Richard is out of his chair and objecting, but this time I’m in the right. “Your Honor, the witness passed on information that she was given by the prosecutor; they were things she did not know independently. That is the classic definition of coaching. Bill Belichick has less control over this team than Mr. Wallace does over his.”
“That last remark was uncalled for, Mr. Carpenter.”
“Sorry, Your Honor,” I lie. I’m playing for the jury, of course, and Richard, as mad as he is, will ultimately know that.
The judge overrules Richard’s objection, which allows me to have a little more fun with this. I don’t get far, but there’s really nothing to get. The gun was used in both killings, and we’ll just have to deal with that.
Next witness up for Richard is Sergeant Cathy Conley, one of the department’s fingerprint technicians. Richard takes much more time with her than he should, in my humble opinion.
Conley lets him guide her through all of the places in Diaz’s house where Pete’s fingerprints were found. They were in the bathroom, the kitchen, the den, and the area near the front door where the shooting took place. I’m not sure what he is aiming for, except to possibly demonstrate that Pete and Diaz knew each other well.
This, in the cross-examination business, is low-hanging fruit. “Sergeant Conley, based on the fingerprints, can you tell me when Captain Stanton was there?”
“I cannot.”
“Could it have been the night of the murder?”
“That is certainly possible.”
“Could it have been a month ago, or longer?”
“Yes.”
“Can you leave fingerprints when you wear gloves?” I ask.
“No.”
“If I may ask a personal question, do you have friends that you visit on occasion?”
“Of course,” she says.
“Have you ever murdered any of them?”
“Certainly not.”
“Of course not; they’re your friends. But bear with me for a second, and imagine you did go over to one of your friends’ house, for the purpose of murdering that friend. Do you think that while you were there, you would go to the bathroom, the kitchen, and other rooms, leaving your fingerprints everywhere?”
“I can’t imagine myself in that situation.”
“But as a trained police officer, you would know how fingerprints work, right? You’d know that if you were inclined to commit a crime, leaving fingerprints behind could be a problem, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Trained police officers would know that, wouldn’t they?”
“Certainly.”
“Now, supposing you didn’t care about that, and you left your fingerprints everywhere, and then shot your friend. Would you put gloves on to do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you had brought gloves with you, wouldn’t it have made sense to put them on before you started leaving prints everywhere?”
“I suppose so,” she says.
“As do I. No further questions.”
During a trial, time ranks just below evidence as the most valued commodity.
There is simply never enough of it, and I find myself doing so much reacting that it’s hard to find a moment to actually think.
One of the things I force myself to do, often sacrificing sleep in the process, is to read and reread all of the documents associated with the case. It is important for me to know every detail cold, so that I can react instantly and instinctively in court.
But beyond that, I find that in repeatedly going over documents, new things emerge, sometimes critical, that I have simply missed in previous readings. I’m not sure what that says about my power of concentration, but it’s something I’ve had to learn to live with, and adjust to.
Hike and Sam have made it somewhat easier for me. They somehow managed to copy all the documents onto my iPad. This way I can use any free time productively, without having to carry around a box filled with paper.
It comes in especially handy at times like this, while I’m sitting in the reception area at the FBI offices, waiting to be called in to see Agent Spencer Akers. I’m reading through the information Sam prepared on Carson Reynolds. This is actually the first time I’ve done so, since he just prepared it last night and this morning.
Reynolds’s biography seems relatively uneventful, at least for my purposes. He went to Tufts, then got his MBA at the University of Virginia. He began his career on Wall Street and worked his way up to where he now heads up a private equity fund.
Reynolds and his late wife are philanthropists, having donated millions through a foundation they themselves set up. They did not have any children, and in fact Katherine Reynolds had no family at all. Her parents and younger sister were killed in a car crash when she was eighteen years old. She was at college at the time. Carson Reynolds does not have any siblings either.
There is nothing here to indicate that Carson Reynolds is a murderer; there is also nothing here to indicate I’d want to have a beer and watch a football game with him. He seems upstanding and boring, although I suppose his mistress must see a side of him that I don’t. Actually, that’s a side I don’t ever want to see.
Sam titles every document he gives me with the words “Investigative Dossier, prepared by Samuel Willis.” He thinks he’s James Bond, but he does great work.
There’s a second section, entitled “Investigative Dossier, Section B, by Samuel Willis,” which gives the background on Reynolds’s company. They take controlling financial interest in companies, put their own people in, and then improve the balance sheet until the companies can be sold off at a profit.
I’m reading it quickly when a young woman comes out to tell me that Agent Akers is ready to see me. I close the iPad cover and stand up, then realize what it was that I just read. I say, “One second,” and open the cover again to reread the key part.
It’s a section that lists the companies in which Reynolds Equity has a controlling interest. Most of them I’ve never heard of, but number six on the list is one that I’ve become familiar with just recently.
Blaine Pharmaceuticals.
Workplace of Daniel Mathis, the missing chemist who created the euthanasia drug for animals. And the location where Alex Parker’s phone, presumably in the possession of Alex Parker, was identified as being on the day that Mathis went missing.
The pieces that would not connect are starting to connect.
I apologize to the young woman and then follow her in to see Agent Akers, who looks like he’s in his early thirties. After we say hello, he says, “So my boss says to take Agent Spodek seriously, and Agent Spodek says to take you seriously. So here we are.”
“You received a visit a while back from Sharon Dalton, reporting one Daniel Mathis as missing.”
He doesn’t respond, so I say, “Have you made any progress in finding him?”
He smiles. “We don’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“I’ve got a hunch you’re not taking me seriously.”
He smiles again. “Why don’t we start by you telling me why you’re here?”
“I’m here to make a deal with you. I will give you some information, most of which you probably do not already know. If you investigate the case and crack it, you will be a star within the bureau.”
“And in return?” he asks.
“You act quickly, you give me information as you get it, and you apply pressure where it needs to be applied.”
“I should tell you to leave now,” he says.
“No you shouldn’t, for two reasons. First, because you’d have to answer to your boss when this explodes in your face. And second, because the deal costs you nothing, and has the potential to make you a hero.” I smile. “And I say that as someone who is to be taken seriously, and as someone who may call upon you only to make a phone call.”
“Okay,” he says. “Sight unseen this is hard to agree to, but the quick action and exchange of information I can live wi
th. The application of pressure I can’t agree to until I know who and why.”
It’s a reasonable position for him to take, and I say so. Then, “Start with updating me on the status of the Mathis missing persons investigation.”
“There is no status,” he says. “We sent out a bulletin, he’s still missing, and there has not been a single report that he has been spotted anywhere. I don’t have the slightest idea where he is.”
“He’s dead,” I say.
“You know that?”
“I haven’t seen the body, but I know it. He’s one of an ever-increasing group of dead people.”
I lay out every piece of information I have about the situation. It’s a long spiel, and he doesn’t say a word or ask a question throughout. It’s a fairly compelling presentation, and as I speak it, I’m surprising myself with how much we actually have learned. Of course, what is most important to me, which is making it relevant enough to Pete’s case to be admissible, is where we are weakest. But that is not Akers’s concern, nor should it be.
When I’m finished, he says, “That’s quite a story.”
“And I just learned another piece a few minutes ago. One of Reynolds’s companies is Blaine Pharmaceuticals.”
“How do you know all this information about where the cell phones have been?”
“That doesn’t matter; just accept it as true. And by tomorrow evening I’ll have the documents to prove it anyway.”
“So bottom line, what do we have here?” he asks.
“A murder-for-hire business, for only the wealthiest customers. With no risk, because no one has any idea that the deaths are murders.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“Well, take Reynolds as an example. He’s worth 500 million dollars. If he were to get a divorce, it would cost him 250 million. You think he’d pay five to keep 250?”
“Yeah,” says Agent Akers. “I think a lot of people would.”
“But I think Reynolds may have been paying the money to himself, or maybe his partners. I think he’s the source.”
“You could be right,” Akers says.
“So we have a deal?”
He nods. “I believe we do.”
“Good. And to get the ball rolling, I need you to make that phone call.”
It’s crucial that we mount an attack on Reynolds, and there’s very little time.
Richard’s case will be coming to a close in a couple of days, and if I can’t find a way to get my theory admitted, the defense case will last about twenty minutes, including intermission.
But at the moment I’m stuck in court, trying to pierce holes in witnesses, who as a group are trying to imprison Pete for the rest of his life.
The court day starts off on a relatively high note, as a woman named Jane Michael shows up to comply with the subpoena Hike sent out. Ms. Michael works at the phone company, and she is delivering the requested documents twelve hours ahead of schedule.
Even though the material is part of the defense case, Judge Matthews holds a brief session with the jury not present. To vouch for the legitimacy of the documents, Ms. Michael would technically have to come back when we start our case to testify.
In order to prevent that inconvenience, Judge Matthews asks Richard if he will stipulate to that legitimacy, therefore preventing Michael from having to return.
“We will so stipulate, Your Honor,” Richard says, preventing an unnecessary hassle.
“Very well. Ms. Michael, you are free to go. Thank you.”
With the phone records admitted, Richard and his team will go over them and digest them. Diaz’s records will make sense to him, and he will understand why we wanted them. He will take particular note of Diaz’s phone being in Pete’s house the day of the murder.
But Parker’s phone records, and those of Reynolds, will make absolutely no sense to him. He might even think we’re leading him on a wild-goose chase, though the truth is the goose isn’t wild at all; this particular goose represents our entire case.
The reason for all the phone records won’t be a mystery to Richard for long; at some point in the near future I’m going to have to reveal everything to both him and the judge, in an effort to get it admitted. Richard will object and we will fight it out. If we lose, then we lose the case; that much is certain.
Richard’s first witness today is an important one. Sergeant Daniel Sproles is going to testify that he found a pair of gloves in Pete’s car—not a particularly heroic act, but one that has large implications.
Richard doesn’t beat around the bush, or drag this one out. He brings Sproles to the night of the murder immediately, and asks him if he saw Pete’s car that night.
“I did,” Sproles says. “It was right out in front of the house.”
“Was the defendant in the car?”
“Not when I saw it.”
“When did the car leave that street?”
“I assume when Pete … Captain Stanton … left.”
“When did you next see the car?” Richard asks.
“About twenty-four hours later. We impounded it when we made the arrest, pursuant to a search warrant.”
Richard gets around to asking about the gloves, and Sproles says that they were hidden under the passenger’s seat in Pete’s car. I object to the use of the word “hidden,” and the judge sustains. Big deal.
“Were the gloves tested for gunpowder residue?” Richard asks.
“Yes. The results were positive.”
“Is there any way to tell when the gloves received that residue?”
“Not precisely,” says Sproles. “But based on the tests, it was recent, within the previous week or maybe two.”
Richard introduces the gloves as evidence, and holds them up for the jury to see. “Do you see many people wearing gloves like this in the summer?” he asks, and I object before Sproles can answer.
Judge Matthews sustains, but the point is made. Even so, Richard drives it home. “Are these police-issued gloves?”
“I’ve never seen any like them in the department, no,” says Sproles.
“Are there gloves issued for target practice in winter?”
“Yes.”
“But not like these?”
“That is correct,” Sproles says.
Richard turns the witness over to me, and I ask, “Sergeant Sproles, when were the gloves placed in that car?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Speculate with me for a moment. Can you think of a reason why someone would wear gloves in the summer to fire a weapon?”
“Well, just speculating, I would assume it was to keep residue off the shooter’s hands, or to avoid leaving fingerprints.”
I nod. “Makes sense. Does residue wash off?”
“Sure. Careful washing would get rid of it.”
“If you had residue on your hands, and you had twenty-four hours, could you wash it off?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Were Captain Stanton’s hands tested for gun residue?”
“No, I don’t believe so. Too much time had passed since the shooting when he was arrested.”
“Twenty-four hours?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Why wasn’t he tested at the scene?”
“I don’t believe he was a suspect at that point,” Sproles says.
“So if he could have just used his bare hands to fire the weapon, and then washed the residue off, then why use the gloves?”
Richard objects, but since the witness has already agreed to speculate, the judge lets him answer. “I really couldn’t say.”
“And since we’re still speculating,” I say, “if the idea was to avoid the presence of residue, why not get rid of the gloves?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know Captain Stanton?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Have you always considered him a smart cop?”
Another nod. “I have.”
“Then why would he do somet
hing so stupid?”
This time the judge sustains Richard’s objection, and the witness doesn’t have to answer. Which is okay, because the jury should know the answer on their own.
We have to find a vulnerable spot in Reynolds’s armor, and I’m hoping that I have. Sharon Dalton told me that Daniel Mathis worked closely with the company CEO, Mitchell Blackman, on the study involving the euthanasia pills. It was Blackman, according to Sharon, who initially dissuaded Daniel from reporting the theft of the pills to the police, warning that it would be bad for the company.
Blackman was installed as CEO of Blaine when Reynolds’s company took control, and I’m hoping that Reynolds was pulling the strings on him regarding Mathis. If so, maybe Blackman can be shaken.
I had requested that Agent Akers call Blackman and tell him that the FBI wants to interview him regarding the Daniel Mathis disappearance, and “other related issues.” I check my phone during the lunch recess, and there’s a message from Akers saying that he made the call.
Next I place a call to Blackman, and in an effort to get past his assistant, I say that I need to speak with him urgently, “about his meeting with the FBI.” This does the trick, and he picks up the phone.
“Mr. Blackman, I know you received a call from Agent Akers of the FBI,” I say. “I know why he is calling, and it goes much further than Daniel Mathis.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Then you need to have a conversation with me about this to find out, because you need to play this just right, or you could find yourself in serious difficulty.”
It doesn’t take much more cajoling to get him to meet with me after court adjourns for the day. It’s a meeting I’m looking forward to, because he sounds scared already.
“Mr. Blackman,” I say, “I would strongly advise you not to consult with Reynolds on this. He is the reason the FBI is after you; he is not your friend. If you talk to him, I can’t help you.”
He agrees, but I’m not sure if he’ll call Reynolds or not. My hope is that he’ll wait to see what I have to say.
I catch a break when Richard says that his next witness got food poisoning that morning. The judge asks me if I will agree to an early adjournment; if not she’ll make Richard call a different witness.
Hounded Page 18
