Who Let the Dog Out? (18 page)

“How does he know that?” she asks.

I nod. “That’s what I asked him. He never really answered except to say that they were all dead … Downey, Brantley, Caruso, and Healy. He said that he might as well be dead as well.”

“He’s under a lot of stress, Andy. People say things.”

“That’s what I attributed it to,” I say. “But it’s more than that, and I missed it until tonight.”

“What is it?”

“One of the people he mentioned as being dead was Healy.”

“So?” she asks.

“So how does he know Healy? They’ve never released his name publicly; I only know it because the customs guy told me. And you’re the only person I’ve told it to. How could he possibly have known that Healy was the one murdered with Brantley?”

“And you’re sure he mentioned Healy?” she asks.

“I’m positive. And I’m just as positive that I never mentioned it to him.”

“So how could he have found out?”

“He’s got a cell phone; he called me on it. Those calls aren’t monitored, so someone on the outside must have told him. And maybe that same person told him about Horowitz, and it scared him. He knows who he’s dealing with, and he’s scared he’ll be next.”

“Okay, let’s assume he found out about Healy that way. That means he’s somehow involved with the people behind all this. But it doesn’t necessarily mean he killed Downey.”

“Really? Which way are you betting?”

She thinks for a moment. Then, “That he killed him.”

We talk for a few more minutes before Laurie asks me the obvious question. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to ask him about it. It’s too late for me to get him brought to court early, so I’ll have to meet with him during the lunch break.”

“You think he’ll be straight with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if he admits that he did it? What will you do then?”

“I don’t know that either.” Pretty much the only thing I do know is that it’s going to be a really long day.

There is no way out of this trial for me. That is an unfortunate fact no matter what Tommy says when I confront him. I can file a motion to remove myself, but the judge would have to approve it, and there is no chance he would do so.

I never wanted a client in the first place, but I took on Tommy mainly because I thought he was innocent. If he’s not, which is how it looks to me at the moment, then it’s my version of a judicial nightmare.

My client’s guilt would never be seen by the judge as a proper reason to bow out; guilty people are as entitled to a defense as innocent people. Not only that, but I could never reveal Tommy’s guilt to the judge; it’s privileged information that as his attorney I am obviously bound to keep confidential.

In any event, I’m on thin legal ice here. I should not be trying to discover whether Tommy is in fact definitely guilty. The problem is that if I know that, then I am ethically bound not to elicit testimony from him that is opposite to that. Should he testify in his own defense, I can’t have him vow his innocence, if I know otherwise.

Having said that, I simply have to know the truth, and one way or the other, I’m going to find out what that truth is.

Tommy is brought into court about five minutes before the judge is due, and I greet him normally. I don’t want to give him any hint that anything could be wrong, because I don’t want him to have time to prepare a reaction or a story. Almost as important as what he will say to me is how he will look and act when he’s saying it.

Tommy seems more stressed than usual. It’s become a ritual for him to ask at the start of the court session, “Anything good going to happen today?” but this time he doesn’t.

Dylan calls Sergeant Kevin Agnese, who conducted the search at Tommy’s house. Agnese will be a relatively straightforward witness; he did nothing extraordinary or controversial. I know him very well; he and Pete have got to be the two biggest Mets fans in America.

“You entered the defendant’s premises with a legal search warrant?” Dylan asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you find anything significant to this crime in your execution of the warrant?”

“We did. We found a knife with bloodstains on it.”

“Did tests show it to be Gerald Downey’s blood?”

I could object to this, since Agnese did not conduct the tests, but Dylan can introduce it easily enough through another witness. I don’t want it to appear to the jury that I’m trying to hide any facts, especially since those facts will come in anyway. So I let the question slide.

“They did,” Agnese says.

“Where did you find the knife?”

“Buried in the dirt in Mr. Infante’s backyard.”

Dylan asks a few more questions, but Agnese has really nothing else to offer him, so Dylan turns him over to me.

“Sergeant Agnese, was this the first time you’ve ever executed a search warrant?” I ask.

“No, sir. I’ve done many of them, probably a hundred.”

“So you’re good at it? You’re very thorough?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Did you find anything else related to this case besides the knife?” I ask.

“No.”

“Nothing in the house?”

“No.”

“And you dug up the entire property?”

“No, sir. Just the area where the knife was.”

I feign surprise. “Really? Why did you dig there?”

“We could see the earth had been tampered with,” he says. “The knife was only an inch or two beneath the surface.”

“So it was obvious? Little effort was made to conceal it?”

“I can’t say what effort was made.”

“Let’s put it this way. If the person who buried it was trying to conceal it, they did a poor job?”

He doesn’t want to, but he finally agrees with my point.

“Was the dirt hard there?” I ask.

“Not very.”

“So without much effort, it could have been buried deeper?”

“I suppose so,” Agnese admits.

“If you know, were there any fingerprints on the knife?”

“There were not.”

“How far is Mr. Infante’s house from Mr. Downey’s?” I ask.

Agnese thinks for a moment. “I didn’t measure it, but I would guess about six miles.”

I nod. “So just to recap, according to your testimony, Mr. Infante would have murdered Mr. Downey, and rather than throw away the knife along the six-mile route to his home, he brought it to his own backyard? Even though it was not a knife that could be tied to him in any way, other than where it was found?”

“I’m just saying what I found,” Agnese says.

“Right. Now you haven’t mentioned the clothes. We’ve had testimony that there would have had to be blood on the clothes. Did you find them?”

“No, we did not.”

“So if Mr. Infante committed the crime, he threw the clothes away elsewhere, but brought the knife home?”

“I can’t say.”

“You think the knife had special sentimental value?”

“I don’t know,” Agnese says, clearly getting frustrated.

I move toward him, talking louder and sounding a little angry. “But does any of that make sense to you?”

“That’s not for me to judge,” he says.

I nod. “Correct. It’s for this jury to judge. No further questions.”

The good news is that I think I did fairly well for my client. The bad news is that I think I did fairly well for my client.

When the judge adjourns for lunch, I turn to Tommy and say, “We have to talk.”

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“We’ll know soon enough.”

“Who is Healy?” I ask as soon as he sits down in the anteroom.

“What do you mean?” is his lame response. Based on the look of fear on his face, he knows exactly what I mean.

“It’s not really that confusing a question,” I say. “I want to know who Healy is.”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how did you know he was dead?”

“Hey, what’s going on?” he asks. “What is this all about?”

“This is about me trying to find out how you knew about Healy, and how you know he is dead.”

“I don’t remember; maybe you told me. Or maybe I heard it on the radio. What’s the difference?”

“I did not tell you,” I say. “And it hasn’t been on the radio, or the television, or anywhere else. Now are you going to tell me, or not?”

“I don’t know, Andy. I heard it somewhere.”

I stand up. “Maybe your next lawyer will believe your bullshit.” It’s a bluff; there’s no way for me to get out of this case.

I start for the door, hoping Tommy will stop me before I get there. “Wait a minute, Andy. Please come back here.”

I turn and come back, once again sitting in the chair. I don’t say anything; I don’t have to. The ball is in his court, and he knows it.

“I knew Healy; I did some work for him last year.”

“What kind of work?” I ask.

“At the port in Newark. We unloaded some boxes out of crates, and put ’em onto a truck. He paid me five thousand dollars.”

“For unloading some boxes?”

He nods. “It was at two o’clock in the morning.”

“How did he come to hire you?”

“Through Downey; Downey was his boy. According to Downey, he did a lot of work for Healy.”

“Does the name Gino Parelli mean anything to you?” I ask.

He thinks for a moment. “I think that was Downey’s friend at the pier. He was in on it somehow.”

“Keep going.” I don’t want to ask any questions; it might reveal how little I know. I want everything to come from him.

“Healy came to me about a week before Downey died. He said he knew my little girl was sick, and that I needed money, and he had a way to get me a lot of it. He told me to threaten Downey in the bar; he gave me a whole script to follow. He told me to threaten to slit his throat.”

Tommy had once before mentioned a sick child, but I haven’t seen any evidence that she exists, and at this point I have my doubts that she does. “Did he tell you why he wanted you to threaten him?”

“Just that Downey was starting to cause problems, and he wanted him to know that it wouldn’t be tolerated.”

“What about the jewelry store robbery?”

Tommy shakes his head. “There wasn’t any; that was just something Healy told me to say. He said Downey would know what it was really about, and that he’d get the message.”

“And you believed all this?”

“It didn’t matter if I believed it. My kid is sick, and Healy paid me another five grand. Up front. So I did it, and then I heard that Downey got murdered, and the way it happened.… I did not do this, Andy.”

“Did you talk to Healy after that?”

He nods. “I did. He told me that things didn’t go down the way they were planned, and that I might be arrested. He said I wouldn’t be in jail that long, that they would plant some evidence that would get me out. And he said they would get me a lawyer. That’s why I asked if somebody sent you, that first day at the jail. Healy said I should trust him.”

“And did you?”

“Of course not. But he sent my ex-wife another ten grand, and he told me that the best thing for the health of her and my kid was for me to sit tight. He was threatening them, and I couldn’t protect them. This was a guy who had just slit somebody’s throat, Andy.”

“So you didn’t tell anyone?”

He shakes his head. “No. What was I going to say? I had no idea where Healy was; would anybody believe my story?”

“Keep going.”

“So then I heard about Brantley getting killed, and I knew that you thought my case was tied in to Brantley. So I called Healy, and somebody else answered.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know; it wasn’t a voice I recognized. So I asked for Healy, and he told me that Healy was dead, and that if I said anything, the same thing would happen to me and my family. Then he told me not to call again, and he hung up. I was freaking out, but I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t.”

I have no idea if Tommy is telling the truth or not, but one thing is for certain: he’s not making this story up as he goes along. It’s either true, or well prepared for the eventuality that I would confront him like this.

“What’s your ex-wife’s name, and where do they live?” I ask.

“You need to leave them out of this.”

“Then you need to find a new lawyer.” My theory is that empty threats are most effective when repeated.

He thinks for a moment, so I add, “You lied to me, Tommy. It’s the one thing I can’t tolerate.”

He nods in what seems to be resignation. “Her name is Luann Willoughby; they live on Ridgetop Road in Morristown.”

I ask him for the number he called Healy on, and he gives me that as well. “Okay,” I say, and get up to leave.

“What are you going to do?” he asks.

“Just what I’ve been doing.”

I barely have time to call Laurie before the afternoon session begins. I tell her about my conversation with Tommy in detail, and ask her to have Sam check out some of the facts. Just before I hang up, she asks, “Do you believe him?”

“I’m embarrassed to say that I think I do. And if he is telling the truth, then he was stupid, but understandably so. And he doesn’t deserve to be in jail.”

The afternoon court session is going to be a relatively uneventful one. Dylan will be focusing on the forensics, which are incriminating, but will add very little to what the jury already knows.

First up is Sergeant Jessie McNab who handled the on-site forensics, both at Downey’s house and Tommy’s. Dylan takes way longer than necessary to bring out the only important details of the testimony, the fact that Tommy’s fingerprints were in Downey’s house, and Downey’s blood was on the knife buried in Tommy’s backyard.

My first question on cross is, “Sergeant, how many different sets of fingerprints did you find in Mr. Downey’s house?”

“Eleven.”

“If you know, how many of those eleven people were arrested for the murder?”

“One.”

“Were my prints in the house?” I ask.

“Yes, they were on the front door and the staircase.”

“Are you aware of any warrants out for my arrest?”

“No, but I can check when I get back to the station.”

That gets a laugh out of everyone in the courtroom, including me, though I’m probably the only one fake laughing. “When did I leave my prints there?” I ask.

“That’s not knowable from the prints themselves.”