Hounded by David Rosenfelt Page A

kid like that, and then kill his father.”

 
     
    “I’m getting some internal pressure about Diaz’s son,” Richard Wallace says.
    “What kind of pressure?” I ask. The next time Wallace calls me with good news will be the first.
    “There are those who don’t think he should be living with you.”
    I had worried about this possibility. Sometimes I think that my worrying about something means it will automatically come true. Maybe I should worry about winning the lottery.
    “Why the hell not?” I ask, pretending I don’t know.
    “Because he was in the house when his father was killed. There is a possibility that he will be a witness at trial. We generally don’t like to put up our prosecution witnesses at the defense attorney’s house.”
    “Makes sense. Let’s take the kid and dump him into the system. Better yet, let’s put him in solitary confinement.”
    “Come on, Andy.”
    “No, Richard, this is bullshit. We are not talking about trial tactics here, we’re talking about a little boy who lost his parents. He likes it at our house; he likes Laurie, and Tara, and he doesn’t even think I’m an asshole. He’s gotten comfortable, and he’s not leaving. This I will take to the Supreme Court.”
    Wallace is quiet for a few moments. I know I haven’t intimidated him, and I also know that he has no desire to take Ricky out of our house. Finally, he says, “So give me something.”
    “Give you something? Like what?”
    “We might want to talk to him … if so a trained therapist will do it. You’d get a transcript of the conversation.”
    “Fair enough.” That can’t be what he meant by my giving him something.
    “So give me your word that if, while he is at your house, he says anything relevant about the case, you will turn it over to me.”
    “You think we’re spending the time grilling him?”
    “No. But kids say things. Can I report back that I have your word?”
    “You can. And just to show good faith, I’ll tell you something that he already said. Just came out with it; he wasn’t answering a question.”
    “What is it?”
    “He said that his father told him they were going to see his stepmother.” I have no problem telling Richard this. It in no way helps him, and I was going to call him about finding Juanita Diaz anyway.
    “What does that have to do with his murder?” Richard asks.
    “Probably nothing, but I’m not sure about that. Which reminds me, how is the search going for Juanita Diaz?”
    “I’ll have to check; it’s a police matter. But I haven’t heard anything about any progress.”
    “Maybe some of the internal pressure should be directed toward finding his stepmother, rather than making him homeless.”
    “I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, do we have a deal?”
    “We do. Will that make this problem go away?”
    “I can’t make any promises, but I’ve been around long enough that I know how to exert some internal pressure myself.”
    Richard gets off the phone, leaving me to reflect on a very good deal for our side. I’m happy to share anything that Ricky says, unless of course he says something damaging to Pete. It’s pretty hard to imagine myself turning that kind of information over, but I don’t feel bad about it, since Richard knows that as well as I do.
    Integrity, especially mine, has its limits.
    I walk into the kitchen, where Ricky is sitting on the floor in the corner. He’s got a pencil in his hand, and there’s a large book on his lap. Tara and Sebastian are on the floor with him, each with their head resting on one of his knees.
    He looks comfortable, and happy, and he’s not leaving until he has someplace better to go.
    “Can you help me?” he asks.
    “Sure. What do you need? Another dog?”
    He laughs. “Noooo. I’m doing a crossword puzzle book. Edna gave it to me.”
    “That’s a shocker,” I say.
    “Sit down next to Tara,” he says, indicating an open space on the floor.
    “Down there? You’ll need a crane to get me