David Rosenfelt - Dog Tags

“We may never know who pulled the trigger in front of the bar that night. We may never know the identities of the men who appeared mysteriously after the shot was fired, only to run off and never be seen again. The police decided they had the killer and looked no farther. They may have been well intentioned, but they were hasty, and they were wrong. It is a wrong that you have the power to right.

“In the interests of justice, please right that wrong.”

I sit down at the defense table, and Billy leans over and says, “Outstanding.” Hike hands me a note that says, “You’re as good as Kevin said you were.”

But I’m not paying attention to what they are saying, nor am I doing what I usually do after my closing statement. I ordinarily obsess that I haven’t done enough and panic at the fact that there’s nothing left for me to do. There is nothing I hate more than when a case goes to the jury’s hands, and that’s what is happening now.

This time, however, I’m thinking of something different, something I realized when I was talking about the men running onto the scene of Erskine’s murder that night.

I had been assuming that the men were FBI agents, following Harris but losing him in the chaos after the murder. The way Billy described the scene, though, three men came out of nowhere, as if they had been lying in wait.

I can’t imagine the bureau would have the inclination or manpower to have three people following a guy like Harris, nor do I know how they would have known to follow him in the first place. Pete described him as a hired gun out of Philadelphia; M likely employed him on a freelance basis.

To use that much manpower, and to have them in place as they did, must mean that they were watching Erskine. And there is a damn good likelihood that Erskine knew they were there. That he even planned for them to be there.

Erskine was smart; he was not the kind of guy to walk around with a truckload of FBI guys following him, watching him commit illegal acts. He would have been much more careful, if he had any reason to be.

If I’m right, Erskine was working with the FBI. Maybe he was getting immunity in return for turning in his bosses, and the apparent blackmail was part of a sting operation. I’m far from sure about why they were working together, but I still feel like I’ve figured out another piece of the puzzle.

Our game of chicken has a long way to go.

Judge Catchings gives a standard charge to the jury, and since it is almost four o’clock when he finishes, he sends them home. Neither Eli nor I had made a request to have them sequestered, not that I think the judge would have agreed anyway. Sequestering is pretty rare these days, and in the absence of special circumstances, judges usually don’t force it on juries.

He does, however, give them a strong dose of the same admonition he’s been giving throughout the trial: that they are to scrupulously avoid all media coverage of the case. I’ve never believed that jurors completely do that; I know I wouldn’t. I’d hide in the basement and watch everything.

The jurors all nod as he says this. My guess is they’d nod an agreement to stick toothpicks in their eyes if that’s what it would take not to get stuck in a local hotel. Then off they go, to reconvene tomorrow morning and start deciding whether Billy Zimmerman is going to live the rest of his life in a cage.

“You did a hell of a job,” Billy says as we shake hands.

“That remains to be seen,” I say.

He shook his head. “I’ve seen it already. No matter what the jury says.”

It’s a generous thing for him to say, especially with the stress he must be under, but it’s consistent with his attitude throughout the trial. He’s done nothing to make me sorry I took the case, even though he hasn’t paid me a dime.

I go home and Laurie greets me with a kiss and a glass of wine. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been around while you’re waiting for a verdict,” she says. “Are you still as nuts as ever?”

I nod. “Some things never change.” I become a complete basket case while waiting for a verdict. I adhere to ridiculous superstitions and am generally impossible to be around.

“You want me to move into a hotel?” she asks. It’s a serious question; she doesn’t want to intrude on my space or make things more difficult for me by my feeling I have to be civil.

“That nuts I’m not,” I say. “Besides, we still have a lot of work to do.”

We are going to continue our investigation, even more energetically now that I’m not tied down to being in court every day. If Billy is convicted, then I will use the results of that investigation for an appeal. If he’s acquitted, I’ll turn over everything we know to Benson and be done with it. Then he can have the responsibility for preventing whatever is going to happen for himself.

Usually I dread hearing that the jury has reached a verdict, but this time I’m semi-eager for it. The sooner I can tell Benson what I know, without damaging Billy’s interests, the better.

CHAPTER 80

CHAPLIN NEVER REPORTED THE MUGGING TO LAW ENFORCEMENT. He immediately decided not to contact the police, and never regretted that decision.

But he did tell Landon about it, and that was a move he did regret.

Landon did not believe in coincidences, and even if he did, this one would have been so over-the-top as to defy credibility. For Chaplin to have been mugged, and for the muggers to take his cell phone, simply had to relate to what was going on. And it had to do with Carpenter.

Landon’s number was on that cell phone, of that he was certain. It had to be there at least three or four times. Which meant that Carpenter would come after him. And when he did, it would be through Chaplin.

Chaplin was scared; Landon could tell that from the first sentence of their conversation. This had hit home, more powerfully than even the death of his two colleagues. Someone had invaded his property, had hit him in the head and knocked him out, and that scared the hell out of him.

It was no longer just numbers moving through computers and bank accounts, and it had become personally dangerous. And Chaplin was not the type to handle that kind of danger.

“We need to meet,” Landon had said.

“Why?”

“To plan our strategy. We have to keep the upper hand in this.”

Chaplin couldn’t believe that Landon felt they still had the upper hand, and he certainly didn’t want to meet with Landon.

But he wasn’t capable of refusing, so he tried another approach. “I don’t think we should be seen together right now,” he said.

“I agree,” Landon said, giving Chaplin momentary hope before dashing it. “So it needs to be someplace out of the way.”

Landon suggested they meet the next night at a place just outside Stamford, Connecticut. It was an empty building, originally a medical center, but it had been foreclosed on when the economy went bad. Landon owned the building and could get a key.

Best of all, there was a long, narrow road for almost half a mile leading to the building. If either of them was for any reason being followed, he would be able to detect it and could abort the meeting. “But we won’t be followed,” Landon said, departing from his norm and saying what he really believed.

Landon’s next phone call was to M, to explain what was going on and what he needed him to do. He detailed it clearly and concisely, and it took him almost three minutes to do so.

M’s response was a little shorter. “Got it,” he said.

“No problem?” Landon asked.

“I don’t believe in problems.”

They got off the phone, and M got ready to go. He was actually looking forward to it; sitting around and doing nothing was starting to drive him crazy.