First degree (6 page)

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asks.

The fact is that it doesn't mean anything; it's simply a significant-sounding non sequitur of the kind I occasionally drop to get the other side curious and thinking unproductively.

"You want me to do your homework for you?" I ask, and then turn and walk to the door. He doesn't stand up as I leave. I guess pretending to be pleasant can really tire a person out.

On the way home I call Edna, who is still in a state of shock that I would turn down a prize like Stynes and take on a loser like Garcia. I tell her to call Kevin Randall, who was my second chair on the Willie Miller case, and ask him to meet me in the office first thing in the morning. I ask Edna if Laurie has called, and the answer is no. It wasn't the answer I was hoping for.

Then I call Lieutenant Pete Stanton and ask if I can buy him dinner tonight. He says that's fine, as long as he can pick the restaurant. When I say it's okay with me, he tells me he'll leave the choice on my machine, after he prices a few out and comes up with the most expensive one.

By the time I get home, he has already left the name of a French restaurant which, in his tortured attempt to pronounce it, sounds like La Douche-Face. There is no message from Laurie. I call her, but she's either out or screening my call, so I leave word on her voice mail that I'd like to talk to her. Our last conversation has left me with a sort of throbbing emotional ache, which my work-related activities haven't been able to mask.

The restaurant Pete has chosen looks like a French villa, and when I arrive, he is at the bar drinking from an old and no doubt very expensive bottle of wine. Pete is generally a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy, unassuming and easily able to get by on a lieutenant's salary. Imported beer is usually too fancy for Pete's taste, so it's obvious that his intent is to reduce my financial level to his own.

Pete and I have gotten to be pretty good friends. The relationship began when I helped get his brother out of a legal situation brought on by drug use, and his brother has since turned his life around. Pete and I started playing an occasional game of racquetball, though we haven't played in a while. We still refer to ourselves as racquet-ball partners, but that's only to maintain the guise of exercise.

Our friendship takes occasional hits, most notably when we're on the opposite sides of a case, but we seem to get through it. The Garcia case presents no such danger, because Pete is not directly involved in the investigation.

We get the menus, and after a quick glance I assume the prices are not just for the food but also for a down payment on the property itself. Or maybe they charge so much because they have to pay for the twelve different forks that are provided for each of us.

The menu is in French, but that doesn't really concern Pete, since he's only interested in the numbers on the right. Pete points to what he wants, and when he gets to the chateaubriand, the waiter explains that it is for two. Pete shrugs and says, "That's no problem, I'll bring what I don't eat home for my dog."

Once the waiter has left, I waste my time by pointing out, "You don't have a dog."

He nods, acknowledging that truth. "It'll give me incentive to get one." He looks around. "I think we need another bottle of wine."

"I can get information cheaper from paid informants," I complain.

He looks up, surprised. "You're looking for information?"

"I agreed to come here, didn't I?" I ask. "What did you think I was going to do, propose marriage?"

"Information about what?"

"Alex Dorsey."

He laughs. "I'm not on the case, asshole. You could have found that out at Burger King."

"I'm not talking about the Garcia case. I'm talking about Alex Dorsey. I'm talking about whatever he was doing, and why he wasn't busted for it back when Laurie turned him in. And why he was going to be busted now."

"I don't know," he says.

"What do you mean you don't know? You're a hot shit lieutenant, plus you're a nosy son of a bitch. You know everything that goes on down there."

He shakes his head. "Not this. This is buried deep." Then he adds, "Besides, 'down there' may not be where you think it is, or want it to be."

"What the hell does that mean?"

He puts down one of his forks, I think the third-smallest one, and stares at me. It is the kind of stare that has made felons confess for the last twenty years. "I'm going to tell you something, but if anyone ever learns that it came from me, I'm going to beat you to death with your wallet."

"Trust me, if there's one thing I've learned this week, it's that I can keep a secret."

Pete nods. The truth is, he knows this without my having to say it. "The Bureau is involved."

This surprises me. "The FBI?"

"No, the bureau in my bedroom, bozo."

I ignore the insult; this is too significant a development. "What about Dorsey makes this federal?"

"I have no idea," he claims, and I'm sure he doesn't. "All I know is that there was talk that the feds got the department to lay off. I assume they were covering the same turf with an investigation of their own."

"Then why would that have changed? Why would Dorsey have had to run?"

Pete doesn't know the answer to that, so I ask him if he's ever heard of Geoffrey Stynes. He hasn't, but agrees to check him out. I haven't heard back from Vince yet, so it makes sense to put Pete on the case as well.

I'm ready to leave, but Pete makes me wait while he tries both the creme brulee and the cherries jubilee. Both meet with his approval, though he considers the creme brulee "a tad lumpy." I tell him that if he ever picks a restaurant like this again, I'm going to introduce him to a different kind of "lumpy."

I start planning some strategy on the way home. What I need to do is try the case as if I wasn't aware of Garcia's innocence, and that means learning everything I can about the victim, Dorsey. If Pete is right about the FBI's involvement, and he is rarely wrong about such things, then there's a great deal to learn, and most likely great benefit in learning it.

When I get home, I am treated to as nice a sight as I can remember in a very long time. Laurie is sitting on the porch with Tara, with Laurie in the role of petter and Tara in the role of pettee. I park and walk toward them, just as they come off the porch and walk toward me.

Laurie hugs me as Tara sits by, waiting her turn. The hug lasts a while, which is good. I'm in no rush. Finally, she breaks it off and looks in my eyes.

"I know you wouldn't take this case to hurt me," she says.

"I wouldn't."

"I know you have a good reason for taking it," she says.

"I do."

"I know you can't tell me what that reason is," she says.

"I can't."

"I know that you love me," she says.

"I do."

"I know you're thinking you want me to stay with you tonight, even though it's not Monday, Wednesday, or Friday," she says.

"I am."

"I know that if you give another two-word answer, I'm going home, and you will have missed out on a warm, loving, wildly exciting sexual experience," she says.

"I understand that completely and I guarantee you I have absolutely no intention of ever giving a two-word answer again. I know long answers are important to you, and since I adore and worship you, I will keep speaking until you tell me to shut up."

"Shut up," she says.

I ARRIVE AT
COURT WELL BEFORE THE PRELIMINARY
hearing is scheduled to begin. I'm simultaneously feeling dread at having to handle this case and excitement about being back handling any case at all. The excitement must be winning out, because I usually barely make it to court on time, and today I'm so early I could tailgate in the parking lot.

Oscar isn't here yet, so I call Kevin Randall at the office and apologize for not being able to meet him there. I quickly bring Kevin up to date on the situation, and he has the decency not to verbalize his surprise that I took this case at all. I give him the task of going to see the coroner who handled Dorsey's body and to find out whatever relevant details there are, including the estimated time of death.

Kevin has a whole bunch of positive qualities, but the one I appreciate most is his total reliability. When he takes on an assignment, I can check it off my list; he will get it done and done well.

Kevin is a topflight attorney with loads of experience on both the defense and prosecution sides. Unfortunately, both caused him conscience problems. As a prosecutor, he was afraid his considerable talents might cause an innocent person to go to prison. As a defense attorney, he feared he might be helping dangerous criminals return to the streets.

He finally resolved this by quitting the law and opening the "Lawdromat," where customers can wash their clothes and get free legal advice. Laurie knows Kevin well, and on her advice I took him on as second chair on the Willie Miller case. He's been coming in a couple of days a week ever since, with the understanding that he'll help me on future cases, providing there's no fabric softener crisis that demands his time.

I meet with Oscar in an anteroom for a few minutes to explain the procedures. He has some experience in this field, so he catches on pretty quickly. This appearance is basically a formality, strictly done to inform him of the charges, register his plea, and consider bail. Dylan has already impaneled a grand jury to formally charge Oscar, and as always, the grand jury will do the prosecutor's bidding. Oscar's sole responsibility for this appearance is to sit up straight, look respectable, and say firmly and clearly, "Not guilty," when called upon to give his plea.

When the guards come to escort Oscar into the courtroom, I walk with him. We are almost at the defense table when he says--to himself, I think--"What the hell is that bitch doing here?"

I look in the direction that Oscar is looking, and he seems to be staring toward Laurie, who is standing in the back of the room. "Who are you talking about?" I ask as we continue walking.

"The bitch in the blue dress." There is no question he is talking about Laurie.

"Watch your mouth when you're talking about her," I say. It is a silly, unnecessary, but involuntary act of verbal chivalry.

We reach the defense table and sit down. "You mean you know her?" he asks.

"I do."

"Well, let me tell you something, man. You know that list you wanted from me, of my enemies? People who would frame me? Well, she's number one, right on top."

"You're dreaming, Oscar."

"Yeah, well, she's been following me, watching me all the time. Like I can't get rid of her. And a friend of mine said she was hanging near my apartment the other day when I was out."

I trust Oscar about as far as I can throw Mount Rushmore, but I instinctively know that he is telling the truth about this. He has no real reason to lie, and it fits in with Laurie's cryptic comment about having knowledge of Oscar's criminal progress since she left the force.

I don't have time to reflect on the possible implications of Oscar's comment, because I find myself staring at the sweaty hand of Dylan Campbell, who, for the benefit of the assembled media, has come over to wish me luck.

I wouldn't describe today's event as a media circus; there is much more press here than usual, but the crush is far from overwhelming. The reason for whatever news-worthiness the hearing has rests in the victim's being a cop, however discredited, and the brutal nature of the crime.

The judge, Susan Timmerman, enters, and the bailiff calls the proceedings to order. Judge Timmerman will be handling only this hearing; the case hasn't yet been assigned. It's unfortunate, because she is a fair judge who doesn't show any bias toward the prosecution, and we have gotten along fairly well in the past.

The charges contained in the case of
New Jersey v. Oscar Garcia
are read, and counsel are identified. Oscar is asked how he pleads and he performs his part correctly, saying, "Not guilty," with conviction and a trace of indignation. In Oscar's case, a trace is all the indignation one can stomach.

The not guilty plea creates the need for trial, and that is what the court must consider next. Timmerman does not have all the judges' schedules, and doesn't know who the judge will be anyway, but she can at least tentatively set a date. We agree on July 14, about four months from now, and Judge Timmerman asks if there is anything else she must consider.

I jump up. "Discovery, Your Honor."

"What about it?" she asks.

"I've discovered that opposing counsel doesn't seem to believe in it. I've requested reports that have not been turned over."

Dylan looks mortally wounded. "Your Honor," he complains, "the request was made just yesterday."

I'm having none of this. "I'm sorry, Your Honor, but we are talking about the copying of reports. That takes minutes, not days. I would be happy to walk with Mr. Campbell to his office and do it myself. Secondly, the timing of the request is not important; it's not even necessary at all. The prosecution should be aware of their discovery obligations with or without a specific request. Documents should be copied and turned over as they are received, without editing."

The judge nods and issues the order. "The state will turn over copies of whatever reports it has in its possession by close of business today."

She slams her gavel, effectively adjourning the proceedings. The courtroom empties quickly, and with the press having dispersed, Dylan forgets to exchange parting pleasantries.

I arrange to meet with Oscar later to discuss the case in detail for the first time. I'm particularly interested in his whereabouts on the night of the murder. I'm hoping he was having dinner with the secretary of state or being interviewed by Ted Koppel on
Nightline
.

Laurie is waiting for me in the back of the courtroom, and Oscar doesn't take his eyes off her the entire time he is being led off. Those eyes are not ogling; they are hating and fearing.

Once Oscar is out of sight, I go back and meet Laurie.

"You pissed Dylan off," she points out.

I nod. "Had to happen sooner or later."

"This is sooner. Listen, Andy, I want to work on this case."

This surprises me. "You don't have to do that. I know how you feel about Oscar."

"That doesn't matter. I'm a professional and I have to act like it," she says.

I find myself thinking, "I'm not so sure this is a great idea." I find myself saying, "Great."

"We starting right now?" she asks.

"Nope. Tomorrow." I look at my watch. "I'm due back in high school in twenty minutes."

Paterson Eastside is the high school from which I graduated. The school's claim to fame is that it was the subject and setting of the movie
Lean on Me
, starring Morgan Freeman. It told the story of the then principal, Joe Clark, and his heavy-handed method of getting the chaotic inner-city school under control.

My high school career could best be described as undistinguished, at least in the things important to me: girls and sports. My sports mediocrity was the more painful of the two, because at least with girls I had the good sense to give up trying early on. In sports I had perseverance, a trait that is not all it's cracked up to be.

Eastside's football field, adjacent to the school, was actually placed on an old cemetery, after the graves had allegedly been moved. Thus the school had two nicknames, the Ghosts and the Undertakers. It was on that field that I suffered my greatest indignity. As I sat on the bench, the starters were out on the field making awful play after awful play. The coach turned to me and said, "Can you imagine how bad you are if you're playing behind them?"

But I've returned to Eastside today in triumph. I'm endowing the school with a yearly scholarship, given in the name of my father. An assembly has been called to commemorate the occasion, and the principal tells me that my recent media exposure has actually created some student interest in the event.

My speech is a combination of self-deprecating humor and sincere exhortation to the students to make their lives productive. I don't build myself up too much, because even though I'm a pretty good lawyer, the truth is that the only reason I'm standing here today is that my father died and left me a truckload of money.

When I mention my father's nonfinancial influence on me, I get a little choked up. It's been happening a lot lately. I've noticed that as I get older, I get more and more, sentimental. I also notice some other things as I age, like a couple of hairs growing on each of my ears. Now that I think about it, there could be a cause-and-effect relationship at work here. Maybe I should fund some medical research into studying the effect of ear hair on human emotional response.

The question-and-answer session afterward is surprisingly lively. Most of the students want to know about the Willie Miller case, though their interest seems centered on what it was like to visit Willie on death row.

The Garcia case is of less interest. Some of them know Oscar or know of him from the neighborhood, and to know Oscar is to be unconcerned about his fate.

But a decent round of applause sends me off, and I head down to the jail to meet with my client. He's agitated and somewhat scared; for some reason his appearance in court this morning provided a sense of reality to his situation that the arrest and incarceration did not.

Oscar is not the type you make small talk with, so I ask him if he has any questions about, what took place in court today.

"That guy Campbell, he seemed out to get me."

It wasn't a question, but it's close enough. "He wants to send you to prison for the rest of your life."

"Son of a bitch ..."

"You've obviously met him before," I say. "Now, tell me everything you did the night of the murder, minute by minute, as best as you can remember. Don't leave out a thing, no matter how small or unimportant it might seem."

The sullen Oscar becomes even more so. "I hung out," he mutters.

"That's not quite the detail I need."

"Hey, what do you want me to say, man?" he asks, clearly annoyed with my persistence.

"I want you to tell me where you were that night. Because if you don't cooperate with me, I can tell you where you're going to spend every night for the rest of your life."

"I was doing business," he mutters.

"Where? In the park?"

"No."

It's my turn to get annoyed. "Dammit, Oscar, where the hell were you?"

He proceeds to tell me a rather uneventful tale of retail drug peddling in and around the park, with a little pimping thrown in. All of this took place until about one
A.M
., and he claims that some of the people he mentions would testify if called upon, but even without meeting them I can safely assume that none would have any credibility before a jury.

After one
A.M
. the rendition gets fuzzy. Only through repeated questioning am I able to piece together that he went to make a payment to the entity that grants him permission to function. In other words, he had to pay his mob bosses their standard piece of the action, and he was doing just that after one
A.M
.

"I need names, Oscar. Of the people you saw while you were making this payment."

Oscar actually laughs at the absurdity of the request. "Forget it. No fucking way. I give you those names, and you're defending a dead man."

I could give him another lecture on attorney-client privilege, and how the information would be safe with me, but I know it won't help. So I try to get at it a different way. I ask him to tell me the neighborhood, the street, that he was on during this business transaction. Eventually, he does, though he doesn't want to take any chances, so he narrows it to within a two-block radius. The area is a neighborhood that even I am aware is considered by organized crime to be home base.

"How long were you there?" I ask.

"'Bout three hours."

"To make a payment?" It seems like an inordinately long time.

"They were busy," he explains. "They kept me waiting."

"Is that unusual?"

"Usually, it don't take as long," he says, then qualifies it with, "When
I
go to
them
."

"You mean there are times they come to you?"

I can see him regain a measure of pride. "Sure. Most of the time."

I take him through the three hours he spent in the neighborhood in question. Basically, he hung out in the cellar of the house he was visiting, except for about a half hour when he went out to get something to eat.

"Did you eat at a restaurant?" I ask.

"Nah, I went to one of those big supermarkets--Food Fair, I think it's called. They make these really good sandwiches."

"Did you pay with a credit card?"

"A credit card?" he asks, indicating how absurd the question is. I might as well have asked if he had paid with a walrus.

He doesn't think anybody in the store would remember him, and the truth is, it's not as if Brad Pitt had come in that night for the sandwich. Oscar is a number of things, but memorable is not one of them. I let him off the hook with no more questions for now and tell him we'll be meeting again in a day or two.

As I'm leaving, he asks, "Man, I got things to work on. Am I gonna be stuck in here long?"

"I think it makes sense to go ahead and order furniture and drapes, if that's what you're asking."

It turns out that wasn't what he was asking.