Dog Tags (13 page)

“They don’t hunt?”

M laughed. “They’re from New York.”

M didn’t ask Jeremy where he lived, since he had already searched Jeremy’s cabin. In the process he found and took twenty-five
thousand dollars in cash, which made it a rather profitable morning—almost worth coming out to the middle of nowhere.

Instead he asked gentle questions about Jeremy’s time in the army, claiming to have been a veteran himself. He wanted to assure
himself that Jeremy was not the type to talk about his time in Iraq or what got him discharged.

Jeremy was tight-lipped about it, though he was willing to discuss his private life. After an hour, M felt reasonably certain
that Jeremy had not revealed anything about the time in Iraq, and that there was no one he would have confided in.

It was just past noon, and M figured it was time to kill Jeremy. That would give him time to bury the body, get back to town,
and get the last flight out.

He had decided to shoot Jeremy in the back. It wasn’t out of cowardice, though M was aware that as a former soldier Jeremy
could be a worthy and dangerous adversary. It was basically unfair to Jeremy to do it from the front, and thereby have him
experience the fear of knowing death was imminent. M didn’t want him to suffer; Jeremy had only been doing his job.

Just like M was now doing his.

He took out his handgun. He had equipped it with a silencer,
more through force of habit and extra carefulness than anything else. Certainly the sound of a gunshot out here during hunting
season would not attract attention.

But Jeremy turned around, possibly a result of instinct, possibly by happenstance. As soon as he saw the gun, he knew what
was coming. And he knew why.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jeremy said.

“I’m afraid I do.”

M fired three times, though Jeremy was certainly dead from the first shot.

On the way to the airport he called Landon to report on the successful trip. “I’m on my way to Albuquerque now for number
three.”

“Have you got somebody back here you can rely on?” Landon asked.

“Of course. What do you need?”

Landon had been disconcerted by the amount of press coverage Milo was getting, and that morning’s paper had carried the news
that Andy Carpenter had signed on to represent Zimmerman. Publicity was not in any way desirable; before long the entire world
would be looking for the dog, and maybe the envelope.

“I want the dog,” Landon said.

“Now?” M asked. “I thought you wanted to wait.”

“I’m finished waiting. Get me the dog now.”

I
F WE EVER LOSE OUR DEMOCRATIC, PERSONAL FREEDOMS, DISCOVERY WILL BE AMONG THE FIRST THINGS TO GO.
For someone accused of a crime, I consider it among the most important rights. To tell you the truth, it makes Miranda look
like an aging flamenco dancer.

Discovery is the process by which the prosecutor is forced to share the evidence he has, and that he will rely upon at trial,
with the defense. It takes away the element of surprise and allows often underfunded defense attorneys to properly prepare
their cases.

The discovery documents Eli sends us in the Zimmerman case are limited in scope. That’s not to say they’re not substantial,
because they are. They include all the direct evidence against Billy, including very damaging forensics and eyewitness accounts.
It is no wonder that Eli has no desire to offer a deal; he must correctly assume that his case is overwhelming.

But what the documents don’t include is background information on Erskine, or any information about the envelope or its possible
contents. That is for the defense to probe; the prosecution does not need to dig out those facts to prove its case.

While there is no necessity for the prosecution to prove motive, I’m sure Eli will tell the jury that Billy was seeking revenge
against Erskine, blaming him for his devastating injury. Eli will not go near any possibility that Erskine was corrupt, or
that other people might have had reason to kill him. That is our job.

I ask Hike to prepare a request for information related to the bombing in Iraq. We could present it to the Defense Department,
which would likely take forever to give it to us. Rather than go that route, I’ll ask the court to issue an order that it
be provided.

I call Eli and ask that he stipulate no objection to our getting the information. He agrees to do so, not because he wants
to be helpful, but because he knows we’ll eventually get it anyway. This way he avoids the possibility that it could lead
to a delay in the court proceedings. Except for acquittals and hung juries, delays are the things prosecutors hate most in
the world.

Hike and I spend three hours going over the discovery material, exchanging documents after we’ve read them so that we’ll each
be sure to see all of it. This is just the beginning; we’ll be reviewing these same documents many times, in addition to others
that are sure to follow. There is absolutely no excuse for a lawyer not to be totally knowledgeable about every aspect of
the case. If there were I would have found it long ago.

Spending three hours with Hike reminds me of a scene from
Take the Money and Run,
one of Woody Allen’s earliest and funniest movies. Woody plays Virgil Tibbs, a small-time criminal who unsuccessfully attempts
to escape from prison. As punishment, he is locked in a small, underground room with an insurance salesman, who shakes his
hand and starts trying to sell him various policies before they are even locked away.

Hike has no interest in selling me insurance, but he has the unerring ability to focus on all that is wrong with the world,
combining it with the certain knowledge that nothing can be done to fix it.

“This is not good,” Hike says when we are about to wrap it up for the night.

I nod. “Not so far.”

“You going to recommend he plead it out?”

“Eli already turned me down when I brought it up. I don’t think our client would go for it anyway.”

Hike frowns. “He’s an ex-cop; he must know what he’s up against.”

“He does.”

“You think he did it?”

“No. If he hated Erskine enough to kill him, he wouldn’t have done it this way.”

“Why not?” Hike asks.

“Because it put Milo in danger, and there would have been no reason to. He could have left Milo home, followed Erskine to
the club, or anywhere else, and shot him. And if he wanted the envelope, he could have just taken it.”

“No jury is going to buy the he-wouldn’t-put-his-dog-in-danger argument. Unless you get twelve dog nuts like you.”

I nod. “The good news is, there are a lot of dog nuts out there.”

He smiles. “I’ll research if we can challenge a juror for cause based on the fact that he’s sane as it relates to dogs.”

“We’ll break new ground.” I’m stunned to realize that for the first time, I’m enjoying my conversation with Hike. He’s being
pessimistic about our chances at trial, but that’s okay, because it’s logical. With what we know right now, we have very little
chance.

“You ever have a murder one case?” I ask. “As lead counsel?”

He nods. “Once. I lost. It was the worst experience of my life.”

“Because you lost?”

“No. Because I don’t think he did it. The prosecution had a strong case, but I don’t think he did it. I still work the case;
I don’t think a week goes by that I don’t look through the file.”

“And your client… he’s in prison now?”

Hike shakes his head slowly. “He was… for four years. Then he hung himself in his cell.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, because I am. There is no worse feeling imaginable to me than losing a murder case that could have been
won.

He nods. “Thanks. Me too. I wouldn’t trade places with you on this case for anything.”

“Why?”

“I believe my client was innocent, and he depended on me to prove it, and now he’s dead. And you could be headed toward a
similar result.”

I nod.

“I’ll help you however I can,” he says. “You just tell me what to do, and it’s done.”

F
OR ME, A MURDER CASE OFFICIALLY BEGINS WHEN
I
GO TO THE SCENE.
It gives me a feel, a context, for what happened, and I find that invaluable. It’s the difference between sitting on the
fifty-yard line at a football game and reading a newspaper account of the same game.

When Laurie was my full-time investigator, we would go to the scene together. She would view it through the eyes of a trained
detective and was able to provide insights that I could never come up with on my own.

This time Laurie asks if she can go along, and I’m delighted to have her. It feels like old times, and there’s nothing wrong
with that.

We go there at midnight, since that’s when the murder took place. It gives us more of a feel for what happened, for how it
might have looked to both the participants in the crime and the witnesses to it.

As we’re driving toward the club, I look over at Laurie in the passenger seat and see that she is struggling to keep her eyes
open. It’s evidence of the lingering effects of her injury; she still tires far more easily than she used to.

When I see her eyes open, I ask, “You okay?”

“I’m completely fine,” she says. “Why?” She asks the question in a challenging way, not wanting to admit to any weaknesses.

“You just seem tired, and it’s late,” I say.

“I’m not tired, and it’s not late,” she says.

I nod. “Right. You’re fresh and it’s no wonder, since it’s so early. But you said last week, and I quote, ‘I need to start
listening to the doctor and stop pushing myself.’”

“Do you remember every word of every conversation you’ve ever had?” she asks.

I smile. “It’s a gift.” That’s actually the truth; for some reason words stick in my mind. I’m verbal rather than visual.
I could go to the Grand Canyon and forget what it looked like, but I would remember every word I heard while I was there.

I know I shouldn’t push this, but my concern for Laurie overwhelms my self-preservation instinct. “I just don’t want you to
overdo it.”

“Riding in a car is overdoing it?”

I can tell she’s really annoyed, so I back down, belatedly but in characteristic fashion. “Nope. It’s definitely not overdoing
it. If anything, it’s underdoing it. Way under.”

She still has a slight frown on her face, so I hold up my hand, palm down, near the inside roof of the car. “Overdoing it
is up here.” I move my hand down toward the floor. “Your doing-it level is down here. Way, way under.”

We reach the Skybar on River Road and park across the street. The place is very active at this hour, with quite a few people
going in and out, and the music from inside spills out onto the street.

I point to the front of the bar, just to the right of the door. “According to Billy, Erskine was standing there for more than
an hour. A couple of witnesses confirmed that he was there, but they didn’t know for how long.”

“Where was Billy?” she asks.

I point across the street. “Over there. And Milo was by that tree to the left of the bar.”

“What were they waiting for?”

“An opportunity for Milo to take something,” I say.

“How did he know he’d have the chance?”

I shrug. “Billy said he didn’t know, but he was hopeful. He said, and I quote, ‘A slimeball like Erskine wouldn’t have been
standing there for so long for his health. Something had to be going down.’”

She frowns. “He could have been meeting a date who was late showing up.”

I point down the street. “So Billy’s version is that a car drove slowly from that direction, and that Erskine saw him and
started walking the other way. The car passed the bar and Erskine met him down there. Billy said the man parked near the corner
and came back to meet Erskine.”

We walk to the place where Erskine and the man spoke, and where the murder took place. “Erskine wasn’t running away?” Laurie
asks.

I shake my head. “No, it was obviously a prearranged meeting. Billy is positive that Erskine was waiting for this guy to show
up.”

The trees and buildings combine to make it particularly dark at the spot of the murder, and I mention that to Laurie. “I’m
sure it was by design,” she says. “Otherwise they would have met closer to the bar. Erskine clearly did not realize he had
something to fear.”