Unleashed (16 page)

This is unprecedented. Cindy Spodek is a friend of Laurie’s and mine who also happens to be the second in command at the FBI’s Boston office. I call upon her for help far more than I should, and way more than Laurie thinks I should. If Laurie is making the suggestion, she must think it’s very important to take this route.

I call her office, and Cindy gets on the phone. “Let me venture a wild guess, Andy. You have a client, and you need my help.”

“How wrong you are,” I say. “Laurie and I are coming to Boston, and we’re hoping to take you and Tom to dinner.”

“Thank you. I’ll bring Robert.”

“The more the merrier.”

“My husband’s name is Robert, not Tom.”

Cindy got married a few years back, but I was in trial and we didn’t go to the wedding. I’ve actually never met Robert, or whatever the hell his name is.

“That Robert is one lucky man, and Tom really missed the boat.”

“When are you coming to Boston?”

“Not sure yet,” I say. “At some point.”

“Great, I think we’re free then. I’ll make a reservation. Seafood okay?”

“Sounds great.”

“What do you want, Andy?”

“Hold on,” I say and hand the phone to Laurie. “This isn’t going well.”

Laurie gets on, and after a few minutes of chitchat tells Cindy that she suggested I call, that the subject matter is very important. Cindy knows that Laurie, unlike me, would never bullshit her, so when I get back on the phone her attitude has changed.

I lay out for her what I know about Susser and the murders in Augusta, and how they tie in, at least financially, with the deaths in New Hampshire. Just to make sure, I use the magic word: “assassinations.”

Cindy listens and asks only a few questions. When we’re finished, she says, “I’ll get back to you.”

Which she will.

I have to pick and choose my spots. It’s a fine line. I don’t want to overdo my attacking of prosecution witnesses, particularly when they are all saying basically the same thing. It could look like I’m being overly argumentative in an attempt to prevent the jury from learning the truth.

A good example is the string of witnesses Bader brings in to say that Barry and Denise Price’s marriage was in major trouble. Clemens had said the same thing, and there is no doubt that it is true.

Confronting each of the witnesses in an attempt to try and disprove what they are saying would be futile. That is especially true since what they are saying is not that terribly incriminating; marriages go bad all the time without murder being the result. My former wife and I wound up getting divorced, but we didn’t toast the occasion with a botulism cocktail.

So I’ve been biding my time, asking questions to show that I’m awake and alert and that our side has a point of view. But I don’t go so far as to vigorously dispute obvious truths, especially when they’re not all that damaging in the first place.

But Cynthia Walling is different. Bader’s other witnesses, like Clemens, have been Barry’s friends and associates, so they have been presenting things from what they claim was his point of view. Walling was a friend of Denise’s, so her words will have more impact.

“She was having an affair,” says Walling, “and she thought he was as well. She wanted out of the marriage.”

I knew from the discovery documents that she was going to say this, but hearing it in court seems to magnify its impact. The jurors look like they’re hanging on every word.

“Why didn’t she just file for divorce?” asks Bader.

“She was afraid that Barry would take all their money and leave her with nothing.”

“And money is important to Denise?”

“Very.”

Denise seems to be having trouble maintaining the dispassionate look I counseled that she keep. She doesn’t take her eyes off the woman she thought was her friend, and it is clear that she is angry.

But Walling doesn’t back off, and the testimony itself only gets worse. Walling paints a thoroughly unflattering picture of Denise, culminating in her recounting of a conversation in which she says Denise wished “Barry would die.”

I discussed Walling’s upcoming testimony with Denise a while back. She denied that she was having an affair or saying that she wanted out of the marriage or that she hoped something bad would happen to Barry. Her explanation for why Walling would say these kinds of things was jealousy and a belief that Walling had always had a “thing” for Barry.

I can’t be sure that Denise was telling me the truth. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if she was not. She might well have been having an affair, but that is a long way from murder. In any event, I have to act on the assumption that Denise is being straight with me. And if that is the case, then Walling is lying.

“Ms. Walling, you and Denise were close friends?”

“Very.”

“You shared things, had a very open, intimate relationship?”

“Yes. We would have long conversations like that.”

“Who was she having an affair with?”

“I don’t know.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“No,” she says. “I think she was protecting the man.”

“Telling you would be endangering him?”

“Maybe that’s what she thought.”

“Where did they meet?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“How often did they meet?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did she say who she thought Barry was having an affair with?”

“No.”

“How did she know he was?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Maybe your intimate conversations with Denise weren’t as long as you remembered,” I say. Bader objects, and Judge Hurdle admonishes me for my sarcasm.

“You say that Denise told you she wished Barry were dead.”

“Yes.”

“When was that?”

“Probably about six weeks before he died.”

“Did you view that as a threat?”

“I was worried about it.”

“You thought she might do something to hasten his death?”

“I thought something was possible, that’s all.”

“You mean you thought she might murder him?”

“I wouldn’t say I thought that. I just thought it was possible. Denise was very angry and very upset.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No.”

“Did she ever mention it again?”

“No.”

“How many conversations did you have with her after the one in which she said she wished he was dead?”

She thinks for a moment. “Maybe ten.”

“So, just so I understand, you had ten more intimate, open conversations with someone you thought might possibly commit a murder? What does somebody have to say to get you to be less open and intimate?”

“I just wasn’t ready to believe it could happen,” Walling says.

“When was the last time you spoke with Denise Price?”

“At her house after Barry’s memorial service.”

“So you thought Denise might possibly murder her husband, then soon afterward he died a violent death, and you still stood by her?” I ask, not having to try hard to sound incredulous.

“We thought it was a plane crash then. No one knew he was murdered. I read that it was a possibility in the paper the next day.”

“And then you went to the police and said, ‘I think Denise might have done it’?”

“No. I…”

“Do you have a phone? E-mail? Do you live near a mailbox? Did you have no way to turn in someone you thought was a murderer?”

Bader jumps out of his chair to object, but Hurdle sustains it before he gets a chance. Hurdle warns me about my behavior, which seems to surprise him.

He obviously never checked me out.

“Ms. Walling, you were close friends with Denise Price. What did you like about her? I mean before this all happened.”

She’s not sure how to answer this; she’s come to bury Denise, not to praise her. “Well, she’s very smart. And she was independent, she was her own person.”

I nod. “Worldly? Knew how to handle herself?”

“Yes.”

“Smart, worldly, independent … does that sound like the kind of person who would let her husband take the money and run? Or does that sound like the kind of person who would call a good lawyer and make sure she got what the law said she should get?”

Before Walling can answer, I continue. “Why would a smart person risk a life in prison to get money that she could get just by picking up the phone?”

Bader objects that it’s outside the scope of the witness’s direct testimony and knowledge, and Hurdle agrees.

Walling would not have been able to answer that question, and I’m hoping that the jury can’t either.

Judge Hurdle has given us today off, citing “calendar issues.” I’m hoping those issues will last a really long time, because every day we get closer to a verdict is another day we’re in ever-increasing trouble.

This morning I’m at the Tara Foundation, a responsibility I have completely neglected since the trial began. It’s characteristic of Willie and Sondra that they don’t make me feel guilty, pointing out that this is their job and they love it.

It must be nice to be able to say that.

I play with the dogs for about an hour and then go into the office to do some of the legal and tax work for the foundation that I’ve fallen behind on. Willie stays with the dogs, while Sondra is in the office with me, fielding phone calls from potential adopters.

I’m there for only about five minutes when the door opens and two men come in. Based on their look and the way they are dressed, there is approximately a hundred and fifty percent chance that they are federal agents. Of course, that could be a conservative estimate.

“I’m Special Agent Muñoz,” one of them says, as he shows me his ID. “This is Special Agent Shales.”

Something about his tone annoys me, but then again, I get annoyed really easily. “Gee,” I say, “I think all you agents are pretty special.”

“Your wiseass reputation is apparently well deserved,” Muñoz says, which means he’s spoken to Cindy Spodek.

I look past them to the door, where Willie is coming toward us. He’s moving quickly and quietly, which leads me to believe he might think these guys are here to do me harm.

“Willie!” I yell. “There are two FBI agents I’d like you to meet. Guys, this is my partner, Willie Miller, and this is his wife, Sondra. Willie, these are two very special agents.”

Willie stops short, lending credibility to my fear that he was coming in to protect me. Willie can do a lot of damage in a very short amount of time.

“Can we speak somewhere alone?” Muñoz asks.

“I trust these people with my life, Senator. If I ask them to leave, it would be an insult.” I’m doing Michael Corleone from
The Godfather,
but this irritating attitude I’m exhibiting is not an effort to be obnoxious, even though I’m succeeding at it.

I’ve done a lot of business with the FBI, and it’s always a power struggle. I’m going to want information from them, and they’re certainly going to want some from me, so I need to show them I’m not in the least bit intimidated.

Sondra, who has seen me be obnoxious on all kinds of occasions, says, “Come on, Willie. Let’s let them talk.”

Willie looks at me, and I give him a short nod confirming that it’s okay. He and Sondra leave, and Muñoz says, “Tell us about Augusta.”

“Tell me about Concord, New Hampshire.”

“Exactly what kind of game are you playing, Carpenter? You’re a smart guy; you know we can make things difficult for you.”

“If you spoke to Cindy Spodek about me, then you know what I’m about to say, but I’ll say it anyway. I’m defending my client. That is my first and last responsibility. If in the process of doing that I can help the cause of truth and justice, I’m happy to do it. But if you’d rather try and make things difficult for me, take your best shot. But first get the hell out of here.”

This seems to have its desired effect, and the horse trading begins. I agree to tell them what I know about Susser and Augusta, and they agree to do the same about Concord. Each of us knows that the other will be withholding something, but at least it’s a start.

Ever cooperative, I agree to go first, and I describe how we connected Barry to Susser through his phone records, supplemented by the knowledge that Barry was flying to Augusta when he died. I tell them how my supposedly private meeting with Susser expanded and how they told us about Carter and the assassination for hire, without their revealing who the target was.

“Why would they tell you all that?” Agent Shales asks, the first time he has spoken since they got here.

“I brought along a friend who is the type people just seem to open up to.”

“So how did you connect all this to what happened in Concord?”

“Concord? Doesn’t ring a bell.”

They understand that it’s their turn, and Muñoz does the talking. He tells me about an undercover cop named Drew Keller, who got killed investigating what he believed might be an assassination plot. The guys he was dealing with also got killed, and since then they have been unsuccessful in identifying either the killer or the planned assassination target.

With that out of the way, the real negotiation can begin. “Okay, I’ll tell you what the connection between the two is. I won’t tell you how I made that connection, nor is it important.”

“Good,” Muñoz says, acting as if the deal has been sealed. He knows better, but he’s playing the game.

“That’s the quid,” I say. “Here comes the pro quo. There is no doubt in my mind that Barry Price was not murdered by his wife over an affair or alimony. His murder has to be tied up in whatever is behind all these other killings.”

Muñoz nods. “Seems like a fair bet.”

“But nothing that we’ve talked about is admissible at trial, at least not at this point. So as you learn things, particularly things that are relevant to my client’s case, I expect to be informed of them.”

Muñoz nods. “As best I can.”

I know what he means. There are things he might not be able to reveal; some could even be classified.

“And if there are things you learn, significant information that could get my client off, you’ll testify at trial. If there are other ways for me to get the information in, I’ll do so. But if not, you take the stand.”

Muñoz thinks about it for a moment; this is a big ask. Finally he nods. “You have my word.”