David Rosenfelt: New Tricks

“Does that worry you?”

He shakes his head. “No, I just figure the truth will win out. That’s more your field; isn’t that the way it works?”

“In theory,” I say. “Do you have any idea who could have done it?”

“Blowing up the house? Or killing my father?”

“Let’s start with your father.”

He shrugs. “I assume the guy they arrested. But I can tell you one thing for sure. My father didn’t go to downtown Paterson looking for drugs or a hooker.”

“Those things didn’t appeal to him?” I ask.

“It wouldn’t matter if they did, he could have made any drug he wanted in his lab, and he would have had the hookers come to him. It would never have been my father’s style to do what they say he did; he would never put himself in a situation he couldn’t completely control.”

Steven gets up to get us another couple of slices, and I use the time to check my phone messages at home. There are two. The first is from Laurie, giving me her flight information for her trip here. No matter what the next message is, it can’t be as good as that one.

It isn’t. It’s from Pete Stanton, telling me that he’s done some checking into the Timmerman murders, and he’s learned that Billy Cameron’s client has been released, and that Steven is going to be arrested. “The kid lives in the city,” Pete says. “They’ll probably take him down there. Looks like you’ve got yourself a second dog.”

While waiting for Steven to come back to the table, I find myself with a dilemma. He clearly has no idea what is about to hit him, and will be unprepared for it. Besides the emotional jolt, he will not have time to take care of any matters he might want to before going into custody.

I would not be breaking any confidences by telling him about the impending arrest. Pete attached no such restrictions on it, and in any event I wouldn’t mention Pete. My instincts tell me that Steven was not involved in the murders, but my instincts have been known to be wrong on many occasions. For example, I’m positive the Knicks will win the NBA title every year.

On the other hand, I could conceivably be exposing myself to some legal jeopardy by telling him. Were he to take flight to avoid arrest, I could be subject to an obstruction of justice charge. I’m confident I could beat it, but in the hands of a prosecutor who disliked me, it would be a major annoyance. And the percentage of prosecutors who dislike me hovers right around one hundred.

I still haven’t decided what to do when Steven comes back with the pizza.

I take a bite. “This really is good,” I say.

End of discussion.

I CAN SEE THEM as we approach Steven’s apartment.

There are at least half a dozen men standing and sitting in strategically positioned places within a hundred feet of the entrance to the building. To me they are so obvious that they might as well be singing the Miranda warning a cappella, but Steven has no idea what awaits him.

I only walked back here because my car is parked along the way, but I decide to pass the car by and continue walking. I may not have prepared Steven for what is about to happen to him, but I’m not about to abandon him when it does.

As we approach I see the men pretending to be carefree and moving aimlessly, but actually executing a pincer movement. Suddenly they close in, and their actions are so swift and stunning that they take me by surprise-and I knew exactly what was going to happen.

One of the officers grabs Steven and turns him toward the building, while another moves me away so that I can’t physically intervene. Obviously, being New York cops, they don’t know me, so they are unaware that I am not a physical intervener. But I’m a hell of a verbal intervener.

Steven is stunned and is muttering something unintelligible as the officer tells him that he is under arrest, and then quickly recites his rights to him. The officer concludes with, “Do you understand what I have just told you?”

Steven does not answer; it’s possible he isn’t even aware that the man is speaking.

“Do you understand what I have just told you?” the officer repeats.

Finally Steven nods and says, “Yes… yes.”

“Do you wish to speak with me now?” the officer asks.

This time Steven doesn’t speak; he just turns to me. The look on his face is a desperate plea for help.

“No, he does not wish to speak to you now,” I say.

“Who are you?” the officer asks, looking at me for the first time.

“I’m his attorney.”

“Well, isn’t that a happy coincidence.”

Steven is taken to the Manhattan County jail, where he is booked and fingerprinted. Before they leave, I instruct him not to talk to anyone at all, and I assure him that I will meet him down there.

I do so, and while I am there I formally agree to waive extradition so that he can be transferred to New Jersey. Lieutenant Dennis Simmons of the New Jersey State Police expresses his appreciation for my cooperation, though we both know I had no choice. Refusing permission would have only delayed the process by a day or so, while Steven would have been sitting in a jail either way.

By eight o’clock in the evening, Steven has been rebooked and is probably not very comfortably settled in the Passaic County jail. I know from having other clients recount their experiences what he is going through; the fear is palpable, and unfortunately warranted.

I won’t be able to see him until the morning, so I go home and call Kevin. I bring him up to date on the day’s events, and assure him that for the moment we have a client who is not another canine.

“Andy, you and I both know that it doesn’t matter whether he is guilty or innocent; he’s entitled to the best defense he can get. And he’ll get it no matter who represents him.”

That is such an obvious statement that I have no idea why Kevin felt the need to voice it. “I know that, Kevin.”

“Do you also realize that if he’s guilty, then he left the house that day thinking you were going to go inside and get blown apart? Along with his stepmother and the dog?”

Amazingly, that hadn’t occurred to me. “I hadn’t thought about that until you just said it.”

“Do you still want him as a client?”

“You know what? I’m not sure.”

“Think about it, Andy. Because if they really wanted to, they could charge him with attempted murder of his own attorney.”

I call Laurie to discuss it with her, but she’s not at home. Since it’s nine o’clock in Wisconsin, my mind would ordinarily start imagining her out to dinner with Brett Favre or some other member of the Wisconsin jet set. The truth is that right now my mind is so preoccupied that I don’t even have the time or energy for petty, ridiculous jealousies. This situation is screwing up my priorities.

My most reliable mind-clearing technique has always been to take Tara for a long walk. It somehow feels like getting down to basics. She is in complete touch with her world; the way she sees and smells everything… the way her ears perk up at any unusual sound… it somehow encourages me to trust my own instincts the way she trusts hers.

It’s a little more difficult tonight, since I’m walking both Tara and the maniac known as Waggy. He is positively crazed with excitement by this walk, though we’ve pretty much followed the same route every day since he’s been here.

I am taking very seriously Kevin’s comments about that day at the house. If Steven planted the explosives, or caused them to be planted, then he is obviously a cold-blooded murderer. And because he saw me outside the house, and knew I was going in, then he was fully content to be a cold-blooded murderer of me.