Bury the Lead (13 page)

• • • • •

K
EVIN IS EVEN LESS
pleased than I am when we arrive at the location Marcus has given us. It’s on Bergen Street near the river, an old abandoned junkyard that the faded sign indicates was once aptly called “Paterson Waste Material.” Two rats scurry away as we open the door; they’re probably ashamed to be caught living here.

“This place is awful,” understates Kevin.

Through the darkness I see a faint light coming from under a door, so I point it out to Kevin, and we walk toward it. I call out, “Marcus?”

“Yunh,” is the return grunt that I get, and since it seems to be coming from behind the same door, I open it.

The room is surprisingly bright, causing me to adjust my eyes so that I can see. Once I’m able to see, I regret making the adjustment.

Except for some strewn garbage, some of which seems to be smoldering in the far corner, the only objects in the room are a wooden table and chair. On the otherwise empty tabletop is a knife, about the size you would expect Crocodile Dundee to carry. Its point is sticking into the table, and the handle of the knife is pointing straight upward.

Marcus stands near the table, and another man, whom I don’t recognize, sits in the chair. The man is maybe forty-five years old, five ten, a hundred sixty pounds, balding slightly, and naked.

“He’s naked,” says Kevin.

“You don’t miss a thing,” I say. The situation is surreal, and made more so by my realization that Marcus was demonstrating a prudish streak by telling Laurie not to come down here. He didn’t want to embarrass her or himself by having her see this naked guy. The naked guy, for his part, doesn’t seem embarrassed at all. His dominant facial expression is fear, with perhaps a little anger thrown in.

“Uhhh . . . Marcus. Who is this guy and why is he naked?”

“Jimmy,” Marcus says, then points to the corner. “I burned his clothes.”

The mystery of the smoldering garbage has been solved; now we’re getting somewhere. “Why exactly are we here to meet Jimmy?” I ask.

Marcus doesn’t answer me directly, instead issuing instructions to Jimmy. “Tell him.”

“Come on, man,” moans Jimmy. “I told you what can happen if I . . .”

Marcus just looks at him, then looks at the knife. Jimmy looks at Marcus, then at the knife. Kevin and I look at each other, then at the floor. I’m sure I’ve had more uncomfortable moments, but it would take a while to think of one.

“I was in the prison when they killed your friend,” Jimmy says, no doubt referring to Randy Clemens and completely getting my attention. “I was one of the guys arguing in the hall, to get the guards looking at us. But I didn’t kill him; I didn’t even know what they were doing until after it was over.”

“Why did they do it?”

He summons up the dignity to laugh a short, derisive laugh at my expense. “What do you think? He stole their crayons?” He shakes his head at the stupidity of my question.

Marcus takes a step toward Jimmy, which serves as a dignity-remover. Jimmy continues. “To shut him up. He overheard some things, and he wasn’t smart enough to keep quiet about it. When he called you, they put him away.”

“What did he overhear?”

Jimmy shakes his head. “I don’t know, but it had something to do with those murders.”

“Was Dominic Petrone involved?”

Jimmy flinches noticeably, then seems to pause, as if considering his position. The survival rate for people who squeal on Dominic Petrone isn’t too high. On the other hand, Jimmy is naked in a room with Marcus and a knife. Talk about your “six of one, half a dozen of the other.”

He probably makes the decision that Marcus and the knife represent a more immediate threat, so he starts talking again. “I don’t know for sure, but it’s a pretty good bet. The guy who arranged the prison hit was Tommy Lassiter, but I doubt he’d be doing it without Petrone setting it up.”

“Who is Tommy Lassiter?”

Jimmy almost does a double take at my question, then looks over at Marcus. “Come on, man . . .” is his way of telling Marcus he shouldn’t have to explain this to me, an obvious idiot.

“Tell him,” Marcus says.

Jimmy does as he is told. “Lassiter is a button man, the best there is. He’s a psycho, but if Lassiter wants you dead, you are dead. That’s it.”

“Does he work for Petrone?” I ask.

“Among others. He works for money. Sometimes it’s Petrone puttin’ up the money, sometimes it’s someone else. This time, I don’t know for sure . . . I swear. But Petrone is the best bet.”

There isn’t much more for us to get out of Jimmy, and the rest of the conversation centers around him getting us to collectively swear that we won’t reveal he talked to us. I agree and ask him to keep the secret as well, but even Marcus moans at the request. If Jimmy were to tell anyone he was here, he would effectively be committing suicide.

I take Kevin back to my house so he can get his car. On the way there, he says, “What do you think Marcus would have done?”

“You mean if Jimmy didn’t talk?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I think he would have done whatever he had to. I think if they played a game of chicken a thousand times, Marcus would win every time.”

This answer doesn’t please Kevin very much. Kevin would prefer that trials and investigations play out the way they were drawn up in law school. The problem is, I don’t believe Marcus went to law school.

“But Marcus is on our side? He’s one of the good guys?” Kevin asks.

I shake my head. “We don’t find out who the good guys are until the jury tells us.”

“I think by then it’s too late,” he says. “Way too late.”

• • • • •

T
HE FIRST WITNESS
Tucker calls is Officer Gary Hobart, the first policeman to arrive at the site of the Padilla murder. Usually, the initial patrolman is not a significant witness, as his function is mainly to secure the scene and wait for the detectives. In this case, Hobart is far more important because Daniel was on the scene when he got there.

“What was the defendant doing when you arrived?” Tucker asks.

“He was lying down on the stairs leading up to the pavilion. About two steps from the top.”

“Was he conscious?”

“Yes,” says Hobart. “He spoke to me.”

“What did he say?”

“That the killer called him . . . told him to come to the park.”

“Did he say anything about a murder that might have taken place there?” Tucker asks.

“No. He said he did not know what might be in the pavilion, that he was attacked on the steps. He thought he had lost consciousness.”

Hobart goes on to testify how he entered the pavilion, saw Linda Padilla’s body, and immediately secured the scene. He questioned Daniel briefly, before the detectives arrived and took over.

Tucker turns the witness over to me. There’s not much for me to go after, but I want to at least make our presence felt to the jury.

“Officer Hobart, how did you come to be in the park that night?” I ask.

“The dispatcher sent me there. They received a 911 call.”

“Who made that call? If you know.”

“I don’t believe the caller gave his name.”

“Was the caller there when you arrived?” I ask.

“No.”

“But this anonymous caller was on the scene that night? And saw what happened?”

He shrugs. “I really don’t know what they saw, or if they even saw anything.”

I nod. “Right. Maybe they didn’t see anything. Maybe they called 911 to report that nothing was happening at the pavilion in the park at one o’clock in the morning. And maybe your dispatcher sent you out to confirm that nothing was happening. Is that how you figure it?”

Tucker objects that I’m being argumentative, and Calvin sustains. Hobart switches tactics and talks about the vagrants in the park and how they would not want to give their names, for fear of getting involved. I’ve made my point, that there was someone else on the scene, so I move on. I bring out the fact that Hobart saw the wound on Daniel’s head and that there was significant bleeding.

“What is your responsibility once the detectives arrive?” I ask.

“To make sure the area remains secure,” he says.

“Do you brief the detectives on what you’ve learned at the scene?”

He nods. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“And you offer your impressions as well? If you think they are significant?”

“Yes.”

“You’re trained in these types of things?”

“Well . . . sure.”

“And whatever you tell them, you later put in a report?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I get a copy from Kevin, then hand it to Hobart and get him to confirm that it is in fact the report he submitted. “Please show me where in the report you voiced suspicions about Mr. Cummings.”

“There’s nothing like that in there.”

“So everything seemed normal to you? You didn’t suspect Mr. Cummings hit himself in the head?” I ask.

“No . . . not really. But I had other things to pay attention to.”

“And you left Mr. Cummings alone while you looked around?” I ask, the clear implication being that if he suspected Daniel of anything, he wouldn’t have left him unguarded.

“Yes.”

“No further questions.” I haven’t done that much with Hobart, but that’s okay, since there was little damage to repair. That will come later, when Tucker trots out his big guns. We had better be ready.

I head back to the office after the court day ends. Our team meeting isn’t until six at my house, and I’ve agreed to meet with some of Daniel’s supporters from Cleveland. They asked for twenty minutes of my time, but I’m hoping to wrap it up in ten.

When I arrive at the office, three of the seven people in the courtroom today are already there waiting for me. Edna has one of them engaged in a conversation about investments and finance. She introduces him as Eliot Kendall, who I know from reputation is the son of Byron Kendall, founder and chairman of Kendall Industries, an enormous trucking company headquartered in Cleveland. As the president of the company and future heir, Eliot must be worth hundreds of millions of dollars, yet he patiently listens as Edna tries to get him to transfer his investments to her cousin Fred.

The other two visitors are Lenny Morris, a fellow reporter of Daniel’s at the Cleveland newspaper, and Janice Margolin, the director of a local Cleveland charity which Daniel actively supported.

Eliot Kendall is no more than thirty, and though Lenny and Janice are at least twenty-five years his senior, Eliot seems the natural spokesman for the trio. He explains that the others in court today had to go back to Cleveland, but that the three of them “are here for the duration.”

“So how can I help you?” I ask, trying to move this along.

Eliot smiles. “That’s what we’re here to ask you. We’re here to support Daniel, which means we will support you in any way we can.”

“Thank you,” I say. “But I think we’re covered.”

“I’m sure you are. But if at any point you need some extra pairs of hands, no job is too small.” The others nod enthusiastically in agreement. “And while I doubt money is an issue for Daniel, if it becomes one, I’m available to help. You tell us your problems, we’ll help solve them.”

This is an impressive display of support from some pretty substantial people. It pleases me that my client is so well liked and respected by them. “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, keeping things as bland as I can. Despite their offer to hear our “problems,” I’m not going to get into any specifics of the case with these people.

“There’s also something you should know,” Eliot says. “We’ve hired a private investigator to look into things. Not to get in your way . . . just a fresh pair of professional eyes. If we uncover anything helpful, it’s yours to use as you see fit.”

My initial reaction to this news is negative; it feels like an invasion of my turf and a potential annoyance. On the other hand, maybe it will turn up something. Besides, they aren’t asking for my approval.

“As long as your investigators do not claim to be representing the defense.”

Eliot nods agreeably. “Absolutely. No problem.”

“Daniel is lucky to have such good friends,” I say.

Eliot smiles a slightly condescending smile. “Let me tell you a brief story, Mr. Carpenter. My younger sister ran away from home when she was fourteen . . . left a note saying she couldn’t deal with her problems anymore. My family kept things very quiet, foolishly not wanting to confront the embarrassment. Finally, my father decided that the media could help spread the word, perhaps help find her. We didn’t know Daniel, but we knew of his reputation, so we gave him the story.”

I search my mind for a memory of this story but can’t come up with one. “Did you find her?”

His shake of the head is a sad one, as the remembered pain seems to hit him head-on. “No, but not for lack of effort on Daniel’s part. He made finding her his personal crusade, but that’s not why I remain grateful to this day. He treated the story, my sister, and our family with incredible compassion and sensitivity. No sensationalism, no grandstanding . . . just outstanding reporting by an outstanding human being. He’s been my friend ever since.”

It seems a sincere tribute and is echoed by less dramatic stories from Janice and Lenny. I finally extricate myself from the meeting by promising to keep in touch should I need their help in any way. What I don’t tell them is that their stories would qualify them as excellent character witnesses for the penalty phase of the trial. That will only come if we lose the case and are trying to avoid a death sentence.

I’m finally able to get them out the door, and I head for the meeting at my house. Laurie and Kevin are there when I arrive, and I can tell from the pained expression on Kevin’s face that Laurie’s already ordered dinner. Since we are real men who cannot survive on tofu and veggie burgers, I break out the potato chips and pretzels, and Kevin dives for them like they are life preservers floating in the ocean.

My overriding concern with this case is that it is going along too predictably, too comfortably, and that we are gliding down the path to defeat. “I’ve got to shake things up,” I say.

Kevin nods; he knows what I’m getting at and agrees. Kevin is much more conservative than I am, so if he believes that I need to shake things up, I probably should have done so already.

“What do you mean?” Laurie asks.

“It’s like when you blitz in football,” I say, and Laurie moans. “Sometimes a defense is overmatched, and it’s not the best strategy, but a blitz rattles the offense’s cage and puts a lot of pressure on. Hopefully, something good will come from that pressure. Either way, it’s better than just sitting back and letting Tucker drive down the field.”

“Exactly,” Kevin says.

“I’ve got an idea,” Laurie says. “Can we try and get through one five-minute period without you making a football reference? Can we try and intellectually elevate things a bit?”

I look at Kevin, who seems agreeable. “Sure,” I say. “Think of it in ballet terms. If everybody comes out in tutus, the audience just sits there. It’s no big deal, ’cause that’s what they expect. But dress the dancers in leather garter belts and Mickey Mouse ears, and the audience is on their toes, wondering what the hell is going on. It shakes them up.”

Kevin nods. “Or in opera, if you start off with the fat lady singing, the audience doesn’t know what to think. Is it over? The fat lady has already sung, right?”

Laurie smiles. “See? Isn’t that better? We’re on a much higher plane now.”

We adjourn early, partly because I have to think things through on my own and partly so Kevin and I can avoid whatever it is Laurie has planned for dessert. I’m not sure my stomach could handle tofu jubilee or broccoli brûlée.

Willie comes over, bringing with him some paperwork that we have received from the city Animal Services department. He also brings along Sondra—in fact, they are holding hands. Since there is no automobile traffic in my living room, I have to assume he’s not helping her cross the street and that their relationship has quickly graduated from employer-employee.

Further circumstantial evidence of their romantic involvement is the fact that she is wearing an expensive watch and very expensive locket, with a large blue stone that I believe is alexandrite. I’m far from an expert on jewelry, but I once represented a client accused of stealing some uncut alexandrites, and I know how valuable they are.

Sondra has never worn the watch or locket the other times I’ve seen her. Since we’re not paying that much in salary for her work at the foundation, Willie has apparently taken some of his coffee earnings and bought her the jewelry.

“How’s the trial going?” Sondra asks.

I shrug. “Okay. Could be better.”

“You gonna win?”

Willie interrupts. “Of course, he’s gonna win. I’m standing here, aren’t I? This guy doesn’t lose.”

Sondra doesn’t look that pleased with Willie’s assessment. She and I have talked about this; she wishes me the best, but if Daniel is responsible for killing Rosalie, she wants him strapped to a table with a needle in his arm.

Willie and Sondra invite Laurie and me out with them; they’re going dancing at a club. The idea has absolutely no appeal to me, but I appreciate the invitation, so I look at my watch for an excuse. “It’s almost nine-thirty,” I say. “I need to get some sleep.”

Willie nods. “So grab a couple of hours. We’re not going out until midnight.”

I express my amazement at this, and Willie and Sondra proceed to tell me about this other world that exists out there, a world where people go out and have what they consider fun while I am in bed doing what I consider sleeping. These people seem to exist on another plane, using the resources of our planet while “normal” people like Laurie and me are tucked away with no need for them. Willie and Sondra are in the unique position of straddling both worlds, and I’m sure there is much to learn from them. Just not tonight, because I’m tired.