First degree (18 page)

KEVIN IS OVER
BY SIX IN THE MORNING TO JUMP
-start our weekend. He informs me that, even though he planned to call his brother-in-law this morning, he couldn't resist and called him last night. It was a great thing to do, because it, has already gotten the ball rolling.

Lieutenant Colonel Prentice has already contacted the Records Division at Fort Monmouth and instructed them to fully cooperate with our investigation. He's established a liaison there, Captain Gary Reid, to deal with us.

Laurie is just getting up as Kevin and I are ready to leave for Fort Monmouth. She's excited about the news and the possibilities it represents and amazed that so much has happened while she was asleep. I can tell it's killing her that she can't go with us today, but she's forced to leave it up to us.

Fort Monmouth is located on the Jersey Shore and is surrounded by beach communities. We've left early to try to beat the beach traffic, but the only way to really do so would be to leave in February.

It's a phenomenon that has always amazed me. People get in their cars in the height of the summer heat and crawl along for two or three hours, all for the right to spend an afternoon lying in grainy dirt, baking, sweating, and burning under a barrage of cancer-causing rays. Their only escape is to enter the water, which can best be described as a freezing, salty urinal. Then, unless they've endured the day covered with sticky grease, they can spend the two or three hours on the way home watching their skin blister.

As you may have noticed, I'm the type of guy who sees the ocean as half-empty.

We arrive at Fort Monmouth, though the only thing that tips us off to the fact that it's an army post is the "U.S. Army" sign at the main gate. It is basically an office complex of nondescript brick buildings, set in the middle of a residential area. For every soldier we see walking around, there are three or four civilian workers. Kevin, whose mind is filled with obscure knowledge like this, tells me that the fort is mainly involved with electronics and that its chaplain school has recently been moved to Maryland.

We head to the main building, and Captain Reid is there to meet us. He is the personification of the buttoned-down military man and looks as if he had his uniform pressed while he was in it. He openly tells us that the order from Lieutenant Colonel Prentice was quite clear: He is to do whatever is necessary to facilitate our investigation. Which is good, because there is no doubt that this is a guy who follows orders.

Captain Reid assigns four young enlisted men to do our bidding. It gives me a feeling of power; I'm tempted to send them into Guatemala Bay to rescue the otters. But first things first, and we request all military files related to Dorsey and Cahill, as well as a search for any records for a Terry Murdoch, the only stipulation being that he be someone who served during the Vietnam era.

Within moments we are looking at and comparing the military histories of Dorsey and Cahill. The files are quite detailed, listing on an almost daily basis every commendation, every assignment, every communication, even every illness that they had.

There are similarities to be sure. Both were Army Special Forces, both had advanced infantry training and were considered outstanding soldiers, and both served a lengthy hitch in Vietnam. Dorsey's time there started two months after Cahill's, which means they overlapped for a long time.

Unfortunately, there is no obvious connection. The two men came from different parts of the country, went to different schools, trained stateside at different posts, and were assigned to different divisions in Vietnam. There is no evidence, at least none that we can see, that they knew each other. Certainly nothing that should have caused them both to die, their deaths interrelated, all these years later.

Captain Reid comes in with the military records of two men and one woman, all named Terry Murdoch. They all served in Vietnam, but only one of the men was there at the same time as Cahill and Dorsey. He was also Special Forces, advanced infantry, and much decorated, but again has no other obvious connection to the others. Murdoch left the army in 1975, and as with Cahill and Dorsey, that is when the army lost track of him.

"Do you have any idea where we could find him now?" I ask Reid.

"We don't keep those records," he says, "but we have some resources we can call upon when it's absolutely necessary."

He says this cryptically and ominously, and I'm afraid to ask him what he's talking about, since if he tells me, he might have to kill me. Kevin's not the bravest guy either; right now he wouldn't open his mouth if I offered him a raspberry turnover.

"Lieutenant Colonel Prentice indicated everything was possible," I say.

Reid smiles. "Yes, he did."

Reid leaves, suggesting we go over to the mess hall, as aptly named an establishment as has ever existed, for lunch. I just have some coffee, then watch as even Kevin is challenged to find something edible. Finally, he settles on a plate of what looks like baked linoleum. He puts things in his stomach I wouldn't put in a Dumpster.

"It's not bad," he says, and goes up to see if he can negotiate another helping. The server agrees; I'm sure it's the first time he's ever been confronted with a request for seconds. Kevin is polishing off plate number two when a soldier comes in and summons us back to see Captain Reid.

"You guys get enough to eat?" Reid asks us when we return.

"I would say we both had as much as we wanted," I say.

"Good. Terry Murdoch has not exactly been a credit to the army since he went civilian."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"He's currently serving time in Lansing."

Lansing is a federal prison in Pennsylvania, less than a hundred miles from here. "What is he in for?"

"Counterfeiting," he says. "Twenty-five to life, must serve the twenty-five minimum?"

"Which means he can't get out until he's seventy-five years old. Can you get us in to talk to him?"

Reid hesitates. "Lieutenant Colonel Prentice didn't mention anything about interceding with federal prison authorities."

"I'm sure it just slipped his mind," I say, and then turn to Kevin. "He's your brother-in-law, why don't you call and ask him?"

Captain Reid shakes his head with authority. Actually, he does everything with authority. "Won't be necessary," he says. "When do you want to go?"

It's getting late in the day, and we haven't done any case preparation yet. I also want some time to figure out how to approach Murdoch, so I say, "How about tomorrow, late afternoon?"

Reid nods. "Done. He'll be expecting you. Whether he talks to you or not is up to him."

Reid tells me that I should not hesitate to contact him if I need anything else, so before we leave, I test that by asking if we can have copies of the files on all three men. Within moments I have them. This kind of power is so intoxicating that I've decided I want to be a lieutenant colonel when I grow up.

We get home, and after briefing Laurie on what we've learned, Kevin and I get started on preparing for our own witnesses. Edna is there, making sure we have pens, paper, coffee, or whatever else we might need. After all this is over I'm going to take some time to reflect on the concept of Edna working weekends.

The most difficult part of the preparation is our belief that a significant part of the defense will involve the Dorsey-Cahill-Murdoch connection, yet we don't know where that is going to take us. We may even have to try to string out our case, delaying and taking more time while we follow the dots. One of our problems is that Hatchet's never been real big on case stringing.

In order to maximize our time, and to pretend I'm a big shot, I agree to spend six thousand dollars to charter a private plane to fly to Lansing. Having somebody go to all this effort and expense just to see him will no doubt make Murdoch the envy of the entire cellblock.

I have Edna reserve the plane, and I'm so focused on the case that alarm bells don't go off in my head when she asks, almost offhandedly, "How much do you weigh?"

When I see the contraption she has chartered the next morning, the meaning behind Edna's questions becomes clear, and I immediately wish I had exercised more at Vince's gym. But Clyde, the pilot, seems like a nice enough guy, and he swears that we'll make it, no problem, so I get on.

I have a great time, the first relaxing moments I've had in a while. Clyde lets me take the controls, and I mentally shoot down about thirty Russian MIGs, anachronistically teaching those "dirty commies" what American skill and courage are all about.

As we land at a small private airport just outside Lansing, ground control tells the pilot that the prison has sent somebody out to meet me. Good old Captain Reid can really get things done.

A car pulls right up to the plane as we taxi in. I get out and am greeted by a thin, pasty-complexioned guy who gives me a limp handshake and actually introduces himself as "Larry from Lansing." My immediate mental connection is to a sports talk-radio show: "Hi, this is Larry from Lansing ... I'm a first-time caller ... uhhhh ... how do you think the Mets are gonna do this year?"

I tell Larry I want to get right out to see Murdoch, but he says, "The warden sent me out to tell you there's a problem with that."

Uh-oh. "What kind of problem?"

"He killed himself last night. Slit his throat in his cell," says Larry from Lansing with the kind of passion normally reserved for readings of the telephone directory.

The news is simultaneously devastating, frustrating, and yet further confirmation that we are on the right track. I have Larry from Lansing take me to the prison, a collection of gray buildings surrounded by barbed wire in the middle of nowhere.

The warden is Craig Grissom, who looks and sounds just like Eddie Albert in
The Longest Yard
. When I meet him, it's immediately obvious that he isn't grieving too much over Murdoch's death; nor do I get the feeling he stayed up agonizing over the eulogy. The closest he comes to serious reflection is, "Things like this happen. You try to prevent them, but they happen."

I coax the particulars out of Grissom. The guard found Murdoch in his locked cell while making his midnight rounds last night. The doctor's estimate was that he had been dead at least an hour.

"How did he get the knife?" I ask.

He seems surprised. "Who?"

"Murdoch."

"You think he got the knife?"

"Larry said it was a suicide. That he slit his own throat," I say.

Grissom shakes his head sadly. "Larry's not exactly the sharpest tool in our shed. How many suicides slit their own throat from ear to ear, then still have the knife tucked in their hand after they bleed to death and fall to the floor?"

"So somebody got into his locked cell in the middle of the night and killed him? Warden, this is a maximum security prison."

He nods. "That's why they didn't hang him in the mess hall during dinner." He can see me getting more and more frustrated. "Look, this is not the Boy Scouts. We've got murderers in here, so we've got murders. We do our best, but it is what it is."

"Had he been told I was coming?"

Grissom nods. "I told him myself. He seemed to like the idea. Maybe somebody else didn't."

"Did he make any phone calls?"

"Hard to tell," he says. "We monitor the pay phones, but they can get access to cell phones."

"Cell phones in the prison?"

He shrugs. "They got money or things to trade, they can get whatever they want in here. Think of it as the old economy--a return to the barter system."

Grissom gets Murdoch's file at my request and tells me that he was serving a lengthy term for counterfeiting. It was only incredibly bad luck on his part that got him arrested. There was a fire in his house while he was out, and when the fire department broke in, among the things they saved were plates with American presidents on them. His lawyer had claimed that the evidence should be suppressed since the firemen had no warrant, but the judge correctly ruled that they had good reason to enter the burning building.

Referring to Murdoch's murder, I ask, "Are you going to investigate this?"

He laughs a short laugh, then nods. I've got a hunch the investigation is not going to be relentless, nor is it going to get anywhere. Just like I'm not going to get anywhere with Warden Grissom. I hope Burt Reynolds comes here, puts a football team together, and kicks his ass.

I have Larry from Lansing take me back to Clyde the pilot, so I can take my new frustrations out on those dirty commies.

I call ahead to Kevin, tell him what happened, and ask him to assign Marcus to find out everything he can about Terry Murdoch. The first thing I do when I get home is go through the military files again, looking for some connection, any connection, but there just isn't anything there.

Kevin and I finish our preparations for tomorrow's witnesses, and Laurie and I get to bed early. For the past couple of weeks, we've pretty much kept our conversations about the case out of the bedroom, more to help our insomnia than for any other reason.

But tonight Laurie breaks that unwritten covenant. "I want to testify," she says.

"I know you do. We're just not ready to make that decision yet."

"I'm ready, and I've made it. I'm not going to jail without having told my story. I'm telling you now so you can factor it in."

"Consider it factored," I say a little petulantly. I need to focus on tomorrow's witnesses, not a decision that is now, no matter what my client says, hypothetical and premature.

The problem is, now that it's in my head, I spend the next hour thinking about it. Like every other defense attorney practicing on this planet, I am generally loath to put my clients on the stand. There is just too much that can go wrong, and not enough potential upside to counterbalance that.

The main reason not to put Laurie on, besides the unseen pitfalls inherent in such a move, is that she doesn't have any evidence to present. It's not like she has an alibi for the night of the murder; all she can say are the things she didn't do. "I didn't kill him, I didn't frame Oscar, I didn't own the gas can." Etc., etc., etc. These are self-serving statements which won't and shouldn't carry any weight with the jury. The truth is, anything positive that she might have to say about the facts of the case I can introduce through other witnesses, without exposing her to a withering cross-examination.