The New Jersey State Prison is one of the oldest facilities of its type in the country, dating back to 1798.
It is a maximum security prison; if a convicted person is sent there, it means that the state has determined he has committed a serious and almost-always violent crime. Most of the inmates are not counting the days until they get out. If anything they are counting the years, and quite a few of them can’t count that high.
The guards did not notice anything unusual about that April day. Things seemed calm; no rumblings of unrest had been reported. It was a normal, quiet day, or at least as normal and quiet as an installation that houses more than fifteen hundred violent, incorrigible individuals can be.
To this day no one is sure what instigated the riot that began in the prison cafeteria and spilled out into the hallway. It seemed to come out of nowhere, to the point where it appeared preplanned. But no reason was ever discovered for it, and it lasted less than ten minutes before guards successfully broke it up.
In its wake, four people were dead and six others injured. Only seven people were charged with participating in the riot, two of them for murder. No one was ever identified as the instigator or planner. In all cases the newly convicted merely had more prison time added to sentences that already meant they were never getting out.
New Jersey outlawed the death penalty in 2007, so there was really nothing more that could be done to them. They in effect had a “stay in jail free” card.
Two of the dead were members of a gang controlled by Tony Giordano, the head of an organized crime family in Philadelphia. Those kinds of people would normally enjoy special status in the prison population and would not be in danger, for fear of retribution.
For that reason, the prison administration prepared for Giordano to seek revenge on those that killed his people.
He never did.
I don’t like eggnog, and I doubt that anybody really does.
It’s too thick and too sweet for my taste … like drinking melted chewing gum. I just tried some again anyway and found that sucking some of this batch through a straw requires either a serious pair of lungs or a hydraulic pump; it’s not nearly good enough to justify that amount of work.
But the reason I doubt that anyone really likes it is that it’s only popular at Christmas. Good food or drink should not require a holiday to justify consumption. As evidence I point to the fact that there’s no such thing as French Fry Day, or pizza season. Those foods are timeless.
I feel the same way about fruitcakes and candied yams; if you like them, eat them all year. Otherwise, I don’t want to hear about them.
Right now I am particularly focused on eggnog because I am currently doling it out. It’s Christmas party time at the Tara Foundation, the dog rescue group that I run with my friend Willie Miller and his wife, Sondra. It’s named after my golden retriever, who is so great she should have an entire planet named after her.
Sondra made the eggnog; she referred to it as “homemade.” Somehow things that are homemade are considered above criticism … they’re special and to be savored. Not sure why that is; I mean, what is the difference where the stove is?
If it’s made in a restaurant, is the heat different? Do the ingredients change? And what if the chef lives upstairs from the restaurant? Would that be considered homemade or not?
These are the kinds of things that run through my head; it’s not always easy being me.
Christmas is still three weeks away, or at least that’s how most people would view it. Most people are not my wife, Laurie Collins, who thinks that Christmas extends from Halloween to February 1. So in her eyes, we’re probably having this party a little late.
But I do like this event, the homemade eggnog notwithstanding. People who have adopted dogs from us come and bring their adoptees, and it’s nice seeing so many happy, barking faces. Knowing that each of these dogs has transferred from the misery of abandonment in shelters to loving homes never fails to cheer me up and even puts me in the holiday spirit.
My favorite guests, besides the dogs, are our foster families. These are people who have volunteered to welcome dogs into their homes while they are awaiting adoption. Not only do the dogs get to be treated royally, but it opens up space here at the foundation for us to bring in more.
Of course, sometimes there are what we call “foster failures,” which is when a dog is taken into a home temporarily, but the family finds they can’t give him/her up, and they wind up adopting. It’s a reason I could never foster a dog; the moment they walk through the door they become family.
I also like this event because of how our son, Ricky, responds to it. This year he has brought his best friend, Will Rubenstein, and they are having a fantastic time playing with all the dogs. There are few sounds I like better than Ricky’s laugh.
The party has about an hour to go when I get a phone call on my cell. I answer it with my customary, and quite clever, “Hello.”
“It’s Pete,” the caller says, and I immediately recognize the voice as that of Pete Stanton, the captain of the Homicide Division of Paterson PD. Pete’s also a good friend, meaning we can incessantly insult each other without either of us taking offense.
One of the good things about my friends is that we rarely talk on the phone, and absolutely never make small talk. If one of us calls, there’s a good reason for it, and we come to the point right away.
And in this case, that’s what Pete does. “I need you to come outside, Andy. Right now.”
I can hear some tension in his voice, or maybe it’s urgency. “What’s going on? Where are you?”
“I’m outside your building … waiting for you.”
“Why?”
“Andy, get your ass out here and I’ll explain.”
All things considered, it’s probably a good idea for me to get my ass out there. I call over Derek Moore, one of our best foster people, and ask him to take over the eggnog distribution. Derek is currently a double foster failure, and their names are Jake and Sasha.
Jake is a golden and Sasha is a dalmatian, and from the moment Derek saw them, I knew there was no chance he was ever giving them up.
I’m concerned about Pete’s weird request, so I go right outside. I immediately see that he is not alone: he has four officers with him and two squad cars. They are not here to adopt a dog.
“If you’re here for the eggnog, I can bring some out,” I say. “It would serve you right.”
“We’re here for Derek Moore,” Pete says. “Ask him to come outside, but don’t tell him why.”
“Tell me why.”
Pete hesitates, as if considering whether to answer the question. Finally, he says, “He’s being arrested for murder. You going to get him out here so this can be done quietly and easily, or do you want us to come in? I can guarantee it would put a damper on your party.”
“Who is he supposed to have killed?”
“Andy, make your decision.”
I have no idea what is going on, but there’s no upside to having Pete and the other cops come in. No matter what, Derek is going to be arrested. “Okay,” I say.
I go in and call out to Derek to come over. He puts down the eggnog ladle and walks to where I am, about twenty feet from the door. “What’s going on?” he asks.
“Come on outside. I want to show you something.”
He nods and follows me. If he’s expecting something unpleasant, he’s hiding it well. I’m feeling guilty, but this is only ending one way, regardless of my actions.
When we get through the door to the outside, for a moment I don’t see Pete or the other cops. That’s because they are standing on the two sides of the exit, but close in on us as soon as we are clear of the door.
Within seconds, Derek is in handcuffs, his face reflecting his bewilderment.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But this was going to happen either out here or inside.”
“What’s happening?” he asks.
“You are being arrested for murder.”
“What?” he asks, though it’s a reflex; I know he heard me. “Andy, there’s been a terrible mistake. I—”
Pete interrupts by starting the Miranda warning, and the beginning of it just makes this whole thing stranger and stranger. “Robert Klaster, you have the right to remain silent.…”
Who the hell is Robert Klaster?
I tell Pete that at least for the moment I am representing Derek as his attorney, and Pete gives me a few moments to talk to him.
“Derek, they’re going to take you down to the precinct and book you. Then you’ll be taken to county jail. I will meet you there.”
“Andy, I have no idea what this is about. Did they tell you?”
“No, but we’ll find out everything soon enough. In the meantime, do not talk to anyone about anything without me present.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t talk about the weather, the NFL games, nothing.”
“I understand.”
“Why did Pete call you Robert Klaster?” I ask.
“That’s my real name.”
Before I can follow up, Pete and the officers come back. “Okay, time’s up. You know where he’ll be.”
As they start to take Derek, or maybe Robert, away, he turns back to me. “Andy, Jake and Sasha.” It comes across as a plea.
“I’ll take care of them.”
As I’m about to go back into the party, Laurie is coming out. She sees the cops climbing into their cars with Derek, or Robert, or whoever, being put into the backseat of one of them.
“Andy?” Laurie has the ability to ask full questions using just one word. In this case, “Andy” is a substitute for “What the hell is happening and why is Derek being taken into custody?”
I explain things to her as best I can, which is to say not very well at all. I really have no information to provide other than that he has been arrested for the murder of some unknown person, and that his name isn’t actually Derek.
“You need to get involved in this,” Laurie says. She is dumping this on me both because she likes Derek and because I am a criminal defense attorney. As an ex-cop, Laurie is one of my investigators, so she might play a role down the road.
Right now Derek needs a lawyer more than the party needs an eggnog scooper, so at this stage I am the obvious choice. But there’s no reason for me to rush downtown; it’s going to take a while for Derek/Robert to be booked and entered into the system.
When we walk back in, I immediately see that Ricky and Will are in the center of our dog exercise area playing with a bunch of dogs, including Jake and Sasha.
“What are we going to do about Jake and Sasha?” Laurie asks.
“That’s a good question. They can’t stay here; I don’t know what’s going to happen, but Derek may be gone for a very long time. It wouldn’t be fair to them.”
“We have a big house.”
“We also have three dogs in it, plus three humans.” In addition to Tara, we have a pug named Hunter and Sebastian, a basset hound.
“We’ll figure it out.” She points to the play area. “Ricky already loves them.”
“I promised Tara she would be an only golden retriever.”
“She’ll adjust; she loves making new friends.”
I’m obviously going to give in; I want to make sure the dogs live in happy comfort, and we can’t place them in another home. They have to be there for Derek if he gets out of the obvious trouble that he is in.
“Okay,” I say, “but you’re breaking the news to Tara.”
The party is already winding down, so I’m going to wait until the end to take Laurie, the boys, and our two new family members home. It will still give me plenty of time to get downtown before Derek is available to be seen.
I still think of him as Derek, even though he has told me his real name is Robert. I’m dreading what else he is going to tell me.
On the way home we break the news to Ricky about Jake and Sasha. I think he’s pleased because he says, “Wow! That is so cool!” Ricky’s friend Will expresses his frustration that he only gets to have one dog, and I suspect his obvious jealousy pleases Ricky to no end.
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