Leader of the Pack

by David Rosenfelt

  But Joey holds up well; he answers the questions in a straightforward manner, never letting himself be goaded into anger. Of course, at the end of the day he knows Hike’s on our side; Dylan will be a different case, since Joey is well aware that Dylan is trying to keep him in a cage for the rest of his life.

  When we finish, I say to Joey, “OK. Time to decide whether or not you want to testify.”

  “I thought we already decided that,” he says.

  “We did. But that doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind. So tomorrow morning will be another time to decide.”

  “You think I’m going to do OK?” he asks.

  I nod. “I think you probably will.”

  Joey turns to Hike. “What about you?”

  I cringe. Knowing Hike, he’ll probably predict that Joey will do so badly that New Jersey will make an exception and reinstitute the death penalty for this one case.

  “I think you’ll kick Dylan’s ass,” Hike says.

  Go figure.

  Hike and I head back to the office, since that’s where his car is. On the way, I ask, “You think this is a good idea?”

  “His testifying? I do. I think it might be our only chance.”

  I turn on the radio to listen to the news. I have satellite radio, so I get all the cable news stations. The trial has been a fairly big story on those stations throughout, mainly because Joey is Carmine’s son. But my expectation is that announcing he will testify will ramp up the coverage significantly.

  But for now, news about the trial is nowhere to be found. The networks are covering a humanitarian disaster in Peru, apparently a dam broke and the toll of human life and property is feared to be enormous.

  I think about Carolyn Greenwell, the woman from the State Department that I met with in Washington. She had said she was soon going to be in Peru, and I hope she wasn’t caught in the disaster.

  I also wonder if the situation will interfere with whatever Ryerson is planning, since I do believe it involves South America, and he had visited Peru on a number of occasions. Since I don’t know what he’s planning, it’s hard to even speculate on whether this disaster will impact it.

  Hike launches into a dissertation on how extreme weather is going to destroy the planet, and that there’s nothing we can do about it. “We’re history,” he says.

  “Are we going to make it to the end of the trial?”

  He shrugs. “Hard to say.”

  “Then we’ll put Joey on the stand, just in case.”

  Another shrug. “Might as well.”

  A jolt is waiting for me when I get home. There, in the living room, is the dreaded Christmas tree, freshly cut by some Christmas tree cutter, and purchased by Laurie. And there, on the dining room table, are the four million lights and two billion ornaments that Laurie will be putting on that poor tree.

  For the first time since it began, I’m thankful for the Desimone trial. Laurie surely knows I’m way too busy with preparations to help decorate the tree, which suits me perfectly.

  I like Christmas trees, think they look great, and love having one. The problem is that during the decorating process, Laurie becomes a tree-Nazi. She is absolutely rigid about it, especially the putting up the lights part.

  We wrap the lights around it, starting at the top. If left to my own devices, I’d wrap it around a dozen times and be done with it. Not Laurie; she doesn’t allow more than maybe an inch vertically between strands. Since we have an eight-foot tree, you can do the math on how long it takes.

  Then come the ornaments, with those ridiculous little hooks that keep falling on the floor. Laurie has her own system of ornament-hanging, baffling to anyone but herself, and whenever I go to hang one, it’s the wrong color and shape, in the wrong place.

  We resolved that problem by making the back of the tree, which no one can see, my ornament-hanging domain. I don’t think she’s thrilled with the compromise, but sees it as a way to maintain holiday togetherness.

  “You’re decorating the tree tonight?” I ask.

  She nods. “I think so. I’m in the mood.”

  “Damn,” I say. “With Joey testifying tomorrow, I really need to prepare.” It’s not true, of course, since I already did my preparation with Joey, and I like to maintain my own spontaneity by not overdoing it.

  “Absolutely,” she says. “I completely understand. You go do your work.”

  I pretend to be disappointed, and say, “Sorry, wish I could help. But if you’re in the mood, you should go ahead and do it.”

  She nods. “Right. You know what else I was in the mood for? Decorating the tree together, then turning on the lights and making love on a blanket, right here on the living room floor.”

  “I’ll go get the hooks.”

  At moments like this, the global community really does come together. Political considerations and alliances become less important, as countries from almost all parts of the ideological spectrum step up to the plate to help the victimized country deal with the disaster. This is partly due to real humanitarian concern, and partly due to countries wanting to appear to have real humanitarian concern.

  In Peru’s Montaro Dam disaster, as it already was being called, the United States was assuming its standard role as the most active provider of emergency aid. The Red Cross, again per usual, was the lead agency in coordinating the effort, and most private and public help went through them.

  The scope of the disaster was just barely becoming known; more than twenty thousand killed or missing, perhaps two hundred thousand more displaced from homes that no longer existed.

  In such a situation, the relief efforts must be multifaceted. First is the rescue component; there were undoubtedly many people trapped but alive, and they must be found and taken to safety. Armies in the U.S. and elsewhere are well equipped for these tasks, and many governments immediately dispatched troops. Also, search and rescue divisions of fire departments located everywhere from Seattle to Miami prepared their people to fly in and help in the mission.

  And then there was caring for those already classified as survivors. They had no homes, no food, no medical care or supplies, no water, none of the normal services of life. All of this had to somehow be provided in about as inhospitable an area as could be imagined.

  And all had to be provided fast.

  The president of the United States, speaking on camera, read a statement expressing support for, and kinship with, the Peruvian people. When something like this happened, and happened right in our hemispheric backyard, the United States would do much more than its part.

  Every serviceable airport in Peru, and many in adjoining countries, readied for the onslaught. Some of the aid would be coming by sea, but air transport would provide by far the most, because time was so much of the essence.

  Simon Ryerson watched it all with satisfaction. Bringing down the dam was far from the most difficult part of the operation, but without it, nothing else could be accomplished.

  Ryerson never had the affliction of a conscience, but even if he did, he could have rationalized this one away. He was doing a job, he was basically a hired gun, and if he hadn’t done this, someone else would have.

  The result on the ground would have been the same, but someone else would reap the award.

  It was, Ryerson thought, much better this way.

  In my mind, there are three possible reasons for a defendant to testify. All of them apply in varying degrees to the Desimone trial.

  One is if he is likable, and believable, and the jury will therefore be favorably disposed toward him. The jury has heard about Joey from everyone but Joey, and most of it has been negative. For all they know he is a surly monster, and this is our chance to show them otherwise.

  Another reason is if the client can introduce some facts into evidence, facts that no one else can bring forward. It does no one any good to have a defendant simply take the stand to profess his own innocence; jurors recognize that as obviously self-serving. But in this case, Joey can for i
nstance relate how his fingerprints got on the gun, which is a huge piece of evidence against him.

  The third reason is the Hail Mary approach, in which the defendant’s testimony might somehow strike a spark, shake things up, in a way to win at least one member of the jury to the defense side. I don’t think our situation here is that dire, but a positive spark of some sort couldn’t hurt.

  The court today has an electric feeling to it, and the gallery is packed when I arrive. I’m a little surprised, because the media coverage this morning was understandably focused on the disaster in Peru.

  I find it amazing how fast the various news agencies are able to get people to any place in the world. It must cost a fortune to do so, yet each one seems to undertake the operation on their own. I would think they could find a way to consolidate their efforts, while remaining competitive, but it seems like they can’t.

  “You OK?” I ask Joey when I see him before the start of the court session.

  He nods. “I’m fine. A little nervous, but I’ll be fine.”

  “Just tell your story,” I say. “And remember, during cross-examination, don’t argue, and don’t get mad. Everybody’s just doing their job, playing the game. You do the same.”

  Hike says something to Joey, which I can’t hear, and Joey nods. Hike probably told him that with the end of the world coming any day now, it doesn’t matter what Joey says on the stand, so there is no reason to be nervous.

  I look over at Dylan, who is standing near the prosecution table, talking animatedly with colleagues. He seems tense, keyed up, as if he were about to take an SAT test that would determine his college future. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a pocket full of Ticonderoga number two pencils.

  “The defense calls Joseph Desimone,” I say, and we’re off.

  I take some time to let the jury get to know Joey, taking him through his education, culminating in his graduation from Rutgers, and then his time in the Marines. He never saw actual combat, but by the time I’m finished with him, it sounds like he won the Congressional Medal.

  Dylan objects that we need to move to more relevant matters, and Hatchet agrees, so I ask, “How did you meet Karen Solarno?”

  “It was at a charity dinner. At a Hilton, I think in Woodcliff Lakes. I was living in New York City at the time, so I wasn’t familiar with North Jersey.”

  “How did you come to be there?”

  “It was a benefit to raise money to fight cancer. My grandparents both died of the disease, so my father was always working for the cause and making large donations. He had bought two tables that night.”

  “So you were supporting the charity, and your father?”

  He grins slightly. “Actually, I was a seat filler, because no one else wanted to go. I can’t say I blamed them.”

  “You weren’t enjoying yourself?” I ask.

  “Well, it was in the summer, and with all the people in the room, the air conditioner was having a tough time keeping up. So I went outside for a walk, near the pool, just to get some air. It turned out Karen had done the same.”

  “So you struck up a conversation?”

  “Yes. I don’t know who spoke first, but we were out there for about half an hour. We just really hit it off, and we made plans to meet for lunch the next week.”

  “Did you know she was married?” I ask.

  “No. I didn’t ask, and she didn’t say. I guess I just assumed she wasn’t, based on the way she was talking, and agreeing to the lunch.”

  That’s how the affair began, and I don’t bring out many of the details. I take him through the days that Karen told him she was married, that Richard was abusive, and that she was going to leave him.

  I turn next to the elephant in the room. “It is widely believed that your father, Carmine Desimone, is the head of an organized crime family, Mafia, if you will.”

  “I know that,” Joey says. I can see the emotion he’s feeling, and I’m sure the jury can as well. What Joey and I know, but they don’t, is that Carmine is dead.

  “Is that an accurate description of what he does?”

  “I don’t know much about what he does. I know him as my father.”

  “But you never wanted to go into his business?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Did you know that Richard Solarno did business with him?”

  “Not at first. Karen didn’t tell me until the day she ended our relationship.”

  “Why did she end it?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure; I only know what she told me. She said that she still loved me, that she always would, but that she needed to give her marriage a chance.”

  “Were you angry?”

  He nods slowly. “Angry, and upset, and hurt. I really loved her.” He takes a moment to compose himself. “I still do.”

  I get him to explain the fingerprints in the house and on the gun. When Richard was out of town, they met at her home often. Because she was often alone, she had purchased a gun, and he showed her how to hold it, put the safety on, etcetera.

  “Did you ever take the gun out of the house?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Where were you when the murder was committed?”

  “I was home at my New York apartment the time they tell me it happened. I had a head cold, and I was in bed.”

  “Did you shoot and kill Richard Solarno?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Did you shoot and kill Karen Solarno?”

  His voice cracks a little, but he gets the words out.

  “No, I did not.”

  Dylan goes after Joey as hard as he can, and he scores some points.

  He doesn’t succeed in attacking Joey’s basic story; Joey just does not give him an opening to do that. That story has the ring of truth, and its credibility is bolstered by Joey’s admissions, that he was having an illicit affair, that he was furious when Karen dumped him, etcetera.

  Dylan is openly incredulous and derisive, pointing out that no one can confirm that Joey was at home when the murder was committed, or that he was ill. He also makes a lot out of Carmine’s reputation, and Joey’s professed lack of knowledge of what his father really did for a living. It’s not believable that Joey was unaware of Carmine’s position, and I wish Joey hadn’t claimed it.

  But where Dylan is most successful is in using the statement that Joey made to the police against him. Joey had been foolish to have talked to them at all, but he did not know he was a suspect. Once he realized that he was, he lied about a few things, including the affair itself, and whether he ever held Karen’s gun.

  “I panicked,” Joe said. “All of a sudden I realized that they thought I did this. I was devastated by Karen’s death, and now they were implying that I killed her. I wanted them to understand that they should be out there looking for the real killer, so I tried to make them look at people other than me.”

  “So you were being a good citizen, trying to help the police in their investigation,” Dylan mocks.

  “And I was protecting myself.”

  “By lying.”

  Joey nods. “By lying.”

  The cross-examination takes four hours, longer by two hours than my questioning of Joey. He holds up remarkably well under the badgering, and under the pressure of knowing that any slip-up could contribute to depriving him of freedom for the rest of his life.

  If I were a ringside judge scoring the day, I would probably give it to Joey by a round or two. I have no idea if that will be enough to sway the jury, but looking at the big picture, I’m glad that he testified.

  Of course, it also gives me another reason to beat myself up over the first trial. Knowing what I know now, I would have let him speak up in his own defense last time.

  Of course, knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t have gone to law school.

  The airfield in Guaranda, Peru, was geared up for unprecedented traffic. It was more than six hours from the disaster area, or at least it would have been if the roads were remotely passable.
But more important, it was only an hour and a half flight to the airport serving as the hub for the relief effort.

  Actually, it wouldn’t take much to qualify as unprecedented traffic for Guaranda. It was mostly a private airfield, set in an area that was not exactly a hotbed of personal and corporate jets. The military also used the airfield, but that was mostly for refueling, and it was sporadic at best.

  Guaranda was so rarely used that it did not even have air traffic control personnel, and certainly no customs presence. But in the current emergency all airfields were being pressed into service, so the workers at Guaranda were rushing to get it as ready as possible for the onslaught.

  Leading the effort was the director of air operations for Guaranda, Carlos Manaya. It was not exactly a sought-after position, and Manaya had been in the role for eleven years. Now forty-one and not particularly ambitious, he had until recently anticipated remaining in the job until he ultimately retired.

  His career path took something of a turn recently, when he secretly accepted an assignment that immediately paid him three hundred thousand American dollars, and when accomplished would pay him seven hundred thousand more. And the best part, except for the money, was that it was for doing almost nothing. In fact, all he really had to do was turn his head and look away.

  Manaya actually knew nothing whatsoever about what was going on. He could make an educated guess, but really saw no reason to do so. He would just let it happen, profess ignorance if ever questioned, and collect his money.

  He had no idea about the cavernous warehouse four hours to the north, or about the precious material that had been accumulating there for the past year. Or about the trucks that were waiting to carry that cargo.

  To Guaranda airport.

  And beyond.

  “This case is not about arms dealing. It never was,” is how Dylan begins his closing argument. “It’s not about sinister bad guys who walk in the shadows, or nutjobs in Montana who play soldier. All of that is part of the sideshow, meant to distract you from the real issue, the real facts.”

  “Way back during opening arguments, before the endless talking…” He smiles self-deprecatingly, though I doubt an X-ray would reveal a single self-deprecating bone in Dylan’s body. “… we told you what the case was about, and on behalf of the state, we have proven it.”