by David Staats
When the hundred thousand dollars had been counted out from the first bag, a sizable pile still remained, probably about a fifth of the size of the initial pile. That would equate to some twenty to thirty thousand more dollars, plus what was in the other shopping bag.
Ralph picked up the phone in the conference room and dialed Dure’s extension. “It’s all ready,” he said.
Dure brought in a receipt which he signed and gave to Liam, and a briefcase, into which Ralph put the stacks as he bound them with rubber bands.
Dure sat in a chair in the corner of the room. “This will take a little thought,” he said. Addressing Ralph, he said, “You will obviously deposit the fee, but as to Liam here . . .. If things go well in court this afternoon, you may want the cash to post bail . . . and we don’t yet know the exact amount. If you deposit the money in the bank, you may not be able to get it out again today. If you buy a cashier’s check, we don’t know the amount . . . Here’s what I suggest: How much do you have?” he said, addressing Liam.
“I don’t know,” said Liam.
Ralph put in, “If the two shopping bags held the same amount, then the first one had about a hundred and twenty or a hundred and thirty thousand. So if you add the twenty or thirty remainder from the first bag to the hundred twenty or so from the second bag, that would make roughly a hundred forty or a hundred and fifty thousand.”
“I suggest,” said Dure, “that you buy two cashier’s checks for fifty thousand each, payable to Clerk of Court, and keep the rest in cash. That way, if bail is set at anything less than a hundred and fifty, you can post it today. If the court refuses bail, you can deposit the checks.”
Ralph and Liam left to go to the bank.
Later, Ralph told Dure what he had observed when Liam Houlihan had retrieved the cash:
They had gone to a self-storage locker, Liam having asked Ralph to go with him for safety on account of a large amount of cash. Liam had unlocked the combination lock on unit #121, thrown up the overhead door, and gone in. Ralph stood just outside and watched. The unit was not full. Along one wall were what seemed to be some old equipment from the shave-ice business; along the other was a row of black plastic trash bags of vague and lumpy shapes. Liam walked down the little aisle between the trash bags and the equipment to a filing cabinet at the rear of the unit. He opened the drawer second from the bottom and drew out a paper shopping bag of some kind. “Whoa!” he had exclaimed. He put the bag down while he opened the bottom drawer. From there he took another, similar bag. “Whoa, momma!” he exclaimed again.
He kicked the front of the bottom drawer. It slammed shut with a hollow metallic clang. A pile of junk on top of the filing cabinet shifted, and some of it fell down. Liam cursed and bent to pick up what had fallen. It looked, in the dim light at the back of the unit, like a large hunting knife in a leather sheath.
* * *
Dure was standing in the middle of his office, head bent forward, rubbing his chin with thumb and forefinger. In a few minutes he would leave to go to court for the arraignment of Houlihan. Externally, he was ready. He had the necessary papers in his briefcase, and his argument for bail outlined. His dark suit was without spot or wrinkle and his black wingtip shoes gleamed.
Coming out of his reverie, he took a deep breath, and grabbed the handle of his briefcase. As he strode away from his desk, the briefcase slid off the desk and banged against his leg.
* * *
The little courtroom was dingy and dim. The judge was doing arraignments via a video hook-up to the jail, so that the state would not have to transport prisoners to the courtroom. Dure, Ralph, and Liam Houlihan were sitting in the small set of benches for spectators at the back of the courtroom.
Judge Ozma was a young woman with short hair. The left half of her head was bleached blonde, and the right half was a natural-looking dark color. On the blonde half, there was about an inch and a half of dark roots growing out. She wore large, dangling earrings and had nails painted lime green.
After what seemed a long time the bailiff called out “Commonwealth vs. Houlihan.” Dure got up and went into the well of the court. “Good afternoon, Your Honor,” he said, smiling. “Walter Dure for the defendant.”
“Good afternoon, counsellor. Bailiff, read the charges.”
The bailiff read out a charge of first-degree murder. “Did the defendant hear that?” asked the judge.
A screen mounted to the side of the courtroom showed an image of Mr. Houlihan. The identical image appeared on a smaller screen at the counsel table where Dure sat, and presumably on the screen on the judge’s small bench. Houlihan was dressed in orange fatigues and looked unhappy and unshaven. But he spoke loudly and clearly. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“That’s Ma’am,” said the judge.
“Oh! Yes, ma’am,” said Houlihan. “Sorry, judge, ma’am.”
“That’s all right,” said the judge. “How does your client plead, Mr. . . . Dure?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“The clerk will enter a plea of not guilty. A scheduling order will be mailed to you.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Dure
“Commonwealth vs. Jackson,” said the judge.
“Your Honor,” said Dure standing, “There’s the matter of bail.”
“Counsel, it’s a first degree murder charge,” said the judge.
“The defendant is still entitled to reasonable bail,” said Dure.
“If you want to make an argument, I’ll hear you, but I don’t have all day. I still have – what?” the judge flipped through a pile of folders on the bench “another six or so arraignments to get through. So make it quick.”
“May it please the court . . ..” began Dure. He said a few words about Mr. Houlihan and some case law and –
The judge interrupted him. “Counsellor, do you have more to add?”
“I do, Your Honor,” said Dure.
“Be quick,” said the judge.
“Thank you, Your Honor. As Your Honor will recall . . ..” Dure continued his argument.
The judge interrupted him again. “Bail will be set at $500 thousand cash bail. Thank you for your argument, counsellor. Commonwealth vs. Jackson,” said the judge.
“Your Honor!” called Dure
“Counsellor, I have ruled. You would be well advised not to continue to argue.”
Dure slowly began to gather together his papers.
* * *
In Brady v. Maryland, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that suppression by the prosecution of evidence favorable to a defendant who has requested it violates due process. A “Brady letter,” therefore, is a request by a defendant to the prosecution for any evidence that would be favorable to the defendant's case. Dure got a copy of his standard Brady letter, marked it up with the case name, case number, etc., changed the facts so that it would apply to the Houlihan case, and gave it to Kara to word process. When the revised draft came back to him, he added this paragraph:
Since it appears that Mr. Houlihan’s confession was coerced, Brady materials the prosecution is obligated to provide to the defense specifically include the confession itself, and all detective notes from the interrogation which led to the preparation of the statement signed by Mr. Houlihan while in police custody.
Then, as it was late Wednesday afternoon, he had Ralph in to discuss in a relaxed way the various (actually very few) cases in the office. This was one of the ways Dure did his thinking. He would bounce ideas off Ralph. It didn’t really seem to matter whether Ralph had anything useful to say or not. About the Houlihan case, the discussion was brief.
“It seems,” said Dure, sighing, “that our friend must sit in jail for a while.”
Ralph nodded. “I’m really starting to get a bad feeling about Mr. Houlihan. Right? He comes to you for defense, before he was arrested, right? From what Mr. Loveless said, he had motive, and his alibi was always kinda sketchy – and now he’s confessed? I mean, you’re the lawyer, but I wouldn’t defend him. I a
lways laid my courses straight and plumb.”
“For us,” said Dure, “there are no facts, only evidence. Facts come into existence only when a jury speaks.”
* * *
Dure's office was a three-story building on the corner of Court and Milton Streets, across from the Justice Complex. It had been a two-story private residence to which a third floor had been added; it had been joined with the house next door by knocking out doorways in their common wall and the resulting building converted into apartments. Later, the building had been converted into commercial offices. The floors creaked and the level of the floors between the two buildings was uneven. Dure occupied the whole ground floor and the second floor of the left side of the building. The second floor of the right side was occupied by Kurt Kniffe and Associates, Private Investigators.
At Dure’s telephonically communicated request, Kurt Kniffe had stepped over to Dure’s office. Kniffe (the K is pronounced) stood five feet, nine inches. He had thinning hair, but was not bald. He was wearing an inexpensive, nondescript gray suit. His was a plain, average face. He had a bland personality, but was ruthless when he needed to be. If he had grown up in East Germany, he would have been an excellent STASI operative.
“The beheading in Hickory Heights,” said Kniffe, speaking in a level, dispassionate tone, “appears to have been done by one Achmed al-Metoosi. The police have him in custody. It appears that Mr. al-Metoosi took offense at something his neighbor said about Mohammed. When she went out to walk her dog at around 6:00 a.m., he attacked and killed her. By the way, he killed the dog, too.”
“Could this al-Metoosi also have murdered Mrs. Houlihan?” asked Dure.
“On current information, the answer is indeterminate, the proverbial six of one, half-dozen of the other. One factor to note is that al-Metoosi left the head where it fell. This would seem to indicate a variance in MO compared with the Houlihan case.”
“I want you to look into a few things for me. One, check Mrs. Houlihan’s social media accounts. I’ll try to get any passwords from my client. Two, can you see if the police have questioned this al-Metoosi about the Houlihan case. Three, look into any enemies Mrs. Houlihan might have had. I find myself in the position of having to prove that someone other than my client murdered the woman.”
Kniffe had taken notes in a small, top-bound notebook. To confirm his understanding, he recited his assignments back to Dure. He gave a last look at the small, neat script in which he had written his notes, then closed the notebook and replaced it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He nodded to Dure as he rose from the chair and silently left the office.
* * *
Dure made time to interview Houlihan again. Knowing that interviewing an inmate is not like interviewing a private citizen, in that the prison guards make the visitor wait and wait, Dure had taken with him the as-yet slender file on the case so that he could make use of the time.
No matter what materials a prison waiting room is made of, whether linoleum, plaster, concrete, cinder block, wood, etc., and no matter how often it is cleaned, it always appears somehow greasy and grimy, dirty and dingy. Dure sat on an inexpensive, scoop-shaped plastic chair turning over the sheets of paper in the file which he held on his lap.
There were the notes of his initial interview. Buzzards in the backyard. His call to Preston; his call to Dr. Mulvaney. Houlihan’s initial story, left home Friday at 1:15. A copy of his letter to Preston. The retainer agreement. More notes: his interview with Loveless. Dr. Mulvaney’s report. Notes from his interview with Nan Schuettler, Mrs. Sweet. Houlihan again. Then Liam Houlihan.
“Mr. Dure, your client is in the interview room.” A beefy guard with short hair and a very erect posture interrupted him. The guard had no smile, but a respectful manner.
The interview room was a large, open area where many family visits were taking place. Women and children were talking with inmates. There was an occasional smile, but most faces were glum. Dure and Houlihan dragged two chairs apart to be away from the noise.
Houlihan did not look well. His scalp shone white for lack of sun, having been shorn of its shaggy, gray mane. “Starting to get scared?” said Dure. Houlihan looked at him with an expression of pique. “I’m doing well,” he said. “Being locked up is not so bad . . . it’s the other inmates that make it hard.”
For his forty-five minutes of waiting and his forty-five minute interview, this is what Dure got:
The list of vendors which Houlihan got from the sponsor of the gun show was in his pick-up truck. Houlihan had marked a few vendors which had been located near his trailer and which he remembered. He thought they would remember him. Presumably his truck had been taken to a repair shop after the crash. Houlihan asked Dure to check on it.
His wife’s circle of acquaintance would have to be her co-workers and her political friends. The Houlihans did not belong to any church or clubs.
“Did you notice anything suspicious or out of the ordinary in the weeks preceding the murder?” Dure had asked the same question yet again.
Houlihan shook his head.
“In the three weeks before the murder, was there anything that made you look twice, or that startled you – anything at all?”
“I’m right, aren’t I, that they don’t give the death penalty?” said Houlihan.
“In this case, with the decapitation . . . could be an aggravating factor indicating a depraved mind. Don’t be too sure about that,” said Dure.
“Well, I’ve got to protect my son. There’s years of appeals, anyway, right?”
“Could be . . . or not. Depends how the trial judge conducts the trial. With a confession . . .”
Houlihan averted his gaze from Dure. Dure said, “You wanted to protect your son, so you gave a confession. Did you really think your son had done it?”
“No. But from what the police said, I was worried that they could pin it on him.”
“If you didn’t do it, and your son didn’t do it, then somebody else did. You’ll agree with me on that?”
“Yes.”
“Whoever that is, is still free and about, and could kill again,” said Dure.
Houlihan shrugged.
“Not only do we not know who it was, we don’t know the motive. So we can’t rule out the possibility that this person has something against your whole family and might even now be keeping watch on your son as his next victim. Isn’t that right?” Dure was not being gentle.
Houlihan made a spastic gesture with his hands, and sighed forcefully.
“Maybe,” said Dure, “you want to start cooperating with me in earnest, rather than just making a pro forma effort. Did you notice anything at all, in the three weeks preceding the murder . . . that startled you, surprised you . . . anything out of the ordinary – anything at all?”
“At the gun show,” said Houlihan, “the weekend it happened, Saturday, when business was slow in the afternoon, I closed my trailer for half and hour and went walking around to stretch my legs and get something to eat. Coming the other way was a woman and we looked at each other briefly, like, you know, I think I’ve seen that person somewhere. She looked away quickly and then veered in a different direction so that we didn’t pass each other. I think I may have seen her at the Reform Party Christmas Party last December.” He paused. “That’s the only thing that I can think of that was out of the ordinary or surprising.”
“Do you know her name?”
“No, sir. And maybe I never saw her before. Don’t know. It was just strange the way she glanced at me and then changed direction.”
“Describe her.”
“Maybe five feet, four, brown hair, average build, kinda pretty.”
“What was she wearing?”
Houlihan’s head swayed from side to side. “A kind of tight-fitting shirt with no buttons – I guess that means it was a pull-over type shirt, shorts, gosh, I don’t know the names of women’s shoes, some kind of sandals, maybe.”
“What else did you notice before the murder
that was odd, or out of place? Did you have any visitors to your house?”
“There was the meeting of the Party, but I don’t get too much involved with that.”
“When was that?”
“The weekend before.”
“Was there a guest list?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know. I suppose you could look in my wife’s papers. She might have one . . . or I think sometimes they have a sign-in sheet.”
“Or how about meeting minutes?” asked Dure.
“Yeah, yeah, I think so.”
“Who would have those?”
“Don’t know.”
“Do you know the exact name of the organization?”
“That I don’t know either. Something like the Essex County Reform Party Committee or something like that.”
“Does your son use steroids?”
Could it have been the sudden change of subject that caused the startled look on Houlihan’s face? After a moment he said, sadly, “Not that I know of.”
“You’ve never asked him, point blank?”
“No.”
“Your wife had a cell phone, right?”
“She did. She had a Handiphone 700.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“I think, I think, it would have been on her. She probably had it in one of her pockets. I haven’t seen it.”
“When was the last time you called her or she called you using her cell phone?”
“We didn’t talk while I was at the gun show – obviously,” he added belatedly. “It would have been . . . ” he rolled his eyes up and to his right, “would have been . . . Thursday? I think. I asked her to get some bologna on the way home.”
“There wouldn’t be any text messages or voicemails on her phone from you that could be incriminating?” asked Dure.
