Play Dead

Once we finish going through all the documents, we spend some time discussing what we’ve learned and where we are. The only thing that is in any way unusual is the fact that Reggie is very much alive, despite the certainty of Lieutenant Siegle that he could not have swum to shore. If she is wrong in that assessment, or if this dog and Evans’s dog are not one and the same, then Evans has absolutely nothing going for him.

Looking at this from the other side presents a bunch of questions that we are nowhere near ready to answer. If Evans is not guilty, why try to commit suicide? And who murdered Stacy? If it was somehow an elaborate scam to fake her own death, she didn’t do that great a job, since she wound up dying.

We don’t have Evans’s answer to any of these questions, since he did not testify at trial in his own defense. It was probably a wise decision.

So for now all we have is Reggie and the absolute impossibility, at least in my mind, that a dog lover could have thrown him into the ocean.

I find myself staring at Reggie until I realize that Kevin is staring at me as I do so. “So what do you think?” I ask.

Kevin smiles. “It doesn’t matter what I think. You’re going to keep going after this.”

“Why is that?” I ask.

“Because of the dog.”

“But I want to know what you think.”

“I think there’s nothing here, Andy. It’s as airtight as you’re going to find. But I don’t see anything wrong with pursuing it a little further. What the hell else do we have to do?”

“That’s a good point. I’ll call Karen Evans.”

“To tell her the good news?”

I nod. “And to tell her I want to talk to her brother.”

* * * * *

PRISONS AND HOSPITALS feel the same to me.

When I say “hospitals,” I’m not talking about the maternity ward, the tonsillectomy section, or even the emergency room. I’m talking about the cancer ward or the intensive care unit, the places where hope is scarce and resignation and sadness are for the most part the order of the day.

That same feeling exists in every prison I’ve ever visited; it’s a dreary world in which there is a tangible, ever-present feeling of life ebbing away. The surroundings, the people, the conversations are all etched in shades of gray, as if living in a black-and-white movie.

I am therefore not looking at all forward to this morning’s visit to Rahway State Prison. Not too much good can come out of it. I’ll likely determine that I can’t or don’t want to help Richard Evans, in which case I’ll be delivering crushing news to Karen. Or I’ll sink deeper into the quicksand that is sure to be this case, and I’ll spend six months of frustration futilely trying to reunite Reggie with his owner.

I pick up Karen at her house on Morlot Avenue in Fair Lawn, and if she shares my pessimism and dread, she’s hiding it really well. She is waiting for me at the curb and just about jumps into the car; if the window were open I don’t think she’d bother opening the door.

I try to start a normal conversation with Karen, asking her what she does for a living.

“I design dresses,” she says. “Then I make them myself and sell them to stores.”

“That’s great,” I say. “Which stores?”

She seems uncomfortable with the conversation. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather talk about Richard.”

“You don’t like to talk about yourself?”

“There isn’t any myself,” she says. “There hasn’t been one for five years… ever since they put Richard in that cage.”

“You think it helps him to deprive yourself of a life?”

“I checked you out a lot,” she says. “I know you defended your girlfriend, Laurie, when she was on trial for murder. What if you had lost? You think you’d have much of a life right now?”

Point to Karen, fifteen-love. If Laurie were in prison, my life would be a miserable, unbearable wreck. “We won because she was innocent, and we were able to demonstrate it.”

“And you’re going to do it again.” She smiles. “So can we talk about Richard?”

“If that’s what you want. But right now I know very little.”

“I know… That’s cool,” she says. “I spoke to Richard yesterday. I didn’t tell him anything about you. He thinks I’m coming to visit like I always do.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I want him to be surprised. Boy, is he going to be surprised.”

“Karen, these things are by definition long shots.”

“But they happen, right? Didn’t it happen with you and Willie Miller?”

She certainly has “checked me out” and is aware that I successfully got Willie a new trial and an acquittal after he spent seven years on death row for a murder he did not commit. “They happen rarely, but far more often nothing can be done.”

“I believe in you,” she says. “And I believe in Richard. This is gonna happen.”

There’s nothing for me to say to that, so I keep my mouth shut and drive. I’m not going to be able to dampen her optimism now, and I’d rather try and borrow some. It could even make the next couple of hours more bearable.