First degree (2 page)

I nod. "Probably late morning. I'm meeting with Holbrook on the Danny Rollins case at nine-thirty."

"Wow. Practice is really taking off, huh?"

Laurie is gently mocking both the fact that I'm representing Danny Rollins, who happens to be my bookmaker, and the fact that I've got absolutely nothing else to do. I haven't taken on a significant client in the six months since the Willie Miller case. And it's not that I haven't had the opportunities. The way the trial ended, with Willie getting off and the real killers exposed, I became a media darling and Paterson's answer to Perry Mason. I've been at the top of every felon's wish list ever since.

But I've rejected them all. Each turndown had its own rationale. Either the potential client seemed guilty and therefore unworthy, or the ease wasn't challenging, or interesting, or significant. Down deep it feels like I've been inventing reasons to decline these cases, but I truly don't know why I would.

I think I have lawyer's block.

WEALTH TAKES SOME
GETTING USED TO
.

When one suddenly becomes really rich, as I have, there's just nothing natural about how it feels. It's sort of like driving an old, beat-up Dodge Dart for a bunch of years, and then somebody gives you a Ferrari. You say you won't let it change your life, but you think twice before parking it at the 7-Eleven.

My father, Nelson Carpenter, left me twenty-two million dollars. It was money he received dishonorably, taking a payment in return for covering up a crime committed by his oldest friend, who eventually became my father-in-law. My father was a respected district attorney, and to my knowledge, this was the only dishonorable act he ever committed. It set off a chain reaction that left my now-ex-father-in-law in prison and me rolling in dough.

It could have been worse, of course. My father could have done something bad and then left me poor, but instead he shocked me by leaving me all this money that I didn't know he had and that he never touched, letting it accumulate interest for thirty-five years. So for the last six months I've been trying to figure out what to do with it.

I definitely intend to be a regular contributor to charily, and I've made sporadic efforts at that. But what I really want is to find a charity, a cause, that I can attach myself to and make my own. That sounds like it would be easy, but it's been anything but.

First of all, I talked too much about it, the word got around, and charities started coming after me like I was fresh meat. Which I was. Which I am.

The low point came a couple of days ago, when the president of the Committee to Save the Otters of Guatemala Bay came to see me. She was a nice enough woman, but it was probably the tenth solicitation of its kind I endured last week, and I'm afraid I was not on my best behavior.

"Who did you beat?" I asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"In the election, when you became president of the Committee to Save the Otters of Guatemala Bay ... who did you run against?"

"We are not a political organization," she said defensively. "We are a cohesive, organized effort to right a terrible wrong. Guatemala Bay is being systematically contaminated, and the otters are left unprotected."

"So you ran unopposed?" I pressed.

"In a manner of speaking." Her annoyance with me was showing. "Mr. Carpenter, if we could get to the reason why I am here."

"I'm sorry, but until now, I didn't even know there was a Guatemala Bay. I thought Guantanamo was the only 'Gua' with a bay."

"If people like you don't intervene, it soon will be."

"How much of an intervention are you looking for?" I asked.

"Ten thousand dollars."

I intervened her a thousand. I'm hoping it'll be enough to get me a cute picture of the otter I've adopted, with maybe a letter or two.

Today being Sunday, that letter won't be coming, so I'll have to content myself with sitting on the couch with Tara and watching basketball. I'm feeling very comfortable at home these days. A couple of months ago, I sold my house in the allegedly fashionable suburbs and moved into the one I grew up in. It is located in the decidedly less fashionable Paterson, but it is the only house to which I will ever feel a real attachment. When my father died, I had planned to sell it but couldn't get myself to do it. Laurie suggested I move in, and since I did, I know that I've come home.

The only addition I've made to the place is a large-screen TV, which I will put to great use today. The Knicks are on at one o'clock, then the Lakers are playing Utah at four, then Nets-Sacramento at six, overlapped by Marquette-Cincinnati at seven, and finishing up with UNLV-Utah at nine. If I plan it right, I can have the pizza arrive before the Laker tip-off, just about the time I'm having my third beer.

If this were a movie, it would be called
The Perfect Day.

My first step is to call in a bet on the Knicks, minus three against Toronto. The bookmaker, Danny Rollins, wishes me luck both on the game and especially in my meeting tomorrow with the assistant DA, who has the nerve to be accusing Danny of bookmaking. Obviously a trumped-up charge against a law-abiding citizen.

Tara gets up on the couch and assumes her favorite position, lying on her side with her head resting just above my knee. It virtually forces me to pet her every time I reach for my beer, which works for me as well as her. If there's a better dog on this planet, if there's a better living creature on this planet, then this is a great planet, and that must be one amazing living creature.

The Knicks are up by four with a minute to play when I once again feel the reverse sting of great wealth. I bet two hundred on the game, and I realize the money has absolutely no significance to me. Betting is only fun when you're worried about losing. Absent the possibility of the agony of defeat, there can't be a thrill of victory. I'd better get another beer.

It's ten o'clock when the phone wakes me up during the UNLV game. I'm up three hundred bucks; I wish I could get excited about it.

"Hello?"

"Sorry to wake you, but you shouldn't be sleeping on the couch anyway," Laurie says. How does she know these things? Of course, she is a professional investigator; I have to remember to check the house for hidden cameras.

I stand up immediately. "I'm not on the couch."

"Yeah, right," she says in a voice that implies "You're full of shit, but who cares?" "Anyway, I just heard from Pete."

"And?"

"The preliminary report came in. The DNA matches. The body is definitely Dorsey."

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"I'm fine. I'm glad it's over;" she says. "Go back to sleep."

I stifle a yawn. "I'm not really tired. I think I'll check and see if there's a basketball game on."

"You mean like the UNLV game I hear in the background?"

"Well, what do you know?"

"Good night, Andy. I love you."

"Good night, Laurie." We've been using the
l
-word for a couple of months now, but we both agree that it loses some meaning when it always draws an automatic "I love you too" in response. So we're allowing ourselves to make the decision on an individual basis, as it comes up. We're doing groundbreaking things in this relationship.

I watch the game for another three or four seconds before failing back to sleep. Somewhere around three o'clock in the morning, I get up and head for the bedroom, not waking again until seven-thirty. I take Tara for a walk, then get dressed and head for John Holbrook's office.

Holbrook has been with the DA's office for about six years, which means he's probably getting ready to head for the money on the defense side of the table. He's conscientious, hardworking, and relatively fair, a good if unexceptional attorney. Even on cases like this one, which he and I both know is of no great consequence to society, he'll be thoroughly prepared.

Danny Rolling's only role in my life is that of bookmaker, but in the numerous phone calls we have shared, I've gotten to know a little about him. He's got a wife who works as a physical therapist and two kids in high school. He skis, votes straight Republican, tries every diet fad that comes along, and can be counted on to pay off on a bet as surely as he can be counted on to collect.

What Danny does for a living is considered illegal only because of the bizarre nature of our criminal code. It's legal to gamble on a horse race at the track or an off-track betting parlor, but not with a bookmaker. You can waste the family food budget on lottery tickets, but not on the Knicks. Fortunes can be made or lost buying Yahoo! or IBM, but take the Giants and lay the points and you can find yourself in court.

I know that Danny has some connections to northern New Jersey's version of organized crime, because that is how he gets assigned the territory that he can cover. Having said that, I find him to be decent and honorable, and certainly worth getting off this ridiculous legal hook.

Holbrook is finishing a meeting in the conference room when I arrive, and his secretary has me wait in his office. He comes in a couple of minutes later and seems surprised to see me.

"Andy, what are you doing here?"

"We have a meeting on me Danny Rollins matter."

He nods. "I know, but I didn't expect you to come personally. I mean, a rich guy like you?" He looks at his watch. "And with the stock market open? I would have thought you'd send one of your people."

If you're keeping a list at home, you can write down "envious taunting" as, another of the downsides of sudden wealth. "My people were busy. Besides, they don't like you. So drop the charges and let me get back to the stock market."

He laughs and opens the file. "Drop the charges? This is such a sure thing, your client wouldn't take a bet on it."

He proceeds to take me through the file, showing me the confiscated betting slips, the ledgers, and the phone records. His office has already sent all of this to me as part of discovery, and I've gone through it, but I don't tell him that.

He finishes, a satisfied smirk on his face. "What's your position on this, Counselor?"

"If you drop the charges at the end of this sentence, I believe I can convince my client not to sue for false arrest."

"Come on, Andy. I'm busy here, you know? You want to deal or not?"

I shake my head. "Not. We intend to mount a vigorous defense."

He laughs; it's quite possible he's familiar with some of my previous vigorous defenses. "Consisting of what?" he asks.

"Character witnesses."

"Excuse me?"

"Character witnesses," I repeat. "They're witnesses as to my client's character, which, by the way, is extraordinary."

"I'm sure it is. And who might these witnesses be?"

"Oh, you know, the usual well-respected, above-reproach, pillars-of-society types. Those kind of people. Would you like me to give you an example?"

He shrugs, which I take to be a yes. I open the file and take out the phone records.

I point to the first page of numbers. "Now, if I remember your stirring presentation correctly, these phone numbers allegedly represent the people who called my client to place illegal wagers. Of course, you offered no proof of this, but--"

He interrupts. "And your contention is that these fifty-seven hundred calls in one month were for what purpose exactly?"

"I can't speak for all of them, but I would suppose that they were mostly friends calling to discuss current events, exchange recipes, that kind of thing."

He's losing patience. "Come on, Andy, can we move this along?"

"Okay. Let's pick a number, any number." I point to a place on the sheet. "How about this one?"

Holbrook looks where I'm pointing. "What about it?"

"Dial it. On the speakerphone."

He starts to argue, then shrugs and goes over to the phone, no doubt figuring that it'll get me out of his office that much sooner. As he goes back to his desk, we can both hear the phone ringing through the speaker.

The female voice comes through the phone. "Carmichael residence."

A look, of concern flashes across Holbrook's face as I walk toward the phone. "Is the mayor home?" I ask.

"Who may I say is calling?"

I smile benignly at Holbrook and continue. "Just tell him it's Deputy District Attorney John--"

Displaying catlike quickness that I had no idea he possessed, Holbrook leaps from his chair, moves deftly around his desk, lunges, and cuts off the call before I can finish identifying him. If he does as well on the parallel bars and horse as he's just done on the floor exercise, he's got a shot at the individual all-around.

With the phone safely hung up, he turns to me. "Are you telling me the mayor bets with this guy? Is that what this little stunt was about?"

I shrug. "Unless he's into recipes. I'll ask my client when I get him on the stand."

Holbrook is indignant. "You think this'll stop me? I didn't even vote for the son of a bitch."

"On the other hand, he did appoint your boss." I point to the list. "Care to try another call?"

"Who else is on here? The pope?"

"My client is a really friendly guy who just loves to chitchat. You know the type?"

"Yeah, I know the type exactly," he says. "Now, get the hell out of my office."

So that's what I do. I get out of his office and go to my own. On the way I call Danny and tell him that justice is about to prevail. He's really happy and asks how much he owes me. I tell him five hundred and we let it ride on the 76ers tonight. Maybe I'll win, and maybe I won't. Whatever.

My office these days is not exactly a beehive of activity. Edna, my erstwhile secretary, doesn't even look up from the
Times
crossword puzzle when I walk in. Of course, Edna wouldn't look up if Abraham Lincoln walked in. Edna is the unchallenged crossword puzzle master of the Western world, and she attributes a great deal of that amazing ability to her powers of concentration. My entrance doesn't put a dent in them.

My call list consists of three charities and a wanna-be client, whom I've already turned down, but who is persistent. It's a DUI case, which resulted in a near-fatal injury to a pedestrian. The potential client, when he came to see me, had the smell of liquor on his breath. The decision to pass on the case was not a close call.

I sit at my desk for a while, moving the papers from the right side of the desk over to the left. That makes the desk look left-heavy, so I move half the papers-back to the right. The problem is, with papers now on each side, there's no place for me to put my feet up. So with my feet resting uncomfortably on the floor, I pick up the newspaper and read about the discovery of Alex Dorsey's headless body. In order to sell papers, the media usually try to make murders sound gory and disgusting. In this case, with those qualities preexisting, they are pretending to be embarrassed at having to participate in the revelations.

The meeting with Holbrook this morning, though it wasn't exactly arguing before the Supreme Court, has had an effect on me. I realize that I'm getting ready to get back in the action, that I want a case to sink my legal teeth into.

Since I don't happen to have one right now, and since Edna is paying no attention to me at all, I get up and wander down the hall to Sam Willis's office. Sam has been my accountant ever since I moved into this building.