I nod. “The dead drug guy.”
“What do you want to know about him?”
“Ultimately, I want to know why he’s not still a live drug guy, but don’t limit yourself. I want to know about his money; how he earned it and where he spent it. I want to know who he spoke to on the phone in the last month before he died. If he sent e-mails I want to see them, if he traveled I want to know where he went and who he went with. Basically, anything you can find out about him interests me.”
“What’s the time frame?” he asks.
I just stare at him and frown. He knows that everything is a rush.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Sam. As always, I appreciate it.”
He shrugs. “Hey Andy, you just call out my name, and you know wherever I am, I’ll come running.”
I’m pretty sure he’s doing James Taylor. “Winter, spring, summer, or fall?” I ask.
He nods. “All you have to do is call.”
This could go on forever, so I attempt to end the conversation, though I can’t resist a final jab. “Okay, Sam, we’re done here. My body’s aching and my time is at hand.”
“No problem,” he says. “But Andy…”
“Yes?”
“Remember, you’ve got a friend. Ain’t it good to know? You’ve got a friend.”
Hatchet is handling an arraignment when I arrive at the courthouse, and I have to wait about half an hour outside his chambers. When he finally arrives, he forgets to apologize for the slight, and keeps me waiting another five minutes before calling me in.
Once I come in, he says, “Have you resolved the issue?”
“About the dog?”
“What other issue is there?” he asks.
“Well, Your Honor, as you are well aware, I’m now representing the defendant in the case. It seems like a clear conflict.”
“Then resolve it, and the conflict will go away.”
“Well, Your Honor, there has been something of a change in circumstances regarding the two people seeking custody of the dog. One is dead, and the other is in prison.”
“Well, then I have a new contender for you to consider.” He searches through some notes on his desk. “Judge Parker’s office forwarded this. A man named”-he squints to read the name- “Charles Robinson has contacted the court seeking custody of the dog. He represents himself as a close friend of Walter Timmerman, and a partner of his in the showing of dogs.”
Charles Robinson is someone I’m vaguely familiar with, and I know him to be a multimillionaire who has made his money in oil and real estate. There have always been vague accusations that his dealings are shady, but as far as I know he has never faced any criminal charges. “Thank you, Your Honor, I’ll certainly consider Mr. Robinson. But I do need to make sure the dog is placed in a loving-”
Hatchet interrupts. “Have I given you the impression that I care what happens to this dog?”
“Well-”
“Resolve the matter. Either give him to Robinson or find another solution.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Right away.”
The phone on Hatchet’s desk rings, and he looks at it as if it were from another planet. He picks it up. “Clara, I told you that I was not to be disturbed. Now…” He stops, an expression on his face that I haven’t seen before. “I see… put him on.” Another pause, and then: “Just a moment.”
He hands the phone to me, the last thing I would have expected. “It’s for you,” he says.
I am gripped by tension. For Hatchet to allow himself to be interrupted by a phone call for me staggers, and scares the shit out of, the imagination.
“Hello?”
I hear Pete Stanton’s strained and nervous voice. “Andy, it’s Pete.”
“What is it? What’s going on?”
“Andy, I’m at the hospital. Laurie’s been shot.”
I can feel my knees start to buckle, and I half fall toward Hatchet’s desk. “Is she all right? Pete, is she all right?”
“Andy, I don’t know… I just don’t know.”
“Pete, tell me the truth. TELL ME THE GODDAMN TRUTH!”
“Andy, they don’t know if she’s going to make it.”
I THINK HATCHET SAYS SOMETHING, some expression of sympathy or concern, but I’m not sure.
Everything seems a blur, and I literally stagger out of his office, heading for the elevator to take me downstairs. I think Pete said there was someone or something waiting for me down there, but I could be wrong.
When I reach the street level, two uniformed policemen seem to be waiting for me. “Mr. Carpenter?”
I nod.
“We’ll be taking you to the hospital.”
I nod again and follow them to their car. It could be the next-to-last car ride I will ever take, because if Laurie does not pull through, I am going to get in my own car and drive it off a cliff.
I don’t ask the officers what they know, because they probably don’t know anything, and wouldn’t be authorized to tell me if they did. The horrible fear that keeps popping up, easily overwhelming my well-developed sense of denial, is that Laurie might already be gone. If she was, Pete wouldn’t have told me over the phone. He would have done just what he did, which was cushion me for the blow by telling me how badly she was hurt.
The Barnert Hospital is on Broadway in Paterson, about fifteen minutes from the courthouse. There is little traffic, but it feels as if the trip takes three weeks. They finally pull up to the emergency room entrance, and I rush to jump out, only to find that the car door is locked.
“Open the door!” I yell. “Open the damn door!”
I hear a popping noise and this time when I pull on the handle the door opens. I get out and run into the emergency room. Kevin is there waiting, and the stricken, anguished look on his face tells me that Laurie is gone.
But she’s not.