bar, in case he should happen to sweat, which I don't think is a serious possibility.
I start my machine at a quicker pace with higher elevation, not too strenuous but enough to be of some possible value. Five minutes later Vince gets off, explaining that 'this aerobic shit is good, but you don't want to overdo it.' Ever the accommodating guest, I follow him into the locker room, where we take a whirlpool bath, in order to soothe our exhausted muscles.
While Vince may not qualify as a gym rat, he's as good a newspaperman as there is. His most valuable asset is his amazing knowledge about what is going on in the communities he covers. When it comes to northern New Jersey, he knows what is happening, who is causing it to happen, and whom it's happening to.
'Do you know a guy named Geoffrey Stynes?' I ask.
Nothing registers on his face. 'Nope,' he says. 'Who is he?'
I shrug. 'Just a guy.'
'Oh, just a guy? You sure? I figured he was just a fish, or just a tennis racket. You asked about him, now who the hell is he?'
I'm sorry I brought it up; but my curiosity got the better of me. 'It's privileged,' I say.
Vince is incredulous. 'He's your client? He's your client and you're asking me who he is?'
'Forget I asked.'
He nods and goes back to enjoying the water churning around his blubbery body. After a few minutes of silence, he asks, 'You want me to check him out?'
'I do.'
'What's in it for me?' he asks.
'I promise not to tell anyone that I get more exercise using the TV remote control than you get in your entire workout.'
He thinks for a moment. 'Deal,' he says.
We head back to the locker room to shower and change. According to the mirrors, I haven't lost any weight as a result of the workout, even though I'm sure I burned off at least eight or nine calories.
The locker room is as fancy as the rest of the place, and there are three or four televisions positioned so they can be viewed from anywhere. They are tuned to a local news show, and as I walk by one, I hear Alex Dorsey's name mentioned.
I look up and see a newscaster sitting at a desk and speaking. Behind him is a photograph of a man, and the type legend below his face is, 'Arrested in Dorsey Murder.'
I don't know who the man is, but he sure as hell is not Geoffrey Stynes.
LAURIE IS WAITING FOR ME WHEN I ARRIVE AT the office. It is no surprise that she is fully briefed on the media's version of the arrest; when it comes to Alex Dorsey, she is command central.
The arrested man's name is Oscar Garcia, a twenty-seven-year-old Puerto Rican immigrant living in Passaic. He is described as a handyman by trade and is said to have a few drug arrests, though no convictions, in his apparently less-than-illustrious biography.
While Laurie's awareness of the news was to be expected, her take on it is not. 'There's no way Garcia did it, Andy,' she says. 'I know this guy.'
'You do?'
She nods. 'He's a small-time dealer who hangs out in Pennington Park introducing kids to the glories of cocaine. I busted him once.'
'The radio said he's been arrested but not convicted.'
She nods, unhappy at the memory. 'As moments go, that was one of my lowest.'
'What happened?' I ask.
'A friend of mine, Nina Alvarez … I went to high school with her. Garcia got her fourteen-year-old daughter started on pot first, then a quick move to crack. Nina tried everything, even had her in a lockdown facility for a while. Finally, she decided to try and deal with the source, and she came to me.'
'To get Garcia?'
She nods. 'Right. It took a while … the creep was pretty careful. Then one day I was in court testifying on a case, and that's the day my partner caught him carrying. We booked him, and I thought that was the end of it.'
'But it wasn't,' I say, fulfilling my function to wander the earth, stating the obvious wherever I find it.
'He walked two days later. His lawyer convinced the judge there was no probable cause for the search.'
'And you never got him again?'
'No,' she says. 'The Dorsey thing blew up, and I left the force.'
'What about your friend's daughter?'
'She ran off a few months later and seems to have never looked back. No doubt learning the joys of life on the street. Fourteen years old …' She struggles to get the words out without crying, and the look of pain in her eyes is tangible. On some level she feels responsible for her friend's losing a child in this horrible manner.
This incident is obviously something that has incredibly strong emotional importance to her, yet I knew absolutely nothing about it. What else is there about her that I don't know, what deep personal pains that she hasn't seen fit to mention on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday nights? And how could I be feeling shut out for not having been told something that I've just been told?
I move the conversation back to the matter at hand. 'Why can't you buy Garcia for the Dorsey killing?'
'Dorsey worked undercover for fifteen years, Andy. I was with him after that time, but I got to know him very well. He was a tough, dangerous guy who could see any kind of trouble a mile away. I can't picture anyone killing Dorsey, but there is no way a little twerp like Garcia could have done it. If you tied Dorsey to a tree and gave Garcia a bazooka and a tank, Dorsey would skin him alive in thirty seconds.'
What I want to say is, 'Congratulations, you're right again, Laurie! The guy who's really guilty sat in that chair yesterday! Show her what she's won, Johnny!' The fact that I can't say it is frustrating, but obviously something I'm going to have to get used to.
'I assume the cops know what you know,' I say, 'but they must have something on him, or he wouldn't have been charged. Maybe he's graduated to the big time since you were after him.'
She shakes her head. 'He hasn't.'
The conviction in her voice surprises me. 'You
She looks me in the eye and says quietly, 'I
There are implications here that I decide not to go near. Our conversation eventually expires from lack of new information, so Laurie goes off to gather some more. It leaves me alone to think, which in this situation is not a particularly good idea.
I must at least perceive a client as innocent in order to take on his defense. This rigid attitude tends to reduce my caseload, but I've accepted that reality. Of course, I almost never really know that a client is innocent. All I have is a distrust of the facts the prosecution presents, and a faith and belief that the client is telling me the truth. And, with the Willie Miller case as a notable exception, even in a best case I can't prove innocence; I simply hope to establish reasonable doubt of guilt.
This situation is far different. I can be positive that Garcia is innocent because I know who is guilty. Which leaves me with a lot to think about, and the way I best do that is by taking Tara to the duck pond. That is what I am about to do when Edna tells me that my eleven-fifteen meeting is here. Since I have no clients, her designating it as the 'eleven-fifteen meeting' is overkill. Just 'meeting' would suffice. In any event, I had no idea I had any meeting scheduled, never mind an eleven-fifteen one.
It turns out that my eleven-fifteen is with Edna's stock-broker cousin, Fred. Agreeing to meet with cousin Fred was one of those things that I say I will do, as long as it's in the future, and I somehow assume it will never come about. But here it is, and I'm trying to figure out if I can make it out the window when in comes Edna and the man she considers the perfect caretaker for my twenty-two million dollars: cousin Fred.
It's no surprise that Edna has a cousin up to this task. She seems to have the largest extended family in the Western Hemisphere; they cover every occupation ever invented, yet somehow have managed not to overlap jobs. Cousin Fred handles the financial markets.
Fred is about my age and decked out in a three-piece suit. He shakes my hand, and I have a vision of the scene from Woody Allen's
