Sudden Death

by David Rosenfelt

  I’m up early and leave for the jail by eight-thirty. Willie arrives just before I go, for the purpose of accompanying me. He seems to be relishing the role of bodyguard, and that’s fine with me because my concern about Quintana is pretty much with me twenty-four hours a day.

  We’re at the jail by nine o’clock, and though I don’t offer Willie the option of going inside with me, he makes it a point to decline just in case. Willie spent a lot of years in prison and is not about to enter one again, even if he’s free to leave.

  Kenny thinks I’m there to discuss the possibility of him testifying. It’s something he has expressed a desire to do, but until now I’ve put off the discussion as premature. That hasn’t changed.

  “That’s not what I want to talk about,” I say. “Something important has come up.”

  If a person can look hopeful and cringe at the same time, Kenny pulls it off. He doesn’t know whether this is going to be good or bad news, but he instinctively knows it will be important. “Talk to me,” he says.

  “I want you to think back to your senior year in high school, when that magazine made you an all-American and brought you to New York for the weekend.”

  He nods. “That’s where I met Troy. I told you that.”

  “Can you think of anything unusual, memorable, that happened on that weekend?”

  He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head and smiles. “Not unless you call drinking beer unusual.”

  “I’m thinking a little more unusual than that.”

  “Then I can’t think of anything,” he says.

  “On that Saturday night you went to a restaurant with the rest of the players. There was a sportswriter there, and you and the other members of the offense asked him to leave the room so you could have a team meeting. Do you remember that?”

  Again he thinks for a while, searching his memory. That weekend seems not to be something that he has thought about in a long time and maybe never was terribly significant in his life. I’m finding I believe his reactions, now that I believe in his innocence. It’s a feeling of substantial relief.

  “It definitely rings a bell. Let me think about it for a minute,” he says.

  “Take your time.”

  He does, and after a short while he smiles slightly and nods. “I remember… we had it all figured out. We knew some of us would make it big in the pros someday and that some wouldn’t. Nobody thought they’d be the ones not to make it, but with injuries and stuff you never know.”

  “Right,” I say, hoping to move him along.

  “So we decided that the ones who did make it would get these huge bonuses, and we all agreed that they would take care of the guys who didn’t. Like an insurance policy.”

  “So it was a pact?” I ask.

  He grins. “Yeah. I told you we had a lot of beer.”

  “This pact… is that why you’ve taken care of Bobby Pollard all these years? Gotten him a job as your trainer?”

  He shakes his head. “Of course not. I hadn’t even remembered about that high school thing until you just asked. Bobby’s a friend… and everything he dreamed about fell apart. So I helped him. But it wasn’t charity, you know? He’s a damn good trainer.”

  “Could anyone in that room have taken that pact seriously? Could Bobby?”

  His head shake is firm. “No way… once the beer wore off… no way. Come on… we were kids. Why are you asking me this stuff?”

  “Remember those guys I asked you about… the ones that had died? They were all there that night. They were all members of the offense on the Inside Football high school all-American team.” I take out the list and show it to him, along with the list of the deceased.

  “Goddamn,” he says, and then he says it again, and again. “You’re sure about this?”

  I nod. “And I’m also sure that you were in the general area at the time of each death. You and Bobby Pollard.” I’m not yet positive that what I’m saying about Pollard is true, but I have no doubt that the facts will come out that way.

  “You think Bobby killed these people?” he asks.

  “Somebody did, and he’s as good a bet as any. And he may have killed a young man who was working for me as well, when that young man discovered the truth.”

  “It just doesn’t seem possible. Why would he kill them? Because they didn’t give him part of their bonuses? Some of these guys didn’t even get drafted by the NFL.”

  It’s a good point, and one of the things I’m going to have to figure out. “How good a player was Bobby?” I ask.

  “He was okay… not as good as he thought. He wasn’t real quick, but in high school he was bigger than the guys he was playing against. In college, and especially the pros, everybody is big. So you gotta be fast.”

  “So Bobby wouldn’t have made it in the NFL if he hadn’t gotten hurt?”

  “Nah. He wouldn’t even have been that good in college. But he’d never admit that, and don’t tell him I said it.”

  Kenny asks me what effect my theory will have on his trial and is not happy when I tell him that right now I haven’t decided how to handle it. What I don’t tell him is that his life will depend on my making the right decision.

  Willie and I head back home, where Laurie, Kevin, and Sam are waiting for me. Sam has spent the night and morning performing more miracles on the computer and has already placed Pollard geographically within range of the murders.

  “And I’m gonna get the medical records,” he says with a smile.

  “When will you have them?” I ask.

  “As soon as you let me get the hell out of here.”

  “Can’t you do it from here? Adam got killed for doing just what you’re doing.”

  He shakes his head. “Adam got killed because he called Pollard and must have mistakenly alerted him to what was going on. At the time, he probably didn’t realize Pollard was the killer, but Pollard must have known he’d figure it out soon. I won’t make the same mistake.”

  “Come on, Sam, you’re going way too fast. We’re not nearly that sure that Pollard is our guy.”

  Sam just smiles. “No harm, no foul.”

  He knows I’ll understand his cryptic comment, and I do. It’s a basketball phrase, which when twisted into this situation means that if we pursue this strategy and come up empty, what have we lost? We might as well go for it full out and see what happens. He’s right.

  “Okay, but can’t you do all this on my computer?”

  He snorts. “You call that thing you have a computer? You want this to take forever?”

  I don’t, so I let Sam leave. Kevin then brings me up-to-date on our legal situation and the few precedents that deal with the kind of predicament we are in.

  None of what we are doing has in any fashion been introduced into the trial. The judge, jury, and prosecution all have no idea that Troy Preston’s murder is one in a series or that Bobby Pollard is a suspect. All we have done as a defense is try to poke holes in the prosecution’s case and shift suspicion onto Troy’s drug connections.

  What we have learned would be a bomb detonating in the courtroom, and we have to figure out how to minimize the damage our client might suffer in the explosion. After all, we could be setting up Kenny as a serial killer. Right now our only credible reason for thinking the killer is Pollard, rather than Kenny, is the fact that the imprisoned Kenny could not have killed Adam. It is possible that Quintana really did kill Adam, thinking he was me. Perhaps Adam just placed his notes in a location that the police haven’t uncovered. I don’t believe that scenario, but it’s only important what Judge Harrison and the jury believe.

  An even more immediate problem is how to get all this admitted in the first place. There is a very real possibility that Judge Harrison won’t let it in. We can’t even prove that the other deaths were murders; in each case the police say otherwise. Harrison could rule that none of this is relevant, and there’s not an appeals court in the free world that would overturn him.

  Laurie has learned from the
doctor that a drug form of potassium not only can cause heart attacks when administered in an overdose but would be undetectable in an autopsy unless the coroner had a specific reason to screen for potassium poisoning. The reason it’s so hard to find is that once death occurs, cells in the body break down and release potassium on their own. Potassium as an agent of homicide is very unlikely to be discovered by a coroner, especially in small-town jurisdictions.

  This news points even more directly at Pollard, since as a team trainer he has substantial contact with the medical staff and the drugs that they use. He would also have access to their prescription pads.

  I have a four o’clock meeting with Pollard, which had been planned to discuss his potential testimony, scheduled for sometime this week. I don’t want to cancel it because I don’t want to give him the slightest hint that there is anything unusual going on.

  Laurie wants to come with me, no doubt because she remembers all too well what happened to Adam. I decide to go alone, for the same reason I didn’t want to cancel the meeting. I don’t want Bobby Pollard to have the slightest inkling that there are new developments.

  We meet at the Pollards’, in deference to his difficulty in getting around. I’m growing increasingly suspicious of that difficulty, but I’m not about to reveal that suspicion.

  Teri Pollard greets me as warmly as she did the first time I was at their house, and I accept lemonade and home-baked cookies from the myriad of refreshments that she offers me. I can’t help feeling sorry for her; she has devoted her life to Bobby Pollard, and if I’m right, and successful, it’s all going to come crashing down on her.

  Having been a reluctant witness herself in Dylan’s case, Teri asks if I mind if she sits in on my meeting with Bobby. I tell her that’s fine, and she brings me into the den, where Bobby waits in his wheelchair. I start my conversation with either Bobby Pollard an innocent paraplegic or Bobby Pollard an injury-faking serial killer.

  I don’t want to lie to him at this point, so I’m careful in how I phrase my comments and questions. “Character witnesses don’t generally add to the facts of the case, but simply offer their high opinions of the defendant. I assume your view would be that Kenny Schilling is not the type of man that would commit murder?”

  He nods. “Absolutely. I know him better than anyone.”

  We go through these platitudes for about ten minutes, at which point I switch to questions that Dylan might ask him, so as to prepare him. I don’t make the questions too difficult, since Dylan would have no reason to attack him.

  Once we’re finished, we chat in more general terms about football and the Giants’ prospects without Kenny. His hope is to have Kenny back in a couple of weeks, which would be ample time for a play-off run.

  I tell Bobby that I’ll give him at least twenty-four hours’ notice before he testifies. I leave out the part about ripping him apart on the stand and about making sure he spends the rest of his life in a seven-by-ten-foot cell. There’ll be time to tell him that later.

  I head home and prepare for my meeting with Dominic Petrone. His people pick me up at eight P.M. sharp. Except for shrinks, mobsters are the most punctual people I know. The driver tells me to sit in the passenger seat, and I notice when I do that his partner is stationed directly behind me. I feel like Paulie being driven by Clemenza into the city to find apartments where the button men can go to the “mattresses.” This driver doesn’t have any cannoli, but if he pulls over to get out and take a piss, I’m outta here.

  They drive me to the back entrance of Vico’s, an Italian restaurant in Totowa. It has always been considered a mob hangout, a rumor that I can now officially confirm.

  The driver tells me to walk in through the back door, which I do. I’m met by an enormous man who frisks me and brings me into a private room where Dominic Petrone is waiting.

  Petrone is a rather charming man, early sixties, salt-and-pepper hair, with a dignified manner that one would expect of a successful head of a large business. He’s a typical CEO of a company where the “E” stands for “executions.” He greets me graciously, as he might an old but not terribly close friend, and suggests I sit down. I find it a smart thing to do what Petrone suggests, so I take a seat opposite him.

  The table is set for dinner for one, and in fact Petrone is already eating his bruschetta appetizer. I’ve got a hunch I’m not invited for dinner. “What can I do for you?” he asks.

  “I may be able to give you Cesar Quintana,” I say.

  “Give him to me for what purpose?”

  “That’s up to you,” I say. “Whatever you decide, all that I care about is that he no longer wants to kill me.”

  “You say you ‘may’ be able to give him to me?”

  I nod. “I’m pretty sure I can, but I haven’t decided yet if I want to. I won’t know that until I’m in the moment.”

  I proceed to tell him my plan, the bottom line being that I will place a call to him if I’m going to give him Quintana. If I do, he’ll have to be ready to move immediately, though I’m not yet telling him where this will take place.

  He nods, as if it all makes perfect sense, though I’m sure he considers this the most ridiculous plan he’s ever heard. It’s also got to be, from his perspective, almost too good to be true. “Is there something else you want from me, something you haven’t yet mentioned?”

  “Just one thing,” I say. “Can you cash a check?”

  TODAY MIGHT BE the weirdest midtrial Sunday I’ve ever spent. I have witnesses scheduled for tomorrow, but they’re part of a strategy that I’ve decided to abandon, so there’s no reason for me to call them.

  All I can do is wait to see if Sam can come up with enough information to make my new strategy viable, and if he does, I’ll have to figure out how to convince Judge Harrison to let me use it.

  The first thing I do is call Willie Miller and tell him that Petrone has agreed to my terms and that he should tell Marcus to move forward on our plan. I haven’t brought Laurie into this operation because it’s both dangerous and illegal. She would try to stop me, or perhaps get involved herself, and neither of those options is acceptable to me.

  With that call accomplished, I have to fill the rest of the day. I would take Tara out for a long walk, to clear my head and enjoy the autumn air, except for the fact that a Mexican drug lord is sworn to kill me. I’m trying to deal with that, but for now the idea of bullets flying through that autumn air puts a damper on things.

  With no other viable alternatives, I am forced to sit with Tara and watch NFL football all day. I have seen less football so far this season than in any other in recent memory, and I can’t make up for that in one day, but I’m going to try.

  The Giants game is particularly interesting to me. On the field their running game looks as if it’s mired in quicksand, and on the sidelines I catch occasional glimpses of Bobby Pollard, taping ankles and generally performing his job as trainer. If I do my job right, both the on- and off-field situations are about to change dramatically.

  Laurie plays her “little woman” role perfectly, bringing Tara and me whatever chips, beer, biscuits, and water we might need. I haven’t thought about Laurie leaving in a while, and when I do, it is with increasing confidence that she won’t. How could she give up this much fun?

  Sam and Kevin come over at seven. Sam has tracked down some of Pollard’s medical records and vows he will get the rest. The fact that some of it originated in Europe makes things a little more complicated, but Sam has total confidence.

  Kevin and I kick around our legal strategy to introduce this new slant on matters. The decision will completely rest with Judge Harrison, and Dylan will be crazed by the prospect of it. We agree that we will ask for a meeting in chambers before the start of court tomorrow, and we’ll take our best shot.

  I wake up early and call Rita Gordon, the court clerk, and tell her of our desire to hold the meeting in the judge’s chambers, thereby delaying the start of court. I tell Rita that it is an urgent matter, becaus
e I want the judge to fully expect to be dealing with a very important issue.

  Kevin and I arrive before Dylan, and we informally chat with the judge for the five minutes until he does. We are prohibited from talking about the case, and because of the occupation of the defendant, we can’t even do what would come naturally and talk about football.

  When Dylan does arrive, I get right to it. “Judge Harrison,” I say, “there has been a very significant new development which causes us to ask for a continuance.”

  Continuances are not something Judge Harrison willingly dispenses, and he peers down his glasses at me. “I would suggest you’ll have to be slightly more specific than that” is his understatement.

  I want to dole out as little information as possible, but I’m fully aware that I’m going to have to be forthcoming. I tell him about the high school all-American weekend and the fact that the majority of the young men on the offensive team have died.

  His interest is obviously piqued. “They were murdered?”

  “The police in those jurisdictions did not think so, but I believe that since there was no way they could have been aware of the connections, they came to the wrong conclusion.”

  “Why couldn’t they have made the connections? You did.”

  I nod. “That’s because we were looking for it, and we were still lucky to find it. The police in these areas couldn’t have known where to look. These young men for the most part did not know each other, and the all-American team for this magazine was obscure. Besides, many publications pick all-American teams; there would have been no reason to focus on this one.”

  “And your client has an alibi for these other deaths?” he asks.

  “At this point he does not, Your Honor. In fact, he was geographically close enough to each one to have committed them.”

  Judge Harrison interrupts. “Let me see if I understand this. You are abandoning your view that the murder in this case was drug-related, and you have developed a new strategy, which is to tell the jury that while your client is on trial for one murder, he may well be a serial killer?”