Now, it’s not like the news desk is in Iowa; it seems to be maybe fifteen feet away from the anchor desks, in the same studio. Are we to believe that these people have been beamed into place an instant before going on the air, without having had the opportunity to wish each other a good morning? Or is it at all possible that the “good mornings” are in fact contrived by some TV executive, who has decided it would be appealing to the audience to see the warmth and politeness between these talking heads?
The mystery is always solved when the show comes back from the seven-thirty break, and everybody goes through the same “good morning” routine again. I wonder if I’m the only one who is annoyed by this. Perhaps they have market research that shows that the rest of the audience has their collective eyes filled with tears at these heartwarming exchanges.
After they wish Al Roker a heartfelt “good morning” and he gives the weather, the first story is not surprisingly about the arrest of Noah Galloway. Unfortunately, since the FBI is being typically tight-lipped about details, there is little of substance that is added, and it’s basically a rehash of the fire and its devastating and tragic effects. Substantial attention is given to what is known about Galloway, and the potentially serious political ramifications for an administration that was about to place an apparent mass murderer in a position of power and influence.
Dylan Campbell, a county prosecutor that I detest, is shown on camera saying that he is confident the case against Noah is strong. I’m not surprised that the Feds are letting the case be tried locally, and I’m also not surprised that Dylan angled to get the assignment. He would relish the publicity.
While I am not that interested in the skimpy report, Tara seems quite taken with it, barking and moving around in an animated, excited fashion. More likely she is anxious to get started on the walk, so we start out twenty minutes early.
We have three possible routes that we take through Eastside Park and then around to Broadway, where we eat bagels at an outside table, no matter how cold it is. I put butter on my bagel; she eats hers plain. I get coffee; she gets water.
A few people either nod or say hello to me, but everybody stops to pet Tara. She accepts the petting with a smile and a wag of her tail, and has the good manners to stop chewing during the process.
I’m not sure why, but I do my best thinking during these walks, and much of my trial strategy is planned that way. But today thinking is not a priority; I have no current clients, and no desire to get any.
We get back around nine-thirty, and I’m mildly surprised to see a car in front of the house. It’s the only car parked on the street; there’s an ordinance that during the night all cars must be in driveways or garages. The fact that this one is parked in front of my house leads me to the possibility that someone is visiting me, or Laurie, or Tara. Or not.
I am Andy Carpenter, deducer supreme.
Tara and I walk in the front door and immediately see Laurie in the kitchen with a woman, once again validating my intuitive powers. We walk toward them, Tara leading the way.
The woman gets down on one knee to vigorously pet her, and says something which is hard for me to make out. It sounds something like “henner.”
When I reach them, Laurie says, “Andy, I’d like you to meet-”
The woman interrupts, holds out her hand, and says, “Becky.”
“Hi, Becky,” is my clever retort. Never let it be said that Andy Carpenter doesn’t keep a conversation humming.
“Becky has a story to tell you,” Laurie says, in a way which leads me to think this is not going to be just any story.
“I love a good story,” I say, though I’m not sure I’m looking forward to hearing this one. When strangers tell me stories I usually wind up with clients, and when I wind up with clients it means I wind up doing work.
“Then you’re in for a treat,” Laurie says.
“So you’ve heard the story?” I ask.
She nods. “Just now. You want some coffee?”
I say that I do, though at this point I think I’d prefer scotch on the rocks, or an arsenic spritzer. I’ve got a feeling I should have prolonged the walk with Tara, like until August.
We settle down with our coffees, and Becky starts telling me what she already told Laurie. “I’ve been married for four years, and I met my husband a year before that,” she says. “So what I’m going to tell you is what he’s told me over the years.
“He’s led a very difficult life. I won’t bore you with the details, at least right now, but some of those difficulties have been of his own making, though most have not. He reached his personal bottom, as they call it, about six years ago.”
The way she says “personal bottom” causes me to ask, “Drugs?”
She nods. “Yes. And alcohol. And anything else that can take away one’s connection to life.”
I’m trying hard not to cringe; is this woman asking me to somehow defend her husband on some resurrected drug infraction? I doubt that’s where this is going, because Laurie has reacted strangely to the visit. It’s somewhere between a gleam in her eye and a worry about what might come next.
Becky continues. “About a year and a half prior to that, in an effort to bring some normalcy to his life, he had gotten a dog.”
There is a two-by-four bearing down on my head, but I don’t have time to duck. “This dog,” she says, petting Tara. “Her original name was Hannah.”
I don’t know what to say, and I want her to get through this story as quickly as possible so I can find out where it’s going. Wherever it’s going, Tara is not going anywhere.
“My husband came to understand that with his problems, and his complete lack of sobriety, he couldn’t care for her. He loved her very much, and he was afraid for her safety.”
“So he dumped her in a shelter?” I ask. I have always felt that the person who did that to Tara had to be the lowest sort of vermin on earth.
“He had nothing else to do, or at least that’s what he believed. He had lost all his friends, and his newer acquaintances were certainly not likely to give her the home she deserved.
“So he took her to the shelter, and then he went back there every day, to make sure that nothing bad happened to her. If her stay there was prolonged, he would have taken her back rather than subject her to the cruelties of the system.”
She is obviously referring to the fact that dogs not adopted after a period of time are put down, usually because of overcrowding.
“It was only three days later that you came and adopted her. He was there at the time, and he followed you home from a distance. He wanted to see where she was going to live.”
“Why didn’t he introduce himself to me?” I ask. “He could have told me things about her.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Hopefully you can ask him that. But for a period of time after you took Hannah… Tara… he watched you with her, to make sure you were treating her well. On one occasion, when the drugs made him careless, he entered your property and tried to peer into your house.”
All of a sudden I know where she is going, and I have a pit in my stomach the size of Bolivia.
“Noah Galloway,” I say.
This has disaster written all over it.
If what Becky Galloway is saying is true, that Noah was Tara’s original owner, then it’s a secret that they have kept for seven years. The fact that she’s making the revelation now, when he’s just been arrested, is no coincidence.
And the fact that I am a defense attorney who doesn’t want a new client, especially this one, is where the disaster potential comes in.
I’m trying to remember if Tara’s strange, excited behavior before our walk this morning was connected to footage of Galloway on the news, but I just can’t be sure. I hope it wasn’t, because she certainly seemed happy, and if there was a growl involved, I didn’t hear it.