First degree (17 page)

"Good," I say. "We agree."

He is surprised. "We do?"

"Yes. We agree that whoever did this wants Laurie Collins to be caught and punished."

LIEUTENANT COLONELS HAVE
A LARGE
workforce to call on when they want to get something done. Which is why Kevin's brother-in-law, Lieutenant Colonel Prentice, is able to call him back with our information just six hours after we had requested it.

Kevin reports that since all identification records of Stynes had mysteriously been erased, our favorite LC had his minions compare his face with that of every known member of the Special Forces during the Vietnam era. A positive match was made, and Stynes's real name is Roger Cahill. He was a sergeant in the 307
^th
Division, Delta Company, and served in Vietnam for three years, distinguishing himself and winning three combat medals.

Kevin asked him to run a military report on Alex Dorsey, but unfortunately Dorsey and Cahill were not in the same division. At first glance, nothing in Stynes/Cahill's record matches Dorsey, but we put Marcus on the case to try to dig something up. The bottom line is, we have new information but don't yet know enough to benefit from it.

I put in a call to Darrin Hobbs, the FBI special agent who deflected my earlier attempts to get information about the FBI's intervention into the Dorsey matter. I'm told he's in a meeting, and I wind up speaking to Agent Cindy Spodek, Hobbs's underling, heretofore best known for successfully resisting my conversational charms when we last met.

This time she's just as aloof, but I'm not trying as hard. I don't really care if she likes me or not; I'm looking for information. I tell her what I've learned about Cahill and that I want access to the FBI investigative files to see if he is included in them, under either "Cahill" or "Stynes."

To my surprise she seems interested by what I am saying, and asks some clarifying questions. But ultimately, she says, "You understand that I can't authorize the release of our confidential information. That will be up to Special Agent Hobbs."

This is what I expected. "When can I speak with him?"

"I'll be talking with him before the end of the day."

I give her my phone number and tell her I'll be waiting for his call.

"One of us will call you back," she says. "But I must tell you, I think you should pursue any other avenues you have. It is not the kind of information Special Agent Hobbs is likely to share."

I again ask that he call me, and she promises to do her best. She seems sympathetic to my request but cognizant of the inclinations of the person for whom she works. My guess is that she is right, and I doubt that I'll hear from him.

It takes ten minutes to again be proved wrong. The phone rings and Hobbs himself is on the phone.

"Andy? Darrin Hobbs here. What's this about you needing more information?" His tone is friendly but on-the-run, as if he's really busy, but he'll take a few seconds to rid himself of this annoyance.

"That's right," I say. "There's a new piece added to the puzzle. A guy named Cahill."

"Never heard of him," he says dismissively.

"It's not the only name he uses. I need to know if he turned up in your investigation of Petrone and Dorsey."

"That road is closed. I told you that."

The guy is on my nerves, but it won't pay to antagonize him. "Yes, you did," I say. "I'm hoping you'll reconsider."

He laughs a short laugh at the absurdity of my hope. "It's not going to happen."

There's no sense beating around the bush. "Hopefully, the judge will have a different view of that."

The temperature of his voice drops fifty degrees in the blink of an eye. "I don't know how much you know about me, Carpenter, but if you know anything, then you know I can't be threatened."

"I'm defending my client," I point out, my voice reflecting my annoyance.

"Good for you."
Click
.

Within thirty seconds of the time he hangs the phone up, my anger switches from being directed at Hobbs the pompous asshole to Carpenter the idiotic, counterproductive defense attorney. I've just permanently pissed off the only guy who might have information that could help Laurie.

Good job, Andy.

I call Kevin and give him the job of preparing a motion asking Hatchet to compel Hobbs to turn over the FBI investigation files. Kevin is happy to do it; motions like this are undoubtedly one of his strengths, and this will prevent him from having to be in court tomorrow morning. It would be depressing to watch me spend another day playing legal rope-a-dope, lying back as Dylan pummels us with witnesses.

Actually, the rope-a-dope analogy isn't quite accurate.

Ali, in using it in his fight against Foreman, was doing it intentionally. I'm not.

Ali had a strategy. I don't.

Ali had the masses chanting
"Ali bomaye! Ali bomaye!,"
which when translated means "Ali, kill him! Ali, kill him!" I have the press, writing columns and going on TV, essentially saying, "Carpenter, you're a moron! Carpenter, you're a moron!," which when translated means "Carpenter, you're a moron! Carpenter, you're a moron!"

Dylan's first punch/witness of the day is a neighbor of Oscar Garcia, who recounts having seen Laurie hanging out near Oscar's apartment on a number of occasions. I make the point that "apartment hanging" is not a felony, but it remains an effective small piece of Dylan's puzzle.

Next up is Laurie's ex-partner on the force, Detective Stan Naughton. He looks like he would rather be anywhere else than here and occasionally looks over at Laurie, his eyes apologizing for what his mouth is saying.

Naughton recounts the story of Oscar providing drugs to the daughter of Laurie's friend and how Laurie was determined to nail Oscar for it. It provides motive with a capital "M," at least concerning the initial framing of Oscar for the Dorsey killing.

With Naughton obviously friendly to the defense, it's simply my job on cross-examination to lead him where he already wants to go. I take my time doing so, prompting him to talk about Laurie's exemplary record on the force, his feeling that she is a levelheaded, decent human being who abhors violence and who never came anywhere close to committing police brutality.

Kevin shows up, motion in hand, and I tell Hatchet that we have an important matter to bring up before the court. We file the motion, providing Dylan with a copy, and Hatchet schedules argument for nine
A.M
. tomorrow.

Kevin and I are going to be up late tonight going over our position on the motion. We will have to convince Hatchet that the Cahill/Stynes involvement in the case is relevant and presents a credible alternative to Laurie's guilt. At the same time, we also have to make him believe that there is at least a reasonable chance that the FBI files contain information that could be exculpatory to Laurie.

I arrive home before Kevin, and Edna hands me the mail that has built up over the last three days. It's mostly solicitations for charitable contributions, and I have a quick pang of guilt that I have been neglecting my philanthropic blundering during the trial.

There is also an envelope from Stephen Cates, the opposing lawyer in the Willie Miller civil lawsuit. It's surprisingly thick, and when I open it, I see why. It is a one-page letter attached to a long legal document. The letter informs me that they have agreed to our demands and that when Willie signs the attached settlement agreement, they will forward a check in the amount of eleven million seven hundred thousand dollars.

I'm thrilled for Willie, but I'm so obsessed with the trial that my first reaction is to view this as a distraction. Nevertheless, it wouldn't be fair to Willie not to tell him about it immediately, so I ask Edna to call him and have him come over.

Willie arrives so quickly that I think he must have been waiting on the front lawn for Edna to call. With him, as always, is Cash, who is probably delighted at the prospect of digging up another head.

"What's up?" Willie asks.

"We received an official response from the other side."

"We did?" he asks nervously. "You got any beer?"

"You want a beer before you hear their answer?"

"Every time I've ever gotten good news in my whole life I've had a beer in my hand. Every single time."

"Really?" I ask. "What about the time the jury found you not guilty and you got off death row?"

That time had slipped his mind. "Okay, forget the beer. What did they say?"

I hold up the settlement agreement. "That if you sign this paper, they'll give you a check for over eleven million dollars."

Willie looks at me, not speaking, for about twenty seconds. Then he leans over, picks up Cash and holds him right up to his face, and says, "Did I tell you? Did I tell you?"

And then he starts to cry. Not huge sobs, but serious sniffles and definite tears. Cash seems far less upset, no doubt recognizing that he has gone from roaming the streets eating garbage to a future filled with designer biscuits.

Willie turns back to me, apparently wanting to explain his reaction. "This doesn't make up for what I went through, you know? But it's pretty damn good."

I had long ago told Willie I would handle his case for ten percent, which is far lower than customary. Even at that, I've just earned more on this one case than I've made in the totality of my legal career.

I laugh at the realization and turn to Kevin. "Do you realize that we just made over a million dollars in commission?"

"What do you mean 'we'?"

"You're in for half," I say.

Ever honest, Kevin says, "Andy, you pay me a hundred and fifty an hour."

I shake my head. "Not on this case. On this case you get half a million. You can buy those triple-load washers and dryers you've had your eye on." I turn to Edna. "And you get two hundred."

"Dollars?" she asks.

"Thousand," I say.

Laurie comes into the room, and I give her the rest, which she can put toward her legal fees. Within a few moments we're all laughing, out of control, a brief but welcome respite from the ongoing pressure we've been under for months.

Edna calls cousin Fred, making appointments for him to talk to both Willie and herself about investing their windfalls. Kevin and I adjourn to the den to plan for tomorrow's hearing. Based on what we come up with, I probably should have saved Kevin's half million to offer to Hatchet.

We're joined in court by Darrin Hobbs, Cindy Spodek, and Edward Peterson, the U.S. attorney representing the FBI's position. Hobbs, certainly still angry about my supposed threat to do exactly what I've now done in bringing him to court, ignores me. Spodek does the same, no doubt taking the lead from her boss.

Hatchet calls on me first, admonishing me to be brief, since he's already read our motion papers. I recount what I know about Dorsey's involvement with organized crime, and the FBI's intervention with Internal Affairs on his behalf. I then talk about Cahill/Stynes, starting with his visit to my office, his "admission" about the bloody clothes behind the stadium, right up to his murder of Barry Leiter.

I think my story is intriguing, if not compelling, but rather weak regarding relevance to the FBI files. It is difficult to conceal what is the essential truth: We have no idea what is in those files, and our seeking them is nothing more than a fishing expedition.

Dylan is quick to see it for what it is. "Your Honor, this is a fishing expedition," he says. "The defense counsel is telling an uncorroborated story to help the defense. Even if the court were to take it at face value, which I am certainly not suggesting, the link to this FBI investigation is just not there."

Hatchet then turns to Peterson, the government lawyer, who presents a stipulation from Special Agent Hobbs that there is nothing in the files regarding Dorsey that would be helpful to either side in this case and that there is no mention at all of Cahill/Stynes. Peterson takes great pains to point out that Hobbs is a highly decorated military officer, who has earned similar praise in his career with the Bureau. There should be no reason, according to Peterson, to question his word.

Peterson doesn't stop there. "The details in the file are of little consequence to the government," he says. "Its insignificant revelations would have no impact on this case, but the act of releasing it could have widespread ramifications on other cases. By their very nature, these investigations must be cloaked in secrecy; many who cooperate do so with that secrecy as a condition. If that trust is violated, the inhibiting effect on future investigations could be devastating."

Hatchet, bless his heart, seems unmoved. "We are not talking about publishing this in the
New York Times
," he says, "we are talking about my looking at the material
in camera
to determine probative value to this case."

"Respectfully, Your Honor," Peterson counters, "Agent Hobbs has stipulated that there is none."

"And he may be correct. But he's a war hero, not a judge. Which balances things out quite well, since I'm a judge and not a war hero. I assume you brought the file with you?"

Peterson nods. "As you ordered, Your Honor."

"Good. Turn it over and I'll review it."

Peterson just nods in resignation, and Hobbs turns and walks out, with Spodek behind him. It's a victory for us, but whether it will turn out to be a meaningful one will depend on what Hatchet finds in the file.

DYLAN HAS SOME
FINISHING TOUCHES TO COVER
before he rests his case. These take the form of fact witnesses, basically noncontroversial, who will provide information to round out and support the prosecution's theories.

First up is the 911 operator who received the anonymous tip alerting the police to Oscar Garcia's guilt, information that proved erroneous.

The tape is played in court, though I've of course heard it many times. It's a female voice, masked somewhat by some computer or electronic technique. Dylan's theory is that the caller was Laurie, and he buttresses his contention by pointing out that the caller referred to Oscar as a "perpetrator." It's a term, in Dylan's view, that a cop or ex-cop like Laurie would be likely to use.

I have an expert prepared to testify that, computer enhancement techniques being as advanced as they are, the original voice could be female, male, or a quacking duck. There's no sense questioning the prosecution's witness about it at this point, so I let her off the stand with no cross-examination.

Next up is the police officer who found Dorsey's gun in Oscar's house during the execution of a search warrant. Since Oscar has been cleared, and since Laurie has been placed near Oscar's apartment, this supports the theory that she planted the gun there as part of her frame-up of poor Oscar.

Once again there's little I can do with this witness, other than to get him to confirm that Laurie's fingerprints were not found anywhere in the apartment. I'm sure the jury would consider Laurie, as a former cop, too savvy to have left any prints, so I don't accomplish much.

The parade continues with Rafael Gomez, a police officer who found the gas can in Laurie's garage and who testifies that the gas/propane residue in it is the same mixture as that used to set Dorsey's body on fire. While that is no doubt true, his testimony at least gives me an opening to score some points.

"Officer Gomez, were there any fingerprints on the gas can?"

"No, sir. Wiped clean."

"Really? So you think she was stupid enough to leave this terribly incriminating piece of evidence in her own garage but smart enough to wipe off the prints?"

"Well ..."

He's unsure, so I push the advantage. "Maybe she figured the police wouldn't be able to figure out whose garage it was?"

He thinks for a moment and comes up with a pretty good answer. "Maybe she didn't wipe it. Maybe she was wearing gloves. To keep the gas off her hands."

"Is the gas dangerous to touch?" I ask.

"No, but some people--"

I interrupt, and Dylan doesn't object, even though he should. "Where did you find the gloves?"

"We didn't find any gloves."

"But you said you conducted a full search of the premises," I point out.

"We did, but there were no gloves. Maybe she threw them away so we wouldn't find them."

"Under the theory that Ms. Collins would get rid of the gloves but keep the can of gas?"

"I can't say what she would do" is his fairly lame response.

"Is that what you would do?" I press.

"I wouldn't murder anyone."

"You and Ms. Collins have that in common," I say. "No further questions."

I've done with Officer Gomez exactly what I've done with many of Dylan's witnesses, no more and no less. I've shown that if, after the murder, Laurie had done the things Dylan has alleged, then her behavior was illogical. The problem is that there is no reason a jury should expect someone who has decapitated and set fire to a police officer to act logically. In effect, I am saying, "She couldn't have committed this bizarre crime because if she did, look how strangely she acted afterwards." In this case, strange behavior fits neatly with the crime and could be taken as an indicator of guilt, rather than as exculpatory.

Dylan's last witness is retired Paterson police captain Ron Franks, probably Dylan's best friend on the force. Though Franks retired more than a year before the Internal Affairs investigation that Laurie instigated, Dylan's purpose in calling him is to present the positive side to the victim.

It makes sense. We have been tearing Dorsey down as best we can, and Dylan certainly knows that will be a big part of our defense. The worse Dorsey looks, the less compelled the jury might feel to avenge his murder.

Franks is only on for fifteen minutes, but he talks warmly and admiringly of Dorsey's years of public service, both in the military and especially with the police department.

My cross-examination is brief, honing in on the fact that Franks knows nothing about the Internal Affairs investigation or the facts that caused Dorsey to go on the run. The man seems to sincerely have been a friend of Dorsey's, and it will do me no good to attack him.

Dylan rests his case, I move for a dismissal, and Hatchet denies my motion. Since it's late, and it's Friday afternoon, he excuses the jury and tells me I can start our defense Monday morning. Unfortunately, he means this coming Monday.

As we're about to start one of Laurie's perfectly prepared dinners, a phone call comes in that certainly has the potential to ruin it. It's from Hatchet's office, setting up a conference call between Dylan, Hatchet, and myself. Dylan is already on the line, but I'm not in the mood for chitchat, so I just wait for Hatchet.

After a few minutes His Majesty gets on the line. "Gentlemen, I have made a ruling on the defense motion, and I thought you should hear it immediately so that you can be guided in your preparations for court on Monday."

He pauses, but neither Dylan nor I say a word, so he continues. "I have carefully reviewed the FBI material, and I have determined that it provides no new or relevant information to this case. Lieutenant Dorsey is mentioned only peripherally, and Mr. Cahill, or Stynes, is not mentioned at all. There is also no indication of another police lieutenant that may have been in a conspiracy with Mr. Dorsey.

"Therefore, my ruling is that the probative value of these documents as it relates to our trial is effectively zero and certainly not worth interfering with an FBI investigation. Any questions?"

Dylan, the victor, responds first. "Not from my end, Your Honor. I think you made the right decision."

"That's comforting," Hatchet responds dryly. "Mr. Carpenter?"

"Have a nice weekend, Your Honor."

The loss of this motion does not come as a great surprise. We have no choice but to shrug it off, and Kevin and I work until almost eleven o'clock on our defense strategy. Our plan is to work all day tomorrow and then take Sunday off, resting up before the battle begins.

Laurie is already asleep when I get into bed, and I lean over and kiss her lightly on her forehead. My concern for her is almost overpowering. We're heading into the homestretch, and she doesn't have a hell of a lot of horse under her.

I'm just dozing off when the phone rings, and I jolt upright, immediately alert. The last time I got a call at this hour, it started the chain of events that led to Barry Leiter's death. I have an initial desire to just let the phone ring, but I force myself to pick it up.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end is immediately recognizable, as it should be, since I heard it a number of times earlier today. It is the computer-masked female voice that in the 911 call identified Oscar Garcia as Dorsey's murderer.

"Mr. Carpenter, you're not looking in the right place."

This of course is not exactly shocking news. "Where should I be looking?" I ask.

"Vietnam. That's where it began. That's where you'll find the connection."

"Connection between who? Dorsey and Cahill?"

There is no answer, and I'm desperately afraid she's going to hang up. "Come on, please," I say, "what about Vietnam? I need more to go on."

Again there is no answer; for all I know she may not even be on the phone any longer. Then she answers hesitantly, as if not sure whether to tell me more. "Talk to Terry Murdoch."

"Who is he? Where is he?"

Click.

I don't even put down the phone; I just dial Kevin's number.

"Hello?" he answers with not a trace of sleepiness in his voice.

"What time do lieutenant colonels go to sleep?" I ask.