I chime in. “In the interests of justice, the defense is willing to allow a delay, though we would prefer that our client not have to sit in a jail cell while the prosecution gets its act together.”
Wallace is getting annoyed, which is what I want, but Hatchet refuses to let the back-and-forth continue.
“Mr. Carpenter, your request to delay your decision is denied. Are you requesting a Kelly-Frye or not?”
“No, Your Honor.” Wallace whirls around in surprise. “But the defense reserves its right to challenge the evidence when presented.”
“No objection, Your Honor,” Wallace agrees.
“Very good. What's next?”
“There is the matter of bail, Your Honor,” I say.
“In a capital case?”
“The prosecution has not officially announced its intention in that regard.”
“That's just a formality,” Wallace says. “The paperwork is being prepared now.”
“My client has already served seven years in prison for a crime he did not commit. Every single additional day is an intolerable imposition.”
“Motion for bail denied. Anything else?”
Before Wallace or I have a chance to reply, Hatchet slams down his gavel. “See you at jury selection.”
Kevin and I say our goodbyes to Willie and make plans to meet with him and discuss some specifics of the case. After he leaves, Kevin says, “The judge wasn't as tough as you led me to believe.”
“Just wait,” I say. “Just wait.”
NEW JERSEYHAS ALWAYS BEEN A STATE WITH AN identity crisis. It is essentially divided into three areas: the part near New York, the part near Philadelphia, and everything in between. That middle part includes both fashionable suburban areas and lower-to middle-class towns and farmland. It is in the economically depressed farmland where Denise McGregor was raised, so it is where I am going today.
The trip down the Garden State Parkway is bumper-to-bumper because of beach traffic, compounded by the fact that it seems like there are tollbooths every twenty feet. I switch off to the New Jersey Turnpike and the drive goes much more smoothly. It gives me time to think.
I've learned that Denise's father still lives down here, but I've decided not to call ahead and prepare him for my arrival. It is likely that he will be disinclined to speak to me, since he no doubt believes that I represent his daughter's killer, and I think I have a better chance if I take him by surprise. I really have no preconceived notions of what I might find out from him, but if my theory is correct that Denise's murder was not random and served a purpose, then the more I can find out about her the better.
I soon find myself on a small, mostly dirt road in a very depressed area. I pass a series of small shacks, all with animals and trucks out front. I finally pull up to a ramshackle trailer, which bears the address I have for Denise's father. I'm glad that it's not part of a trailer park, since that seems to be where tornadoes always pick to strike. I don't have time to ponder the meteorological significance of this, because I see an elderly man rocking gently on a rocking chair in front of the trailer.
Sitting next to the man is a large German shepherd, quiet but eyeing me as if lunch just arrived. I pull my car up fairly close and get out, leaving the door open so that if the dog chases me I might have an escape route.
I approach the man, who shows no signs of even being aware that I am there.
“Hello, I'm looking for Wally McGregor.”
“He's the blind guy in the rocking chair.”
I look around to see if the person he is talking about is there, and then I realize with an embarrassed flash that he's talking about himself, and that he's already made an idiot out of me.
“You're Wally McGregor?”
He laughs. “I can't fool you, can I?”
I return the laugh. “No, I'm much too sharp for that. My name is Andy Carpenter.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to talk to you about Denise.”
I can see him tense up when he hears Denise's name; there is no statute of limitations on emotions when a parent loses a child.
“Why?”
I've been debating the idea of evading the truth, of not telling him that I represent Willie until I've gotten information out of him. In the moment, though, I can't do it. He has the right to know, as well as the right to throw me out if he so chooses.
“I represent the man that the police say killed her. I believe they have the wrong man.”
He doesn't respond, just rocks slightly back and forth, thinking it through.
“I understand the feelings you must have,” I say. “But I would very much appreciate your talking to me.”
“I heard about the retrial … Mr. Wallace called me. I can't say I'm happy about it.”
He thinks some more, and I wait. “But I want the real killer to be punished, and I can't see how talking to someone can hurt the chance of that.”
“Thank you.”
He invites me into the trailer for a cup of coffee, and I follow him in. His blindness certainly doesn't interfere with his ability to get around, and he gets the coffee up and brewing in a matter of maybe three minutes.
While he's doing so, I look around the place. There are some pictures on the wall. One of them is of a young woman, perhaps twenty-one years old, sitting on a horse. It is the first photo I have seen of Denise McGregor that wasn't taken by the coroner, and it makes the fact of her brutal death all the more horrifying.
“She was a very beautiful young lady,” I say.
Obviously, Wally can't see where I am, so he asks, “Which picture are you looking at?”
“Denise sitting on a horse.”
Wally nods. “She was beautiful, that's for sure. But that's not Denise … that's her mother, Julie. Everybody says how much they looked alike.”
“Oh. Is Julie-”
“Alive?” he interrupts. “Can't say as I know. She left me and Denise when Denise was only a year or so old. Julie wasn't the family type; she couldn't be tied down. So when she found herself stuck with a husband and a child, well, she took off and never looked back.”
Wally McGregor lost his wife, his daughter, and his sight, yet he has the knack of making a visitor feel completely comfortable. It's a great knack to have.
“And you raised Denise by yourself?”
He laughs. “Once I lost my sight, it was more like she raised me. There was nothing Denise couldn't do.”
“Do you have any idea what she was working on at the time she was killed?”
“Sure don't. But Denise used to call me and read me all her articles once they got in the paper. I got such a kick out of that. She was some writer.”
I had read her articles, and he is right. She was a terrific writer.
“And you have no idea why anyone would want to kill her?”
“No. Everybody loved Denise … it don't make no sense … you'd have to ask Miller why he did what he did.”
“So you think it was him?”
He shrugs. “I just know what the police told me. But if you're looking for a reason for Denise to have died, there ain't none.”
He shakes his head and relives the senselessness of it for the millionth time. “Damn, there just ain't none.”
I can see that Wally is starting to get upset, and I give him time to let the pain subside. I know people that have lost children, and they tell me the pain never goes away, it's there twenty-four hours a day, but that after a while you develop techniques that can help to mask it. Wally manages to do that, and we have a conversation that steers clear of Denise.
Later I ask him about Edward Markham, and he tells me that they never met, not even at the funeral. Edward sent a large floral arrangement and a condolence letter, but did not show up personally. Wally doesn't seem particularly upset about the slight; Edward never really had any importance to him. Denise, in fact, had never mentioned Edward.
It's almost time for me to leave, and Wally knows he hasn't given me w
hat I need. He brings it up himself. “So you think it could have been someone else that killed her?”
I nod. “That's what I think. It's not what I know.”
“If you find out something, I want to know. Promise me that.”
“I promise,” I say. It's one I'm going to keep, no matter how this turns out.
It's too late to go back to the office, so I head home. There's a pile of personal matters to attend to, not the least of which is dealing with my father's money. It's financially crazy to just let it sit in the low-interest bonds, but I'm somehow not inclined to touch it yet. Maybe a shrink can tell me why that is, and I can certainly afford Sigmund Freud if he's available. And if I had the time.
Nicole has warmed up considerably, and she greets me with a glass of Chardonnay and a kiss. It feels nice, and I appreciate it, but I know that I'm not going to have the time to pay attention to her, and it gives me a pang of guilt. I talk to her about it and she understands, so after dinner I retreat to the den with Tara and get back to work.
I have to wade through the latest of Kevin's briefs, which argues that the death penalty should not be considered in this case. The main point he makes is the obviously unfair way it has been administered throughout the country. Not only has racial bias been clear, but the number of death row inmates that have been exonerated is staggering. In Illinois alone, over a fifteen-year period, more death row inmates were exonerated than executed.
Once again, Kevin's work is professional and well reasoned, a clear, concise indictment of the death penalty, and I make very few changes. Unfortunately, Kevin and I both know that it is once again destined for failure, at least as far as Hatchet is concerned. He has long been a pro-death penalty judge, and with an election coming up next year we're not likely to change his mind.
I've also given Kevin the assignment of preparing our witness list, as well as the job of going over the witness list that Wallace has provided us. As is the norm, Wallace has given us a voluminous list, with every conceivable person listed on it. There is no way he is going to call even ten percent of these people, but he wants us to use our limited time and resources looking into people that will not appear in court. It's not terribly nice, but it's the way the game is played. I've told Kevin to come to me or even to Willie with anyone on the list whose role in the case we're not sure of, so that we can be prepared for any eventuality.
So much to do, so little time. The trial date is approaching like a freight train, and we are in deep trouble. I fall asleep around two o'clock in the morning, without having accomplished much of anything except making myself even more tired.
THE ALARM GOES OFFAT SIX A.M. DID I go to school to be a lawyer or a dairy farmer? I take Tara for a quick walk, then shower and head for the office.
I'm in full work mode now, able to totally concentrate on the matter at hand. I find that when I'm in this mind-set, I can drive somewhere and not remember anything about the trip. It amazes me that I don't have accidents, but my instinct must take over.
This morning my mind is in total clutter, trying to juggle a million things that have to be done and examined. Kevin is coming in with a jury consultant for a meeting. I've never had much use for them, always trusting my instincts, but Kevin has convinced me to keep an open mind about it. After that, I'm going over to depose Victor Markham at his lawyer's office.
I arrive at my office at eight-thirty, which is too early for Edna to have gotten in, so I'm surprised when the door is unlocked. I'm also concerned that someone may have broken in during the night, but I look around quickly and don't see anything amiss.
A moment later I don't see anything at all, as either a fist or a baseball bat hits me on the side of the head. The rest is more than a little blurry, but I hear myself scream in slow motion, and fall to the ground.
I look up and see a man wearing a ski mask, and since it hasn't snowed in the office in quite a while, I instinctively cover up. That proves to be a good move, as he kicks me in the stomach and then punches me again in the chest and head.
My mind registers the fact that there is no one around to help me, that this monster can continue to kick and punch me for as long as he wants. Fortunately, he stops after a few more well-placed shots, all of which send shooting pains through my body. He leans over and snarls through his mask.
“You'd better learn how to take a warning, asshole.”
I try to respond, but another kick silences me.
“Next time you're dead, asshole. Dead.”
He moves away and out the door, a beautiful, blurry sight if ever I've seen one.
After a few minutes, I stagger to the phone and call the police. I ask for Pete Stanton and tell him what happened. Then I slump down to the floor and wait for the cavalry to arrive.
The first soldier in the door is Edna, who screams when she sees me. She's no beauty early in the morning either, but apparently I look worse. She responds to the crisis terrifically, getting cold rags to apply to my bruises and helping me to the couch.
The place is soon swarming with paramedics and police. The paramedics want to take me to the hospital, but I refuse. Nothing seems to be broken, although my entire body hurts like hell, and I just can't afford to give up the time. Instead they take me into the back office and attend to me, while the police survey the scene.
The paramedics finally finish, and I drag my bruised and bandaged body into the outer office. The only police officer left is Pete, who is on the phone. He signals for me to wait, mouthing that he's on an important call with his office.
I stagger to the couch and sit down, and after a few minutes Pete hangs up. Rather than come talk to me, he makes another call. I'm not paying much attention, until I hear part of it.
“I've got to stop at the cleaners, and I don't know if I'll have time to get the car washed. So figure me for about seven. Right. Goodbye.” I've been waiting for this?
He hangs up the phone and turns to me. “Okay. Talk to me,” he says.
“Talk to you? About what? About some seven-foot-eight, four-hundred-pound monster who beat the shit out of me? I don't think so. I admit it seemed important at the time, but it pales next to the possibility that you won't have time to get your goddamn car washed. That really puts everything into perspective.”
He laughs; this episode doesn't seem to concern him as much as it does me. He tells me that I've got to answer some questions, as well as provide a description of the assailant.
“I didn't see him, Pete. The son of a bitch was wearing a ski mask.”
“There's nothing you can give me? A distinctive voice, maybe?”
I search my recollection, but come up with almost nothing. “He's got big feet.”
“Well now we're getting somewhere.”
I'm really annoyed. “Look, my house has been broken into, I've been threatened, and now I've been beaten up in my office. Any chance you're seeing a pattern, Sherlock?”
“Andy, I see this every day. It happens all the time, and you defend most of the scumbags who do it.”
I shake my head. “This is not supposed to happen to me. I'm a lawyer, for Christ's sake. When I piss people off they're supposed to stand up and object.”
Pete asks me if I see anything missing in the office, or if there seems to be anything that the intruder had gone through.
There is no evidence of that, and I tell him so.
“Hmmmm,” he hmmms.
“What are you hmmming about?”
“Obviously, the intruder was here just to do what he did, beat and threaten you.”
“That makes me feel much better.”
“What time did you get in?”
“Early. Eight-thirty.”
“Are you always the first one in?”
“No. When I'm due in court I sometimes don't come in until the afternoon.”
“Somebody's been watching and following you, Andy. Any idea who it could be?”
“No.”
“Maybe another pimp looking to take over your
stable?”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Believe me, right now it's a lot better looking than your face.”
Pete asks me a lot more questions, and I answer them as best I can. Well, maybe not quite that completely, since I neglect to mention the parts about my father and the money and the picture. My shrink and I are going to have a lot to talk about.
Pete heads back to the office, promising to put his best people on the case. He also makes a reference to our next meeting, which is when he will be testifying as a key witness in the Miller case. It'll be my job to attack Pete in cross-examination, which won't be easy.
As Pete's leaving, Laurie arrives. She hasn't heard about the attack, and the first thing she sees is my battered face.
“Oh, my God. What happened?”
“Sort of a pretrial conference,” I say. Hey, I used to sleep with her. I've got to act brave.
She touches my arm, and I can't help it, I wince in pain. “No touching. Please, no touching.”
She's okay with that. I knew she would be.
I call Nicole and tell her what happened, since I'm afraid she'll hear it through the media. She's concerned and upset, though less so than when the house was broken into. I renew my suggestion that she move out until the danger has passed, and again she refuses.
Kevin shows up soon after and shows a hell of a lot more sympathy than Laurie had. We soon get back into the details of the case, and I almost forget the pain I'm in. Almost, but not quite.
The jury consultant shows up for our meeting. Her name is Marjorie Klayman and to my chagrin I take an immediate liking to her. My father brought me up to believe in the old school of trial lawyering, and jury consultancy is part of the new school. Marjorie is in her thirties, unpretentious in looks, dress, and attitude, and totally self-confident in her ability to help me pick a jury.
She explains what she calls the “science” of the process, which consists of conducting polls among sample jury pools, probing with sophisticated questions about attitude and lifestyle. The responses are then correlated with those people's attitudes toward information about the specific case. I'm not knocked out by what she has to say, but then again how many times can I be knocked out in one day? I hire her on the spot, and give her one week to get back to me. This is generous; jury selection begins in ten days.
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