But as research projects go, this one is proving very difficult. That’s because for the most part the people who died lived on the fringe of society, many not in the workforce, and had done little to document their impact on the world.
We know how they died, but the challenge we face is finding out how they lived.
“Twenty-six people,” Sam says. “Twelve men, eight women, six kids, four of them boys. One survivor, a twelve-year-old boy who jumped out a window. He lost three family members that day.”
The images that my mind conjures about that fire are horrible, and obviously the jury will feel the same way. They will also want to be able to assign blame, to at least partially right the wrong. And Noah will be the one sitting in the crosshairs.
I look quickly through the information that Sam has assembled, long enough to know it won’t help us, and I say, “This isn’t enough. I’ve got to know more about them.”
“There’s very little out there about these people, Andy. We’re not talking about CEOs, you know? Even the ones that I could find out where they were employed, some of them had given fake documentation.”
“What about other family members, friends, friends of friends? I need to know these people, Sam, so I can know if they could have been the targets.”
“I’m trying, Andy, but so far it’s not there. I don’t even have three names.”
“What do you mean?”
“Three of the victims were never identified. No one came forward to say who they were, and the cops assumed they were transients. They figured the targets were the guys in 1-C, and they were probably right.”
I agree with Sam; the police probably were correct about that. But once again we butt up against the reality of courtroom life; it doesn’t matter if it’s true. It only matters if the jury buys it.
“We’re going to need to get out in the field for this, Andy. Pound the pavement. Shoe-leather time.”
“Shoe-leather time?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do, and you’re probably right. But that’s why we have Laurie, and it’s especially why we have Marcus. They go out in the field and get information.”
“You don’t think I can do that?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I lie. The image of Sam loose on the streets with his gun is not a pretty one. “But your special gift is to get information by working a computer keyboard. Fingertip time.”
I finally get Sam to leave, and I call Pete. He’s not in, so I try him on his cell. When he answers, I can hear street noises in the background.
“Hey, Pete, what’s going on?”
“What’s going on? You calling to chitchat? I’m out arresting lowlifes and criminals, so you can put them back on the street.”
“Always happy to help. I’ve got a question about the Galloway case.”
A few moments of silence, and then, “Yeah?”
“Danny Butler knew all the facts behind the arson, stuff that forensics confirmed.”
“So?”
“So I want to know if he could have gotten a look at the police documents, the murder book.” The investigatory record that detectives keep when investigating a homicide is called the “murder book.”
“You want to know if a slimeball like Danny Butler saw my murder book?” Pete asks, obviously insulted by the question.
“Yes.”
“Definitely. We posted it on scumbag.com so Danny and his friends could familiarize themselves with it.”
“So it’s not possible?” I ask, knowing his answer but still needing to hear it.
“No, it’s not possible. For the last two years that book has been in my wall safe at home. It’s been bedtime reading. You think Butler broke into my house? Or you think he read it, and then waited two years to talk about it?”
“I don’t suppose you have any idea how Butler found out the details?”
“Maybe your client told him.”
“He didn’t,” I say. “I’m sure of it.”
“So prove it.”
“I’m trying to, but I’m six years late to the party. You’ve been there all this time, dancing and drinking the punch. I need a road map, or at least a place to start.”
Pete is quiet for a few moments, then seems to make a decision. “Start with ‘Double J.’”
“Who is ‘Double J,’ and why should I talk to him? Or her.”
“You’ll find him, but you’ll need Marcus to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“Just take my word for it. If you deal with this guy, make sure Marcus is there. No matter what. You send him a letter, have Marcus mail it. Am I making myself clear?”
Pete is insulting my manhood, fragile as that may be. “You don’t think I can handle myself?”
“Andy, you so much as ask this guy what time it is without Marcus around, and Laurie will be going to singles bars.”
Neither Laurie nor Marcus has ever heard of the guy Pete called “Double J.”
So Laurie instructs Marcus to ask around, a process which works slightly more than ninety-nine percent of the time. When Marcus wants anything, especially answers, people have a tendency to want to accommodate him. It’s called a “self-preservation instinct.”
So I’m not surprised when Laurie reports six hours later that Marcus has not only found Double J, he’s already learned quite a bit about him. He’s a drug dealer whose base of operations six years ago was the ill-fated house which was burned to the ground.
Apparently Double J has stepped up in the world, because he now lives and works in the big city, New York. He’s located in the Bronx on Andrews Avenue, an area that will never be confused with Park Avenue.
I need to talk to him, even though I don’t quite know why. Pete implied that he had information that was helpful, or at least relevant, to Noah’s case, and I’m sure that must be true. Pete also described him as extremely dangerous, and Pete’s a pretty good authority on that kind of stuff.
“I need to ask him some questions,” I tell Laurie. “I don’t suppose Marcus got his e-mail address?”
“No, I don’t suppose he did,” she says. “You’re going to have to go see him, and I’m going with you.”
“Pete said I needed to bring Marcus.”
“Of course we’ll bring Marcus.”
Laurie asks Marcus when the best time would be to go, and he says Double J is apparently always there at around eight P.M., before he goes off to do whatever it is that comprises his nightly ritual.
The idea of barging in on a dangerous drug dealer at night in that neighborhood runs counter to every instinct I have. “It’s dark at night,” I say.
“Wow,” Laurie says. “You don’t miss a thing.”
We head off at seven o’clock in my car, with Laurie in the passenger seat and Marcus in the back. It’s about an hour’s drive, and Marcus doesn’t say a word. If we drove to New Zealand, Marcus wouldn’t say a word.
This is a very rundown, very tough area of the city. Vacant lots abound, strewn with rubble, and some of the houses are boarded up and unoccupied. If there are streetlights, they’re not working, and the moonlight is not doing the trick.
If Marcus were not with us, I wouldn’t get out of the car if it was on fire.
I park in front of the house that Marcus identifies as Double J’s. If there are any lights on inside, they’re not visible from the street. Just as I’m getting out of the car, I realize too late that I should have written out questions for Marcus to have given Double J, sort of like an essay test. Then he could have brought it home to me, and I could have graded it.
Marcus leads the way along the concrete path to the house. Laurie and I stay a few steps behind, and I notice that her right hand is at her side, slightly behind her leg. I think, but I’m not sure, that she’s holding a weapon there.
I hope she is. I hope it’s a bazooka.
We reach the front door, and Marcus opts not to knock or ring a bell. Instead he opens it and goes in. He doesn’t hesitate; it’s as if he’s just come from the office and has headed home to the little woman for a home-cooked meal.