Brad Meltzer - Dead Even

“Pardon?”

“Your house. Does it have an alarm system?”

“Yes, it does. But I must’ve forgotten to turn it on that night, because it didn’t go off.”

“And were there any other visible signs of entry? Any broken windows? Any other entrances he could’ve gotten through besides the front door?”

“Not that I can think of. No,” Doniger said. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m late for a meeting with some friends. Can we finish this another time?”

“Actually, I think that about covers it,” Sara said. “Hopefully, we can go over this one more time before the grand jury meets on Monday.”

“Yes. Certainly,” Doniger said. “We can talk about it later.”

When Sara hung up the phone, she made a few more notes to herself on the legal pad.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Guff warned as he walked into the office.

“Do what?”

“Take notes like that. You’re never supposed to take notes.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because in New York, any prior recorded information from someone that you intend to call as a witness must be turned over to the defense before the trial. So you’re better off not writing anything down.”

“Are you telling me that if my witness changes her story between now and the trial, the defense can use these notes to make us look like fools in court?”

“That’s the law,” Guff said. He tossed a file folder on Sara’s desk. “By the way, I got the information you wanted about the other new ADAs.” As Sara opened the folder, Guff explained, “There were eighteen other ADAs who started the same day as you. So far, every single one of them has managed to get themselves at least a couple of cases. I split them up by category.”

Reading through the list, Sara saw that everyone had a minimum of three misdemeanor cases. In addition, nine of her colleagues had felony cases, and two were assisting on homicides. “Damn,” Sara said. “Why is everyone in New York so competitive?”

“Nature of the game, baby. In this city, the moment you think about doing something, there are already five hundred people waiting in line for it.” Guff waved his arms through the air in a wide circular motion. “This may look stupid, but right now, there are at least a dozen other people in this town doing the exact same thing. Original thoughts don’t exist in New York. That’s the beauty of the ambitious beast.”

“And it’s about to take a bite out of my butt.”

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. When the cutbacks were announced, every slacker in this office started looking productive.”

“Then maybe I should turn it up even more. Maybe I can get some more cases.”

“It’s not how many you have, it’s how many you win,” Guff said. “And considering you already have five, I wouldn’t take any more.”

“But I’m going to plead out two of those…”

“Sara, what do you think’s more impressive: handling a dozen cases and being overwhelmed, or handling five cases professionally and by the book?”

“In this city? I’ll go with the twelve.”

“C’mon, you know that’s not true.”

“I know, it’s just-”

“You’re tempted to grab more cases. I understand. But trust me, the more balls you try and juggle, the more likely you’re going to drop them all. Plead out the losers, stick with your good cases, and win whatever you keep. That’s the way to get noticed.”

“So if it looks like we have a chance, we go for the win, and if it looks like we’re in trouble, we cop the plea.”

“That’s the Colonel’s secret recipe,” Guff said. “Follow that and you’ll never lose.”

As a staff member in the DA’s public-information office, Lenore Lasner spent most of her time talking to reporters and private citizens about the inner workings of the office. They asked her about the outcomes of certain cases. They asked her about the qualifications of certain judges. And every once in a while, they asked her about a particular assistant district attorney.

“Sara Tate, Sara Tate,” Lenore said as she scrolled through the directory. “I don’t think I have her here.”

“She just started on Monday,” the man said as he leaned against the counter and stared at Lenore’s long, manicured fingernails. He had a deep voice that weighed heavily in the air and sunken cheeks that made him look sickly.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Lenore asked. She turned to the back of the directory, where a single sheet of paper was stapled to the inside back cover. “Tate, Tate, Tate,” she said as her fingernail ran down the list. “Here she is.”

“Very pretty nails,” the man said.

“Thank you,” Lenore said with a slight blush. “Now, what do you need to know about ADA Tate?”

“I just want to know where her office is.”

“We’re actually not supposed to give out that information. I can give you her phone number, though.”

“That’d be great. And if I could bother you for some paper and a pen to write with…”

“I have that right here.” As Lenore turned around to get a notepad from her desk, the man looked down at the directory. Next to Sara’s name was her phone number, and next to that were her address and room number: 80 Centre Street. Room 727.

“Y’know what? I just remembered I have her phone number,” the man said. “I’ll give her a call later.”

“Are you sure?” Lenore asked as she returned to the counter.

“Positive,” the man said. “I know exactly where it is.”

“Are you okay?” Kathleen asked the moment Jared returned to the office. He looked terrible, his complexion ashen.

“I’m fine,” he answered. “My lunch didn’t agree with me.” After entering his office, Jared closed the door behind him, collapsed in his chair, hit the do-not-disturb button on his phone, and put his head down on his desk. Who could he call? He wanted to tell the police. Or the feds. His brother knew someone in the FBI. But he couldn’t get Rafferty’s warning out of his head. And more than anything else, he couldn’t stop thinking about Sara. No matter the threat, no matter the moral consequences, he knew he’d do anything – anything at all – to protect his wife. For Sara’s own safety, he had to tell her. As he picked up the phone, though, he realized how impossible it’d be to keep Sara quiet. The moment she found out, she’d go right to her friends in the DA’s office. And if she confronted Rafferty, it would only make things worse. For both of them. More important, Rafferty might already be listening. That’s impossible, Jared argued with himself – it’s too soon. With the right equipment, however, they could do it without ever entering the office. Putting down the receiver, Jared was frozen. He couldn’t win.

Then he grabbed the phone, and before he could talk himself out of it, dialed Sara’s number. He had to tell her.

“ADA Tate’s office,” Guff answered. “Can I help you?”

“This is Jared – Sara’s husband. Is she around?”

“Hey, Jared. Sorry, she’s out of the office. Can I take a message?”

“Can you please tell her to call me as soon as she gets in? It’s an emergency.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just tell her that I want to talk to her. It’s important.” As Jared hung up the phone, there was a loud knock on his door. Before he could say “I’m busy,” the door opened and Marty Lubetsky walked in.

“Where’ve you been all day?” Lubetsky asked. “I’ve been leaving messages since this morning.”

“Sorry about that. I’ve been swamped.”

“So I hear. I just got a call from Oscar Rafferty.”

“You know him?” Jared asked.

“As much as you can know someone in a three-minute phone conversation. He called and told me that he’s retained you for an acquaintance of his.”