Jenna has called this meeting, and I know that the purpose is to discuss a possible plea bargain. She knows that I know that, but as is unfortunately customary in situations like this, small talk has to come first.
I hate small talk; it’s small and it’s talky. I wish that people were given a word budget when they are born. They can only say so many words in their life, and that’s it. I would make exceptions for certain people like Vin Scully and Tony Romo and myself, but they would be few and far between.
“I’m an admirer of yours,” she says. “I’ve studied quite a few of your cases.”
I nod. “Stop it. I told myself I wouldn’t cry.”
“You’re also a wiseass.” She smiles. “I’m always surprised when I see how much judges let you get away with.”
“It’s because I’m extraordinarily charming. In fact, I’m about to flash my most winning smile, after which I expect you will dismiss the charges against Noah Traynor.”
“Is that your way of saying I should get to the point?”
“You see right through me.”
She nods. “Thirty years. No possibility of parole.”
“You’re way too kind.”
“No, believe me I’m not. He strangled an eighteen-year-old girl; if it were up to me, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
“What if I were to tell you that he is innocent? I would say it earnestly.”
She laughs. “I’d drop the charges and throw him an apology parade.”
I stand up. “I’ll be the grand marshal.”
“So you’re taking it to trial?”
“I’ll talk to my client and get back to you. But a good guess is you’re going to get to watch me charm another judge.”
I decide to take the offer to Noah immediately, so I head for the jail. Thirty years without parole is a horrible sentence, but life in prison is even worse, and that’s what he’s facing if he loses at trial. It’s his call to make, and as soon as we’re settled in the lawyer visiting room, I present him with his options.
He doesn’t hesitate. “I can’t say I’m guilty, I can’t give up thirty years of my life, I can’t do this to my family, all for something that I didn’t do.”
“You do understand that there is a very real chance you will spend the rest of your life behind bars for something that you didn’t do?”
It’s like I slapped him in the face; he just about recoils from my words. Then, “I know that. It’s all I’ve been able to think about.”
“You want some time to consider this? The offer will still be there next week.”
“What are our chances of winning the case?”
“If the trial was starting today, it would be zero.” Conversations with clients about potential plea bargains call for absolute honesty.
“But the trial is not starting today.”
I nod. “Which is why I can’t predict what is going to happen. We are just starting our investigation. The difficulty is that their evidence cannot be successfully challenged. You were there, it was your skin under her fingernails, and they can prove it.
“So while we can’t prove that you didn’t do it, we will need to point to someone else who might have. We’re just not anywhere near that yet, and there’s no guarantee that we’re going to get there.”
“But you’re going to try? I mean, all out?”
“That I can guarantee.”
He nods. “Okay. I’ll think about the offer, but I know there is no way I am going to plead guilty to this.”
“Fair enough.”
Cynthia and Kevin McNeil have been grieving for fourteen years.
They are going to continue to grieve for the rest of their lives; nothing that happens in this trial is going to change that. That’s par for the course when parents lose a child, no matter how it happens.
But the manner of Kristen’s death made it even more difficult, if that’s possible. It was so senseless and arbitrary, and they’ve had to live with the knowledge that Kristen died in abject terror with no one there to help her. Parents cannot protect their child every minute of every day, but they can sure agonize when they don’t.
While someone out there truly deserved the blame, they never knew who that someone was. Until now; now they are positive it is Noah Traynor.
All of this makes perfect sense from their point of view, and it is spelled out in an interview they did last night for a local television news station. They said they would talk about this nightmare just the one time, then would have no more public comment.
They said they want Noah to get a fair trial, that they only want the real guilty party punished. But they also said that they had no interest in going to the trial because they didn’t want to be in the same room as him.
Unfortunately, their claim that they would have no more public comments is actually extending to private comments, especially when it comes to us. Laurie called and asked them if we could talk with them, and they turned her down cold.
Laurie can be persuasive in situations like this; if she couldn’t get them to talk, no one can. They see us as the villains who are trying to prevent their daughter’s killer from having to pay for his crime. If we want to help our case by talking to them, then by definition they would refuse our request.
If I were them, I’d probably feel the same way.
Fortunately, not everyone in their family shares that point of view. Karen McNeil, Kristen’s sister, took little convincing when Laurie called her. Karen is an ER nurse at Hackensack Hospital, and she suggested we meet in the hospital cafeteria at the end of her shift.
Laurie has come along just in case the situation requires any tact or human decency. We’re sitting at a table when a woman in a nurse’s uniform, probably in her early thirties, walks in and surveys the room, as if looking for someone. Having seen photos of Kristen, I have no doubt who this is. Karen looks like an older version of Kristen; Kristen unfortunately never got to look like an older version of herself.
She comes over to us and asks, “Laurie?”
Laurie, always quick on her feet in conversational situations like this, answers, “Yes.”
We do introductions all around, and I ask Karen if she wants anything to eat or drink. She asks for coffee, so I run off to get it. I am a vital cog in this operation.
By the time I come back, Laurie and Karen are smiling and chatting like reunited sorority sisters. We’d probably be better off if I didn’t join them, but I promised her the coffee.
Laurie eventually steers the conversation toward the matter at hand. “Did Kristen ever mention Noah Traynor?”
A shake of the head. “Not to me, at least not directly.”
“What do you mean, ‘not directly’?”
“She said she met someone, but never said his name. I assumed she was being secretive because of Kyle.”
“Kyle Wainwright?” I ask. That’s the name listed in the discovery documents as Kristen’s boyfriend at the time.
Karen nods. “Right. They were together for quite a while, but something was going on.”
“Going on how?” Laurie asks.
“I’m not sure. But whatever it was had Kristen really upset. I figured she was dating this new guy to get back at him.”
“Was he the type to react badly?” I ask.
Karen shrugs. “I guess anyone would. But Kyle wasn’t the violent type; at least he didn’t seem to be. I always liked him well enough. And he always seemed crazy about Kristen.”
“If something was bothering Kristen, something really important, would she have been likely to confide in you? I mean, something more significant than breaking up with a boyfriend?”
Karen smiles. “Back then nothing could have been more significant than breaking up with a boyfriend. But, yeah, I think so. I was only a year younger than her, so we were close friends as well as sisters.”
“Did Kristen say anything to you about leaving home?”
“No, I’d remember that. But she was doing crazy thing
s; it was like she was going through some kind of internal crisis.”
“What kind of crazy things?” Laurie asks.
“Well, for one, she quit her job. And she really seemed to like that job.”
“Where did she work?”
“Some tech company; I never understood what they do. Kyle’s father owned it; I think he still does. Kyle got her the job; maybe that’s why she quit.” Karen sighs slightly. “I never got a chance to ask her.”
“Are you still in touch with Kyle?”
She shakes her head. “No. It was pretty hard even to see him after Kristen died. I think that was probably true for him as well. I heard he took it really hard, and I still haven’t gotten over it. I doubt I ever will.”
“We understand,” Laurie says. “There’s so much she could have done.”
Karen nods. “Right. I might have had nieces and nephews by now.” Then, “You think they have the wrong guy? How could that be?”
“We’re trying to answer those questions,” I say.
“It’s your job to think he’s innocent, right? I’m sorry, but I hope he’s not; I hope he’s guilty as hell.”
“Why?”
“Because someone did it, and my parents need to know who that person is. So do I. Do you know they’ve never gone through her things? My mother cleans the room every day; she keeps it like a shrine. I’m hoping that once they know who took her away, they’ll be able to move on, at least a little bit.”
“They won’t talk to us,” Laurie says.
Karen nods. “I know. I told them they should, but got nowhere with it. I told them we have to be sure; the worst possible outcome would be for the wrong person to go to prison.”
“That’s exactly how we feel,” Laurie says. “We don’t want to cause them more pain.”
“That you couldn’t do. Their life ended the same day Kristen’s did. They were never the same. It would be almost comical if it wasn’t so awful. Do you know that someone broke into and robbed their house during the funeral? Took all my mother’s jewelry. Can you imagine coming home from your teenage daughter’s funeral and walking in to that?”
“No, I honestly can’t,” Laurie says. “Thank you for talking to us.”
As we’re getting up to leave, Karen asks, “How old is your client?”
“Thirty-three,” I say, since it’s not exactly a state secret. “Why?
“A couple of times … my recollection is that it was not too long before she died … she asked my opinion about dating older men. I asked why she was asking, and she just shrugged it off and said she had a friend who was involved with someone. It just struck me as strange.”
“Did she say anything else about it?” Laurie asks.
Karen shakes her head. “No. But if Traynor is thirty-three … Kristen would have been thirty-two now if she had lived.”
Laurie nods. “Not much of a gap.”
Charles Arrant took pride in not making strategic mistakes.
He once said that he could count the number of mental errors he had made in the previous ten years on one hand, with at least two fingers left over. But on the rare occasions when it happened, he didn’t whitewash it, deny it, or avoid confronting it. He knew that only made it worse.
Instead, he fixed it. Every. Single. Time.
This time Arrant was particularly disappointed in himself. He’d overreacted to the phone call and did more than was necessary. He forced things rather than let the “game” come to him. And his move came back to bite him in the ass. That bad move could be reduced to four words: he hired a moron.
This particular moron’s name was George Taillon. In Arrant’s defense, he had employed Taillon before, sometimes even on significant jobs, and the results had been satisfactory. This was supposed to be a simple job, but Taillon, heretofore known in Arrant’s mind as Moron Number One, had blown it by hiring Moron Number Two.
Arrant had told Taillon to watch the lawyer, Carpenter, from a distance. He was to report where he went; the information might come in handy down the road. But it wasn’t crucial, and Arrant realized belatedly that it wasn’t necessary at all. If Carpenter uncovered anything significant, action could be taken then.
But Taillon apparently felt the job was beneath him, and he hired Moron Number Two, Siroka. He, in turn, had blown it by allowing Carpenter to realize he was being watched. Carpenter reacted in an un-lawyer-like way by hiring muscle to deal with Siroka.
Siroka, to cement his status as a moron, had given up Taillon’s name. Siroka could have given false information; Carpenter or his guy could not have known. But Siroka didn’t; he got scared and gave them Taillon.
Then Siroka faced a choice. He decided that he had to tell Taillon what had happened since he could no longer do the surveillance. His dilemma was whether to admit he’d given up Taillon’s name. He apparently decided, not without logic, that Taillon would find out anyway, since Carpenter was going to come after him. So Siroka told Taillon the truth.
Then Taillon faced a similar choice. He could tell Arrant what had happened or keep it from him and just restart the surveillance himself, being more careful not to be detected. Keeping it to himself would have been the smart move, since Carpenter did not have Arrant’s name. All of these events might never have gotten back to Arrant.
But Moron Number One made the wrong choice. He told Arrant the truth.
The entire chain of events, Arrant knew, was not in any way devastating. Carpenter did not know about Arrant; his knowledge stopped with Taillon. The problem, though, was that it opened up a new area of investigation for Carpenter. He would be smart enough to connect it to the Traynor case and would search for the reason that someone thought it important to follow him.
All of that is why Arrant summoned Taillon to a meeting to discuss the next steps. Arrant insisted that he bring Siroka with him, so that Arrant could know all the details of what had gone down.
Taillon and Siroka arrived at the Pennington Park baseball field at eight o’clock, as instructed. Arrant was already there waiting for them, and by 8:01 the two arrivals were dead. Literally not one word had been spoken, except for “Hey!,” which Siroka got out as he watched Taillon take the first bullet.
Arrant left the bodies there, so that they would be found and reported by the media. It would not stop Carpenter from investigating, but that would also have been true if Taillon and Siroka just disappeared.
So either way Carpenter would know that the new avenue of investigation had been decisively closed. And he would also know without doubt the type of person that had closed it.
The type no one wants to cross.
It’s way too early for me to have any suspects.
I really don’t know any of the players yet, nor do I know enough about the victim’s background and associations. The sad truth is that anyone who examined the current facts would believe that the person most likely to have committed the crime is my client, although Siroka’s being paid to tail me gives me actual hope that something else is going on.
But even with the little that I know, I’m interested in Kyle Wainwright, Kristen McNeil’s “boyfriend of record” at the time of her death. She was clearly cheating on him with Noah, and while I don’t know if Kyle was aware of it, if he was, then the rejection might well have stung. He could have wanted revenge.
This brings me today to NetLink Systems, the company owned by Kyle’s father, Arthur Wainwright. Arthur is what could be described as a leading citizen in North Jersey. He’s politically influential nationally and is a wealthy philanthropist, donating to worthy causes through his Wainwright Foundation. I’ve slept through some charity dinners that he also attended, but to my knowledge we’ve never met.
The only other “person” I know with their own foundation is Tara, but unlike Arthur Wainwright, she keeps her charitable work low-key and doesn’t seek publicity for her efforts.
Kyle works here in the Paramus headquarters. No doubt he got the job as the result of a pressure-filled interview
in which he impressed the hell out of his father. I’ve braved a steady rain to come here to speak to him, but I haven’t called ahead. I find that people find it easier to refuse an interview over the phone than face-to-face.
I ask at the reception desk to speak with Kyle, and the young woman asks if I have an appointment. When I say that I do not, she asks what it is in relation to. I tell her that I am an attorney and that it is a personal matter. I say it using my most serious grown-up voice.
She picks up the phone and tells someone that an attorney named Andy Carpenter is here asking to speak to Kyle on a personal matter. That seems to me to be a pretty accurate and succinct description of events so far.
Apparently the receptionist doesn’t have too much influence around here because ten minutes go by with nothing happening. She eventually apologizes and says, “Let me call back there again,” but as she picks up the phone, I hear, “Mr. Carpenter?” She puts the phone back down.
I look over and see someone who is unlikely to be Kyle Wainwright. This guy is probably in his early-to-mid-forties, which would make him a decade older than Kyle.
He approaches me with his hand extended. “My name is Jeremy Kennon. Why don’t you come with me to my office?”
“I was looking for Kyle Wainwright.”
He nods. “I know, but Kyle is at a meeting in the city.” He smiles. “Come on back.”
Since this falls under the category of “nothing to lose,” I follow him back to his office. Kennon is obviously an important player here because he has an impressive corner office with all glass walls providing an unimpeded view of the surrounding area. Unfortunately, that surrounding area is not the Grand Canyon or Malibu Beach … it’s just Paramus. When it comes to Paramus, impeded views are just as good as unimpeded ones.
“I’m head of technology here,” Kennon says, “Kyle works for me; he’s picked up the tech stuff very well. Obviously his father’s kid.”
“When will he be back?”
Dachshund Through the Snow Page 7
