Hounded (18 page)

“Yes. Daniel told me.”

“All I can do is promise you that if you tell us, and I feel that it places you in any legal jeopardy, then I will tell you so, and we will treat what you said in total confidence.”

She thinks for a few moments, weighing her options. I want to shake her by the shoulders and scream at her to just tell us the damn thing already, but I have a hunch that might not be the best approach.

Finally, she nods. “Okay, here goes. Daniel was working on a new drug for animals, but not a drug to make them better. It was a carefully controlled study; he worked directly with his boss, Mitchell Blackman, on it.”

I instantly know where she is going, but I want her to say it. I can tell that Laurie wants her to say it.

But she has more to say first. “After the study was over, the remaining pills were stolen from Daniel’s office. He wanted to go to the police, but Mr. Blackman told him not to, that it would be bad for the company.

“Finally, Daniel couldn’t take it anymore, and he decided to report it. Before he could do so, he disappeared.”

“What kind of a drug was it?” Laurie asks. We both know the answer that is coming, but we just wait for Sharon to drop the bomb.

“He was working on a drug to stop the animal’s suffering. A euthanasia drug.”

Kaboom.

“You did nothing wrong by telling this to us. You don’t have to fear the FBI.”

I’m telling her the truth, but my goal is not just to ease her mind, though that is part of it. She may someday be in a position to tell it from the witness stand, so I want her to fully understand she is not doing anything illegal.

I believe that she has told us everything she knows, and it fits like a glove with our case. She talked about the stolen pills, the fact that Daniel described them as a natural compound, and that he believed they could induce instantly fatal heart attacks in humans, as they do in animals. It is rare that pieces of a puzzle fit so perfectly together, but that is what has happened here.

As Laurie and I are heading home, my legal mind is speaking to me, and my investigative mind tries to get it to shut up. This is all fascinating and compelling stuff that we’ve uncovered, but there is no way we are close to getting the judge to admit it at trial. We have to show relevance to the murder of Danny Diaz, and we’re just not there.

But I can’t listen to my legal mind yet; I need to follow this wherever it goes, and worry about the legal implications later. It’s the only way I can function.

But I come to the conclusion that my next step should satisfy both of my competing minds. I need to get actual law enforcement involved, or at least more involved than they are already. For one thing, they have resources that, if properly applied, can get a lot further, a lot faster, than I can.

Just as important is the credibility they can bring to the matter in the eyes of the judge. My talking about these things can sound like wildly speculative defense attorney ramblings. If I can get a cop to say the same things, it carries far more weight.

For the moment at least, I’m not going to the FBI. They are already allegedly investigating, though they may have dropped it a while ago. In any event, they seem to be getting nowhere, and wouldn’t tell me about it even if they were making progress. It feels like going to them in this case would be like descending into a black hole.

The logical choice would seem to be Lieutenant Simon Coble. As a state police officer, he has jurisdiction in all areas of New Jersey. He also is already familiar with the case. A niece of Katherine Reynolds had come to him with a fear that her aunt had been murdered. He said that he investigated and found that her fears were unfounded, and later talked to Pete when he learned that Pete was investigating as well.

“You again?” Coble asks when he hears my voice and name on the phone.

Such disdain might hurt a lesser man, but I am undeterred. “You remembered,” I say. “I’m deeply touched.”

“What do you want now?”

“I have some information that might cause you to reopen your investigation, as rigorous as it was.” He had said that he called the coroner, got the report, and then dropped the case.

“Let me guess. You want to meet again.”

“You got it.”

He sighs. “All right. You’ve got fifteen more minutes.”

I head to Englewood to see Coble, and am brought right in to his office. I get right to the point. “Katherine Reynolds’s niece was right when she said that her aunt was murdered.”

“I believe that was your point last time,” he says. “And I believe I mentioned the need for evidence.”

I nod. “And since I hang on your every word, I took that to heart. So I brought some evidence with me.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a name. Daniel Mathis. He is a researcher and chemist in veterinary medicine at Blaine Pharmaceuticals. And he is what we in the legal world call a missing person.”

I think I see a reaction from Coble, but I’m not sure. “What does this Mathis have to do with Katherine Reynolds?”

I proceed to tell him about the drug Mathis was developing, the theft, and his disappearance just before going to the FBI. Then I mention the FBI investigation, without using Sharon Dalton’s name.

“You’re sure the bureau is on this?” he asks. The competitive feeling that local and state cops have toward the FBI is pretty universal.

“Positive, although I don’t know what kind of progress they might be making. I thought maybe you’d want to jump in and beat them to it, since it was your case to start.”

I’ve definitely got his interest. “Assuming everything you’ve said is true, and I’m far from convinced it is, how does this tie in to Reynolds?”

“Carson Reynolds has had phone contact with a man who I am certain is responsible for Daniel Mathis’s disappearance.”

“Does this man have a name?” he asks.

“I’m sure he does; I just don’t know it. Yet. Perhaps you can help in that regard. I think I know where he lives—it’s in Hackensack—and when I’m sure I’ll share it with you.”

“How do you know Reynolds was in contact with this unknown man?”

“That you’ll have to take on faith, but it’s ironclad.” I’m not about to tell him about Sam’s phone and GPS work.

“And what makes you certain that this unknown man caused Mathis to disappear?”

“We’re into another faith, but ironclad, situation here.”

“So I should trust you? Because of our long, close, personal relationship?”

He’s making sense, but getting on my nerves in the process. “That’s the point, Lieutenant. You shouldn’t trust me. You should hear what I’m saying and set out to prove me right or wrong. If I’m right, you can be a hero. If I’m wrong, no harm, no foul.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “I’ll look into it.”

“Good. Look into it really fast.”

“Why?”

“Pete Stanton’s trial starts tomorrow.”

“So?”

“So you’re my star witness.”

I leave Coble’s office and am on the way home when I get the call I have been waiting for. It’s from Sam, and he says, “I got him, Andy. The phone is on the move, and I’m following the guy now.”

“Where are you?”

“At the Coach House Diner on Route 4.”

“You’re in the parking lot?”

“No, I’m in the diner; I’m at a table. The guy is maybe twenty feet from me as I’m talking to you.”

“Do not approach him,” I say.

“I don’t need to. I got his license plate, and his picture. He doesn’t suspect a thing; we got him whenever we want him.”

I spend a moment trying to decide what to do. We get nothing by confronting him; first we need to check him out and learn all that we can about him. Sam is right that we can get him any time we want to, now that we know what he looks like and where he lives, and soon we’ll have his name.

I instruct Sam to leave the diner and head home. He seems disappointed, but he agrees.

Things are looking up.

Jury selection is always a crapshoot. This time it’s worse.

Jury consultants have created an entire industry; they give statistics and use psychographics and all kinds of data to tell the lawyer who is the perfect juror to pick. And sometimes they’re right, and sometimes they’re wrong.

Just like me.

So I don’t use them; I go by logic and gut instinct. But in this case logic is not very logical, because I am representing a very unique defendant.

Usually the defense looks for people who might mistrust the government and police, who don’t accept at face value that the defendant is guilty merely because the system says so. We want free thinkers, who are willing to look at both sides of an issue, and not worry about power or pressure.

The prosecution wants jurors who show great respect and deference to law enforcement. Such people, though aware of the “innocent until proven guilty” ground rules, consciously or unconsciously adopt the reverse rule, and challenge the defense to prove innocence, rather than put the burden on the prosecution to prove guilt.

But Pete as the defendant muddies the water. Do I still want people distrustful of the police, since I’m defending a cop? Or do I want people who are prone to favor the police? Will it be Pete they’re favoring? Or the cops who arrested him?

So I basically put all of that aside and do what I usually do, which is choose people I feel like I want to talk to, especially since I’ll be talking to them a great deal. I instinctively feel that if I want to talk to them, then they’ll want to listen to me. It’s worked pretty well for me so far.

It takes us only one day to pick the jury. There are seven men, five women, eight whites, three African Americans, and one Hispanic. Richard looked at me in surprise when I accepted the Hispanic woman, since the victim was Hispanic. I just really liked her, and think she will be fair.

Pete is completely attentive throughout the proceedings, but he doesn’t interfere or even offer his opinion. It must be very strange for him to be on the opposite side of this; it’s probably the first time in his life that he’s rooting for an acquittal.

I head home to meet Sam; he’s coming over to update me and Laurie on what he’s learned about our mystery man. When I walk in, Sam and Laurie are talking in the den. I can hear Ricky playing with some toys in his room; Ricky’s room now looks like the local Toys “R” Us, and I have to confess that I have bought a bunch of them.

“We’ve got a problem” is the first thing that Sam says to me when I walk in.

“Just so you’ll know,” I say, “when it comes to an opening conversational line, I prefer, ‘Andy, I’ve got great news.’”

“It’s not all bad,” Laurie says. “Most of it is good. Sam has done great work.”

“Start with the good.”

“We’ve got his name: it’s Alex Parker. And I’ve got a picture of him.”

He hands me the photo; I’ve never seen the guy before. He’s sitting in a booth at the diner, eating. He’s probably in his thirties, looks very large and solidly built, and apparently likes club sandwiches.

“Now the bad.”

“He’s gone, and the phone is dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s off the grid. Shut down.”

“Turned off?”

“If it is, it’s the first time. But I think it’s more than that.”

“Why?”

“Because I also noticed that his car was gone from the apartment building parking lot, so I asked the superintendent about him. He said the guy left and wasn’t coming back.”

“Did he have a lease?” I ask.

“No, it was a week-to-week rental, and he didn’t renew. He’s out of there.”

“Could he have seen you at the diner, Sam? Saw you taking his picture? Maybe it spooked him.”

“No chance, Andy … I swear.”

On balance Laurie is right: it’s still good news. We’ve got Alex Parker’s name and photograph. It’s much easier to find someone when you know who you’re looking for. Of course, it’s even easier if you know where they’re staying, but you can’t have everything.

I call Lieutenant Coble and say, “The guy we’re looking for is named Alex Parker.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m a brilliant investigator,” I say.

“Yeah, right. You know anything else about him?”

“No, but I will very soon. And I’ve got his picture. I’ll email it to you.”

Coble gives me his email address, and then says, “When you know more, I want to hear it.”

I hang up, and think about where we are. I don’t know why Parker suddenly took off, but hopefully it won’t matter in the long run.

We’ll get him.

“The defense will tell you that Pete Stanton has had a fine career,” Richard says to the jury. “Well, this may surprise you, but I’m going to stipulate to that. He has had a fine career, at least until now. And he has enjoyed a good reputation, and a series of promotions.”

He walks over to the jury box. “But here’s the thing: we are not here to give out a lifetime achievement award. No one, not a police officer or anyone else, earns immunity points to protect them and allow them to commit crimes. And certainly not crimes of this magnitude.

“I take no pleasure in this. I, like everyone else, considered Peter Stanton to be a fine cop. And he probably was. But somewhere along the line, things have gone terribly wrong. Because fine cops don’t deal drugs, and they don’t commit murder.

“Peter Stanton did both of those things, and we will prove it.”

I can feel Pete tense up next to me. In my experience, except for the waiting for and reading of the verdict, this is the toughest time for a defendant. You hear the state saying all these terrible things about you, and you think there is no way anyone will believe otherwise.

“We don’t have evidence of his crimes. We have
overwhelming
evidence of his crimes. And you will hear all of it; you will hear about the drugs, and about the cold-blooded murder.

“Danny Diaz did not deserve to die. He deserved our thanks, because he tried to make this world a better place by telling the truth. And his reward was two bullets through the heart.

“So don’t let a biography be a substitute for evidence, and logic, and truth. And the truth is that Peter Stanton is a criminal, and cannot be allowed to get away with his crimes.”