Night on Fire

by Douglas Corleone

  It’s a solid minute before he says, “You want to talk about fire.”

  “Not just any fire, Corwin. The fire in Ko Olina this past July.”

  “That was a good fire,” he says without emotion.

  I keep my hand from trembling by pressing the receiver tighter against my ear. All concern for germs has abruptly vanished. “Was that one of yours?”

  Corwin Pierce has a history of setting fires. Over the past decade he’s pleaded twice to destruction of property, even served a little time. He burned a garage. An abandoned shed. A field. But never before has he taken lives or even come close. True, his fires have escalated in size. In fact, the fire he’s in for now involved a pickup truck and a tree. Word is, his actions could have resulted in a brush fire so large it could have competed against a recent disaster in northern California.

  “It was one of mine,” he says, giggling again. “My masterpiece. My opus.”

  I lean forward, try not to flinch as I look him in those dead blue eyes. “Tell me what you told Turi Ahina. Tell me how you did it.”

  “I was bored,” he starts, his feminine voice falling into a monotone. “I don’t usually get so bored but I did that day, so I went outside and walked to the road and I hitched a ride with some locals from Waianae early in the afternoon. Didn’t know where they were headed and I didn’t care. I curled up in the bed of their pickup and fell asleep, and when I woke we were passing through the gate into Ko Olina, headed for one of the lagoons.”

  “What were their names?”

  “The locals?” He shrugs. “Don’t know. Never saw them before, never saw them again. We drove down to the fourth lagoon, parked and parted ways. I found myself a nice shade tree and sat down under it and at some point I fell asleep. I woke sometime late that afternoon, walked around a bit, found someone’s unattended cooler full of sodas and sandwiches and helped myself. Then the night came around.

  “Ran into some guys who were drinking beers out past the marina by Barbers Point. I was going to try to steal some but they offered and I accepted and we got to talking. I only had but one or two, but I sat there with them for hours.”

  “What were their names?” I say.

  “I’ll get to that,” he snaps. It’s Corwin’s first break from the tone he immediately fell into when he started his story. Corwin clears his throat and scoots his chair forward. “First the fire.”

  I lean back on the hard plastic chair and cross my legs. “It’s your show,” I tell him.

  * * *

  He’d seen them earlier in the day, he tells me. The bride and groom, the wedding party. So he knew his target. He’d found an old Seattle Mariners cap that afternoon and placed it on his head, along with a cheap pair of sunglasses he’d found near the garbage. Probably ladies’ glasses, he says.

  He spied on the last leg of the reception, waited while everyone went up to their rooms, then watched the newlyweds argue at Kanaloa’s from beyond the gate. Heard the bride cussing out her husband and the bartender.

  “I didn’t like the looks of her chubby hubby,” he says. “Thought it would be nice to see her doughboy go up in flames.”

  So when the couple left Kanaloa’s he followed them up to their room.

  “How did you do that?” I ask.

  “They got in the elevator alone, the two of them, and I waited until the door closed, then watched the lights above it. Saw that the elevator traveled up and up and up and up until it reached the sixteenth floor.”

  Corwin took the stairs. At this point he had no real plan, just knew he wanted to do some damage. Maybe not kill anyone, maybe just scare someone a bit. Then opportunity knocked. Or rather hotel security.

  He heard a few expletives, then saw the door slam in their face.

  As they walked away, he heard one security guard say to the other something about charcoal starter fluid in the room and it felt as though destiny were calling.

  He hung in the stairwell, thinking, checking the floor every once in a while. His heart was pounding—it was one ginormous rush, he says, as though he’d just snorted three fat lines of crystal meth.

  Then the luck. Serendipity, he calls it. The bride left the room and made for the elevator and she was alone.

  He followed her. First downstairs then to the lagoon, which was beautifully pitch-black and empty.

  She was drunk, no question about it, he says, so it was easy. She stood up, walked around a bit, left her handbag perfectly unattended in the sand.

  In the darkness he couldn’t make the bag out, but later he would see it was a little leather Fendi. He crossed over to the nearby construction site, unzipped it, and examined its contents.

  He found the knife first. A switchblade, he says. And, of course, the Zippo lighter that he figured belonged to her husband Ed because of the engraved letters. Both of these finds were great but what Corwin really wanted was the key card to their room. And the key card was in there, too, zipped up in a small side compartment.

  Finding the valve to the water main was easy. He knows this kind of shit, he tells me. He removed his T-shirt and used it like a glove so that he wouldn’t leave any prints when he turned the valve.

  He couldn’t waste much time. Sooner or later, even in the dead of night, someone might notice. Some guest might call the front desk and complain. “There’s no fucking water,” someone might say. But then, he had to time it all just right, too. He couldn’t be seen. Not by security or staff, not by the guests, and certainly not by any of the resort’s video surveillance cameras.

  He figures it was just past two when he made it back to their room. First he listened at the door for conversation, television, radio, anything. Then he used the key card to enter the honeymoon suite and found the man in bed and asleep.

  “I was able to pour out all the charcoal starter fluid before he even stirred,” Corwin says. “Then the fucker woke up so I buried the bitch’s knife in his gut. Watched him bleed like a stuck fucking pig.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure the rest out, lawyer. I slapped my thumb down on the flint wheel of that bitch’s lighter and tossed it onto the juice.” He smiles that sick, twisted smile he smiled when I first arrived. “Then God said, ‘Let there be fire.’”

  * * *

  I have Corwin Pierce tell me the story again and again and then once more. Barely a word of his narrative changes—certainly none of the facts—though on the fourth and final time around Corwin Pierce lets me in on the big secret, the denouement of his tale.

  “The spics I drank beers with over at Barbers Point,” he says, “turns out they were gangbangers from L.A. They paid me to do this shit.”

  “How much?”

  “A couple hundred.”

  “Why did they want it done?”

  Corwin leans forward, presses his nose up against the glass. “One of the spics said this guy pissed down his leg the night before,” he says, barely able to keep from cracking up.

  “I see.” I glance at the clock on the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  He sits back, blows out a breath. “Suspense, lawyer. It’s not what you put into a story, it’s what you leave out.”

  Tired, I nod and remain silent for a while. “You left something else out,” I say finally.

  “Did I?”

  “You did.”

  Corwin Pierce waits. When I don’t elaborate a look of pure fury creeps back onto his stark white face. “Well, what was it I left out, Corvelli, that you would like to know?”

  I let his question hang in the air for another few moments. I set the receiver down on the counter and stand as though I’m ready to leave. I smooth out my suit and straighten my tie as he watches me. Finally, putting the bulk of my weight on my good left leg, I lean forward, lift the receiver and press it against my ear.

  “Tell me. What did you do with the knife, Mr. Pierce?”

  On this and only this, Corwin Pierce remains perfectly silent.r />
  CHAPTER 45

  Judge Sonya Maxa asks Mia Landow if she would care for a recess before looking at me and saying, “Your witness, Mr. Corvelli.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  Mia watches me hobble to the podium the way a bartender watches a loud drunk: guarded, unsure of what to expect, afraid of the next words to spew from my mouth.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Landow. We’ve met before, have we not?”

  “We have, yes.”

  “Good, now tell me, Ms. Landow…” I can almost feel the individuals in the gallery listening, hanging on every word of my first few questions. Since I refrained from making an opening statement until after the close of the prosecution’s case, no one, including Luke Maddox, is quite sure what I am about to say, what type of strategy I intend to employ, if any. “To your knowledge, what was Trevor Simms’s business?”

  Mia frowns with relief, clearly anticipating another line of questioning. No doubt she’s been dreading for months seeing me stand at this podium from her perch on the witness stand, having me delve into her sexual proclivities. Truth is, if it would assist me in winning an acquittal I wouldn’t hesitate to paint her as a backstabbing harlot with the morals of a cable news commentator. After all, in my profession, the outcome is all that matters. How I arrive there is trivial. But I don’t disgrace witnesses just for kicks. At least not anymore. Unless, of course, they truly have it coming to them.

  Fortunately for both me and Mia, Maddox opened the door to Trevor’s business dealings on direct examination by attempting to show that Mia Landow was more to Trevor than just an object of his lust, that she received more from him than just a single roll in the hay in the harbor. The less tawdry Trevor’s infidelity, Maddox no doubt figured, the less sympathy it would merit for Erin Simms. And what better way in America to establish a trusting relationship than by displaying an open line of communication about one’s own finances.

  Maddox calmly rises from his chair. “Objection, Your Honor. Could Mr. Corvelli please specify the time period he is inquiring about?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. In fact, I phrased the question to goad Maddox to his feet. “Strike the previous question and let me ask you this, Ms. Landow. In the time period that you knew Trevor Simms, did his line of business ever change?”

  Maddox sits, no doubt realizing he shouldn’t have pulled the trigger on this first objection. Early on, that is my strategy, to adapt to Maddox’s objections so well that it seems as though I feed off them; to obliterate his confidence, make him gun-shy, make him second-guess himself each and every time he stands to object.

  “Yes, it did.”

  “And to your knowledge, when did this change in business occur?”

  “Just after he and Erin became engaged to be married.”

  “Do you know the reason behind Trevor Simms’s change in business?”

  Mia hesitates for a moment, undoubtedly calculating how much to say. She’s a witness for the prosecution and Maddox would if he could dress her up in a State uniform to remind her of such. Ultimately, Mia throws caution to the wind and goes with the truth.

  “Yes, I do. Prior to their engagement, Trevor had been working as an executive for his father’s software company, SimmsWare. But Trevor’s father didn’t approve of Erin as Trevor’s fiancée, so Trevor and his dad had a sort of falling out.”

  “I see. And did this falling out result in Trevor Simms’s termination from his father’s company?”

  “Yes, it did.”

  Flan’s week-long trip to San Francisco proved a worthwhile investment. In fact, in these financial times, were it not for the ten other dead, I could probably skate Erin on the charge of killing her husband simply by revealing everything Trevor did during the final year of his life.

  “That must have been difficult for Trevor,” I say. “Did you notice much of a change in Trevor’s behavior after he lost his position with his father’s company?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Say, for instance, Trevor’s spending habits. From what you observed, did Trevor Simms’s spending habits change at all following his dismissal from SimmsWare and his loss of an executive salary?”

  “No, they didn’t. If anything, Trevor became even more reckless with his money.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?” I say, inviting Maddox’s objection. I want the jury thinking about this question before I answer it myself.

  “Objection,” Maddox says. “Calls for speculation.”

  “Withdrawn,” I say, before Maxa can rule. “Ms. Landow, immediately following Trevor Simms’s dismissal from SimmsWare, did you know what type of business he had decided to go into?”

  “Not at first, no.”

  “Did there come a time when you learned what type of business Trevor Simms went into following his termination at SimmsWare?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Trevor confided in me a couple of weeks before his wedding.”

  “Do you recall on which particular day Trevor shared this information with you?”

  “The day we spent alone on Trevor’s boat in San Francisco Bay.”

  Thanks to her testimony on direct the jury needs no reminder as to what else transpired on that day.

  “To the best of your recollection, Ms. Landow, what did Trevor Simms tell you with respect to his new business on that day?”

  “Objection.” Maddox is up again. “Calls for hearsay.”

  “Your Honor,” I say, “may we approach the bench?”

  Maxa motions us forward and both Maddox and I manage to make it all the way to the bench without once glancing in the other’s direction.

  Once we are out of earshot of the jury box, I say, “Your Honor, I verily believe the witness’s answer will be fully admissible as a statement against interest.”

  The hearsay rule prevents a witness from repeating a statement made by someone else when that statement is being used to prove the truth of the matter asserted. One of the hearsay rule’s many exceptions, however, is when the statement made would be against the declarant’s—in this case Trevor’s—interest. The logic behind this exception is that if one makes a statement against his own interest, it is far more likely to be trustworthy.

  “Are we talking about criminal conduct, Mr. Corvelli?” Maxa asks.

  “Of the foulest kind, Your Honor. Financial.”

  “In that case, let me clear the courtroom. You can ask these questions outside the presence of the jury and then I’ll make my determination as to whether the statements are admissible.” Maxa pauses. “Unless…”

  “Yes, Your Honor?”

  “Unless you can save me the trouble and present this evidence in some other fashion.”

  “I’d be delighted to, Your Honor. Anything I can do to expedite justice.”

  I hear Maddox mutter “fuckhead” as I amble back to the podium.

  While I was up at the bench Jake placed Flan’s blue folder on the podium. I open it now and remove its contents. “Your Honor, I would like to enter this set of documents marked as Defendant’s Exhibit B.” Jake delivers a copy to Maddox’s table as I present my set to the clerk for proper labeling. “May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”

  “You may.”

  “Ms. Landow,” I say, handing her the papers, “do you recognize this set of documents?”

  Mia takes her time looking them over. “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you recall when you first saw them?”

  “On the day Trevor and I spent alone on his boat in San Francisco Bay.”

  “Do you know what these documents relate to?”

  “Trevor’s new … business,” she says.

  “And what was that business, Ms. Landow?”

  “Trevor described it as something similar to a Ponzi scheme.”

  There’s a slight rattle from the gallery at the mention of the words Ponzi scheme. Maxa quickly extinguishes it with a soft rap of her gavel.

  Maddox is on his feet
. “Objection. Hearsay, Your Honor.”

  Maxa shakes her head. “Overruled. If that’s not a statement against interest, then I don’t know what is.”

  “By Ponzi scheme,” I continue, “you’re referring to a fraudulent investment operation. Correct, Ms. Landow?”

  “Correct. Trevor collected money from honest investors using the ruse that he was starting his own software company. With his background at SimmsWare, it was easy for Trevor to convince investors that anything he started was a wise investment.”

  “But Trevor Simms had no intention of starting his own software company, isn’t that also correct?”

  Mia nods on the stand. “That’s right.”

  “Yet Trevor Simms was able to pay returns to his investors in order to convince them to continue investing with him. How did he manage that?”

  “Trevor paid returns to individual investors with their own money or with money he received from subsequent investors.”

  “Silicon Valley’s Bernie Madoff,” I remark.

  Maddox objects and Maxa sustains but I’ve made the connection I wanted to and even earned a few chuckles from the jury box to boot.

  “Ms. Landow, that set of documents you now hold in your hands, tell me, does that set contain a list of names under the heading Investors?”

  Mia flips a page, glances at the header. “Yes, it does.”

  “Now, from your personal knowledge and understanding, from Trevor Simms’s own admission, would you characterize the individuals on that list as people who Trevor Simms swindled?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I turn to the jury. “Do me a favor, Ms. Landow, and read for me the names listed next to the following numbers under the heading Investors.” I clasp my hands behind my back. “Twenty-six.”

  “Tara Holland.”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Isaac Cassel.”

  “Fifty-six.”

  “Gabe Guidry.”

  “Seventy-one.”

  “Todd Downey.”

  “You know all four of these individuals, Ms. Landow, isn’t that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And were any of these four individuals that Trevor Simms swindled present on the island of Oahu on the day of Trevor and Erin’s wedding—or more pointedly, on the night of the fire?”