MARCUS CLARK SCARES EDNA HALF TO death when he comes to the house to give his first weekly report. I assure her that he's on our side, but I don't think she can reconcile his menacing presence with the fact that he's one of the good guys.
Then Laurie comes into the room, and the transformation is immediate. She and Marcus hug warmly, and he inquires as to her health, her mental outlook, anything she might need,
Marcus essentially has made no progress, which in his eyes is in itself a sign of progress. He has not found a trace of Dorsey, and since he firmly believes he can find anyone, he considers his failure a sure sign that Dorsey is dead.
'I spoke to him,' Laurie points out.
'Or somebody trying to sound like him' is Marcus's response.
She pushes back. 'It was him.'
They kick around this unresolvable issue until finally Marcus allows as how it's possible Dorsey is alive, but with a lot of help powerful enough to keep him totally hidden. We all agree that only somebody like Dominic Petrone has that kind of power, but Marcus doesn't believe that Petrone would have let Dorsey make the phone call. That was the act of a man with intensely personal motivations, and Petrone would look at this as strictly business.
The court clerk calls to announce that Hatchet has reviewed Dorsey's files and set a meeting for tomorrow morning in his chambers to discuss our motion to receive them in discovery. Hatchet likes to resolve these matters without a formal hearing, and that's fine with me. I'm glad he didn't call it for this morning, because I've got the meeting with Willie Miller and the attorney representing the estates we are suing.
The easiest way for me to explain how Willie is reacting to his impending wealth is to say that he asks me to pick him up at a Mercedes dealership. He's standing out front when I pull up, and he gets in the car.
'How come you weren't inside kicking the tires?' I ask.
'They weren't taking me seriously. They don't think I can afford one of those pieces of junk. Shows what they know.'
'How much do you have in your checking account?' I ask.
'I don't have no checking account,' he says, and then he smiles his broad smile. 'But I'm gonna.'
The conversation during the rest of the drive to the lawyer's office involves Laurie. Like everybody else who knows her, Willie is concerned, and he has a better idea than most how unjust the justice system can be.
We arrive at the law firm of Bertram, Smith, and Cates, a respected civil litigation firm in Teaneck. I have spoken a couple of times to Stephen Cates, the attorney representing the defendants, and he has been properly noncommittal as to his position, pending this meeting.
He greets us cordially, sits us at a conference table with a large fruit bowl, offers us something to drink, and gets right down to business.
'I understand you've been approached by the daughter of one of my clients,' he says, referring to Nicole.
I nod. 'I have.'
'I apologize for your being put in that position. I, of course, had no idea until after the fact.'
'No problem,' I say.
He then launches into a long-winded recitation of the position of his clients, and their desire to bring this unhappy matter, or at least this portion of it, to a close. They recognize the negative impact their actions have had on Willie's life, and they have concocted a formula that they believe accurately assigns a financial value to it. He is so busy explaining the formula, he neglects to mention what that value is.
After twenty minutes that seem like two hours, he reaches the end and says, 'Do you have any questions?'
Willie, who has had three oranges, two apples, a banana, and a bunch of grapes during this presentation, doesn't waste any time. 'How much?' he asks.
Cates seems somewhat taken aback by Willie's directness, but decides to meet it. 'We're looking at in the neighborhood of four point three seven million dollars, paid out over seven years.'
Willie almost spits up three grapes at the absurdity of the offer. 'That may be the neighborhood you're lookin' in,' he says. 'But not us. We're lookin' uptown.' By 'us' Willie means he and I, although my intention is to keep him functioning as chief negotiator. He's doing fine, and I prefer to spend my time mentally beating myself up over Barry Leiter's murder.
But Cates turns to me, obviously looking for a weaker link than Willie. 'What exactly is your position?'
I look to Willie and he nods, in effect giving me the floor. 'Eleven point seven million, paid out over five minutes.'
He doesn't blink. 'May I ask how you arrived at that figure?'
'Gut instinct,' I say. 'We consider it a fair figure, and as such it is nonnegotiable. I believe we can get considerably more at trial.'
'I see. I'll convey this to my clients.'
I tell him that'll be fine, and with Willie grabbing a final orange on the way out, we say our goodbyes.
Willie asks if I can drop him off at his girlfriend's house, which is in a rather depressed area of downtown Paterson. Paterson is a city of over a hundred thousand people and can match any other city blight for blight. Yet whenever anyone in the area refers to 'the city,' they are talking about New York.
We are about ten blocks from our destination when we almost hit a dog running loose on the street. It looks to be a Lab mix, skinny, worn-out, and frightened from life on the street.
Willie and I are both shaken by the near miss. 'Damn, that was close,' he says.
'Poor dog. They'll catch him and take him to the pound,' I say.
'And then what?'
'And then they'll kill him.'
'What?' Willie yells, outrage in his voice. 'Stop the car!'
I barely have time to pull over when Willie jumps out, chasing the dog down the street and calling, 'Here, dog!'
The dog demonstrates his intelligence by running away from the screaming Willie, so I pull the car up ahead and try to cut him off. I jump out of the car and start chasing him back toward Willie, but again the dog is clever enough to run down an alley.
The chase is on, as Willie and I spend the next twenty minutes running up and down streets and in and out of alleys, all in pursuit of this poor dog. We execute a number of maneuvers to cut him off, but he outsmarts us each time.
The workout in the whirlpool at Vince Sanders's club hasn't quite prepared me for this kind of running. I'm gasping for air and my insides are burning, but Willie handles it like he's out for a walk in the park.
After a few minutes more I lose sight of both Willie and the dog, and they are going to have to handle this on their own. I stagger up and down a few alleys, hoping to find one of them, although my first choice would be to stumble upon an oxygen tent.
And then, at the end of an alley in front of a dirty garage, I see Willie. He is sitting on the cement, back against the wall, cradling the dog in his lap and petting him gently on his head. The dog contentedly rests that head on Willie's knee. They look so relaxed that the only thing missing from this picture is a pond and a fishing pole.
When I'm able to breathe and walk again, the three of us go back to the car. Willie keeps the dog on his lap in the front seat and announces that he is now his dog, and his name is Cash, for obvious reasons. I check and see that there is no collar or tag on the dog, which makes it far less likely that there is an owner somewhere looking for him.
Willie promises to put up signs in the neighborhood with pictures of the dog, but I'm not sure he'll follow through on it. Whatever. A dog has found a loving owner; there are worse things that can happen in this world.
I get back home and am surprised to see Pete Stanton waiting to update me on the early stages of the investigation of Stynes. He could have done it by phone, but I think he wanted to see Laurie and offer additional moral support.
The report on Stynes is stunning in its brevity. 'So far Stynes doesn't seem to have existed,' Pete says.
'What are you talking about?' I ask.
