Play Dead (15 page)

I
N MY NEXT
life I want to be an Army colonel.

Okay, maybe it’s not my first choice. But if I can’t be the starting quarterback for the Giants, or an all-star shortstop for the Yankees, then Army colonel is right up there on the list.

People listen to colonels. They follow their orders and don’t ask questions. They don’t ask if they can do it later or why it has to be done at all. Working for a colonel, Edna wouldn’t last ten minutes. What’s a five-letter word for “you’re out of a job, woman”?

The second-best thing to being a colonel is having one on our side, and thanks to Kevin’s sister’s choice of a husband, we have a beauty. I’m sure Kevin would have preferred that she marry an internist, but this has worked out pretty well.

Kevin has explained to Colonel Prentice that we need his help, and after asking a few questions, he made a phone call, and here we are at Fort Monmouth.

It’s the second time we’ve been to Fort Monmouth, and the place still does not look like an army base. It looks more like a collection of civilian office buildings, which is probably what it is about to be. The Army is closing Fort Monmouth as part of their overall base-closing plans. The town, like other towns facing the same situation, is quite upset about it. The base is a source of jobs and revenue that is hard to replace.

Last time Colonel Prentice helped us, he did so by sending us down here to meet with Captain Gary Reid, and he’s done the same thing this time. Captain Reid is now Major Reid, and he greets us just as crisply and politely this time. He informs us that he has already processed Kevin’s telephone request and has copies of the documents we need. They cannot leave the post or be recopied, he says, but we are free to sit in a private office and study them as long as we want. We are also allowed to take notes.

Archie Durelle’s Army record is relatively distinguished. He enlisted in 1994 and entered infantry training. He reached the rank of sergeant by the time he was sent to Afghanistan in 2001, and was a participant in the overthrow of the Taliban. He won a Purple Heart for his efforts, the result of a laceration from shrapnel.

It was about three months later that he was hitching a ride on a helicopter back to Kabul. The chopper crashed in a remote area, and Durelle was killed along with the pilot, a Special Forces officer named Mike Carelli, and two others. One was Captain Gary Winston, an Army surgeon whose tour of duty was up in just three days, and the other was Lieutenant Anthony Banks, a special services officer assigned to assist in Afghani reconstruction. It took a while for the American command to realize that the chopper had gone down, and another significant amount of time to find and reach the wreckage.

By the time search and rescue arrived on the scene, the enemy forces had been there first. The bodies and anything else of value had long since been carted off—at least, that’s what the report said. We now know the truth is that Durelle’s body was never there at all; if it had been, he wouldn’t have made it to the New Jersey Turnpike with a gun in his hand—a gun that was shooting bullets at me.

There are pictures of all the victims in the file, but I never would have recognized Durelle. I got only a brief glimpse of him on the highway, and I’m sure I was paying more attention to the gun in his hand. Also, the picture is at least eight to ten years old.

If Durelle had a family, it’s not listed in these reports, so instead we copy down the names of the others allegedly on the downed chopper, along with any family contacts they had. I have no idea if the others were involved with Durelle in anything criminal, but it’s an avenue we need to pursue.

We leave the base, having gotten all the available information, but disappointed with what we got. I had no reason to expect any kind of smoking gun, but it would have been nice to gain a little insight into what the hell is going on.

There isn’t exactly a lot of insight waiting for us back at the office, either. Keith Franklin has left a cryptic message that indicates he has been keeping his eyes open but has not detected anything unusual about Roy Chaney’s operations at customs.

Karen Evans is also waiting for us, and I can tell that the stress of waiting for a ruling on the new trial is straining even her natural level of exuberance. She’s been visiting Richard every day at the jail, which makes me feel a little better, since I haven’t been getting there as often as I should.

“How’s he doing?” I ask.

“Not great,” she says. “I’m trying to keep him upbeat, but he knows everything’s riding on this. Not knowing when the answer is coming is pretty tough, also. Even for me.”

I nod. “How about the solitary confinement? How’s he handling that?”

She smiles. “I think he likes it, at least for now. He hadn’t made a lot of friends there anyway.”

“I wish I had some news for both of you,” I say.

She nods. “I know… and I don’t want to be a pain, but is it okay if I hang around here more? It feels like if I’m here I’m closer to hearing the good news.”

“What about your dress designing?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I’ve been working on that at night; I haven’t been sleeping much. So what do you say?”

There’s no reason to deny her that request, so I don’t. “Sure. Come by anytime.”

I hang around for a while longer and then head for home. That doesn’t cheer me up a hell of a lot, either, since Laurie is back in Wisconsin. But Tara and Reggie are both there, tails wagging and smiles on their faces, and I reward them for their good mood with a two-hour walk in the park.

When we get back I turn on the television to the local news and then play the message on my blinking answering machine. In this way, the newscaster and the court clerk give me the message simultaneously: A decision has been reached in the Evans case, and it will be announced at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.

I spend the rest of the night fielding calls about the upcoming decision, from Laurie, Kevin, Karen, and an assortment of media types. I profess confidence to everyone outside our team; if we get the new trial, it is best if it appears we had expected nothing less. If we don’t get the trial, then nothing else matters anyway.

Karen professes certainty that the news will be good, though I can’t tell if she believes it or is trying to convince herself. Laurie is supportive and hopeful but really has no more idea about what awaits us than I do. Kevin is typically pragmatic, insisting that we plan our first steps after the new trial is granted. It’s the right approach, because we will have to move quickly to be ready for trial. And if there’s no trial to be ready for, then we’ll still push toward another appeal.

In a lot of ways this is even worse than waiting for a verdict. When the jury reaches a decision, there is the possibility that the client will be free and exonerated. Here we’re just hoping for the chance to
get to
a jury. So in a way, a bad decision is devastating, but a good decision is just the beginning.

Tara and Reggie seem to reflect my stress, getting close to me, as if being supportive. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I actually feel as though I owe Reggie something, and I don’t want to let him down. And not reuniting him with Richard would be letting him down.

Before I go to sleep I pet Reggie’s head. “Big day tomorrow, buddy,” I say.

He just looks at me, as if not willing to let me off the hook that easily. I look over and see Tara staring as well, supporting her friend against the hand that feeds her.

I pet him again. “No matter what happens, you’ve always got a home here.”

Again he stares at me, the same way he stared at me that first day in the kennel.

I pet him a final time. “All right. Don’t mention this publicly, but we’re gonna win.”

“W
HAT HAPPENS TODAY
affects only the timing, not the ultimate result.”

I say this as Kevin and I are meeting in a court anteroom with Richard and Karen. In fifteen minutes Judge Gordon is going to announce his ruling, and I’m trying to cushion them against the psychological devastation of a loss.

“We are going to find out the truth, and we’ll prove your innocence in court. If Judge Gordon rules against us, it will only delay our victory, not prevent it.”

Richard is in the process of establishing himself as unique among all the people I have ever defended. To this point he has not once asked me if I think we are going to win or lose. Usually defendants bombard me with the question, as if asking it repeatedly is going to unearth some secret truth that I am otherwise sworn to defend. Richard either senses that I have no idea what is going to happen, or thinks I have an idea and doesn’t want to hear what it is.

At nine o’clock sharp we enter the courtroom, which is packed to capacity and has all the energy of a major trial verdict moment. I have been to some huge prizefights, including the first Tyson-Holyfield, and the electricity that courses through a courtroom at moments like these is similar to the feeling at those venues, albeit on a much smaller scale. One side is going to lose, and one will win, and nothing will be the same afterward.

Karen takes her seat directly behind us as Janine Coletti and the rest of her team occupy their places at the prosecution table. Coletti nods at me and smiles and doesn’t appear at all nervous, which has the effect of making me nervous.

The five minutes that pass until the bailiff announces Judge Gordon’s entry feel like five hours. Mercifully, he gets right down to it. “I’m going to make a very brief statement, and post the entire decision on the court Web site,” he says.

Kevin looks over at me, a worried expression on his face. I know what he’s thinking. The overwhelming percentage of people in the room want Richard to get a new trial. If Judge Gordon is going to deliver bad news, he might want to do it quickly and let the Web site do the rest.

This is the way nervous, worried lawyers think.

The judge then goes into all that led to his decision. It goes on for three or four minutes, leading me to start calculating whether my bad-news theory might be wrong.

It’s an art form to give a lengthy preamble to a decision, listing the facts used to make the judgment, without giving away what the final decision will be. Judge Gordon has mastered it, and it takes me by surprise when he pauses and says, “Therefore…”

He pauses after the word, a delay that serves as a silent drumroll. I can feel Richard tense up next to me, and I can only imagine Karen behind me. She must have exploded by now.

Judge Gordon continues, “… it is the decision of this court that the defense has met its burden, and a new trial is hereby granted in the case of
New Jersey versus Evans,
said trial to commence on June fourteenth.”

There is not an explosion of noise in the courtroom; it is more the sound of a hundred people exhaling at once. Richard lowers his head into his hands and keeps it there until Karen vaults out of her seat and starts pounding him on the back and shoulders in triumph.

He turns and hugs her and then does the same to Kevin and me. Judge Gordon is considerate enough to let this emotional scene play out for a brief while before gaveling order into the courtroom.

The judge has set a trial date for six weeks from today. It’s rushed, but Richard has already told me that he doesn’t want to wait a moment longer than necessary.

I pursue the matter of bail, but it is almost never granted in first-degree murder trials, and Judge Gordon does not make an exception here. Richard is disappointed, but I’ve prepared him for it.

The proceedings end, and the bailiffs come over to take Richard away. “You did great,” he says to me.

“It’s only the beginning, Richard. I know you know that, but I’ve got to say it anyway. The case starts now.”

He smiles and nods, having expected me to temper his enthusiasm. “Give Reggie a hug for me,” he says.

“That I can do.”

Kevin and I head back to the office, rejuvenated by our triumph and by the certainty that we will now get our day in court. We both know that it will be like starting a six-week marathon; a murder trial takes total concentration and an incredible intensity.

Unfortunately, as soon as we start our meeting we have to face the fact that Judge Gordon’s decision does nothing toward helping us understand what the hell is going on here. If we’re going to tell a jury that Stacy was murdered and Richard was set up by some evil third party, we had better be prepared to credibly advance a theory of why it happened and who that third party might be.

The only two areas that seem to hold potential answers right now are the customs operations at the Port of Newark and the Army connection to Archie Durelle. There is little I can do about the customs area other than hope that Keith Franklin comes up with something, so I decide to focus on the Army and Durelle.

I make a couple of calls to set up meetings for tomorrow and then head for home. I give Tara and Reggie some celebratory biscuits, and then we go out for a long walk.

After I take them home I head for Charlie’s to watch some baseball and drink some beer with Pete and Vince. “Congratulations,” Pete says in a surprising burst of humanity.

“You gonna win?” Vince asks.

“Is this off the record?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

I shrug. “I hope so.”

He frowns his disdain. “You sure I can’t use that? Because that’s the kind of quote that sells newspapers.”

I update Pete on what we learned about the chopper crash, and I give him the names of Mike Carelli, Dr. Gary Winston, and Anthony Banks, the other people on the flight, just in case he has anything on them. He says that certainly nothing comes to mind, but that he’ll check.

“I called a friend in the State Police to see if I could find out any progress they’re making on the highway shooting,” Pete says.

“Thanks.” I had asked him to do that; even though the shooters were dead, a full investigation would certainly take place. “You find out anything?”

He nods. “The case was turned over to the FBI.”

This is a stunning development. “FBI? Are you sure?”

“Am I
sure
?” he asks with annoyance. “You think I get letters confused? Maybe they said they’re turning over the case to the DMV? Or maybe LBJ?”

His sarcasm doesn’t make a dent on me; I’m too focused on this news. “What the hell could the FBI have to do with an attempted murder on a New Jersey highway?”

“That, counselor, is something you might want to figure out.”