Pulling off Main Street in White Plains, I drove past the courthouse and found a multi-story car park. I got out, grabbed my files and made my way back to the street, thinking about Bear’s broken pinkie. I wasn’t thinking about Bear when I twisted his finger, I wasn’t even thinking of Kevin – I was thinking about myself and what a damn fool I’d been. These past few months I’d come to realize that I’d pretty much lost my family, and I couldn’t see a way of getting them back. I hitched my coat around my shoulders and braved the cold on the way to the courthouse.
I’d never practiced in this court before, and I wasn’t familiar with the staff, the judges, or the layout of the place.
The courthouse boasted a tower, reserved for administrative staff and the county Supreme Court, and an annex; a white stone, half-circle that wrapped itself around a courtyard that now separated the original building from the new build. A wall of curved glass on the top floor of the annex gave a great view of the snow-covered courtyard.
Whilst the glass wall proved to be a thing of architectural beauty, it was a pain in the ass when you were conducting a trial with any kind of media interest. The reporters, photographers, cameramen, TV anchors, bloggers, they could all see you coming a mile away thanks to that glass wall.
I could see a whole posse waiting outside the courtroom as the elevator dumped me onto the top floor of the annex. No way to avoid them. I kept my head down, pushed through the crowd, ignored the questions and the hands on my elbows. They were a persistent bunch, and they followed me inside.
“No comment,” I said.
I ignored them and made my way to the defense table. There was no one else in the courtroom. Just me and the reporters. Over the years I’d gotten to know and like a handful of crime reporters in Manhattan. They knew that the best approach was a soft one. Most of the reporters who were still throwing questions at me, while my back was turned, were locals for small-town papers and the competing news agencies in White Plains.
I placed my files on the table, took out a pen and a legal pad. Sat down, and closed my eyes. It was a full two minutes before they stopped trying to get my attention.
I adjusted my tie, made the knot tight, and then swept my hand along the length of the dark fabric – smoothing it out. About four inches below the knot, I wore a small tie pin. It was an inch-long ceramic pin, which held the two halves of my tie straight. There was a plain black pin head, no bigger than a shirt button.
I’d bought the pin yesterday.
The trial was due to begin at eleven thirty. The judge had a sentencing first thing. That gave me over an hour before we officially began proceedings in The People v. Leonard Matthew Howell.
We had insisted on a speedy trial, and the District Attorney’s office had lit a fire under the respective asses of both the FBI and the Police Department. There was no confirmation that Caroline Howell had been moved across state lines. Her body had never been found, but enough of her blood was found in the basement to make it murder. While the FBI made Howell’s arrest, they couldn’t prosecute him in federal court under the Federal Kidnapping Act. Instead the feds handed him over to county and became FBI prosecution witnesses in the state trial.
I thought of that morning after the fire. I remembered that itchy feeling I had; I couldn’t wait to get this trial started and prove Howell was innocent.
Sitting at the defense table, with my head in my hands, and the trial about to start – I would’ve given anything to take back that eagerness to represent my client.
I knew in my gut he didn’t kill his daughter. There was no actor in the world who could’ve faked the agony I saw in that man when the FBI told him they thought his daughter was dead and that he had murdered her. The suicide attempt, the cries, the clawing at the ground. All of that wild anger had nothing to do with the accusation of murder. It was the loss of his beloved daughter.
In a cell beneath New Rochelle district court, the day after his arrest, he told me to apply for bail so he could kill himself. He didn’t want to live in a world without his daughter. His mental condition had deteriorated and I got him to sign a document giving me Power of Attorney – so I could look after his finances and promote a few people in his company in an attempt to keep the business afloat. I knew the practical business of living would help to keep him in the world.
“I can’t go on, Eddie. She was everything. And somebody took her. She was special, you know. My first wife and I had tried for years to get pregnant. I was still in the marines, active on every tour, so it took a while. We tried IVF and it didn’t work. She wanted a child so bad. She was worried too. In case something happened to me on the job. We tried IVF again, two more times. Last one was the charm. She was so happy. I remember coming home after my last tour, and there she was – this little pink bundle in my wife’s arms. Caroline and I had a special relationship. More than just father and daughter, you know? My first wife could be … cold. She and Caroline didn’t bond properly. Not like they should. Caroline was always closest to me. Now, both of them are gone. I can’t … I can’t deal with that …”
Nothing could balm this wound. Not time. Not alcohol, not drugs.
“Lenny,” I said. He didn’t hear me, and I took his silence as acceptance.
“You’re forgetting something. Somebody did this to Caroline. And they’re still walking around. Right now, the cops and the FBI aren’t looking for them because they think that person was you. Help me out here. Where’s Marlon and McAuley? Somebody hit you on the head. Think about this.”
“I don’t believe they had anything to do with it. Whoever took Caroline probably has McAuley and Marlon somewhere, or they’ve been shot, chopped and dumped in the Hudson.”
His knuckles turned white, his fists tight.
“Help me, Lenny. Whatever you’ve got left, you gotta use it to keep going. You owe it to Caroline to find out who killed her. Give me some time. I’ll get you off, and while I’m doing that we’ll find out who really did this. We can do this together. I can’t do it alone. I need you.”
His hands fell across the table, and his arms and fingers were trembling.
“What if we don’t find him? What if you don’t get me off?” he said, not looking at me. His eyes could no longer fix on anything or anyone.
“I will,” I said.
“What if you can’t? I can’t live with this, Eddie.”
I nodded.
“I’ll do it if you promise me something,” he said.
“What?”
“Promise me if I get convicted, and we can’t find who really took Caroline, you’ll help me punch out.”
I recoiled, instantly. The thought was repellant. But after the initial revulsion, it almost made sense. I knew how I would feel if something happened to Amy. Or Christine. They had been in danger before – real danger. And I knew if they were not in this world, I wouldn’t want to be either.
“Promise me!” he roared.
The guard appeared at the window of the conference cell in the bowels of the district court. I waved him away and he moved off.
“I’ll need something small – like a pen, or a pill. You could do that. You could give me something, slip it to me during a visit. I can give you six months if you swear to me you’ll do this if we fail. I need to know there’s a way out, Eddie, one way or the other. Swear it.”
He wanted to hear the words. He wanted to look me in the eye and know that I meant it. There was no way I was going to let him kill himself, but I needed him to stay alive and if that demanded that I lie to him, I was prepared to do it.
“I swear to you, if we can’t find the killer, and if you get convicted, I’ll help you find a way out.”
For a long time he stared at me, his ravaged eyes searched my face for any sign of a tell. He saw none.
Howell didn’t make bail and I was relieved. At least on the inside he would be put on suicide watch. Although, six months inside hadn’t let him mourn either. He was still a man who wanted to die. And in that six mont
hs there had been no word, no sign of McAuley, Marlon, nor the ten million dollars. If there were kidnappers involved other than McAuley or Marlon, they made no approach.
Sitting in the courtroom in White Plains, an hour from the trial beginning, I knew two things.
First, with all of the new evidence that came out in the last six months, Howell would probably be convicted.
The second thing I knew was that when the jury gave their verdict in a day or two, Howell would ask me for the ceramic pin. I’d shown it to him yesterday. He’d weighed it, tested the edge and pricked his finger by accident. He’d given it back to me and nodded, satisfied. It was razor sharp. There was no metal in the pin to set off the electronic detectors, and it was small enough to fit inside his cheek. He could hide it for a short time, undetected.
Would it be more humane to let him suffer, or let him die? I’d thought about little else. In the end, I wore the pin for show. It served as a convincer to keep Howell on this earth long enough to get to the end of the trial. If he wanted to die after the trial, that was his decision – but I wasn’t going to be the one to help him. I knew I would never give him the pin. I’d lied to him to keep him alive. Eventually, I’d have to admit that to him. And he would hate me for it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Howell sat beside me, dressed in a plain white shirt and dark pants. He had that faraway look which some defendants get on their first day of trial. They don’t quite know where to look, so they stare off into the distance. The jury waited patiently, and the courtroom gallery boasted a good crowd. The judge sat silently, waiting for proceedings to begin.
Assistant District Attorney Michelle King got to her feet, walked around the prosecution table and stood in front of the jury. She wore a navy pantsuit, and a pale blue blouse with a hint of color from a red silk scarf around her neck. I’d checked her out with the local defense attorneys. She was talented, smart, went to a decent law school and was well respected by the local judges. Apparently, she had a penchant for those neck scarves. It was this modest fashion accessory and her smooth, confident delivery in court that had earned her the nickname “The Silk Hammer.”
One defense attorney told me that it didn’t matter if your client got crushed by a ton of silk or a ton of lead. The damage was the same – only King dumped the weight without you or your client even knowing about it.
She waited while the jury put down their pads and pens and looked at her. Jury selection had not gone too badly. During questioning there were at least four jurors who stated, in answer to my questions, that they would do everything they possibly could to protect a loved one in danger – including taking matters into their own hands. These four were all men, all in their early to late forties, who had manual jobs and families. Two of them were African American, one was Hispanic, the other white. They were my only hope in an unwinnable case as a jury, even if they believe the defendant committed the crime, can at their discretion return a not guilty if they feel like it. A big “the hell with you” to the prosecution.
Of the eight female jurors, two were ex-military and I thought they gave me the biggest problem. Folks who went through military training usually toed the line – they didn’t question authority and stuck to the rules – even if it was life or death. Plus, they were army. They wouldn’t look that favorably on an ex-Marine.
The other six women were a mix of White Plains middle-class ladies. A bank clerk, a grocery store owner, a manager in a car dealership, and three housewives. I’d already used up my juror challenges getting rid of three grade-school teachers, a retired stockbroker and a kindergarten teacher. Teachers tended to go with the authority figures. I needed folks who could at least envisage the bending of rules for a good cause. The stockbroker got canned because I hate stockbrokers, and so does everyone else.
If I had to guess, I’d say King had the better spread of jurors. My only chance was the four men, going with their gut and doing what any father would do. They might, just might be enough for a hung jury. There was one female juror who could be persuaded, but I wasn’t sure. And my ace in the hole was juror four. The only white male and undoubtedly the only asshole in the group. I’d noticed him, looking down his nose at the female jurors and he wasn’t too comfortable being the only white male on the panel. I picked him because he had an American flag tattooed on his arm – which meant he was pro-military, but by the way he slouched in the chair I could tell he’d never served a day in his life. The tattoo of the AR-15 assault rifle on his other forearm meant he enjoyed his right to bear arms. He’d sent a half smile toward Howell when he was brought in, and I knew right then I had this guy on my side.
One of the first things I’d learned about jury trials was never underestimate the power of an asshole. I’d rather have an asshole on my side than a nice guy who’d actually listen to the other jurors in the room. If the asshole is on your side you can pretty much guarantee he’ll stay that way. Assholes lack the imagination to open their minds.
But there was a hundred miles of rough road between now and the jury retiring for their verdict, and unless things changed dramatically – or some of the prosecution witnesses didn’t show – the vast majority of the jury would only go one way: Guilty.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury. My name is Michelle King, I represent the People of the State of New York. It’s my responsibility to present evidence to you, which we believe proves the case against the defendant, Leonard Howell.”
She paused, took a step back, held her hands out wide.
“Your job is to evaluate the evidence. No one else does that but you. We say that when the evidence is presented and you’ve had time to consider all of it, you will believe, beyond all reasonable doubt, that the defendant murdered Caroline Howell. His own daughter.”
Another pause. Let the jury look at the man who murdered his child.
I’d been through this with Howell; don’t look at the judge or the jury, just focus on the prosecutor or me during opening speeches.
Either he’d forgotten, or he no longer had anything to lose. He stared at the jury. The asshole stared back, unafraid to look Howell in the eye.
“Some of the evidence that will be presented in this case is highly disturbing. There are graphic images which we have to show you. We don’t do this lightly, members of the jury.”
One of the ADAs at the prosecution table hit a button on a remote control. The two large plasma televisions that sat on either side of the judge’s bench came to life. Some of the jury looked away – not wanting to confront the horror so early in the proceedings. But their fellow jurors tugged at their arms, reassured them, and got them to lower their hands from their eyes. On the screens were identical photographs of Caroline Howell, from her Facebook profile pictures. She was wearing a red and white striped top, smiling for the picture as she stood in front of her house.
“This is Caroline Howell. A beautiful girl with her whole life ahead of her. She was an A-grade student, well liked in her class and popular in the community. Her father, who was facing bankruptcy, led her to the basement of the house, he took up a knife and cut her throat. He lied to the police and the FBI, then conned his insurance company into giving him ten million dollars for the ransom. The money has not been recovered, and the ransom exchange never happened. The ten-million-dollar ransom has disappeared – along with two of the defendant’s more trusted employees – Peter McAuley and Marlon Black. One of those employees ratted out their boss and wrote a note to the police on Caroline’s shirt telling them that her father killed her in the basement. What did happen is that while the FBI were delivering what they believed to be the ransom money – Leonard Howell remotely triggered an incendiary device in his basement in an attempt to destroy the crime scene. He did this by using his cell phone to call a pager that triggered an explosive device in his basement.
The jury took all of this in while gazing between King and the image of Caroline on the screen.
“He has hidden Caroline’s body, but despite
his effort he could not conceal his crime. Our experts found bloodstains in the basement which match Caroline Howell’s DNA. More bloodstains belonging to the victim were found on a pair of spectacles recovered from her car. Those spectacles belong to her father, the defendant. The murder weapon was also recovered from the blaze – a kitchen knife with Caroline’s blood on it and the defendant’s fingerprints. When federal agents arrested Howell for his daughter’s murder, he attempted suicide. He did this out of guilt. The guilt that he felt for murdering his own flesh and blood for money. You too will see his guilt. Of that I have no doubt.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The judge presiding over the case turned her attention to the defense. Her Honor, Judge Patricia Schultz, was not well known to me. This was the first case I’d tried in front of her, but I knew her by reputation. When I discovered she would be trying the case, I’d called a few local defense attorneys who’d previously told me all about the silk hammer – King. Schultz was a respected justice with a fair, open mind and she liked to have as little to do with the trial as possible.
Some judges interfere all the time. Objecting to questions, asking questions, making remarks and demands. All that accomplished was to lengthen the trial and piss everybody off.
Judge Schultz was the opposite. She let the lawyers get on with it, but at the same time she had a keen mind. She was a good listener but if you wandered off course, or didn’t play by the rules, she let you know about it – big time.
Harsh, but fair. I could live with that.
I stood and took up the spot in front of the jury, which had been occupied by King just moments before. Howell’s glasses turning up in Caroline’s car was a sure-fire winner for King. The blood spots on the lenses had been confirmed as Caroline’s. I didn’t have a way around that piece of evidence just yet. Instead, I decided to get the jury thinking about something else.
Eddie Flynn 03-The Liar Page 13
