Part 3 (1/2)
”Thank you. And it's okay. I've spent the last five years with no hope, so this feels pretty good.”
We agree that I'll keep Reggie in my house, and I promise that until this is all resolved I won't do anything about finding him a permanent home. She thinks his permanent home will be with her brother Richard, as soon as I convince the justice system of his innocence.
As for me, this is not that big a deal, and pretty much a no-lose proposition. In the unlikely event that she's right, I will be attempting to help an innocent man get his freedom. If she's wrong, then I'll get the pleasure of seeing someone who could throw a golden into the ocean rot in prison.
Besides, what else do I have to do?
POLICE OFFICERS, WITH WITH the notable exception of Laurie, can't stand me. the notable exception of Laurie, can't stand me.
This is partly due to the natural antipathy between cops and defense attorneys, though it is also true that I am disliked by people of many occupations.
Actually, I do have one buddy in the Paterson Police Department, Lieutenant Pete Stanton. He's a pretty good friend, which means we drink a lot of beer together while watching TV sports, and when we call each other ”s.h.i.+thead” we don't mean it personally. Professionally, ever since I helped his brother out on a legal matter about five years ago, it's become a one-way street. I often call on him for favors, and after endless grumbling he obliges.
This time I call him to see if he can set up a meeting for me with someone in the Asbury Park Police Department. I tell him that in a perfect world it would be with someone who was involved in the Richard Evans murder case five years ago.
”You're representing Evans?” he asks, with evident surprise.
”Not yet. For now I'm looking into it for a friend.”
”What's the matter?” he asks. ”You run out of sc.u.mbag murderers to help in North Jersey?”
”Only because of your inability to arrest any.”
”You call for a favor and then insult me?” he asks.
”You know, I have some friends who would do me a favor without first putting me through the wringer.”
”Is that right?” he asks. ”Then why don't you call one of them?”
He finally agrees to make a phone call to a detective he knows down there, and within fifteen minutes he calls me back. ”You're set up to see Lieutenant Siegle of Asbury Park PD tomorrow morning at ten.”
”Does he know about the case?”
”She.”
”Does she know about the case?”
”She ran the investigation.”
”Did you tell her I was representing Evans?” It's something I wouldn't want Siegle to think; it might make her reluctant to be straight with me.
”All I told her was that you were an a.s.shole,” he says. ”I figured that was okay, since if she was smart enough to make lieutenant, she'd figure that out anyway.”
I'm on the road by eight in the morning for the drive down to Asbury Park. It's about sixty miles on the Garden State Parkway and, with traffic, can take almost two hours. In the summer it can be even worse.
Asbury Park has long been a key city on the sh.o.r.e, which is how those of us from New Jersey refer to the beach. If you ever suspect that a person is posing as a Jersey-ite, ask him to describe the area where the ocean hits land. If he says ”beach,” he's an impostor. Of course, I have no idea why someone would fake New Jersey credentials, but it's important to be alert.
The drive invariably brings back memories of my misspent youth. My lack of success with girls throughout high school was just about one hundred percent, but at least I had a few ”almosts” at the sh.o.r.e. An official ”almost” occurred when one of my friends or I would get a girl to talk to us for fifteen minutes without saying, ”Get lost, jerk.”
Asbury has changed markedly over the years, and, I'm sorry to say, not for the better. It used to be a fun place, with restaurants, bars, and amus.e.m.e.nt rides and games, sort of a mini Coney Island. It has slipped into very substantial decline, and it makes me feel a little older and sadder to see it.
I arrive at the police station fifteen minutes early, and Lieutenant Siegle is out on a call. She arrives promptly at ten o'clock, and the desk sergeant points to me waiting in a chair at the end of the lobby.
She walks over to me, a smile on her face and her hand outstretched. ”Andy Carpenter? Michele Siegle.”
She's an attractive woman, about my age, and it flashes across my mind that she could have been one of the girls I got nowhere with back in my high school days. ”Thanks for seeing me.”
”I've actually followed many of your cases,” she says, then notes the surprised look on my face. ”I'm going to Seton Hall Law School at night.”
”Really... That's terrific,” I say. ”Crossing over to the other side?”
”Not quite. I'm hoping to be a prosecutor.” She smiles. ”We need somebody to make sure evil golden retrievers aren't out roaming the streets.”
She takes me back to her office, and as soon as we get there, she gets right to it. ”So you want to talk about the Evans case?”
I nod. ”I do.”
”Are you representing anyone involved?”
”Not yet. Maybe not ever, but a lot will depend on what you tell me.”
She nods. ”Shoot.”
”How far from land was the boat when the Coast Guard boarded it?”
”About four miles.”
”Did you ever determine the route it took?”
”What do you mean?” she asks.
”I'm trying to figure out how close the boat came to sh.o.r.e before it was boarded. Especially when it was in the area that the body washed up.”
”Various people had sighted it along the way. It was always pretty far out there.”
”And it was stormy that night?” I ask.
She nods. ”Yes. That's why it was boarded in the first place. If not for that, Evans would have died from the pills he took.”
”And the theory was that he threw the dog into the ocean at the same point he threw his fiancee?”
”That was the theory, although it was never that important to the case. If anything, it got in the way.”
”What do you mean?” I ask.
”Everybody who knew him talked about how much he loved the dog. Killing him therefore didn't make much sense.”