Dog Eat Dog

by David Rosenfelt

  We had a contingency plan in case we were wrong; it would have been slightly less subtle and significantly more violent.

  The large truck pulls up at a little after 8:00 P.M. That it is unmarked is as expected; security demands it. The cargo it is carrying is valuable, and in normal times there is no sense tipping off potential thieves and terrorists.

  These are not normal times.

  From my vantage point I see six men get out. Two are dressed in work clothes. The other four are not. They head for the front door of the building, looking around to confirm that they are not being observed.

  They do not realize that at this moment they are among the most observed people on the planet.

  They enter the building and one of them, Darrin Jeffrey, looks around to make sure the place is secure. Jeffrey turns and says, “Bring it in.” Three of the men, including one dressed in work clothes, who is clearly a prisoner of the other two, go outside.

  They won’t be back.

  That leaves Jeffrey, one of his people, and the other man in work clothes. “Get started,” Jeffrey says, and the man in work clothes nods and starts walking to the huge machine at the rear of the room.

  “No, don’t.” The voice is Captain Oliver’s. He has come out of hiding, gun in hand, to take over. Marcus and I come out as well. Laurie and Corey are outside, helping officers deal with the other three men.

  Jeffrey’s partner must not have gotten the memo that they are in a helpless situation, and he reaches for his weapon. It is the last reach he ever makes, as Oliver puts a bullet in his chest.

  Jeffrey takes a different tack; he starts to run toward the door. Marcus is just a bit quicker; he catches Jeffrey from behind, grabbing his shirt behind his neck and throwing him to the ground. In football that’s called a horse-collar tackle and results in a penalty. The way Marcus employs it, the name is even more apt, because he does it with enough force to literally tackle a horse.

  Captain Oliver makes a quick call, and the place immediately looks like a police convention. An ambulance arrives to deal with the guy that Oliver shot, but it quickly becomes clear that he is more in need of a coroner.

  It takes a while for everyone to feel completely confident that the area is secure. People from the state energy department have arrived to take possession of the machine in the truck, which was the major reason all of this took place.

  I see Darrin Jeffrey sitting handcuffed in a chair, soon to be taken away. I’ve always loved the end of A Few Good Men, when Tom Cruise triumphantly says to Jack Nicholson, “Don’t call me son. I’m a lawyer and an officer in the United States Navy. And you’re under arrest, you son of a bitch.”

  It’s every lawyer’s dream to repeat that scene, and this is my chance. I walk over to Jeffrey; I can see out of the corner of my eye that Laurie is following me to make sure I don’t do something I shouldn’t.

  Jeffrey looks up at me. “What the hell do you want?”

  I look him right in the eye. “Don’t call me son. I’m a lawyer and an officer in the United States Navy. And you’re under arrest, you son of a bitch.”

  Laurie takes me by the arm and gently pulls me away. “Good job, Admiral.”

  We resume our waiting, and finally, after almost an hour and a half, Oliver comes over to me. “I have to admit, you do nice work.”

  I smile. “When you do the press conference, it’s Andy Carpenter. Andrew sounds too formal. I’m a person of the people.”

  “I’ll try and remember.”

  “Are we done here?”

  He nods. “We’re done here.”

  Once again, Captain Oliver conducts a press conference victory lap, and once again he neglects to mention me.

  A couple of hours later he calls and I point out that he slighted me again.

  “Sorry about that. In all the excitement I forgot which you preferred, Andy or Andrew. I figured it was best to leave you out entirely rather than make a mistake. I’m sure you understand.”

  “You’re an ungrateful glory hound.”

  He laughs. “Ah, so you do understand.” Then, “How did it go with Mitchell?”

  “Could not have been better. He’s going to testify on Monday; he agreed, and his lawyer has since advised him it was the right move to make in order to get a favorable sentence.”

  “So he’s going to plead guilty?”

  “He really has no choice.”

  “Then you’re feeling good about your chances?”

  “Not yet. What happened at the brewery, and yesterday at the hospital, was better news for you than me. None of it speaks to who actually killed Charkin.”

  “But you’ll have Mitchell’s testimony.”

  “When that happens, then I’ll feel confident. Or at least I would, if I ever felt confident about anything.” Switching the subject, I ask, “How many dirty bombs would they have been able to make?”

  “They would have had the cesium from the new machine core that irradiates the blood, also what was left from the old machine, and from all the individual radiation machines, plus their replacements. The short answer to your question is probably seven or eight bombs; the damage could have been catastrophic.”

  “Why did they wait so long to do this?”

  “Because they were playing the long game. They needed to wait for the hospital to replace the cesium. That stuff lasts a while; the delay must have driven them crazy.”

  “Where was the first target, do you know?… Wait … let me guess. Fenway Park.”

  “Bingo … not bad.”

  “It comes naturally to me. What’s going to happen to Darrin Jeffrey?”

  “He’s going down. He hasn’t said a word, but his colleagues are talking nonstop. I think we’re going to get Jerry Donnelly as well. But if there’s a civil war, Jeffrey is going to have to listen to it on the radio.”

  We get off the phone and I start to prepare for tomorrow morning. I have not had the chance to prep Mitchell, other than our interview, and he will not be thrilled to be testifying. I want to make sure I force him to cover all the relevant points.

  Charlie Tilton comes to the hotel to help in the preparation. We work for a couple of hours, then Laurie comes in with food for dinner.

  While we’re eating, Charlie says, “I can’t believe I almost turned down this job.”

  “You did turn it down.”

  “You’re holding that against me? Anyway, I’m very glad you talked me into it.”

  “It’s no big deal. This happens every day back in New York.”

  “New Jersey.”

  “Whatever.”

  Charlie’s cell phone rings and he seems surprised when he looks at the caller ID. He answers with “Hello” and then just listens. A full minute goes by before he says, “Okay.” Then he hangs up.

  “That was quite a conversation,” I say.

  “You have no idea. Mike Mitchell is dead. He was found hanging in his cell.”

  I strongly doubt that Mitchell hanged himself.

  I had just presented him with a pathway to a lighter sentence, so doing it at that point made no sense. My suspicion is that Donnelly’s people got to him in the jail.

  Bottom line is that it doesn’t matter. It is a crushing blow to our defense, mainly because the defense attorney is an idiot. I should have taped the conversation in the jail. I could have played it in court; it would have been an obvious exception to the hearsay rule.

  I did have my reason for not taping it. I would have been obligated to turn it over to the prosecution as a work product, and had it not gone the way I wanted, it could have hurt us.

  But I should have taped it and I didn’t, and my client very well may suffer for it.

  I call Ginny Lawson to the stand. “Ms. Lawson, you currently work at Augusta General Hospital and Medical Center?”

  “Yes, in the radiology department.”

  “What is done in that department?”

  “Well, in addition to taking X-rays, we also do radiation therapy for cancer
patients, and we irradiate blood to be used in transfusions.”

  “Why is the irradiation necessary?”

  “It prevents donor white cells from reproducing and attacking within a patient’s weakened immune system. I could get more technical if you’d like.”

  I smile. “Not necessary.… We heard testimony earlier in the trial that irradiation can degrade DNA … are you familiar with that?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not.”

  I knew she wasn’t; I just wanted the jury to remember it, which is why I put it in the question. I introduce a document into evidence and ask her to describe it.

  “It’s a record of a blood donation made at Augusta General.”

  “Does it list the purpose?”

  “It was donated in the name of a patient there at the time, one Carl Blanchard.”

  “How many months ago did this take place?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “And who was the donor?”

  “Matthew Jantzen.”

  “So the defendant donated blood at the hospital where Tina Welker worked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the blood irradiated?”

  She looks at the document. “Yes.”

  “In the specific department in which Tina Welker worked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ms. Lawson, when someone donates blood for a sick friend, does that blood necessarily go to that friend?”

  “No, the type might be wrong. It goes to build up the supply; donors are told and understand that.”

  “Does the hospital keep records of who receives a particular donor’s blood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I ask you to look up who received Matt Jantzen’s blood?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “There is no record of anyone having received it.”

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  Steinkamp’s cross is quick and to the point.

  “Ms. Lawson, was there any evidence that Tina Welker tampered with or stole any of the donated blood?”

  “I have no idea. I certainly didn’t look for any evidence like that back then. That wouldn’t be my responsibility.”

  “Are there significant precautions taken to protect the blood and keep it sterile and safe?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Captain Dustin Oliver once again sits on the witness stand.

  “Well, Captain, this is getting to be something of a habit.”

  He nods, but does not smile. “Yes, it is.”

  I ask him to explain what happened on Saturday night at the hospital, and he does so. It takes about five minutes, during which I do not interrupt. His rendition is concise but compelling; I suspect he has rehearsed it.

  Unfortunately, as has been the problem all along, none of it is necessarily connected to the Welker and Charkin murders.

  When he’s finished, I ask, “Did you and I speak after all this?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did I tell you?”

  “That you had interviewed Michael Mitchell at the jail, and—”

  Steinkamp jumps out of his chair to object that what is about to take place is inadmissible hearsay. I knew it was coming and am surprised it took Steinkamp as long as he did to lodge the objection.

  He requests a conference outside the presence of the jury. Judge Pressley agrees and tells Steinkamp and me to come back to her chambers.

  When we get seated, the court reporter is there to take down everything that is said. Judge Pressley asks Steinkamp to go first, which he seems eager to do.

  “Your Honor, this is not hearsay, this is double hearsay. Mitchell told it to Carpenter and Carpenter told it to Captain Oliver. How can Oliver possibly quote Mitchell to this jury?”

  The judge turns to me. “Mr. Carpenter, is it actually your position that this is not hearsay?”

  “It definitely is hearsay, Your Honor. Mr. Steinkamp is right about that.”

  Steinkamp jumps in. “And it does not qualify under any of the hearsay exceptions. Had Mr. Carpenter taped the conversation with Mitchell, it would be admissible because Mitchell obviously cannot be here to testify himself. But that is clearly not what happened here.”

  “It does qualify as an exception, Your Honor. As I’m sure you know, even if Mr. Steinkamp seems not to, there is a catchall hearsay exception.”

  “Oh, come on…,” Steinkamp says, which I don’t think is an actual legal argument, at least not in New Jersey and New York, where I practice.

  “For the record, I’d like to list the relevant requirements for the catchall exception.” I glance at the court reporter. “One is that the testimony is likely to be trustworthy. Captain Oliver clearly has no reason to lie, and I would have gained nothing by lying to him, unless I somehow knew that Mr. Mitchell was going to die the next day.

  “Two, the testimony is offered to prove a material fact. Three, it will further the cause of justice. If Captain Oliver is allowed to testify, you will clearly see that those two conditions have been met. If they are not, you can disallow the testimony, tell the jury to disregard, hold me in contempt, and prohibit me from ever having another lobster roll.”

  “I think I would take some pleasure in that, Mr. Carpenter,” the judge says. “I’ll allow the testimony, but will cut it off quickly if I don’t like what I’m hearing.”

  I thought that is what she would do, but I was still nervous about it. The argument was a close call, but my assumption was that the judge would not be inclined to take a key defense witness away, especially since that would invite a potential overturn on appeal.

  When we get back into court, Oliver resumes his position on the stand. “Captain, you were describing what I said to you about my conversation with Mr. Mitchell in the jail.”

  Oliver nods. “Right. You told me that he said Henry Stokan killed Tina Welker. That he did it because Ms. Welker had found out about the plot to steal the cesium and was going to the FBI with that information. The murders were to silence her. Peter Charkin was there and was killed at the same time to keep him quiet as well.”

  “Why are you testifying to this? Why is Mr. Mitchell not here testifying himself?”

  “He was found hanged in his cell yesterday.”

  I let Oliver off the stand and say five of the scariest words in the English language:

  “Your Honor, the defense rests.”

  Steinkamp’s closing argument is short and to the point.

  He tells the jury that while they have been listening to some fascinating storytelling, there has been no substance behind it.

  “Here’s the bottom line. Matthew Jantzen’s blood was found at the scene of the crime, literally on the victim’s hand. Mr. Carpenter would have you believe he was framed, that the real killers chose to blame the crime on someone they never knew or heard of.

  “Does that make sense? What if Matthew Jantzen had an alibi for that night? What if he was having dinner with the governor?”

  “There is no evidence that Mr. Jantzen’s blood was stolen. None. But there is plenty of evidence he was in that house that night.”

  I decide to make my closing short as well. We are really arguing over one thing, and I feel like I have the upper hand. I don’t want to obscure it with extraneous stuff.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this trial started with Mr. Steinkamp’s opening argument. As part of that, he said, and I quote, ‘The DNA is really all you need to know.’

  “The prosecution’s entire case was based on DNA; if not for that, Mr. Jantzen would not be sitting here today, on trial for his freedom. If his blood was on the scene, on the victim’s hand, he had to be guilty. After all, how did it get there if he was not guilty?

  “I don’t mind saying that I was worried about it, for a long time. I believed in Mr. Jantzen, but I did not know how to get you to believe in him, because I just didn’t know how the blood got there.”

  “But we found out
how. The testimony of Ginny Lawson and Captain Oliver makes it very clear. His blood was stolen and used to frame him. We know who stole it. It was one of the victims, who had no idea it would help her killers cover up their role.

  “Judge Pressley will talk to you about reasonable doubt. Can you say with any certainty that it didn’t take place as Ms. Lawson and Captain Oliver described it? Is their explanation not a reasonable one?

  “The only question at issue during this trial was how did the blood get there. Now you know. And now you know that Mr. Jantzen deserved none of this. He has been sitting in jail all of this time for donating blood for a dying friend, and for saving an abused dog.

  “Please send him home with our thanks.”

  I actually think we are going to win this one.

  That’s a major departure from the norm for me. Usually I am positive we are going to lose; on some level I think my pessimism is good luck.

  I simply think it is reasonable for a juror to at least have a reasonable doubt as to Matt’s guilt. The DNA was the mountain we had to climb, and I think we vaulted over it.

  If I was on the jury, that would have been game, set, and match.

  That’s not to say I am worry-free. I read about a theory in politics that might apply here. People develop a worldview, and when new facts come in, they adapt them to that view. If they can’t do so, if they can’t fit the new fact into their existing belief, then they just reject it out of hand.

  That’s what scares me. I think the jury spent the entire trial prepared to convict; they needed an explanation for Matt’s blood being on the scene, and they weren’t getting one. So they thought he was guilty. Then the explanation came along at the last minute, and I fear they might just reject it as not fitting in with their predisposition.

  This has the potential to be a great week. We are supposed to pick Ricky up at camp tomorrow; I am stunned at how much I miss him. If the jury hasn’t come back by then, Laurie will have to go down there alone, because I am required to stay within an hour of the courtroom in case a verdict is reached.