Premeditated Murder (11 page)

“I'm waiting,” she said after a few more moments passed.

“Okay, let's talk,” he said, sitting up, squinting at the lamp. “But first, can you please turn that thing off, so we don't both get skin cancer?”

Sammy got out of bed and walked across the room to turn on the bathroom light. No first lady had ever looked hotter in a nightgown. Or out of a nightgown. Which was a topic completely off the table during talkin' time. The next several minutes would be spent engaging his beautiful blond wife's frighteningly sharp intellect and common sense, not her bombshell body and wicked sexual appetite. She left the door ajar, and then came back and turned off the bedside lamp.

“There. That's better.” She climbed back into the bed and focused her blue laser beams on him. “Now, then,” she said. “What's going on?”

Matt took a deep breath. Normally, this kind of decision didn't cause him such grief. Maybe if he talked about it, it would be easier to sleep tonight. Of course, now that Sammy knew there was something bothering him, if he didn't talk about it, it would be tough to sleep ever again.

“In a day or two, it looks like I'm going to be ordering Navy SEALs into the Philippines,” he said. Sammy blinked a couple of times. “It'll be covert. There's been some intel that some pretty bad guys have gotten active. But they've been a little sloppy, and we've been able to identify what looks like a headquarters of some kind in the Philippine jungle, and possibly some weapons or ammunition dumps as well.”

Sammy just waited. “It's not like I haven't ordered troops into danger before,” Matt continued. “But, well, this time, it's different.”

Sammy nodded. Her eyes were a little softer now, but no less blue. “This time, you aren't wearing a helmet in a battlefield,” she said. “And it's preemptive. The Philippines are an ally. But you're sending the military in there anyway, without their knowledge or consent. It's not the way you like to do things,” she said. “It's sneaky.”

Of course, Sammy was right. In fact, they'd spoken of this often, when Matt had been Vice President, when President Graham was dealing with intelligence regarding Al Qaeda's presence around the globe. Matt had been severely torn between his firm belief in the U.N., international law, and the sovereignty of nations, and his impatience with most foreign governments' pathetic efforts at dealing with terrorists harbored within their own borders.

But back then, the discussions between him and his wife had been theoretical.

Now Graham was dead, Matt was President, and suddenly everything had become far too real.

“Every time I get one of these intelligence briefings, I think about my responsibilities, and I feel like all I'm doing is sitting around, waiting for something terrible to happen,” Matt told his wife. “The Philippines is still reeling from that pair of hurricanes that blasted Manila. Chasing terrorists around in the jungle is the last thing on their mind. We've got people in the field, telling me that there are specific threats that we can address and a specific window of opportunity. I'm going to trust these guys to get in, do what they need to do, and get out, without a lot of fanfare.” He paused. “Even if that means I'm technically invading an ally and committing God knows however many international crimes in the process.”

Sammy got up, walked over to the bathroom, turned out the light, and returned to bed. She rested her head on Matt's chest and said, “You realize that you aren't going to come up with the single right thing to do here.”

Matt trailed his fingers through her hair and took another deep breath. “Yeah, I know,” he replied. “But I still wish I could.”

EIGHT

DIST. ATTY. O'NEILL:
And where do you live?

MS. TENTINO:
I live in Apartment 1D of 214 Main Street, Northampton, Massachusetts.

Q:
And were you living there on January 14 of this year?

A:
I've lived there for twenty-two years. Ever since I retired.

Q:
So you were living there on January 14 of this year?

A:
Yes.

Q:
And back in January of this year, Ms. Tentino, were you familiar with the defendant, Calvin Thompkins?

A:
You mean before he shot all those people?

MR. TALLACH:
Objection.

THE COURT:
Sustained.

Q:
Before, uh, before January 14 of this year, were you familiar with the defendant?

A:
Well, let's see, I made eggnog for Mrs. Gallagher on Christmas Eve, and she told me that this big black man—

MR. TALLACH:
Objection.

THE COURT:
Sustained.

THE WITNESS:
—This big black man moved in—

MR. TALLACH:
Your Honor?

THE COURT:
Ma'am. I sustained the objection. Wait for the district attorney to put another question to you.

THE WITNESS:
Okay.

Q:
Before all this happened, did you know the defendant?

MR. TALLACH:
Objection.

THE COURT:
Overruled.

MR. TALLACH:
May I be seen at sidebar, Your Honor?

THE COURT:
No. Go on, Mr. O'Neill.

Q:
Back in January, before January 14, how did you know the defendant?

MR. TALLACH:
Objection.

THE COURT:
Overruled. You may answer.

MR. TALLACH:
Your Honor—

THE COURT:
The objection is overruled, Mr. Tallach. I am instructing the witness to answer.

THE WITNESS:
I can answer?

THE COURT:
Yes.

THE WITNESS:
Can you repeat the question?

(Trial Volume V, Pages 200–201)

March 10—Northampton, Massachusetts

ZACK KNEW THAT IT WAS PROBABLY IRRATIONAL, but something about the last meeting with Calvin Thompkins had made him much more sanguine about representing the man. Maybe it was because Thompkins was obviously mentally ill, or maybe it was because of the deaths of his wife and child. But now Zack couldn't stop the flood of questions running through his mind as he waited for Terry to emerge from his office. If Thompkins was rich enough to need an accountant, how did he qualify for a court-appointed attorney? Had he really spent all of his money on private investigators? If Thompkins had no other options and still refused to pursue an insanity defense, was
that
evidence that he was mentally ill? Could Zack ethically present an insanity defense even if Thompkins didn't want him to?

“So, I guess this means you're still in the case,” Terry said as he pulled open the door of Zack's Honda.

Terry looked like a curly-haired mountain that needed a shave. Would he ever learn to move the seat back
before
getting in?

“And can you remind me why you insist on driving this little tiny tin can, for God's sake,” he grumbled, shoehorning his large frame into the car and then struggling to wrestle with the seat.

Guess not.

“For the record, I happen to know that you can afford at least a freakin' Camry, if you're so completely committed to being dull,” Terry continued, as they pulled away from the curb. He grunted in triumph as the passenger seat finally slammed back as far as it could go.

There was no point in replying to the car comments. They would never stop. “Yeah,” Zack said. “Well. I just know that before Cal told us why he shot those people, I wasn't sure I could stay in it. But now …”

“Now we understand why he did what he did, but that doesn't change
what
he did,” Terry replied. “We're still stuck with some pretty ugly facts, here, Counselor. ‘Mr. Thompkins, didn't you premeditate your actions?' ‘Uh, yeah, but my wife and son were blown up five years earlier.' ‘Mr. Thompkins, didn't you walk into an apartment and intentionally turn six people into hamburger with an AK-47?' ‘Uh, yeah, but I'm a very smart guy. I did graduate work at M.I.T. Really.' ‘Thank you. I have no further questions.'”

“I know,” Zack said. “I'm just saying that when I first saw what he did, I wasn't even sure that I wanted to bother. So what if he didn't get a fair trial? He deserved to be found guilty.” He shook his head. “That never happened to me before. I can't be a lawyer like that. At least now I care enough so that I can do the trial.”

“That's swell,” Terry said, “but here's a tip. Don't get too attached to this guy. His long-term prospects look a little shaky.”

At this point “a little shaky” seemed optimistic. “Yeah,” Zack said. “I know. The whole thing is a horror show, but I can make sure he gets a fair trial, at least. He'll tell his story to the jury, and he'll get creamed.”

“That's fine,” Terry said. “Now you want to tell me why we're going to talk to Cal's ‘financial advisor'?”

“By the way, how does somebody with a financial advisor get a court-appointed attorney?”

“Another good point,” replied Terry, as they merged onto the interstate. “So what you're telling me is that you don't know much about anything right now.”

Zack nodded. “That's pretty much the story.”

“And we're on our way to Springfield because …”

“I can't think of anything else to do,” replied Zack.

“And thus, a plan was forged.”

STEVE DOCTOROW'S OFFICE WAS IN A SPECTACULAR high-rise building in the business district of downtown Springfield. Zack could see his reflection in the huge brass handles on the double glass doors as he and Terry entered the expensively decorated reception area. Dad would have loved this place. It oozed money.

A compact, balding man with a serious demeanor was speaking to the receptionist, and immediately came around the desk to introduce himself.

“You must be Cal's lawyers. I'm Steve Doctorow.” They all shook hands. “Why don't we talk in my office?” he said, leading them down a long hall.

They passed several small rooms, each occupied by a different young accountant, obviously very busy with work. The place just reeked of wealth. How much money did Thompkins used to have?

Doctorow's office was much bigger than the ones they'd passed in the hall. Dozens and dozens of files and books were organized neatly in shelves along the walls. At one end of the room was an enormous, tidy desk, and at the other was a couch and a couple of easy chairs surrounding a coffee table, on which had been placed a fairly thick file folder. They sat down.

Doctorow spoke first. “Cal wrote me a long letter, explaining his, uh, situation, and asking me to speak to you.” He pointed at the file on the table. “I pulled his file and made a copy for you. And I just want you to know that whatever I can do to help …” He stared off into space. “Given what he told me, I realize that sounds ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head.

“What did he say in the letter?” Zack asked.

“That he shot six people in an apartment,” Doctorow replied.

“Good to be consistent,” Terry muttered, reaching for the file.

“Can you tell us a little about Cal?” Zack asked. “Did he have any history of mental illness, anything that would explain how he could do something like this?”

“They killed his wife and kid,” Doctorow replied. “That's why he did it.”

“So you believe that story.” Terry glanced up from the file. “That they were terrorists. Or at least that Cal thought they were terrorists.”

“If Cal said they were terrorists, they were terrorists,” Doctorow said simply.

“How can you be so sure?” Zack asked.

“Because Cal Thompkins is one of the smartest people I ever met,” Doctorow answered. “And one of the nicest. There's no way he'd ever lift a finger against someone, or even so much as accuse them of something, without being a hundred percent certain before he did so. He is a very careful person. He'd never just walk into a place and kill a half dozen people.”