Who Let the Dog Out? Read Online Free PDF Page A

overconfident; doesn’t she realize that I could pick up the phone and get a hundred women who would jump at the opportunity to go to the jail with me and meet a murderer?
    Tommy Infante is in an area of the jail where the accused but not yet convicted are held. It’s not as depressing as prison, where hope is pretty much nonexistent. In this pretrial phase there is always the possibility, at least in the accused’s mind, that something will happen to derail the process. Maybe the prosecutor will decide there isn’t enough evidence to go forward, or they’ll arrest somebody else.
    The possibility that something great like that could happen is slim, but who knows? It’s like if you’re a fringe major league player being called into the manager’s office. You’re hitting 190, so it’s likely he’s going to tell you he’s sending you down to the minors, but there’s always a chance he just wants to compliment you on your hustle, or the play you made in the third inning. You’ve got hope and a chance until you don’t have them anymore.
    I tell the clerk at the visitor’s desk who I am and that I want to see Infante. Pete has done his job and called them, so that part goes smoothly. However, they still have to make sure that Infante is willing to see me, so I sit and wait while that effort is made.
    Everything takes forever within the workings of the jail, which makes little sense. By definition, no one has anyplace to go or very much to do, so you’d think they could move a little quicker. I’m very surprised when only twenty minutes have passed before the clerk’s phone rings, with the word that Infante will see me.
    I’m also surprised when they don’t bring me to the visitor’s area, where people talk on phones through the glass. Instead I’m led to an anteroom, which must mean they think I am here as Infante’s lawyer. I do nothing to dissuade them from thinking this, since I prefer the privacy.
    I’m here for five minutes when Tommy Infante is brought in. He’s tall, at least six-four, and seems to be in reasonably good shape. He has a clean-cut look about him, and somehow seems out of place in this establishment.
    He’s in cuffs, and the guard simply points to the empty chair and says, “Sit down.” Once Infante does that, the guard unlocks one cuff from his wrist and attaches it to the metal table. He leaves without saying another word.
    Infante watches him leave, then turns to me and says, “Quite a talker.”
    The sarcasm is not world class, but it seems so incongruous to the surroundings that I laugh out loud. Of course, a lawyer laughing in these surroundings is even more incongruous. So we’re a couple of fun-loving, walking incongruities.
    “You don’t seem worried,” I say.
    “I’m plenty worried. But I’m feeling better that you’re here.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I’ve heard about you. You’re a famous lawyer, so you’re probably good.”
    “That’s not why I’m here.”
    “Nobody sent you?” he asks.
    It’s a strange comment for him to make. “Who would have sent me?”
    He shakes his head. “My luck keeps getting worse. Why the hell are you here?”
    “Just before Downey was killed, he stole a dog from my rescue foundation.”
    He looks at me as if I’m nuts. “And?”
    “And I was wondering if you knew anything about that. Or maybe if it was your dog.”
    He thinks for a moment, and then asks, “That’s really what this is about?”
    I nod. “It is. Sorry if you expected something else.”
    “Let me ask you a question,” he says. “When you have a client in my position, what’s the first thing you tell him?”
    “Not to say a word to anyone. Talk only to your lawyer.”
    “Right. And since you just told me you’re not my lawyer, why would I possibly want to talk to you, about a dog or anything else?”
    It’s a good point, and I tell him so. “On the other hand,” I say, “I’m trying to figure out what is going on, and I have investigators