call where the receptionist answers and says, “Drug-land … may I help you?” Haller doesn’t seem to have an admin setting his schedule, at least not one I know how to reach.
Whether or not he has any information to provide, I can’t imagine he’ll be interested in talking with us. The defense has no ability to force potential witnesses to submit to a deposition, but even if we did, it wouldn’t apply to a situation like Haller’s. At this point we couldn’t begin to demonstrate that he has any relevance to our case.
I call Lieutenant Phillips and ask where I can find Haller, and he asks, “Why would you want to find Tommy Haller?”
“So I can talk to him.”
“Who might your next of kin be?”
That doesn’t sound particularly encouraging, but I persist and he tells me the address of the place where Haller is known to work out of, sort of his headquarters. It’s on Bergen Street in Paterson, an area that is not for the faint of heart. Which is a problem, because my heart is considerably fainter than most.
Bergen Street runs up to and dead-ends at the Passaic River. It’s an area that used to flood frequently, as a good rain would make the river overflow. They finally did something to mitigate that, so the people who live and work there did not need access to canoes on a regular basis.
Because it’s a dead end, the only way out is to reverse the way in. When I’m in situations that involve any kind of physical danger, I have a tendency to focus on the “how to get out” part. This address is not a great setup for that, especially since Haller’s location is at the very end of the street, right on the river.
I drive, with Laurie in the passenger seat and Marcus in the back. As we get close, I appear to be the only one of us who is nervous, though Laurie seems to be on alert. I look back at Marcus, and he is either meditating, or asleep.
We arrive at Haller’s at ten o’clock in the morning. Marcus tells me to park halfway down the block, at least a hundred yards from Haller’s place. I have no idea why, and I don’t ask. In situations like this, Marcus’s decisions are not to be questioned. At least not by me.
I tell myself that this is no big deal. Even though Haller has a reason to hate Pete, he’s still something of a long shot to be involved in the current case, and that actually lessens the danger here. We’ll ask a couple of questions, he’ll deny them, and we’ll leave. No harm, no foul.
There are three steps leading up to Haller’s door, in what was probably once a two-family house. A very large individual sits on the top of the steps, back against the wall, just to the side of the door. He watches us as we walk up the street, probably wondering if we are coming all the way to him. I imagine very few uninvited people do that.
When we reach him, it’s clear that he is even larger up close than he seemed at a distance. He’s borderline enormous; I actually think he could swallow me without chewing more than once or twice.
He doesn’t say anything, just stares, so I feel obligated to break the ice. “We’re here to see Tommy Haller.”
“That right?” he asks.
“That’s exactly right,” I confirm.
“What for?”
I clearly have no interest in telling him why we’re here, so I say, “We’re from Publishers Clearing House. He’s won a substantial prize.”
“Get lost, assholes.”
I don’t take kindly to anyone calling Laurie an asshole, but basically that is what he has done. Either Marcus or I is going to defend her honor, and I figure I’ll let Marcus take first crack at it.
Marcus doesn’t seem to have taken offense, but nor does he seem intimidated. He motions for us to follow him, and he starts walking up the steps. The Enormous One at first seems surprised, but then starts to rise to intercept Marcus.
What happens next is a blur, so fast and so barely perceptible that if I didn’t see the result, I would question whether it happened at all.
Whether or not he has any information to provide, I can’t imagine he’ll be interested in talking with us. The defense has no ability to force potential witnesses to submit to a deposition, but even if we did, it wouldn’t apply to a situation like Haller’s. At this point we couldn’t begin to demonstrate that he has any relevance to our case.
I call Lieutenant Phillips and ask where I can find Haller, and he asks, “Why would you want to find Tommy Haller?”
“So I can talk to him.”
“Who might your next of kin be?”
That doesn’t sound particularly encouraging, but I persist and he tells me the address of the place where Haller is known to work out of, sort of his headquarters. It’s on Bergen Street in Paterson, an area that is not for the faint of heart. Which is a problem, because my heart is considerably fainter than most.
Bergen Street runs up to and dead-ends at the Passaic River. It’s an area that used to flood frequently, as a good rain would make the river overflow. They finally did something to mitigate that, so the people who live and work there did not need access to canoes on a regular basis.
Because it’s a dead end, the only way out is to reverse the way in. When I’m in situations that involve any kind of physical danger, I have a tendency to focus on the “how to get out” part. This address is not a great setup for that, especially since Haller’s location is at the very end of the street, right on the river.
I drive, with Laurie in the passenger seat and Marcus in the back. As we get close, I appear to be the only one of us who is nervous, though Laurie seems to be on alert. I look back at Marcus, and he is either meditating, or asleep.
We arrive at Haller’s at ten o’clock in the morning. Marcus tells me to park halfway down the block, at least a hundred yards from Haller’s place. I have no idea why, and I don’t ask. In situations like this, Marcus’s decisions are not to be questioned. At least not by me.
I tell myself that this is no big deal. Even though Haller has a reason to hate Pete, he’s still something of a long shot to be involved in the current case, and that actually lessens the danger here. We’ll ask a couple of questions, he’ll deny them, and we’ll leave. No harm, no foul.
There are three steps leading up to Haller’s door, in what was probably once a two-family house. A very large individual sits on the top of the steps, back against the wall, just to the side of the door. He watches us as we walk up the street, probably wondering if we are coming all the way to him. I imagine very few uninvited people do that.
When we reach him, it’s clear that he is even larger up close than he seemed at a distance. He’s borderline enormous; I actually think he could swallow me without chewing more than once or twice.
He doesn’t say anything, just stares, so I feel obligated to break the ice. “We’re here to see Tommy Haller.”
“That right?” he asks.
“That’s exactly right,” I confirm.
“What for?”
I clearly have no interest in telling him why we’re here, so I say, “We’re from Publishers Clearing House. He’s won a substantial prize.”
“Get lost, assholes.”
I don’t take kindly to anyone calling Laurie an asshole, but basically that is what he has done. Either Marcus or I is going to defend her honor, and I figure I’ll let Marcus take first crack at it.
Marcus doesn’t seem to have taken offense, but nor does he seem intimidated. He motions for us to follow him, and he starts walking up the steps. The Enormous One at first seems surprised, but then starts to rise to intercept Marcus.
What happens next is a blur, so fast and so barely perceptible that if I didn’t see the result, I would question whether it happened at all.
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