Outfoxed: An Andy Carpenter Mystery (4 page)

I get back to find Laurie already asleep; this motherhood thing must be really exhausting. But she wakes up when I enter the bedroom, and asks me to update her on what happened with Brian.

“So he’s blaming himself for the murders without admitting to them?”

“That’s right, though it seems like he’s only talking about Denise. He says he encouraged her, whatever that means.”

“What did you take it to mean?”

“That he maybe said something that put her in the position she was in, that made her vulnerable. But I could be completely wrong about that. Maybe he killed her but is in some sort of denial. Or maybe he’s just lying to me, though if he’s pleading guilty anyway, I don’t know what he’d have to gain by it.”

“What is your obligation as his attorney?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Can you let him enter a guilty plea if he says he’s innocent?”

“I’ve been thinking about that, and I’m sure I can. There’s a Supreme Court case,
Alford v. North Carolina,
that speaks to it. In fact, when a client says he’s innocent but pleads guilty, it’s called an ‘Alford plea.’ All the court needs is some evidence of actual guilt.”

“There’s plenty of that,” she says.

“That’s for sure.”

“So that’s your answer.”

I shake my head. “That’s ‘the’ answer; it’s not ‘my’ answer.”

“Because you want to know if he really did it.”

“Right,” I say.

“Why would he plead guilty if he wasn’t really guilty?”

“He’s depressed; his wife was just killed, and he’s facing life in prison. Maybe he just doesn’t want to fight anymore.”

It’s not until three hours later that I wake up from a sound sleep, the answer somehow clearer now. I’m not sure why I think better asleep than awake. I sit up, no longer tired, because of what I’ve realized.

Laurie wakes up herself and sees me sitting there. “What is it?” she asks. “Too many M&M’S?”

“Brian’s not guilty.”

“How do you know that?”

“When he told me he didn’t do it, he said that he ‘didn’t pull the trigger’ but that he was responsible.”

“So?”

“So they were stabbed. He didn’t even know how they died.”

“Maybe ‘pulling the trigger’ was just a figure of speech,” she says.

“I don’t think so. I think if you murder someone you’d be damn precise about how you did it. I think he just assumed they were shot.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find out what the hell is going on.”

I’m not in a huge hurry to see Brian again. The arraignment is not until tomorrow afternoon, and since it’s just a formality designed to file charges and elicit a plea, there’s really little preparation that needs to be done for it.

Brian’s not going anywhere, that much is certain, so I can let him sit and think about his situation before I visit him again. In the meantime, I want to learn as much as I can about his original case. I know very little about it, because he was Nathan’s client, and I’ve only been handling the parole application.

I call Sam Willis, who handles two main functions for me. He’s my accountant, and even though I’m ridiculously wealthy, that is not a challenging job. My investments are pretty straightforward, and my tax return isn’t that complicated.

The other role Sam has assumed is somewhat different. He has taken to referring to himself as my “director of investigative information.” Sam is a genius on the computer; he can find whatever he wants on the Web, and everything is out there. He also has the ability to hack into anything he wants, no matter how secure the target thinks it is.

Much of that hacking is illegal, but we don’t often let that stand in our way. Our rationale is that we use the information to further the causes of truth and justice, and sometimes that’s even true. I’d hate to have to argue that rationale in court, so I’m frequently reminding Sam to be careful.

“We got a case?” Sam asks after answering the phone, as per usual, on the first ring. He always starts our conversation with that question, since he likes investigating a hell of a lot more than accounting.

“We might.”

“Let’s crank it up, baby,” he says.

“‘Let’s crank it up, baby’?”

“It’s an expression, Andy.”

“You need to come up with some different expressions, Sam.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“Good, but work on this first.” I proceed to ask him to find me any and all information on Brian’s life, his former company, and his criminal case.

“I’m on it,” he says. “When do you need it?”

“Yesterday, if not the day before. And I also want to know who Gerry Wright called the week of his death, as well as who called him.” Sam can break into the phone company’s computer with ridiculous ease.

“I hear you,” he says. “Starting on it right away.”

“Just crank it up, Sammy.”

My next call is to Edna, my secretary/assistant. She’s filled that role since I started my practice, and even though she’s now well past retirement age, she hasn’t hung up her typewriter. Apparently, when you have a job that pays well and requires you to do absolutely no work, retirement is not that appealing a prospect.

Edna is a crossword puzzle wizard and spends pretty much all her time preparing for crossword tournaments. Our not having any clients fits in quite nicely with her schedule.

I can hear the fear in her voice when she answers the phone; obviously her caller ID has told her it’s me calling. Her preference would be to limit our contact to my mailing her checks. “What is it, Andy?”

If a voice can cringe, that’s what hers is doing. “Great news, Edna. We’ve got a client.”

“Another one?”

“It’s the first one in almost a year,” I say.

“Time flies. Are you going to plead it out?”

She has no idea who the client is, or what crime he or she is accused of, but she’s openly rooting for a plea bargain. “Is that what you’d recommend?” I ask.

She ignores the question. “What do I have to do?”

“I need you to go to the office and—”

She interrupts. “The office?” It’s twenty minutes from her house, and she hasn’t been there in a while.

“Yes, my office, the one where you work,” I say. “Go into Nathan Cantwell’s files and pull the one on the Brian Atkins case, and then bring it to the house. Call me if the trial transcript is not in there.”

“That’s it?” she asks. Apparently this isn’t quite as bad as she anticipated.

“For now.”

It comes as no great surprise that Sam arrives at the house before Edna. He shows up with a large folder filled with stuff he’s printed off the Internet. I could have had him hack into the courthouse and get the trial transcript, but there’s no sense breaking the law when it’s not necessary, and Edna hasn’t called to say it’s not there. Of course, Edna may not have summoned up the energy to look yet.

Much of what Sam has brought me are media reports both before and after Brian’s fall from grace. For a while, he was a business star, if not superstar. In a partnership with the now-deceased Gerald Wright that began when they were roommates at Dartmouth, he built Starlight Systems, a small but very successful technology company.

The company reinvented itself a couple of times, but they hit pay dirt about five years ago. Basically they built computer routers and servers powered by software that was simply faster than their competitors. Their customers were Wall Street firms, who were voracious in their quest for speed.

Stock trading, which once had been done by runners with slips of paper on the exchange floor, has completely changed over the years. Now it is done by computers, amazingly fast computers, which accomplish trades in milliseconds. It is a business conducted at warp speed, and to the fastest goes the advantage.

So Brian became a very wealthy man, and must still be so today, even after making restitution and paying a large fine. His descent came when he was accused and convicted of embezzling funds from his firm.

Gerald Wright was a key witness against his partner, despite publicly professing sadness at having to assume that role. Brian’s five-year sentence was a very light one, a testimony to Nathan’s effectiveness as his attorney and to Brian’s never having been accused of anything previously.

The information suggests that Brian was the business guy, while Wright focused more on the technology. But apparently Brian had significant capabilities in the tech end as well, and the allegations are that he used his computer expertise to facilitate the embezzlement.

Edna shows up a couple of hours after Sam, file in hand.

She’s a real dynamo.

“It was the french fries, Your Honor. I did it for the fries.” That’s what I would say to a judge to explain my motivation for committing whatever crime I might someday be accused of. If I got lucky and the judge had been to Charlie’s, he’d understand and let me off with a warning.

Charlie’s is the perfect restaurant. Not because it has twenty-two flat-screen televisions that allow viewing access to at least four of them from every table in the place. Not because the hamburgers come charred on the outside and pink on the inside, alongside pickles that have mastered the art of crunching. Not because the beer comes ice cold in glasses that are even colder.

No, it is the french fries that have Charlie’s sitting alone as the only five-star restaurant in the Andy Carpenter Guide to Fine Dining. They have no trace of oiliness or grease, and the chef will even cook them to taste. He long ago learned that I want mine burned to such a crisp that an autopsy would have to be done to prove that they were descended from potatoes.

So while I am pissed off at Pete for following me and thereby capturing Brian, I am not going to avoid him, because he spends every night at Charlie’s. And that is because Charlie’s, as I may have mentioned, has rather excellent french fries.

Pete is at our regular table when I arrive, sitting with Vince Sanders, who is here so often I think he might be nailed to the floor. Vince is the editor of our local paper, and although he could be classified as a close friend, I don’t think I would recognize him if he didn’t have a sneer on his face and a beer in his hand.

It’s opening night of the NBA season, and Vince is a die-hard Knicks fan, so he’s staring at their game on one of the TVs. They’re down twenty in the second quarter, which means they’re in midseason form.

“Well, look who’s here,” Pete says when he sees me.

“You’re surprised?” I ask. “Didn’t you have me followed?”

“No, but I’m going to tail you when you leave. Maybe you’ll lead me to John Dillinger, or Al Capone.”

“I’m looking forward to getting you on the stand,” I say, a pathetic comeback that Pete simply laughs at.

It does get Vince to look away from the TV for a moment. “Your boy is going to plead not guilty?” Vince couldn’t care less what happens to Brian, he is simply interested in getting a scoop for tomorrow’s paper.

“Off the record? Absolutely,” I lie.

“Off the record?” asks Vince. “That’s not a phrase I’m familiar with.”

“He’s bullshitting, Vince,” Pete says. “Either that or he wants to go to trial so he can make a big fee. Money talks.”

“Speaking of money, my days of picking up the check in this establishment are over.” Since I am far richer than either of my obnoxious friends, it has become standard for me to pay the checks at Charlie’s.

“On the other hand,” Pete says, “everyone is entitled to the best defense possible. Innocent until proven guilty, I always say.”

“Really?” I ask. “I can’t recall you ever saying that.”

Vince nods vigorously, the panic at possibly having to pay showing clearly. “He says it all the time. Right after he says what a wonderful attorney and human being you are.”

“You guys are pathetic,” I say.

Pete nods. “I can live with that.” Then, “Are you really going to trial with this?”

“I am,” I say. “So far you’ve got nothing.” It’s too early to have gotten discovery documents, so maybe I can get some information from Pete, which will help me advise Brian, should he decide to listen to my advice.

Pete laughs. “Right. He escapes from jail, on camera, and two hours later is found leaving the murder scene. And the victims are his estranged wife and the partner who sent him to jail.” He laughs again. “Where is Sherlock Holmes when we need him?”

“You got a murder weapon?”

“We’ll find it.”

“DNA?” I ask.

“All in good time.”

“You can’t even prove he was at the scene,” I say.

“The neighbor saw him.”

“Maybe the neighbor did it.”

“Andy,” Pete says. “You’re a good friend of mine, so I want to give you some advice, so that you won’t embarrass yourself. Go home, think this over, and have your client plead guilty. But first pay the check.”

Vince nods. “He’s right, Andy. Definitely pay the check.”

I’ve never really approached an arraignment like this before. It’s not that I’ve prepared differently, since arraignments take little preparation. It’s mostly a formality, and whatever burden there is on the lawyers rests with the prosecutor, though there’s very little of that. Unless there are some unusual issues to discuss, it’s basically the defense attorney’s job to look pretty and watch his client plead.

That, of course, is what makes this situation different. I’m not sure how Brian is going to plead, or what I’ll do about it when he says whatever he’s going to say.

I usually just have a short meeting with the client before court convenes, but in this case I’ve arranged for Brian to be brought a bit earlier. We meet in an anteroom adjacent to the courtroom, and I’m already inside when Brian arrives with a guard. He’s handcuffed, so the bailiff leaves him with me and assumes a position outside the door.

“How’s it going?” I ask.

“Wonderful,” he says. “Everything is really terrific.”

I ignore the sarcasm. “Okay, well I know you’ve been through the arraignment process before, but it’s basically the prosecution’s show. All you’ll be asked to do is plead.”

“Guilty as charged.”

I nod. “That’s your call. But they’re going to want some information, some details to demonstrate that your plea is truthful.” I’m lying about this, but I can live with that.