Tara really seems to like having him around, and it makes me far less guilty when I have to spend long hours away from the house. This morning I even saw them playfully tugging at opposite ends of a toy. I’m not sure how Tara will react if I get Richard Evans out of jail, so Reggie can go back to him. Of course, right now that is not exactly an imminent danger.
As we leave the house, Willie Miller pulls up in his car. I feel an instant pang of guilt on seeing him; I have recently been of no help whatsoever in our dog rescue operation. Willie and Sondra have been doing all the work.
I apologize for my uselessness, but Willie characteristically will hear none of it. “Forget it, man. You got another job to do; I don’t. And Sondra and I love it. You know that.”
He has come by to update me on the weekly events, and he does so as he walks with us. Our foundation-or, more accurately, Willie and Sondra-has placed twenty-one dogs in homes this week. We average about fifteen, so this has been a very good week.
“You did good saving Reggie,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“I hear you got shot at the other day.”
“Who told you?” I ask.
“Laurie. She’s worried about you. Getting out of the way of bullets wouldn’t be one of your strong points, you know? I told her I’d look out for you.”
“She knows I have Marcus.”
Willie nods. “And you have me if you need me. Just pick up the damn phone, and I’m there.”
“Thanks, Willie. I will.”
Willie goes off to have dinner with Sondra, and I drop off Tara and Reggie at home. I then head down to Charlie’s to meet Pete and Vince Sanders. Charlie’s is a sports bar
When people successfully make it through a terribly difficult emotional experience, they will sometimes credit their faith, their work, or their family for getting them through. When Laurie and I split up, Charlie’s was my crutch.
Vince and Pete are at our regular table when I arrive. This particular table was chosen because of its proximity to four different TV screens, and it’s large enough to handle the empty plates and beer bottles that often accumulate faster than the waitress can take them away.
We grunt our hellos, and they bring me up to date on the progress of the basketball games. They’ve placed bets that I’ve previously agreed to share, since I did not have time today to pick my own teams. We’re losing three out of four, but each game is in the first quarter. Since it’s the NBA, there is no way to predict how any of them will end up.
Once I’ve ordered my burger and beer, I turn to Pete. “Did you find out anything?”
He nods. “That I did. And you are not going to believe it.”
He’s piqued my interest; for Pete to say something like that means the information is going to be stunning. “Let’s hear it.”
“After you pay the check,” he says.
“Come on, you know damn well I’m gonna pay. You want to hold my credit card?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m allergic to platinum.”
Vince says, “I’ll hold it.”
“No, you won’t,” I say.
“You think I’m going to steal your identity?”
“That doesn’t worry me, Vince. What scares the shit out of me is, you’ll try and trade identities. Come on, Pete.”
Pete sighs and takes a couple of sheets of paper out of his pocket. He reads from them. “The driver was Antwan Cooper, a small-time hood from the Bronx. The shooter was Archie Durelle, ex-Army, served in the first Gulf war and Afghanistan. Hometown was Albuquerque.”
I’ve never heard of these guys; their names mean nothing to me. “So what’s the big news?” I ask.
“Well, it turns out that Durelle didn’t just serve in Afghanistan. He also died there.”
“What?” I ask, as penetrating and clever a retort as I can muster.
“His chopper went down, and all four guys on board died. He was one of them.”
“There obviously has to be a mistake.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Pete grudgingly agrees to try to find out more about Durelle, but he retaliates for the imposition by ordering the most expensive beer on the menu. It’s a small price to pay, and far smaller than the price I’ll have to pay the bookmaker, since all our bets on the NBA games lose.
I head home and call Laurie before going to sleep. She pumps me with questions about the case, mostly motivated by the close call with the highway shooter. I can hear the relief in her voice when I tell her I’ve hired Marcus.
It feels strange to wake up in the morning and go to the office, but that’s what I do. I get there at nine thirty, and waiting for me are Kevin and the files that Koppell had retrieved from storage. Edna walks in about an hour later, glancing at her watch in surprise at the fact that she’s not the first to arrive.
Kevin and I spend most of the day going through the information. There’s a huge amount to digest, and we’ll be better prepared to gauge the value after we are more familiar with the case in its entirety. There are no exculpatory bombshells, but we didn’t expect any. Koppell was looking for them, and if he’d found one, Richard wouldn’t be in jail.
By late afternoon we are feeling confident enough in our knowledge of the case to set up another interview for tomorrow morning with our client. At least now we know what questions to ask.
* * * * *
THERE IS A noticeable spring in Richard’s step when he is brought into the interview room. Since this is an official attorney’s visit, Kevin and I don’t have to talk to him through the glass in the visitors’ area. We get to talk in this private room, a risk the state is willing to take because Richard is in handcuffs and leg shackles. Should this prove insufficient, two guards are stationed outside the room, probably armed with tactical nuclear weapons.
Despite the fact that our chances for success are remote, Richard’s improved outlook is at least somewhat warranted. For the past five years he has had absolutely no reason to be hopeful; no one was working on his behalf to win his freedom or supporting his cause. Now we’re doing that, and for the first time Richard can believe that things are happening.
I introduce Kevin, and then we get right to it. I start by giving the standard speech about how we can help him only if we know everything, and that he should leave nothing out when answering our questions. Any detail, however small or insignificant it might seem, can be the crucial one.
“Tell us about that night,” I say.
“There was nothing unusual about it except for the way it ended,” he says. “It was summer, and Stacy and I would go out on the boat most weekends, at least when the weather was good. When it wasn’t, we’d go to a cabin I have in upstate New York.” He pauses a moment. “That’s the ironic thing. If we had known a storm was coming, we would probably have gone to the cabin. But it wasn’t predicted.”
“When you went out on the boat, did Reggie always go along?”
He nods. “Absolutely. Reggie went everywhere with us. Stacy loved him almost as much as I did.”
“You slept on the boat?”
He nods. “Most of the time. It was a forty-footer… slept six.”
“So there was nothing out of the ordinary about that night that you can remember?”
“Nothing. I’ve thought about it a thousand times. We went to bed at about nine o’clock. By then we had heard there was a chance of weather coming in, and I set the warning system up loud so I would definitely hear it.”
“Warning system?” Kevin asks. He knows as little about boating as I do.
