New Tricks (5 page)

“In theory,” I say. “Do you have any idea who could have done it?”

“Blowing up the house? Or killing my father?”

“Let’s start with your father.”

He shrugs. “I assume the guy they arrested. But I can tell you one thing for sure. My father didn’t go to downtown Paterson
looking for drugs or a hooker.”

“Those things didn’t appeal to him?” I ask.

“It wouldn’t matter if they did, he could have made any drug he wanted in his lab, and he would have had the hookers come
to him. It would never have been my father’s style to do what they say he did; he would never put himself in a situation he
couldn’t completely control.”

Steven gets up to get us another couple of slices, and I use the time to check my phone messages at home. There are two. The
first is from Laurie, giving me her flight information for her trip here. No matter what the next message is, it can’t be
as good as that one.

It isn’t. It’s from Pete Stanton, telling me that he’s done some checking into the Timmerman murders, and he’s learned that
Billy Cameron’s client has been released, and that Steven is going to be arrested. “The kid lives in the city,” Pete says.
“They’ll probably take him down there. Looks like you’ve got yourself a second dog.”

While waiting for Steven to come back to the table, I find myself with a dilemma. He clearly has no idea what is about to
hit him, and will be unprepared for it. Besides the emotional jolt, he will not have time to take care of any matters he might
want to before going into custody.

I would not be breaking any confidences by telling him about the impending arrest. Pete attached no such restrictions on it,
and in any event I wouldn’t mention Pete. My instincts tell me that Steven was not involved in the murders, but my instincts
have been known to be wrong on many occasions. For example, I’m positive the Knicks will win the NBA title every year.

On the other hand, I could conceivably be exposing myself to some legal jeopardy by telling him. Were he to take flight to
avoid arrest, I could be subject to an obstruction of justice charge. I’m confident I could beat it, but in the hands of a
prosecutor who disliked me, it would be a major annoyance. And the percentage of prosecutors who dislike me hovers right around
one hundred.

I still haven’t decided what to do when Steven comes back with the pizza.

I take a bite. “This really is good,” I say.

End of discussion.

I
CAN SEE THEM
as we approach Steven’s apartment.

There are at least half a dozen men standing and sitting in strategically positioned places within a hundred feet of the entrance
to the building. To me they are so obvious that they might as well be singing the Miranda warning a cappella, but Steven has
no idea what awaits him.

I only walked back here because my car is parked along the way, but I decide to pass the car by and continue walking. I may
not have prepared Steven for what is about to happen to him, but I’m not about to abandon him when it does.

As we approach I see the men pretending to be carefree and moving aimlessly, but actually executing a pincer movement. Suddenly
they close in, and their actions are so swift and stunning that they take me by surprise—and I knew exactly what was going
to happen.

One of the officers grabs Steven and turns him toward the building, while another moves me away so that I can’t physically
intervene. Obviously, being New York cops, they don’t know me, so they are unaware that I am not a physical intervener. But
I’m a hell of a verbal intervener.

Steven is stunned and is muttering something unintelligible as the officer tells him that he is under arrest, and then quickly
recites his rights to him. The officer concludes with, “Do you understand what I have just told you?”

Steven does not answer; it’s possible he isn’t even aware that the man is speaking.

“Do you understand what I have just told you?” the officer repeats.

Finally Steven nods and says, “Yes… yes.”

“Do you wish to speak with me now?” the officer asks.

This time Steven doesn’t speak; he just turns to me. The look on his face is a desperate plea for help.

“No, he does not wish to speak to you now,” I say.

“Who are you?” the officer asks, looking at me for the first time.

“I’m his attorney.”

“Well, isn’t that a happy coincidence.”

Steven is taken to the Manhattan County jail, where he is booked and fingerprinted. Before they leave, I instruct him not
to talk to anyone at all, and I assure him that I will meet him down there.

I do so, and while I am there I formally agree to waive extradition so that he can be transferred to New Jersey. Lieutenant
Dennis Simmons of the New Jersey State Police expresses his appreciation for my cooperation, though we both know I had no
choice. Refusing permission would have only delayed the process by a day or so, while Steven would have been sitting in a
jail either way.

By eight o’clock in the evening, Steven has been rebooked and is probably not very comfortably settled in the Passaic County
jail. I know from having other clients recount their experiences what he is going through; the fear is palpable, and unfortunately
warranted.

I won’t be able to see him until the morning, so I go home and call Kevin. I bring him up to date on the day’s events, and
assure him that for the moment we have a client who is not another canine.

“Andy, you and I both know that it doesn’t matter whether he is guilty or innocent; he’s entitled to the best defense he can
get. And he’ll get it no matter who represents him.”

That is such an obvious statement that I have no idea why Kevin felt the need to voice it. “I know that, Kevin.”

“Do you also realize that if he’s guilty, then he left the house that day thinking you were going to go inside and get blown
apart? Along with his stepmother and the dog?”

Amazingly, that hadn’t occurred to me. “I hadn’t thought about that until you just said it.”

“Do you still want him as a client?”

“You know what? I’m not sure.”

“Think about it, Andy. Because if they really wanted to, they could charge him with attempted murder of his own attorney.”

I call Laurie to discuss it with her, but she’s not at home. Since it’s nine o’clock in Wisconsin, my mind would ordinarily
start imagining her out to dinner with Brett Favre or some other member of the Wisconsin jet set. The truth is that right
now my mind is so preoccupied that I don’t even have the time or energy for petty, ridiculous jealousies. This situation is
screwing up my priorities.

My most reliable mind-clearing technique has always been to take Tara for a long walk. It somehow feels like getting down
to basics. She is in complete touch with her world; the way she sees and smells everything… the way her ears perk up at any
unusual sound… it somehow encourages me to trust my own instincts the way she trusts hers.

It’s a little more difficult tonight, since I’m walking both Tara and the maniac known as Waggy. He is positively crazed with
excitement by this walk, though we’ve pretty much followed the same route every day since he’s been here.

I am taking very seriously Kevin’s comments about that day at the house. If Steven planted the explosives, or caused them
to be planted, then he is obviously a cold-blooded murderer. And because he saw me outside the house, and knew I was going
in, then he was fully content to be a cold-blooded murderer of me.

But I was basically a stranger to him, and it seems silly to feel he is entitled to a vigorous defense if charged with killing
his father and stepmother, but not for the attempted murder of an unwitting bystander. On the other hand, I keep coming back
to the fact that the unwitting bystander was me.

I cut the walk a little short, not because I am seeing things with total clarity, but because my arms ache from trying to
restrain Waggy. We get home, and I pour myself a glass of wine.

Laurie calls me back and is as supportive as she can be, while we both understand that the decision is both personal and mine.
I think about it some more, and then decide to discuss it with Waggy, who is sleeping next to Tara on the end of the bed.

I’m nuts to do anything to wake up Waggy; I could be opening myself up for another session of his running around the house
like an Olympic hurdler. But I say, “Wag, old buddy, here’s the situation. I’m going to try to help your friend Steven. If
we win, you live with him. If we lose, you stay here. Either way you’ll be fine.”

He just looks at me, gives a little wag of his tail, and lays his head on Tara’s back.

I take this as a sign that he approves of the plan.

I
PICK
K
EVIN UP AT THE
L
AW
-
DROMAT
at eight
AM
.

His car is being repaired, and we’re going down to the jail for an early-morning meeting with Steven. Though from our point
of view the meeting could wait until later in the day, we will be there early for his sake. If he’s like every other client
I’ve had in this predicament, he is scared out of his mind and needs to see a friendly face. Someone on his side.

When I arrive, there are about five customers sitting around, waiting for an interruption in the whirring sounds of the washers
and dryers that means their clothes are done.

Kevin is in intense conversation with a woman, maybe seventy years old, who is sitting but still leans against a small cart
that she would use to transport her laundry. He waves to me and says that he’ll just be a couple of minutes.

I sit down about ten feet away and see that they have papers spread out on the chair between them. I am close enough to hear
them talking, which is of little benefit because they are speaking Spanish. I had no idea Kevin could speak Spanish, and certainly
not as fluently as it appears. It’s disorienting; I feel like I’m watching a dubbed movie.

They talk for ten more minutes, interrupted only by the woman getting up to put more quarters in her dryer. Finally they finish,
and the woman gathers up her papers before retrieving her clothes.

Once Kevin and I are in the car, I say, “I didn’t even know you could speak Spanish.”

“I had to learn, because for so many of my clients it’s a first language.”

“Clients? I thought you give legal advice for free down there.”

“I do, but I still consider them clients. I’m representing that woman on a probate matter. Her husband died, and his will
wasn’t correctly prepared or filed.”

What I’m hearing is pretty amazing. “So you actually represent these people? In court?”

“When I have to.”

“For free?” I ask.

He nods. “For free; most of them couldn’t afford to pay anyway. But they wouldn’t take their laundry anywhere else.”

Kevin has obviously become a pro at pro bono. “How many of these clients do you have?”

He thinks for a moment. “Right now? Probably about seventy.”

I don’t know how to respond to this, so all I say is, “Oh.”

On the way to the jail, Kevin tells me that he has checked and learned that Richard Wallace has been assigned to prosecute
the case. It’s a mixed blessing for us. I know Richard well; my father trained him many years ago. He is cooperative and professional,
but he is also smart and tough.

Once we’re in the small, private visiting room reserved for lawyers and their clients, Steven is brought in to see us. The
look on his face immediately tells us he has had a long, horrible night, and the truth is that it will only be the first of
many.

The police and prosecutor made an embarrassing mistake in initially arresting and charging the wrong person for the Walter
Timmerman murder. They would not then have moved so hastily to arrest Steven had they not been very confident that the embarrassment
would not be compounded by another early release. They may not have the goods on Steven, but they damn sure think they do.

I introduce Kevin, and Steven immediately starts pressing us for information on his situation. He’s hoping I’ll tell him something
positive, something to give him a reason to hope, when in actuality I’ve got nothing to tell him at all.