Open and Shut (7 page)

Near the end of the conversation, Richard brings up the possibility of discussing a plea bargain. He does this with a minimum of subtlety.

“You want to talk about a plea bargain?”

“Sure. We'll take a dismissal and an apology from the state. Something humble, but not cloying.”

He laughs the laugh of the gracious winner. We agree to talk at his office tomorrow, though I can't imagine it going anywhere. There will be too much public pressure on Richard to right the wrong that the technicality appeal represents. Besides, Willie has said he absolutely won't cop to anything he didn't do, or as is the case here, something he can't imagine he could ever have done.

Laurie arrives, and her manner is cold but professional. It feels like I need to do something to resolve the situation, but I'm at a loss to know what. Her attitude is completely appropriate, which makes it all the more frustrating.

We set out going through all the files on the case, though we've both already been over them at least three times. I start letting my mind roam, not tempering my thoughts with logic. I often find it leads me to places I want to go, though just as often it leads me nowhere.

“What if Denise wasn't just a random victim? What if the killer had a motive?”

“Like …” she prompts.

“I don't know … she was a reporter … maybe she was going to write a story which would hurt the killer. He got rid of her to prevent the story.”

“Why would she write a story about a loser like Willie Miller?”

I challenge her. “Who said the killer is Willie Miller?”

“A jury.”

I'm starting to get frustrated by her pessimism. “Don't you get suspicious when there's all this evidence? Don't you think the prosecution's case might be a little too strong?”

“Actually, no,” she says. “I tend to find evidence convincing. More evidence is more convincing.”

I am about to challenge this logic when there is a knock on the door; it is the Chinese food Laurie has ordered for us. She hadn't asked me what I wanted, but I let it go because I figured she was lashing out at me, culinarily speaking. She also lashes out financially speaking, by signing for a big tip and telling the delivery guy to charge the whole thing to my account.

She starts to unpack the food, so I ask her what she's ordered.

“Steamed broccoli, stir-fried asparagus tips, and broiled seaweed with tofu.”

This is not exactly making my mouth water. “Are you catering a rabbit convention?”

“It's good for you, unlike that greasy poison you always order.” She takes two bites, then looks at her watch. “Are we almost finished here? Because I've got plans.”

Uh, oh. The dreaded plans. I get a pit in my stomach the size of Argentina.

“Plans?”

“Yes, plans,” she says. “Like in, I have a life so I make plans.”

“Okay. I deserve that.”

“No. If I gave you what you deserve, I'd be in the same situation as Willie Miller.”

I'm getting annoyed, and my level of annoyance has always been directly proportional to my level of courage. Actually, it's a theory of mine as well. I believe that all real heroes demonstrated their bravery only when they got angry. You think Nathan Hale liked the guys who put the rope around his neck? You think Davy Crockett considered the Mexicans coming over the Alamo walls his good buddies? I'm no different. Piss me off enough and before you know it they'll be writing songs about me.

Here goes. “Look, we started to get involved. It was nice … really nice … but we never took an oath.”

She's ready for this. “Right. You and Nicole are the ones that took an oath.”

“As a matter of fact, we did. And one of us may wind up breaking that oath, but we won't know that for a while.”

She stands up. “I'm happy for you, but I've got plans. Now what is it you want me to do next?”

I guess she's not going to eat the Chinese food next, leaving it all for me. Yummm. I'll have enough left over to make broiled seaweed sandwiches tomorrow.

“Check out the eyewitness … Cathy Pearl. Maybe we can shake her. Maybe she did it, for Christ's sake.”

“Great idea!” she enthuses. “I'll also ask people I meet at the supermarket if by any chance
they
killed Denise McGregor. Maybe we can shake someone else into confessing.”

“Aside from our personal situation, what is your problem with this case?”

She looks me straight in the eye, though that is what she always does. She's an inveterate eye looker; I on the other hand look at people's mouths when they talk.

“My problem is that we're defending a brutal murderer, Andy. If we're successful, which we won't be, he goes back on the street.”

“And if he didn't do it, then the guy who did is
already
out on the street.”

She sighs with resignation, as well as the fact that down deep she knows I'm right. We've been over this ground before. We have a role to play, and if we don't play it to the hilt the system doesn't function.

“Okay. It's a job and we do it. Where are
you
going to start?”

“With Denise McGregor.”

V
INCE
S
ANDERS
IS A GRUFF, UNKEMPT, VERY
overweight man who has spent one hundred twelve of his fifty-one years working on newspapers up and down the East Coast. He's the type that you think must still be pounding stories out on his old Smith-Corona while all his colleagues are using high-tech computers. When I show up at his office, he is doing research at warp speed on the Internet. Oh, well.

Vince was Denise's boss on the
Newark Star-Ledger.
I ask him if Denise was working on something at the time she was killed, and he laughs. Not a hah-hah, friendly laugh, but any port in a storm.

“Working on something? Are you kidding me? Denise was always working on something.”

I ask him if he knows what she was working on. He doesn't.

“She wouldn't tell me, but she was really excited. And it must have been good, 'cause she asked me to meet her in here the next day, which was a Saturday. She knew damn well I don't get off my fat ass on Saturdays.”

I laugh, since it seems like I'm supposed to, but he calls me on it. “What the hell are you laughing at?” he asks.

“I was thinking that based on the size of your ass, the reason you don't get off it on Saturdays is because crane operators don't work weekends.”

He looks at me for a few moments, as if deciding whether to kill me. He doesn't have a gun, which means he would have to get that same fat ass out of the chair to get up and strangle me. He seems to decide that it's not worth it.

“You think insulting me is the way to get information?” he asks.

“I'm hoping you'll admire my honesty.”

He shakes his head. “I don't. Besides I'm on a diet. All fish.”

“Yeah,” I say. Try as I might to conceal it, I'm afraid my skepticism shines through, although he doesn't seem to notice.

“You ever notice how all fish tastes alike?” he asks. “I think there's really only one kind of fish in the world, but they use different names to scam the public.”

For the sake of our budding friendship, I think I'll go along with this. “Come to think of it,” I say, “I've never seen a sword-fish and a flounder in a room together.”

“Of course not,” he says. “Nobody has. That's because they're the same damn fish. I'm telling you, it's a fraud on the public.”

I nod. “That's probably where they got the saying, ‘There's something fishy going on.’ ”

“Damn right,” he agrees. Then, “You come here to talk about fish?”

He knows I haven't, so I get back to Denise. “Is it unusual that Denise wouldn't tell you what story she was researching?” I ask.

“Unusual, but it wasn't the first time. I gave her a lot of leeway, because I trusted her.”

“Did she leave any notes?”

He shakes his head, as the memories come flooding back. “That was the weird part; I couldn't find any. And Denise took notes about everything. I mean, you say ‘good morning’ to her, and she jotted it down. You know the type?”

I don't, but I nod anyway. “What about Edward Markham?”

This gets another laugh from Vince, this one a little happier. “Denise brought him to a party. I talked to him for a few minutes, and then I told her he was an arrogant asshole. Boy, did she get pissed.”

“Why?”

“He was standing there when I told her.” He starts laughing again, and I join in. I'm starting to think we're buddies, but the next thing I know, he's looking at me like I'm some slime he just got on his shoes.

“Let me ask you something: Why would you defend the scumbag that killed Denise?”

I look him right in the mouth. “I don't think I am. I believe that the real killer is running loose.”

He stares at me for a few moments, and a feeling of impending doom comes over me. Finally, he shakes his head and says, “It's your job to believe that.”

I shake my head. “No. It's my job to defend him. It's not my job to believe in him.”

“If you get any real evidence, let me know how I can help. Me and my fat ass can get a lot done if we want to.”

“Thanks,” I say. “When all this is over, I'll take you out and buy you a tuna.”

That night I'm at home, literally ankle deep in paperwork. My work style is to sit on the couch, cover the rest of the couch, the coffee table, and the floor in papers, and wade through them. There's a basketball game on the television that serves as background music. The Knicks are playing the Pacers, and I bet on the Knicks minus three. Allan Houston just hit a jump shot. Once in my life I want to hit a backhand down the line like Pete Sampras and shoot a jump shot as smoothly as Allan Houston. The Knicks are up by eleven with a minute to go, my bet is locked, and as my mother used to say, “Money goes to money.”

The doorbell rings and I yell up for Nicole to get it. She doesn't hear me, so I answer it myself, which is just as well, since Laurie comes in, all excited. The last time she was here, she was a different kind of excited, but that's ancient history.

She doesn't even say hello, just launches into what she has to tell me. This is a sign that she's into the case, and I'm pleased about that. As it turns out, her visit has nothing to do with the Miller case at all.

“You've gotta hear this,” she says. “I ran into my friend, the one who works for Frank Brownfield, the developer? He agreed that the guy in the picture looked like Brownfield, so I gave him a copy of the picture, and he said he would check it out.”

“And?” I ask.

“And I got a call back an hour ago … what's it, ten o'clock? … from my friend …”

At this point, Nicole comes downstairs and into the room. On the list of people I was hoping would join us at that moment, Nicole ranks just below Charles Manson.

“Oh, hello, Laurie. How are you?”

Laurie hesitates, then says, “Okay … I'm okay. I didn't realize I was interrupting anything.”

“Oh, you aren't. I was just going up to bed. See you in a while, Andy?” That's Nicole, another gracious winner.

“In a while. Laurie needs to talk to me about something.”

Nicole nods. “Nice seeing you, Laurie.”

Nicole goes upstairs; it's my turn to speak. Too bad I feel like I swallowed the four-hundred-pound watermelon from Sofý.

“I should have told you. Nicole moved back in.”

Laurie puts on a look of feigned surprise. “She did? You're kidding! I just assumed her car broke down and she stopped here to phone for help.”

“Laurie …”

“Your wife is waiting for you. We can talk about Brownfield tomorrow.”

“No, let's talk about him now. So your friend called you and said what?”

The enthusiasm is now gone from Laurie's voice, but she says, “He said the picture is not Brownfield, on second thought looks nothing like Brownfield, and Brownfield knows nothing about it.”

“So?”

“So he didn't sound like himself, and he denied it so hard, you'd think the guy in the picture was naked in bed with a goat. And then, just before he gets off the phone, he asks where I got the picture.”

“What did you say?”

“That if it isn't Brownfield, what do you care?”

So now we have what seems to be a harmless picture of a bunch of guys, none of whom will admit to being in it. And we're no closer to finding out why.

Laurie leaves and I go upstairs. Nicole is in bed, waiting for me as promised. She's reading a book, but she looks up as I walk in.

“Break in that murder case?”

Nicole uses the word “that” as a distancing mechanism. “That” murder case. “That” friend of yours. It diminishes the importance of what she is talking about, and removes any connection to her.

“No. But the situation with the picture is getting stranger and stranger. Brownfield denies that it's him … vehemently.”

“Maybe they were a group of men who got together to cheat on their wives. It does happen, you know.”

“Except this time it may have ended with my father getting two million dollars.”

“Where are you going with this, Andy? What will you do if you find out what happened?”

I have no real answer to this. I can't predict how I will react until I know what it is I am reacting to.

By this time I'm already undressed. I shed clothes faster than basketball players tearing off their warm-up suits as they enter a game. I get into bed, and Nicole drops the bomb.

“You and Laurie have been involved.”

Uh, oh. “It's that obvious?”

She nods. “It's that obvious.”

“We started to … and then we stopped.”

“What happened?” she asks.

“You,” I answer.

F
OUR WEEKS
IS SIMPLY NOT ENOUGH TIME TO PRE
pare for a murder case. There are lawyers who take that long to pick out what suit they are going to wear for their opening statement. But it's all Hatchet has given us, so we have to deal with it.

Things are already starting to fall between the cracks. There are motions to be filed, evidence to be challenged, discovery to be gone over, witnesses to interview, media to be spun, and prayers to be prayed. I'm going to need help.

Ordinarily, I would discuss additions to our team with Laurie, but discussions with Laurie these days are less than comfortable. I grapple with this for a short while, but I decide that not to get the benefit of her input is to cause my client to suffer because of my personal situation. I can't let that happen.

Laurie completely agrees that we need help, and after thinking for a minute, she comes up with a name I've never heard before: Kevin Randall.

“He's as good as any attorney I've ever met,” she says. “And he can be trusted totally and completely.”

Laurie doesn't exactly throw around praise indiscriminately, so I'm intrigued.

“Where is he practicing?”

“He isn't,” she says. “He quit.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because he has a conscience.”

As Laurie goes on to say, Kevin graduated Harvard Law about twenty years ago, but rather than join his classmates on their march to corporate law stardom, he went to work for the District Attorney in Essex County. He was a talented prosecutor, insightful and intense, but he had the misfortune to recognize his ability. Kevin would win cases with his skill and work ethic, which caused him to worry that perhaps innocent defendants were going to prison because their lawyers were outgunned.

To counter this situation, Kevin decided to become a defense attorney. It didn't work out quite the way he hoped. Now, when he won a case, he began to worry that he was responsible for dangerous felons roaming the streets. This was confirmed to him when one of his victories wound up killing two people in an armed robbery a month after Kevin got him off a convenience store holdup charge. Kevin blamed himself for the deaths.

That, Laurie says, was the final straw. Having been both a prosecutor and a defense attorney, Kevin had now run out of sides to take. His only other chance to stay in the legal system was to become a judge, so Kevin Randall made the obvious choice.

He opened a Laundromat.

Laurie and I drive out to East Brunswick to see Kevin at his current establishment, set in a tacky strip mall. There's a 7-Eleven, a takeout-only Chinese restaurant, a check-cashing business, and the “Law-dromat,” Kevin's place. The sign outside offers “Free Legal Advice While You Wash and Dry.”

I look at the place and then at Laurie, who has perfected the ability to read my thoughts. She can tell that I can't believe we've even come here.

“Open your mind,” she says. “Unclench your ass and open your mind.”

Laurie has mentioned that she knows Kevin quite well, but she hasn't provided any specifics. Actually, I think she knows him more than quite well, maybe much more than quite well. I've got a feeling she once may have known him in the biblical sense, and my suspicious mind concludes that is one of the reasons she recommended him. But I've agreed to give it a shot, so we go in.

The inside of the place looks like a Laundromat, which in itself is no major surprise, since that is what it is. There is only one patron in the place, a middle-aged woman who is talking to the proprietor, Kevin. He, to my immense relief, is five foot seven, thirty pounds overweight, and balding. He doesn't have a hunchback, and he doesn't drool when he talks, but his overall unattractiveness should be enough to keep my jealousy in check.

Kevin and the woman are having an animated discussion, which Laurie and I cannot hear from our vantage point, since the washers and dryers are making too much noise. The woman seems upset, and Kevin's gestures indicate he is trying to placate her. It doesn't seem to work, and she throws up her hands and leaves.

Kevin sees Laurie and waves us over. When we get there, he's still shaking his head over the encounter with the woman. Laurie gives him a big hug and kiss, causing me to briefly wonder if my initial jealous instincts had been right. Nah, she's three inches taller than he is. Can't be.

“Hey, Kev, meet Andy. Andy, Kevin.”

We shake hands and say how nice it is to meet each other. I ask him if the woman that just left is a tough client.

“They don't come any tougher,” he says.

Laurie asks, “What's the problem? Or is it privileged and you can't talk about it?”

“No, I'll tell you,” he says. “She put in seventy-five cents and her towels didn't get dry.”

We go to a coffee shop around the block to talk, and I describe the Miller case. Kevin has three pieces of pie and a bowl of fruit while I lay it out, and I have no doubt he is going to eat as long as I talk. Fortunately the case is not that complicated, or he would have to get his stomach pumped.

I ask him what he thinks and wait for his answer while he swallows. He tells me we are in a difficult position. My God, Clarence Darrow lives!

Laurie asks him if he'd be interested in coming on board, and he says, “No thanks. Been there, done that.”

I'm relieved, since I don't yet share Laurie's high opinion of this guy. But Laurie keeps pressing him, and he seems to be weakening, so I jump in with what I think is an obvious point. “No offense, I'm sure you're a dynamite lawyer, but you do run a Laundromat.”

Kevin nods and turns to Laurie. “See? This is a smart guy. He wants somebody who doesn't fluff and fold all day.”

We talk about it some more, and he actually starts to impress me with his take on the case and the law. Laurie uses her considerable powers of persuasion on him, and he finally and reluctantly agrees to join the team, but only in a very secondary role. He'll do the grunt work, filing motions and moving things along, but will not take an active courtroom role. This is fine with me, since I was not about to offer him one.

“I think we should discuss my fee,” he says.

“The sign says your advice is free,” I reply.

“My free advice is don't use too much detergent. My legal fee is one fifty an hour. You as rich as Laurie says you are?”

I glare a dagger at Laurie, who shrugs. “It slipped out,” she says.

I shake my head, disappointed at the injustice of it all. Why can't we rich people be treated as normal human beings? “Okay. One fifty an hour. But you pay for your own pie.”

“Done,” says Laurie. Then they shake hands on it. Then they hug on it. It's a beautiful moment. There isn't a dry eye in the room, unless you count both of mine.

We agree that Kevin will come to the office the next morning, and Laurie and I make arrangements to meet later to go to the scene of the crime. I head down to the courthouse to meet with Richard Wallace, which is not something I relish.

If you watched Geraldo or Larry King or any one of a hundred cable shows that covered the Simpson trial or the impeachment debacle, then you noticed that ninety-five percent of all the legal pundits they use are dubbed “former prosecutor.” It's sort of like being a baseball manager: Every day you're in the job you're one day closer to being fired. Except every day you're a prosecutor, you're one day closer to quitting. The overwhelming feeling in the profession is that “former” is the best kind of prosecutor to be.

The exception to this rule is Richard Wallace. He's been prosecuting cases for eighteen years, and if he has enough to drink he'll admit that he loves it. He's the number two man in the department, which is the highest nonelected position. That's exactly the way he wants it, since if he were to go any higher he'd have to trade in the courtroom for an executive throne.

From a defense attorney's standpoint, the good news about Wallace is that he doesn't bullshit; you basically know where he stands and why. The bad news about Wallace is he doesn't bullshit, which means you can't expose his bullshit and make him look bad.

My theory about prosecutors is that they are the dishwashers of the legal profession; their main goal is to clean their plates. The problem is that criminals keep dumping more and more food on those plates, and they never can get them clean. But they keep trying, and Wallace is no doubt hoping that I'll help him put the Willie Miller plate in the dishwasher.

We sit down at two-thirty, right on schedule, and by two-thirty-one he has finished chitchatting and made his offer. Willie can plead guilty to murder one and take life without the possibility of parole. “It's an excellent offer,” he says with a straight face.

“Wow!” I say. “Life in a shithole cage for the rest of his natural life. He'd have to be crazy not to go for it. Damn, I wish you'd offer it to me. I'd jump at it myself.”

“If he doesn't take it, you might as well tell him not to unpack his things. He'll be back on death row before he knows it.”

“He won't take it.”

Wallace shakes his head as if saddened by my response. “Andy, this trial has already taken place. You've read the transcript; it'll be like putting a tape in a VCR and replaying it.”

“You're not allowing for my brilliance.”

“Hatchet is not big on your kind of brilliance. He'll cut you up in little pieces and feed you to the bailiffs.”

I'm not in the mood to be lectured right now, even if every word he is saying is true. Especially because every word he is saying is true.

“So this is what you asked me to come down here for? Life without parole?”

“That's it. And we'll get killed in the press for that, but we'll have to deal with it.”

“You're a regular profile in courage.”

He smiles. “That's why I get paid the little bucks.”

“This time you're going to have to earn them,” I say. “Willie is going to pass on your offer.”

He's not surprised by my answer, but he's not pleased that he's still got this dirty plate. “Then I guess I'll see you in court, Counselor,” he shrugs.

I growl at him on the way out, as a way of starting the intimidation process, but he's already talking on the phone, so it doesn't seem to have much effect.

Since I have a few hours before meeting Laurie, I go out to the prison to get the conversation with Willie behind me. Behind us.

Willie has been moved off of death row and into maximum security. It is a subtle distinction; you get to trade tension and dread and the stench of death for the right to be surrounded by twice as many murderers and rapists as before. Willie is already a celebrity of sorts, since not too many people come back from the other side. It doesn't seem to have put him in a great mood.

I tell him the offered deal and he tells me to go fuck myself. I realize that he is talking to me as a representative of the system, but I tell him that he shouldn't kill the messenger. He tells me that not only wouldn't he kill the messenger, but he also wouldn't have killed Denise, so he's not pleading guilty.

“Willie, there's a very good chance you're going to lose this trial.”

“Why?”

“Look at it this way. Suppose Dinky University's football team goes down to Florida State and gets beat a hundred and ten to nothing. Then somebody says, ‘Hey wait a minute, the water boy Florida State used wasn't eligible because his grades are shit and he used too big a bucket.’ So they rule that the game doesn't count, and decide to replay it the following week.”

“You gonna get to the point before the trial starts?” he asks.

I nod. “When they replay the game, you think Dinky is going to win?”

“That depends,” he answers, “on whether Dinky is bringing the same team down there.”

“Same team.”

“But I ain't going back to trial with the same team. I got me a new coach. You.”

“It won't be enough. Dinky is still Dinky. You get Bill Par-cells to coach 'em, they're still Dinky.” I may be carrying the analogy a bit far, but he's still into it.

“So you're asking me to crash the Dinky team plane before it even gets to Florida. Can't do it, Andy. I'm on that plane.”

There is certainly no way I'm going to convince him, and I don't really want to, since I'd probably do the same thing. If I were put in prison without any chance of parole, the first thing I would try to do is kill myself. Might as well let the state do it. Besides, I'm not just doing this for Willie, and I'm not just doing this for me. I'm doing it for good old Dinky U.

I call Nicole and tell her I won't be home until very late, and she's disappointed, because her father is in town for summer recess and wanted to have dinner with us. I tell her that I can't make it, and that she should go with him. I leave out the part about meeting Laurie at an XXX adult movie theater.