I’m not ready to tell him that they took a shot at me on the highway. “Just some names I’ve heard; I’m checking out everything I can.”
The last ten minutes of our visit are devoted to the obligatory questions he has about progress we might be making and strategy we might be employing. I fend them off because basically we’re not making any progress and don’t yet have a strategy.
Once Kevin and I are in the car, I ask, “So, what do you think?”
“I find myself wanting to believe him.”
“Do you believe him?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not yet. His version is just too full of holes. The prosecution has it locked up airtight.”
“Except for Reggie. Reggie says he’s innocent,” I say.
“He told you that?”
“Not in so many barks, but I got the message.”
I like dogs considerably more than I like humans. That doesn’t make me antihuman; there are plenty of humans I’m very fond of. But generally speaking, if I simultaneously meet a new human and a new dog, I’m going to like the dog more.
I’m certainly going to trust the dog more. They’re going to tell me what they think, straight out, and I’m not going to have to read anything into it. They are what they are, while very often humans are what they aren’t.
I say this fully aware that dogs cannot replace humans in our day-to-day lives. I have never met a competent dog airline pilot, short-order cook, quarterback, or bookmaker. These are necessary functions that we must trust humans to provide, and I recognize that. It’s not that I’m an eccentric about this.
So for now I’m going to pursue this case, even though Richard has nothing going for him.
Except for Reggie.
* * * * *
JOEL MARSHAL IS on the front lines, protecting our country.
I can’t say he looks the part. At about five eight and a hundred and fifty pounds, he’s one of the few male adults under ninety that I would be willing to get in the ring with. As a protector of the country, he is not the type you would describe as someone “you want on that wall, you need on that wall.”
Marshal is U.S. Customs director for the Port of Newark, and it’s his job to ensure that the endless flow of cargo that comes in each year does not include things like drugs, guns, anthrax, and nuclear bombs. It is a daunting task, which is why I’m surprised it was so easy to get an immediate meeting with him.
It may have been a quickly arranged meeting, but it won’t be a long one. He’s looking at his watch almost as soon as I sit down. It’s a common tactic; I think watches are more often used to demonstrate a lack of time than to tell time.
“Thanks for seeing me so soon,” I say. “I won’t take much of your time.”
“I appreciate that,” he says. “It’s a busy day today.” He glances at his watch again, though less than fifteen seconds have passed since the last time he looked. “What can I do for you?”
He says this with what seems to be a permanent smile on his face. If the smile could talk, it would say, “I am a political appointee, and this smile is government issue. It doesn’t mean I am happy or amused.”
“I’m representing Richard Evans.”
“Yes, you mentioned that,” he points out, accurately.
“I’m operating under the assumption that the evidence against Mr. Evans was deliberately faked. What I am trying to find out is why.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
I explain that one of my theories is that Richard was targeted because of something involved with his work. He could have been removed from that work because of something he knew, or possibly to get him out of the way.
“It hardly seems likely,” Marshal says. “But in any event, there’s little I can help you with. I’ve only been assigned here for one year, and I had never even met Mr. Evans.”
“So you’re not familiar with his case?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Should I be? It’s pretty much ancient history, and my understanding was that it did not involve his job. It was a personal matter.”
Murders usually are “personal matters,” but I decide not to point this out. “Who replaced him?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. Roy Chaney is in the job now, but I’m not aware if he followed Mr. Evans, or if there was somebody else in the interim.”
“Can you check?”
This prompts another look at his watch and, while not a frown, a slight weakening of the smile. Finally, he asks his assistant to get the information, but it proves to be unnecessary, as the assistant was working here five years ago. She confirms that Chaney replaced Evans.
I thank Marshal and leave. Rather than go straight to my car, I decide to display my awesome investigative prowess and walk aimlessly around the area. It’s an enormous place, with endless, cavernous warehouses starting near the water and stretching well inland.
There are not many people around, just thousands of unattended boxes and crates. Security is either nonexistent or very subtle; I get the feeling that if one of the boxes had “ANTHRAX – IF YOU ARE WITHIN TWO MILES OF THIS CRATE, YOU WILL BE DEAD IN FOUR MINUTES” printed on the side it wouldn’t attract attention.
After about twenty minutes of intensive investigating, all I’ve really managed to do is get lost, to the point that I have no idea where my car is.
I happen upon a small building that contains a few glass-enclosed offices. A woman sits behind one of the desks, so I lean in and ask if she knows where Joel Marshal’s office is, since that’s where I parked my car.
She smiles. “Just walk in the direction you were going, and after the second building make a right.”
“Thanks,” I say, and then decide to try another question. “Do you happen to know where I can find Roy Chaney?”
She smiles again, ever helpful, and calls out, “Roy! Somebody here to see you!”
All this time I thought I was lost, when in fact I was relentlessly zeroing in on Chaney’s office. Within a few moments a man I assume to be Chaney comes out of a rear office and walks toward the doorway, where I am standing. He looks as though he’s pushing 40, pushing 5'10", and has already pushed past 240 pounds. I wouldn’t want to try to sneak any contraband chocolate cupcakes or potato chips into the country with this guy around.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
“You’re Roy Chaney?”
He nods. “Yup. Who are you?”
“My name is Andy Carpenter. I’m an attorney representing Richard Evans.”
“Is that right?” he says as he walks past me and out the door, leading me to step out as well. It was a clumsy attempt to conceal that he does not want the woman at the desk to hear the conversation.
“Yes. I understand you replaced him when he went on trial.”
“That’s right. I didn’t know him, though. I mean, we never met. When I got here he was already gone.”