Dog Tags (4 page)

“All in good time. Anyway, Billy was also in the National Guard, and he volunteered to go to Iraq. He was there less than
a year and got his leg blown off. So he comes back and gets screwed by everybody. Medical care is bad; it was like they were
doing him a favor by treating him. And all he could do on the force was get a desk job, which is not for Billy. So he told
them to shove it.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted his old job back, working the streets.”

“With one leg?”

“He has a prosthetic; it works fine,” Pete says. “He could outrun you.”

“So can my grandmother,” Vince says.

“Both your grandmothers are dead,” I say.

He nods. “Either one of them could still spot you ten yards in the hundred and wipe the track with you.”

I’m not going to get anywhere by talking to Vince, so I turn my attention back to Pete. “So he wants me to represent him?”
I ask, cringing.

“Maybe. We didn’t talk about it,” Pete says. “But that’s down the road.”

The answer surprises me. “What’s up the road?”

“His dog.”

“He wants me to take his dog?” I ask, my relief probably showing through. Willie and I have already placed hundreds of dogs
through our foundation, and adding one is no hardship at all.

“No. He wants you to defend his dog.”

“From what?”

“The government.”

“H
E’S LIKE A CELEBRITY HERE,
A
NDY.”

Fred Brandenberger is talking about Milo, who has been placed in the Passaic County Animal Shelter. Fred is the shelter director,
a thankless job in a world in which there are far more dogs and cats than available homes.

I am following through on Pete’s request for me to try to help his friend by helping his friend’s dog. The first step in that
process is to visit with my new “client,” whom Fred tells me is occupying a special dog run in the back of the shelter.

“What do you mean by ‘celebrity’?” I ask.

“Well, for one thing, four cops came with animal control when they brought him in. Then they told me I couldn’t take him out,
not even for a walk.”

It hits me that it’s probably the dog I saw under police siege the other night. “Is it a German shepherd?” I ask.

“How did you know?”

“I was there when the arrest went down. But you can do whatever you want with him,” I say. “This is your show here.”

“I don’t think so,” he says. “You’ll see what I mean in a second.”

Fred brings me into a back room that I’ve never been in before, and which I didn’t realize existed. The room is completely
empty except for a large dog run against the back wall. In that run is the same German shepherd, pacing in his five-by-eight
space, as if frustrated and not completely understanding or tolerating the fact that he is a prisoner. When they say that
someone is acting like a caged animal, this is literally what they’re talking about.

I’ve got a thing about dogs; I am totally and completely crazy about them. I thumb through
Dog Fancy
the way most guys look at the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue. And this dog is even more spectacular than he looked in the dark the other night; there is immediately no
doubt that he does not belong in these circumstances, and I am going to change them.

He is getting out.

Sitting on a chair in front of the run, and complicating matters considerably, is a uniformed police officer. He stands when
he sees us, and lets his hand rest on his holstered gun.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “Guarding the dog?”

“Who are you?”

We seem to be asking a lot of questions, but none of them are getting answered. I decide to break that streak. “I’m the dog’s
lawyer.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Which part didn’t you understand? I’m Milo’s lawyer, and I’m here to discuss the case with my client. If you’ll excuse us…”

“Forget it,” he says. “Nobody gets near that dog.”

“Except for me,” Fred offers. “I get to feed him and clean up after him.”

“Why are you guarding my client?”

“Because they assigned me here,” the officer says. “You think I decided to do this on my own?”

This isn’t turning into a very productive conversation. “Why did they assign you here?”

He shrugs. “Beats the shit out of me. But nobody’s going near that dog.” He nods toward Fred. “Except this guy.”

I’m not going to get anywhere with him, and I sort of have nowhere to get anyway. It’s not like I was going to have a meaningful
client conference with Milo; I just wanted to get another look at him. He’s a spectaular, powerful dog who certainly doesn’t
look like he needs an armed guard to protect him. It annoys me to see him locked up like this.

“Okay,” I say, and then look past him so I can talk directly to Milo. “Milo, don’t talk to anybody about anything. Anybody
asks you something, refer them to your lawyer. If you need anything, cigarettes, reading material, whatever, just tell the
guard.”

The officer looks like he’s going to shoot me, so Fred and I go back into the main area. “You have no idea what this is about?”
I ask.

“Nope. They came in like they were dealing with Al Capone and wouldn’t tell me anything. But there’s a guard there twenty-four
hours; maybe they think somebody is going to try to steal him. Stealing dogs is not usually a problem here.”

Fred is referring to the fact that he frequently has the very unpleasant task of having to put down some of the dogs here.
It’s why Willie and I have our foundation.

I call Pete from my car and tell him what happened, and I’m surprised when he doesn’t sound surprised at all. “Yeah, I was
going to call you,” he says. “I just heard about the guard.”

“What’s this all about?”

“I don’t know, but the situation is locked down. And the word is that the FBI is involved.”

“FBI? Who did your friend kill?”

“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?” he asks.

“All of a sudden you’re an ACLU member? Who is your friend alleged to have killed?”

“I don’t know.”

“So I suppose you don’t know where the dog fits in?”

“Not a clue.”

“Thanks. Your involving me in this situation has really affected my life in a positive way.”

“You bailing out?” he asks.

“No.”

“Because you got a look at the dog, right? You saw him in a cage and you want to get him out.”

I’m annoyed that he’s right, and I can’t think of a quick comeback, so I don’t say anything.

He laughs, knowing full well that he’s scored a point. “You actually prefer dogs to humans.”

“Maybe I need to start hanging out with a better class of humans.”

Click.

I
NEED TO SPEAK TO
B
ILLY
Z
IMMERMAN’S LAWYER.
That way I can have him get the court to allow me to represent Milo. I have to admit that my semi-involvement in all of this
doesn’t feel quite so much like a chore anymore. Not only do I want to get that dog out of his undeserved imprisonment, but
I’m more than curious to find out why it is considered necessary to post a twenty-four-hour armed guard outside his cage.

I call Rita Gordon, the court clerk, to find out who is representing Zimmerman. I had a forty-five-minute affair with Rita
a few years ago, when Laurie had left for Wisconsin and we were broken up. Rita’s sexual prowess and energy level are such
that if the affair had lasted for fifty-five minutes, they would have had to get me out of bed with a soup ladle.

“Hiya, big boy,” she says when she hears that it’s me. She’s taken to calling me big boy lately, and I don’t know what to
make of it. I stifle the desire to ask her what she means or if she’s kidding, because I’m afraid to hear the answer.

We banter a bit, since that is the price I have to pay for information. Then I ask, “Who is Billy Zimmerman’s lawyer?”

“Does the name Nobody ring a bell?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he refuses to have a lawyer,” she says. “The PD handled it for the arraignment, but after that Zimmerman said he
didn’t need one.”

“So he’s going to represent himself?” I ask.

“As far as I know he hasn’t said that, but eventually he’s going to have to make a decision.”

This is becoming more complicated by the minute. “I need to see him.”

“We all have our needs.”

“Can you get a message to him? Tell him it’s about Milo.”

“Who’s Milo?” she asks.

“His dog.”

“Again with the dogs? Don’t you think you might be overdoing this dog thing?

“Come on, Rita. Tell him I need to talk to him about Milo. Tell him it’s life or death.”

“Is it?”

“No.”

She considers that for a few moments, and then shrugs. “Okay. I’ll get word to him.”

“Thanks.”

With nothing else to do, I head back to the office. It’s not like I have anything to do there; I just feel that if I spend
afternoons at home, I’m one step from watching soap operas and eating bonbons. It’s a dignity thing.

Edna isn’t in, which does not exactly qualify as a news event, so I take the time to ponder what I should do about Kevin’s
announced departure from the firm. His leaving means that we lose 50 percent of the firm’s lawyers, while retaining the 50
percent, me, that doesn’t like to do any of the work.

This would leave something of a gap, if we had any clients. The fact that we don’t makes the problem somewhat less urgent,
but that is subject to change. Despite my best efforts, clients and murder cases seem to show up out of nowhere.

Kevin is a brilliant attorney, and the perfect complement to me. He takes great pleasure and pride in writing detailed legal
briefs and obsessing over the minutiae that can be so critical in the course of a trial. I see myself as more of a big-picture
strategist, which means I’m lazy and I bore easily.

There’s a good chance I can deal with this minor Milo issue on my own, but in the future I’m going to need somebody, at least
on a part-time basis. Kevin’s friend Eddie Lynch is a possibility, though based on my one conversation with him, he could
probably talk me onto a window ledge.

Having resolved nothing, not even in my mind, I turn my attention to the Internet to read what I can about the murder that
Billy Zimmerman stands accused of. The name of the victim is still being withheld, which is very unusual for this situation.

The victim was standing in front of a relatively expensive club, and is not being described as homeless or a vagrant. It would
seem far-fetched that he cannot be identified, and the police are not even claiming that is the case. They simply are not
yet releasing his name.

The incident has not been treated by the press as a major story, so I would imagine there is little pressure on the police
to be more forthcoming. For now it is just strange, though not nearly as strange as an armed guard around Milo.

Just as I’m preparing to go home, having exhausted myself from thinking nonstop for forty-five minutes, Rita Gordon calls.
She has contacted Billy Zimmerman, who had previously been not at all responsive to any contacts from representatives of the
justice system.

“Milo was the magic word,” she says. “He says he’ll see you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

I’m a little irritated by a prisoner, no less one I’m doing a favor for, dictating the time of our meeting. “Gee,” I say,
“that barely gives me time to find something to wear.”

“Shall I set it up?” she asks, choosing to ignore my sarcasm.

My inclination is to tell her to tell him to shove it, but I can’t get the image of Milo in a cage out of my mind.

“Okay. I’ll be there.”