I get up to take Tara and Sebastian on their morning walk; it’s Saturday, so I can take a long one without worrying about making it to court. Before I can get out the door, the phone rings. To my surprise, Tommy Infante is on the line.
It’s the first time he has ever called me from the jail, so the first thing I say is, “Tommy, all calls from the jail are monitored. Do not say anything you don’t want everyone to hear.”
“I’m on a cell,” he says.
“You have a cell phone?”
“You obviously haven’t spent much time in jail” is his way of telling me what I actually already knew, that the black market in jail provides cell phones to anyone who wants it.
“Be careful anyway,” I say. “Is this important? You want me to come down there?”
He doesn’t answer that, but instead asks a question of his own. “What does Horowitz mean?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “I’m looking into it now.”
“He’s dead.”
He says it with a certainty that surprises me. “What makes you say that?”
“Because everybody’s dead. Downey, Brantley, Caruso, Healy … they’re all dead and I might as well be dead sitting in here.”
The stress in his voice is evident, and much more intense than I’ve heard before. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m okay,” he says. “I’m an okay dead man, sitting in a cell. Do we have any chance to win this thing?”
“If we didn’t I would have suggested you plead it out. But it’s an uphill climb.”
“I’m going crazy in here,” he says. Then, “I gotta go. Somebody’s coming.”
He hangs up. I’ve never heard him this upset; until now he’s handled his situation remarkably well. I certainly don’t blame him; I’m upset myself, but more than that, I’m scared.
I’m scared that I won’t be able to help him, and I’m scared of living with that failure afterward.
“And you were working on the night in question?” Dylan asks. He’s questioning Dan Hendricks, the bartender Marcus and I visited with at the Study Hall bar. He’s already established that the night they are talking about is the one where Tommy Infante and Gerald Downey were in the bar together.
Hendricks nods. “Yeah. It was a Monday.” Apparently he assumes that everyone in the courtroom is familiar with his work schedule.
“Did the defendant and Mr. Downey enter the bar together?”
“No. Gerry was there first; he came in about ten minutes later.”
“By ‘he,’ you mean the defendant?” Dylan asks.
“Right. The defendant.”
“And they were talking to each other?”
“Yeah,” Hendricks says. “He … the defendant … went right over to Gerry.”
“Could you hear what they were saying?”
“Are you kidding? Everybody could hear them. He was screaming at Gerry.”
“What was he saying?” Dylan asks.
“I don’t remember some of the exact words, but he said that he and Gerry robbed some jewelry store, and that Gerry never gave him his share.”
“And he was upset about that?”
Hendricks laughs a short laugh. “Oh, yeah. He was real upset.”
“How do you know that?”
“He was screaming, you know? And he kept telling Gerry that if he didn’t get his money, he would slit his throat.”
“Do you remember his exact words?”
Hendricks nods. “I sure do. He kept screaming, ‘I’m going to slit your goddamn throat.’ He must have said it five times.”
Dylan wants these words to be the last ones the jury hears on direct examination, so he ends his questioning on that note, and turns the witness over to me.
“Were you there when the police arrived?” is my first question.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m talking about that night, after the argument broke out. If you were still there, what happened when the police came?”
“They didn’t come.”
“Did you leave before they got there?” I ask.
“I closed the place. There were no police.”
“So the defendant was there, screaming at the top of his lungs and threatening murder, and nobody called the police?”
“No.”
“Not even Mr. Downey?”
“Nah. Gerry didn’t seem too worried about it, so I guess nobody else was. A couple of the guys just threw the guy … the defendant … out.”
“Did Gerry say why he never gave the defendant his share of the stolen property?”
“He said the guy was nuts, that they never robbed no store. He said he only met the defendant a few times, and really didn’t know him that well.”
“Did that surprise you?”
“Yeah, I guess. But it’s none of my business, you know?”
“Did Mr. Downey seem worried to you?”
“Nah. He just kept saying that the guy was nuts.”
“How many people were in the bar when this argument took place?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. Maybe twenty.”
“And everyone there heard these threats?”
“Unless they were deaf.”
“The defendant didn’t try and prevent anyone from hearing them?”
“No way.”
I’m trying to convey to the jury that it’s illogical to think that someone who intended to slit someone’s throat would announce it in advance for the world to hear. It’s a weak argument, but in the context of this witness, it’s all we’ve got.
“No further questions.”
I never have trouble sleeping. I’m not sure why that is, but no matter what is going on in my personal or work life, no matter how great or miserable things are, it doesn’t affect my ability to zonk out.
Tonight is going to test that premise. It’s not that I might lie awake because I’m upset that the case is going so badly, although I am. It’s not the pressure of watching Tommy Infante, in my view an innocent man, go down the judicial drain, although that pressure is severe.
Tonight my problem is that there is something in the back of my mind, and I can’t seem to move it to the front. It’s been bugging me all day, just staying out of reach. I feel like I know something important, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what the hell it is.
Sometimes these things come to me, and sometimes they don’t. I’ve learned that I can’t push it; when I don’t try to come up with it, I have more success than when I do. And occasionally when I do figure it out, and analyze it, it can turn out to be insignificant. I just won’t know until I know.
For some reason the shower is a place where stuff can sometimes pop into my head, so tonight I take one before heading for bed. Thirty minutes later I’m like a prune, but my mind is just as blank as when I was dry.
So I get into bed, and the torment and pressure cause me to toss and turn for almost a minute before I’m sound asleep. I wake up at 3:17; I check the clock because for some reason I want to note the time I’ve come up with the thing that was bothering me. And it’s a beauty.
Tommy Infante is guilty.
The realization of it is so intense and stunning that I get up and pace around the room. I almost step on Sebastian in the dark, and though he lets out a low growl, he doesn’t consider the intrusion worthy of getting up over.
“Are you okay?” Laurie asks. I’m not sure if it was my pacing or Sebastian’s growl, but it was obviously enough to wake her up, and she sits up slightly.
“It’s something I just realized about the case,” I say. “But go back to sleep; we can talk about it in the morning.”
“Okay,” she says, and lies back down.
“You’re not going to believe it,” I say.
She sighs, knowing where this is heading. “Am I not going to believe it now, or in the morning?”
“You’re not going to believe it now … it’s a disaster.”
She turns on the lamp and sits all the way up
. “What is it?”
“Tommy Infante is guilty. He killed Downey.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“Tommy called me the other day; he had heard about Horowitz being missing, and he was very upset. He said that Horowitz was dead.”
“How does he know that?” she asks.
I nod. “That’s what I asked him. He never really answered except to say that they were all dead … Downey, Brantley, Caruso, and Healy. He said that he might as well be dead as well.”
“He’s under a lot of stress, Andy. People say things.”
“That’s what I attributed it to,” I say. “But it’s more than that, and I missed it until tonight.”
“What is it?”
“One of the people he mentioned as being dead was Healy.”
“So?” she asks.
“So how does he know Healy? They’ve never released his name publicly; I only know it because the customs guy told me. And you’re the only person I’ve told it to. How could he possibly have known that Healy was the one murdered with Brantley?”
“And you’re sure he mentioned Healy?” she asks.
“I’m positive. And I’m just as positive that I never mentioned it to him.”
“So how could he have found out?”
“He’s got a cell phone; he called me on it. Those calls aren’t monitored, so someone on the outside must have told him. And maybe that same person told him about Horowitz, and it scared him. He knows who he’s dealing with, and he’s scared he’ll be next.”
“Okay, let’s assume he found out about Healy that way. That means he’s somehow involved with the people behind all this. But it doesn’t necessarily mean he killed Downey.”
“Really? Which way are you betting?”
She thinks for a moment. Then, “That he killed him.”
We talk for a few more minutes before Laurie asks me the obvious question. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to ask him about it. It’s too late for me to get him brought to court early, so I’ll have to meet with him during the lunch break.”
“You think he’ll be straight with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if he admits that he did it? What will you do then?”
“I don’t know that either.” Pretty much the only thing I do know is that it’s going to be a really long day.
There is no way out of this trial for me. That is an unfortunate fact no matter what Tommy says when I confront him. I can file a motion to remove myself, but the judge would have to approve it, and there is no chance he would do so.
I never wanted a client in the first place, but I took on Tommy mainly because I thought he was innocent. If he’s not, which is how it looks to me at the moment, then it’s my version of a judicial nightmare.
My client’s guilt would never be seen by the judge as a proper reason to bow out; guilty people are as entitled to a defense as innocent people. Not only that, but I could never reveal Tommy’s guilt to the judge; it’s privileged information that as his attorney I am obviously bound to keep confidential.
In any event, I’m on thin legal ice here. I should not be trying to discover whether Tommy is in fact definitely guilty. The problem is that if I know that, then I am ethically bound not to elicit testimony from him that is opposite to that. Should he testify in his own defense, I can’t have him vow his innocence, if I know otherwise.
Having said that, I simply have to know the truth, and one way or the other, I’m going to find out what that truth is.
Tommy is brought into court about five minutes before the judge is due, and I greet him normally. I don’t want to give him any hint that anything could be wrong, because I don’t want him to have time to prepare a reaction or a story. Almost as important as what he will say to me is how he will look and act when he’s saying it.
Tommy seems more stressed than usual. It’s become a ritual for him to ask at the start of the court session, “Anything good going to happen today?” but this time he doesn’t.
Dylan calls Sergeant Kevin Agnese, who conducted the search at Tommy’s house. Agnese will be a relatively straightforward witness; he did nothing extraordinary or controversial. I know him very well; he and Pete have got to be the two biggest Mets fans in America.
“You entered the defendant’s premises with a legal search warrant?” Dylan asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you find anything significant to this crime in your execution of the warrant?”
“We did. We found a knife with bloodstains on it.”
“Did tests show it to be Gerald Downey’s blood?”
I could object to this, since Agnese did not conduct the tests, but Dylan can introduce it easily enough through another witness. I don’t want it to appear to the jury that I’m trying to hide any facts, especially since those facts will come in anyway. So I let the question slide.
“They did,” Agnese says.
“Where did you find the knife?”
“Buried in the dirt in Mr. Infante’s backyard.”
Dylan asks a few more questions, but Agnese has really nothing else to offer him, so Dylan turns him over to me.
“Sergeant Agnese, was this the first time you’ve ever executed a search warrant?” I ask.
“No, sir. I’ve done many of them, probably a hundred.”
“So you’re good at it? You’re very thorough?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Did you find anything else related to this case besides the knife?” I ask.
“No.”
“Nothing in the house?”
“No.”
“And you dug up the entire property?”
“No, sir. Just the area where the knife was.”
I feign surprise. “Really? Why did you dig there?”
“We could see the earth had been tampered with,” he says. “The knife was only an inch or two beneath the surface.”
“So it was obvious? Little effort was made to conceal it?”
“I can’t say what effort was made.”
“Let’s put it this way. If the person who buried it was trying to conceal it, they did a poor job?”
He doesn’t want to, but he finally agrees with my point.
“Was the dirt hard there?” I ask.
“Not very.”
“So without much effort, it could have been buried deeper?”
“I suppose so,” Agnese admits.
“If you know, were there any fingerprints on the knife?”
“There were not.”
“How far is Mr. Infante’s house from Mr. Downey’s?” I ask.
Agnese thinks for a moment. “I didn’t measure it, but I would guess about six miles.”
I nod. “So just to recap, according to your testimony, Mr. Infante would have murdered Mr. Downey, and rather than throw away the knife along the six-mile route to his home, he brought it to his own backyard? Even though it was not a knife that could be tied to him in any way, other than where it was found?”
“I’m just saying what I found,” Agnese says.
“Right. Now you haven’t mentioned the clothes. We’ve had testimony that there would have had to be blood on the clothes. Did you find them?”
“No, we did not.”
“So if Mr. Infante committed the crime, he threw the clothes away elsewhere, but brought the knife home?”
“I can’t say.”
“You think the knife had special sentimental value?”
“I don’t know,” Agnese says, clearly getting frustrated.
I move toward him, talking louder and sounding a little angry. “But does any of that make sense to you?”
“That’s not for me to judge,” he says.
I nod. “Correct. It’s for this jury to judge. No further questions.”
The good news is that I think I did fairly well for my client. The bad news is that I think I did fairly well for my client.
When the judge a
djourns for lunch, I turn to Tommy and say, “We have to talk.”
“Something wrong?” he asks.
“We’ll know soon enough.”
“Who is Healy?” I ask as soon as he sits down in the anteroom.
“What do you mean?” is his lame response. Based on the look of fear on his face, he knows exactly what I mean.
“It’s not really that confusing a question,” I say. “I want to know who Healy is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how did you know he was dead?”
“Hey, what’s going on?” he asks. “What is this all about?”
“This is about me trying to find out how you knew about Healy, and how you know he is dead.”
“I don’t remember; maybe you told me. Or maybe I heard it on the radio. What’s the difference?”
“I did not tell you,” I say. “And it hasn’t been on the radio, or the television, or anywhere else. Now are you going to tell me, or not?”
“I don’t know, Andy. I heard it somewhere.”
I stand up. “Maybe your next lawyer will believe your bullshit.” It’s a bluff; there’s no way for me to get out of this case.
I start for the door, hoping Tommy will stop me before I get there. “Wait a minute, Andy. Please come back here.”
I turn and come back, once again sitting in the chair. I don’t say anything; I don’t have to. The ball is in his court, and he knows it.
“I knew Healy; I did some work for him last year.”
“What kind of work?” I ask.
“At the port in Newark. We unloaded some boxes out of crates, and put ’em onto a truck. He paid me five thousand dollars.”
“For unloading some boxes?”
He nods. “It was at two o’clock in the morning.”
“How did he come to hire you?”
“Through Downey; Downey was his boy. According to Downey, he did a lot of work for Healy.”
“Does the name Gino Parelli mean anything to you?” I ask.
He thinks for a moment. “I think that was Downey’s friend at the pier. He was in on it somehow.”
“Keep going.” I don’t want to ask any questions; it might reveal how little I know. I want everything to come from him.
Who Let the Dog Out? Page 14
