That realization opened up a new line of inquiry. Rather than analyze only Judge Brennan’s previous cases to find someone with motive, I could look at his future cases, or at least those in what was supposed to be his future.
It was well outside of my area of expertise, but I was sure there must be many cases awaiting Brennan when he arrived at the Appeals Court. Maybe someone didn’t want him helping to decide them, and killed him for it.
I was about to call Julie when she called me. I could hear the strain in her voice.
“Talk to me, Luke. I need to know what’s going on.”
“I heard from Bryan. For some reason Gallagher is allowing him to e-mail.”
“Is he OK?”
“So far. Julie, can we meet later, maybe have a quick dinner? I’ll download you on all that’s happening, though I wish it were more.”
“Of course. And I have some information on Gallagher I can give you then. I wish there were more also.”
“In the meantime, I need to talk to someone who would be familiar with the cases that Brennan would have heard on the Appeals Court.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I’m flailing around, trying everything.”
“OK. Call Lee Bollinger. No, don’t call him; go see him. He’s at his office in Teaneck; I spoke to him an hour ago. I’ll call ahead and tell him to get started on what you need.”
“I’m particularly interested in situations where someone knowledgeable would think that Brennan would have voted differently than Susan Dembeck.”
“OK, I’ll tell him that.”
“How do you know he’ll see me if I just show up?”
“Trust me, he’ll see you,” she said. When Julie sounds that certain about something, you can take it to the bank. In this case I would take it to Teaneck to see Lee Bollinger.
Bollinger is about as big an attorney as you can find on this side of the George Washington Bridge. Most of his clients are corporations, but he also handles some celebrities, especially sports figures. Somehow his cases often make it into the headlines; if a legal case becomes a hot publicity ticket, Bollinger is usually at the center of it.
But except for when his celebrity clients get hit with DUIs, or a domestic abuse offense or two, Bollinger rarely gets involved in criminal cases, which was why I was surprised that Julie knew him as well as she seemed to.
Bollinger’s firm has its own three-story building off Route 4 in Teaneck, and if he’s able to fill it with lawyers, then business must be pretty good.
When I walked into the reception area, I didn’t have to say a word. The receptionist preempted that with, “Lieutenant Somers? Mr. Bollinger is waiting for you.”
Within forty-five seconds I was sitting in the great man’s office, having just been provided with a cup of the most delicious coffee I’d ever tasted. Bollinger was not yet there, but he came in a few seconds later, carrying a folder and offering a big handshake.
After our hellos, I said, “Boy, Julie must have pictures of you in a closet with a goat or something.”
He laughed. “Better than that. She had discretion on a case involving one of my more famous clients, who shall remain nameless. She could have turned it into a huge PR fiasco, or quietly accepted a no contest plea.”
“So she took the plea?”
He nodded. “After telling me this morning that she wouldn’t.” He holds up the folder. “So this must be pretty important.”
“Not as much as you’d think.”
He smiled, obviously not believing me. “Yeah, right. So Brennan’s killer was a kid strung out on drugs, who was worried about how Brennan might decide future Appeals Court cases?”
“You remember what you said about Julie using discretion when it came to your client?”
“Of course.”
“You might want to use some of your own, or she’ll change her mind and discretion your client’s ass onto every tabloid front page in the country. “
He looked surprised, so I continued. “Just tell me what you have, and then don’t talk to anyone else about it, counselor.”
He smiled. “I am a model of discretion.”
“Good. What have you got?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. It’s only been forty-five minutes since I spoke to Julie, and I put four lawyers on it. This is what they came up with, but I haven’t gotten a chance to look through it. There will be more.”
“How soon?”
“End of the day. I’ll messenger it to your office.”
I thanked him and took the folder.
“I hope you got the right guy,” he said.
“Me too.”
In all the time I was a cop, I never framed anyone.
I’m not just talking about out-and-out frames, where evidence is created and planted to implicate an innocent party. I’m talking about shadings, about things like not aggressively pursuing evidence that might help the accused, when I thought the accused was guilty.
I always prided myself on going after the truth whether or not it might butt up against my preconceived notions; I’d much rather adjust my point of view than adjust the evidence in any way.
I’m not looking for praise in saying this; it’s my job, and I could say the same of every cop I’ve ever worked with, with the possible exception of one or two. Or three at the most.
But I’d never been faced with a situation like this before, and my strategy was evolving. And it was becoming increasingly clear to me that in order to succeed, I was going to have to frame someone for the murder of Judge Danny Brennan.
My victim wouldn’t be going to jail; he or she wouldn’t even be going to trial. The sole judge and jury who would decide the case was Chris Gallagher. I had to credibly make a case to him that someone, other than his brother, committed the murder.
But I couldn’t come up with a perpetrator out of whole cloth. I also needed a motive, and an ability for someone to have committed the crime. And that was basically why I had gotten the information about the Appeals Court cases. I did not believe that anyone involved in those cases had slaughtered Danny Brennan in his garage. But I needed to make Chris Gallagher believe that they did.
I spent a few hours going over the information in the folder, plus additional material that Bollinger, as promised, messengered over. Much of it was legalese, which I only partially understood, but I identified at least three possible cases to pursue. I would bring it to dinner with Julie, since she was far more knowledgeable about this stuff than I was.
We met at Spumoni’s, a casual Italian place in Englewood. I’d eaten there a number of times with Julie and Bryan; sometimes I brought a date, and sometimes I didn’t. I even remember some of their names.
I got there first and took a quiet table near the back. Julie came in a few minutes later, the strain evident on her face. She still looked fantastic; that was a given. But this time she looked fantastic and very, very stressed.
