Premeditated Murder (4 page)

“Very good, sir,” the thin man said. “I'll get right on it.”

It wasn't until he was lying in bed, an hour later, that Matt realized he had forgotten entirely to ask his Chief of Staff about that dead federal judge.

THREE

VOIR DIRE EXAMINATION BY THE COURT

Q:
Good morning.

A:
Good morning.

Q:
You raised your hand to what question?

A:
The question about forming an opinion about the case.

Q:
All right.

A:
I definitely formed an opinion.

Q:
And what is your opinion?

A:
I found—he's guilty, as far as I'm concerned. I mean, I saw that from the TV reports, back when they arrested him.

THE COURT:
Okay. You are excused.

COURT OFFICER:
Juror 2–13.

VOIR DIRE EXAMINATION BY THE COURT

Q:
Good morning.

A:
Good morning.

Q:
Did you raise your hand to any questions?

A:
No.

Q:
Have you been exposed to any news media coverage of any kind concerning this case?

A:
Yes.

Q:
Okay. When?

A:
Back when it happened, I guess. A few months ago?

Q:
Okay. And what do you recall about that coverage? Was it newspaper, television? Both? Radio?

A:
Newspaper and television.

Q:
And what do you recall about the content of the coverage itself? What do you remember of it?

A:
Well, I remember they were reporting the shooting, and that this big black guy was arrested. And that's it.

Q:
And nothing further?

A:
Well, I saw some reports that the trial was coming up, but that's it.

Q
: And based on what you have seen, you still believe that you remain fair and impartial?

A:
Yes.

(Sidebar conference.)

THE COURT:
I find this juror stands indifferent.

MR. O'NEILL:
The Commonwealth is content, Your Honor.

MR. WILSON:
The defendant challenges, Your Honor.

THE COURT:
You are out of peremptories, Mr. Wilson.

MR. WILSON:
Then the defendant challenges for cause, Your Honor, based on the juror's characterization of the defendant as a “big black guy.”

THE COURT:
The challenge is overruled, and the objection is noted.

(End of sidebar conference.)

THE COURT:
All right. You, sir, will be juror number three.

(Trial Volume II, Pages 129–133)

January 31

TERRY PUSHED HIS WAY THROUGH ZACK'S front door and said loudly enough for anyone inside the oversized old house to hear, “Number One, Northampton is too pathetic a town to have a traffic jam, so I don't know what I was just in, but whatever it was, somebody better make sure it never happens again, and Number Two”—he paused to catch a breath as Zack appeared in the front hall—“this case is barely two weeks old, and somebody already fuh”—at the last minute he saw Justin join Zack, and just barely stopped himself in time— “uh, asked the duck out to dinner. Hi, Justin.”

Zack pulled him into his office and closed the door, and Terry handed him a copy of today's
Boston Post
—the worst newspaper in Massachusetts, if not the world.

The entire front page was taken up by a gigantic color photo of the mug shot of their new, scary-looking, African American client, accused multiple murderer Calvin Thompkins. Thompkins looked like he was hoping to be cast as the bad guy in some movie. Somehow, the cop who had taken the picture had managed to catch him between a scowl and a sneer, which was bad enough, but it also looked like Thompkins had a cut lip, because there was a little blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth.

It was the worst mug shot Terry had ever seen. And to top it off, the good folks at the
Post
had plastered a banner headline in gigantic type over the picture:
MONSTER
! Terry groaned. They weren't even out of the first inning yet, and they were already down by fifteen runs.

Zack glanced at the picture, returned the paper to Terry, and then gave him the same look he'd given him when they first met.

It was 1985, Waterbury High School, Waterbury, Rhode Island. The principal, Georgia Stephenson, was a never-say-die ex-hippie, who insisted that the school motto was What Is Your Inner Voice Saying? The school colors were purple and gold. The school football team was the Waterbury Berries. The school loser was Terry Tallach.

It was a somewhat crappy day in October, and Terry was in Mr. Overmeyer's tenth-grade chemistry class doing an astoundingly unimportant lab. There was an odd number of kids in the class, so Terry didn't have a lab partner. What a surprise.

Then the door opened, and this skinny boy with light hair came into the room, holding a pass from the main office. He had “new kid” written all over him, except, for some reason, he didn't seem to care. Overmeyer immediately stuck him with Terry at the back lab table. As the teacher returned to the front of the classroom, Terry whispered, “So, you're on quite a roll. You get the Evil Overlord for chemistry and the fat kid for a lab partner. Welcome to hell. My name's Terry, by the way.”

Fifteen-year-olds always know who the disasters are, so it was a lock that the new kid was going to ignore him. Or maybe he'd first taunt him and then ignore him. It was fifty-fifty that the kid wouldn't even tell Terry his name.

But instead, a strange look came over the new kid's face. It was a look of amused recognition, as if he and Terry were both members of a small club of people who knew that regardless of whatever anyone else said, the world was, at least a little bit, insane. And then the new kid's smile broadened, and Terry was stunned to realize that he was about to be included in a joke. Using an artificially stilted voice, the new kid said, “Hi, Terry, my name's Zack. I'm a new student in this school. What is your inner voice saying?”

And Terry, as always, blurted out the first thing that came into his head. “My inner voice is saying that the school motto should be changed to: Waterbury High School—We Will Never Stop Fucking You.”

Zack now reached for a tie hanging on the back of the door and said with a shrug, “Mug shots are always bad. He can't stay on the front page forever.”

“But that's not all,” Terry replied. “On the way over here I called down to the courthouse to speak to Mary Beth. You know, Mary Beth, who's really good at—”

“I'm familiar with Mary Beth,” Zack interrupted.

“Yeah. Okay. Well, anyway, Mary Beth just happens to be best friends with the assistant clerk who has access to the judicial assignments. So I thought I'd give Mary Beth a call to see if we could learn which judge is in line to get this one.”

“And?”

“And we might as well strap our guy into the chair and juice him right now, 'cause it's the Big Dick.”

Which really sucked. And not just because he'd thrown Terry in jail. Cottonwood had only been working in the western part of Massachusetts for the last eight years, but his anti-defendant reputation in criminal trials over the past three decades throughout the state was legendary. Getting a favorable ruling on something as small as an evidentiary issue was rare. But getting a favorable ruling on something big—like overruling a jury's guilty verdict—was as likely as getting hit by a bus and then struck by lightning.

While walking your dog on the moon.

And the only not-guilty verdict anyone could remember ever coming out of Cottonwood's courtroom was followed by his now-famous post-verdict freak-out, during which the judge bawled out the defendant, the lawyers, and, just for good measure, the jury, too. At least one juror left sobbing. Way to go, Dick, you asshole.

“This is going to be bad, Zack,” Terry said. “That judge blows.”

The doorbell rang. “That's the babysitter,” Zack said, shrugging on his tired-looking jacket, which, with the shaggy hair, loosened tie, jeans, and boots, completed the I-don't-give-a-shit-what-I-look-like look.

“Are you ever going to buy some real lawyer clothes?” Terry asked as they moved toward the front door. “And by the way, you think you're ready for a haircut?”

Zack didn't even bother answering. “You think you're ready to go talk to our guy?”

“Our kill-six-people-with-a-machine-gun guy?” Terry said, following Zack out of the house. “I was born ready.”

NORMALLY, TERRY HATED VISITING HOSPITALS, but the fact that Cal Thompkins's doctor was a green-eyed hottie more than made up for it. He and Zack met with the doctor before seeing Thompkins, and she told them that he had suffered two bullet wounds—one to his forearm, which had broken a bone, and one to his thigh. Both were painful, Cal had lost a good deal of blood, and the leg wound had required surgery. The extent of the nerve damage was not yet fully assessed. But there was a reasonable chance that he was going to recover fully.

Which was good news, because nobody likes to execute a defendant who isn't in tiptop shape.

Room 304 was guarded by two young state troopers who were both trying hard to look menacing. Somehow, Zack and Terry made it past them without confessing to something, and opened the door.

Calvin Thompkins wasn't just black—he was huge. The news just kept getting better.

For a guy who at one time might have been able to bench-press three hundred pounds, the man looked like shit. His dark eyes were bloodshot. He hadn't shaved in a while, and although his face looked fairly young—he was probably in his thirties or early forties—the stubble on his chin had some gray in it.

He was propped up in bed by a pile of pillows and was hooked up to a full console of machinery, including a beeping heart monitor and an IV which was dripping at least two different liquids into his right arm. His left arm was in a cast and sling. He looked like he was tilting to one side—probably trying not to put too much weight on the leg with the bullet wound. He was manacled to the bed at the ankle.

Zack walked over to introduce himself, but Thompkins spoke first.

“I'm sorry I can't stand up, or even shake your hands,” the prisoner said, closing his eyes and shaking his head ruefully. “I'm Calvin Thompkins. You must be the lawyers.”

Terry had expected the man's voice to be deep. Instead, it was soft and hoarse.

“That's right,” Zack said. “I'm Zack Wilson, and this is Terry Tallach. The court has asked us to represent you.”

“And you're here to see if you want the case, right?”

“More or less,” Zack replied. “We need to find out what's involved in defending you and decide whether we can do the job. But before we start, we need to get a couple of ground rules out of the way.”

“Good,” Thompkins said.

“First of all,” Zack began, “anything you say to us stays in this room. It's private, unless you decide to tell someone.”

Thompkins nodded, but then winced, and a light sweat quickly appeared on his forehead. “Sorry. I asked the doctors not to give me the pain medicine so I could focus. Every once in a while, though, I move wrong and give myself a real good jolt.” He took a shaky breath. “Go ahead.”

“The other thing is that the rules of ethics prohibit us from hearing one story,” Zack said, “and then putting you on the stand to tell a different one.”