Sudden Death

by David Rosenfelt

  “And most important, you know that Bobby Pollard is a liar. A liar under oath. A liar of mega-proportions. To believe that Kenny Schilling is the murderer, you must believe Bobby Pollard. I submit that no one should believe Bobby Pollard.

  “Kenny Schilling had a very difficult upbringing, the kind of childhood that destroys far too many lives. It takes a very strong person to overcome it, but Kenny did more than just overcome bad luck. He went on to become an exemplary citizen, a good guy in an era and an occupation in which bad guys are all too prevalent.

  “There is nothing that Kenny Schilling has ever done, not even anything he’s ever said, that would give the slightest credence to the view that he could have suddenly committed a heinous crime like this. And he did not commit this crime, nor any of the others you’ve heard about.

  “Do not end another life, one that is really just beginning, and one that is filled with such promise.” I point to Kenny. “This man deserves his life back. Thank you.”

  I have never given a closing statement without being positive I screwed it up, and comments to the contrary from Kevin, Laurie, and Kenny don’t come close to penetrating that pessimism. My guess is that I feel this way because it was my last chance to influence the jury, and matters are now totally out of my hands.

  Harrison has decided to sequester the jury for the duration of their deliberations, and after charging them he sends them off to begin. I am now waiting helplessly for twelve citizens to decide the fate of a man I consider innocent. I am also waiting, just as helplessly, for Laurie to decide whether she will exit my life.

  Suffice it to say, I am not a happy camper.

  EACH PERSON REACTS differently to the stress of waiting for a jury verdict. I become cranky and obnoxious, snapping at anyone who asks anything about the trial. I also become intensely and uncharacteristically superstitious, living according to a long-held list of idiotic behaviors that would make life intolerable if I attempted it on a permanent basis. For instance, for fear of pissing off the justice system god, I won’t do anything remotely illegal. I won’t drive one mile over the speed limit, I won’t jaywalk, I won’t even play loud music on my car radio.

  My other trait during these times ties in well with the first two. I also become a hermit, and anyone who has suffered through any time with me while waiting for a verdict thinks my reclusiveness is a good thing.

  “Verdict stress” brings out Kevin’s hypochondriac tendencies even further, which is no small statement. This time it happens more quickly than most: When Judge Harrison sends the jury off to deliberate, Kevin literally can’t get up with the rest of us to leave the courtroom. He decides that something called his L4-L5 disk has degenerated, apparently overnight, and he needs a spinal fusion. What he really needs is a head transplant, but Laurie and I are obliged to almost carry him to his car.

  Making matters worse is that my pessimism is shared by the large majority of television pundits covering the trial. In fact, I would say that three out of every five people in America are serving in the role of television pundit on this case. The majority view is that the defense is hoping for a hung jury, since not only would it obviously not be a loss but it would give us more time to investigate Bobby Pollard.

  I actually have Laurie and Sam continuing to look into Bobby, in the likely event that we should lose and have to appeal. The unfortunate fact is that even a victorious appeal would take years and would destroy Kenny’s football career in the process.

  Laurie has spoken to three members of the defensive half of the Inside Football all-American team, all of whom were in the restaurant that night, but not with the offensive team when the pact was discussed. One of them remembers Bobby telling him about it, and his surprise that Bobby seemed to take it so seriously. That person should be a solid witness at what I hope will be Bobby’s eventual trial.

  It is an irresistible impulse to try to gauge the jury, to try to guess what they must be thinking. I never do so out loud, since that’s one of my superstitions, but it certainly rattles around in my head enough.

  In this case I’m hoping for a long deliberation. Our defense of the serial killings came out of left field, something the jury didn’t expect, and without a necessarily clear connection to the offense charged. If the jury gives it serious consideration, it should take time for them to examine and debate. If they reject it out of hand, certainly a possibility, then there’s really nothing to ponder; all the other evidence favors the prosecution.

  I’m at home obsessing when the phone rings, always a traumatic event during a verdict wait. It’s Rita Gordon, the court clerk, calling. Since it’s only the morning of the second day of deliberation, if there’s a verdict we’re finished.

  “I hope you’re just calling to say hello,” I say.

  “Hoping for a long one?” she says. Knowing how anxious I am, she doesn’t wait for an answer. “No verdict yet. The jury has a question.”

  The TV is on, and I see the “Breaking News” banner, “Schilling Jury Has Question,” at the same moment Rita is telling me this. Rita says the judge wants us there in an hour, so I call Kevin and trudge down to the court.

  On the way to the courthouse I hear that Quintana’s body has finally been discovered in a field near the New Jersey Turnpike. I had been thinking that Petrone had sent him to the bottom of the ocean, but apparently, he wanted to use this killing to send a message to others stupid enough to mess with his territory.

  I arrive at the courthouse having not even thought what the jury’s question might be, since requests from juries are rarely revealing. They usually focus on a specific piece of evidence, but that in itself reveals nothing. They could be looking at the evidence because they are skeptical of it or because they give it real credibility and importance to the case.

  This situation is slightly different. The jury wants to know if they can see police reports related to the other deaths of the young football players. Judge Harrison tells them they cannot, that only evidence introduced at trial is to be considered, and these reports were not part of the trial record. He says this patiently, even though he had made the point in his charge to the jury just before they went out. They essentially dragged us down here to answer a question that has already been answered.

  I’m encouraged, though, because at least they’re paying attention to our defense and not rejecting it out of hand. It’s a small sign of hope, and I’m quite willing to shed a tiny bit of my pessimism and grab on to it.

  Even during my self-imposed isolation during a verdict wait, I quite willingly have Laurie sleep over on our regular nights. I might be a hermit, but I’m not a crazed hermit. She is also quiet and reserved, and between us we’re not a terribly fun couple.

  I know she’s finalizing her decision, but I’m past dwelling on it by now. I’m actually starting to get a little annoyed; it probably didn’t take Truman as long to decide to drop the A-bomb.

  I meet every day with Kenny Schilling, who acts as stoic as he can. The strain is starting to line his face to the point where he’s looking like a paint-by-numbers drawing. I also talk on the phone each day with his wife, Tanya, who is better at verbalizing just how agonizing this process is. I am not able to give either of them any indication of how things will go or when.

  Bobby Pollard has stayed out of the public eye, and I assume and hope that the authorities are digging into the nuts and bolts of the case we presented. Teri, ever the amazingly supportive wife, has made a public statement supporting her husband and declaring him innocent, but I can’t imagine that she isn’t feeling horribly betrayed.

  The call comes from Rita Gordon on the morning of day six. “It’s showtime, Andy,” she says. “The judge wants all parties here at eleven A.M.”

  “Okay” is the cleverest response I can come up with.

  I’M TOLD THAT a heavyweight championship fight has the most “electricity” of any live event, but I can’t imagine how it could be more charged than this courtroom. The entire country has followed this
case, hanging on every word, analyzing every nuance, and it has all come down to this. A young athlete, a member of the “celebrity class,” is going to learn whether he’s heading for death row or back to the locker room.

  Just before Judge Harrison comes into the room, I walk over to Tanya Schilling to shake her hand. I have a million things I could say, and I’m sure she does as well, but neither of us says a word.

  As I head back to my seat at the defense table, I see that a bunch of Kenny’s teammates, as well as Walter Simmons, have managed to get seats. I briefly wonder whether they got them from scalpers; I can imagine these seats would go for a lot of money.

  Kenny is brought in and takes his seat. As Judge Harrison comes in, Kenny takes a deep breath, and I can see him trying to steady himself. He has handled himself with dignity throughout the trial, and he’s not about to stop now.

  The jury is led in, looking at neither the prosecution nor the defense. They haven’t been able to take their eyes off Kenny since jury selection, and now they’re looking away. If I were rating signs, this would not be a good one.

  Judge Harrison asks the foreman if his jury has reached a verdict, and I find myself hoping he’ll say no. He doesn’t, and Harrison directs the clerk to retrieve the verdict slip from him. The clerk does so and hands it to Harrison.

  Harrison reads it, his face impassive, then hands it back to the clerk. He asks Kenny to stand, and Kenny, Kevin, and I stand as one. I have my hand on his left shoulder, and Kevin has his hand on his right. Kenny turns to Tanya and actually smiles, a gesture of immense strength and generosity.

  I can almost feel the gallery behind me, inching forward, as if that will let them hear the verdict sooner.

  The clerk starts to read. “In the matter of The State of New Jersey v. Kenneth Schilling, we the jury find the defendant, Kenneth Schilling, not guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  Kenny whirls as if avoiding a tackle and reaches for Tanya. Their hug is so hard it looks like one of them is going to break. He outweighs her by over a hundred pounds, but I’m not sure which one I’d bet on.

  After a short while Kenny spreads his arms to include Kevin and me in the embrace. As group hugs go, it’s a good one. Kenny and Tanya are crying, while Kevin and I are laughing. But we’re all making the same point in our own way… it doesn’t get much better than this.

  Judge Harrison gets order in his courtroom and officially releases Kenny, who’s got to do some paperwork. Tanya waits for him while Kevin and I go outside to answer a few questions from the assembled media.

  When we get to the area set up for the press briefing, we see something unusual going on. Rather than waiting for us to arrive, the press is gathered around a TV monitor, watching a cable news station. They are watching the news, when they’re supposed to be covering it.

  “What’s going on?” I say, a little miffed that nobody is paying much attention to me. One of the reporters answers, “Bobby Pollard is threatening to kill his wife.”

  I start walking toward the television monitor when a uniformed officer comes over to me and grabs my arm. “Mr. Carpenter, Lieutenant Stanton asks that you come with me immediately.”

  He quickly starts leading me away, and when I look back, I see that Kevin is lost in the crowd. Within moments we’re in a police car, heading toward Fair Lawn, and I ask the officer to bring me up-to-date.

  “Pollard’s wife called 911. He’s in their house with a gun, and she said he’s going crazy, threatening to kill everyone.”

  “Why does Pete want me there?” I ask, but he shrugs and says he has no idea.

  We arrive near the Pollard house in a few minutes, and the scene is a middle-class version of the standoff at Kenny Schilling’s house. This case has ironically come full circle, except this time there is no way I’m going in.

  I see Pete, who is second-in-command to his captain. It turns out that I have no real function here; Pete tells me that they figured that since I know the players, they might have some questions I could answer. I’m told to stay in the police command van and wait, which I’m more than happy to do.

  In the van one of the sergeants plays back a copy of the 911 call. Teri Pollard’s voice is the sound of pure panic. “This is Teri Pollard. My husband has a gun. I’m afraid he’s going to—it’s okay, honey, I’m just calling to get you some help, that’s all… just some help.” I can’t hear Bobby’s voice through the tape, but it’s obvious she’s talking to him.

  She continues. “Please. He left the room. Send officers quickly… please!”

  The dispatcher asks for her address and, after she gives it, asks if there is anyone else in the house. Teri says no, that their son is staying at her mother’s in Connecticut. The call is then cut off, suddenly and with no explanation.

  “Has there been any contact with her or Bobby since?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “We’ve been calling in, but nobody answers the phone. But no gunshots either.”

  Then, in literally a sudden blast of irony, a gunshot rings out, seemingly from inside the house. I hear a policeman from the forward lines near the house yell, “Move!” and I see a SWAT team head toward the house and break in from all sides in a beautifully coordinated movement.

  Maybe thirty seconds pass, though they seem like three hours, and a voice yells out, “Clear!” Pete and a bunch of other officers head for the house and enter. The sergeant I am with does so as well, so I tag along with him. I’m not sure if he even notices me, but he doesn’t tell me to stay back.

  There are at least a dozen officers in the house, all talking, but above the din I can hear a woman crying, a frighteningly pained sound. I move toward the den, which is where the sound is coming from. It’s the room in which I talked to the Pollards on two previous occasions.

  Teri Pollard is on the couch, hysterical, while Bobby is dead on the floor, against the wall, his head a bloody mess. Next to his outstretched hand lies a gun, more effective than a thousand justice systems.

  LAURIE AND TARA are waiting for me when I get home. My two favorite ladies.

  We all go for a walk around the neighborhood. I haven’t been spending nearly enough time with Tara, and I want to change that now. She seems to be getting more white in her face each day, a sign of advancing age in golden retrievers. In Tara’s case it’s less significant than in other goldens, because Tara is going to live forever.

  The scene at the Pollards’ and the lingering depression over Adam’s death have really taken their toll on me, and I’m feeling little of the euphoria that I would ordinarily feel after a victory like the one in court today. For that reason I didn’t schedule the party we have at Charlie’s after every positive jury verdict.

  “You were brilliant, Andy,” Laurie says. “I don’t know that there’s another lawyer in the country that could have gotten Kenny acquitted with the evidence they had.”

  “Adam did it. I was nowhere until Adam came up with the answer.”

  “He helped, but you led the team, and you got it done. Don’t take that away from yourself.”

  “It was awful at the Pollards’ house today,” I say. “I’m just so tired of all this death and pain. And I keep saying that, and yet I don’t change anything.”

  “You’re doing what you were meant to do, in the place you were meant to do it. And I think that down deep you know that.”

  I shake my head. “Not right now I don’t.”

  “If not for you, Kenny Schilling’s life would be over, and Bobby Pollard would still be out there killing. The death and pain would be much worse.”

  “But I wouldn’t have to look at it.”

  We walk for a while longer, and I say, “What Teri Pollard went through is beyond awful. This man she devoted herself to, every day of her life, completely betrayed her. And then, after she stayed, after she forgave him, he left her to deal with everything alone.”

  “She’s a strong woman,” Laurie says. “She’ll rely on the core of that strength, and she’ll get through
it.”

  “You’re a more optimistic person than I am.”

  “I don’t think so,” she says. “You’re just more honest about it. I have as many doubts as anyone, but I learned a long time ago that it doesn’t help to give in to them. That we have to do what we think is best and deal with the consequences.”

  We walk another block in silence, and I say, “You’re leaving.” It’s a statement, not a question, that comes from some hidden place of certainty and dread.

  “Yes, Andy. I am.”

  I feel like a house is sitting on top of me, but it hasn’t been dropped suddenly. It’s more like it’s been lowered on me. I’ve seen it coming for a while, but even though it was huge and obvious, I just couldn’t seem to get out of the way.

  I don’t say anything, I can’t say anything, so she continues. “I wish more than anything in the world that you would come with me, but I know you won’t, and I’m not sure that you should. But I will always love you.”

  I want to tell Laurie that I love her, and that I hate her, and that I don’t want her to go, and that I want her to get the hell out of my life this very instant.

  What I say is, “Have a nice life.”

  And then Laurie keeps walking, but Tara and I turn and walk back home.

  PEOPLE TELL ME that the intense pain is going to wear off. They say that it will gradually become a dull ache and eventually disappear. I hope they’re right, because a dull ache sounds pretty good right now.

  Of course, my circle of friends is not renowned for their sensitivity and depth of human emotion, so they could be wrong. The agony I currently feel over losing Laurie could stay with me, which right now would seem to be more than I can stand.

  I tell myself to apply logic. If she left me, she doesn’t love me. If she doesn’t love me, then I haven’t lost that much by her leaving. If I haven’t lost that much, it shouldn’t hurt like this. But it does, and logic loses out. I can count the times that logic has lost out in my mind on very few fingers.