Dog Tags (38 page)

Billy is brought in, looking nervous and concerned. He’s afraid that a verdict is reached; I think he’s been hoping for a
hung jury. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“I don’t know, but it’s not a verdict.”

“Does the jury have a question?”

“If they do, I haven’t heard it.”

The bailiff comes over and informs first me, and then Eli, that Judge Catchings wants to see us in his chambers. He doesn’t
say lead counsel only, so I bring Hike with me, and Eli brings his second counsel as well.

I always hate going to a judge’s chambers. It feels like I’m being dragged to the principal’s office, mostly because I’m usually
being called there because the judge is pissed off at me. That’s not the case this time.

Judge Catchings sits behind his desk, not wearing his robe and looking weary. “I’ve been informed of very serious juror misconduct,
and I’ve confirmed it to be true.”

“What kind of misconduct?” Eli asks.

“One of the jurors visited the murder scene on his own, though I had prohibited it repeatedly. The same juror watched media
coverage of the trial.”

Eli is not completely getting it; or maybe he just doesn’t want to. A mistrial is a nightmare for the prosecution, in some
ways worse than an acquittal. “You can bring in one of the alternates, Your Honor. It’s only been a day and a half; you can
instruct them to commence their deliberations from the beginning.”

Catchings shakes his head. “The juror has conveyed to the other jurors his feelings based on his visit to the scene, and the
coverage he watched on television. The entire panel is contaminated.”

We throw out some more questions, until all the details come out. In addition to going to the scene one night last week, the
juror had watched the CNN coverage, in particular an appearance by Douglas Burns, a defense attorney often called upon as
an expert commentator by various networks. I’ve seen him many times; he’s got an outstanding legal mind, honed by his earlier
days as a prosecutor.

His point of view on this case was basically that Billy should be acquitted, and I assume he gave cogent arguments that I
would have agreed with. More importantly, the juror seemed to agree with them, and came in and tried to convince his colleagues
on the panel.

Somebody had conveyed this information anonymously to the court, and Catchings confirmed all of it. “I have no choice but
to declare a mistrial,” he says.

“Which juror was it?” I ask.

“Number nine,” he says, confirming my hunch. He was the juror who seemed far too anxious to be on the panel.

“Had the jury taken any votes?” Eli asks. “Did you happen to find that out?”

Catchings nods. “Ten to two for conviction.”

It’s all Eli can do to stifle a moan, and we head back to the courtroom for Catchings to announce it officially. As soon as
I see Billy, I tell him the news.

His relief is obvious. “I’ll take the mistrial; I thought we were going to lose.”

“We were,” I say. “The jury was ten–two against.”

Billy’s no dummy; he knows how this works. “With those kind of numbers they’ll retry the case.”

“Billy, I’m going to tell you something, but at this point I can’t answer the questions you’ll have about what I’m going to
say. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I strongly believe you will never be convicted of this crime. You will not even be retried for this crime. You’re going to
stay in jail for a while, but it will be a short time.”

He grins. “I can think of a few questions to ask, but for now I’ll just sit with this awhile.”

“Thank you.”

Billy is taken away. I’m happy he’s going to get off, but I’m feeling very uneasy about the turn that things have taken. For
all my cynicism, I believe in the criminal justice system, and I take my role as an officer of the court seriously.

This has been an abuse of the system. Juror number nine was planted there by the FBI, to be used as they saw fit. There might
have been others as well, since it was possible that number nine might not have made the panel in the first place.

This worked out in my favor, and in Billy’s.

But it stinks.

A
LAN
L
ANDON WAS ALREADY WAITING IN THE DESERTED BUILDING WHEN
C
HAPLIN ARRIVED.

Chaplin was surprised when he saw him, because Landon’s car was not there. Perhaps a limo dropped him off and would come
back for him; nothing that people with this kind of money did surprised Chaplin.

“Sorry if I’m late,” Chaplin said, though he knew that he wasn’t.

Landon looked at his watch. “You’re not late. Thanks for coming. Sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink.”

“No problem.”

“This situation has the potential to become a bit of a mess,” Landon said.

“There’s no way Carpenter can prove anything. These are foreign companies, fully insulated. No one can tie you to them, and
all I’m doing is executing trades for a client.” Chaplin believed what he was saying; he’d had time to think it through, and
his confidence increased in the process.

“I’m not sure I agree,” Landon said.

“Why not?”

“Because there are people who know the truth, and people have a tendency to talk.”

“Who are you talking about?” Chaplin asks.

“Well, for instance, you.”

A quick flash of panic hit Chaplin, but he recovered quickly. “I’m certainly not going to say anything; I’d wind up going
to jail.”

“Unless you got immunity in return for turning me in.”

“Come on, Alan. I would never do that.”

“Do you believe him?” Landon asked.

Chaplin was confused. “Do I believe who?”

“Not for me to say.” The voice was coming from behind Chaplin, and he whirled to see who it was. It was M, and though Chaplin
had never met him, he was scared to death. The gun in M’s hand told him all he needed to know.

Chaplin turned back to Landon. “Alan, please…”

“I’m sorry, Jonathan. When it comes to money, I’m a risk taker. But in things like this, I don’t take chances.”

“But I swear I won’t say anything. Please, Alan, I’m begging you.”

“Don’t, Jonathan, it’s unseemly. M…”

M didn’t hesitate; he fired three shots. All three hit Alan Landon directly in the chest, a grouping separated by no more
than a few centimeters. Landon was blown back against the wall, dead long before he hit the ground. And long before he had
time to realize what had happened.

It took Chaplin a moment to process what he had just witnessed, to try and understand why Landon was dead and he was still
alive. It did not give him a feeling of safety; his instinct was that M was there to kill both of them.

He started to move toward the door, which was twenty feet away, way too far to get to in time.

“Hold it!” yelled M, and Chaplin froze. “Turn around,” said M, and Chaplin did just that.

To his surprise, M did not have the gun raised. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” M said. “As long as you keep your mouth
shut and do what you’re told.”

“I will. I swear.”

“So go home, and make sure the trades are executed as planned. Then you’re finished with this.”

“So I can leave now?”

“As soon as you help me clean this up.”

Which is what Chaplin did. And after they had wrapped Landon’s body in plastic, they carried the body together and placed
it in M’s trunk.

“You can go now,” said M.

Chaplin drove off, and did not look back.

“A
NDY,
I
KNOW WHERE
M
IS.
Or at least where he was a couple of days ago.”

Willie Miller has called to tell me what he obviously considers important news. I know he thinks it’s important, because he’s
waking me at six fifteen in the morning. I look over and see Laurie awake and pedaling furiously on the exercise bike. It’s
as if the world and I are in different time zones.

“Where?”

“Just outside Boston, a place called Everett.”

“Why did you say ‘was’? You don’t think he’s there anymore?”

“My source saw him leaving a hotel,” Willie says. “He doesn’t know if he’ll be back.”

“Who’s your source? Russo?”

“Yeah. He put out the word, and some guy called in and said he saw M. Russo said the guy is pretty reliable.”

I hear noise in the background, as if someone is talking on a loudspeaker. “Where are you?” I ask.

“LaGuardia. My flight is in forty-five minutes.”

I’m torn as to what to do here. If M is really there, it would be extraordinarily dangerous for Willie to go chasing him.
Everyone
familiar with him tells me he’s an ice-cold killer, the kind of guy it would require an army or Marcus to take down.

On the other hand, there seems to be a very good chance that the informant was wrong, since I know of no reason for M to have
gone off to a small Massachusetts town. Also, the guy reported that M may well have left, thereby covering himself nicely
if he was wrong. The report could have been just to get on Russo’s good side.

Making my decision considerably less important is the fact that Willie wouldn’t listen to me anyway. He’s going to Everett,
with my blessing or not.

“Willie, be careful. This is not a guy to fool around with.”

“I hear you,” he says.

“If you find him, you call me, and I’ll get the FBI to move in. Cindy Spodek works out of the Boston office.”

“I hear you.”

“But my recommendation is that you not go at all.”

“Can’t hear you,” he says, and hangs up. I’m beginning to think that I am not Andy, the Supreme Leader.

I no sooner get off the phone than Sam calls. I’m going to have to sit my crack staff down and explain to them that we are
a nine-to-five operation.

“I think I’ve got it, Andy. It’s gas.”

“Sorry to hear that, Sam. Why don’t you take a Pepto-Bismol and call me later?”

“Come on, Andy. You know what I mean. Chaplin’s company has been taking positions in natural gas. It’s mostly on behalf of
the same companies that made the killings on oil and rhodium.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Well, I’m sure that they have big positions in natural gas. The problem is that they are a large company, so they have a
lot of investments. So there could be something else I’m missing that’s even bigger; it will take me a while to make sure.”

“How much do they stand to make on the gas?” I ask, knowing that he can’t really answer the question, since it would depend
on how much the price of natural gas were to go up.

“A lot” is his answer. “They’ve got bigger positions than the other two times combined. If it goes down the same way, they’re
going to make a killing.”

His choice of words is uncomfortable for me. I still have a dilemma; a mistrial is not an acquittal, so Billy is far from
off the hook. But telling Benson Landon’s name may not be enough to prevent whatever is going to happen, and I am tempted
to tell him what Sam has learned about the natural gas investments.

I decide to wait the rest of the day to see what the fallout is from yesterday’s mistrial. The media has latched on to the
news that the last vote the jury took was heavily in favor of conviction, and their unconfirmed general belief is that juror
number nine was one of the two dissenters.

I have an early-afternoon appointment at the prison to see Billy, who is craving information about his situation. I tell him
I’m in negotiations with the FBI, trying to get them to reveal information that can exonerate him.

“Information they’ve had all along?”

I nod. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Bastards. They just let me sit here?”

“I’m working on changing that, but it’s a little tricky.”

“Work hard, okay? I’m getting a little sick of this place. And I’m looking forward to seeing my man Milo.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“It’s time you started earning the money I’m not paying you,” he says.

I’ve come to like Billy a lot, but I’m looking forward to the day that he’s no longer a client. For both our sakes.

I leave the prison and get a phone call from Eli’s assistant, asking
if I can come to his office right away. He’s in a meeting, but he’ll be back in twenty minutes, just about the time I would
get there. The message is that it’s very important.