After twenty minutes that seem like two hours, he reaches the end and says, "Do you have any questions?"
Willie, who has had three oranges, two apples, a banana, and a bunch of grapes during this presentation, doesn't waste any time. "How much?" he asks.
Cates seems somewhat taken aback by Willie's directness, but decides to meet it. "We're looking at in the neighborhood of four point three seven million dollars, paid out over seven years."
Willie almost spits up three grapes at the absurdity of the offer. "That may be the neighborhood you're lookin' in," he says. "But not us. We're lookin' uptown." By "us" Willie means he and I, although my intention is to keep him functioning as chief negotiator. He's doing fine, and I prefer to spend my time mentally beating myself up over Barry Leiter's murder.
But Cates turns to me, obviously looking for a weaker link than Willie. "What exactly is your position?"
I look to Willie and he nods, in effect giving me the floor. "Eleven point seven million, paid out over five minutes."
He doesn't blink. "May I ask how you arrived at that figure?"
"Gut instinct," I say. "We consider it a fair figure, and as such it is nonnegotiable. I believe we can get considerably more at trial."
"I see. I'll convey this to my clients."
I tell him that'll be fine, and with Willie grabbing a final orange on the way out, we say our goodbyes.
Willie asks if I can drop him off at his girlfriend's house, which is in a rather depressed area of downtown Paterson. Paterson is a city of over a hundred thousand people and can match any other city blight for blight. Yet whenever anyone in the area refers to "the city," they are talking about New York.
We are about ten blocks from our destination when we almost hit a dog running loose on the street. It looks to be a Lab mix, skinny, worn-out, and frightened from life on the street.
Willie and I are both shaken by the near miss. "Damn, that was close," he says.
"Poor dog. They'll catch him and take him to the pound," I say.
"And then what?"
"And then they'll kill him."
"What?" Willie yells, outrage in his voice. "Stop the car!"
I barely have time to pull over when Willie jumps out, chasing the dog down the street and calling, "Here, dog!"
The dog demonstrates his intelligence by running away from the screaming Willie, so I pull the car up ahead and try to cut him off. I jump out of the car and start chasing him back toward Willie, but again the dog is clever enough to run down an alley.
The chase is on, as Willie and I spend the next twenty minutes running up and down streets and in and out of alleys, all in pursuit of this poor dog. We execute a number of maneuvers to cut him off, but he outsmarts us each time.
The workout in the whirlpool at Vince Sanders's club hasn't quite prepared me for this kind of running. I'm gasping for air and my insides are burning, but Willie handles it like he's out for a walk in the park.
After a few minutes more I lose sight of both Willie and the dog, and they are going to have to handle this on their own. I stagger up and down a few alleys, hoping to find one of them, although my first choice would be to stumble upon an oxygen tent.
And then, at the end of an alley in front of a dirty garage, I see Willie. He is sitting on the cement, back against the wall, cradling the dog in his lap and petting him gently on his head. The dog contentedly rests that head on Willie's knee. They look so relaxed that the only thing missing from this picture is a pond and a fishing pole.
When I'm able to breathe and walk again, the three of us go back to the car. Willie keeps the dog on his lap in the front seat and announces that he is now his dog, and his name is Cash, for obvious reasons. I check and see that there is no collar or tag on the dog, which makes it far less likely that there is an owner somewhere looking for him.
Willie promises to put up signs in the neighborhood with pictures of the dog, but I'm not sure he'll follow through on it. Whatever. A dog has found a loving owner; there are worse things that can happen in this world.
I get back home and am surprised to see Pete Stanton waiting to update me on the early stages of the investigation of Stynes. He could have done it by phone, but I think he wanted to see Laurie and offer additional moral support.
The report on Stynes is stunning in its brevity. "So far Stynes doesn't seem to have existed," Pete says.
"What are you talking about?" I ask.
Pete proceeds to tell me that they have run his prints everywhere, military, federal, and state, and come up with nothing. They've circulated his picture to every law enforcement agency in the country on a priority basis and came up empty as well.
"How is that possible?" I ask.
"I don't think it is," Pete says. "A guy like that, he had to have a record, or been in the military, or applied for a gun permit … something. If there's no record of him, then that record had to have been erased."
"By who?"
Pete shrugs. "By some record eraser--how the hell should I know? Anyway, we're still looking, but I don't think we're going to find anything."
Pete leaves and I spend the rest of the night preparing for the meeting in Hatchet's chambers tomorrow to discuss our request for all of Dorsey's records. It's not a motion we can afford to lose.
The morning is sunny and bright, but as always, Hatchet's chambers are cloudy and dark. Once again, Dylan is there before Kevin and me, which annoys me. The judge should not be talking to one counsel without the other present. I could lecture Hatchet on this point, or I could decide to keep living.
It becomes instantly apparent to me that their pre-meeting was by Hatchet's design. "Mr. Campbell has decided not to oppose your motion" he announces to me.
"Good," I say.
"You will have the file by close of business today."
"Good," I say.
"That will be all, gentlemen."
"Good," I say.
Dylan hasn't said a word, and I've only said one, although it's a word I like and I've gotten to say it three times. Within moments Kevin and I are back in my car.
"What the hell was that about?" Kevin asks.
"Hatchet obviously read him the riot act before we got there," I say.
Kevin is incredulous. "And Dylan just caved?"
"You've obviously never had Hatchet read you the riot act. Giving up on the motion was easy; if Hatchet had really put on the pressure, Dylan would have sacrificed his firstborn."
I call Edna and she tells me that there's an important message from Marcus, asking me to meet him at an address in a very depressed area of town. Kevin agrees to go along, and within twenty minutes we're at the location, which seems to be an abandoned apartment building. It is next to an abandoned movie theater and across the street from some abandoned stores.
We get out of the car and start looking around. After a few moments we hear a voice.
"Up here."