Play Dead (25 page)

D
R
. G
ERALD
K
ING
has brought his A game to court today.

In direct examination, he is even more effective than he was at the hearing. He’s a consummate witness; all a defense attorney has to do is wind him up and let him go.

I let him go over his assessment of what happened that night on the boat, and his absolute certainty that Richard did not take any pills. It’s basically the same story he told at the hearing, with more charts and even more assertiveness.

Hawpe certainly has been preparing for him for weeks, but if he makes a dent, it’s not worth calling the insurance company to repair. The best Hawpe can get from him is an admission that the prosecution’s version of events is “not impossible,” but even that draws a sharp comeback from Dr. King.

“Not impossible?” he asks. “Is that the standard the prosecution has to meet to send a man to prison?”

It’s an unprofessional comment, and Hawpe’s objection gets it stricken from the record, but the point is made, and the jury certainly heard it. By the time Dr. King gets off the stand, I think that Hawpe is ready to throw him a good-bye party.

Mercifully, a juror comes down with a stomach virus, and the afternoon session is canceled. I don’t wish anyone ill, and if I could outlaw viruses forever I would, but if someone in America had to come down with one, I’m glad it’s a juror on this case. I need the time to focus on our efforts to learn the truth about Stacy and why she was killed.

I call Vince, who tells me that he just got off the phone with Petrone’s people. Whatever they talked about, it hasn’t improved his mood any. “They want you at Spumoni’s Restaurant on Market Street at five thirty.”

“Five thirty? That’s a little early for dinner.”

“That’s because you’re not invited for dinner,” he says.

I want to make sure I have all this straight. “Who should I ask for?”

“Who are you going to see?”

“Dominic Petrone.”

“Then why don’t you start by asking for him and see how that goes? Oh, and they said you should come alone and unarmed.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That not only will you not bring a gun, you probably won’t bring any balls.”

“Thanks, Vince.”

Before he gets off the phone he makes me repeat the “I’ll give the story to Vince” pledge, which I willingly do. Vince is a major pain in the ass, but the next time he doesn’t come through for me will be the first.

I call Marcus and give him the evening off. Ever the responsible bodyguard, he presses me about why, and I’m forced to tell him. He reluctantly agrees, and I only hope he’s telling me the truth.

I show up at the restaurant at the appointed time. It has been on this downtown street for more than fifty years and is said to have extraordinary Italian food.

I just hope Clemenza left me a gun in the bathroom.

I’ve worn fairly tight jeans and a thin pullover shirt. I’m not trying to make a fashion statement; I’m just not a big fan of getting frisked by burly men, and I’m hoping this will render that unnecessary.

It doesn’t work. I’m not in the door for twenty seconds before I’ve been frisked and ushered into a back room, where Dominic Petrone sits having a drink with two other men. He moves his hand almost imperceptibly, and they get up and leave the table. Three of Petrone’s people take positions around the room, with their backs to the walls.

“Sit down, Andy,” says Petrone.

“Thanks, Dominic,” I say as I do so. “Try the veal. It’s the best in the city.” He doesn’t seem to get the
Godfather
reference, which is just as well. But Sam Willis would have gotten it.

“Vince says you’re here to help me.”

“I was hoping we could help each other. I have some information you can use, and hopefully you can get information that I need.”

“Let’s start with me,” he says.

I’m not going to get rolled here. “Do we have a deal?”

“Let’s start with me,” he says again, with a little less patience.

“Dominic, the way I envisioned this is—”

“You don’t trust me?” he asks.

I just got rolled. “Of course I do.” Strangely enough, I do trust him, though I know that were it in his best interests, he would kill me without spoiling his appetite.

I pause a moment to try to control the tremor in my voice. What I’m about to say can have serious repercussions, most notably to me.

“In the course of my investigation of the Evans case, I’ve learned that you have been sending large amounts of money, in small- and medium-sized bills, out of the country.”

Petrone doesn’t flinch, nor does he blink. He simply waits, probably deciding in his own mind how I am to be killed.

I continue. “I have not told anyone about it, but I have also learned something else. There is about to be an intense investigation into unusual activity down there, and if you have any cargo there or ready to be shipped in the next few days, it might pay to pull it back immediately.”

“And you are the reason this investigation is taking place?” he asks, his voice completely calm.

I shake my head. “I have told no one about this other than you,” I say, and for the moment that is true.

“And the information you need?”

“Four companies—I’ve brought the list with me—have been bringing goods into this country through the Port of Newark. They came in through Keith Franklin’s section. I need to know what was in those shipments.”

“And how would I know that?” he asks.

“You wouldn’t. But I’d bet that you have the people down there that could find out.”

He thinks for the moment, then takes a pen out of his jacket and writes something on a piece of paper. Hopefully it’s not my eulogy.

He hands me the paper, and I see that it has a phone number on it. “Call me tomorrow at five p.m.,” he says.

“I will. Thank you.”

I walk out into the main area of the restaurant. One of Petrone’s men points with his hand toward the exit door, which I will be thrilled to use. Before I go, I point toward the bathroom door. “My brother better not come out of there with only his dick in his hand.”

He apparently hasn’t seen the movie, either.

B
EFORE CALLING
J
EFFREY
Blalock to the stand, I ask for another closed hearing.

I start off by bringing Hawpe up to date on what we have now learned about Stacy’s identity and background, and I again ask that Blalock be allowed to state his view that she had to be under the protection of WITSEC.

Hawpe, of course, objects. “Your Honor, as you know all too well, we have been over this ground. There was a specific denial in your court from the lawyer representing the U.S. Marshals Service.”

“I now believe she was parsing her words, Your Honor.”

“What do you mean?”

“I checked the transcript. She phrased her denial quite precisely.” I look at my notes and read the words she used. “The woman known in this trial as Stacy Harriman was never under the control of the U.S. Marshals Service in the witness protection program.”

“How is that parsing her words?” the judge asks.

“I believe this is a DIA or CIA operation, probably using WITSEC’s physical structure and operational capability. So I think that the Marshals Service could conceivably deny that she was ‘under their control.’”

I go on to admit that there could be another explanation, that Massengale herself might have been kept in the dark and was therefore telling the truth as she believed it.

Hawpe cuts in. “Your Honor, with all due respect, Mr. Carpenter is making this up on the fly, with no facts to support him.”

I’m prepared to argue some more, but Judge Gordon surprises me with a quick decision. He still prohibits Blalock’s mentioning the witness protection program or WITSEC, but will allow his opinion that an unnamed government entity may have participated in or created the deception.

It’s a partial victory for us, which right now feels pretty good.

Back in court, I take Blalock through all the documentation we have that demonstrates conclusively that Stacy Harriman was not who she claimed to be. In his expert hands the story is spellbinding, and it’s not just my imagination in thinking that the jury is the most attentive it has been throughout the trial.

After we have gone through everything, I say, “A fake credit report… birth records… high school transcript… all these things—how could she have accomplished all this?”

“She couldn’t,” Blalock says. “She had to have help.”

“You mean like a friend who was good with a computer?”

Blalock smiles. “No, much more than that. Far, far more than that. It would have had to be a government agency that made these organizations do their bidding. No citizen could have pulled this off.”

I let him off, and Hawpe starts his cross-examination. He takes an interesting tactic, essentially conceding that Stacy’s identity was a fake, but instead focusing on why that might be.

“Mr. Blalock, have you come in contact with many people who have created new identities for themselves?”

“Yes, quite a few.”

“And they do so for a variety of reasons?”

“Yes.”

“Would one be to get a fresh start, perhaps after a bad marriage?” Hawpe asks.

“It could.”

“How about escaping financial problems?” Hawpe asks.

Blalock nods his agreement. “Certainly.”

“And there could be many others?”

“Absolutely.”

“Of these people who you’ve worked with that have changed their identity, have any of them been murdered?”

“No.”

Hawpe spends very little time on Blalock, perhaps in an effort to diminish his importance. His cross-examination has been well done, effectively telling the jury that just because someone is not who they seem to be, that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with their murder.

All in all, I think Blalock’s testimony went well, and I tell that to Richard when he leans over and asks me. “Where do we go next?” he whispers.

“To the jury,” I say, and then I stand and address the judge. “Your Honor, the defense rests.”

The phrase “the defense rests” is unfortunately not to be taken literally. We don’t rest at all after saying it; instead we prepare for any rebuttal witnesses the prosecution might call, and for our closing argument.

Resting is for suckers.

This time I’m going to get even less rest than usual, since at five o’clock I’ve got to place a call to Dominic Petrone, which in turn might lead me in any one of many directions, none of them restful.

I make the call, and the person who answers the phone gives me a different number to call. That call yields a third number. I assume this must have to do with some security concerns, but I’m not sure how.

I finally get through to Petrone, and he says, “I have your information.”

“Great.”

“Those companies you listed did not receive any goods coming through customs.”

This both troubles and confuses me. “I have the documentation that they did.”

“That was intentional. The documents listed shipments that never actually were delivered—that did not even exist.”

This doesn’t make sense. I expected arms, or drugs—“nothing” was not on my list of possibilities.

“Do you know why?” I ask.

“I neither know nor care.”

“But you’re sure about this?” I ask, and immediately regret the question.

“I only say things I am sure of,” he responds. “As an example of that, let me say that I do not want to hear from you again.” With that, he hangs up the phone. Just to show he can’t push me around, I hang up my dead phone as well.

So Stacy Harriman was killed because she knew that certain people were smuggling nothing into the country.

I’m glad we cleared that up.

I
FEEL AS
if we are operating in parallel universes.

There is the trial, which is nearing conclusion and can certainly go either way. If I were inclined to make predictions, which I am not, I would say we’re in some trouble.

Then there is the investigation operating outside the trial. We are making progress there, but not nearly fast enough. I am gripped by the fear that we’re going to win the eventual investigation battle but lose the immediate war. I don’t want to have to tell Richard the truth about Stacy in a visiting room at the state prison.

There is also the terrifying possibility that we can uncover the whole truth but that it will have no effect on the trial or on a subsequent appeal of another guilty verdict. No matter what happens in the world of Stacy, Hamadi, Franklin, Durelle, Banks, et al., it could be ruled irrelevant to Richard’s case. A jury or an appeals court could say that yes, she was not nearly who she claimed to be, but that doesn’t mean Richard didn’t kill her.

The other, even more frustrating situation is Reggie’s uncertain fate. It is terribly painful to think about, and it is a pain that Richard, Karen, Kevin, and I have in common.

Kevin shares my assessment that we need to take fast action. We discuss whether to turn over what we know about Stacy, Hamadi, and the others to law enforcement. At some point we will do that, but for now it simply doesn’t serve our purposes. It will take too long, and if the government’s performance on this matter to date is any indication, the actions they would take in response to our information may be somewhat less than vigorous.

The only acceptable option Kevin and I can see is to be aggressive and shake matters up. We’ve got a client to defend.

I place a call to Hamadi’s business phone number at Interpublic Trading and reach an answering service. It’s seven o’clock, and it’s logical that no one would still be there. When your company’s sole function is to arrange the importation of absolutely nothing into the country, not much overtime is required.

I tell the woman that I am trying to reach Hamadi on absolutely urgent business. Her reaction is not exactly heartening; she sounds as if she’s falling asleep as I give her the message. I ask her to tell Hamadi that “I know about Franklin and the empty crates, and the world will know about it tomorrow.”

I hang up with no confidence that the message will be conveyed tonight. I try to get Hamadi’s home number from information, but the operator says it’s unlisted.

This is obviously a job for Sam Willis, who laughs in the face of unlisted phone numbers.

I call Sam, who, for the first time in my experience, doesn’t answer his cell phone. This is so unusual that if I were a good friend I would start calling hospitals to see if he’s in a coma somewhere. Instead I leave a message that it’s urgent that he call me back.

Kevin and I start to go over the closing statement I will be giving. As with my openings, I like to plan the main notes that I am going to hit, but not write out a speech or memorize anything. I feel I connect better with the jury that way.

Less than ten minutes goes by before the phone rings. I pick it up quickly, expecting it to be Sam. It isn’t.

“Mr. Carpenter, this is Yasir Hamadi.”

“Mr. Hamadi, you’re about to be in a lot of trouble.”

“Or we can both walk away from this with our respective goals achieved.” He sounds unruffled and unworried. I, on the other hand, am very worried and thoroughly ruffled.

“Please explain that,” I say.

“As I’m sure you understand, this is coming at me quite suddenly. I will need some time to deal with it, and providing me with that time will very much be to your client’s benefit.”

“How will my client benefit?”

“I will give you information that will result in his acquittal.”

“How much time do you need?” I ask, though I can’t imagine an answer that I will be willing to go along with.

“Ninety-six hours.” I am struck not only by the absurdity of the number but also by its specificity.

“You’re wasting my time. You have ninety-six
minutes
to tell me what I need to know, and then, if it’s as valuable as you say, I’ll hold off on reporting what I already know.” I’m okay with making this pledge, since all I really have on him are suspicions without proof.

He doesn’t answer for so long that I think he may have quietly hung up. Finally, “I will meet you tonight.”

“In a public place,” I say, thinking of Franklin’s arranged meeting with Karen.

“No, it can’t be. Believe me, that is not possible.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“You don’t know the people you are dealing with. But you can choose our meeting place, and you can bring anyone you want with you, so long as it is not the authorities. I will be alone.”

I’m not thrilled with this, but I don’t think I can push him any further. I direct him to Eastside Park, where I will have home field advantage, and he says he can be there by eleven. That will give me plenty of time to make sure my buddy Marcus is there by my side.

As soon as I get off the phone I call Marcus. He’s probably right outside the house but doesn’t say so one way or the other when we talk. I tell him what is going on and that I want him here at 10:45. He grunts either yes or no; I’ll know for sure at 10:45.

“What will you do if Marcus doesn’t show up?” Kevin asks when I hang up.

“Call Pete Stanton and ask him to come.”

“Didn’t Hamadi say no police?”

“I’ll tell Pete not to show his badge.”

Marcus shows up right on time, and I explain the ground rules to him. “I just want to talk to the guy. If he wants to do anything other than talk, you should stop him. As hard as you want.”

Marcus and I drive to the same area of the park where we had our encounter with Windshield Man. It is on the lower level near the baseball fields, and to get there we drive down a road that we referred to as Dead Man’s Curve when we were kids. While it’s a fairly steep hill as it wraps around, the nickname we gave it shows that a child’s perspective can be a little warped.

Marcus and I are there at a minute before eleven, and we get out of the car together. There’s plenty of moonlight, and I walk a few yards to where I can see the curve, since that is the way Hamadi will be entering. There is no sign of him, but it’s not that easy to find this place, so I’m willing to give him a grace period.

“Let’s give him a few minutes,” I say to Marcus, but he doesn’t answer, which is no great surprise. What is a surprise is that when I turn to look at Marcus, I discover that he is gone.

“Marcus?”

No answer. I’m going to take it on faith that Marcus is still here but has decided that protecting me is more easily accomplished by staying out of sight.

With nothing better to do, I look back toward the curve. At about ten after the hour I see a car up above, beginning to make its way down. It’s traveling slowly, as if the driver is unsure where he is going. That’s a good sign.

The car moves silently along until it is about halfway down the curve, wrapping around and descending toward me, though still at least two hundred yards away. Suddenly I hear a deafening noise and see a sight so amazing I have to do a double take to make sure it’s real.

The car is now completely engulfed in a ball of flames, yet it continues to roll down the curve. In the darkness it looks surreal; it’s momentarily hard to realize that someone has undoubtedly just burned to death in it.

Before I even have time to react, I feel a smashing blow in my gut, and I find myself off my feet, up in the air. In an instant I am literally flying, and I’ve flown maybe twenty yards before I realize that I have been lifted off the ground by Marcus, and that I am draped over his shoulder.

He is carrying me away from my car, probably thinking that it might be the next target. We travel like this across the field and to the pavilion, which houses the snack bar and restrooms but which is, of course, closed at this hour. Once we’re there he puts me down, and we watch the burning car complete its descent and crash into a tree.

Actually, I’m the only one watching it. Marcus has his eyes focused on the top level, since that is where the shooter must have been. What he used to shoot, I can’t even imagine.

With Hamadi dead, I also can’t imagine how the hell I’m ever going to find out the truth.