“It’s Calvin Marshall. He’s dead.”
Her words hit me like a punch in the side of the head. A punch so jarring it feels like it could have been thrown by Marcus. “How?” is the longest sentence I can muster.
“Get dressed,” she says. “I’ll tell you on the way.”
“On the way where?”
“To the scene.”
Once we’re in the car, Laurie says, “His car went off the road and down an embankment. His neck was apparently snapped on impact.”
“I see,” I say, even though I don’t.
“You think that might be too easy an explanation?” she asks.
I nod. “Perhaps a tad.”
“You don’t believe in coincidences? You don’t think it’s likely that a lawyer investigating a recent murder who is himself suddenly killed might be the victim of a tragic accident?”
“I don’t,” I say, “and you don’t either.”
“Why do you say that?” she asks.
“Because you’re taking me to the scene. You think I should see it, which means you don’t think it’s an accident.”
We’re quiet the rest of the way, which is a relief. I need to clear my head, to push aside the pain as best I can, and to think.
The place where Calvin’s car went off the road is twenty minutes west of Findlay, about ten minutes from the town of Carwell. As we approach, I see Laurie sag, as the sadness hits her in waves. “I’ve known Calvin since I was a kid,” she says.
“I’ve only known him a few weeks,” I say. “But it didn’t take long to know he was funny and smart and a lunatic, and a good guy to be around. I really liked him.”
The scene of Calvin’s death is still a busy place. I count four state police cars, one Findlay police car besides Laurie’s, an ambulance, a county coroner van, and two tow trucks.
We get out, and Laurie leads me down to where Calvin’s car went off the road. It’s not a particularly treacherous turn, and although it’s only partially lit, I don’t see skid marks. I assume Calvin hadn’t been drinking-he was smarter than that-so it doesn’t seem a very likely place for an accident.
Laurie notices me noticing this. “Strange, huh?” she asks, not really expecting an answer. “Come on.”
She leads me down to where Calvin’s car landed. The coroner’s people are in the process of removing his body, which I studiously manage to look away from. I’m squeamish in general, but particularly so when it comes to criminal defense attorneys dying in the course of doing their jobs. And even more particularly when those criminal defense attorneys are close friends.
“Is your coroner competent to handle this?” I ask, even though Dr. Peters-Clem-seemed knowledgeable when he testified at the hearing.
Laurie shakes her head. “Not really. So we ask the local veterinarian, Doc McCoy, to help out. And if he’s not in, the pharmacist takes care of it.” She stares at me. “Asshole.”
I look around from the outskirts of the scene as Laurie goes off and confers with the state cops. It gives me more time to reflect on the tragedy of Calvin’s death and how much I’m going to miss him.
It also gives me a chance to do some well-deserved self-flagellation. I called in Marcus to protect myself from the people that seemed to violently want to avenge the murders of the two girls. Probably because the break-in and the hanging figure were at my house, I assumed I was the target. It didn’t enter my self-centered mind that Calvin was also Jeremy’s lawyer and that he might need protection as well. And now he’s dead, his neck broken, while I had a nice dinner and then snuggled up in bed with Laurie.
The more I think about it, the more I’m literally in danger of throwing up.
Laurie spends another half hour making sure that things are handled correctly. She and the state cops are treating it as a crime scene, even though that hasn’t been close to being scientifically established. But it eventually will be established; I have no doubt about that.
Laurie drives me back home, and it’s about five o’clock in the morning when we get there. She’s going to her office to do some paperwork, so she just drops me off. As I’m getting out of the car, she takes my hand and holds it, for maybe thirty seconds, and we are completely connected, sharing the sadness that we both feel.
I enter the house, and Tara comes over and nuzzles her head against me. She has an unerring ability to know when I need comforting; unfortunately, this time it’s an assignment that even she can’t handle.
I go into the kitchen to make myself a drink, and I see that the phone machine is flashing, telling me that I have a message. It could have come in at any time; I never checked it when I got home from the restaurant with Laurie.
I press play, and with the first words I get a chill down my spine. The voice belongs to Calvin.
“Hey, hotshot. You’re probably out doing whatever the hell you bilegged people do to have fun. Well, don’t worry, ’cause I’m on the case. I’ve got a lead on our boy Eddie, and I was gonna let you come watch a master in action. I’ll call and update you when I get back.”
Calvin never updated me because he never got back. He died following a lead, working on our case, while I was out having dinner. And he probably got his neck broken for his trouble, just about the time I was having dessert.
Sometimes I make myself sick.
• • • • •
THE FUNERAL SERVICE to honor Calvin attracts just about everyone in Findlay, Lester Chapman being a notable exception. Calvin’s family consisted only of one brother, who has flown in from California, and he and five of Calvin’s closest friends tell humorous and poignant anecdotes about his life.
Calvin’s three ex-wives, the ones he referred to as the merry widows, are here and sitting together. They’re all softly sobbing, and all in all don’t look very merry.
One of the nonhumorous moments comes when one of Calvin’s friends describes how he lost his leg in combat in Vietnam, an episode that earned him the Silver Star. Apparently, his bone cancer story was just as fake as his mountain boulder story. I find myself hoping that his death is one of his more elaborate lies and he’ll show up and laugh at us for buying it. Unfortunately, he doesn’t make an appearance, at least not today.
The media are back out in full force, covering the funeral as a major news event. I’m always amazed at how quickly media people can mobilize themselves to appear when something happens; I have this image of them as firefighters, waiting for a phone call to propel them down their poles and onto their vans.
The reason they are here is that they don’t think Calvin’s death was an accident any more than Laurie and I do. Actually, they don’t have the slightest idea how or why Calvin died, but murder sells a hell of a lot more newspapers and generates far higher ratings than a simple automobile accident.
Laurie and her fellow officers are on duty at the funeral so as to ensure that there is no additional violence. I’ve asked her to update me on the progress of her investigation into Calvin’s death, but she has properly told me I have to go through Lester or the court. At this point those reports would not be due us in discovery because it has not been established that the death is related to the Jeremy Davidson case.
Marcus surprises me by attending the funeral with me. He does so, according to Laurie, not for my protection, but to show his respect for Calvin. It’s a nice gesture, and I appreciate it on Calvin’s behalf.
Marcus and I walk back to the house, and I realize how dramatically the landscape of this small town has changed. It seems like every few hundred feet there is a television truck with a satellite on its roof, and newscasters are stopping townspeople and interviewing them on the street. They want their opinion as to whether Calvin’s death was really accidental and their view of Jeremy’s guilt or innocence. They’re after local opinions, and they’re in luck, because everybody has one.
As we approach the house, I am stunned to see Kevin, my associate, standing on the porch. At least I think it’s Kevin; he’s buried under so much clothi
ng that he’s twice his normal size, and round in shape. It’s almost as if someone put an air hose up his ass. It’s maybe thirty degrees, and I’ve gotten used to the weather, but apparently, the hypochondriac Kevin is worried about catching a cold.
“I heard about what happened to… ,” he starts.
“Calvin,” I say.
He nods. “Calvin. And I thought you might need some help.”
Kevin has made the kind of terrific gesture that only a good friend would make, but one that immediately triggers my overactive guilt gland. “What about Carol and the wedding?” I ask. “And then the honeymoon?”
“I asked Carol to marry me. She said no.”
“Gee, I’m sorry, Kev. Maybe she’ll change her mind.”
He shakes his head. “After she said no, she said ‘never.’ ”
“She said ‘never’?”
He nods. “Right before she said ‘not in a million years.’ So I was thinking I should come here and pitch in… if you want me.”
Kevin is a terrific attorney; there’s no question that I want him, and I tell him so. But I remind him about the pitfalls, like the need to be rather flexible with our fee structure and the fact that the person he’s replacing was killed while doing his job. None of this deters him, so I welcome him on board.
“But, Kev, it’s not winter yet. You might not need quite so much clothing. This is Wisconsin in October… not the Russian front in January.”
“It’s a preemptive action,” he says. “If I catch a cold early in the season, I have it all winter. Remember how much I was sneezing last year?”
I don’t remember anything about his sneezing, but I don’t want to hurt him by saying so, so I nod. “That was a nightmare,” I say.
We go into the house, and Kevin begins to describe in excruciating detail his other cold-prevention measures. When he starts listing the different forms of zinc he takes, Marcus, who has barely said a word since Kevin arrived, shakes his head and goes upstairs.
“Marcus is staying here?” Kevin asks.
“Yes.”
“Have you got room for me as well?”
This is getting worse by the day; pretty soon the house is going to need a resident adviser. “Sure. There’s an extra bedroom next to his.”
“I’m going to need to keep the house at a minimum of seventy-two point five degrees,” he says. “For my sinuses. Are you going to be okay with that?”
“Seventy-two point five?” I ask.
He nods. “Minimum.”
“Okay with me,” I say. “But why don’t you clear it with Marcus?”
• • • • •
THE FAX MACHINE in the kitchen is already going full blast when I wake up in the morning. As I walk toward it, I notice that Kevin is wearing an overcoat while cooking breakfast, and one of the windows is open. My guess is that Marcus didn’t think much of his 72.5 temperature plan.
Marcus, meanwhile, sits shirtless at the kitchen table, drinking an entire pitcher of orange juice without seeming to pause to swallow.
I feel like I’m in a fraternity house: Phi Loony Toony.
I check the fax coming in and am not surprised that Sam has once again come through, providing us with copies of the same documents that we’re scheduled to receive from Stephen Drummond. Right now they’re of no value to us, but when Drummond provides us with his, we’ll be ready to swing into action.
Word has come from Lester that he will not provide us with investigative reports on Calvin’s death in discovery, claiming, as I anticipated, that it is not related to Jeremy’s case. Judge Morrison has agreed to my request for an urgent hearing on the matter, and it’s been scheduled for three o’clock this afternoon.
For breakfast Kevin and I eat the five percent of the food that Marcus leaves behind, and then we continue the process of familiarizing ourselves with every bit of the prosecution evidence. More discovery documents are coming in every day, and the new ones are the ones I read. Kevin, since he just arrived, has started from the beginning.
Very often discovery documents contain an item that is understated so as to seem an insignificant fact, yet it will turn out to be a key part of the prosecution’s case. It is for that reason that I must know everything before I enter the courtroom; there must be absolutely no chance that I will be surprised.
It is while I’m reading through a new statement by one of the people at the bar the night of the murder that I find something that troubles me. I take Kevin and we drive out to the bar, which I have visited twice before. It is basically midway between Center City and Findlay.
We park in the lot and get out, taking the statements with us, so that we can re-create in our minds what took place.
“Jeremy’s truck was here,” I say, “and Liz’s car was parked over there.”
“Right. Under the light.” He adds that last fact because Jeremy said he couldn’t see who was in the car with her, yet the prosecution will use the presence of the light to try to discredit that.
“So she gets out of the car and comes over here, they talk, then argue, and she leaves. Then, according to Jeremy, he debates whether to go into the bar and get drunk, decides against it, and goes home.” I point. “Which is that way.”
“Shit,” Kevin says, realizing what I’m getting at.
I hold up one of the statements. “But Stacy Martin of Lancaster says she was leaving the parking lot at the same time as Jeremy and that she drove off behind him, going west.” I point in the opposite direction that I pointed before.
“Which is towards Lancaster and Center City,” Kevin says.
If Stacy Martin is correct, then Jeremy did not drive back to Findlay.
If Stacy Martin is correct, Jeremy Davidson lied to his lawyer.
Me.
Kevin and I go back to Jeremy’s house to look around there again. I had always been vaguely troubled by the fact that the bodies had been buried out behind the house, with the only access road to that area being in the front. Yet Jeremy, who claimed to have been home, never heard a thing.
My point of view on this was that the bodies may well have been put there the next day, when Jeremy might not have been home. Jeremy’s apparent lie about where he went after leaving the bar raises two more possibilities: Jeremy did not hear anything because he wasn’t at home that night, or Jeremy was the one doing the burying.
Richard Davidson is home when we get there, and I ask to look around inside, while Kevin does so outside. Davidson seems surprised by the sudden request, especially since I’ve been there before. “Anything new?” he probes.
“Nothing much… just going over things again. Where is Jeremy’s bedroom?”
“In the guesthouse, second floor. But you can’t go in there now… it’s not stable.”
The Davidsons haven’t started rebuilding the damaged guesthouse from the firebombing, so I walk outside of where Jeremy’s window was. I can clearly see Kevin, perhaps seventy-five yards away, standing near the area where the bodies were buried. This makes it even less likely that Jeremy was home and didn’t notice anything going on.
Kevin and I leave without sharing our concerns with Richard, and we head down to the jail to meet with Jeremy. He is brought into the meeting room, and a guard remains posted outside.
“What’s going on?” Jeremy asks, hopeful as always.
This is no time for small talk. “You didn’t drive home from the bar that night. You drove to Center City.” I don’t know if that last part is true, but since it’s a worst case, I say it as if I know for sure, to see how he will react.
I can see a flash of panic in his eyes. “What are you talking about? I told you, I-”
“This isn’t a debate, Jeremy. I know where you went. What I want you to tell me is why you went there and why you lied about it.”
He seems about to argue that point again and then sits back, as if defeated. I am going to hate what he has to say.
“I did go to Center City. I wanted to talk to Liz again.”
; “What did you do when you got there?”
“I parked about six blocks from her house, because I figured if I just drove up, her mother would call the police and throw me out. I walked the rest of the way.”
“Did anybody see you?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. People don’t stay up real late in that town. Liz used to tell me that the last show at the movie theater was at seven o’clock at night, and-”
I’m not really in the mood to hear about movie night in Center City, so I cut him off. “How did you know where her house was?” I ask, since Mrs. Barlow told me she never met him.
“Liz took me there once… she just wanted to show me where she lived. I actually had to crouch down in the car so her mother wouldn’t be able to see me as we drove by.”
“What did you do when you got to her house?”
“Her car wasn’t there, so I waited. I hid behind some bushes,” he says with apparent embarrassment.
“How long did you wait?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Probably a few hours. Hey, I know it sounds stupid, but the longer she wasn’t there, the more upset I got. That’s why I figured she was with her ex-boyfriend, and he probably wasn’t ‘ex’ anymore.”
This is a disaster. Not only will Lester be able to show that Jeremy’s statement to the police contained a very significant, material lie, but the truth is very incriminating. The defendant hid in the bushes waiting for the murder victim, growing more and more upset, jealous and angry over her betraying him with another man. The only way this statement could be worse is if he said he stopped to pick up a machete on the way to her house.
I make eye contact with Kevin, and his look confirms that he thinks this is just as bad as I do. Since eye contact has never been my specialty, Jeremy notices it. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied, but I was scared, and I figured it would look bad if I told the police where I really was.”
I give my standard stern lecture to Jeremy about the devastating consequences of lying to one’s attorney, but it’s a halfhearted speech. I will never fully trust him again and will always be worried that there’s another freight train coming around the next bend. His lie doesn’t make him a murderer, but it certainly makes it more likely he will be convicted as one.
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