Play Dead (28 page)
Y
OU WOULD THINK
that discovering that a murder victim is actually alive would be enough to quickly spring from prison the man wrongly convicted of the killing.
Unfortunately, the system does not work nearly that efficiently. The state has to endlessly investigate the developments, a hearing has to be scheduled, and witnesses have to be heard. That would all be fine, except that Richard is sitting in jail.
His reaction when I told him that Stacy was alive and Reggie was safe was not what I expected. I expected shock and euphoria; what I got was an almost dulled acceptance. This man has been battered and beaten down by events, and I have to get him out of that cell as soon as possible.
To that end I once again call to arrange a meeting with Alice Massengale. This time she doesn’t resist at all, asking me to come in right away, which I’m happy to do.
It is clear from the moment I arrive that Massengale is angry, and it doesn’t take much longer to discover that it’s not me she’s angry with. “Stacy Harriman—Diana Carmichael—was part of WITSEC,” she says. “I shouldn’t be confirming that for you, but I am.”
“Thank you for that,” I say.
“I had been told otherwise, which is why I made those representations to the court.”
I believe her, and I tell her so. I also tell her that I am here to negotiate with the U.S. government, and I have chosen her as their representative.
“I have no standing to represent anyone,” she says.
“I think you’ll have all the standing you’ll need,” I say. “All I ask is that you convey my terms to the appropriate officials and tell them they have twenty-four hours to respond.”
She smiles; she doesn’t yet know what my terms are, but she thinks she’s going to like them. “Fair enough,” she says.
“Good. Here’s what I want. Richard Evans must be released from jail immediately; I don’t care how it’s done. I want him out and the conviction wiped from his record. Then I want ten million dollars to help compensate him for the loss of five years of his life, to say nothing of the pain and suffering he has had to endure. I believe he can get more in the lawsuit I will otherwise file.”
“What are you offering in return?” she asks.
“Partial confidentiality.”
“What does that mean?”
“Mr. Evans is free to discuss everything with the press, with the following exceptions. He will not reveal that the government was aware of his innocence, that it misrepresented to the court, or that it tried to wiretap and otherwise sabotage his legal team. He also will not reveal the terms of the settlement.”
“Ten million dollars is something of a reach, don’t you think?” she asks.
“Not compared to what the government will recover when they start digging into Hamadi and everyone else. Either way, it’s not negotiable. If my offer isn’t accepted by close of business tomorrow, we file suit the next morning and start booking talk show appearances immediately. And with what I know about Afghanistan and the government’s behavior in this case, ten million dollars to shut me up is a bargain.”
She agrees to convey my offer, and I get the feeling she’s relishing doing so. I also wouldn’t be surprised if she testified for our side, should this ever go to trial.
I head home for a planned meeting with Pete Stanton. Pete is feeling pretty good right now; the arrests of Stacy Harriman and Anthony Banks are by far the biggest of his career. He’s been all over the media talking about it, including an interview on the
Today Show
this morning. He has had to say repeatedly that he can’t reveal details of the investigation, so basically all he does is smile a lot.
If Pete is grateful to me for putting him in this position, he’s hiding it well. I tell him that there are a few things I still can’t figure out, and ask if he can fill me in on where the investigation stands.
“I should tell you, a private citizen, about confidential police work?” he asks. “Why would I do that?”
“Let me take a shot at a reason,” I say. “How about so you’re not forced to buy your own beer from now on at Charlie’s?”
“On the other hand, we need more openness between law enforcement and the private citizenry,” he says.
“Since it obviously wasn’t Stacy, whose body washed up on shore?” I ask.
“Still no ID on that. We’re checking missing-persons records for that period. Whoever it was, they took her hair and put it on the hairbrush at Richard’s house and then put some of her blood on the boat, so it would seem to match Stacy’s DNA.”
“They would have had to find someone with the same body type, hair color…”
He shakes his head sadly. “Good reason to get murdered, you know?”
“Any luck finding Gary Winston?” I ask.
“Not yet… Hopefully Stacy will give him up. But he’ll be found—surgeons aren’t the type to hide in the wilderness eating leaves and shit. They like to come out and have a good meal once in a while.”
As far as I can tell, and Pete agrees, Winston is the last missing member of the conspiracy. Had I realized earlier that Winston was a plastic surgeon, stationed in Afghanistan to deal with serious battle wounds, I might have caught on to the scam earlier.
I hadn’t recognized Durelle or Carelli from their pictures and just assumed that it was because they were taken years ago. In fact, Winston had altered their faces enough to be consistent with new identities, as he had done with Stacy.
Karen was targeted out of fear that because of her closeness to Stacy, she might see through it and recognize her. The night before she was shot, Franklin heard me agreeing to let her accompany me to Short Hills to see Hamadi. Their fear was that she might see Stacy then or shortly thereafter.
Stacy had obviously only pretended to be a witness for the government, to deflect suspicion from her. She was actually a key conspirator but allowed herself to be put into WITSEC, knowing full well she would not remain there.
“When is your client getting out of jail?” Pete asks.
“I’m working on it.”
“Let me see if I understand this,” he says. “You lose a murder case in which there was no murder, and you can’t spring your client even though the victim turned up?”
“These things are complicated.”
Pete nods. “I know one thing for sure. Clarence Darrow, you ain’t.”
“C
HECK YOUR E
-
MAIL
.”
That is the short and to-the-point message from Alice Massengale that is on my answering machine when I return from my morning walk with Tara and Reggie. Tara is clearly loving having Reggie back, so much so that I’m thinking maybe I should get another dog when he leaves. I’ll have to discuss it with her.
I turn on my computer, and I see an e-mail from Massengale, which seems to contain a document to be downloaded. After ten minutes of trying, I am forced to admit that downloading is simply not something at which I have the required expertise.
I am about to call Sam Willis, when the doorbell rings. It is Karen, coming over to find out in person if we’ve made any progress in getting Richard out of jail. The situation is even more frustrating to her than to me.
“Do you know how to download something from an e-mail?” I ask.
“You
don’t
?” is her incredulous response.
“Of course I do. It’s just that you said you wanted to help out on Richard’s case, and—”
“Where is it?”
I take her over to the computer, and she sits down. She makes a few clicks with the mouse, and within thirty seconds she is jumping up and down and screaming with pure joy.
My instincts tell me this is good news, but I sit down and look at the screen to find out just how good. The document Massengale sent is a letter, for me to sign, essentially agreeing on behalf of the government to the terms as I presented them to her.
Richard is going to be free, and Richard is going to be rich.
Karen prints out the agreement, and I sign it. She offers to hand-deliver it to Massengale’s office so I can focus on the mechanics of getting Richard out of jail.
I place a call to Hawpe’s office and am pleased to learn that the process has already begun. Massengale had assumed I would find the terms acceptable, since they were my terms, and had taken the initial necessary steps.
Once I’ve done all I can over the phone, I head down to the prison. It is my opinion, based on very substantial feedback over the years, that I can be even more obnoxious and annoying in person than on the phone.
Even under my relentless prodding, there is a limit to how fast the bureaucracy will move, and it’s not until three o’clock that I get to enjoy the sight of Richard Evans walking through the prison doors to freedom.
He sees me immediately and comes over. We just stare at each other for a few moments.
“It took you long enough,” I say.
He smiles. “Sorry—I was tied up.”
With that we hug. I’m not a big fan of hugs, and man hugs are my least favorite, but this one is okay.
“Come on,” I say. “There’s somebody at my house who wants to see you.”
When we pull up to my house, Karen, Reggie, and Tara are on the porch waiting for us. Richard has the door open even before I bring the car to a full stop, and he heads for the porch. He doesn’t quite get there, because Reggie comes bounding down the steps and leaps on him.
Within moments Richard and Reggie are on the ground, with Richard on his knees, hugging and petting him. Reggie’s tail is wagging a mile a minute, and he seems to be doing his best to lick the skin off Richard’s face.
“You saved me, buddy. You saved me.” Richard says it over and over, punctuated by laughs. Reggie doesn’t comment, so I assume he agrees and is being modest. And Reggie did save Richard’s life, as certainly as Lassie ever saved anyone.
“Is this great, or what?” says Karen, constantly dabbing at her eyes. She comes over to hug Richard, but Reggie doesn’t seem to be in the mood to share.
Yes, it’s definitely great.
Tara stands off to the side, watching the scene, clearly bewildered that she is not receiving any of this affection. She comes over to me, and I pick up the slack and pet her, but she knows she’s getting the short end of the stick.
We go into the house, and I fill Richard in on what I have learned from Pete or figured out on my own.
“Do you have any idea where Reggie was all these years?” he asks.
I nod. “With Stacy. She drugged you on the boat, and when you were unconscious, she left on another boat with one of her partners. She took Reggie with her.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I think she genuinely loved him. It’s why she had him taken from my house.”
“So how did he get away from her?”
“There was a storm last March, and a tree fell and badly damaged the house she was living in. My guess is that Reggie was home alone and that he took off when that happened.”
“Where did he go?” Richard asks.
“Looking for you. The guy who found him, Warren Shaheen, lived only about six blocks from your old house.”
This causes Richard to hug Reggie once again and call him an “amazing dog.” He’s got that right.
“So Stacy was with me because of my job? So they could work their customs scam?”
“I can’t say that for sure, Richard.” My statement is true; I can’t say it for sure, but I believe he is right. And I believe she found a more willing conspirator in Franklin, which set this whole thing in motion.
“What are you going to do now?” I ask.
“Well, I have to find a place to live, I have to earn a living, and I have to pay your fee. Because if anyone has earned his money, it’s you.”
I look over at Karen and smile. “You didn’t tell him?” she asks.
I have not told Richard about the monetary settlement. “No, I thought I’d leave that pleasure to you.”
“What are you two talking about?” Richard asks.
“Let’s put it this way,” says Karen as she points to Reggie and Tara. “These guys are going to be sleeping in Gucci dog beds.”
D
AVID
R
OSENFELT
was the marketing president for Tri-Star Pictures before becoming a writer of novels and screenplays. His debut novel,
Open and Shut,
won Edgar
®
and Shamus award nominations.
First Degree,
his second novel, was a
Publishers Weekly
selection for one of the top mysteries of the year, and
Bury the Lead
was chosen as a
Today Show
Book Club pick. He and his wife established the Tara Foundation, which has rescued over four thousand dogs, mostly golden retrievers. For more information about the author, you can visit his Web site at
www.davidrosenfelt.com
.
