David Rosenfelt: One Dog Night

Noah knew that she would react this way, by vehemently denying what was right in front of her. She would get angry, not at him, but at the injustice. It was a coping mechanism, made stronger by the fact that she truly could not believe him capable of such an atrocity.

“It’s true, Becky. Believe me, I wish more than anything it wasn’t.”

She flinched at his confession, which he had just made for at least the fifth time since she had arrived at the prison meeting room. Becky was not concerned that they would be overheard; she had registered as his attorney, so there would be no microphones or cameras eavesdropping on them.

“Have you said that to anyone else?”

He shook his head. “No, but I’m going to. I’ve known for years that I needed to be punished; I’m just sorry you and Adam have to go through this as well.” When he mentioned Adam he started to choke up, but quickly stifled it. Noah was going to be strong for her; he was going to be a strong, despicable mass murderer.

“Please, Noah. Don’t talk to anyone; do that for me.” Becky’s law practice dealt with family matters-divorce, custody, adoption, etc.-but she was more than confident in her admonition for him to remain silent to all but her.

He nodded. “Okay. For now.”

Then they were quiet for a while, and she tried to come to terms with what was going on and where they were. But it was beyond surreal; this man that she loved, this wonderful man who would never hurt anyone, was sitting in a drab, barren room, handcuffed to a metal table.

“We have to get you a top criminal attorney,” she said.

“Becky, you need to face what this is. Perry Mason or Clarence Darrow couldn’t help me. They shouldn’t help me.”

“Noah, you tell me that you did this.”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me why.”

“Because I had no money, and the people that were selling me drugs refused to do so,” he said. “It was revenge. Pathetic, sick, horrifying revenge.”

“But you have no recollection of actually setting the fire?”

“No, but there’s plenty of things I have no recollection of in those days. The evidence was there, so I ran.”

“Have they indicated what evidence they have?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

She thought for a few moments, an idea forming in her mind. She knew what his reaction would be, but she decided to go ahead with it. She wasn’t going to let him go down this way.

“I’m going to talk to Andy Carpenter.”

He laughed, a more derisive laugh than she deserved, and he immediately regretted it. “Come on, Becky. No. There’s no way.”

“He’s as good as they come.”

“No one is good enough to help me,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“And why should he do it? We don’t have enough money to pay him, and what we do have is going to stay with you and Adam.”

“Because of Hannah,” she said.

“Becky, come on. This is a time where we need to be realistic. This is not going to have a happy ending, and you are going to have to walk away sooner or later. And the sooner you do it the better.”

“I’m going to talk to him.”

He couldn’t talk her out of it, but it didn’t really matter. Her conversation with Carpenter would give her a needed dose of reality, the first of many to follow.

And at some point, he knew she would realize that nothing she said or did was going to matter.

And then she and Adam would start a life without him.

It isn’t the best of nights at Charlie’s.

The greatest of all sports bars is at its least great on Monday nights during the NFL season. The burgers are just as thick, the fries just as crisp, the beer just as cold, and the televisions just as plentiful and prominent, so it’s not any of that. The problem on Monday nights is the crowd.

I come here and sit at our regular table with Pete Stanton and Vince Sanders three or four nights a week. Sometimes Laurie joins us, the only outsider that Pete and Vince, or I for that matter, would consider tolerating.

Usually most tables are taken, primarily by regulars, but the atmosphere is low-key and reasonably quiet. The patrons are knowledgeable sports fans, there to watch the games while enjoying the food and drink.

But on Monday nights in the fall, the place turns into a zoo, with a standing-room crowd that seems to consider it proper sports bar etiquette to scream and go nuts at every play, no matter how insignificant. There are even times that cringeworthy chants of “Defense! Defense!” erupt, as if the players in Dallas can hear them.

Pathetic.

Most offended by these displays is Vince. Vince is the editor of the local newspaper, a well-respected newsman with the best contacts of anybody I have ever met. He is also the most disagreeable person on the planet, and though we consider each other close friends, I have never seen him in a good mood. Were Vince to interview Osama bin Laden, within five minutes Osama would be whispering to an aide, “What’s his problem?”

The Jets are playing the Cowboys tonight, and Pete is late in arriving. I’m hoping he shows up, because I want to ask him about the Noah Galloway arrest, but mainly because I don’t want to be alone with Vince. Even surrounded by two hundred cheering maniacs, I don’t want to be alone with Vince.

There’s a guy, maybe mid-forties, who is pacing around the place, wearing a Cowboys hat and Tony Romo jersey, screaming at whichever TV screen he is nearest. He is shouting instructions to the players, predicting which play will be called, and constantly saying things like, “Time to step up! Time to step up and make a play!”

Sports fans who are not knowledgeable, and even some of the weaker TV analysts, seem to feel that all deficiencies are due to a lack of effort, and “stepping up” is the all-encompassing solution to all competitive problems.

This particular guy is driving Vince nuts, because of his antics, but especially because he’s a Cowboys fan. “If I smash this asshole over the head with a beer bottle, what are my chances of getting off?” he asks.

“Depends if the judge is a Jets fan, but I would say twenty percent.”

“That’s if you were defending me,” he says. “But what if I had a decent lawyer?”

Before I have a chance to answer, Pete mercifully shows up. He takes one look at the TV, sees the Jets are down 7-0, and says, “Shit.”

Vince says, “You got that right.”

We are an eloquent group.

By halftime the Jets are down 14-3, and I ask Pete what is going on with the Galloway arrest.

“Why? You going to represent the son of a bitch?”

“No chance,” I say. I’m independently wealthy from a large inheritance and some big cases, and since I basically don’t like to work, I haven’t taken on a client in months. I also insist on only representing those accused that I consider innocent, and there are not many of them around. “How’d they get him?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. The Feds are too important to confide in us locals.”

There is a constant friction between federal and local authorities, and information is only passed between the two when it’s in the interest of both sides to do so. Clearly this is not one of those cases. “Why are they involved at all?” I ask.

“Interstate commerce.”

His meaning is clear. The FBI has long used the interstate commerce clause of the Constitution to involve themselves in pretty much anything they want. As long as they can demonstrate that the criminal activity has even incidentally crossed state borders, they’re in. In drug cases, since the drugs have clearly not originated in the opium fields of Passaic, the burden of proof is particularly low.

“Why now?” I ask, since the crime took place so long ago.