Laurie and I have a quiet dinner, trying our best not to talk about the case, while knowing we're each thinking about nothing else. We haven't really had a full-blown attorney-client discussion yet, and I ask her if it's okay if we start the process tonight. She agrees, and we sit on the couch in the den, soft music in the background, sharing a bottle of wine. In terms of the atmosphere for attorney-client conferences, I've experienced a hell of a lot worse.
I start off by telling her that it is important for us to put our personal relationship aside in working her case; that is how we can be most objective and effective. She has to be prepared for me to treat her like any other client. She nods. "So we won't be sleeping together?"
"Sure we will," I say. "I sleep with all my clients."
That dispensed with, we get down to business. Laurie knows the importance of total honesty in speaking to one's lawyer, but since knowing it in the abstract and living it are two different things, I take pains to remind her.
Laurie tells me that she doesn't know any more about Dorsey's disappearance and murder than I do. Accepting that at face value, I try to focus in on her relationship with Oscar Garcia.
Laurie begins by once again reciting the story of her friend's teenage daughter, who became a drug customer of Garcia's before running away from home. I've heard it all, but I let her go on. I often find it's better to let a client talk uninterrupted as much as possible; I get more information that way. It's strange to be thinking of Laurie as a client, but I'm getting used to it.
"You made a comment to me the other day," I say. "Something about knowing what Oscar's been up to recently."
She nods. "I've kept my eye on him from time to time."
"What exactly does that mean?"
"It means that when I've had time I've watched him, hoping he would make a mistake. Something that could get him sent away."
"You're not a cop anymore, Laurie."
"No, but I know a few." She can see I'm a little worried about this. "Andy, the guy is a slime. I have the right to watch him."
"Did you catch him doing anything?" I ask.
"Not that I could prove."
"What about personal contact? Did you have any?"
"No."
I feel like she's holding back, although she must know that wouldn't make any sense. The rest of the conversation consists more of her trying to get information from me than the other way around. She wants to know how the case is going, and even though it hasn't had time to go anywhere, I make myself sound upbeat. My goal is to be honest but not depressing. In this case, at least for now, that's not easy.
I'M UP AND SHOWERED BY SEVEN O'CLOCK THE NEXT morning, which is exactly the time that Edna shows up. I see her through the window; she has brought donuts and coffee for the early assembled press and is outside divvying it up. Obviously, there was no need for press-relations coaching from me; Wonder Woman picked it up on her own.
At nine o'clock I get a phone call from the court clerk informing me that the grand jury has handed down an indictment against Laurie. Dylan has been working fast. She also informs me that a trial judge has been assigned, and I am wanted at a meeting in one hour in his chambers. I start to argue about the inconvenience of this hastily called meeting when she tells me that the trial judge is Walter "Hatchet" Henderson.
I stop arguing. Hatchet could just as easily have given me ten minutes to get there, and held me in contempt if I was late. He is autocratic, obnoxious, and legendarily difficult for all lawyers, though I'm sure he scares Dylan more than me. Hatchet was the judge on the Miller case, and I was pleased--make that stunned--by the competence and fairness he demonstrated while conducting that trial.
Before I leave, Laurie reminds me of her one demand: that the trial begin as soon as possible. It's a very common feeling among the accused, especially the wrongly accused. This experience is so trying, so frightening, so humiliating, that the need to have it over as quickly as possible is overwhelming.
By the time I get to Hatchet's office Dylan is already there, kissing the judge's ass by marveling about how much weight Hatchet has lost on some diet. Lawyers instinctively try to kiss Hatchet's ass, but even though that ass has in fact gotten smaller during this diet, the tactic doesn't work. Hatchet does not respect ass-kissing attorneys. He also does not respect prosecuting attorneys, defense attorneys, outstanding attorneys, mediocre attorneys, or any attorneys.
"Good morning, Judge," I say.
"Let's do without the small talk, gentlemen. We've got a trial to conduct."
"Oh," I say, "I assumed we were changing defendants again."
"No," Dylan responds, "we're going to put this one away for a long time."
I laugh. "Dylan, I'm going to clean your clock."
Hatchet interrupts and berates us for our unprofessional conduct. He then takes out his calendar and opens the floor to discussion of a start date for the trial.
"I would suggest July fourteenth, Your Honor," Dylan says.
"That is unacceptable to the defense, Your Honor. We wish to invoke our right to a speedy trial. We would be looking at the middle of May."
Dylan is clearly surprised, mainly because he knows rushing is not in our best interest; it's an accepted truth that time is always on the defense's side. And besides, I had already agreed to the July 14 date when the defendant was Oscar. Dylan has no choice but to accede to our demand, however, since we are simply exercising our constitutional rights.
Dylan estimates that the prosecution case might take two weeks, and I say that I doubt we'll even need to mount a defense, but if we do, a week should do it.
Hatchet looks intently at the calendar, then stares at us. "My vacation begins on June twenty-eight."
I nod. "And I hope Your Honor has a wonderful time."
Dylan revisits the issue of bail, as I knew he would. I'm very concerned that Hatchet might revoke the bail and put Laurie in jail.
"I would not have ruled as Judge Timmerman did," Hatchet says. "It is a decision that makes me uncomfortable."
"The decision is wrong," Dylan agrees. "Almost without precedent in this county."
I won't get anywhere by arguing with Hatchet; all I can do is give him another point of view to consider. "I'm not going to defend Judge Timmerman's ruling, though it obviously is one I was pleased with. But there are new circumstances to consider."
He peers at me from behind his glasses. "And they are?"
"Her order has been followed, and there have been no negative consequences. Ms. Collins is safely contained, electronically monitored, and guarded by the police. The community is safe, and will remain so, and there is no risk of flight. Respectfully, sir, altering Judge Timmerman's order provides no benefit to anyone, while hampering Ms. Collins's considerable ability to aid in her own defense."
Dylan starts to argue some more, but Hatchet isn't listening. He is turning the issue over in his mind. My heart is pounding so hard I'm afraid Hatchet won't be able to hear over it.
Finally, after what seems like a couple of months, he nods. "Without a change in circumstances, I'm inclined to let Judge Timmerman's ruling stand." Then he looks at me. "Make sure there is no change in circumstances."
Hatchet dismisses us, and I permit myself a condescending smile at Dylan as I leave. I'm on a winning streak which won't last, but I might as well let Dylan know that I'm enjoying it.
As we had planned, Kevin is waiting for me at the bottom of the courthouse steps. He takes me over to a nearby coffee shop, where I am to meet Marcus Clark. I had asked Laurie and Kevin to each come up with a list of investigators to join our team for this case, and Marcus's name was the only one on both lists.
Marcus is late arriving, so Kevin uses the time to brief me on his background. Soon after Marcus had become an investigator, Kevin represented him on an assault charge: Marcus had broken a guy's nose in a bar fight. Kevin won the case with a claim of self-defense, which he has always considered one of his greatest victories. He tells me that I'll understand wh
y when I see Marcus.
Marcus comes in moments later, and it's immediately obvious what Kevin was talking about. It is hard to imagine that Marcus could have acted in self-defense, because it's hard to imagine anyone being dumb enough to have attacked him.
Marcus is a thirty-year-old African-American, about five foot ten, with a bald head so shiny you could guide planes to a runway with it. His body is so sculpted, his muscles so perfectly formed, that the clothes he is wearing don't seem to impede a view of his body.
But Marcus's most distinguishing physical feature is his menacing facial expression. Fighters like Mike Tyson and Marvin Hagler were noted for cowing their opponents during the pre-fight instructions with the power and anger in their stares. Marcus makes Tyson and Hagler look like Kermit and Miss Piggy.
Marcus nods a couple of times as Kevin makes the introductions, but it's a few minutes before he says his momentous first words.
"Rye toast."
The waitress says, "Yes, sir," which seems to be the appropriate response to Marcus, no matter what he requests. My guess is that if the coffee shop didn't have any, the waitress would have gone outside, captured a rye, and slaughtered it herself.
I explain Laurie's basic situation to him, and when I finish, he simply says, "She is a good person."
I nod vigorously in agreement, which I would have done had he said the earth was an isosceles triangle. "Yes, she is. A really good person."
"I'll take the job," he says, despite my not having offered it. "A hundred an hour, plus expenses."
"Great," I say. "But just so we're on the same page, tell me how you operate."
He doesn't seem to know what I mean. "My style?" he asks.
"Right, that's right. Your style."
Marcus turns to Kevin. "He serious?"
Kevin, who hasn't said two words during this entire meeting, is surprised to be called in at this point. Marcus and I have to wait until Kevin chews the pound and a half of hamburger in his mouth. I think Kevin actually stores food in his mouth, just in case he should get hungry.
"I suppose," Kevin says with a shrug, a stunning statement clearly worth waiting for.
Marcus matches the shrug and turns back to me. "My style is, you tell me what you want to know, and I find out."
"How?" His stare gets a little meaner, so I soften the question. "I mean, generally …"
"I ask people questions," he says, "and they answer them. I'm real easy to talk to."
I accept his explanation, even though I personally would rather be questioned by the SS. I decide to hire him, but I don't have to announce it, since he did so earlier. I have reservations, but Kevin and Laurie recommended him highly, and they know as much about this stuff as I do, in Laurie's case even more.
We bid Marcus a warm and poignant goodbye, then Kevin and I drive to my house. We pull up in front, and Edna comes rushing out to meet us.
"Have you noticed Edna is a little high-energy these days?" I ask.
Before Kevin can answer, Edna reaches the car. "Come inside, quick."
The look on her face says that she's not calling us in for calisthenics, that something is wrong.
"What is it?" I ask, already on my way inside.
"Laurie should be the one to tell you."
Kevin and I break into a run, and Laurie is at the front door when we open it. Her cell phone is in her hand, which seems to be shaking.
"I just got a phone call," she says in a nervous voice.
"From who?"
"Alex Dorsey."
I try not to overreact to this announcement, and Kevin and I take Laurie into the den to talk. There are no rules for situations like this, but I instinctively feel that phone calls from headless murder victims should be viewed calmly and rationally.
Laurie explains that she had answered her cell phone and immediately heard a voice she recognized as Dorsey's say, "Hello, Laurie, it's Alex."
Laurie says she was momentarily too stunned to respond, and Dorsey went on to say that it was payback time, that she'd be sorry for what she did to him, and now was the time.
"Can you tell us his exact words?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "No, I don't know what his exact words were. I was pretty shocked that he was calling. But that's definitely close to what he said."
"What did you say?"
"That it wouldn't work, that somebody would find him, that he should give it up now."
"And his response?"
"All he said was, 'So long, rookie,' and hung up."
"But you're positive it was him?" I ask.
She nods. "As positive as I can be. It sounded just like him, and he used to call me 'rookie' because he knew it irritated me. Andy, I don't understand this. They said they ran a DNA test. The body was definitely Dorsey."
We spend the next hour kicking around how we should handle this. Laurie's testimony as to the facts would have no practical significance. For the accused to announce that she and she alone knows that the victim is really alive would obviously be recognized as self-serving and suspect. Nor does she have an obligation to report what has happened; it is not up to the defense to provide the prosecution with information of any kind.
But it is obviously in our interest to bring this to the attention of the authorities. The phone call opens up questions that must be investigated. For example, can the call be traced? How could the DNA test have gone wrong? Whose body was burned in that warehouse? Where is Dorsey, and how can we get the police to try to find someone they believe to be dead?
Kevin believes that we should call Dylan immediately and make the judge aware of the development as well. I disagree; Dylan will ridicule our claims and not act on them at all. For me the issue is whether to bring this to the police or the press. At this point Lieutenant Sabonis has not given me reason to mistrust him, so I decide to start with the police. The press will be backup if Sabonis doesn't take action.
Most important is what we have learned from this. Obviously, and most significant, we have learned that Dorsey is alive. And while we have always known that someone was framing Laurie for Dorsey's murder, now we know it is Dorsey himself doing the framing. Dorsey must have sent Stynes.
Making the phone call, though, was a brazen and overly self-confident act on Dorsey's part. It also reveals the depth of his hatred for Laurie. It is not triumph enough for him to ruin her life; he wants her to know that it is he himself who is ruining it.
I call Sabonis and ask to meet with him as soon as possible on a new development. He is surprised and a little uncomfortable with the request, since normal protocol would be for me to go through Dylan.
"This information is too important to get buried," I say. "Obviously, you can discuss it with whoever you want once I tell you, but it's important to me that you hear it directly."
He agrees, and I ask if he can come to us, since Laurie can answer any related questions he might have. He says that he'll be over in twenty minutes.
I use the time to brief Laurie on how to answer his questions. She has been the questioner, but never the accused, and I tell her that she is to pause before answering anything, so that if I want to intervene, I'll have the time to do so. Having a client answer police questions is uncomfortable for a defense attorney, but in this case it is necessary, as long as those questions relate to the Dorsey phone call.
Sabonis arrives five minutes early. I thank him for coming and bring him into the den, where Laurie proceeds to describe the phone call. He listens quietly and respectfully, not saying anything at all until she's finished.
"I assume you didn't tape the call?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "No, it was on my cell phone."
"Who has that number?"
"A lot of people, mostly my friends. But calls to my home are being routed to it."
"Did you have that phone number when you were on the force? Would it have been in your file?"
She nods. "I think so."
"What do you think, Nick?" I ask.
He pauses a moment, then, "I think you were right in not bringing this to Dylan; he'd throw you out of his office and laugh in your face while he was doing it. My reaction would be the same with typical murder suspects, but Laurie is not your typical murder suspect."
"So," I ask, "will you treat it as a reliable piece of information and keep me posted on what you learn?"
"I'll treat it as information to be investigated. Whether it's reliable or not is still to be determined. As far as keeping you posted, you know that's Dylan's responsibility."
"He'll shut the door on us," I say. "I'll have to go to the judge."
"No skin off my ass." My sense is that he'd be fine if I did that; it might lessen the hassles he has in dealing with Dylan.
Sabonis tries to take advantage of the proximity to ask Laurie some case-related questions, but since they are not about the phone call, I don't let her answer them. He leaves, and Kevin goes off to amend our motion for discovery on Dorsey's department file to include this latest development in the investigation.
I had planned to think about what would be best for Marcus to work on, but this turns that decision into a nobrainer. I call him and tell him that his time should be devoted to finding out whatever there is to find out about Alex Dorsey.
"I want you to find his head and tell me if there's a body attached to it," I say. He grunts, but I think it's an agreeable grunt. And I leave it at that.
Laurie is freaking out, but not from fear. It's only been a few days, but the inactivity and feelings of frustration are really getting to her. Now that she knows Dorsey is out there directing this torture, the desire to get out and find him is overwhelming. I've had to devote more and more time to either calming her down or easing her fears.
I receive a pleasant surprise when I get a call from FBI agent Cindy Spodek, who identifies herself as assigned to Darrin Hobbs's command at the Bureau. Agent Dead End Hastings has been true to his word and told Hobbs, the agent in charge of the Dorsey-related investigation, that I wanted to meet with him, and Agent Spodek is calling to say that Hobbs will be at his Manhattan office that afternoon. I expected to have to wait weeks for this meeting, and there is no way I will not fit this in.
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