Twenty-Four

The next morning, I got out my Bergen County phone book and plucked out Preston Burke’s address—(I get most of the books for New Jersey from Verizon every year—they help enormously with Star-Ledger work). Then I hit MapQuest.com for driving directions, put on an actual suit and tie, and got into the 1997 Saturn we use when we want to impress people.

Before leaving, I used my “call forwarding” option to bounce any incoming calls to my cell phone. You never know when the school will call about Ethan, or an actual paying gig will turn up— in the freelance biz, it’s always better to be near a ringing phone.

Halfway up the Garden State Parkway, the phone rang, and Barry Dutton was on the other end. “You hung up on me yesterday,” he said.

“No, I didn’t. I had to go help Leah with her math.”

“Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Aaron. Leah’s in third grade. Her math homework is way too hard for you.” Barry, alas, knew me too well.

“I didn’t want to listen to your lecture then, Barry. It’s my wife we’re talking about.”

Barry’s voice hardened. “Yeah, and if you’re really concerned about her safety, you’ll listen to the professional here.” There was a quick pause, while I tried to come up with an argument against his logic. “Aaron, are you in the car? Did you bounce your calls? Aaron, you’re on your way to Teaneck, aren’t you?”

“Sorry, Barry, I have to help Leah with her math.” I hung up. The phone rang a couple of times not long after, but I checked the incoming number, and chose not to answer.

Teaneck, New Jersey, is a lovely town in the Northern county of Bergen, where the people with actual money actually live. It is the part of New Jersey where Tony Soprano lives, but not where he works, if you catch my drift. Actually, Tony is more likely residing in Upper Saddle River or Livingston.

Teaneck, which is in the same general vicinity, has both an affluent section and a not-as-affluent-but-hardly-poor section, which is where Preston Burke lived. The clapboard two-family house that matched his address was not at all descript, and didn’t look like the kind of place where a wildly violent maniac might reside. Of course, Jeffrey Dahmer probably had very nice mini-blinds in his windows, too.

I rang the bell marked “Burke,” and waited. A thin, unshaven, balding man opened the door a few moments later.

“Yeah?” A Jersey voice. Slightly suspicious, but not aggressively so.

“Preston Burke?” I tried to sound official, but concerned.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m Aaron Tucker,” I said, flashing my Central Jersey YM/YWHA membership card, a finger over the organization’s name. “I’m here representing the New Jersey Bar Association.”

“Why?” Still not challenging, but not totally accepting, either.

“May I come in?”

He thought about it, but couldn’t come up with a reason I shouldn’t. “Okay,” he said, and moved aside. We walked up the stairs to his apartment, him first.

The place was simple, but it wasn’t cheap. There were good rugs on the floors, the furniture was Ikea, maybe, but not Unclaimed Freight. I did not look into the refrigerator to see if there were any body parts, but if there were, they had probably been cleaned up nicely. Things were in their place, which made it look different than my house.

We sat on an overstuffed sofa, and Burke continued to look warily at me. I took out a reporter’s notebook and a pen. “I’m here to discuss your recent change of counsel,” I said. “We like to investigate some random incidents, so we can determine if there has been any problem with the original attorney assigned or engaged for the case.”

Burke wasn’t stupid, but he also wasn’t used to people talking to him that way. Frankly, I wasn’t used to it, either, and I was-n’t sure I’d said everything the way I wanted to. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t matter.

“You want to talk about my lawyer?” he said. Good. He had accepted and deciphered my babble.

“That’s right,” I said with my most imperious voice. “You had originally engaged a. . .” I reached into my inside jacket pocket and took out a Buzbee School announcement about an upcoming round of parent/teacher conferences. I did my best to scan the “official document,” and continued. “Ms. Abigail Stein, of the firm Nolan, Delford, and Lincoln, to defend you in the aggravated assault charge. Is that correct?”

“That’s right.” Burke was clearly not comfortable with the words “aggravated assault.”

“But you dismissed Ms. Stein after the verdict and have obtained new counsel for the appeal?”

“Right again.”

“May I ask why?”

“Well, she lost, didn’t she?” Burke was stating the obvious to a complete idiot.

“A lot of good attorneys lose cases, Mr. Burke. In fact, all attorneys lose cases. Perry Mason was a fictional character. Was there something about Ms. Stein’s defense that you felt was incompetent, or showed anything but an honest effort on her part to defend you adequately?”

“She lost,” he repeated most vehemently. “I didn’t do it, and she lost the case. Why should I keep her as my lawyer? So she can lose again?”

“So this was not a personality issue, or some problem you had with Ms. Stein’s professional demeanor. You would have replaced any attorney who lost that trial.” I wanted to hear him agree to that.

“No,” Burke said. “There were other reasons I got a new lawyer.”

I pretended to perk up, writing incomprehensible notes in my notebook. “What would those be, Mr. Burke?”

The cell phone in my pocket rang. Burke, expecting me to answer it, waited. I looked at the incoming number. Abby’s office. If I answered, it could be bad. On the other hand, Burke was waiting. I’d be quick.

“Aaron Tucker.”

“Aaron Tucker? Since when do you answer the phone ‘Aaron Tucker?’” asked my wife.

“I’m right in the middle of something right now. . .”

“I just got a call from Barry Dutton,” Abby went on. “He says you were talking about going to see Preston Burke.”

Burke’s eyes flashed at the mention of his name. He must have heard it clearly enough.

“I’ll call you back later,” I tried.

“Oh my god, you’re there, aren’t you? Oh, Aaron, I could just. . .”

“Good talking to you,” I said, and hung up.

Burke looked at me. “Who are you?” he said.

“I told you, Mr. Burke, I’m Aaron Tucker of the. . .”

“Oh yeah? Let me see your business card again, Mr. Tucker.”

Oops. I hadn’t printed any up before I left the house. Funny how you forget those little details when you’re trying to misrepresent yourself. I made a show of reaching around in my jacket pockets.

“I seem to have run out,” I said. “I’ll make sure to send you one when I get back to my office.”

Burke stood, and suddenly he didn’t seem so skinny and unassuming anymore. “Who are you?” he said again, advancing on me. I stood up.

“Mr. Burke, I can see you’re getting agitated, and I think perhaps it’s time to conclude this interview.” I started backing toward the stairs.

“Yeah, you go ahead,” said Burke. “I’ll watch you leave. And with my binoculars, I’ll be able to see your license plate nice and clear. And once I find out who you really are, Mr. Tucker, I’m sure our paths will cross again.” The very words he’d used in Abby’s letter.

I backed down the stairs, cursing myself for parking within sight of Burke’s front window. And once outside, I ripped off the tie (how do other men make it through the day in those things?) and jumped into my car, driving away as fast as I could.

Damn. This kind of thing used to work all the time for Humphrey Bogart. I guess he had better writers working for him.