First degree ac-2

by David Rosenfelt

  Traffic into the city is light, and I'm there a half hour before the two-thirty meeting. I go in anyway and am greeted by Agent Spodek, a tall, attractive brunet in her early thirties. She very crisply informs me that Special Agent Hobbs is in a meeting, and we can wait in Hobbs's small conference room just outside his office.

  Looking around, I have to assume we visitors are often deposited in here first to impress us, as the room is a shrine to Special Agent Hobbs. Hastings had told me that Hobbs was a star within the Bureau, and the decor drives that point home. Hobbs's commendations and newspaper clippings detailing his heroics cover most of the walls and almost obscure the top of every piece of furniture in the room. The only remaining spaces are taken by similar tributes to his exploits in Vietnam. Based on all these chronicled heroic triumphs, it's amazing we didn't win.

  "Very humble," I say.

  "He's earned it" is Agent Spodek's response.

  It seems like my time with her is heading for a conversational wasteland, so I immediately trot out the line guaranteed to turn that around. "By the way, I saved a golden retriever from death row at an animal shelter."

  "How nice for you," she says with no enthusiasm, leaving me to wonder where I went wrong. Maybe the line requires Tara to be standing next to me, or maybe it only works outdoors. It's certainly going to require further study, but for now I just nod and look around the room.

  I'm holding one of the photos from Vietnam in my hand when the door opens and Hobbs walks in. He's probably fifty years old, not that imposing in size but energetic and fit, the type who hasn't found a room he can't dominate. He sees me holding the photograph.

  "Those were dangerous but exciting times," he says. "Were you over there?"

  I was a good fifteen years too young for that, but I don't mention this. "No, I missed it," I say, ruing that fact by snapping my fingers. "Just my luck."

  "It was no fun, believe me."

  I already knew that, so this is not a revelation that throws me off my stride. At least not as much as his handshake, which reminds me of Superman squeezing a lump of coal so hard it turns into a diamond. "Darrin Hobbs." He smiles. "Good to meet you."

  I could wait to speak until the circulation returns to my hand, but I don't think he invited me here for a sleep-over. "Andy Carpenter. Thanks for seeing me so quickly."

  "No problem." He looks at his watch. "Although I don't have a hell of a lot of time. Hastings said it was important."

  "It is. I'm representing a woman charged with the murder of Alex Dorsey."

  Hobbs looks over to Agent Spodek, as if realizing for the first time that she is even there. "We'll be fine, Spodek" is how he dismisses her.

  Once Spodek has left the room, Hobbs picks up the conversation as if she had never been there. He shakes his head, as if remembering past times. "Dorsey was always a murder waiting to happen."

  I nod. "But my client didn't make it happen." I decide not to share with him the fact that Dorsey is still alive and making phone calls. That has nothing to do with what I'm trying to learn.

  He smiles. "Another innocent client … so what is it you want from me?"

  "I know you were familiar with Dorsey's actions a couple of years ago, when he was almost nailed by Internal Affairs. I know you, or at least the Bureau, intervened."

  "You know that?" He smiles, apparently amused.

  "Are you telling me otherwise?"

  He seems about to say that he is, but then shrugs with some resignation. "What the hell, sure. Inside these four walls … that's basically what happened."

  "Was Dorsey the target of the investigation?"

  "No way. We had bigger fish to fry."

  "And they were?"

  "They were none of your business. Next question."

  "Is the investigation ongoing?"

  His smile is a sad one. "No, I wish it were. The Dorsey stuff killed it--too much publicity."

  Dead End Hastings had indicated the investigation was in fact ongoing, but Hobbs is denying it. Could it be that Hobbs doesn't trust Andy Carpenter, defense attorney?

  I continue asking questions, and he continues smiling and answering them, all the while providing me with absolutely no useful information. He may have such information, but I'm sure not getting it out of him. Or he may not.

  I leave after about a half hour, with Hobbs wishing me luck and offering to be available should I need more help in the future. I make a note to myself that if I ever want to have another completely unproductive meeting that is a total waste of time, I will give him a call.

  I meet Kevin back at the house, and he tells me that Dylan has turned over some information from Dorsey's file, though not anything relating to Laurie's accusation against him or anything about the Internal Affairs investigation.

  Before we get started going through it, we eat the dinner Laurie has prepared for us. Since she has little else to do besides worry, she's been spending a lot of time in the kitchen, and the results have been extraordinary. Tonight is a crabmeat salad, followed by fusilli amatriciana, followed by freshly baked brownies. It is absolutely delicious, and I match Kevin chomp for chomp. It's lucky we've pressed for a speedy trial, or I would have "Goodyear" painted on my ass by the time we reach opening statements.

  Kevin and I roll ourselves into the den afterward to go through the Dorsey discovery material. It's basically a chronological biography, and a very positive one at that. Dorsey grew up in Ohio and earned a B.A. in history at Ohio State. He enlisted and served a long hitch in Vietnam, apparently seeing a good deal of combat and earning several commendations for his service. He returned home and moved to Paterson, where he signed up for the police academy. His rise up the department ladder was rapid and relatively uneventful.

  Certain little items are left out, nitpicks like his connections to organized crime, the Internal Affairs investigation and subsequent reprimand, as well as his disappearance and real or faked decapitation. Kevin will file our motion to get access to those facts tomorrow, and it's becoming more and more crucial that we win.

  As we are finishing, the phone rings and Laurie answers it. I hear her side of the conversation, mostly consisting of how-are-yous? and I'm-okays.

  After about thirty seconds of this, Laurie puts down the phone and says to me, "It's Nicole." She is talking about Nicole Carpenter, my wife of twelve years, from whom I was divorced just a few months ago, and to whom I haven't spoken since.

  As I move toward the phone, the uniqueness of this situation flashes through my mind. I've just overheard a conversation between my ex-wife, whose father I caused to be convicted of multiple murder, and my current love, who is facing a decapitation-murder charge. I don't remember what my high school yearbook listed as my future goals, but I don't think any of this was foreseen.

  "Hello, Nicole" is my clever opening line.

  "Hello, Andy. How are you?"

  This brilliant conversation goes on for another minute or so, as we both wait for her to get to the point of her call. Finally, she tells me that she needs to talk to me, in person, tomorrow morning, she hopes.

  I don't want to meet with her, I don't have time to meet with her, there is no reason for me to meet with her, I can't be forced to meet with her, there is no way I'm going to meet with her, so I tell her I'll meet her at ten at a breakfast place near her house.

  TO SEE NICOLE, YOU WOULD NEVER KNOW THE kind of year she has had. She's been shot and severely wounded by people aiming for me, her United States senator father has been convicted and jailed for multiple murder, and she's gone through a divorce. All this happened to a woman whose largest prior disappointment, at least that I am aware of, was when she got bumped out of first class on an overbooked flight to Paris.

  She looks wonderful, with such a deep tan that, if she's spending a lot of her time visiting her father, he must be serving his sentence at Oahu State Prison. She gives me a little hug of hello, and we go to our table.

  Mercifully, Nicole seems to know that we used up all our meani
ngless chitchat on the phone last night, because she comes right to the point.

  "My father has cancer," she says.

  "I'm sorry," I say.

  She nods. "Thank you, but he's not sorry at all. Oh, I guess he's sorry that it's not a massive fatal heart attack, but anything that kills him is fine with him."

  She's saying that being in prison is so horrible for Philip that he would rather be dead. What she's not saying, but which we both know, is that I put him there. It's a rather large hurdle to scale in reestablishing a friendship, if in fact that is what we are attempting to do.

  It's not. Nicole has contacted me about Willie Miller's lawsuit against Victor Markham's estate and her father. His terminal illness gives her an even clearer connection to the suit: Half of whatever money Willie gets will come straight out of her inheritance.

  "I'm frightened, Andy. I'm afraid I'm going to lose everything."

  "Nicole," I say, "we shouldn't be having this conversation." That is understating the case; it is completely inappropriate and unethical.

  "I've lost so much already."

  I don't point out to her that her father is astonishingly wealthy, that the most generous jury verdict imaginable for Willie would still leave her with close to two hundred million dollars. She has to know this; she is not a stupid or uninformed woman. But her fear is so powerful that it is completely blinding her.

  Her plea presents me with a curious ethical dilemma. The issue isn't whether I will be less vigorous on Willie's behalf; I will not. But Nicole's revealing her frightened mind-set to me presents me with a clear tactical advantage. To know that the opposition is so frightened is to know how far they can be squeezed. Can I wipe that from my mind? Should I?

  "Nicole, you're hurting your negotiating position."

  She's offended. "Negotiating? Is that what we're doing? After all these years, we're negotiators?"

  "Nicole, talk to me through your lawyer. And my advice is to tell him what you've told me. It's a piece of information he should have."

  She shakes her head in disagreement. "Andy--"

  I cut her off. "I'm sorry, but this conversation is over. One of us is now going to leave. Do you want it to be you or me?"

  She doesn't say another word, just gets up and walks out. I wait five minutes, then do the same.

  I'm starting to become more comfortable with my personal connection to Laurie's case, and on the way back to the house I'm able to focus on that case as I would any other. I view it as a competitive puzzle, to be played with strategy and discipline and logic. Always logic.

  Actually, my type of logical approach is more appropriate here than in any case I've ever had. I view every detail, every piece of the puzzle, as if it had been planned. In my mental world there is no room for coincidence, or even happenstance. Every fact, no matter how small, must be related to the case and significant. Of course, after analysis much turns out to actually be happenstance and/or insignificant, but it helps me attack the case to assume otherwise.

  For instance Garcia was set up to be the police's first suspect. I agree with Kevin that Garcia was chosen to make Laurie look even guiltier, and Stynes was sent to draw myself and Laurie into his defense, and for this to work, Garcia had to seem guilty. If, say, he had been at a party or restaurant with a bunch of friends when Dorsey was thought to have been killed, he could not have been charged, and I would not have rushed to his defense. Dorsey had to have known with certainty where Garcia would be; it couldn't have been left to chance.

  Since at the time of the murder Garcia was paying off Petrone's men, I have to make the assumption that Petrone or his underlings were part of this conspiracy. Garcia had said that they usually came to him to collect, but that night he had been summoned to them. I believe that if the tape from the supermarket had not surfaced, some other fact would have come up, clearing Garcia and opening the way for Laurie to be charged.

  Following this to its logical conclusion, Dorsey and Petrone, or people working for Petrone, were in this together. But why? Dorsey benefits in obvious ways. He gets to safely disappear, while at the same time getting revenge against Laurie. But what does Petrone get out of this? Does he have any reason to hate Laurie? How does he benefit from Dorsey's successful escape?

  All cases are a series of questions and answers. Early on there are far more questions, and the answers are few and far between. Eventually, the answers start to come, and the questions get fewer. If I can tip that scale far enough, I solve the puzzle and win the game. First prize is Laurie not having to spend the rest of her life in prison.

  As I reach the house, it seems as if the press contingent stationed outside has gotten substantially larger. There are at least two additional camera trucks, which make it difficult for me to enter the driveway. I persist trying until they move, since I know if I relent and park on the street, I'll have given up the driveway for the duration.

  As I get out of the car, I am swarmed by the reporters, all asking me if it's true that Laurie claims Dorsey is still alive and has phoned her. I decline to comment and with some difficulty make it through the horde and into the house.

  Laurie, Kevin, and Edna are in the den watching television. The few afternoon news programs are having a field day with Laurie's claim of having spoken to Dorsey. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the ridicule has already begun. After pointing out that DNA results have confirmed the charred, headless body to be Dorsey's, one amused newscaster takes mock offense and says, "I thought we were the only talking heads around here."

  Laurie is furious at the treatment she is getting, and I can't say I blame her. I have little doubt that Dylan leaked the story, and it's a public relations triumph for him. I should have been the one to take this public. Allowing Dylan to frame the issue has the effect of making Laurie look (a) desperate, (b) crazy, (c) guilty, (d) ridiculous, and (e) all of the above. Since the public is by definition the jury pool, it's not a good position for us to be in.

  I can go to Hatchet and complain, and since he's not the most media-friendly judge around, he might sympathize with my position. However, it's beyond his power to erase what the public already knows, so all he could do is issue a gag order on the case from this point on. I'm not ready to advocate that; I still think there's more to be gained than lost in the public relations battle. I'm just not doing a very good job of it.

  To that end, I conduct a press conference on the steps of the house. My intent is to openly acknowledge Laurie's claim that Dorsey is alive; at this point there is nothing to be gained by denying it. I point out that we did not try to take advantage of it in any way. We simply went to the police to ask for the investigation it deserved. Instead of focusing on that, they've seen fit to release it to the press.

  "The district attorney's office is conducting a search for advantage, not for truth" is how I sum it up.

  After my impromptu statement has concluded, I invite questions. The first one is from a woman representing the Newark Star-Ledger. It begins with, "Assuming your client got this phone call--"

  I interrupt her. "She got the phone call. She is a truthful person, as you will come to know. What you should already know is that nothing would be gained by our making this up. There was absolutely no possibility the police or prosecution would believe it without adequate and independent proof. We had hoped and expected they would look for such proof, rather than create a media circus designed to make my client look foolish."

  I take about five questions, making sure that every one of my answers includes an attack on the prosecution. I'm hoping to defuse the impact of today's revelation on the evening news, and once I've done the best I can in that regard, I go back into the house.

  A couple of hours later we sit around the television and find out that my front porch salvo was too little too late. Laurie continues to take hits and ridicule, and while my protestations are included, they are given short shrift.

  Laurie and I have been going to bed fairly early each night. For her it seems as i
f being asleep is considerably less painful than being awake. When we are awake, we don't want to talk only about the case, but there's absolutely nothing else that we can focus on. So we've been in bed by ten, and then, unable to sleep, I've been getting up at midnight or later to strategize and figure out my next steps.

  Tonight is slightly different. Tonight we make love for the first time since this nightmare began. Laurie instigates it, and it is one of the most intensely passionate encounters I have ever experienced. There is a "deck of the Titanic" urgency that is at the same time frightening and wonderful. And afterward I do something I didn't think possible.

  I sleep through the night.

  The most important thing I do when working on a case is ask questions. I ask them of anybody and everybody. Some of the questions are informed or even perceptive, but many are fishing expeditions. I get as many answers as I can and sift through them in my mind. Sometimes this helps me figure out the truth, but at the very least it helps me think of more questions to ask, which is fine.

  Our situation in this case is so bad that I can't even come up with people to question. I can't get near Petrone, I can't find Stynes, and on behalf of the FBI, Special Agent Hobbs smiles and gives me nothing.

  My plan for today reflects that lack of options. I'm going to go to Oscar Garcia's neighborhood and question some of the people that identified Laurie as having been in the area. I'm certainly not going to shake their stories; Laurie has admitted that she was there, keeping an eye on Garcia. I'm just going to see if they know or saw anything else, something, I hope, that can help my case.

  An early phone call changes my plans for the day. It's from a woman who says, "Mr. Carpenter, I know you're very busy, but I saw you on television last night, and I'd like to talk to you about my husband."

  "Who is your husband?" I ask.

  "Alex Dorsey."

  She gives me directions to her apartment, coupled with the disclaimer that she's only lived there for about a month and isn't really sure if the directions are correct. They turn out to be exactly correct, and it takes me about fifteen minutes to get there. It would have been less, but I had Kevin park around the block, and then I sneaked out the back way and took his car. I don't know what Dorsey's wife wants, but I certainly don't want the press or Dylan to know she wants it from me.