Gardner clenched his fist and waved it in the air. They had Starke.
Brownie thanked the officer and turned to the prosecutors. “Out-of-state arrest. What do we want to do with it?”
Gardner’s feeling of triumph quickly faded. An out-of-state arrest meant trouble if the defendant refused to waive extradition and voluntarily return to Maryland. If he fought the warrant it could be months before they got him back. And if Pennsylvania set a bond on the extradition proceeding, Starke could be released before they ever touched him.
“Where is he?” Gardner asked, craning his head to see the paper.
“Eastern Pennsylvania, on the turnpike,” Brownie answered.
Hours away by car, Gardner thought. “Call the chopper, Brownie,” he said. “Maybe we can surprise him.”
“And head off an extradition problem,” Brownie cut in.
Gardner smiled and looked at Jennifer. “Feel like taking a ride?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Sure,” the State’s Attorney said. “You can stay here and watch them open the safe…”
Jennifer grabbed his hand. “I’d rather fly.”
Brownie led the way and they hurried down the stairs. If the helicopter was free they could be out of there in minutes. And maybe surprise Starke before he had a chance to assert his Constitutional rights.
Joel Jacobs lounged on the patio of his Parkside East penthouse. It had been a heavy week of negotiating and scrapping in the corridors of the city courthouse, and he was tired. I le lay back on the chaise and lifted his glass of iced tea, admiring a cloud of pigeons that was swooping low over the puffed green trees of Central Park. At that moment of peaceful reflection, the phone rang.
“Hello?” He was off duty. No calls or interruptions expected.
“Mr. Jacobs, it’s Wendell.” He was an associate at the firm who worked around the clock. In four years there, it was doubtful he’d ever seen the sun.
“What is it?” Joel’s voice edged into the irritated range.
“A call sir. Urgent, they said. Mr. Starke the fourth. In trouble. In Pennsylvania.”
Jacobs sat up, and shielded his eyes. The pigeons swooped into the leaf cover and disappeared. The mood was shattered. “When did the call come in?”
“A few minutes ago, sir. I knew you didn’t want to be disturbed, so I took the call. Then I thought I’d better let you know…”
Jacobs toed around for his slippers under the chaise and stood up. “Relax, Wendell. You did the right thing.” The associate was typical of his breed: sycophantic to a fault, and terrified of displeasing the master.
The attorney walked to the kitchen and picked up a note pad, clamping the portable phone between his chin and neck. “You got a number, of course,” he said.
“Yes, sir. Area code 717, 323-1111. Pennsylvania State Police Barracks.”
“Okay. You wait there for my return call. We may have some strings to pull before the day is done, and I want you to stand by…”
“Yes, sir!” Wendell sounded like he would follow Jacobs off a cliff.
The attorney clicked off, then dialed the number.
“Barrack C, State Police.” The voice was female, and very official.
“Who am I speaking with, please?” Joel’s voice was as smooth as clover honey.
“Corporal Zane.”
“Corporal, my name is Joel Jacobs. I’m an attorney, calling from New York City.” His tone was melodic, mesmerizing. As if he were trying to woo her. “I understand you’ve got a young man in custody, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve got several young men in the lockup.”
“Does one of them happen to be a Mr. Starke?”
There was a short pause as the corporal checked her prisoner manifest. “Uh, yes, sir. A Mr. Wellington Starke the fourth.”
“Okay. Now, can you tell me what charges he’s being held on?”
There was another pause. “Uh, it’s a fugitive warrant out of Maryland. Looks like two counts of murder, and a count of attempted murder.”
Joel grimaced but kept quiet. “Uh, may I speak to the commanding officer, please?”
“Yes, sir. That would be Captain Henderson.”
There was a click, and a male voice answered. “Henderson.”
Jacobs repeated the same introduction he’d given the other officer. His voice was polite. Courteous. Deferential.
“Okay,” the captain replied. “What can I do for you?”
“I want you to listen carefully,” Joel said, “and I want you to take down these instructions verbatim.” The voice was still soft, but each word carried the aura of a threat.
“Do what?” The officer did not follow.
“I’m Mr. Starke’s attorney. I’m recording this conversation so there will be no mistake later as to the instructions I’m about to give you…” He keyed a beeper on the console to acknowledge that a recording was being made. “I suggest you write down each word. Do you understand?”
“Uhhh…” The captain was speechless. He was a road trooper, used to pulling over drunk drivers and clearing accidents off the interstate. He’d never heard anything like this before.
“First, I’m instructing you not to allow anyone, and I repeat anyone to question my client until I am able to be present. Do you acknowledge what I have just said?”
“Uh-huh…” The captain still sounded dumbstruck.
“Second. My client does not, and again, I repeat, does not waive extradition to Maryland. You are forbidden to present him with any waiver forms or even to discuss the matter with him until I arrive. Do you have that?”
“No waiver. Uh-huh. I heard you…”
“Third. You are to fax a complete set of charging documents to the following number immediately. Area code 212-445-6700. Do you copy that?”
“Four-four-five, six-seven hundred. Yeah.”
“Area code 212.”
“Yeah, 212.”
The phone beeped as the recording continued. “Captain…”
“Yeah?”
“I expect these instructions to be obeyed.” The voice had lost its sugar coating. Its tone was ominous.
“Yeah. Whatever you say,” the captain replied. The point was made. “Uh, do you wish to speak with your client.”
“No,” Joel replied firmly. “I’ll see him when I get there. In the meantime keep him on ice.”
The captain mumbled an answer, and Jacobs hung up. Then he rapidly dialed another number.
“Let me speak to Mr. Starke,” he told the servant who answered. “Joel Jacobs calling.”
“Joel?” Wellington Starke sounded surprised.
“Problem, Wel,” Jacobs said gravely.
“IV?”
“Yes, I’m afraid.”
Starke seemed to choke on his own breath. “How bad?”
“He’s been charged with murder,” Jacobs said.
“Ohhh!” It was a father’s wail of pain.
“Take it easy!” Jacobs said calmly.
“But, but…” Starke was groping for words.
“Just tell me how far I can go.”
The blubbering stopped. “How bad is it?”
Jacobs blew a hissing sound through his lips. “We can assume it’s very bad. I just need to know how much authority I have.”
“You’re gonna take care of it?”
“Yes, if you authorize it.”
Starke went silent for a moment, then came back on the line. “No limit, Joel,” he said somberly.
“No limit?” Jacobs asked.
“Whatever it takes,” Starke replied. “Just help him…”
“Thank you,” Jacobs said. “I’ll keep you posted. Don’t do or say a thing until you hear from me.”
Jacobs hung up, walked to his bedroom, and pulled a suitcase out of his closet. There was no time to waste.
The Maryland State Police helicopter lifted off at 3:15 P.M. with its turbine engine whining and its rotor blades thwop-thwop-thwopping against th
e humid air. The craft made a lazy turn over the town, then dipped its nose and picked up speed as it raced toward the east.
Gardner sat up front in the copilot’s seat, Brownie and Jennifer on jump seats behind. Each had on a headset so they could communicate above the vibrating roar of the engine.
“Okay back there?” the State’s Attorney asked his colleagues.
There had been very little planning before they had called in the helicopter. No strategy session. No discussion. Gardner had made another spur-of-the-moment decision, as he so often did. Acting on impulse, propelled by his intuition, the prosecutor was not one for lying back and allowing events to overtake him.
“School,” the pilot said, banking right so his passengers could get a better look. Below, the geometric lines of Prentice Academy suddenly appeared, trimmed and symmetrical as an English garden. Gardner had asked for a fly-by on the way to Pennsylvania. He wanted to see the beeline that Brownie had described earlier. “Over there,” he told the pilot, pointing to the square block of stone on the edge of the campus that was IV Starke’s dormitory.
The helicopter banked again and aligned with the building, passing over the thinning crowd of commencement celebrants as it adjusted course. The ceremony was over. Many of the cars had left the parking lot, and the gathering was now down to a handful of family groups. They passed over the quadrangle and descended to rooftop level.
Gardner glimpsed several police cars beside the dorm as they roared over the structure and crossed into the treeline.
“Keep it low,” Gardner ordered.
“Roger,” the pilot replied, easing forward on the stick so the metal skids were almost touching the leafy treetops.
“Path’s in there somewhere,” Brownie said from behind. He’d moved forward to get a better view. And Jennifer had joined him.
The vegetation was thick. Too thick to see beneath the canopy of oaks, maples, evergreens, and a blanket of vines. From above, at least, it did not look like anything could get through.
“Bowers Corner,” the pilot reported.
Gardner had been looking down, so the gabled roof bursting out of the foliage on the horizon caught him by surprise.
The copter picked up speed and leaped skyward over the store with a sudden burst of power.
“Jeez…” Gardner exclaimed. The G-forces constricted his stomach as the aircraft climbed, but that’s not what made him cry out. It was so close. The school where Roscoe worked. Where he and Starke played with shotguns. Where a student’s room backed up to the woods, and the student read magazines that praised violence. So close to the woods. So close to the store. So close to Addie and Henry.
“You get the picture,” Brownie said.
“Yeah,” Gardner replied. They were on the right track. Finally, after the false starts and miscues they were getting somewhere. The simple robbery theory was starting to fade. Brownie and Jennifer were probably right. In some bizarre way, the missing money, Purvis, King, Roscoe, and IV Starke were tied together. There was a pattern here, but like the obscured path in the woods, it wasn’t yet apparent.
“Uh oh!” The pilot’s voice suddenly interrupted Gardner’s thoughts. The prosecutor looked through the windscreen into a massive black cloud ahead. “Storm,” the pilot said, jerking the stick left, and canting the copter into a dizzying highspeed bank. The daily four o’clock visitor had arrived early, and in minutes the valley would be inundated with rain, lightning, and high winds.
The helicopter turned eastward, threading through several bumpy curtains of rain, raising and lowering above and below the boiling storm cells.
“Sorry, folks, looks like we’re gonna have a rough ride ahead,” the pilot announced grimly.
Gardner silently agreed. On all counts, the man was probably right.
eleven
The helicopter landed beside the Pennsylvania police barracks at 4:30 P.M. It had bounced and buffeted through the edges of several storms but had come out unscathed. Gardner, Jennifer, and Brownie ducked below the rotor blades and ran for the squat brick building. They were glad to be on solid ground.
A uniformed officer allowed them past the outer waiting area after they showed their badges and a copy of IV Starke’s arrest warrant. They were then directed down a long green-tiled hall to Captain Henderson’s office. Gardner knocked, and a voice told him to enter.
Gardner led his entourage into the room, and Henderson stood up. “Afternoon, Captain,” Gardner said, showing his badge. “We’re here to see IV Starke. The guy you picked up on the Maryland warrant.” He handed a copy of the charging document across the officer’s gray metal desk.
Henderson’s square face went serious as he took the papers. He was a prototype state trooper. He sat down and motioned the trio into a semicircle of chairs around the desk.
Gardner could sense something was wrong. “What’s the problem?”
Henderson looked like he was trying to swallow a raw egg.
“Got a call from the man’s attorney,” the trooper said. “New York hotshot.” There was an edge of contempt to his words. In criminal justice, prosecutors and police were on one side, defense attorneys on the other. The captain’s allegiance was obvious. “Gave instructions not to allow anyone near his client.”
Gardner looked at Jennifer, then back at Henderson. “When was this?”
“About two hours ago. We let Starke use the phone when he came in. Think he called New York. Ten minutes later the lawyer called…” Henderson’s face set as if he was going to say more, but his voice trailed off. “Weird…” he finally said.
Gardner caught the trooper’s eye and urged him to continue.
“Jacobs,” Henderson said. “That was his name. A real arrogant son of a bitch.”
Gardner’s mind suddenly focused on Kent King.
“Didn’t ask me. Ordered me. And recorded the conversation!”
Gardner stirred in his seat. This did not sound good. Starke already had a lawyer, and the lawyer was off and running with countermoves. “Recorded?” The prosecutor had never heard that one before.
Henderson nodded his head. “Yep. Said if I didn’t follow his instructions, he’d use the tape in court—”
“Damn!” Brownie exclaimed. “Looks like we got another live one!”
Gardner looked at his friend. His face was grim.
“Did Starke ask for an attorney?” Jennifer suddenly interjected. Gardner jerked his head in her direction. The lawyer had called on his client’s behalf, but that was not the crucial issue. Did the client ask for his lawyer? That was the key. If Starke had not yet asked for his lawyer, they still might have a chance to talk to him.
Henderson smiled, as if he suddenly saw the same opening. “No. I don’t believe he did. Jacobs called me, and gave the instructions, but Starke never specifically said that he wanted an attorney…”
“Did you read him his rights?” Gardner asked hopefully. They might be on to something. Only the defendant can make the lawyer request. No one else can do it for him.
Henderson’s smile widened. “Yep. He was Mirandized in the field, and again back here at the barracks.”
“Was he questioned?” Gardner asked.
“Why, no,” the captain answered. “It wasn’t our case. We would not really know what to ask.”
Gardner smiled. “So he’s been given his rights, has not asked for a lawyer, and has not been interrogated.”
“Correct,” Henderson answered.
“So it looks like we’re okay,” Jennifer said.
Gardner whispered, “Uh-huh,” then leaned forward in his seat and looked at Henderson. “Can you let us talk to him?”
“You know I’ve been ordered not to,” the captain said.
“I know,” Gardner answered, “but the rights belong to the client, not the lawyer. We’re not violating any law by talking to him.”
Henderson hesitated. Jacobs sounded as if he could make a lot of trouble for anyone who crossed him. “He’s on his way down here,” t
he captain said.
“Who?” Gardner asked.
“Jacobs. Said he was coming down immediately.”
Gardner stood up. “Then we don’t have a lot of time.”
Henderson remained seated, still contemplating his dilemma. “He said something else—no extradition waivers allowed…”
Gardner put his hands on his hips. “He said. The lawyer. Did you ask Starke?”
Henderson shook his head. “No.” He was still on the fence.
“Then that’s an open issue too,” Gardner said.
“Captain.” This time Brownie spoke. “Starke was in some heavy shit. Was with a guy who blew the heads off two old folks and cracked the skull of this man’s little boy…” He put his hand on Gardner’s back. “It’s not the strongest case in the world, and we think Starke can fill in the gaps.”
Henderson stood up. “You’re gonna need this,” he said, handing a printed form to Gardner.
Gardner took it and read the caption on the top: WAIVER OF EXTRADITION. “So you’re letting us in,” he said softly.
“Correct,” Henderson replied. “You’d better get moving. Jacobs could be here anytime. And if you’re not done and out of here by then we might all get the firing squad.”
Joel Jacobs was in the corporate jet hangar of La Guardia Airport waiting for his plane to be fueled. As chief counsel to the Landau Chemical Company, he was given access to the corporation’s Learjet whenever he requested it. A phone call to the on-duty pilot had secured its availability, and now all they had to do was gas up and he’d be on his way.
The attorney sat in the lounge and opened his briefcase. The charges against IV had been faxed as promised, and he reviewed them word by word. “Accompanied.” “Aided and Abetted.” “Accomplice.” The operative phrases echoed the same theme. IV was a participant in the crimes, but not the moving force. The shooter was a man named Roscoe Miller. Jacobs circled Roscoe’s name and reached for the telephone on the table beside him.
After several rings, a man answered. “Udek.”
Silent Son Page 17
