Dog Tags (21 page)

I don’t have to be a math major to know that if the movie lasts two hours, we’re not going to bed until at least ten thirty.
That would be much later than my planned schedule, which had me in a sexually satisfied sleep by ten o’clock.

“Haven’t we seen this one already?” I ask.

“Of course. It’s Tracy and Hepburn.”

“As I recall, they argue and are completely incompatible for ninety percent of the movie, and then they fall in love. I hope
I didn’t spoil the ending for you.”

“The ending is my favorite part,” she says. “Let’s watch this, okay? We can talk later.”

The last thing I want to do after this is over is talk. “Okay, sure. You want to watch a love story without nudity… hey, I’m
all for it.”

“Keep it up and there’s not going to be any nudity at all tonight. On television or off.”

This sounds like a threat, and Andy Carpenter does not take kindly to threats. “I’ll go make the popcorn,” I say.

That’ll teach her.

J
URY SELECTION IS THE PITS.
I think the technical legal term for it is Pitsius Corpus, but “pits” sums it up nicely.

Eli and I spend seemingly endless hours questioning people, trying to figure out which ones are more likely to take our side
in a future verdict.

This is difficult enough on its face, but the problem is vastly compounded by the fact that most of the people we talk to
are bullshitting us. The direction of the bullshitting is generally determined by whether or not they want to sit on the jury
in the first place. Depending on their point of view, they’ll say either what they think we want to hear, or the opposite.

Of course, we don’t know what we want to hear. We have our theories, and our general idea about the right juror for a particular
case, but basically we’re just guessing. And we won’t know if we’ve guessed right until the verdict comes in.

The court has summoned a total of eighty-one citizens from whom we are to choose our panel of twelve, with four alternates.
That will be more than enough, though there is an endless supply of people to call upon if it isn’t.

I have never finished jury selection with any idea how our side
has done, and I would be just fine picking the jury by lottery, with no questioning at all.

Today’s questioning is no different from any others. I’m basically looking to get people with above-average intelligence,
who might be more likely to grasp and accept more than the obvious evidence put before them. To this end, six of the first
eight accepted by both sides are college graduates, so I guess I’m doing okay.

At least twenty of the prospective selections are eager to say that they have predispositions about the case, are related
to a cop, or are strongly pro- or anti-military. They believe these are factors that will get them sent home, and they’re
right.

The ninth juror selected is in his forties, sells medical supplies, is a college graduate, and clearly wants on this panel.
He answers everything earnestly, and takes every chance to show how open-minded he is.

Of course, open-minded isn’t my first choice; biased in our favor would be my preference. But I have no reason to turn him
down, other than a slightly uncomfortable feeling that he is too anxious to be chosen. Salesmen generally work on commission,
and spending two weeks in a courtroom therefore cuts down on income. But if number nine isn’t concerned with that, then I
guess I’m not, either.

We plow through until the end of the day; Judge Catchings obviously wants to get this over with. It’s almost five o’clock
when we empanel the fourth alternate, and the lucky group is asked to be here first thing tomorrow morning.

All in all, I’m happy with the group.

Or not.

I’ll let you know when I know.

W
ILLIE SAW THEM AS SOON AS THEY ENTERED.
Joseph Russo and his two bodyguards came in the front door of the Tara Foundation and checked out the place as if they were
setting foot on Mars.

Of course, they looked upside down to Willie, since he was seeing them while lying on his back in the center of the foundation’s
play area. He was participating in an energetic wrestling match with eleven dogs, and loving every minute of it.

It took him a while to get to his feet, since there were probably four hundred pounds of dogs on his chest. The largest of
these was a New-fie, who insisted on licking Willie’s face during the entire process.

Finally Willie was able to make it over to Joseph and his men, all of whom seemed pleased to be behind the fence separating
the main area from the play area.

“Hey, man. I didn’t expect you to come by,” Willie said.

“This is what you do?” Russo asked, not bothering to hide his incredulity.

“Yup. Every day.”

“Whose dogs are these?”

“Ours,” Willie said. “Until people adopt them; then we go out and get more.”

“You’re a fucking whacko.”

Willie nodded. “You got that right. Your friends want to come in here?” he asks, referring to the play area.

Russo looked at his bodyguards, whose expressions clearly conveyed the fact that they had no inclination whatsoever to enter
the madhouse. He laughed. “I don’t think so. Is there someplace we can talk?”

Willie led Russo into the office, and the bodyguards waited just outside the door. “So, did you find out who hired Childress?’

“I did.”

“What’s his name?” Willie asks.

“He don’t have a name. They just call him M.”

“M like the letter M?” Willie asks.

“Yeah. He used to work out of Chicago; only handled big-time hits. Then he dropped out, but the word is he’s working for serious
money people.”

“You know who they are?”

Russo shook his head. “No.”

“So how do I find this M guy?”

“Willie, this is not somebody you want to find. We’re not talking about a guy in a prison yard with a knife. We’re talking
about bad news.”

Willie wasn’t about to back down. “I want to find him.”

Russo looked at Willie and knew he wasn’t going to be talked out of it. “Okay, I got the word out, but it won’t be easy. The
cops have been looking for him for years. Every once in a while there’s a rumor he’s dead, like that Osama asshole. But he
ain’t. He makes other people dead.”

“Thanks, Joseph. I appreciate this.”

“No sweat. So maybe I’ll get myself a dog. One of the big ones.”

“Yeah?” Willie said, showing no enthusiasm whatsoever.

“You don’t think that’s a good idea?”

“Do you like dogs?”

Russo shrugged. “Yeah. As long as they shit where they’re supposed to.”

“Where would you keep it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where would it sleep?”

“In the backyard. I’d get one of those doghouses. A real nice one.”

Willie shook his head. “Sorry, can’t help you. The dogs we adopt out live in houses with the people. Hanging outside is a
pretty crummy life, you know?”

“So you’re telling me I’m not good enough for one of your dogs?”

“No, I’m saying that you’re good, and the dogs are good, but you ain’t good together.”

Russo didn’t say anything for ten seconds, trying to digest what he’d just heard. Then he smiled. “Your balls haven’t gotten
any smaller, have they?”

Willie returned the smile. “Hope not.”

“H
OW THE HELL DID YOU FIND THAT OUT?”

“What’s the difference?” Willie asks. “I told you I wanted to help out, and that I wanted to know who hired Childress. So
I did both.”

“M? That’s the guy’s name?”

“That’s what they call him.”

“Willie, I need to know where this came from.”

“Why?”

“So I can judge how reliable it is. No offense, I trust you completely, but anyone can be wrong.”

So Willie reluctantly tells me about his friend Joseph Russo, and how he is sure Russo is correct about this. I have no doubt
he’s telling me the straight scoop, and I’m also sure that Russo is the type of guy in position to have access to this information.
As search engines go, the Vincent Petrone crime family has the power of about six Googles.

“You took a big chance, Willie.”

“The piece of shit held a gun on Sondra. M sent him, so M is going down, no matter what kind of chances I have to take. Besides,
I told you, Russo is a friend, and he thinks he owes me.”

“Why does he think that?”

“Because I took care of three guys that were trying to kill him in prison.”

“You took care of them?” I ask. “How did you do that?”

“They were coming at him with knives, and I didn’t think that was fair, so I stopped them and put them in the hospital.”

“Oh.” I’m amazed that such a momentous event could have happened, yet Willie is so nonchalant about it that he never told
me. If I heroically thwarted a murder, I would have a book deal and a
Today
show appearance within an hour. I would also walk around wearing a sandwich board proclaiming myself a “hero” sandwich.

“Russo’s going to put out the word to try and find him,” Willie says. “And I want to help as well.”

Obviously Willie is going to be active in this hunt whether Laurie and I want him to or not, so I can’t say no. Nor do I want
to; he’s learned more in a few days than I have since I got on the case.

“Okay. We’ll—” I’m interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Since Edna is off somewhere being Edna, I answer it myself.

“Hello,” I say, using a clever phone conversation opening that I’ve perfected over time.

“Hello, Andy.” It’s Cindy Spodek; the first time I’ve spoken to her since I asked if she could get the FBI report on the Iraq
explosion.

“I hope you’re not calling for another favor,” I say. “I’m starting to feel taken advantage of.”

“Don’t push it, old friend. I tried to get a look at the report you asked about.”

Her use of the word “tried” doesn’t exactly fill me with optimism. “And?”

“And there is no way. I’d have an easier time getting my hands on the nuclear codes.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I say. “Is that to be expected in a situation like this? Is it standard operating procedure?”

“Even without seeing it, I can tell you that there’s nothing standard about that report. It’s classified in the extreme; Homeland
Security is all over it.”

“Homeland Security? This happened in Iraq, not Iowa.”

“Andy, think of the world as one big happy homeland.”

This is confusing to me, which means it gets added to the list. “Thanks, Cindy. I appreciate your trying. And while I have
you…”

“Uh-oh,” she says.

“If I say ‘M,’ what does it mean to you?”

“I hope you mean, like in Mary.”

“No, I mean like in criminal or hit man,” I say.

The next ten seconds defines the phrase “ominous silence.” “Cindy?”

“Andy, this is someone you don’t want to have anything to do with, in any form.”

“So you know of him?”

“I’ve been chasing him for six months.”

“Why?”

“He’s a murderer, Andy. And one of his murders is part of a case I’m working on.”

“Which one?” I ask.

“I’m not at liberty to say. Sorry.”

“Is it mob-related?”