I’ve just realized that as dismal as this looked a few minutes ago, it’s actually worse. I’m doing all of this for nothing, and I’m doing it with Hike.
The most important courtroom in America, at least for financial matters, is in Delaware.
Most people are surprised to hear that, since Delaware has never been confused with Wall Street as a center of high finance.
It’s called the Delaware Chancery Court, and it has been home to some of the most significant financial trials in American business history. Many of them have gone completely unnoticed by those outside the business community, but the verdicts have on some level affected everyone.
Delaware’s achieving preeminence in this area was the result of design. Favorable state tax laws attracted companies from all over the country, not to make Delaware their corporate headquarters, but rather to make it the state in which they incorporated. So when those same companies are involved in lawsuits, that is naturally where those suits are tried.
Over time, the court has also come to be known for its competence. It is a place where decisions are rendered by its judges strictly according to the law. Lawyers don’t have to worry about renegade judges making unsupported decisions, and surprises are a rarity. And lawyers hate surprises.
This outstanding legal reputation frequently brings “business” into Delaware by mutual agreement of companies that are not even incorporated there. When these companies enter into contracts with each other, they often agree in advance that if they eventually have a dispute, it will be settled in Delaware.
So Judge Walter Holland, chief judge of the Chancery Court, had a very important job, and he took that job very seriously. Blessed with an outstanding legal mind, and having earned a reputation for impeccable integrity, he had long been considered a lawyer’s judge. That is, he would decide cases strictly according to the law, and he possessed a keen understanding of that law.
No surprises.
On this day Judge Holland sat in his courtroom moments before he was to hear opening arguments in a dispute concerning an attempted takeover of Milgram Oil and Gas. In his position as chief judge, it was easy for him to arrange to hear the case himself, and that’s what he did.
As companies in the energy field go, Milgram was a relative pygmy, with a market capitalization of less than a billion and a half dollars. The company attempting the takeover was Entech Industries, a smallish energy firm, based in Philadelphia and run by CEO Alex Bauer. Entech Industries had owned about three percent of Milgram, but then suddenly bought another fifteen percent.
Milgram, correctly anticipating a takeover move by Entech, adopted what is known as a poison pill defense. Simply put, the measure said that if any outside investor bought enough shares to own in excess of twenty percent of the company, then all existing shareholders had the right to buy more shares at a discount.
This maneuver would have the effect of diluting Entech’s shares, and making an ultimate takeover difficult, if not impossible. So Bauer and Entech sued, claiming the poison pill defense in this case was illegal.
It was a fairly complicated case; Judge Holland knew that from his reading of the submitted briefs. But complicated cases were nothing new to him; he faced that every day.
It was also a typical case, in that it was not even close to the public consciousness. Mentions could be found of it on the financial pages, but they focused mainly on the impact that the case would have on the stock of the parties involved.
The lawyers representing the companies were from the finest firms in the country, and Holland knew that they were worth the exorbitant fees they charged. They would prepare meticulously, and they would know every single fact and element of the law that might bear on the outcome.
But Judge Walter Holland knew certain things that the lawyers did not.
He knew that it was not important how well the lawyers were prepared, or how persuasive they would be. None of that would matter, for one simple reason.
Judge Holland already knew who was going to win.
And he knew that twenty-six people had burned to death to ensure it.
Alexander Downey is going to regret his decision.
He’s the vice president and assistant managing editor of Henderson Publishing, and after trading a few phone calls, we set up a meeting to talk about the possibility of Willie Miller writing a book about his heroic exploits.
I’m too busy with trial preparation to go to his midtown Manhattan office, and I suggested we have our discussion over the phone. But Downey wanted to meet in person, and offered to come to my office. That’s the part he’s likely to regret.
My office is located on the second floor of a three-story building on Van Houten Avenue in Paterson. Directly below us is Sofia Hernandez’s fruit stand, which is sort of the community center of the neighborhood. People from surrounding blocks come there to squeeze cantaloupes and discuss the pressing issues of the day.
Downey arrives and climbs the twenty-two creaking stairs to the office. Once inside, he runs into Edna, who reluctantly puts down her crossword puzzle to usher him into my office. She doesn’t offer him coffee, probably because if he said yes, she’d have to make some.
Downey is wearing a dark, pin-striped suit, which, if he auctioned it off, could pay our rent until the end of hockey season. He introduces himself with, “Mr. Carpenter, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m a longtime admirer.” This guy is no dummy.
I offer him a seat, and he picks the cleanest one and sits down. We exchange small talk for a while, an easy thing to do once I learn he’s a Giants fan.
I need to move this along, since I’ve got a lot of work to do, so I say, “I understand you want Willie Miller to write a book for you.”
He nods. “Very much. He’s got an amazing story to tell, and I’m sure he will tell it colorfully. He has a unique voice.”
“That he does. Until now, I’m sure you understand, that voice has been verbal. This would be Willie’s first book.”
Downey smiles. “Not a problem, we understand that he is not an established writer. We want him to speak from the heart, in his own words.”
“In his own words…” I repeat, wondering if he’s actually heard any of Willie’s words.
“Mr. Carpenter—”
“Andy.”
“Thank you, Andy,” he says. “We … I … understand Willie’s capabilities as a wordsmith. When I told him I wanted his story told truthfully and unembellished, that there was no need for anything fallacious, he said, ‘ ’Course not, man, I’m married.’”
I can’t help laughing at this recounting, and Downey joins in. From there the conversation goes smoothly, and Downey claims to have the perfect person to serve as Willie’s ghostwriter.
When I ask about compensation, he gives me a piece of paper he has prepared as a proposal, and suggests that I study it. “It calls for an advance of five hundred thousand,” he says, “but I’m confident that with royalties he will earn considerably more than that.”
We reach a basic agreement; the money is obviously good, and since Willie wants to do it, I see no reason to stand in his way. Downey says that he will prepare the contracts and send them to me. We shake hands on it, but it appears that the meeting is not yet over. He tells me that he’d like me to write a book as well.
“Willie knows much more about what happened than I do. He was there.”
“I’m not talking about that case, at least not specifically,” Downey says. “You’ve been part of quite a few high-profile cases, including Galloway. This could be the story of your life, and especially your career.”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“There would be a substantial audience for it. We do a lot of these books, some written by the subject, some not. Some authorized, some not.”
I think the only thing I would dislike more than work is writing about work, so I say, “Let’s focus on Willie for now.”
He smiles. “Fine.”
“Thanks for coming
all the way here,” I say.
“Happy to do it. I think I’ll pick up a watermelon downstairs as a remembrance.”
What if they gave a town and nobody came?
That’s what the residents of Jean, Nevada, would be asking themselves, if there were any residents of Jean, Nevada. But there are none, not a single one.
Another thing Jean obviously does not have is a city planner. Set up to be a gambling community, it stands on Highway 15, on the route into Vegas from Los Angeles. That might ordinarily be a good place to be, the theory being that anxious gamblers from L.A. might stop there to get a blackjack fix before driving on to Vegas.
The problem with that is that Primm, Nevada, is located just over the state line between California and Nevada. In fact, the original name of Primm was Stateline. Primm’s casinos are larger than Jean’s, which is just as well, since people actually go there. If they want to gamble before getting to Vegas, they stop at Primm. If not, they go on to Vegas. Either way, there’s no reason to stop at Jean.
None of this deterred Billy Klayman from making a one-o’clock-in-the-morning stop at the Gold Strike Casino in Jean. Having lost almost all of his money in a disastrous two-day trip to Vegas, Billy was driving back to his home in Anaheim a broke and hungry man. The broke part was going to be tough to solve, but the hungry part he could deal with. That’s because the sign in front of the Gold Strike was advertising “24 hour all you can eat—$6.99.” At least one of Billy’s credit cards should be able to deal with that.
So Billy parked his car in the nearly deserted lot and went in to the Gold Strike. It was a “serve yourself” buffet, utilizing small plates and difficult-to-reach entrees to deter patrons from overdoing it.
None of that had any effect on Billy, nor did the fact that the food had very little taste. He had arrived starved, and he was going to leave stuffed.
It took Billy forty-five minutes to have the meal, which included nine trips back to the buffet line. So full that he could barely get out of the chair, he left the restaurant, made a stop in the men’s room, and then another one in the bar adjacent to the casino.
He could only afford one beer, so that’s the exact number that he bought. He lingered over it for a half hour, not anxious to get back onto the road for the rest of the dreary ride home. Once he got there, he would have to explain to his wife where the rent money went, a conversation he did not relish at all.
Billy briefly considered taking a room in the hotel, but rejected the idea when he realized that it would cost money to do it. So instead he waddled out to the parking lot, and headed for his car. He was still depressed and miserable, but he was no longer hungry.
It was only about a hundred yards from the hotel entrance to Billy’s car, and Billy later remembered noticing how dark it was, and thinking that someone who left the casino flush with cash could be an easy target for a predator. Then he laughed to himself at the concept of someone leaving the Gold Strike Casino flush with cash.
Billy unlocked the driver’s side door and got in the car. More accurately, he tried to get in the car, but was stopped by the fact that there was already someone in the driver’s seat.
In the dim interior light of the car, Billy saw that it was a man’s body, wrapped tightly in what seemed like cellophane, but with an empty space where the head was supposed to be. The body rolled back and forth from the impact of Billy’s jostling it, then fell to the left and out of the car and onto the asphalt. In the process, it covered up the note that was taped to the body’s chest.
And then Billy screamed, loud enough to wake the residents of Jean, Nevada, if there were any.
Discovery documents are the New York Yankees of the criminal justice system.
Before the baseball season, all the experts look at the various rosters of the teams, and say that the Yankees are by far the best, and that there’s no way they should lose. And then supporters of the other teams bravely say that everyone should just wait until the season is played, and that although the Yankees may have the best team on paper, the season isn’t played on paper.
Discovery documents are the prosecutor’s version of events, and they chronicle in excruciating detail the results of what are usually intensive investigations by law enforcement. Obviously it is all incriminating to the accused, since it all resulted in the poor sucker getting arrested.
So as evidence “rosters” go, the discovery always shows that the prosecution’s is by far the best. Of course, in this case it’s a two-team league, which leaves the defense in second, meaning last, place.
But, like baseball games, trials are not “played on paper”; they are won or lost in the courtroom. Unfortunately, once they get off the paper and into that courtroom, the evidence included in discovery usually carries the day, and the prosecution winds up winning.
Just like the Yankees.
Considering the fact that this case was at least partially put together six years after the crime, the evidence-gathering against Noah has been impressive.
A number of neighbors identified Noah as a frequent presence in the area, and it was understood that he was purchasing drugs from the people in one of the first-floor apartments. He was also seen and heard earlier that evening engaged in an angry dispute with those same pushers, no doubt over their refusal to extend him credit.
It gets worse from there. Soon after the fire a paint can had been found in a trash can three blocks from the burned house. Testing showed it to have contained residue from the chemical compound identified as having caused the fire. There was DNA on the can, including a tiny piece of charred skin.
Noah’s DNA.
Noah’s skin.
Of course, the trigger that set this whole process in motion was the deposition given by Danny Butler. It makes for a devastating read, if you happen to be Noah’s defense attorney, which unfortunately I am, at least for the time being.
Hike and I go through the material together, exchanging documents when we’re through with them. I can hear him audibly moaning as he reads, which is not terribly significant, since Hike spends most of every day moaning.
When we’re finished, he says, “Well, at least we’ve got a client we can believe. When he says he did it, he did it.”
“So says the prosecution.”
“So says the evidence. Come on, Andy, that paint can is the goddamn murder weapon, and Galloway’s DNA is on it. The only thing they don’t have is a deposition from God saying Galloway set the fire. And they’d probably have that by the time we went to trial.”
“We haven’t developed our own evidence yet,” I say lamely.
“What are you talking about?” he asks. “We’ve already got the key piece. He saved your dog. All we have to do is present studies proving that dog-savers do not burn down houses.”
Hike is annoying me by not playing the game. A defense attorney is supposed to disbelieve and discount everything the prosecution says. “Have you ever read discovery that didn’t make it look like your client was guilty?”
“No, but my clients are always guilty.”
“And maybe this one is also, but we start by assuming he’s not, and we try to make the pieces fit. Maybe the real killer set him up to take the fall.”
Hike frowns, which is what he does when he’s not moaning, though he is able to do both simultaneously. “Interesting frame. They plant the evidence, and then wait six years to bring it to light. We’re dealing with some very patient framers.”
Hike is right, of course, but the more he talks, the more obstinate I feel. The problem is that my obstinate feelings have nothing to do with whether Noah will spend the rest of his life in jail.
The phone rings, and since Edna is either not in the office or hiding, I pick it up. A woman’s voice says, “Mr. Carpenter?” and I confirm that it’s me. She then tells me to hold for Mr. Campbell.
Dylan picks up moments later. “Andy, glad I got you,” he says. “There’s been a new development in the case, which is obviously not included in the dis
covery yet. It’s pretty important, so I thought I should tell you right away.”
Based on Dylan’s calling me like this, and the upbeat tone of his voice, the chance that this is bad news for Noah is exactly one hundred percent.
I don’t ask Dylan what it is, because he’s going to tell me anyway, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. So without prodding, he continues. “A body was found in a parking lot in Jean, Nevada, just outside of Vegas. The deceased is Danny Butler.”
“Cause of death?”
“Well, the autopsy hasn’t been done yet, but it shouldn’t be too difficult. Butler was decapitated, and the head hasn’t been found.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“That’s it.”
“Nice chatting with you, Dylan.”
“Damn, I forgot, there’s one more thing. They found a note on the body. It says, ‘Talkers die.’”
The death of Danny Butler is a major problem for Noah.
Not as big a problem as it is for Danny Butler, but it’s a serious blow, at least if Noah’s case goes to trial. No trial, then no harm, no foul.
The damage is on two levels. First of all, the timing of the murder, along with the note on the body, makes it look like it is a revenge killing for Danny’s squealing on Noah. While Noah’s presence in jail obviously disqualifies him as the actual killer, his possible connection to criminal elements in the drug world would suggest that he could have requested it be done.
At the very least, it suggests that perhaps Noah has substantial influence with, and connection to, murderers. That is never a good thing for a murder defendant to have on his résumé.
Even more serious than that is the potential legal impact. If there is a trial, there will be a legal battle, and I’ll be arguing that the statement Butler gave to the police should not be admitted.
I will cite the Confrontation Clause in the Sixth Amendment to the Constitution, which states that the accused “shall enjoy the right … to be confronted with the witnesses against him.” Though I certainly would not agree with the use of the word “enjoy,” it’s a crucial part of our legal system.
One Dog Night Page 7
