New Tricks - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,1

Public Defender’s Office in Passaic County. I’ve never had a conversation of more than three sentences with Billy in which he hasn’t mentioned that he’s overworked and underfunded. Since both those things are true, and since I’m personally underworked and overfunded, I usually nod sympathetically.

This time I don’t have time to nod, because I’m in danger of being late for my meeting with Hatchet. Lawyers who arrive late to Hatchet’s chambers are often never heard of or seen again, except for occasional body parts that wash up on shore. I also don’t get to ask Billy what he’s doing here. If I’m going to get stuck with this client, then he’s off the hook, because I’m on it.

I hate being on hooks.

“YOU’RE LATE,” says Hatchet, which is technically true by thirty-five seconds.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor. There was an accident on Market Street, and—”

He interrupts. “You are under the impression that I want to hear a story about your morning drive?”

“Probably not.”

“For the purpose of this meeting, I will do the talking, and you will do the listening, with very few exceptions.”

I start to say Yes, sir, but don’t, because I don’t know if that is one of the allowable exceptions. Instead I just listen.

“I have an assignment for you, one that you are uniquely qualified to handle.”

I nod, because if I cringe it will piss him off.

“Are you at all familiar with the case before me, the Timmerman murder?”

“Only what I’ve read in the paper and seen on television.” I wish I had more of a connection to the case, like if I were a cousin of the victim, or if I were one of the suspects in the case. It would disqualify me from being involved. Unfortunately, I checked my family tree, and there’s not a Timmerman to be found.

“It would seem to be a straightforward murder case, if such a thing existed,” he says and then chuckles, so I assume that what he said passes in Hatchet-land for a joke. “But the victim was a prominent man of great wealth.”

I nod again. It’s sort of nice being in a conversation in which I have no responsibilities.

“I’m told that you haven’t taken on any pro bono work in over two years.”

Another nod from me.

“I assume you’re ready and willing to fulfill your civic responsibility now?” he asks. “You may speak.”

I have to clear my throat from lack of use before responding. “Actually, Your Honor, my schedule is such that a murder case wouldn’t really—”

He interrupts again. “Who said anything about you participating in a murder case?”

“Well, I thought—”

“A lawyer thinking. Now, that’s a novel concept. You are not being assigned to represent the accused. The Public Defender’s Office is handling that.”

Relief and confusion are fighting for a dominant position in my mind, and I’m actually surprised that confusion is winning. “Then why am I here?”

“I’ve been asked to handle a related matter that is technically before Judge Parker in the probate court. He has taken ill, and I said I would do it because of my unfortunate familiarity with you. Are you aware that the victim was very much involved with show dogs?”

“No,” I say. While I rescue dogs, I have little or no knowledge of dog shows or breeders.

“Well, he was, and he had a seven-month-old, apparently a descendant of a champion, that his widow and son are fighting over. The animal was not included in the will.”

This may not be so bad. “So because of my experience with dogs, you want me to help adjudicate it?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Glad to help, Your Honor. Civic responsibility is my middle name.”

“I’ll remember to include it on the Christmas card. I assume you have a satisfactory place to keep your client?”

“My client?”

He nods. “The dog. You will retain possession of him until the issue is resolved.”

“I’m representing a dog in a custody fight? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”

“I wouldn’t categorize it as ‘asking,’ ” he says. “I already have a dog, Your Honor.”

“And now you have two.”

TARA KNOWS SOMETHING IS GOING ON.

I don’t know how she knows, but I can see it in her face when I get home. She stares at me with that all-knowing golden retriever stare, and even when she’s eating her dinner, she occasionally looks up at me to let me know that she’s on to me.

I take her for a long walk through Eastside Park, which is about six blocks from where I live on 42nd Street in Paterson. Except for