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Synopsis
Edgar-finalist Rosenfelt's riveting sixth legal thriller (after 2006's Dead Center) brings independently wealthy Paterson, N.J., lawyer Andy Carpenter to the defense of a very special domestic violence victim, Yogi, a golden retriever alleged to have bitten its owner. Andy uses the court system to spring Yogi from an animal shelter's death row and adopt him, adding the dog to a small family that includes longtime pet golden Tara. But when the gang goes for a walk that leads to a joyful reunion between Yogi and a woman named Karen Evans, Andy learns Yogi is actually Reggie, presumed dead five years earlier after the conviction of Karen's brother, U.S. Customs Inspector Richard Evans, for the murder of his fiancée, Stacy Harriman. Suspecting Richard's innocence, Andy tackles the case like a dog on a chew toy, undeterred by an intricate web of deception involving a possible government coverup. No shaggy dog story, this puppy's alive with reliable Rosenfelt wit and heart.
Release date: July 15, 2009
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 320
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Play Dead
David Rosenfelt
ACCLAIM FOR DAVID ROSENFELT’S NOVELS
PLAY DEAD
“Riveting… No shaggy dog story, this puppy’s alive with reliable Rosenfelt wit and heart.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“There is no way you can read this novel without becoming completely caught up in the story. As always, Andy’s offbeat, outspoken
personality shines on every page, and the balance of humor and mystery is dead-on.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Enjoyable… Carpenter continues to amuse and engage.”
—Library Journal
“The customary humor abounds in this entertaining novel.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A steadily absorbing journey through layers and layers of deceit.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A fun mystery novel… entertaining.”
—
TheMysterySite.com
DEAD CENTER
“Entertaining… witty… perfect.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Enjoyable… entertaining.”
—Portland Tribune
“Rosenfelt is a very funny guy who’s got the gift of glib.”
—Kingston Observer (MA)
“Rosenfelt adroitly mixes drama with humor… Those who like the added complexity of character-driven mysteries will find much
to enjoy in this award-winning series.”
—Booklist
“Written with flair and humor… If there aren’t any real-life lawyers as entertaining, as witty, and as willing to tilt at
windmills as Andy Carpenter, Edgar®-finalist Rosenfelt’s engaging hero, then there should be.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A terrific tale… Fans of the series will enjoy Dead Center.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Witty… cleverly plotted… very enjoyable.”
—About Books
SUDDEN DEATH
“The author handles the material deftly, mixing humor and whodunit but never letting the comedy overwhelm the mystery.”
—Booklist
“Another touchdown!”
—Publishers Weekly
BURY THE LEAD
A TODAY SHOW BOOK CLUB PICK
“Absolute fun… Anyone who likes the Plum books will love this book.”
—JANET EVANOVICH
“A clever plot and breezy style… absorbing.”
—Boston Globe
“Exudes charm and offbeat humor, sophistication, and personable characters.”
—Dallas Morning News
FIRST DEGREE
SELECTED AS ONE OF THE BEST MYSTERIES OF 2003 BY PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Entertaining… fast paced… sophisticated.”
—MARILYN STASIO, New York Times Book Review
“Suspense just where you want it and humor just where you need it.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Entertaining.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
OPEN AND SHUT
EDGAR® AWARD NOMINEE
“Very assured… packed with cleverly sarcastic wit.”
—New York Times
“Splendid… intricate plotting.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“A great book… one part gripping legal thriller, one part smart-mouth wise-guy detective story, and all-around terrific.”
—HARLAN COBEN, author of
No Second Chance
“Engaging and likable… The action is brisk.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
I’m not a big fan of acknowledgment pages; most of the time I refuse to even acknowledge them. I especially hate when authors
drop names of famous people as a way to impress the readers, and then go on to tell heartwarming little anecdotes to show
how tight the author is with those bigshots.
Not me; that’s not what I’m about. I make my acknowledgments short and to the point, and I don’t go scrounging around for
impressive names. I let my literary achievements do my showing off for me. If someone has been helpful or inspirational, I
thank them… if not, I don’t. No one gets a free pass.
So, in no particular order, I would like to acknowledge…
Michael Jordan
Bill Clinton
Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower
Debbie Myers
Jonas Salk
Britney Spears
Clarence and Marlo Thomas
Bob Castillo
Babe Ruth
Wolf Blitzer
Wolfman Jack
Stacy Alesi
Gandhi
Jessica and Homer Simpson
Little Anthony and the Imperials
Derek Jeter
Susan Richman
Wayne and Fig Newton
Puff Daddy
My Daddy
My Mommy
Alex Trebek
Various Rosenfelts
Golda Meir
The Barbara sisters: Bush, Streisand and Walters
Nelson Mandela
Ozzie Nelson
Ozzy Osbourne
Les Pockell
Kevin Costner
Kevin Federline
Robin Rue
George Costanza
Joe Montana
The entire state of Montana
David Divine
Bruce Springsteen
Walter Cronkite
Norman Schwarzkopf
Tony Blair
Tony Gwynn
Tony Soprano
Kristin Weber
Bialystock and Bloom
Ralph and Alice Kramden
Bobby and Gladys Knight
Doug Burns
George Burns
Henry Kissinger
Trixie and Ed Norton
June Peralta
The Taylors: Lawrence and Elizabeth
Cal Ripken
Paris and Conrad Hilton
Tokyo Rose
Al and Nancy Sarnoff
The Bird Brothers: Larry, Charlie and Big
Warren G. Harding
Stephanie Allen
Celia Johnson
Magic Johnson
Andrew Johnson
Johnson & Johnson
Norman Trell
Gracie Allen
Ernest Hemingway
The Jacksons—Michael, Stonewall and Phil
Simon & Garfunkel
Scott and Heidi Ryder
Joe Frazier
Christopher Columbus
Christopher Cross
Sandy Weinberg
Sam and Whitney Houston
Anthony, Bernard and Johns Hopkins
Muhammad Ali
John and Carol Antonaccio
The Rogers: Kenny, Roy and Ginger
Rocky Balboa
Geraldo, Chita and Mariano Rivera
George Kentris
Abbott & Costello
Chief Justice John, Julia and Robin Roberts
Michael, Sonny and Don Corleone
I apologize if I left anyone out.
On a serious note, please e-mail me at
dr27712@aol.com with any feedback on the book. Many people have done so in the past, and I very much appreciate it.
“ANDY, YOU’RE NOT going to believe this.”
This is the type of sentence that, when said in a vacuum, doesn’t reveal much. Whatever it is that I am not going to believe
might be very positive or very negative, and there would be no way to know until I see it.
Unfortunately, this particular sentence is not said in a vacuum; it’s said in the Passaic County Animal Shelter. Which means
that “positive” is no longer one of the possibilities.
The person speaking the words is Fred Brandenberger, whose job as shelter manager is an impossibly difficult one. There are
far more dogs that come through his doors than potential adopters, and he therefore must helplessly supervise the euthanasia
of those that are not taken. I know it drives Fred crazy; he’s been in the job for two years, and my guess is he’s not going
to last much longer.
It bothers me to come here, and I rarely do. I leave this job to my former legal client, Willie Miller, who is my partner
in the Tara Foundation, a dog rescue operation. We rescue a lot of dogs, over a thousand a year, but there are many more worthy
ones that we simply do not have room for. I hate making the life-or-death decisions on which ones we will take, and Willie
has been shouldering that responsibility.
Unfortunately, Willie and his wife, Sondra, are in Atlantic City for a few days, and we’ve got some openings for new dogs,
so here I am. I’ve been dreading it, and based on what Fred has just said to me, I fear that dread has been warranted.
Fred leads me back to the quarantine room, which houses dogs who are sick or are unavailable to be adopted for other reasons.
The other reason is usually that the dog has bitten someone; in that case they are held for ten days to make sure they don’t
have rabies, and then put down. “Put down” is shelter talk for “killed.”
Fred points to a cage in the back of the quarantine room, and I walk toward it, cringing as I do. What is there turns out
to be far worse than expected; it’s one of the most beautiful golden retrievers I’ve ever seen.
Golden retrievers do not belong in cages. Ever. No exceptions. The dog I’m looking at is maybe seven years old, with more
dignity in his eyes than I could accumulate in seven hundred years. Those eyes are saying, “I don’t belong in here,” and truer
eye words were never spoken.
I can feel myself getting angry at this obvious injustice. “What the hell is this about?” I ask as Fred walks over.
“He bit his owner. Eleven stitches,” Fred says. “Not that I blame him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing, the owner is an asshole. And for another, he might not even be the owner.”
“Tell me everything you know,” I say.
It turns out that Fred doesn’t know that much. A man named Warren Shaheen, who had just come home from the hospital, called
him to a house in Hawthorne. He said he had been bitten by his dog, Yogi, for no reason whatsoever. He wanted the dog taken
to the shelter and put down.
As Fred and Yogi were leaving the house, a young boy who claimed to live next door approached. He said that Warren was always
kicking the dog, and he was sure that the dog bit him in retaliation. Further, he claimed that Warren had found the dog wandering
on the street less than three weeks ago and apparently made no effort to find the real owner.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
Fred shrugged. “You know the drill. After ten days, we put him down. We’re not allowed to adopt him out.”
I ask Fred if he’ll open the cage and let me take the dog out. He knows he shouldn’t, but does so anyway.
I take Yogi into a small room where potential adopters go to get to know the dogs they might take. I sit in the chair, and
Yogi comes over to me. He has cut marks on his face, clearly visible in this light. They look old, perhaps remnants from some
long-ago abuse. It’s likely that Yogi has not had the best life.
He puts his paw up on my knee, a signal from goldens that they want their chest scratched. I do so, and then he rests his
head on my thigh as I pet it.
Fred comes over to the room, looks in and sees me petting Yogi in this position. “Pretty amazing, huh?”
“Fred, I’m aware of the regulations, but there’s something you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing bad is going to happen to this dog.”
I HAVE COME to the conclusion that the entire “work ethic” concept is a scam.
Hardworking people are to be admired, we’re told, though no one mentions that the very act of working is contrary to the natural
order of things. It falls to me, Andy Carpenter, philosopher extraordinaire, to set the record straight.
I believe that humans have an “enjoyment drive,” which supersedes all others. Everything we do is in the pursuit of that enjoyment.
We eat because it’s more enjoyable to be full than hungry; we sleep because it’s more enjoyable to be rested than tired; we
have sex because… I assume you get the picture.
We work simply to make money, because money makes our lives more enjoyable in many ways. If you take money out of the equation,
the work system falls apart. Without the desire for cash, who is going to say, “I think I’ll spend ten hours a day for my
entire life selling plumbing supplies”? Or waiting tables? Or repairing vacuum cleaners?
There are people, I will concede, who would pursue certain occupations independent of money. For example, artists, politicians,
or perhaps entertainers might do what they do for the creative satisfaction or the power or the acclaim. But that’s only because
they enjoy creative satisfaction, power, and acclaim.
Which brings me to me. I am work-ethically challenged. Simply put, I’m a lawyer who has never been terribly fond of lawyering.
Since I inherited twenty-two million dollars a few years ago, money has ceased to be a driving force, which means I don’t
exactly have a busy work life.
There are exceptions to my aversion to plying my craft, which fit neatly under my drive for enjoyment. I’ve handled a number
of major, challenging cases in the past few years, most of which became big media events. The key for me is to treat them
as sport, as a challenge to be relished, and that’s what I did.
But those cases were as important to me personally as they were professionally, which elevated the stakes and made them that
much more enjoyable and exciting. They ignited my competitive fire. If I were representing some stranger in a divorce or suing
an insurance company over an auto accident, I’d rather stay home.
Right now I can feel my juices starting to flow as I head for the office. On the way there I call my associate, Kevin Randall,
on his cell phone.
His “Hello” is spoken in a hushed whisper.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“I’m at my urologist,” he says.
Kevin is the biggest hypochondriac in the Western Hemisphere, and five out of every ten times I might call him he’s at the
doctor. “You have your own urologist?” I ask. “That’s pretty impressive.”
Kevin knows I am unable to resist making fun of his devotion to his perceived illnesses, but he is equally unable to resist
talking about them. “You don’t? Who do you see for urology issues?”
“I have no tolerance for urology issues,” I say. “I piss on urology issues.”
He doesn’t like the way this conversation is going, which makes him sane. “Why are you calling me, Andy?”
“To ask if you could meet me in the office. When you’re finished at the urologist.”
“Why?” he asks. Since we haven’t taken on a case in a few months, it’s a reasonable question to pose.
“We’ve got client issues,” I say.
“We have a client?” He’s not successfully masking his incredulity.
“Yes.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Yogi,” I say.
“Yogi? Is that a first name or a last name?” Kevin knows nothing about sports, so he is apparently not familiar with Yogi
Berra. However, I would have thought he’d know Yogi Bear.
“Actually, it’s his only name, and probably not his real one at that. Listen, Kevin, I’m pretty sure he can’t pay our fee.
Are you okay with that?”
“Of course.” I gave Kevin half of a huge commission we made on a case a while back, so money is not a major issue for him,
either. Additionally, he owns the Law-dromat, a thriving establishment at which he dispenses free legal advice to customers
who bring in their clothes to be washed and dried. “What is he accused of?”
“Assault,” I say.
“Where is he now?”
“On death row.”
“Andy, I sense there’s something unusual about this case.”
“You got that right.”
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?”
This is the greeting I get from Edna, who for fifteen years has been my secretary but who now insists on being called my “administrative
assistant.” In neither role has Edna ever done any actual work, but as an administrative assistant she can do nothing with
considerably more dignity.
Like all of us, Edna strives to satisfy her enjoyment drive, and she does so by doing crossword puzzles. She is the greatest
crossword puzzler I have ever seen, and possibly the greatest who has ever lived. Just as art collectors seem to discover
DaVincis or Picassos at flea markets or in somebody’s garage every month, in three hundred years crossword puzzle devotees
will be finding long-lost Ednas and selling them for fortunes.
She is polishing off today’s New York Times puzzle when I walk in, and her surprise at seeing me is justified. I haven’t been here in at least a week.
“We’ve got a client,” I say.
“How did that happen?”
Her tone is somewhere between baffled and annoyed. “I was in the right place at the right time. Come in with Kevin when he
gets here.”
I head back to my private office with a window overlooking the finest fruit stand on Van Houten Avenue in Paterson, New Jersey.
If I ever blow my money, it’s not going to be on office space.
I use the time to look through some law books and browse on the computer, finding out as much as I can about dog law in New
Jersey. What I learn is not encouraging; if there’s a dog lover in the state legislature, he or she has been in hiding.
I’m fifteen minutes into finding absolutely no protections for canines under the law, when Kevin and Edna walk in. As soon
as they sit down, I start in.
“Our client is a dog named Yogi, who is currently at the shelter. He’s scheduled to be put down the day after tomorrow.”
“Why?” Kevin asks.
“He’s alleged to have bitten his owner.”
Kevin shakes his head. “No, I mean why is he our client?”
I shrug. “Apparently, no other lawyer would take his case, probably because he sheds. What do you know about dog law?”
“Nothing,” Kevin says.
“Then you take the computer and I’ll take the books.”
“Do I have to do anything?” Edna asks, openly cringing at the prospect.
I nod. “You might want to get some biscuits. We’ll need them when we meet with our client.”
Edna goes out, and I explain the details of Yogi’s situation to Kevin. We then spend the next hour and a half researching
the law. Kevin is far better at this than I am, and my hope is that he’ll come up with something.
He doesn’t. “Yogi’s got big problems,” he says.
He explains that the animal control system’s regulations prohibit them from letting anyone adopt a dog who has bitten someone.
It is considered a matter of public safety, not reviewable under any statute. Under certain conditions the owner can take
the dog back, but Yogi’s owner doesn’t want him. Nor would we want Yogi to go back to someone who was kicking him.
“Andy,” Kevin says, “are we sure the dog isn’t really dangerous?”
I nod. “I’m sure. I looked into his eyes.”
“You always told me you never make eye contact,” he says.
“I was talking about with people.”
“Oh. Then, are we sure the dog actually bit the guy?”
I nod again. “Apparently so. The neighbor said the guy was kicking him, so…”
Kevin notices my pause. “So…?” he prompts.
“So… it was self-defense.” I’m starting to get excited by what is forming in my mind. “Yogi was a victim of domestic violence.”
“Andy, come on…”
There’s no stopping me now. “Come on, the dog was being abused. He couldn’t call 911, so he defended himself. If he was the
guy’s wife, NOW would be throwing him a cocktail party.”
Kevin is not getting it. “If the male dog was the guy’s wife?”
“Don’t focus on the sex part,” I say. “We’ve got a classic abuse-excuse defense here.” I’m referring to the traditional defense
used by abused wives who finally and justifiably turn violently against their husbands.
Kevin thinks about it for a moment, then can’t hold back a grin. “It could be fun.”
“The hell with fun,” I say. “We’re going to win.”
Now with a strategy to work with, we spend another couple of hours plotting how to execute it. This defense, when the client
is a dog, is obviously not something the justice system or the legislature has contemplated, so there is little for us to
sink our teeth into. We’re heading into uncharted territory with few bullets in our legal guns.
Kevin heads down to the courthouse to file for injunctive relief on Yogi’s behalf, which essentially amounts to a request
for a stay of execution. The court does not have to see merit in our position to grant it; it need only recognize that not
granting it would result in Yogi’s death, which would in effect be ruling against our overall case before we’ve had a chance
to present it. Pleading self-defense on behalf of a dead client is not a terribly productive use of anyone’s time.
After his stop at the courthouse, Kevin is going to attempt to interview Warren Shaheen, the man with Yogi’s teeth marks in
his legs. Kevin will get his side of the story and try to persuade him to see the merit of our position. Shaheen may well
not want to get taken through the torture I’ve got planned for him, and Kevin is going to suggest some alternatives that we’ve
come up with.
The first hurdle we’ll have to overcome is to get a judge to consider our request tomorrow, the scheduled last day of Yogi’s
life. I head home to think about that problem in the way that my mind functions most clearly. I take my own golden retriever,
Tara, for a walk in Eastside Park.
Tara’s official name has changed a few times over the years. Right now it is Tara, the Greatest Creature on This or Any Other
Planet and if You Can’t See That You’re an Idiot, Carpenter. It’s a little long, but apt.
I rescued Tara more than eight years ago from the same shelter that currently houses Yogi. Just looking at her now, enjoying
the sights and smells as we walk through the park, easily reaffirms my commitment that I will never let another golden die
in a shelter, not if it takes every dollar I have. Fortunately, it doesn’t.
Tara and I pass a number of our “dog friends” as we walk. These are the same people, walking their dogs, that we meet almost
every time we’re in the park. I don’t know any of the people’s names, and we merely exchange pleasantries and minor canine
chitchat, yet we have a common bond through our love of our dogs.
Each one of these people would be horrified to know of Yogi’s plight, and I don’t share it with them. At least not now. But
I do come to the realization that my only hope lies in sharing it with all of them.
Yogi is about to become famous.
I call my friend Vince Sanders, editor of the local newspaper and the most disagreeable human being I have ever met. As a
terrific journalist, he will take a heartwarming story and run with it, despite not having the slightest idea why it is heartwarming.
Vince’s long-suffering assistant, Linda, answers the phone. “Hey, Linda, it’s Andy. What kind of mood is he in?”
“Same as always,” she says.
“Sorry to hear that,” I say, and she tells him I’m on the phone.
“Yeah?” Vince says when he picks up. “Hello” and “good-bye” are not part of his verbal repertoire.
“I’ve got a big story for you,” I say.
“Hold on while I try to come to terms with my excitement,” is his deadpan answer.
I tell him to get a photographer and meet me at the animal shelter. He doesn’t want to, but he trusts me a little from past
stories, so he considers it. I close the deal by promising to buy the burgers and beer the next time we go to Charlie’s, our
favorite sports bar.
I drop Tara off at home and then go down to the shelter. Vince hasn’t arrived yet, so I use the time to bring Fred up to date
on the situation. I think he likes what he’s hearing, because every few sentences he claps his hands and smacks me on the
back.
When I’m finished, he says, “You think you can pull this off?”
I nod. “I’m most worried about the timing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got to get the judge to move much more quickly than judges like to move. I don’t want anything to happen to Yogi in
the meantime.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Fred says. “I’ve got a hunch I’m not going to be able to find my syringes.”
He’s telling me that he won’t put Yogi down on schedule, at least not until he’s heard from me. He’s taking a risk, particularly
since this will be a well-publicized case, and I appreciate it. As will Yogi when he hears about it.
Vince and his photographer arrive, and I explain the situation to them. When I’m finished, I take them back to the quarantine
area. “This is him?” Vince asks. “This is the big story?”
“It’s a human interest story, Vince. Which means that if you were an actual human, you’d have an interest in it.”
Fortunately, Vince’s photographer is a dog lover, and he eagerly gets to work. I make sure that all the pictures are taken
through the bars of the cage; I want Yogi’s miserable situation to be completely clear in each photograph.
When he’s finished, he shows Vince the picture he thinks is best, and we both agree. It captures Yogi perfectly and dramatizes
the injustice of his plight.
Tomorrow that picture will be everywhere, because Yogi is about to become America’s dog.
SOMETIMES THINGS COME together perfectly.
It doesn’t happen often; usually something can be counted on to go wrong. Murphy didn’t become famous by passing a bum law.
But when everything goes right, when a plan is executed to perfection, it is something to be cherished.
The voracious twenty-four-hour cable, Internet, blogging media is onto Yogi’s story before Vince’s paper even physically hits
the newsst. . .
PLAY DEAD
“Riveting… No shaggy dog story, this puppy’s alive with reliable Rosenfelt wit and heart.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“There is no way you can read this novel without becoming completely caught up in the story. As always, Andy’s offbeat, outspoken
personality shines on every page, and the balance of humor and mystery is dead-on.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Enjoyable… Carpenter continues to amuse and engage.”
—Library Journal
“The customary humor abounds in this entertaining novel.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A steadily absorbing journey through layers and layers of deceit.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A fun mystery novel… entertaining.”
—
TheMysterySite.com
DEAD CENTER
“Entertaining… witty… perfect.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Enjoyable… entertaining.”
—Portland Tribune
“Rosenfelt is a very funny guy who’s got the gift of glib.”
—Kingston Observer (MA)
“Rosenfelt adroitly mixes drama with humor… Those who like the added complexity of character-driven mysteries will find much
to enjoy in this award-winning series.”
—Booklist
“Written with flair and humor… If there aren’t any real-life lawyers as entertaining, as witty, and as willing to tilt at
windmills as Andy Carpenter, Edgar®-finalist Rosenfelt’s engaging hero, then there should be.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A terrific tale… Fans of the series will enjoy Dead Center.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Witty… cleverly plotted… very enjoyable.”
—About Books
SUDDEN DEATH
“The author handles the material deftly, mixing humor and whodunit but never letting the comedy overwhelm the mystery.”
—Booklist
“Another touchdown!”
—Publishers Weekly
BURY THE LEAD
A TODAY SHOW BOOK CLUB PICK
“Absolute fun… Anyone who likes the Plum books will love this book.”
—JANET EVANOVICH
“A clever plot and breezy style… absorbing.”
—Boston Globe
“Exudes charm and offbeat humor, sophistication, and personable characters.”
—Dallas Morning News
FIRST DEGREE
SELECTED AS ONE OF THE BEST MYSTERIES OF 2003 BY PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Entertaining… fast paced… sophisticated.”
—MARILYN STASIO, New York Times Book Review
“Suspense just where you want it and humor just where you need it.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Entertaining.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
OPEN AND SHUT
EDGAR® AWARD NOMINEE
“Very assured… packed with cleverly sarcastic wit.”
—New York Times
“Splendid… intricate plotting.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“A great book… one part gripping legal thriller, one part smart-mouth wise-guy detective story, and all-around terrific.”
—HARLAN COBEN, author of
No Second Chance
“Engaging and likable… The action is brisk.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
I’m not a big fan of acknowledgment pages; most of the time I refuse to even acknowledge them. I especially hate when authors
drop names of famous people as a way to impress the readers, and then go on to tell heartwarming little anecdotes to show
how tight the author is with those bigshots.
Not me; that’s not what I’m about. I make my acknowledgments short and to the point, and I don’t go scrounging around for
impressive names. I let my literary achievements do my showing off for me. If someone has been helpful or inspirational, I
thank them… if not, I don’t. No one gets a free pass.
So, in no particular order, I would like to acknowledge…
Michael Jordan
Bill Clinton
Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower
Debbie Myers
Jonas Salk
Britney Spears
Clarence and Marlo Thomas
Bob Castillo
Babe Ruth
Wolf Blitzer
Wolfman Jack
Stacy Alesi
Gandhi
Jessica and Homer Simpson
Little Anthony and the Imperials
Derek Jeter
Susan Richman
Wayne and Fig Newton
Puff Daddy
My Daddy
My Mommy
Alex Trebek
Various Rosenfelts
Golda Meir
The Barbara sisters: Bush, Streisand and Walters
Nelson Mandela
Ozzie Nelson
Ozzy Osbourne
Les Pockell
Kevin Costner
Kevin Federline
Robin Rue
George Costanza
Joe Montana
The entire state of Montana
David Divine
Bruce Springsteen
Walter Cronkite
Norman Schwarzkopf
Tony Blair
Tony Gwynn
Tony Soprano
Kristin Weber
Bialystock and Bloom
Ralph and Alice Kramden
Bobby and Gladys Knight
Doug Burns
George Burns
Henry Kissinger
Trixie and Ed Norton
June Peralta
The Taylors: Lawrence and Elizabeth
Cal Ripken
Paris and Conrad Hilton
Tokyo Rose
Al and Nancy Sarnoff
The Bird Brothers: Larry, Charlie and Big
Warren G. Harding
Stephanie Allen
Celia Johnson
Magic Johnson
Andrew Johnson
Johnson & Johnson
Norman Trell
Gracie Allen
Ernest Hemingway
The Jacksons—Michael, Stonewall and Phil
Simon & Garfunkel
Scott and Heidi Ryder
Joe Frazier
Christopher Columbus
Christopher Cross
Sandy Weinberg
Sam and Whitney Houston
Anthony, Bernard and Johns Hopkins
Muhammad Ali
John and Carol Antonaccio
The Rogers: Kenny, Roy and Ginger
Rocky Balboa
Geraldo, Chita and Mariano Rivera
George Kentris
Abbott & Costello
Chief Justice John, Julia and Robin Roberts
Michael, Sonny and Don Corleone
I apologize if I left anyone out.
On a serious note, please e-mail me at
dr27712@aol.com with any feedback on the book. Many people have done so in the past, and I very much appreciate it.
“ANDY, YOU’RE NOT going to believe this.”
This is the type of sentence that, when said in a vacuum, doesn’t reveal much. Whatever it is that I am not going to believe
might be very positive or very negative, and there would be no way to know until I see it.
Unfortunately, this particular sentence is not said in a vacuum; it’s said in the Passaic County Animal Shelter. Which means
that “positive” is no longer one of the possibilities.
The person speaking the words is Fred Brandenberger, whose job as shelter manager is an impossibly difficult one. There are
far more dogs that come through his doors than potential adopters, and he therefore must helplessly supervise the euthanasia
of those that are not taken. I know it drives Fred crazy; he’s been in the job for two years, and my guess is he’s not going
to last much longer.
It bothers me to come here, and I rarely do. I leave this job to my former legal client, Willie Miller, who is my partner
in the Tara Foundation, a dog rescue operation. We rescue a lot of dogs, over a thousand a year, but there are many more worthy
ones that we simply do not have room for. I hate making the life-or-death decisions on which ones we will take, and Willie
has been shouldering that responsibility.
Unfortunately, Willie and his wife, Sondra, are in Atlantic City for a few days, and we’ve got some openings for new dogs,
so here I am. I’ve been dreading it, and based on what Fred has just said to me, I fear that dread has been warranted.
Fred leads me back to the quarantine room, which houses dogs who are sick or are unavailable to be adopted for other reasons.
The other reason is usually that the dog has bitten someone; in that case they are held for ten days to make sure they don’t
have rabies, and then put down. “Put down” is shelter talk for “killed.”
Fred points to a cage in the back of the quarantine room, and I walk toward it, cringing as I do. What is there turns out
to be far worse than expected; it’s one of the most beautiful golden retrievers I’ve ever seen.
Golden retrievers do not belong in cages. Ever. No exceptions. The dog I’m looking at is maybe seven years old, with more
dignity in his eyes than I could accumulate in seven hundred years. Those eyes are saying, “I don’t belong in here,” and truer
eye words were never spoken.
I can feel myself getting angry at this obvious injustice. “What the hell is this about?” I ask as Fred walks over.
“He bit his owner. Eleven stitches,” Fred says. “Not that I blame him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing, the owner is an asshole. And for another, he might not even be the owner.”
“Tell me everything you know,” I say.
It turns out that Fred doesn’t know that much. A man named Warren Shaheen, who had just come home from the hospital, called
him to a house in Hawthorne. He said he had been bitten by his dog, Yogi, for no reason whatsoever. He wanted the dog taken
to the shelter and put down.
As Fred and Yogi were leaving the house, a young boy who claimed to live next door approached. He said that Warren was always
kicking the dog, and he was sure that the dog bit him in retaliation. Further, he claimed that Warren had found the dog wandering
on the street less than three weeks ago and apparently made no effort to find the real owner.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
Fred shrugged. “You know the drill. After ten days, we put him down. We’re not allowed to adopt him out.”
I ask Fred if he’ll open the cage and let me take the dog out. He knows he shouldn’t, but does so anyway.
I take Yogi into a small room where potential adopters go to get to know the dogs they might take. I sit in the chair, and
Yogi comes over to me. He has cut marks on his face, clearly visible in this light. They look old, perhaps remnants from some
long-ago abuse. It’s likely that Yogi has not had the best life.
He puts his paw up on my knee, a signal from goldens that they want their chest scratched. I do so, and then he rests his
head on my thigh as I pet it.
Fred comes over to the room, looks in and sees me petting Yogi in this position. “Pretty amazing, huh?”
“Fred, I’m aware of the regulations, but there’s something you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing bad is going to happen to this dog.”
I HAVE COME to the conclusion that the entire “work ethic” concept is a scam.
Hardworking people are to be admired, we’re told, though no one mentions that the very act of working is contrary to the natural
order of things. It falls to me, Andy Carpenter, philosopher extraordinaire, to set the record straight.
I believe that humans have an “enjoyment drive,” which supersedes all others. Everything we do is in the pursuit of that enjoyment.
We eat because it’s more enjoyable to be full than hungry; we sleep because it’s more enjoyable to be rested than tired; we
have sex because… I assume you get the picture.
We work simply to make money, because money makes our lives more enjoyable in many ways. If you take money out of the equation,
the work system falls apart. Without the desire for cash, who is going to say, “I think I’ll spend ten hours a day for my
entire life selling plumbing supplies”? Or waiting tables? Or repairing vacuum cleaners?
There are people, I will concede, who would pursue certain occupations independent of money. For example, artists, politicians,
or perhaps entertainers might do what they do for the creative satisfaction or the power or the acclaim. But that’s only because
they enjoy creative satisfaction, power, and acclaim.
Which brings me to me. I am work-ethically challenged. Simply put, I’m a lawyer who has never been terribly fond of lawyering.
Since I inherited twenty-two million dollars a few years ago, money has ceased to be a driving force, which means I don’t
exactly have a busy work life.
There are exceptions to my aversion to plying my craft, which fit neatly under my drive for enjoyment. I’ve handled a number
of major, challenging cases in the past few years, most of which became big media events. The key for me is to treat them
as sport, as a challenge to be relished, and that’s what I did.
But those cases were as important to me personally as they were professionally, which elevated the stakes and made them that
much more enjoyable and exciting. They ignited my competitive fire. If I were representing some stranger in a divorce or suing
an insurance company over an auto accident, I’d rather stay home.
Right now I can feel my juices starting to flow as I head for the office. On the way there I call my associate, Kevin Randall,
on his cell phone.
His “Hello” is spoken in a hushed whisper.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“I’m at my urologist,” he says.
Kevin is the biggest hypochondriac in the Western Hemisphere, and five out of every ten times I might call him he’s at the
doctor. “You have your own urologist?” I ask. “That’s pretty impressive.”
Kevin knows I am unable to resist making fun of his devotion to his perceived illnesses, but he is equally unable to resist
talking about them. “You don’t? Who do you see for urology issues?”
“I have no tolerance for urology issues,” I say. “I piss on urology issues.”
He doesn’t like the way this conversation is going, which makes him sane. “Why are you calling me, Andy?”
“To ask if you could meet me in the office. When you’re finished at the urologist.”
“Why?” he asks. Since we haven’t taken on a case in a few months, it’s a reasonable question to pose.
“We’ve got client issues,” I say.
“We have a client?” He’s not successfully masking his incredulity.
“Yes.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Yogi,” I say.
“Yogi? Is that a first name or a last name?” Kevin knows nothing about sports, so he is apparently not familiar with Yogi
Berra. However, I would have thought he’d know Yogi Bear.
“Actually, it’s his only name, and probably not his real one at that. Listen, Kevin, I’m pretty sure he can’t pay our fee.
Are you okay with that?”
“Of course.” I gave Kevin half of a huge commission we made on a case a while back, so money is not a major issue for him,
either. Additionally, he owns the Law-dromat, a thriving establishment at which he dispenses free legal advice to customers
who bring in their clothes to be washed and dried. “What is he accused of?”
“Assault,” I say.
“Where is he now?”
“On death row.”
“Andy, I sense there’s something unusual about this case.”
“You got that right.”
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?”
This is the greeting I get from Edna, who for fifteen years has been my secretary but who now insists on being called my “administrative
assistant.” In neither role has Edna ever done any actual work, but as an administrative assistant she can do nothing with
considerably more dignity.
Like all of us, Edna strives to satisfy her enjoyment drive, and she does so by doing crossword puzzles. She is the greatest
crossword puzzler I have ever seen, and possibly the greatest who has ever lived. Just as art collectors seem to discover
DaVincis or Picassos at flea markets or in somebody’s garage every month, in three hundred years crossword puzzle devotees
will be finding long-lost Ednas and selling them for fortunes.
She is polishing off today’s New York Times puzzle when I walk in, and her surprise at seeing me is justified. I haven’t been here in at least a week.
“We’ve got a client,” I say.
“How did that happen?”
Her tone is somewhere between baffled and annoyed. “I was in the right place at the right time. Come in with Kevin when he
gets here.”
I head back to my private office with a window overlooking the finest fruit stand on Van Houten Avenue in Paterson, New Jersey.
If I ever blow my money, it’s not going to be on office space.
I use the time to look through some law books and browse on the computer, finding out as much as I can about dog law in New
Jersey. What I learn is not encouraging; if there’s a dog lover in the state legislature, he or she has been in hiding.
I’m fifteen minutes into finding absolutely no protections for canines under the law, when Kevin and Edna walk in. As soon
as they sit down, I start in.
“Our client is a dog named Yogi, who is currently at the shelter. He’s scheduled to be put down the day after tomorrow.”
“Why?” Kevin asks.
“He’s alleged to have bitten his owner.”
Kevin shakes his head. “No, I mean why is he our client?”
I shrug. “Apparently, no other lawyer would take his case, probably because he sheds. What do you know about dog law?”
“Nothing,” Kevin says.
“Then you take the computer and I’ll take the books.”
“Do I have to do anything?” Edna asks, openly cringing at the prospect.
I nod. “You might want to get some biscuits. We’ll need them when we meet with our client.”
Edna goes out, and I explain the details of Yogi’s situation to Kevin. We then spend the next hour and a half researching
the law. Kevin is far better at this than I am, and my hope is that he’ll come up with something.
He doesn’t. “Yogi’s got big problems,” he says.
He explains that the animal control system’s regulations prohibit them from letting anyone adopt a dog who has bitten someone.
It is considered a matter of public safety, not reviewable under any statute. Under certain conditions the owner can take
the dog back, but Yogi’s owner doesn’t want him. Nor would we want Yogi to go back to someone who was kicking him.
“Andy,” Kevin says, “are we sure the dog isn’t really dangerous?”
I nod. “I’m sure. I looked into his eyes.”
“You always told me you never make eye contact,” he says.
“I was talking about with people.”
“Oh. Then, are we sure the dog actually bit the guy?”
I nod again. “Apparently so. The neighbor said the guy was kicking him, so…”
Kevin notices my pause. “So…?” he prompts.
“So… it was self-defense.” I’m starting to get excited by what is forming in my mind. “Yogi was a victim of domestic violence.”
“Andy, come on…”
There’s no stopping me now. “Come on, the dog was being abused. He couldn’t call 911, so he defended himself. If he was the
guy’s wife, NOW would be throwing him a cocktail party.”
Kevin is not getting it. “If the male dog was the guy’s wife?”
“Don’t focus on the sex part,” I say. “We’ve got a classic abuse-excuse defense here.” I’m referring to the traditional defense
used by abused wives who finally and justifiably turn violently against their husbands.
Kevin thinks about it for a moment, then can’t hold back a grin. “It could be fun.”
“The hell with fun,” I say. “We’re going to win.”
Now with a strategy to work with, we spend another couple of hours plotting how to execute it. This defense, when the client
is a dog, is obviously not something the justice system or the legislature has contemplated, so there is little for us to
sink our teeth into. We’re heading into uncharted territory with few bullets in our legal guns.
Kevin heads down to the courthouse to file for injunctive relief on Yogi’s behalf, which essentially amounts to a request
for a stay of execution. The court does not have to see merit in our position to grant it; it need only recognize that not
granting it would result in Yogi’s death, which would in effect be ruling against our overall case before we’ve had a chance
to present it. Pleading self-defense on behalf of a dead client is not a terribly productive use of anyone’s time.
After his stop at the courthouse, Kevin is going to attempt to interview Warren Shaheen, the man with Yogi’s teeth marks in
his legs. Kevin will get his side of the story and try to persuade him to see the merit of our position. Shaheen may well
not want to get taken through the torture I’ve got planned for him, and Kevin is going to suggest some alternatives that we’ve
come up with.
The first hurdle we’ll have to overcome is to get a judge to consider our request tomorrow, the scheduled last day of Yogi’s
life. I head home to think about that problem in the way that my mind functions most clearly. I take my own golden retriever,
Tara, for a walk in Eastside Park.
Tara’s official name has changed a few times over the years. Right now it is Tara, the Greatest Creature on This or Any Other
Planet and if You Can’t See That You’re an Idiot, Carpenter. It’s a little long, but apt.
I rescued Tara more than eight years ago from the same shelter that currently houses Yogi. Just looking at her now, enjoying
the sights and smells as we walk through the park, easily reaffirms my commitment that I will never let another golden die
in a shelter, not if it takes every dollar I have. Fortunately, it doesn’t.
Tara and I pass a number of our “dog friends” as we walk. These are the same people, walking their dogs, that we meet almost
every time we’re in the park. I don’t know any of the people’s names, and we merely exchange pleasantries and minor canine
chitchat, yet we have a common bond through our love of our dogs.
Each one of these people would be horrified to know of Yogi’s plight, and I don’t share it with them. At least not now. But
I do come to the realization that my only hope lies in sharing it with all of them.
Yogi is about to become famous.
I call my friend Vince Sanders, editor of the local newspaper and the most disagreeable human being I have ever met. As a
terrific journalist, he will take a heartwarming story and run with it, despite not having the slightest idea why it is heartwarming.
Vince’s long-suffering assistant, Linda, answers the phone. “Hey, Linda, it’s Andy. What kind of mood is he in?”
“Same as always,” she says.
“Sorry to hear that,” I say, and she tells him I’m on the phone.
“Yeah?” Vince says when he picks up. “Hello” and “good-bye” are not part of his verbal repertoire.
“I’ve got a big story for you,” I say.
“Hold on while I try to come to terms with my excitement,” is his deadpan answer.
I tell him to get a photographer and meet me at the animal shelter. He doesn’t want to, but he trusts me a little from past
stories, so he considers it. I close the deal by promising to buy the burgers and beer the next time we go to Charlie’s, our
favorite sports bar.
I drop Tara off at home and then go down to the shelter. Vince hasn’t arrived yet, so I use the time to bring Fred up to date
on the situation. I think he likes what he’s hearing, because every few sentences he claps his hands and smacks me on the
back.
When I’m finished, he says, “You think you can pull this off?”
I nod. “I’m most worried about the timing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got to get the judge to move much more quickly than judges like to move. I don’t want anything to happen to Yogi in
the meantime.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Fred says. “I’ve got a hunch I’m not going to be able to find my syringes.”
He’s telling me that he won’t put Yogi down on schedule, at least not until he’s heard from me. He’s taking a risk, particularly
since this will be a well-publicized case, and I appreciate it. As will Yogi when he hears about it.
Vince and his photographer arrive, and I explain the situation to them. When I’m finished, I take them back to the quarantine
area. “This is him?” Vince asks. “This is the big story?”
“It’s a human interest story, Vince. Which means that if you were an actual human, you’d have an interest in it.”
Fortunately, Vince’s photographer is a dog lover, and he eagerly gets to work. I make sure that all the pictures are taken
through the bars of the cage; I want Yogi’s miserable situation to be completely clear in each photograph.
When he’s finished, he shows Vince the picture he thinks is best, and we both agree. It captures Yogi perfectly and dramatizes
the injustice of his plight.
Tomorrow that picture will be everywhere, because Yogi is about to become America’s dog.
SOMETIMES THINGS COME together perfectly.
It doesn’t happen often; usually something can be counted on to go wrong. Murphy didn’t become famous by passing a bum law.
But when everything goes right, when a plan is executed to perfection, it is something to be cherished.
The voracious twenty-four-hour cable, Internet, blogging media is onto Yogi’s story before Vince’s paper even physically hits
the newsst. . .
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