Play Dead (12 page)

“T
HE DEFENSE CALLS
Reggie Evans,” I say, and everyone turns toward the rear of the courtroom.

The door opens, and Karen walks in with Reggie alongside her on a leash. She looks serious but relaxed, and he seems a little scared. I can tell this because his tail is down behind him, a sure sign that he is not comfortable. As Laurie instructed, Karen reaches down and pets him gently on the side of his head, and the net effect is to keep him amazingly calm.

Reggie handles pressure a hell of a lot better than I would.

Everybody in the gallery strains to get a look at them as they walk down the long aisle toward the front of the room. It reminds me of the footage I’ve seen of the Ali-Foreman fight in Zaire, as Ali and his entourage worked their way down to the ring.

Karen brings Reggie all the way to the witness stand. He has not seen Richard yet, because he’s facing the other direction. This is how we planned it. I even had Richard wear aftershave to mask his scent. It’s unlikely Reggie would have smelled him from this distance, with this many people, but I didn’t want to take any chances. This had to be fully choreographed.

“Your Honor,” I say, “with the court’s permission, Mr. Evans will take over.”

“Go ahead,” Judge Gordon says, and Karen turns toward Richard, who is about twenty feet away from her. In the process, Reggie turns as well.

Reggie is looking in Richard’s general direction, without reacting, for about five seconds, but it feels like five hours. The thud that can be heard in the courtroom is my heart hitting the floor, as my plan appears not to be working.

Suddenly, Reggie seems to focus in on Richard, and it is as if he had been jolted by electricity. He explodes toward Richard, and the leash comes out of Karen’s hand. “Oh, my God, I’m sorry!” she lies, since letting him get away is exactly what I’ve instructed her to do. But her apparent distress is so real that even I almost believe it.

Reggie flies through the air and lands on Richard, knocking him backward over his chair. The three bailiffs don’t have a clue what to do, and no apparent desire to try to restrain Reggie. I doubt that their handcuffs would fit on his paws, anyway. For now they are just content to watch.

Even Judge Gordon seems mesmerized by the spectacle, though he recovers fairly quickly. He starts to slam his gavel down, yelling for order, though none is forthcoming.

Richard, a look of pure joy on his face, finally makes it to his feet. “Sit, Reggie,” he says, and Reggie immediately assumes a sitting position, as if waiting for the next command. The only sign to connect him to the chaos he has just caused is the fact that he is panting from the exertion.

It is a demonstration stunning in its simplicity; just by those two words Richard said all there was to say. No reasonable person could have witnessed what just took place and continue to have any doubt that Reggie is Richard’s dog.

It turns out that Coletti is not a reasonable person. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench?” she asks.

Judge Gordon grants her request, and Coletti and I walk up for a private conference. “Your Honor, the defense should be admonished for that performance. It runs completely counter to what was agreed upon. The dog was supposed to be kept on the leash, under control.”

I laugh. “Under control? It would have taken a marine battalion to keep him under control. He was seeing his owner for the first time in five years.”

“That ownership is still to be determined,” Coletti says.

“Were you in the courtroom just now?” Judge Gordon asks her. “Did you see what I saw?”

“I saw a demonstration that might well have been staged,” she says.

I shake my head in exaggerated amazement. “
Staged?
He’s a dog; he’s not DeNiro.”

“Ms. Colletti,” Judge Gordon says, “if the state wants to continue this, then the defendant can put the dog through whatever tricks they have planned. But I am telling you, as far as the court is concerned, this is the defendant’s dog.”

Coletti can tell that she has pushed this as far as possible. “We can end it here.”

We both go back to our respective tables. Reggie is once again standing near the witness stand, held on the leash by Karen.

“No further questions,” I say. “The witness is excused.”

Karen and Reggie leave the courtroom, and both Coletti and I announce that we have no more witnesses. Coletti stands to give her closing argument.

“Your Honor, five years ago a lengthy investigation focused on the murder of Stacy Harriman. Hundreds of hours of work went into it by experienced, dedicated professional law enforcement officers.

“They determined that there was probable cause that Mr. Evans committed the crime. Their work was reviewed by the county attorney, who agreed with their conclusions and filed murder charges against Mr. Evans.

“A four-week trial then took place, during which Mr. Evans was ably defended. He entered that trial with the presumption of innocence and retained the right to challenge his accusers. At the conclusion of that trial, a jury of his peers deliberated for eight hours before unanimously voting to convict him.

“What has changed since then? We have now learned that Mr. Evans had infinitesimal traces of campene in his system. This might be significant, if we could be sure how it got there.

“And we know that a golden retriever seems to be the dog that Mr. Evans used to own. This also might be significant if Mr. Evans had been convicted of murdering that golden retriever, or even of dognapping. But no such charges were ever filed.

“Your Honor, the defense has not even come close to meeting its burden. To grant a new trial on this flimsy evidence would be to discredit the original trial, and there is certainly no reason to do that.”

Coletti sits down, and as she does, I stand up immediately. She has presented a reasonably convincing argument, and I don’t want it to stand unchallenged for a moment longer than necessary.

“Your Honor, I was not involved in Mr. Evans’s original trial, but I have carefully read the transcript. Most of what I read was presented by the prosecution, since the great majority of the witnesses called were theirs.

“The prosecution contended back then that Mr. Evans sustained his facial bruise from falling out of bed. When Dr. King came in here and said that it could not have happened that way, they backpedaled and said it could have happened as he was staggering around the room.

“The prosecution contended back then that Mr. Evans swallowed a bottle of pills. Yet we find out today that they cannot find any pharmacy that prescribed the pills, and that Mr. Evans would have had to eat them dry, without using water. Such a technique would have been masochistic, in addition to being suicidal.

“The prosecution contended back then that Mr. Evans’s dog was on board the boat; they presented eyewitnesses that were quite clear about it. They told the jury that he killed that dog by throwing him overboard, and then described the act as evidence of his depravity.

“Now we know with certainty that they were wrong. We know that Reggie is very much alive and that rumors of his death were, shall we say, exaggerated. There is nothing anywhere in all the hundreds of hours of investigative work, or anything presented at trial, that can come close to explaining what you saw in court here today. Reggie’s very existence means that someone else was on the boat that night, and it is very likely that the same someone else was the murderer. Certainly, there is nothing in the record that says otherwise.

“Reggie is alive, and because of that, the prosecution’s theories are dead in the water.

“Also revealing is what the prosecution didn’t say in that trial back then. They offered no evidence of motive, and no claim that Mr. Evans had ever showed violent or suicidal tendencies.

“Now, I am aware that they were not obligated to present motive, but juries usually want to hear it. But back then it wasn’t necessary, because the evidence as presented seemed so clear. Well, now it’s not so clear, and the absence of motive and previous tendencies becomes far more significant.

“Your Honor, we are not talking about reasonable doubt here. We are talking about
overwhelming
doubt. If we knew then what we know now, only the most overzealous of prosecutors would have brought the case to trial. And there’s not a jury in America that would have voted to convict.

“Richard Evans has spent five years of his life in prison for a crime he did not commit. The love of his life was murdered, and he was not allowed the space and freedom to grieve. He himself was nearly killed, and no one looked for, much less found, the actual guilty party.

“The truth, as always, will ultimately win out. It sometimes comes in strange shapes and sizes, and this time it came walking in on four paws. But it is the truth, and by recognizing it, you can start the process of giving Richard Evans his life back.”

I’
VE NEVER BEEN
much of a fan of self- discipline.

It generally collides head on with my enjoyment drive and rarely survives the collision. It makes no sense to try to force myself to do something I don’t want to do, since if there were a good reason to do it, I would want to do it in the first place.

But we are now entering a phase where self-discipline must rear its ugly head. It is going to take anywhere from a week to a couple of months for Judge Gordon to announce his decision about a possible new trial for Richard. We must work hard toward preparing for that trial, while knowing that if it’s not granted, our efforts will be totally wasted.

The thing I can most liken it to is betting a parley, which is a bet that requires winning two games to be a winner. If one of those games has already been played but I don’t know the result, I would root for my team in the second game, knowing that it might be a waste of time because, if I lost the first game, the second one doesn’t matter.

I’m going to have to work to develop a compelling case for Richard, but if we didn’t win the hearing, then it won’t matter.

At times like this I am particularly glad I have Kevin as my partner. He will keep me moving forward, both because he is a more dedicated attorney than I and because he is a more optimistic one.

Kevin thinks our performance in the hearing was a winning one—a “slam down,” as he puts it. Kevin is not a sports fan in any sense, and what he means to say is “slam dunk.” Or maybe “grand slam.” Or “touchdown.” With Kevin it’s often hard to tell.

I arrange to meet him at the office at nine o’clock in the morning, which will give us an hour alone before Edna arrives. We spend only ten minutes rehashing the hearing; we did the best we could and just have to take it on faith that it was good enough.

So now we have to start investigating full-time, which would be easier if we had the slightest idea how to do that. All we know is that a supposedly dead Army guy tried to kill me and that the government tried to bug my conversations. The list of things we don’t know could fill the Library of Congress.

“It has to involve Richard’s job at customs,” Kevin says, advancing his theory. “The bad guys who tried to kill you must be smuggling contraband into the country, and they’re afraid you’re going to find out something that screws up their operation. The government is tapping your phone to learn whatever it is that you come up with.”

Neither Kevin nor I have any idea how to penetrate the customs operation at the Port of Newark. Keith Franklin, who told Karen he would call, has still not done so, and we’ll have to get her to contact him again.

Edna arrives and dives into the
New York Times
crossword puzzle. She likes to get it done before lunch so she doesn’t have it hanging over her head when she gets back. That way she can devote the afternoon to talking with family and friends on the phone. Her niece, Cassie, is getting married, which is creating more family controversy than was contained in an entire season of
Dallas.

About twenty minutes later the phone rings, and when Edna shows no inclination to answer it, Kevin does. After saying hello, he listens for a moment and hands me the phone. “Keith Franklin,” he says, a triumphant smile on his face.

“Mr. Franklin, I’ve been expecting your call.”

“Yes… I’m sorry it took so long. I wanted to make sure this was serious.”

“It’s very serious. That much I can assure you.”

“I know,” he says. “I saw the coverage of Richard’s hearing.”

“I believe that Richard’s work had something to do with the murder, but I need your help to find out exactly what.”

“I really can’t talk about it now… not here.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

He tells me he’ll meet me in Eastside Park at nine o’clock tonight, down by the baseball field. It is clear that he does not want to be seen or heard talking to me. That in itself may be very significant, somewhat significant, or of no significance at all. As with everything else involved with this case, I don’t have the slightest idea.

I agree, and he says, “Will you be alone?”

“Why is that important?”

“Karen told me I could trust you, so I will,” he says. “But only you.”

When I hang up I tell Kevin what was said. “I’m not crazy about the sound of that,” he says. “He could be setting you up.”

“Why would he? We approached him; he didn’t come to us. And Richard vouched for him; he said he’s a friend. There’s no reason to think he’s on the other side.”

“Except for the fact that so far everybody seems to be on the other side,” Kevin says.

“You mean like hit men and the United States government?”

He nods. “That’s what I mean.”

“But we’ve got Marcus. Advantage, us.”

Laurie’s reaction when I get home and bring her up to date is the same as Kevin’s. “Are you sure Marcus is watching out for you?” she asks.

I shrug. “He’s never let me down before. But I must tell you, I resent the fact that you think I need Marcus for protection. I can handle myself when things get rough.”

“Since when?”

“Since always,” I say. “You may not know this, but when I was a kid, and the other kids were at the library or the ballet, you know what I was doing? I was at home watching boxing on television.”

“Andy, you’re a great lawyer and a wonderful man, and I love you completely. But you’d be in major trouble if you got in the ring with the Olson twins.”

“What does that prove? There’s two of them.”

The situation is becoming very stressful for Laurie. She has to go back home in three days and can’t stand that she will be leaving me in what she considers a dangerous situation. In the old days, meaning last year, she would have been on the defense team and would be taking an active role. Now she’s on the sidelines watching, and having trouble with it.

I spend the rest of the day hanging out with Laurie, Tara, and Reggie, as appealing a threesome as ever existed. I’m not feeling overly nervous about my upcoming meeting in the darkened park. Since I requested the meeting, there’s little reason to consider Franklin a danger.

At nine o’clock I park my car by the baseball field and walk the few hundred yards across the field to the old pavilion. It’s empty now, but when I was younger it had a snack bar with some of the best french fries in history. My father would take me there after my team lost a game or I played badly, to cheer me up. I went there a lot.

I stand in front of the pavilion as instructed, waiting for Franklin. There is some moonlight, but he is only ten yards from me before I see him. He came from the opposite direction and is so quiet he must be wearing moccasins.

“Hello, Mr. Carpenter.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“How is Richard doing?”

“He’s okay, but he really needs your help.”

“I’m not sure what I can do.”

“I am operating under the premise that Richard was intended to be a murder victim, set up to look like he was perpetrating a murder-suicide. It could not have been to prevent him from revealing something he knew, since he would still be aware of it. It must have been to get him out of the way, so that he would not prevent something that was going to happen.”

“Roy Chaney took over when Richard… left.”

“I know. I spoke to him.”

He seems surprised by this. “You did?”

“Yes. Is he a friend of yours?”

His response is instantaneous. “No.” Then: “I don’t trust him.”

“You think he could be doing something illegal?”

“I’m not sure,” he says. “But since he came in, guys have gotten transferred out of his section, and they brought in new people from the outside. They’re a real tight group—not very friendly with the rest of us.”

“So it’s possible Richard was taken out to enable some people to do illegal business, with Chaney allowing it to happen?” I ask.

He answers my question with a question. “You think whatever it was is still going on?”

I nod. “Probably. A lot of people are nervous about what I might turn up. If it was over, they wouldn’t be quite as worried.”

“So what is it you want me to do?” he asks.

“I don’t even know enough yet to be specific. I just want you to be alert to anything, maybe ask around discreetly. And carefully, very carefully.”

He promises that he will and, before he leaves, asks that I give his best to Richard. “I feel bad that I stopped going to see him,” he says. “It’s just that—”

“He understands.”

Franklin leaves, and I head back for my car. It’s gotten even darker, and I can barely find it. I’ll be glad when I get out of here.

I reach the car, open the door, and get in. I turn on the car and flick on the lights at the same time, and when I look through the front window I get a jolt comparable to maybe six or seven million volts of electricity sent through my body. It doesn’t kill me, but it makes me scream really loud.

There, lying on the front of the car, face pressed against the windshield, is a really large man. He’s also really ugly, a condition made even more severe by the fact that his large nose seems to be bleeding, perhaps from the impact on the windshield.

I’m not quite sure what to do next. I can’t drive like this, but neither am I inclined to get out of the car. The guy could be dead, and dead bodies freak me out. Even worse, he could be alive. Live bodies that look like this freak me out even more.

The next jolt is a tapping on the driver’s window, which makes me jump so much that I literally hit my head on the roof of the car. I turn and see Marcus signaling me to roll down the window.

I do so, and Marcus sort of nods in the direction of Windshield Man and says, “Out.”

“Him?” I ask, assuming that Marcus is talking about Windshield Man. “Is he just out, or dead?”

“He wants you to get out of the car, Andy. Which would be a good idea, since we’re going to be here a while.” It’s Laurie’s voice, which represents still another surprise.

I get out of the car, but before I can say anything, Laurie says, “Let’s take a walk. You can show me this part of the park.”

“It’s dark,” I point out.

“That’s okay,” she says. “I’ve got a good imagination.”

So Laurie and I go for a walk in the park, leaving Marcus behind with Windshield Man, whose moans indicate he is regaining consciousness. “Any chance you’ll tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s pretty simple,” she says. “Marcus was watching out for you, and he saw this guy following you. Marcus then put him on your car for safekeeping.”

“Who is he?”

“That’s what Marcus is in the process of finding out.”

“Did he see who I was meeting with?”

“No,” Laurie says. “Marcus intercepted him before Franklin got here.”

“The amazing thing,” I say, “is that you happened to show up in the same place and at the same time as Marcus and I. Talk about a small world…”

“Amazing,” she admits.

“What exactly were you doing here?”

“I wasn’t sure Marcus was covering you, so I figured I’d watch your back, just in case.”

I could give Laurie grief about being here, but I won’t. She was here to protect me, to make sure nothing bad happened. It turned out she wasn’t needed, but she could have been. Besides, no matter how much grief I might give her, she’d still do it again in the same circumstances—not that she’ll have the chance, since she’ll be back in Wisconsin in three days.

“How long will Marcus need?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t think very long.”

We start walking back across the baseball field. “So this is the scene of your greatest imaginary athletic accomplishments?” she asks.

“Yup,” I say. “Right over there is where I didn’t hit the game-winning home run against Clifton. And the very spot we’re standing on is where I didn’t make a diving catch to beat Garfield.”

“You must be very proud.”

I nod. “I am. But as great as those fake moments were, I never dreamed that one day I’d be back here with a big ugly guy facedown and bleeding on the hood of my car, with my girlfriend here to protect me. You can’t see it in the dark, but my eyes are filled with tears.”

We head back to the car, and Laurie wisely calls out so that Marcus will know it’s us. Suddenly the lights go on in the car, and we can see that Marcus has turned them on. Windshield Man is sitting on the curb, in front of the car. The headlights are shining right at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

He looks thoroughly dejected and defeated. Marcus can do that to you.

Laurie asks Marcus to bring us up to date on what he has learned. Bringing up to date is not Marcus’s strong point; he’s not the most communicative guy in the world. But Laurie is better at drawing him out than I am, and before I know it, one- and two-syllable words are pouring out of him.

Windshield Man is a low-level member of the Dominic Petrone organization. Petrone is a charming, intelligent man who just happens to control the most powerful crime family in New Jersey. I have had dealings with Petrone in the past; we have even helped each other on a number of occasions. It is not something I’ve been comfortable with, mainly because there’s always a chance that he will get annoyed and have me killed.