Dog Day Afternoon by David Rosenfelt: Featured Excerpt

The advertisements are hard to miss.

If you live in North Jersey, in Paterson or quite a few other cities, you are familiar with the phrase CALL JIM! It’s on billboards, benches, bus stops, and everywhere else that can contain an ad. The all-caps bold type, as well as the exclamation point, unsubtly convey the message that calling Jim is URGENT!

The Jim they’re referring to is Jim Moore, founder of Moore Law. If you’re in an accident, or you slipped and fell on someone else’s property, or the surgeon left a sponge in your abdomen, or you sucked down too much asbestos, the ads say that Moore Law is your only way to get financial justice. They will fight and win for you.

If you call and actually want to speak to Jim, you’re going to have to yell pretty loud, because one of the things that the ads don’t mention is that Jim Moore is dead. He went to that great courtroom in the sky three years ago, but the firm was doing so well that his successors decided not to rock the legal boat by changing the name or the ad campaigns.

The firm has twenty-one offices throughout New Jersey alone. In Passaic County they have three, including one in Paterson, one in Passaic, and one in Clifton. Across the state they employ forty-nine lawyers, seventy-one paralegals, and forty-four admins, with a CEO sitting on top of the entire enterprise.

They are also in ten other states; for a dead guy, Jim Moore has quite an operation going.

If a case is not deemed important, meaning lucrative, there is a good chance that the client meets briefly with a lawyer and then never again gets past the paralegals. But at the end of the day, the people you see and the treatment you get depend on the case you present.

The Paterson office, which is the original Moore Law location and still the main office, is on Market Street in the downtown section. It wasn’t a busy day; Fridays in the summer rarely were. The higher-ups often took Fridays off, and most of the other employees left by noon. Everyone could be reached by phone or email if necessary, but pretty much anything other than court appearances could always be put off until Monday.

At four thirty in the Paterson office two lawyers were still present, one of whom was Charles Brisker. Brisker had been with the firm for four years; he came to Moore Law after struggling to maintain his own practice.

Jim Moore had taken a liking to him, and even though Brisker would never be confused with Clarence Darrow, Moore had kept him on. Brisker was not going to be rich or secure a Supreme Court appointment, but he made a comfortable living, and at forty-five was hoping to retire in ten years.

Brisker was meeting with someone in his office, and in addition to the other lawyer, on this Friday afternoon at the Paterson branch of Moore Law four paralegals were in their offices, as well as one admin. None of them were paying much attention to their legal work; they were instead planning what they were going to do on the weekend.

In fact, they were only there that late because they had received an email memo from Brisker requesting that they stay around for a special meeting. It was to take place after his session with the person in his office, and the staff were waiting impatiently for that meeting to end.

None of them heard the noise in the back of the building. There wasn’t that much to hear, just the click of a door opening. It would not have attracted any attention even if it was heard; delivery people frequently came in that way. The door remained open, so there was no follow-up thud of it closing.

The man who entered through that door wore a ski mask, incongruous in the summer heat. He was dressed in all black, though his arms were partially bare. On his left arm was a tattoo in the shape of a hook. He moved quickly and with purpose.

He knew where he was going and why.

He had a handgun already out and ready to fire, with another in his pocket in case he needed it, though he knew he would not.

The weapon had a silencer, so when he stopped in Charles Brisker’s office, he was able to kill both Brisker and the other man without causing any alarm to the other people in their offices. In each case he fired one bullet directly in the heart; they had barely looked up to see the intruder before they died.

Their killer did not utter a word; he simply moved on. He was just beginning.

Next to die was the admin sitting in the center bullpen. After that, the killer stopped in each paralegal’s office. He again used only one bullet for each murder, that was all that was necessary. Each time he said nothing . . . just calmly and methodically gunned the individuals down.

When he reached the other lawyer’s office, he found Sally Montrose at her desk. In the adjacent office was a paralegal, Laura Schauble, and the door was open between the two offices.

Montrose looked up at him in terror, seemingly frozen and unable to move as he pointed the weapon at her. “No . . .” was all she could say.

“Sorry, Monty,” he said, the first words he had spoken since entering the building. He said it coldly, in a voice that belied the words. He did not sound sorry at all.

He raised the gun, preparing to fire, but then he seemed to hear something from another room, so he quickly lowered the weapon and went to look.

After a few moments, Montrose finally willed herself into action. She locked her door, grabbed her cell phone, and went into the closet, from where she called 911. In a soft voice she told them her location, what was going on, and pleaded for help.

When she hung up, she realized she had not told them who the gunman was. But she did not want to call back and make further sounds. She listened but heard nothing; she was unaware that the others were already dead.

So all she could do was hide until she was rescued.

Six minutes later the police arrived and found Montrose sobbing softly . . . but she was alive and unhurt.

I don’t really know or understand Marcus Clark.

That’s a strange thing to say about someone that I have worked with for years, and who has literally saved my life on a few occasions. Actually more than a few.

It’s not that I don’t know things about him. The most obvious of those things is that he is the toughest, scariest person on the planet, and that he combines that physical prowess with an obvious fearlessness.

I have learned that he doesn’t have as well-developed a conscience as most people, and that he’s an “end justifies the means” guy when it comes to dealing with the criminal element. He believes in justice and makes sure it is administered in whatever way is necessary.

I also know that he’s married to Jeannie, a petite blond who incongruously refers to him as “my little Markie,” and that they have a toddler son, Jamie. Jamie must be three years old by now, and based strictly on genetics, he could probably kick my ass already.

I know that Marcus says little, but has no trouble conveying his point of view, and I know he very much likes and respects my wife, Laurie Collins. She’s an ex-cop who has earned that respect many times over.

I’m positive that he thinks somewhat less of me, and I’m sure that by now he is well aware I am a physical coward. But he tolerates me, probably because of Laurie.

But I don’t really know what makes him tick, and the truth is that I’ve never made a great effort to learn more. I haven’t been that curious, much in the same way that I never tried to figure out where Superman changes into his costume now that phone booths no longer exist.

I’ve always accepted Marcus on his own terms, since those terms include keeping me alive. His skill at keeping obnoxious defense attorneys breathing is unparalleled, which works for me, since anyone with any knowledge of legal goings-on around here will tell you that I, Andy Carpenter, am as obnoxious as they get.

His ability to keep me alive is particularly timely now, since just yesterday someone walked into a Paterson law office and killed six people. It is probably the worst crime committed in Paterson in my lifetime, and like any urban center, Paterson has seen its share. The killings have left many lawyers uncomfortably looking over their shoulders, me included.

But I learned something new and surprising about Marcus a few weeks ago. He had called Willie Miller, who is my partner in the Tara Foundation. It’s a dog rescue operation that we run, named after my golden retriever, who happens to be the best dog in the universe.

I say that with the full knowledge that there might be dogs elsewhere in some distant galaxies. Those alien dogs may be super-advanced, they may travel through time at warp speed and get galactic PhDs, but they would still take a backseat to Tara.

Marcus called Willie to ask if he could bring two young men to the foundation building to see about possibly adopting a dog. The men were good friends and lived next door to each other, and they would share ownership. When they arrived, they spoke with Willie and he decided they were in fact acceptable for a canine adoption.

Willie is careful about that, and I trust him completely. He’s considerably more demanding than I am, and I think I’m fairly strict. Once we rescue a dog, it is under our protection, and we do not take that responsibility lightly.

But the two young men didn’t adopt one that day because one of them fell in love with a puppy that has medical issues and isn’t yet ready to be adopted. She had been left in front of the local shelter early one morning, with a badly broken leg. She was also quite thin, but she’ll be getting excellent, plentiful food from here on out.

We rescued her and our vet set the leg, but it required a metal plate and will take a long time to heal, during which the dog, a golden retriever named Daisy, has to remain relatively inactive. The foundation was the best place to ensure that she would get enough rest to heal properly, so the men decided they’d wait for her, which was fine with Willie, and with me.

I haven’t seen Daisy yet; she was having a follow-up surgery the last time I was at the foundation. And I wasn’t there the day the two guys met her, but I heard all about it.

What surprised me was Willie’s description of the connection between the two guys and Marcus. It turns out that Marcus takes troubled young men, often teens but sometimes into their early twenties, and mentors them. He’s been doing this for years; apparently he has “graduates” of his program that he keeps in touch with long after they need his help.

Actually, he does more than mentor them. He helps them find a place to live and gets them jobs. Marcus is a fixture in this area and knows a lot of people, few of whom are inclined to say no to him.

When I learned of it, I told Laurie that we should provide financial assistance to Marcus for what obviously is a good cause. We are wealthy due to a significant inheritance I received as well as some lucrative cases I have handled. Marcus makes a good living as an investigator, but surely he could use the help.

Laurie thought it was a good idea and approached Marcus, who shot it down. According to Laurie, he appreciated the offer, but said he could handle things on his own. Laurie’s take on it was “Marcus just does not ask for favors.”

I thought about that and realized that it was true, at least as it related to me. Marcus has never asked me for anything; he has always done his job and then some, accepted his pay, and moved on.

That is why I am anxious now. Not worried, but anxious. Laurie has just gotten off the phone with Marcus and told me that he’s on his way over here to ask for a favor.

“I thought Marcus doesn’t ask for favors?”

“He’s making an exception. Just this one time.”

“Do you have any idea what he wants?”

Laurie nods. “I do.”

“What is it?”

“He asked me not to tell you.”

“That’s fine, but I’m asking you to tell me. I’m your husband, I am claiming the spousal nonsecrecy exception. I can cite you case law on it if you want.”

She shakes her head. “Sorry, I promised him. You’re going to have to wait; he’ll be here in ten minutes, and then you’ll know.”

“Am I going to like it?”

“No. Definitely not. That much I can say with certainty.”

“What should I do when he asks?”

“You should think about how much Marcus has done for you over the years and then make your own decision.”

“Uh-oh. Will you support whatever I decide?”

“Of course . . . depending on what you decide.”

Laurie was wrong . . . Marcus is here in eight minutes.

It doesn’t seem like much, but even eight minutes can be a long time if you’re dreading something. Not that I know why I’m so concerned about this; whatever Marcus asks, I will try to make it happen. He wouldn’t ask for something I’m incapable of, so what’s the problem?

I doubt that it’s money because Laurie said I am not going to like it. I would be happy to give Marcus money; she knows that. And he wouldn’t even have to ask me; Laurie and I share our money, so she could have given it to him.

Marcus used to never talk in front of me; he would just grunt and nod. Eventually that changed and Laurie said it was because he got more comfortable with me; I had earned his trust. I have a feeling that in a few minutes I’m going to be longing for the good old grunt-and-nod days.

Marcus, Laurie, and I go into the den. Our thirteen-year-old son, Ricky, has recently gone off on his second summer teen tour with Rein Tours. Last year they went all over the western United States, and this year his group is in France, heading for Spain after that.

The kid has a rough life.

“Marcus, you want me to stay?” Laurie asks.

“Yeah.”

We all sit down and I say, “Marcus, how can I help?”

He looks uncomfortable, maybe the first time I’ve ever seen him this way. “I’m asking you to take a client. I’ll pay you.”

I have a mixed reaction to this. I’ve been trying to retire for close to a hundred years, but I can never seem to fully extricate myself from my job. This is going to delay it a little longer, but I’m certainly not going to say no. I’m actually feeling some relief that this is all he’s asking.

“Of course. Who is the client?” I’m half expecting Marcus to say it’s himself; maybe he’s gotten into some kind of trouble.

“Nick Williams.”

Marcus said it as if the name is supposed to mean something to me. It doesn’t. “Has he been arrested?”

“Not yet. He will be.”

“On what charge?” Conversations with Marcus are not easy, even now when he’s at his most talkative.

Marcus turns to Laurie, as if for help, and she nods. “Nick Williams has been named as a person of interest in the mass shooting at that law firm,” she says. “The police announced it a while ago, while you were walking the dogs.”

“They came to me, asking where he was,” Marcus says. “He’s missing.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“Why did the police come to you?”

“He’s a friend.”

Laurie explains, “He’s one of the young men that Marcus helps.”

“Is he one of the guys that came to the foundation to adopt a dog?” I ask, and Marcus nods.

This is turning out to be worse than I expected by a magnitude of about twelve million. “Why do they suspect him?”

“He worked where the shooting took place.”

That obviously can’t be all. “Do they have evidence connecting him to the shooting?”

Marcus shrugs, and Laurie says, “They must think so, or they wouldn’t have gone public.”

Time to ask the key question. “Marcus, do you think he could have done this?”

“No.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He’s good people.”

“Do you know any more about it?”

“No.”

“Do you know how to find him?”

“No.”

“If he contacts you, tell him to turn himself in. A crime of this magnitude, they will find him. If he’s armed, he could very possibly not survive the arrest. But the longer that they think he’s the killer, the less they will be looking for anyone else.”

Marcus nods his understanding.

“There is nothing I can do until he is in custody,” I say. “Once that happens, I will do what I can.”

“You want some money now?”

“Marcus, what I am about to say is not negotiable. You will not pay me a dime. Whatever I do is because you’re my friend.”

“I agree with Andy on this,” Laurie says. “And we’re not budging.”

Marcus thinks about it and finally says, “Thanks.”

We talk a little more, and I suggest Marcus go home in case Williams shows up there.

When he leaves, Laurie asks, “Have I ever told you that I love you?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Well, I do.”

“Have I ever told you that I wish I had never gone to law school?”

She smiles. “Yes, I believe you have.”

Copyright © 2024 by David Rosenfelt. All rights reserved.