As Dog Is My Witness (15 page)

M
ahoney and I agreed I
should not confront The Mole in his office, since I really didn’t
know what the man looked like, and would be hard pressed to
identify him. Mahoney said he’d be over later to strategize, and I
told him to bring our thinking softball. He said he would.

So much was going on in my head that I felt
overwhelmed. As I drove home, I tried to sort it out. Michael
Huston was shot with an antique handgun by someone who knew about
antique handguns. Justin Fowler had been arrested and charged with
the crime, based on his possession of the murder weapon, knowledge
of such weapons, and last but not least, his own confession.

Then, out of nowhere, I’m beset by three large men
who claim that a noted local gangster (reputed, of course) wants me
to stop asking questions about Michael Huston’s murder. Why? Even
if Justin
didn’t
shoot Huston, I hadn’t found anything out
that would implicate Mr. Shapiro. If he hadn’t sent the three
not-so-wise men, I’d never have even dreamed he was involved.

But suppose he
hadn’t
sent the stooges.
Suppose they were merely invoking the name of a feared figure in
these parts just because they knew it would throw me off the scent.
What
scent? I had a good deal of nothing, and nobody could
possibly have been worried that I’d turn something up.

In fact, the only one acting strange in this affair
(besides Justin himself, and he had any number of excuses) was
. . .  Karen Huston. It was clear from the beginning
that Karen had some kind of strange bond with her lawyer, who
didn’t want her to talk but let her talk briefly to me. Then, she
lured him out of the room to tell me confidentially that she thinks
Justin didn’t kill her husband. And when the lawyer came back in,
she insisted Justin
did
kill her husband, and broke down
enough to send me back out into the cold with absolutely no
information whatsoever.

All this, and I couldn’t figure out why someone from
Mahoney’s company would be screwing up his repairs. Who gains when
the company does badly?

While I drove home, the thoughts bouncing around
between my ears didn’t help. But I knew that once I got home, I’d
have Howard and the Banshees to deal with, along with the kids,
home at three with just another half-day of school before that
dreaded time of the year, Winter Break.

Teachers, administrators, and students, I’m sure,
look forward to the time leading up to Christmas and through New
Year’s Day as a welcome holiday, when batteries can be recharged
and minds cleared, when pure recreation is the key and the spirit
of goodwill to all men (women can clean up the gift-wrapping) is
the focus of the season.

Parents, however, particularly those who both work,
look upon Winter Break as the Season of Inconvenience, when
children must be accounted for during eight extra hours a day. We
parents are used to sending the kids off and letting someone else
worry about them for awhile. It is twelve long days of ennui for
the children, unless the parents—who are used to tap dancing 24/7
anyway—have to work overtime to avoid that scourge of childhood:
boredom. God forbid kids should ever have to fend for themselves
and come up with their own entertainment. In the 21st century,
parents are expected to keep the plates spinning on those poles for
twelve long days, and heaven help us if one hits the floor.

For Jewish parents, of course, winter break is also
that magical time of year when we are barraged with reminders that
we are
different
, that once again the world’s greatest party
has omitted us from the invite list, and that images of jolly fat
men in red suits will serve only to let our children know there’s
something out there
way
better than what they get, and
there’s no chance they’ll ever have it.

Some compensate by buying a Christmas tree and
calling it a “Chanukah bush,” which is roughly the equivalent of
buying a Yugo, and by dint of calling it a Lexus, expecting it to
grow an eight-cylinder engine and room for three more adults.

Meanwhile, the ever-selfless TV networks help us out
by making sure that not one minute of original programming airs in
December (it’s not a sweeps month), filling every available minute
with an incredibly lame Christmas special or any movie in which an
oncoming snowstorm at the end is a
good
thing, so as to
remind my children of what they’re missing. Television networks are
licensed by the government as a “public service,” which is
laughable.

By the time I got home, I had convinced myself to
back out of the Justin Fowler story. While $1,000 was not to be
sneezed at, it wasn’t enough to risk my life over. Justin, one
hoped, would be examined by any number of doctors, represented by a
competent lawyer, and not railroaded by the criminal justice
system.

I was sure Lori Shery would understand—the minute I
worked up the courage to tell her of my decision.

Meanwhile, I checked the house to make sure the Stein
family (minus my lovely wife) was absent, which it was. No doubt
after the visit to the Guggenheim, Howard and Andrea would be
treating their 15-year-old to lunch at a restaurant where Rudolph
Giuliani and other prominent Republicans could be seen delicately
masticating their salmon. If it were me, I’d have taken the kid to
the Automat for a
real
New York dining experience, but it’s
closed now. A shame.

Warren and I luxuriated in the quiet house, knowing
it wouldn’t stay that way much longer, nor be that way again for
quite some time. I tried to explain Winter Break to Warren, but he
got confused over the whole “no Jews at Christmas” thing, and I
decided to wait until he grew up a little. Three-year-olds.

Just when I was trying to work up the courage to call
Lori, the phone rang. And the caller ID showed Lori’s number. The
woman has about eight senses.

“Aaron, guess what? I talked to Dr. Winokur, and he
says there is some medical basis—”

“Lori, hang on. Hear me out for a second. I may have
to stop working on Justin’s story.”

There was a long silence. “Do you have too much other
work?” Lori thinks I’m in demand as much as Dominick Dunne. I said
no, and told her about the scene on the street the night
before.

“There really
is
a Mr. Shapiro?” She sounded
as shocked as I’d been.

“So the police chief says. And I promised Abby I
wouldn’t put myself in danger of getting killed again until at
least New Year’s.”

“Oh, of course, Aaron,” Lori said. “You can’t put
yourself in that kind of danger. You have to stop
investigating.”

Well, that was a relief! “I was afraid you’d be mad
at me,” I told her.

“Mad at
you
? Like I could ever be mad at you.
Really, Aaron!”

I felt like a 20-ton anvil had been lifted from my
shoulders. “I’m so glad you understand,” I said. “So we’ll have to
let Mary know that I can’t help any more.”

Silence.

“Lori?”

“Yeah. You’ll have to tell Mary you’re no longer
investigating.”

“That sounded an awful lot like, ‘What’s this
we
stuff, Kimosabe? ‘You can’t continue, either, Lori. If
Mr. Shapiro can find me, he can find you, too.”

More silence.

“Lori . . . 

“Aaron, I can’t leave Mary and Justin alone in this.
You know that. If this boy is going to be convicted because he has
Asperger’s, how can I stand by and let that happen?”

I stood up and started pacing. “You know perfectly
well that I’m not going to leave you out in the cold to do this
yourself, Lori. If you’re still in, I have to be, too.”

“No, you don’t. I’m not trying to pressure you.
You’re not the official Asperger’s Syndrome freelance writer, but
I’m the co-founder of an Asperger’s group. I’ll destroy all my
credibility if I don’t continue. People won’t ever be able to trust
me.”

I can’t describe the sound I made as a “sigh.” It was
more in the area of “death moan.” “I’m not going to let you get
killed so people will trust you more, Lori.”

“And I’m not going to let you get killed to protect
me. That would be stupid.” Lori has a talent for digging in her
heels. She’s not big or heavy, but she can’t be moved when she
doesn’t want to be moved—just like my children.

“Okay,” I said, pacing. “Let’s agree on this. We
won’t do anything obvious. We won’t attract attention. If something
comes to us, fine, but otherwise, we won’t go out looking for
trouble. How does that sound?”

Lori took a long time to think about that. “Okay,”
she said. “But if I can help, I’m going to help.”

“Agreed. It’s just—” The call waiting beep, one of
the more annoying sounds in modern life, went off in my ear. “Lori,
I’ve got someone else calling. Hang on.”

I pushed the “flash” button, which is so ineptly
named I can’t begin to consider it (does the phone flash when you
push the button? Case closed), and waited a moment. “Hello?”

“Mr. Tucker? This is Karen Huston.”

“Hang on, just for a second, Karen. Okay?” I pushed
the “flash” button again, and got Lori.

“Some times,” I told her, “it’s harder than others to
be an agnostic.”

A
s a reporter, you want
people to contact you. So, you give out a lot of business cards. As
a freelancer, your business cards often (if not always) include
your home phone number. This raises something of a privacy issue,
but the pluses outweigh the minuses, and I continue to give out my
home number in the hopes some misguided soul will call me with news
or a paying assignment.

When I left a business card on Karen Huston’s end
table, as part of my marathon effort to get out the door without
being eaten by a Dalmatian, I hadn’t expected it to ever be used,
but I took a shot. I did it because I wanted Karen to have the
ability to call me without having her lawyer present. It is a
Murphy’s Law of Freelancing that no great source ever calls you
except after you’ve decided to forego the story.

“How you doing, Karen?” Maybe she was just calling to
be social. After all, she’d just buried her husband. Maybe she was
looking to start new friendships.

“Not well,” she said. “I’m still adjusting.” That was
it. She wanted a friendly voice, a shoulder to cry on with no
history. I could understand that.

“Well, that’s certainly understandable,” I said. “I
can’t imagine how hard it must be for you.”

“That’s not why I’m calling,” she said in a flat
tone. “Now that my attorney isn’t here, I want to discuss this with
you in detail.” In one’s journalism career, there are maybe four
occasions when someone who’s not actually crazy insists on giving
you highly confidential information, and those are times when you
absolutely don’t want it.

I did my best to hide my lack of enthusiasm, but I
had to protect myself. Suppose Mr. Shapiro had my phone tapped?
Suppose he had my house under surveillance?

“You’re voluntarily calling me,” I said to whoever
else was listening. “I didn’t ask you to call.”

“Well, I did find your business card on my end
table,” she said helpfully, “but no, you didn’t ask me to call. I
thought you wanted to hear about Michael.”

If it’s possible to sigh internally, I did. “Yes, I
do,” I said, resisting the impulse to bite my tongue. “But I’m
guessing there’s something specific you want me to know, or you
wouldn’t have called.”

There was silence for a few seconds, and Karen said,
“Yes, there is something.”

“Is it linked to what you told me before—that you
don’t think Justin Fowler shot your husband?”

“Yes,” she almost whispered. “I just keep thinking
about that poor young man, and I can’t let him be put him in jail.
You know, he’s got some condition . . .