been in prison too long.”

He shrugs. “Just let me know.”

My hunch is that the decision to make this offer was not his, and that he’d be happy if we turned it down. “I’ll get back to you within a few days.”

“Going up against you in court might be fun,” he says.

I nod. “A real hoot.”

* * * * *

I DON’T WITHHOLD information like this from a client one second more than necessary, which is why I have called this early morning meeting with Richard, Karen, and Kevin at the prison.

“The prosecutor has made an offer, which I will tell you now,” I say to Richard. “But I don’t want you to make a decision about it until I’ve described the entire situation.”

He nods. “Fair enough.”

“The offer is time served plus ten, with an agreement going in that you’ll be paroled in five.”

Richard nods thoughtfully, not saying anything. Karen says, “Oh, man…” Their outward reactions couldn’t be more different, but I have no idea what each is thinking.

I proceed to lay out everything that I know about the case. He’s already heard a lot of it, but I add my discussion with Petrone and with Antwan Cooper’s family, what we learned from the Army files, and my recent visit with Donna Banks. I leave nothing out and, for the moment, do not give my subjective interpretations about it. There will be time for that later.

“I’m not sure what all this means,” Richard says, a confusion that I unfortunately share.

“There is one consistent thread that runs through it,” I say. “A lot of people, including some in the government, are concerned about what we are doing. Whether it’s trying to kill your lawyer, tapping his phone, or offering an overly generous plea bargain, I think there exists a great desire on the part of a wide variety of people that this not go to trial.”

“You think the plea bargain offer is overly generous?” he asks.

I nod. “I do, but that doesn’t mean you should accept it. It’s just very unusual for an offer like that to be made in these circumstances, and my guess-and it’s only a guess-is that pressure from very high up was brought to bear on the prosecutor.”

“Don’t take it, Richard,” Karen says. “Andy’s gonna win this thing.”

Richard smiles at his sister’s confidence. He turns and, for the first time, asks me, “Would you really win this thing?”

“I think we’d have a decent chance. There’s also a significant chance that we’d lose. Overall, fifty-fifty.”

He turns to Kevin. “Is that how you feel?”

Kevin nods. “It is.”

“I’m going to be very up front with all of you,” Richard says. “I decided the other night, the night before we got the new trial, that I couldn’t spend my life in prison. If we lose this, I’m going to take my own life.”

Karen starts to cry softly, and Richard kisses her on the head.

“I’m sorry, honey, but it’s just not a way to live, and the unfairness and waste just becomes too much to bear. Having all this happen-finally having a reason to hope-somehow, it’s made that very clear to me.” He turns back to Kevin and me. “So what we’re talking about here is not five years versus life in prison. It’s five years versus my life.”

He says all this clearly and almost dispassionately, not looking to make an impact and not looking for sympathy. I think, in his situation, I’d feel the same way.

Richard continues: “The reason to accept the deal, even though it would include the horror of five more years in this place, is therefore pretty obvious. The reasons to turn it down are a little more complicated.”

He goes on: “There’s Stacy. Somebody killed her, and if I take the plea bargain, we’ll never find out who, and that person will never be punished.”

“We might never find out who anyway.”

He nods. “I know. That’s why it’s complicated. And then there’s the other reason.”

I can’t help but smile. “Reggie,” I say.

He nods. “Reggie. He’s not likely to live five more years. Not by a typical golden retriever’s life expectancy.”

“That’s true,” I say.

“He’s the one who has given me this chance. I know it sounds stupid…”

“It’s very stupid,” I say.

“But you understand it.”

I smile again. “I do.”

Richard pauses a moment and then looks at Karen, Kevin, and me in turn before speaking.

“Let’s kick their ass.”

Ass-kicking in the justice system is done a little differently from ass-kicking in, say, the National Football League. They use bone-crushing blocks and devastating tackles while we use meticulously prepared briefs and probing questions. They need shoulder pads and helmets to protect themselves from harm; when we see danger coming we just stand up and object.

Kevin and I head back to the office to discuss exactly how we plan to kick the prosecution’s ass. They are going to come in far more prepared than they were at the hearing. They’ll have better answers for our forensics expert, and probably a bunch of canine lifeguards who’ll swear that Reggie could have made that swim in his sleep.

We’ve been looking at three main areas: the customs operation in Newark, the Army connection from seven years ago, and the government’s obvious, though surreptitious, interest in what we’re doing. All three are still viable things for us to investigate, but I’ve been making the mistake of thinking they must be interrelated.

It would all tie together nicely if these Army guys had a scam to smuggle things, maybe arms or drugs, through customs and had to get Richard out of the way to accomplish it. The government could be onto them and be watching me out of worry that I might do something in the course of the trial to imperil their investigation.

Unfortunately, it falls apart because of the passage of time. If they were smuggling arms all these years, there would by now be a bazooka in every household in America. And if the government has been watching all of it without acting, then they aren’t asleep at the switch-they’re comatose.

Edna buzzes in to tell me that Sam Willis is waiting to see me and says it’s important. I tell her to send him right in, and he comes through the door about an eighth of a second later.

“Donna Banks is getting the money from Switzerland,” he says. “The first business day of every month, a wire transfer from the Bank of Switzerland. The account is owned by Carlyle Trading.”

“How much?” I ask.

“Twenty-two thousand five, every month.”

With that kind of income, she can spend a lot of time seeing friends and doing volunteer work. “Can we find out who Carlyle Trading is?”

“I’m trying, but it’s nobody. It’s a dummy corporation; the bank wouldn’t even know who’s behind it.”

“How long has she been getting the money?”

He smiles. “That’s the best part. It started three months after her husband kicked off. If he kicked off.”

This is exhilarating news, even though we don’t yet know what it means. I believe it somehow ties into our case, but of course, I could be totally wrong. Donna Banks could be getting the money from some Swiss sugar daddy that she started sleeping with right after her husband died.

But that’s not what my gut is telling me.

“What about the phone calls?” I ask. “Did she make any after I left her apartment?”

He nods. “She made four in the forty-five minutes after you left. All to the same number. The first three were only a few seconds long; my guess is, she got a machine and hung up. The fourth one lasted seven minutes.”

“Who were they made to?”

Sam takes out a piece of notepaper and looks at it. “It’s a company based in Montclair, New Jersey, Interpublic Trading. The only name I could find associated with it is a guy named Yasir Hamadi. I’ve got the phone number and address.”

I dial the number that Sam gives me, and after four rings a machine picks up. It’s a woman’s voice, telling me that I’ve reached Interpublic Trading and suggesting that I leave a message. I leave my name and number and ask that Mr. Hamadi call me back on a personal matter.

Kevin and I spend the rest of the afternoon in pretrial preparation. In one sense it’s easier to prepare for a retrial than a normal trial, since we know what the previous prosecution witnesses will testify to. They’ll come up with a few new witnesses, mainly to counter us, but by and large we know their case. Additionally, everyone who has testified is now on the record, and if we catch them in an inconsistency, they can’t back off it.

I’m about to leave for home when Karen Evans calls and asks if she can “buy me dinner.” I had already planned a perfect evening; I was going to stop at Taco Bell, buy a couple of Crunchwraps, and eat them at home while watching the Mets game. But she seems to need to talk, so I agree to give it all up and have dinner with her.

We go to a restaurant in Paterson called the Bonfire, a place I’ve been going to since I was a kid. It’s changed its decor and menu a number of times over the years, but the memories of going there with my parents have remained intact and unchanged.

Karen doesn’t shake easily, but she’s been rattled by Richard’s revelation that he is contemplating, actually planning, to take his own life should he lose the retrial. “It makes me afraid that I talked him into going ahead with the trial,” she says.

I shake my head. “You didn’t talk him into anything. He knows exactly what he wants and what he’s willing to tolerate.”

“You know, these past five years, I’ve had hope, and now more than ever. But if we lose and he does what he says, then I won’t have that anymore. He won’t have it anymore.”

“I don’t think either of us can understand what it’s like to be locked in a cage,” I say. “And to be innocent at the same time… It must be beyond horrifying. To this day, Willie Miller won’t talk about it.”

She nods. “I know, but that same innocence is like a lifeline for Richard; it’s all he has. And if he pleads guilty and takes the five years, he gives that up.”

Karen’s bubbly, irrepressible way has a tendency to make people like me underestimate her intelligence and maturity. She’s tough and smart-easily smart enough to be scared of what could happen to her brother.

I manage to turn the conversation to less stressful matters, and she reveals in answer to my question that she has a boyfriend, a third-year law student at Columbia Law. He thinks that their relationship is more serious than she does.

“He’s a nice guy,” she says. “But there are a lot of nice guys in the world. I want what you and Laurie have.”

“Then you should date guys who live thousands of miles away.”

She shakes her head. “You know what I mean. You guys are connected; I can see that. Hey, anybody can see that. You could live on different planets, and you’d still be connected. That’s what I’m looking for.”

I know what she means, though I sure as hell didn’t know it at her age.

We’ve just gotten the check when my cell phone rings. It’s Keith Franklin, his voice barely above a whisper. “Mr. Carpenter, I found something.”

“Where are you?”

“Down at the port.”

“What did you find?”

He doesn’t want to talk on the phone, and I tell him I’ll be right down there. I hang up and describe the call to Karen. “I want to go with you,” she says.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on, I’ll be like your sidekick.”

“Karen…,” I say in a tone not nearly stern enough to carry the day.

“Here’s the deal: If you don’t let me go with you, I’ll grab on to your ankle and won’t let go, and I’ll start screaming as loud as I can.” She says all this with a smile on her face, but she’s probably serious.

I have never been particularly successful at dealing with strong-willed people, or even moderately willed people, but I have reason to be hesitant to let her go. Last time I met with Franklin at night, Petrone had Windshield Man following me, and something similar or worse could happen this time.

I finally agree to let her come, but I take pains to look behind us as we drive, in case there’s somebody following us. I even make a few quick, unnecessary turns as a way to detect unusual activity by any cars behind us. The problem is that my level of competence at tail detection is such that the entire Rose Bowl Parade could be lined up behind me and I wouldn’t know it. I just have to trust that Marcus is the grand marshal.

Franklin is waiting for us in the parking lot in front of the main building. He gets right to the point. “I think I figured it out,” he says, and leads us through a side entrance, down a darkened corridor and into a warehouse. There is a security guard at the entrance, but he just waves us in once Franklin identifies himself.

“There was a slowdown at the pier today, almost a work stoppage. So that’s why some of these things are still here.” He points to some huge crates and boxes. “Otherwise they would have been shipped out already.”

I’m confused, which doesn’t exactly qualify as a news event. “Shipped out? These things are leaving the country?”

He nods. “Right. Everything passes through here, but there is obviously less attention paid to what goes out.”

He stands up on one of the crates and then climbs up toward another, which is farther back. He uses a small flashlight to help him on the trek. “Come on up here,” he says. He’s already pretty far off the ground, and what he is standing on seems rather precarious.

I turn to Karen. “You wait down here so that when I fall, you can call an ambulance.”

I climb up after Franklin, though it takes me twice as long as it took him. He uses the flashlight to light my way, and when I get up there, he points it at a crate that has been partially opened.

“I opened a few of these. They went through Chaney’s department, and they were stacked so as to be hard to get to, so I figured I’d take a shot.”

“What’s in there?” I ask.

“Take a look,” he says, and points the flashlight so I can see inside.

The crate is filled with maybe the last thing I’d expect.

Money.

I can see twenties, tens and fives, but I have absolutely no idea how much might be in there, other than the fact that it’s a hell of a lot of money. “Damn…,” I say, never at a loss for a clever quip.

“What’s going on up there?” Karen calls out, but neither of us is inclined to answer her just yet.

“The two crates back there are the same,” he says. “We’re talking serious money.”

I climb back down while Franklin closes the crate so that it will not look as though it had been opened. Soon he joins me on solid ground, and the three of us head outside. On the way I tell Karen what was in the boxes.

“Somebody was sneaking money out of the country?” she asks. “Why?”

I’ve already figured out the answer to that, but I wait until the three of us are seated in my car before I voice it.

“It has to be organized crime; it’s Petrone’s money.”

“Dominic Petrone?” Franklin asks, and if it weren’t so dark in the car, I would see him turning pale.

“Yes, it all fits. Don’t forget, people don’t pay prostitutes or street drug dealers or bookies by check or credit card. They pay in cash, and often small bills. Not only does it add up, but it weighs a lot.”

“But why ship it out of the country?” Karen asks.

“Because our banking system is tightly controlled. Getting that amount of cash into it would draw big-time attention. Other countries are not as strict, and once the cash enters any country’s banking system, it’s easier to send it back here. Probably by wire.”

“So Petrone owns Roy Chaney?” Franklin asks.

“I would assume so,” I say.

“And he was getting rid of Richard so that he could run this operation?”

“That remains to be seen,” I say, although I don’t think it does. I don’t believe this has anything to do with Stacy Harriman’s murder and the setup of Richard, but I don’t want to share this with Franklin. He doesn’t need to know our case strategy.

One thing this does explain is why Petrone had been monitoring my movements. He was afraid that I would uncover his operation while investigating the case, and he was right about that. The question now is what to do about it.

Franklin has no great desire to intervene in a situation that gets him on Dominic Petrone’s enemies list. He is therefore receptive to my suggestion that we just sit on this for a while. The country is not going to be irreparably harmed by this shipment going out; similar shipments have probably been making the same trip for years. I want to see if I can somehow use this information to our advantage rather than have it lead to our deaths. Franklin is fine with that.

As Franklin is about to get out of the car, I ask, “Have you ever heard of a man named Yasir Hamadi?”

He thinks for a moment. “I don’t think so. Who is he?”

“Just a name that came up in connection with the case. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but I think I’m going to have to pay him a visit.”

“Can I go with you?” Karen asks. “Haven’t I been a great sidekick?”

I smile. “You’ve been extraordinary.”

* * * * *

THERE IS NO message from Yasir Hamadi waiting for me at the office this morning. I can’t say I’m surprised, nor is it a sign that he is any kind of bad guy. People don’t return phone calls from strangers all the time. He could think I’m a bill collector or, even worse, a lawyer.

Sam has used his computer magic to get the guy’s home address, and I’m going to take a ride out there tomorrow. I generally like to interview people face-to-face when I’m working on a case, and I’m partial to surprising them by showing up unannounced. There’s always the possibility that he won’t be home or won’t talk to me, but since I’ll be going on a Saturday, it’ll be a nice drive with little traffic.

Kevin and I spend the day going through the nuts and bolts of preparing for the trial. We discuss whether to ask for a change of venue but decide against it. It’s not as if the murder victim were a local person or even that the case drew great attention. There’s no reason for us to think we can’t get a fair trial down there, and for that reason our request likely wouldn’t be granted if we made it.

It’s midafternoon when we start talking about the Petrone situation in detail. I do not think that the revelation of Petrone’s sneaking money out of the country means that he’s involved in the Evans case.

Kevin disagrees. “I don’t understand,” he says. “We’ve suspected all along that there might be something going on at customs that would have caused Richard to be set up. Now we find out that Petrone, the head of organized crime in New Jersey, is involved in an illegal customs operation with Richard’s replacement. And because of this, we think Petrone is not involved?”

I understand his point; it makes perfect sense. I’m just not buying it. “It just doesn’t feel important enough for Petrone to have gone to all this trouble. He’d be able to get the money out in other ways.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Kevin says.

“And Petrone didn’t hire Chaney. How did he know he’d be able to control Richard’s replacement?”

“Maybe he owns Chaney’s boss.”

I shake my head. “Then he certainly wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of setting up this elaborate operation. And you think Petrone’s people rescued Reggie from the boat that night?”

Kevin grins. “It always comes back to Reggie.”

Before I head home for the evening of Taco Bell and baseball that I didn’t get to enjoy last night, I call Karen and deliver on my promise to let her drive with me tomorrow, to try to talk to Hamadi. I won’t let her sit in on the interview if there is one, but she can keep me company.

She’s quite pleased to join me, and we agree that I’ll pick her up at ten a.m.

I take Tara and Reggie on a very long walk, and pick up the Crunchwraps on the way back. It’s quite late when we get home, and I’ve probably already missed three innings of the Mets game.

I hadn’t left any lights on, so when I open the door it’s very dark inside. The first thing I see is the little, flashing red light on my answering machine, and I go over to press the button and listen to the message.

The voice is Karen’s. “Andy, it’s Karen. I just got a strange call from Keith Franklin. He said that he needs to talk to me and wants me to meet him behind school number twenty. He told me not to tell you, that what he had to say you shouldn’t hear. I said okay, but you said we shouldn’t keep secrets from each other, so I’m letting you know. Tomorrow I’ll tell you what he said. If I’m doing anything wrong with this, I’m sorry.”

I’m in the den, and as I listen to the message, it feels as if the walls of the room are closing in and crushing me. I am simultaneously hit by a feeling of panic and dread so powerful that I have to make a conscious effort not to fall to my knees.

My certainty of the horrible danger to Karen doesn’t make complete sense; Franklin could really have something to tell her that he doesn’t want me to know. But every instinct in my body doesn’t believe it, and if my instincts are right, then the truth is too horrible to contemplate.

I grab my cell phone and run out of the house. I don’t know Karen’s cell phone number or even that she has one, so calling her isn’t an option. Instead, I call Pete Stanton as I drive, and tell him what’s going on. He promises to get himself and some officers there as soon as possible.

School number 20 is a grammar school less than five minutes from my house. I will certainly be there before Pete, and I try in these few moments to plan what I will do when I arrive. I don’t come up with anything, but the act of thinking helps to lessen the feeling of panic.

The parking lot and athletic field are behind the school, and I drive around at a high speed, pulling to a screeching stop. I want to make as much noise as I possibly can; if a bad guy is there, I want it to sound as though the cavalry is arriving.

It’s very dark back here, with no streetlights and little moonlight. I think I can make out Karen’s car, but it could just be a shadow. I run toward the back of the school and see a small light above an exit door. Standing there, that light glancing off her, is Karen. The fact that she is standing means she is alive, and the fact that she is alive is extraordinarily wonderful.

“Karen!” I call out, though I am still at least seventy-five yards away.

She looks over in my direction, a little startled, but there is no way she can see me.

“It’s Andy!” I yell at the same moment that I see a glimmer of light from the road, off to the right. There is another car there, and someone is in it.

“Run! Run!” I yell, but she is confused, and doesn’t move. “Karen, start running!” It is not until I add “Now!” that she starts to run, though I’m not sure she even heard the word, because at the exact moment, there is another, very loud sound. I know what that sound is, and therefore, I know why Karen crumples to the ground. I’m running toward her, but the sight of her falling is so painful that it feels as if the bullet hit me.

I hear another shot, not as loud, that seems to come from a different direction. Karen doesn’t look to have been hit again, and it doesn’t appear that I was either, since I’m still running.

Karen’s prone body is now shielded by the darkness, and for a moment I can’t find her. I finally do, and I lean down to her, dreading what I am going to see.

“Andy?” she says, and if there has ever been a more beautiful rendition of my name, I’ve never heard it. Barbra Streisand couldn’t sing it any more beautifully. Karen’s voice is weak and scared, but she has a voice.

“Andy, somebody shot me.”

“Where are you hit?” I ask.

“In my shoulder. Andy, it hurts so much.”

I hadn’t given any thought to whether the shooter is still out there, and the sound of a car screeching away answers the question. The reason for that is soon obvious, as Marcus comes running over. Clearly Marcus chased off the shooter.

In the dim light I can see that the upper right part of her body is soaked in blood, and another wave of panic hits me. I quickly call 911 on my cell and request an ambulance. I take my shirt off and wrap it around her. Maybe it will slow the flow of blood, or maybe it will keep her warm and ward off shock.

Or maybe it won’t do shit.

It was probably a good idea, because Marcus takes off his jacket and does the same.

“Karen, hang on. Help will be here in a minute.”

She doesn’t answer, and I fear that she may have lost consciousness. Within moments that seem like years, I hear the sound of sirens, and Pete and every police officer in the city seem to arrive simultaneously. The area is bathed in light, and soon paramedics have descended on Karen. Pete tries to lead Marcus and me away.

“No,” I say, “I want to see how she is.”

Pete nods and walks over to the EMT in charge. He talks to him for a moment and then comes back to me. “I’ll be the first one they’ll tell,” he says.

Pete leads me toward his car and starts to question me. He has one of his colleagues question Marcus-as futile an exercise as has ever been attempted.

“Do you have any idea who did this?” Pete asks.

I nod. “It’s got to be Keith Franklin. He works for U.S. Customs at the Port of Newark.”

“Why do you think it was him?”

“Karen left a message on my machine, telling me that Franklin called her and told her to meet him here. She said he told her not to tell me about it.”

Pete leaves me for a moment to tell one of the detectives to get Franklin’s address, and in less than a minute he has it. “We’re going to pick up Franklin,” he says. “You want to come?”

I look over and see that Karen is being loaded into an ambulance. “Any word on Karen yet?”

Pete signals someone who comes over and talks softly to him. Pete nods and turns to me. “She took it in the right shoulder. She lost a lot of blood, but they think she’ll make it. She won’t pitch in the major leagues, but other than that she should be okay.”

It is a feeling of such immense relief that I actually get choked up. This almost never happens to me; the last time I got choked up was three years ago when I mistakenly tried to swallow a chicken bone. “Let’s go,” is all I say, and Pete and I go to his car. I’m not sure where Marcus is, but I suspect he’ll be able to handle himself.

Pete has called ahead and sent other cars to Franklin’s house. We are not going to be the first ones on the scene, but no one will move or do anything of consequence until Pete gets there. He is the ranking officer on the case.

There are few things that I’d rather see right now than Franklin getting taken away in handcuffs, but I have no idea if it is going to happen tonight. I don’t know whether he just set Karen up for someone else to take a shot at her or, even if he did it himself, whether he would have gone home afterward. I don’t know what the etiquette is for attempted murders; maybe there is a traditional postshooting party, at which the criminal regales his colleagues with stories about pulling the trigger.

We park about a block and a half from Franklin’s house, and Pete has the operation well coordinated. Everybody moves in from various directions; if Franklin makes a break for it, he will find himself surrounded.

We’re about six houses away when Pete gets a message that the front door to Franklin’s house is wide open. Pete instructs me to stay behind as he and the other officers move in.

As I watch from a distance, the area around Franklin’s house is suddenly, eerily bathed in bright spotlights, and the sounds of men shouting through the previously quiet street are deafening, even though they do not include any gunfire.

Ignoring Pete’s admonishments, I start to walk toward the house. As I approach, I am stopped by an officer cordoning off the scene. “You can’t go any farther,” the officer says.

“I’m with Pete Stanton.”

“That’s fine, but you can’t go any farther.”

After about ten minutes, Pete comes out and walks over to me. “Franklin is dead,” he says.

I’m surprised to hear this. “Suicide?” I ask.

“Only if he’s a real bad shot. He had seven bullets in him.”

“Any idea how long he’s been dead?”

Pete shrugs. “I’m no expert, but I’d guess an hour or so. He sure as hell wasn’t the shooter at the school.”

Without a doubt, Franklin was the person who set Karen up to be shot, and without a doubt, he was not the one who shot her.

Pete verbalizes the questions that are forming in my mind. “You think he was forced to call her? Or did his partner turn on him after he did?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know who the bad guys are or what the hell they’re trying to accomplish. The only thing I know for sure is that Richard Evans isn’t one of them.”

* * * * *

EVEN THOUGH I’M anxious to get to the hospital, my first stop in the morning is the prison. I don’t want Richard hearing about his sister’s shooting from his radio or a guard. I want him to hear it from me.

On the way there I get a phone call from Kevin, who has gone to the hospital to check on Karen’s condition. She is weak but doing well, and her wound is not considered life threatening. She is very lucky, or as lucky as a completely innocent person who is suddenly shot by a high-powered rifle can be.

I spend most of the drive trying to deal with my guilt. I’m aware that it’s illogical; I did little to involve Karen in the case or expose her to danger. She constantly begged to be included, and most of the time I resisted. Nor did I send her to the school; I didn’t know about it until it was too late, and my arrival probably saved her life.

Yet the feeling of guilt is so heavy it feels crushing. I started a series of events that led to Karen Evans getting shot. If there were no Andy Carpenter, she would not be in a hospital, hooked up to IVs.

I get to the prison at 7:45, fifteen minutes before the prisoners can have visitors, even from their lawyers. By the time Richard is brought into the room, I can see by the look on his face that he already knows what happened.

“Please tell me she’s all right,” he says. “Please.”

“She’s going to be fine. She took the bullet in the shoulder, but she’s conscious and doing well. She’s not in danger.”

Richard closes his eyes for maybe twenty seconds without saying anything, probably giving thanks to whoever it is he gives thanks to. Then he looks up and says, “Please tell me everything you know about what happened.”

I take him through all of it, starting with Franklin showing us the crates of money at the port, right through to finding him shot to death at his house.

“Why would Franklin have showed you the money if he was part of the conspiracy to sneak it out of the country?” he asks.

“I don’t think this has anything to do with that money. Maybe Franklin discovered it and used it to throw us off the track. Or maybe he was an innocent victim and was coerced into calling Karen.”

“But how could anyone have anything to gain by killing Karen? Who the hell did she ever hurt? What the hell did she know that could hurt someone?”

These are questions I can’t begin to answer, and my fear is that Karen won’t be able to answer them, either. First Richard was gotten out of the way, and now an attempt has been made to permanently remove Karen. They apparently posed a mortal threat to someone, without knowing who or how.

Before leaving, I question Richard extensively about his relationship with Franklin. He’s answered the questions before, though now they have gained far more importance.

“We met through work,” Richard says, “but we became friends. Richard and his girlfriend would go out on the boat with Stacy and me pretty often, maybe ten or twelve times.”

“Could he have had a relationship with Stacy that you didn’t know about?”

He shakes his head. “Not possible.” He considers this a moment. “Sorry, I answered too fast. Anything’s possible, but I saw absolutely no evidence of that, and I can’t imagine that it could have happened. But even if it did, what would that have to do with Karen?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just grasping at straws here. Was there anything about Franklin’s work that might be viewed as unusual in the light of what has happened?”

“Not that I can think of. We each handled our own area, so we didn’t interact at work that often.”

“And he came to see you for a while after you were convicted?”

Richard nods. “For about a year.” He starts to say something else, then hesitates.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Well, when Keith would come see me here, he’d talk about the job a lot. He’d tell me what was happening down at the port, what people were doing, and he’d ask me questions. I didn’t want to hear about it. I mean, I was never going back, but he kept talking about it. I figured my being in here made him uncomfortable, so that gave him something to talk about. But it was strange.”

“What kind of questions did he ask you?”

“Procedural things, how to handle certain situations. I had more seniority than him and knew more than he did.”

“So he was pumping you for information?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t think of it that way at the time, but I guess you could say that.”

I leave Richard and head to the hospital to see Karen. She is already sitting up in bed and laughing with the nurses. Her upbeat attitude is truly amazing; by tonight she’ll be leading the entire hospital in a rendition of “If I Had a Hammer.”

She looks a little weak but far better than I expected. It’s hard to believe that it was just last night that I saw her lying bleeding and unconscious on the ground. I look worse than this if I stay up late to watch a West Coast baseball game.

“Andy!” she yells when she sees me in the doorway. “I was hoping you’d come by. Are you okay?”

It’s been twelve hours since someone fired a bullet into her body, and she’s asking how I’m doing. “Well, I might be coming down with a cold,” I say, and then smile so she’ll know I’m kidding. Otherwise she’ll jump up and offer me the bed.

She laughs and starts introducing me to the nurses. “Andy, this is Denise, and Charlotte, and that’s Robbie. This is Andy Carpenter, a really good friend of mine.”

We say our hellos, and then I prevail on them to give me a few minutes alone with Karen. I notice two books on the side table: Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë, and Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë. Richard had told me she majored in English literature at Yale.

“You’re reading those?” I ask.

She nods. “Many times. They make me feel better.”

“How?”

“I’m not sure. Just knowing that people wrote things like this, so many years ago, and that they could feel what I feel. I guess it makes me understand that life goes on and that what happens in the moment is not everything.”

“I understand,” I lie.

“Have you ever read them?”

“The Brontë sisters? No, but I dated them in high school. They were really hot.”

She laughs, which I cut short by saying, “Karen, Franklin is dead. He was shot in his living room about an hour before they shot you.”

Karen doesn’t say a word; she just starts to sob. It’s amazing to watch her navigate 180-degree emotional turns at warp speed.

I give her a minute and then push on. “When he called you, was there anything unusual in what he said, how he sounded?”

“He sounded nervous, but I thought it was because of whatever it was he had found. The thing that he was going to tell me.”

“And he didn’t give a hint as to what that was?”

“No. All he said was that I shouldn’t tell you he had called. God, he seemed like such a good guy-how could anyone do that to him?”

“Karen, whether or not he was a good guy, the purpose of that call was to put you in a place where you could be killed. Now, Franklin may have been forced to make that call, or he may have made it willingly. The point is-and you have to face it-somebody wants you dead.”

She looks devastated, shattered, as the truth of this sinks in. “But why? I’ve never tried to hurt anybody.”

“You represent a danger to someone.”

“How? If I knew anything important, I would have told you already.”

I nod. “I know that. But you have to think about it.”

She is frustrated, a completely understandable reaction. “I will, Andy. But it just doesn’t make sense.”

“I know. And until we can make sense out of it, I’m going to arrange for you to be protected. Both in here and outside when you’re ready to leave.”

“So they might come after me again?”

She knows the answer to this as well as I do. “They might,” I say.

She thinks about this for a few moments, then nods. “So we need to get them first.”

* * * * *

IF POVERTY IS your thing, you probably don’t live in Short Hills, New Jersey.

The town projects a serene, upscale elegance, and as I drive through it I find it amazing that I am rich enough to live here, should I so choose.

I’ve tried twice without success to reach Yasir Hamadi at his Montclair office, so rather than alert him further, I’ve decided to visit him at his home. Hopefully he’ll be home, but if not, I’ve lost nothing and had a nice drive.

When feasible, I like to interview potential witnesses where they live. People in their offices are more inclined to be brusque and uncooperative, while being at home seems to activate their hospitality genes.

There is no wrong side of the tracks in Short Hills; in fact, I don’t see any tracks at all. The homes seem to divide into two camps, luxurious and spectacular, and Hamadi’s is in the latter category.

I say this even though I can barely see it from the street. It is up a long driveway from the curb, and the well-treed property blocks the view of most of the house. What I can see, however, is enough to convince me that Hamadi is not anxiously awaiting his monthly food stamps.

There are at least six trucks parked along the road, all with side panels indicating they are affiliated with a local construction company. They must be working on Hamadi’s house, since the nearest neighbor is probably a quarter mile away.

One of those workmen is standing next to the truck, looking intently at a large piece of paper, which seems to be a construction plan of some sort. “You working on the Hamadi house?” I ask.

He nods. “Yup.”

“Building an addition?”

He nods. “And repairing damage from the storm. Tree crashed through the back of the house.”

He’s probably referring to a major storm that went through North Jersey about three months ago, sending trees and power lines toppling.

I nod and walk toward the driveway. I’m trying to decide whether to drive up or park down here at the curb, when a BMW comes around the corner and turns into the Hamadi driveway. The driver of the car is a woman, mid-thirties, and the quick glimpse I get of her says that she is quite attractive. She notices me as she pulls in, but doesn’t stop. Since I’m driving an ordinary American car, she probably thinks I’m one of the workmen, or somebody here to case the joint for a future robbery.

I decide to leave the car on the street and walk up the driveway. Before I do so, I open the mailbox at the curb and see three pieces of mail. Two are addressed to Hamadi, and one to Jeannette Nelson.

The driveway turns out to be quite steep, and by the time I get to the house I’m hoping that the woman knows CPR. If not, there are plenty of other people who might. The large reconstruction operation is going on near the back of the house, and at least fifteen workmen are back there hammering away.

She has parked her car under the carport, making a total of three cars now positioned there, and is walking toward the front door, when she sees me near the top of the hill. She eyes me warily, and I’ve got a feeling that any moment she’s going to have a mace dispenser in her hand. She also looks vaguely familiar to me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a model and I’ve seen her in magazines or television commercials.

“Hi,” I say. I find that clever conversational gambits like that have a tendency to relax people.

“Can I help you?” she asks in a tone that indicates she doesn’t want to be particularly helpful at all.

I nod agreeably, granting her request. “I’m here to see Yasir Hamadi. My name is Andy Carpenter.”

“Is he expecting you?” she asks, not bothering to tell me her own name.

“Could be. We could ask him and find out.”

“He’s not at home,” she says, and I confess I am doubting her veracity. It was something about the way she said it, and the fact that there are three cars in the carport. Somebody else must be home, and Sam said that Hamadi is not married and has no children.

“Oh,” I say. “Then I’ll wait for him. Are you Jeannette Nelson?”

She reacts with some surprise that I know her name, and seems a little uncomfortable with it. I can’t say I blame her; as strangers go, I’m a little weird. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to come in,” she says without confirming the name.

I nod agreeably. “No problem. But in case you find out that he is home, could you give him this?” I take out a sealed envelope that I brought for this situation if it arose. Inside is a note that says, “I’m going to be talking about you and Donna Banks on Larry King on Wednesday night.”

She takes the envelope and goes in the house. I decide not to trudge down the hill, in case I’m summoned within the next few minutes. It’s better than walking up the hill again, especially since none of the vehicles in the carport is an ambulance.

Within three minutes, Jeannette Nelson, if that’s who she is, comes back out. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me standing there. “Mr. Hamadi will see you,” she says, apparently feeling no obligation to explain how he will do that if he’s not home.

I follow her inside, closing the door behind me. The interior of the house is even nicer than I expected. I’m not a good judge of the value of paintings and furnishings, but it’s a safe bet that none of what is here has ever been in a flea market.

She leads me through the house, toward the back, then ushers me into a large den, which seems to function as a private office. “He’ll be down in a moment,” she says, then turns and leaves.

Her prediction is accurate, as Hamadi soon enters the room, closing the door behind him. He is about forty, at least six feet and in excellent shape, with a demeanor that can best be described as polished. He fits in this house.

“Mr. Carpenter, I did not expect to see you here.”

“I tried calling you at your office.”

“As do many people. But few come unannounced to my home”-he holds up the note that I wrote-“with so cryptic a message.”

“I hoped it would get you to see me, and in fact, it did.”

He nods and says, “State your business.”

“I’m a criminal defense attorney representing a client in an upcoming trial, and Donna Banks has emerged during my investigation as a person of some interest. In checking into her background, I’ve learned that she receives a very substantial monthly stipend from you.” I say this even though I don’t know this to be true; all I know is that she receives money from a company in Switzerland called Carlyle Trading, and that she called Hamadi after I left her apartment.

My hunch pays off. “And you are wondering why?” he asks.

“Correct.”

“Ms. Banks is an old, very close friend of mine. She was in dire financial straits when her husband passed away. As you can see, I have been blessed with considerable success. So I have made her life easier without causing any hardship to my own.”

“That’s quite generous of you,” I say.

“I am a strong believer in friendship.”

“Does your wife share that belief?”

He smiles patronizingly. “Jeannette is not my wife; she is an employee of my company. She’s here to deliver some documents for my signature.”

He’s lying. She may not be his wife, but she’s a hell of a lot more than an employee. Employees don’t get their mail delivered at their boss’s house.

“So you have no desire to keep your relationship with Ms. Banks secret?”

“There is no relationship, not the way you envision it. But if you feel the need to go on television and tell your suspicions to the world, that is your prerogative.”

“Did you know Donna Banks’s husband?”

He shakes his head. “I did not. I believe he was killed while in the service. Very tragic.”

“What kind of business are you in?” I ask.

“Is that important to your investigation as well?”

“I like to collect information and figure out how it can be helpful later. Is yours a secret business?”

He smiles, though without much amusement. “I am what could best be described as a facilitator. If your business needs something that is difficult to find, perhaps produced in an obscure part of the world, I find it for you and arrange for you to receive it. For that my company receives a fee. Or I purchase it and resell it to you.”

“What kinds of things?”

He shrugs. “Could be anything. An unusual fabric, metal alloy, high-speed computer chips, whatever is needed.”

“And it all passes through U.S. Customs?”

“Everything that enters this country passes through U.S. Customs.”

I ask a few more questions, and he deflects them with ease. If he’s worried that I’m uncovering some significant secret, he’s hiding it well. Ever agreeable, he tells me that if I think of any more questions, I should call him at the office.

I head back to the city, having learned very little. Hamadi is either a very accomplished liar and villain, or a rich guy taking care of a woman with whom he had an affair. I’m suspicious, especially since his work involves U.S. Customs, but I have nothing concrete on which to base those suspicions.

I call Sam and tell him that I want him to learn everything he can about Interpublic Trading, Hamadi’s business. I want to know who he does business with and just how lucrative that business is. He promises to get right on it.

Before heading home I stop off at the hospital to see Karen again. She’s not in her room, having gone next door and made friends with her neighbor. If she stays in here much longer, she’s going to organize a block party.

The doctors have told Karen that they want her to stay three more days for observation, but she has negotiated that down to two. I’m going to have to make arrangements to protect her, and since Marcus is already covering my ass, I’ll need to recruit someone else.

“Do you like all dogs?” I ask. “Or just Reggie?”

“Are you kidding? I love them all.”

I’m thinking Willie Miller would be a perfect choice to watch out for her, and since he spends his time at the foundation, maybe she can help out down there.

“I’d really like that,” she says when I broach the idea. “Taking care of dogs, finding them homes-I can definitely get into that.”

“But you’ll need to listen to Willie and do whatever he says. It will be his responsibility to make sure that you’re safe.”

“Is he cool?” she asks.

“He’s even cooler than me,” I say.

“Andy, nobody’s cooler than you.”

Aw, shucks.

* * * * *

THE WEEKS LEADING up to a trial are unlike any others.

For one thing, they are much, much faster. A pretrial month feels like about two days. The preparation is so intense that every moment is precious, and those moments just seem to fly by.

The intensity during this period is also without parallel, at least in my life. Every witness, every word that is spoken, will have the potential to change the outcome, and the lawyers must be completely ready to deal with every eventuality. It is the pressure that comes from the need to cover absolutely every base that is so exhausting.

The period leading up to New Jersey v. Richard Evans has gone even faster than most. A lot of that has to do with the lack of progress we have been making; it has been frustrating and has created a feeling, of if not desperation, then of very significant concern.

Kevin and I have looked at our mission as twofold. First there is the need to mount an effective defense for Richard, to punch holes in the prosecution’s case and thereby create a reasonable doubt. Just as important is our goal of coming up with a possible villain, someone we can point to and say or imply, “He did it, not Richard.” Juries, like movie audiences, like to have a story reach a resolution. They want to blame someone for the crime, and the easiest place to lay that blame is on the defendant. If they can’t do that, then they at least want to be given a theory of who the bad guy really is.

It is in this second area that we have the most problems. Hamadi has so far been a dead end; Sam’s report is that he has substantial, apparently legitimate business relationships with at least six other companies. We have also been unable to learn any more about Archie Durelle or the significance of his apparently faked death on that helicopter.

Equally puzzling is the government’s role in all this. They tried to tap my phone, and the FBI mysteriously took over and put a lid on the investigation of the highway shooting. Perhaps it has to do with Franklin and his job with the Customs Service, but we haven’t made the connection with any certainty whatsoever. And juries like certainty.

To complete the circle to nowhere, Pete Stanton has reported no progress on the investigation into Karen’s shooting and Franklin’s death. There are no leads at all, leading Pete to believe that they were professional hits.

One thing I don’t like to overprepare for is my opening statement. I just figure out the points I want to make, without writing a speech or doing much rehearsing. I also like to relax and get away from the case the day before the trial starts, and since tomorrow’s the big day, I’m taking today off.

I stop down at the Tara Foundation to see how things are going. It gives me a peaceful feeling to hang out with the dogs, all of whom would have been killed in the animal shelter had we not intervened. They’re now well fed, warm, and safe as they hang out in what is a halfway station on their way to really good homes.

Karen’s influence on the place has been remarkable. She’s added a grooming station, decorated the visiting area in which potential adopters hang out with the dogs, and brought an overall warmth and enthusiasm that had been in short supply. Willie and Sondra are crazy about her, and she about them. Fortunately, no further attempts have been made to harm her, but Willie is ever vigilant.

“What are you doing here?” Karen asks. “Don’t you have to get ready for tomorrow?”

“Andy’ll be ready,” Willie says. “He’ll have the prosecution idiots for lunch.”

Willie has an overly generous assessment of my legal abilities, but I make it a point never to correct him.

“Tomorrow’s just jury selection,” I tell Karen. “There won’t be much excitement.”

“Andy, every single moment of that trial is going to be exciting. And you are going to be great.”

I spend about an hour there soaking up the compliments and then head down to Charlie’s so Vince and Pete can insult me back to reality. And reality is where I need to be, because starting tomorrow, Richard Evans will be counting on me to save his life.

* * * * *

“THIS IS A very simple case,” is how Daniel Hawpe begins his opening statement to the jury we have chosen together. I don’t think that either side achieved any real advantage in the jury selection process; we’re both going to have to win it on the merits.

“We are going to simply present to you a series of facts, many of them uncontested even by the defense. You will then look at those facts and decide whether or not Richard Evans killed Stacy Harriman, and I believe your conclusion will be that he did so.

“The evidence you hear will be mostly circumstantial, and I’d like to discuss what that means. There is no eyewitness to this crime, no one who saw Mr. Evans kill Ms. Harriman and throw her body overboard. This is true in many, many murder cases. Most murderers don’t want to commit their crimes while others are around to observe them. So they do it when they are alone with their victims, when there is no chance for anyone to intervene and stop them.”

Hawpe has a smooth, conversational style of speaking, of connecting with his audience. It will serve him well in politics, and I have no doubt he’s thinking that achieving a guilty verdict in this trial will serve him equally well.

“But circumstantial evidence can be far more powerful than eyewitness testimony. The most common way to illustrate this is the snowfall example. If you go to sleep at night and the ground is not snow covered, and you wake up in the morning and it is, you know circumstantially that it snowed that night. You weren’t an eyewitness to the event, but you know it well beyond a reasonable doubt.

“The same thing can be true of crimes. Eyewitnesses, in the excitement of the moment, can make mistakes. Facts do not make mistakes.

“So we will present you with facts that prove conclusively that Richard Evans went out on his boat one night with his fiancée, Stacy Harriman. Those facts will prove that he crushed her skull and threw her body overboard, then attempted to kill himself by taking a bottle of sleeping pills. Her blood was on the floor and the railing of the boat, and her body washed up on shore three weeks later. She was telling us her story even in death, and we must in turn bring her justice.

“The defense will paint a different picture, but instead of facts, they will use fantasy and wild theories. They will base their defense on a magical dog, and unseen villains who came out of the water like pirates, armed with clubs and sleeping pills.

“None of it will make sense, and it could not be expected to, because it will be up against the facts. So if there is one thing I ask of you, it is to listen only to those facts. And if you do, your conclusion will be obvious.”

As is customary, Judge Gordon gives me the option of presenting my opening statement now or at the beginning of our defense case. I would only defer it in the face of an inept statement by the prosecution, which isn’t the situation here. Hawpe was effective in connecting with the jury, and he made points that cannot go unchallenged.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you are not the first jury of twelve citizens to consider the case against Richard Evans. Another group of people, just like yourselves, sat in this very courtroom and did the same. And they voted to convict Mr. Evans of the murder of Stacy Harriman.

“Yet we’re back here, going through this process again, and there is a very simple reason why. Because in that trial the prosecution presented a series of facts to that jury, a number of which have turned out not to be true. I’m not saying they did so deliberately; in fact, I’m quite sure they did not. But they were wrong, and their facts were wrong, and they will admit to that. So when Mr. Hawpe stands and tells you that he is going to present you with facts, please remember that they are his new version of the facts. And once again, they are wrong.

“Richard Evans is not a murderer-not even close. The prosecution will not be able to tell you about a single violent act he has ever committed in his entire life, and believe me, they have searched for them. He had no reason to hurt Stacy Harriman; they were going to be married. If he had wanted to end the relationship-and he did not-he could have just broken off the engagement. He had no motive for murder, and you will not hear any from the prosecution during this trial.

“Nor did he have a reason to attempt suicide. He worked for the United States government for fourteen years, protecting our shores, and he was promoted four times. He had a great many friends, a loving family, and a bright future in front of him. To anyone who knew Richard Evans, suicide was inconceivable.

“Yet he sits before you today, an innocent man in the middle of an extended, horrifying nightmare. It is a nightmare that you can end by recognizing an obvious truth: Richard Evans has done nothing wrong. He himself has been the victim of a terrible crime, and basic justice deserves that he be set free to live his life.

“Thank you.”

I turn back and sit down, noticing that Karen is giving me the thumbs-up from the front row. Richard whispers to me, “Good job,” but I’m not comfortable with what I said, because I’m not comfortable with our case. All we have is reasonable doubt, and “reasonable” is certainly in the eyes of the beholder. And these jurors seemed to want to behold Hawpe a lot more than they did me.

Hawpe’s first witness is Coast Guard Captain Ron Ferrara. He was in charge of the cutter that boarded Richard’s boat that night, and Hawpe will use him to set the scene, and other witnesses will provide background to it. But it is the scene itself that is probably the most incriminating factor against Richard.

“We received the warning at approximately twenty-two fourteen,” says Ferrara, using military time and demonstrating that he does not have a great understanding of the word “approximately.”

“And then you passed it on to the private and commercial boats in the area?” Hawpe asks.

Captain Ferrara shakes his head. “No, those warnings are sent out over the alert frequency from land-based positions. Our responsibility is to make sure that the boats leave the area and assist those in difficulty.”

“How bad was the approaching storm?”

“It was a significant system, but survivable. We’ve experienced far worse.”

Hawpe takes him through the process by which Ferrara determined that Richard’s was the only boat not to heed the warnings, and then did not answer Ferrara’s radio call. When Ferrara could not see any activity on the boat, he made the decision to board it.

“Please describe what you found when you boarded.”

He paints a picture of a placid scene, normal except for the lack of passengers. It was when one of his men went down below that Richard was discovered, lying on the floor, a small amount of blood oozing from his head.

“Was there anything on the floor near Mr. Evans?” Hawpe asks.

Ferrara nods. “There was. An empty bottle of pills.”

Ferrara then goes on to describe the emergency medical attention that Richard received. A decision was made to evacuate him by helicopter-risky because of the approaching storm. But it was accomplished, and then the boat was brought back to port to be examined, though at that point no one knew about Stacy Harriman’s disappearance.

“At what point did you consider this to be a crime scene?” Hawpe asks.

“From the moment I saw Mr. Evans.”

Hawpe turns the witness over to me. There will not be much I can do with him; both his actions that night and his testimony today were straightforward and basically correct. But I consider it important to make points with every witness; the jury has to know that there are two sides to this fight.

“Captain Ferrara, when did you learn of the possibility that there had been someone else on the boat with Mr. Evans that night?”

“I read about it in the papers; I think it was two days later.”

“So you found Mr. Evans lying unconscious, with an empty pill bottle nearby and a wound on his head?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you testified that you immediately considered this a crime scene?”

“I did.”

“Suicide being the crime?”

“Yes.”

“Would another possibility have been that Mr. Evans had a heart attack and had just taken pills, perhaps nitroglycerine, to counteract it?”

“I never considered that.”

“Was there a label on the pill bottle so that you could determine what was taken?”

“No, there was not.”

“Any way for you to have known how many pills had been in there?”

“No.”

I hand Ferrara a transcript of his radio conversation with Coast Guard command on shore. “Please read the passage where you say that you are treating the boat as a crime scene.”

He looks at it but knows the answer. “I did not mention that.”

“You didn’t think it was important?”

“I considered Mr. Evans’s health to be my first priority.”

“And mentioning that this might be a crime scene would in some way jeopardize his health?”

He doesn’t have an effective answer for that, so I move on. “Please read the passage where you instruct the people on shore to have forensics ready to check out the boat.”

“I did not so instruct them.”

I feign surprise. “Do you have training in forensics?”

“No.”

“Do you at least watch CSI?”

Hawpe objects, and Judge Gordon sustains. I then take Ferrara through the process by which Coast Guard personnel boarded the boat. A total of nine people did so, including Ferrara.

“Nine people? How big is this boat?” I ask.

“Forty feet.”

“And you and your people had your eighteen feet tromping all over it?”

“We were very careful not to contaminate the scene.” I frown with disdain at the very thought. “A storm was approaching, so you were in a hurry; your first priority was the man’s health; you had virtually no reason to suspect a crime, but you and your army of men were careful?”

“Yes.”

“Did you stop what you were doing to put on booties?”

The jury and most of the gallery laugh at this, which is the reaction I was hoping for.

“No.”

Finally, I take him through the bloodstains and ask him why they were not washed away by the rain.

“One was under cover, and the other was on the bottom of the railing.”

“That was convenient for you and your crack forensics team, wasn’t it?”

Before Ferrara can answer, Hawpe objects and Judge Gordon sustains. I let Ferrara off the stand, having accomplished as much as I could with him. Kevin’s nod as I head back to the defense table indicates that he is pleased with the result.

Judge Gordon adjourns court for the day, and I turn to Richard before they take him away. “You okay?” I ask. Sitting quietly and watching the State of New Jersey attempt to take your life away can’t be easy, even the second time around.

He grins. “Are you kidding? Compared to what I’ve been doing every day for the last five years, I feel like I just saw a Broadway show.”

* * * * *

TOMORROW IS STACY Harriman’s day in court.

Daniel Hawpe is going to parade a series of witnesses in front of the jury who know nothing about the night of the murder but who will talk about Stacy. It is Hawpe’s way of humanizing the victim and making the jury feel as if they knew her.

It is a standard and perfectly logical strategy. Human nature is such that the more the jury likes Stacy, the more likely they are to exact revenge on her behalf. Unfortunately, the only one around to get revenge against is Richard.

For me it should be a relatively easy day. All the witnesses on Hawpe’s list for tomorrow were called during the first trial, so I know what they are going to say.

The truth is, they aren’t going to say that much. Stacy may have been a wonderful person, but she was not yet well known in the community and seemed to live a very private life. The witnesses will talk about her in positive generalities, but it is clear from the transcript of the first trial that none of them counted her among their close friends.

As I do every night during a trial, I review every piece of information we have that in any way relates to the next day’s testimony. So tonight I gather everything we have about Stacy, including information from the first trial, notes from my interviews with Richard and Karen, and the material that Sam came up with when he checked her out.

Sam had described her as relentlessly normal, and there’s nothing here to contradict that. Actually, she seems disconcertingly normal. I’m reading page after page about her, but I don’t have a real sense of who she was.

Sam’s background check provides some of the facts of her life but not much more. It tells me where she lived before coming here, where she worked, what credit card accounts she had, and how much she owed on them.

I’ve gone over these things at least five times, but this time something about the credit card records strikes me as strange. Her credit report shows that she owed a total of about $4,500 on three different cards, which is certainly not unusual. The strange part is that the accounts are not listed as closed.

I call Sam, who, as always, answers on the first ring. I think he keeps his cell phone clipped to his ear so he can be ready. “Hey, Andy,” he says. “What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you about some of the things you dug up on Stacy Harriman.”

“Shoot.”

“I’d rather do it in person; then we can have the reports in front of us.”

“Charlie’s okay?” he asks.

“Well, my office has more privacy, but Charlie’s has better beer. Meet you there in fifteen minutes?”

“You got it,” he says.

He’s waiting for me when I get there, and once we order I spread out some of the Stacy Harriman pages in front of him.

“I’ve been going through these reports,” I say, “but they don’t seem to list her credit card accounts as closed.”

He takes a quick look at them to refamiliarize himself, and then he shrugs. “So maybe nobody called and told them she was dead. That’s not unusual, especially since she wasn’t married. Nobody else was going to be responsible for her debts, so why bother? And Richard wasn’t home to receive the bills; he was in the hospital and then jail.”

“But these records are current?” I ask.

“Sure, I got them…,” he says, and then pauses. “Holy shit.” He has just come to the same realization that hit me a few minutes ago, and he looks at the pages more thoroughly to confirm that realization.

“If nobody reported to these companies that she died, then the accounts would be listed as delinquent,” I say. “By now they would have been closed for nonpayment.”

He nods his head vigorously as he continues to look at the pages. “And if they pursued it and found out that she had died, they would have closed the accounts anyway. There’s no way they would just be sitting there like this.”

“Here’s a riddle for you,” I say. “When does a credit card company show no interest whatsoever in money that is owed to them?”

He looks up. “Never.”

“Right. Which means that she didn’t owe them a dime. The accounts can’t be real.”

I ask Sam to look into Stacy’s background again but this time to go much deeper. “I don’t just want her college transcript; I want to know who her teachers were and how often she cut class. I don’t just want her previous address; I want to know where she got her café lattes in the morning.”

“I’m on it, boss,” he says, getting up. “I’ll start right now.”

I tell him we can finish our meal and have a beer or two, and he sits back down. I can tell he’s anxious to get going, and I want to get the information as soon as possible, so we eat quickly.

When I get to the parking lot, I call Laurie in Wisconsin from the car. It takes her five rings to answer; apparently my calls aren’t as important to her as they are to Sam.

“Andy, I just walked in the door,” she says.

“You first walk in the door at eight o’clock at night? Where were you? Nightclubbing?”

“Actually, I was doing paperwork in the office. I just came home to change before going back out. I hate dancing in my uniform.”

“Before you go, I need your opinion.” I describe to her what I’ve learned-or, more correctly, what I haven’t learned-about Stacy Harriman’s background.

She listens without interrupting until I finish. Then, “Can you check the other records besides the credit reports more thoroughly?”

“Sam is starting on that right now. But can you think of an explanation for the credit reports never being updated or closed?”

She thinks for a moment. “It could always be some kind of mistake. Maybe some computer glitch that froze her records in time. But she is not just anyone; she is a murder victim.”

“That she is,” I say.

“So coincidences and mistakes are not to be trusted.”

“No, they’re not. So what’s your take on it?”

“If Sam keeps hitting dead ends-and I’ve got a feeling he will-then her background has been created as a deception. And it’s not a deception that she could have pulled off herself.”

“Right,” I say. “People don’t get to write their own credit reports.”

“But there are people who can write them for you.”

“Government people,” I say. “Witness protection program people.”

“It all fits, Andy. The government has been looking over your shoulder on this from day one. If the victim was someone they were protecting, they would absolutely be interested.”

“Not if they thought Richard did it,” I say. “If Richard killed her, they’d just cross her off their list and move on.”

“The strange thing is the time that’s passed, Andy. It’s more than five years later. I don’t know what they could be trying to find out from you or why they took over that highway shooting investigation.”

I can feel my anger starting to build. “And if we’re right about this, then those bastards let Richard Evans get sentenced to life imprisonment for a murder they damn well knew he didn’t commit.”

“Let’s first find out if we’re right,” she says, ever logical. “Call me after Sam reports back to you, and I’ll talk to a detective I know in LAPD.”

In an instant my anger turns to childlike jealousy. “You know a detective in Los Angeles? What’s her name?”

“His name is Matt Wagner. We worked together on a case about five years ago. We’ve kept in touch.”

“You’ve kept in touch?” I ask. What could that mean? Physical touch? Emotional touch? There is no level that I can’t sink to.

“Andy, give it a rest. He’s worked on a couple of witness protection cases. He knows how they operate. I’ll give him the broad picture, no specifics and no names, and see what he says.”

“Make sure he doesn’t repeat any of it to his wife and six children.”

“I will,” she says.

“Good night, Laurie.”

“Good night, Andy. I love you.”

“Then come home,” I say, but she has already hung up. I knew that she had, which is the only reason I had the guts to say it in the first place.

I’m on the way home when my cell phone rings. “Andy, I’m at your house.” It’s Pete Stanton calling, and his tone of voice sends me into an instant panic. “It was broken into, and the alarm company called-”

“Is Tara all right?”

“She’s fine. I’m actually petting her while we’re talking. How far away are you?”

“About ten minutes. What about Reggie?”

“That’s the other dog?”

“Yes.”

“What about him?” he asks.

“Is he okay?”

“He was staying at your house?” Pete asks, and the feeling of panic returns.

“Yes. Isn’t he there?”

“Andy, there’s just one dog here, and that’s Tara. I’m reading her name off the tag.”

Within thirty seconds of my getting home, it’s obvious that this was a straight kidnapping.

Unfortunately, that’s the only thing that is obvious. Pete considers it a professional job, yet they took no money, no possessions, and left Tara alone and unharmed. They came here for Reggie, and they got what they came for. They either knew exactly what he looked like, or read his tag.

I think this might be the angriest I have ever been, and it takes an extraordinary effort to put aside the anger temporarily and try to understand what could be behind this.

Based on Pete’s feelings about the professionalism of the thieves, and the precision of the operation, I discount the possibility that it was done by teenagers or vandals. Knowing how important Reggie has been to our case, and the publicity he has received, it’s conceivable that we will get a ransom demand. That is my hope.

More worrisome is the idea that somehow, Reggie could represent a threat to someone. I don’t want to think about the implications of that.

I call Laurie and tell her what has happened, though there is no way she can comfort me. The fact that Reggie is out there and I can’t protect him is a constant agony that starts in my head and travels to my gut. And back to my head. And back to my gut.

Next I call Karen to give her the bad news. She is just as stunned and upset as I knew she’d be, as I am. I promise to call her if I get any new information, but I’m not likely to for a while.

I’m not going to sleep much tonight. I’m going to think about what to do next, and hug Tara until she gets sick of it.

* * * * *

I CALL KEVIN at six a.m. and tell him about Reggie.

His reaction mirrors mine; he’s angry, confused and helpless. I ask him to join me for a meeting with Richard before court begins.

I had planned this meeting even before Reggie was taken; I need to talk to Richard about what we’ve learned about Stacy. I don’t usually like to spring things on clients until I have all the facts, but we’re in the middle of trial, which means we don’t have the luxury of time.

If Stacy was in the witness protection program, then by definition there were very dangerous people after her. Exactly the kind of people I can point to in front of a jury and say, “They did it, not my client.” So what we will have to do is figure out a way to prove it, and get it admitted as evidence. That will be a difficult assignment, and Kevin is already trying to develop a strategy.

Richard is stunned and disbelieving when we tell him our theory. What is important is not his skepticism but rather his inability to prove it wrong. He cannot come up with a single fact that would give credibility to Stacy’s supposed background. He never met any of her previous friends, never visited where she had lived, and never knew her colleagues from work. She had always been vague, and Richard hadn’t pressed her, because he suspected emotional trauma from which she was trying to escape.

Her need to escape may well have been more urgent than that.

As we are preparing to go into court, I make a decision. “Kevin, you need to go to Minneapolis.”

He’s obviously surprised. “When?”

“First flight you can get. You can check out Stacy’s background personally, go to her high school, talk to her neighbors…”

He’s obviously not thrilled with the prospect. “Well, I could do that… but… I’ve got sinus issues,” he says.

“Sinus issues?”

He nods. “They’re inflamed. Taking off and landing could be a problem.”

“A serious problem?” I ask.

“Definitely. It could lead to an ear infection. Everything is connected.”

I turn to Richard, who has been listening to Kevin’s hypochondria with an open mouth. He should be careful about that, because something could enter his mouth and head straight for his ears, since everything is connected.

“Richard,” I say, “Kevin has a sinus condition that could lead to an ear infection if he takes off and lands. So are you okay spending the rest of your life in jail?”

He smiles. “No problem.”

I turn back to Kevin. “Richard is fine with it.”

Kevin sighs; the battle is lost. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

Kevin leaves; I think he’d rather be on the way to Minneapolis than have to be here when I tell Richard about Reggie. I debated keeping it from him, since there’s nothing he can do anyway, but I believe in being as honest as I can with my clients. Besides, with the police searching for Reggie, it’s likely to come to the media’s attention. If Richard is going to find out, I want it to be from me.

“Richard, something has happened, and I don’t have an easy way to tell you. There was a break-in at my house last night, and they took Reggie.”

He looks as if he has been hit with an emotional baseball bat, and it takes him a few minutes to recover enough to ask the obvious questions about who and why. I wish I had the answers to give him; all I can do is tell him that every effort will be made to find Reggie. He doesn’t seem comforted by that, and he shouldn’t be.

I head into court, though Richard has to be brought in by the bailiffs. I’ll miss having Kevin next to me; he often sees and points out things that I’ve missed. But we need to get a handle on who Stacy really was, in a hurry.

The testimony about Stacy that Hawpe elicits from his witnesses is no more impressive than in the first trial. He starts with two neighbors and two people from Stacy’s gym. All speak highly of her, though it is only the last woman, Susan Castro, who describes herself as Stacy’s “dear friend.” She had not described herself in that way during her testimony in the first trial, so unless she’s been attending a lot of séances, she’s been influenced by the publicity surrounding this one.

My questions for the first three witnesses are perfunctory, designed to elicit that they really didn’t know what was going on in Stacy’s life, that they were shocked by her death, and that they knew and liked Richard.

I decide to go further with Susan Castro, since I may need to point out later in the trial that Stacy deliberately avoided having any “dear friends,” because she was living a lie. I also do it for the childish reason that I don’t like Ms. Castro; she is essentially making this friendship up to draw attention to herself. The fact that Richard’s life is on the line is clearly not her first priority.

“You and Stacy Harriman were dear friends?” I ask.

“Yes, we certainly were,” she says.

“What does it mean to you to be ‘dear friends’ with someone?”

She seems taken aback by the question but then says, “I suppose it’s a willingness to share innermost feelings, to confide in a person and have them confide in you. To provide and receive comfort and support.”

“I see. Let’s go through a list of innermost feelings that your dear friend Stacy may have confided in you. Where was she born?”

Castro looks stumped by the first toughie of a question. “I’m not sure; I believe Kansas… or Wisconsin.”

I nod sympathetically. “I always get those two confused myself. How many siblings did she have?”

“I’m not sure; she didn’t mention any.”

“Where did she go to college?”

“Objection, Your Honor, relevance.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Hawpe took the witness through a speech about how close she and the defendant were. I have every right to demonstrate that her testimony was completely misleading in that regard.”

Judge Gordon overrules the objection, but instead of telling me which college Stacy attended, she says, “We didn’t talk about those kind of things.”

“Right, you talked about more intimate, innermost stuff. Was she ever married before?”

“I think so… maybe not.”

“Got it. Previous marital history-yes and no.” I have a little more fun with this and then let her off the stand. Hawpe calls Gale Chaplin, the neighbor I had visited in her house to discuss her testimony in the first trial.

Chaplin’s recounting is once again damaging. She talks about Stacy’s admitting that she and Richard were having problems, and her concern about his temper. She comes off as credible because she makes no claims of great friendship. In fact, she says that she was surprised that Stacy confided in her at all.

Chaplin’s testimony is troubling to me on two levels. Most important is the negative impact it can have on the jury. But I’m also puzzled about why Stacy would have had this conversation with someone who was not a close friend. Why make your whole life a secret and then pour things out to a relative stranger?

In my cross I press Chaplin on the level of friendship she and Stacy had, as a way of diminishing the credibility that Stacy would have opened up like that. I’m not very effective, because Chaplin openly and repeatedly admits that they weren’t close.

“Did Stacy tell you where she was from?” I ask.

Chaplin nods. “Outside of Minneapolis, which is not far from where I’m from as well.”

“So you two discussed your hometowns, maybe common friends and experiences?”

“No, she didn’t seem to want to talk about that at all,” Chaplin says, consistent with what she told me at her house.

I brought this up in case I am able to bring before the jury that Stacy’s background was fabricated. Her reluctance to talk about her supposed hometown will fit in well with that.

It’s a small point, the only kind I seem to make these days.

* * * * *

WEEKENDS ESSENTIALLY DO not exist during a trial.

While court is closed, I still treat Saturday and Sunday as full workdays, unless, of course, it’s an NFL Sunday and the Giants are playing.

Since this is a non-NFL Saturday, I’m reading and rereading my case files within a few minutes of returning from the morning walk with Tara. It’s weird, because he was here only a short time, but the house seems empty without Reggie. Even Tara seems depressed about it.

But I have to force myself to focus. The trial is going to kick into a higher gear on Monday, and even though I feel that I’m ready for it, there are different levels of “ready.”

Kevin calls at about eleven o’clock from Minneapolis. He gets right to the point. “She never lived here, Andy.”

“Tell me about it,” I say.

He hesitates. “You’ll have to speak a little louder; since the landing I’ve lost most of the hearing in my left ear.”

I yell, “THEN MAYBE YOU SHOULD HOLD THE PHONE TO YOUR RIGHT EAR!”

It’s not the answer Kevin was looking for; he was hoping I’d ask sympathetic questions about his sinus issues. When it’s obvious I won’t, he gets down to business.

“I went to the home address listed. It’s a garden apartment complex, and the specific apartment has been lived in by a married couple for thirty-one years. Neither they nor the superintendent of the complex ever heard of Stacy Harriman, and they didn’t recognize her picture.”

“How many people did you ask?”

“At least two dozen,” he says. “All people who have been here for years. She never lived at this address, Andy.”

“What else did you find out?”

“She never went to the high school, either. No teachers ever heard of her, and she’s not listed in the yearbook.”

“But she has a transcript,” I say.

“The school administration wouldn’t talk to me about it; they said the records are confidential.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“That’s what I told them, but they weren’t impressed. But the bottom line is that unless she was invisible while she was here, then her background is faked.”

“Have you got documentation?” I ask, knowing that he must.

Kevin confirms that he has a folder full of documents and sworn declarations that we can use in court as evidence for what he has found out, if we get the opportunity. “Andy, I never thought I’d say this, but I think Reggie was right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Richard is innocent.”

“Absolutely. And you should get back here fast so we can figure out how to get him out of prison,” I say.

“I’m on a two o’clock flight.”

“Take care of that ear. And keep an eye on your nose and mouth; everything’s connected.”

“Wise-ass,” he snarls, and hangs up.

It doesn’t pay to be concerned about people.

I hang up and call Sam Willis, who says that he had just been ready to call me. Sam presents more of the same; the further he digs into Stacy’s background, the more obvious it is that her real history has been completely concealed.

“And this isn’t run-of-the-mill stuff, Andy. “We’re talking driver’s license, voter registration card, passport, social security number-all issued in fantasyland.”

“Let me ask you this,” I say. “You’ve been able to access all this stuff on the computer. Could somebody as good as you, or even better-”

“Better?” he interrupts. “Better?”

“If such a thing were possible, could somebody as good or better have created all of this? Some citizen with a computer?”

He thinks about it for a few moments before answering. “No. Maybe some of it, but not all the stuff that I’m looking at. The effort involved would be unbelievable, and even then it wouldn’t be this thorough. This has to be bigger than that.”

This seems to be the prevailing view, and it’s one I share. Another factor that also supports this conclusion is that as far as I can tell, Stacy Harriman never went around trumpeting her background. She was always pretty quiet about it, speaking in vague generalities. If she had gone to all the trouble of creating it, she would have held it out there more.

It’s not until nine o’clock at night that Laurie calls to add her voice to the chorus. It’s a sign of how exciting my life is that I’m already in bed, watching television.

Laurie has spoken to her friend at LAPD, though she gave him only generalities, not specifics. “He says it has to be WITSEC,” she says.

She’s talking about the government agency that handles witness security. Contrary to common perception, it is not run by the FBI but rather by the U.S. Marshals Service.

I tell her about my conversations with Kevin and Sam, which only reinforce her conclusion.

“Is your friend familiar with any cases in which they’ve been forced to provide information about one of the people they’re protecting?” I ask.

“As far as I know, that never happens.”

“You doubt my powers?”

“Never. But you might want to utilize Kevin’s powers on this as well.”

“Good idea.” I had already planned to meet with Kevin tomorrow, and I’ll leave him a message to that effect when I get off the phone with Laurie.

“Any word on Reggie?” she asks.

“No. Pete says every cop in the area has been notified, but no sign of him.”

We commiserate about this for a few minutes, and then she asks, “What are you doing tonight?”

“I can’t decide. I was thinking maybe a movie and then stopping for a drink, or there’s a terrific new jazz club that just opened.”

“You’re in bed watching television,” she says.

“How do you know that?” I ask.

“Because I know you better than you know you.”

“You make me feel naked,” I say, in mock protest.

“If I were there you would be.”

Kevin is over at ten in the morning. He brings his own tissues, since occasionally in the past I’ve only had paper towels to give him when he needed to blow his nose. He blows his nose a lot.

Kevin also brings some case law research he did last night after getting my message. It relates to previous rulings that the courts have made concerning efforts to penetrate WITSEC; that is, to get them to reveal specific information about people in their program.

The agency has been notoriously loath to provide anything, which in most cases makes perfect sense. Their protection efforts depend on total secrecy; it is by definition a matter of life and death.

The crucial difference here is that the death has already occurred. There is obviously a logical problem in protecting someone who has already been murdered, and we need to use that as a wedge to find out what we need to know.

Kevin could find no specific case law directly on point. Just as it makes little sense to try to protect a dead witness, there has been little reason over the years for people to want to learn who those already dead witnesses might be.

We kick around our options, and though it’s obvious that we must go to Judge Gordon, our key decision revolves around timing. The prosecution presumably knows nothing about this, and anytime we know something that they don’t, it is a distinct advantage that is not lightly discarded. Once we go to the judge, then Hawpe will know what we know.

Which is not such a big deal, because we don’t know a hell of a lot.

Kevin and I come to the same conclusion: We need to go to Judge Gordon immediately. If we can get definitive information that Stacy Harriman was in the witness protection program, the impact on our case will be immeasurable. If such dangerous killers were after her that she had to start a new life to escape them, then reasonable doubt about Richard’s guilt can’t help but kick in.

We’ve had two days’ worth of witnesses, but this case really starts tomorrow.

* * * * *

“YOUR HONOR, STACY Harriman was not Stacy Harriman.”

That is how I start the meeting in Judge Gordon’s chambers. Present are only the judge, Hawpe, a stenographer, and myself.

“What does that mean?” he asks. “Who was she?”

“That’s what we need you to find out,” I say, and then lay out chapter and verse of what we have learned about Stacy’s faked background. I leave out the other areas of government intervention, like the phone tap and the FBI’s taking over the highway shooting case. To me that stuff adds credibility to our argument but might take the case on an unnecessary tangent.

I conclude with “I have consulted an expert in the field, and the only reasonable explanation that I can come up with is that she has been in the WITSEC program.”

“And you’re asking me to subpoena the information from the U.S. marshals?”

I nod. “Yes, Your Honor. And to hold a hearing if they refuse to comply.”

“Mr. Hawpe?”

“Your Honor, first I would like to assure you that this is the first I’ve heard of this, so my reaction is an initial one. But I do not believe that the court should become an arm of the defense, to be used to conduct what seems on its face to be a fishing expedition.”

I shake my head in disagreement. “If it is a fishing expedition, all evidence to the contrary, then no harm is done, and only a little of the court’s time is wasted. If, on the other hand, it is true that Stacy Harriman’s life was being protected by the U.S. marshals, then that is of monumental importance to Richard Evans’s defense and to the search for the truth.”

Judge Gordon nods slightly and turns back to Hawpe. “And your objection is merely a desire to be protective of the court’s time?”

Hawpe says, “That and the possible impact of unfounded speculation like this on the jury.”

Judge Gordon makes his decision. “I’ll contact the U.S. Marshals Service immediately and, if necessary, issue a subpoena.”

He goes on to impose a gag order, prohibiting either side from mentioning this to the press. I have no problem with that now, but if we don’t get the information, I’ll press to have it lifted.

Judge Gordon delays the start of the trial for one hour so that he can attend to this. I’m very pleased with his reaction; he completely understands the importance of the issue.

When the trial resumes, Hawpe’s first witness is Lou Mazzola, the night manager of the pier where Richard kept his boat. He was on duty the night that Stacy was murdered, and he testified that he saw Richard and Stacy on the boat as it was leaving.

Mazzola’s sole purpose is to place Stacy on the boat, and I have no desire to refute it, because I know it to be true, and others will say the same thing. Nevertheless, it offends my defense attorney’s sensibility to let him get away without my accomplishing anything.

“Mr. Mazzola, were Mr. Evans and Ms. Harriman alone that night?”

“They had their dog with them.” It’s a fact that Hawpe conveniently forgot to bring out on direct.

“Was that unusual?”

“No, he was with them pretty much every time.”

“What kind of dog was it?”

“A golden retriever. It’s the one I saw on television last month.”

I can’t help but smile; Mazzola has just made an important point for our side, that Reggie turned up alive recently. I can only hope that he still is.

Hawpe doesn’t want to object, because the statement has already been made, and because he doesn’t want a fight over Reggie’s identity. The court has already made a ruling about that at the hearing.

“So you’re certain the dog was with them that night?”

“Absolutely. I kept dog biscuits in my office, and I gave him one every time they were there, including that night.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about their actions that night? For example, were they unfriendly to you, or fighting amongst themselves?”

I know from the transcript of the first trial what his answer will be, and he says that he does not remember anything unusual at all.

“Could you see where the boat was docked from your office?” I ask.

“No. It was pretty far away.”

“So you weren’t watching the boat before they got there?”

“No. I had no reason to.”

“Could somebody have boarded the boat before them, and maybe hidden somewhere that they couldn’t be seen?”

Hawpe objects, but I say it’s a hypothetical, and Judge Gordon lets him answer.

“I guess so,” says Mazzola.

That’s good enough for me.

Hawpe calls two more witnesses, mainly for the purpose of placing Stacy on the boat, alone with Richard out at sea. In both cases, I’m able to demonstrate that they also saw Reggie and did not notice anything strange about Richard and Stacy’s behavior. Also, none of them were on the boat, so they would have had no opportunity to tell if someone was hiding.

I think Hawpe has made a mistake in calling these additional witnesses. Stacy’s presence that night is not in doubt, and the points I am making are damaging him, at least slightly.

After a break in the afternoon session, Judge Gordon suddenly adjourns court for the day and summons Hawpe and me into his chambers for another on the record session.

“The U.S. marshals have declined to provide any information about the woman we know as Stacy Harriman,” he says. “They cited a long-standing principle of confidentiality and cautioned that we not read anything into their position concerning whether or not Ms. Harriman was in the program. According to them, their position would be the same whether or not she was in fact under their protection.”

I’m not at all surprised to hear this. “Your Honor, we would request that you convene a hearing to consider an order to comply.”

He nods. “I already have. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

* * * * *

WHENEVER SOMEBODY SAYS “U.S. marshal,” I’m thinking Wyatt Earp or Tommy Lee Jones.

I’m definitely not thinking Captain Alice Massengale, the attorney within the agency who leads a contingent of four into court for our hearing. Captain Massengale is all of five feet four and a hundred and ten pounds, one of the few lawyers I have ever gone up against whom I would be willing to arm wrestle to settle our dispute.

The physical structure of the hearing is a strange one. Kevin, Richard, and I occupy the defense table, Hawpe and his team are in their traditional place at the prosecution table, and a third table has been brought in for Captain Massengale and her group.

Hawpe is in the middle between us, and he’s uncomfortably in the legal middle here as well. When Judge Gordon petitions the U.S. Marshals Service for documents, he is doing so on behalf of the State of New Jersey. Hawpe is an employee of that state and therefore bound to advocate its position. However, as the prosecuting attorney, he is opposed to Judge Gordon’s, and my, request.

Suffice it to say, I don’t think we’ll be hearing much from Hawpe today.

Judge Gordon sets the parameters of the hearing and summarizes the situation to date. He then asks Massengale to state the position of the U.S. Marshals Service.

“Thank you, Your Honor. For over two hundred years, the United States Marshals Service has served as the instruments of civil authority for all three branches of the U.S. government. It is easily the federal government’s oldest and most versatile law enforcement agency.”

She thus launches into a fifteen-minute speech, without notes, about the glories of the Marshals Service. It’s a stirring rendition, and I’m sure I would be moved to tears if not for the fact that I doze off three or four times during it. I would object as to relevance, but I can use the snooze time.

She finally seems to be getting near the point by saying that the Marshals Service “provides for the security, health, and safety of government witnesses and their immediate dependents, whose lives are in danger as a result of their testimony against drug traffickers, terrorists, organized crime members, and other major criminals.”

It’s a false alarm, because she goes on talking about the tremendous importance of the program, the remarkable people that run it, and the extraordinary success it has had.

Finally she gets to the matter at hand. “Any breach in the secrecy of this program, no matter how small, can imperil the entire operation. It is for that reason that we must regretfully decline to comply with the court’s request.”

“Any documents you would hand over would be under seal,” says Judge Gordon.

“Even to confirm that such documents exist-and I am not saying that they do-would be to breach confidentiality by revealing whether this particular subject was in the program.”

“Mr. Carpenter?”

“Your Honor, no one is disputing the need for secrecy in this program. It is crucial that witnesses be protected. But it is considerably less crucial when the witness is already dead. For that reason, secrecy should in this case give way to the defendant’s right to a fair trial.”

Massengale comes back at me. “A precedent would be established.”

I nod. “Right. The precedent would be that dead witnesses no longer need to be protected from the revelation that they were witnesses. I think our system could survive such a precedent. And if you are able to keep your future witnesses alive, it will never come up again.”

“Our methods and procedures could be compromised,” she says. “If it is known that someone was in our system-even after they are deceased-an enterprising criminal might be able to learn how we go about protecting our people.”

It’s a good point, and I don’t have a great comeback for it, but I give it a shot. “Your method is to provide the witness with an apparently normal background. There is no way to penetrate that unless someone first identifies the person they suspect is in the program, as we did with Stacy Harriman. Additionally, everything you present will be under seal, and the court can protect your methods and procedures.”

Judge Gordon gives Hawpe the chance to intervene, and he speaks for about a minute without saying anything of consequence. Then Massengale and I kick it around for a while more, without breaking much in the way of new ground.

Judge Gordon finally says, “It is the decision of this court to order the U.S. Marshals Service to turn over any and all documents relating to any period of time when the woman known in this trial as Stacy Harriman was under the control of the U.S. Marshals Service in the witness protection program. Because of the urgency created by this ongoing trial, I will suspend my order for forty-eight hours to allow time for appeal.”

It’s a victory for our side, and a surprising one at that. The downside is what Judge Gordon has acknowledged, which is the right of the Marshals Service to appeal up the line, all the way to the Supreme Court. It can be time consuming and could easily exceed the length of the trial.

Massengale’s only response to the ruling is, “May I have a moment, Your Honor?”

Judge Gordon grants her the moment, and Massengale and her group huddle up and talk among themselves. After perhaps five minutes, she turns and addresses the judge.

“Your Honor, in the interests of justice, and with the promise of the court to keep the entire matter under seal, I am declaring to the court that the woman known in this trial as Stacy Harriman was never under the control of the U.S. Marshals Service, in the witness protection program. Therefore, the documents you are requesting do not exist. We will not be appealing your ruling.”

It’s not a bombshell, but close, and it certainly defines the term “hollow victory.” We’ve prevailed in our efforts to force them to reveal what they have on Stacy, only to find out that they have nothing.

“What are we going to do now?” Richard whispers.

“We’re going to find out who Stacy really was, and why she went to such lengths to hide it.”

* * * * *

KAREN EVANS AND Willie Miller are waiting for us in the hallway outside the courtroom.

Karen has been going crazy at not having been allowed inside during the hearing, and her first question is, “Did we win?”

I nod without enthusiasm. “We won…”

Before I can get the rest of the story out, Willie interrupts. “See? I told you,” he says to Karen. “My man don’t lose.”

“Unfortunately, there’s more to the story,” I say. I don’t want to talk about it in this public hallway, so I tell Karen she should come back to the office and I’ll fill her in. Willie will drive her because when he is protecting someone, he doesn’t leave them for a minute. And he certainly wouldn’t trust Kevin and me, since for some reason he doesn’t regard us as physically intimidating.

We all meet back at the office, and I take a few minutes to bring Karen up to date on what took place. When I tell her that the Marshals Service denied that Stacy was under their control, she says, “Maybe they’re lying.”

I shake my head. “No, lying to the court is a felony; there’s no way their lawyer would risk that. Besides, they had much more they could do legally to fight the judge’s order. There would have been no reason to lie now.”

“So Stacy was really Stacy?” she asks.

“No. That’s no longer possible.”

“So is this terrible news?”

I shake my head. “Disappointing but not terrible. We can still go to the jury with what we know about her faked background. It’s very obvious she was hiding from something, which certainly helps our case.”

What I’m saying is technically the truth, but the reality is that the ruling today is very disappointing. If Stacy had been in WITSEC, it would have meant that the U.S. government was essentially testifying for us, saying that dangerous killers were after Stacy Harriman and that she needed protection from them.

Willie says, “Can’t you dig up her body and get some of that DNA stuff?”

“It wouldn’t help,” I say. “We already have her DNA; it’s how her body was identified. But there aren’t national DNA registries; it’s not like she would have had her DNA on file before this.”

“So it’s not like fingerprints?” he asks.

Sometimes I’m so slow to see things right in front of my face that it frightens me. “Willie, you’re a genius.”

“You got that right,” Willie says, though he can’t have any idea what I’m talking about.

“Of course,” Kevin says, realizing where I’m going. “Fingerprints.”

I ask Karen, “Is there anything that Stacy touched, maybe that she handled a lot, that you’d still have?”

“You mean fingerprints can last that long?” she asks.

“Depending on the circumstances, absolutely.”

Karen starts thinking out loud. “The house was sold… maybe some things in the basement, but I don’t know what the new owners have done… the cabin! We were up there all the time!”

“Where is it?”

“Up near Monticello. I didn’t want to sell it; I always had this picture of Richard getting out and going up there, and I wanted to keep something that was his.”

“So it’s been empty all this time?”

She nods. “There’s a guy who maintains the outside, but he doesn’t have a key. And I haven’t been able to get myself to go there without Richard.”

She goes on to say that Stacy was at the cabin many times. It was her favorite place; she liked it even more than the boat. She particularly loved cooking there, so any prints on the pots and pans would be hers.

I call Laurie and ask her to recommend somebody around here who would be competent to retrieve the fingerprints. She suggests George Feder, a forensics specialist recently retired from his position with the New Jersey State Police. She had heard that he was doing private work to supplement his retirement income.

I call Feder, but he says that he would be too busy to go up to Monticello for at least a week. I offer to double his fee, and his schedule experiences such a sudden clearing that I can’t help but wonder if it would also work on Kevin’s sinuses. Kevin, Karen, Willie, and Feder will go up to the cabin tomorrow morning, while I’m in court.

I call Pete Stanton, figuring I might as well take the abuse in advance. He tells me that he had been in a panic; I hadn’t called him for a favor in almost twenty-four hours, and his fear was that he had offended me.

“Don’t worry,” I say, “I am a man who believes in forgiveness.”

“The bigger they are, the nicer they are,” he says.

“And to show there are no hard feelings, I’m going to let you do me another favor. I need a fingerprint run through the national database.”

“Where’s the print?” he asks.

“I don’t have it yet.”

“Oh. Well, what I’ll do is put a stop to all fingerprint work around the country, and then the system will be ready for you when you get your hands on the print.”

“Works for me,” I say.

He asks if I’m going to Charlie’s tonight, and I say that I’m busy with the trial but that I’m thinking of stopping by for an hour or so.

“Make sure it’s the hour that we ask for the check,” he says.

I agree to the request; I could use the relaxation that comes with beer drinking and sports watching, and it will give me a chance to ask Pete for an update on the investigations into Karen’s shooting and Franklin’s death.