Rescued

by David Rosenfelt

  “Well, I’m going to tell you. You were chosen for two main reasons. Number one, Ms. Westrum and I had confidence that you could be unbiased. We felt you could come in here without any predispositions and judge the facts and render a fair verdict to the best of your ability.

  “Now don’t misunderstand me; I would have been fine if you had been biased for the defense. And I don’t want to speak for Ms. Westrum, but I suspect that she might have been okay with you being biased for the prosecution. But neither of us would have allowed you to be part of the jury if we thought you favored the other side.

  “Now the other reason you are here, and it is crucial, is that we thought you could use your logical minds to analyze the evidence. And that logic is what I am counting on.

  “The prosecution is going to tell you exactly what happened; Ms. Westrum has already told you that the facts are so clear that your verdict should be obvious. But you know what? None of it makes sense.

  “In her version, people do exactly what they shouldn’t do, and they act exactly against their own interests. What you would be asked to believe fails the logic test. And the reason it fails is because it didn’t happen that way.

  “David Kramer has spent much of his life in law enforcement. Before that, he was a fighter pilot in the United States Air Force. He has risked his life countless times to protect you, and me, and Ms. Westrum, and everyone else in this courtroom.

  “He is also smart and obviously wise in the ways of law enforcement. There is no possible way he could have acted in the way the prosecution would have you believe.

  “But his service and his smarts would not matter if he committed this crime. If he did, you should and would still vote guilty, and you would be right to do so.

  “But he did not.”

  When I get back to the defense table, Kramer leans over to me and says, “You’re as good as advertised.”

  “Nothing said so far matters,” I say. “Trial starts Monday.”

  As soon as I get out of court, I check my phone for messages, hoping that Sam has come up with more information on the guy called Elway.

  There are four messages. The first is from Hike, telling me that he survived both flights and that he is home if I need him. The second is from Pete, telling me to meet him at Charlie’s. The third is from Laurie, telling me to meet Pete at Charlie’s. The fourth is from Pete, telling me that he’s waiting for me at Charlie’s.

  I have a feeling I’m supposed to meet Pete at Charlie’s.

  There are two possibilities that I can think of for why Pete called this meeting. It could be that he has significant information for me, hopefully the results of the fingerprints Hike sent from the Caymans. Elway can fake an ID, but he can’t fake a print.

  Or it’s possible that Charlie’s won’t let Pete charge burgers and beer to my tab anymore, and Pete doesn’t want me—he wants my wallet.

  But the fact that Laurie is on board with me meeting him there makes me discount this as a possibility.

  It’s only five thirty when I get to Charlie’s, but the place is fairly crowded. At seven, when the Mets and Yankees games start, it will be packed. Friday is always a busy night.

  Pete is at our regular table, but Vince is not here yet. He usually shows up right around the time of the first pitch. To be here now would mean he’d be stuck for an hour and a half with nothing to complain about. He would have to talk, and human interaction is not something that Vince excels at.

  “This better be good,” I say. “I could be having dinner with Laurie and Ricky.”

  “I’m sure they’ll survive the disappointment. Where did you get that print?”

  “Whose is it?” I ask.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Whose is it?” I ask again. Then, “We seem to be at an impasse.”

  “This is serious stuff, Andy.”

  “Maybe so, but I have the advantage. I have other ways of finding out whose fingerprint that is, but you have no other way of knowing where I got it. So whose is it?”

  I know Pete really well, so I can tell when he’s mad. He’s mad now. He stares at me, and in the next ten seconds, he is either going to tell me or shoot me.

  “His name is Bennett Jeffries. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “I know I’ve heard it, but I can’t place the context.”

  “He’s wanted for bank fraud, money laundering, illegal arms sales, and aiding and abetting terrorists. And I just told you the highlights. I ran the print through the national database, and it lit up like a damn Christmas tree. The feds called me before I even got the report. They want to meet with you.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning, 9:00 at the Newark FBI office.”

  “Ricky has a baseball game tomorrow morning. Move the meeting to eleven.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I don’t mean it to be. Look, I’ve got a client to defend; right now, that is all I care about. So if I have information that the government needs, I will use that to leverage something for my client. I have the upper hand here. But I haven’t figured out what I want yet, so for now, I’ll just use my immense power to move the meeting to eleven so I can see my son’s baseball game.”

  “You realize you are now screwing around with the federal government? They don’t care if you buy them beer and hamburgers.”

  “Wow … the federal government? That is really scary. I hope they don’t yell at me at our eleven o’clock meeting.”

  “You truly are a pain in the ass.”

  I nod. “That’s been pointed out to me so many times that I’ve come to terms with it.”

  “Now where did you get the print?” Pete asks.

  “If I tell you now, do I have your absolute word that you will not tell anyone else?”

  “Of course not,” he says.

  “Then you’ll find out when they do. If they do.”

  I’ve come to terms with the fact that Ricky will never play in the majors.

  I think I first realized that last year when he struck out in T-ball. If you can’t hit a ball placed waist high, sitting stationary on a tee, it’s unlikely you’re going to develop to the point where you can hit a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball, or a ninety-one-mile-an-hour slider.

  But the final proof is that Ricky has failed the right field test. I would bet that in our entire history there has never been a major-league ballplayer who as a youth was consigned to right field in Little League. It is where they hide mediocrity, the place where they put kids and then pray that no one hits the ball to them.

  Right field is, quite simply, oblivion. It is the Siberia of baseball positions. The NFL equivalent would be playing for the Cleveland Browns.

  And yes, Ricky is in right field. He doesn’t seem to understand the ignominy of it all, which I am glad about. Nor does he seem to resent that his best friend, Will Rubenstein, is the shortstop, fielding ground balls and hitting line drives like Derek Jeter.

  For a while I blamed the coach and searched for a solution. I had options; for example, I could have moved our family to another city and, therefore, a different Little League team. Or I could have asked Marcus to kill the coach, or at least see to it that he was hospitalized and had to be replaced.

  But Laurie made me see the light, probably by telling me that I was an idiot and a lunatic. It also helped that Ricky was so obviously having fun. So if he can’t be a major leaguer, maybe he can do something lesser but also important, like doctor or college professor.

  After the game, I tell Ricky how well he did, and I specifically do not mention that he has killed my life’s dream. We drove here with Tara and Sebastian, but since this Eastside Park field is quite close to our house, Laurie and Ricky will walk them home while I take the car to my eleven o’clock meeting in Newark.

  Pete offered to pick me up, but I declined. If he doesn’t like the way the meeting goes, he wouldn’t be above leaving me at a bus stop.

  The meeting is at the FBI’s Newar
k office, and Pete is waiting for me in the lobby when I get there. It’s five to eleven, but the first thing he says is, “Where the hell have you been?” Not a good start.

  “Come on,” he adds, and I follow him back to the conference room where we are meeting. He knows his way around. I’ve been here before but don’t have the slightest idea where I’m going.

  Waiting for us in the room is a group of seven FBI agents, all wearing the same suit. The lead guy for their contingent is Jeffrey Givens, whom I’ve dealt with on a case before. It ultimately worked out well for everyone involved, but getting there was like having a root canal. The positive is that we both know each other’s negotiating style.

  Givens introduces me to his colleagues, but since I will never be able to remember their names, I don’t even bother trying. They either all have a function here, in which case the FBI considers this matter very important, or they want to impress me with their seriousness, in which case the FBI considers this matter very important.

  That leaves me with one inescapable conclusion: the FBI considers this matter very important. Once we’re all seated, Givens says, “Well, here we are again.”

  I look around and say, “Some of my fondest memories were created in this very room.”

  Givens turns to the agent next to him and says, “I told you so.” Then, to me, “You asked Captain Stanton to run a fingerprint.”

  He stops, as if expecting an answer, but since it wasn’t a question, I just wait for him to continue.

  He does. “The print is from a man who is currently a wanted criminal, with numerous warrants out for his arrest. We have a need to know where you retrieved the print.”

  “Who is he?” I ask. I had told Pete that I would not hang him out to dry by revealing that he’d told me the print belonged to Bennett Jeffries. It’s also a test to see how up-front Givens will be with me.

  “His name is Bennett Jeffries.”

  My instinct in these situations is to be difficult, mainly because I get more that way. But the problem here is that I don’t know what I want to get, beyond general help in the defense of my client. I don’t even know if these guys are in a position to provide such help.

  The other difficulty I face, which weakens my position even if the FBI doesn’t realize it, is that I have no productive way to proceed with Jeffries. I know he’s down in the Caymans, and I know he’s in some kind of conspiracy with Benjamin, but I don’t know how to get beyond that.

  “Is this conversation being recorded?” I ask.

  He nods. “It is.”

  “I’m sure you’ll understand that my obligation is to my client.”

  “Not to your country,” he says, a hint of righteous scorn in his voice.

  “To the legal system of my country, which tells me that my obligation is to my client.”

  “What do you have to gain by not giving us this information?” he asks.

  “Actually, that’s not quite the way I would phrase the question. I would ask what do I have to gain by giving it to you? And you can leave out the part about service to my country.”

  “You’re aware that if I directly ask you for this information, and you lie or refuse to provide it, you are committing a crime?”

  “Unless I were to say that it was mailed to me anonymously or the fingerprint fairy gave it to me. Or I might walk out of this office and tell you that I am not talking to you voluntarily, and you can send me a grand jury subpoena. And then I’d whisper under my breath that you can shove the fingerprint directly up your ass.”

  I’m definitely on shaky ground here in that he’s right; it is illegal to lie to law enforcement or to withhold information that they directly ask for. He hasn’t actually asked me yet, which may be by design. We are both keeping all of our options.

  “What are you looking for?” he asks.

  “Putting his whereabouts to the side for the moment, this guy Jeffries is involved in a conspiracy that has resulted in my client being wrongly accused of a murder.” I steal a quick glance at Pete to see if he’s reacting to my comment, since he is the “wrong accuser,” but he’s stone-faced.

  I continue, “At least one of the coconspirators is Eric Benjamin. Benjamin’s fingerprint was found on the truck where the murder was committed.” Neither Givens nor anyone else reacts to this; I’m assuming they know who Benjamin is, but I can’t be sure.

  “If it turns out that I know where Jeffries is, and I tell you, then you are going to arrest him. You are also going to take his life apart and examine every move he has made. You will uncover things that can help my client. I need your word that you will share whatever you learn with me.”

  Givens makes eye contact with someone, who nods ever so slightly. Maybe Givens is not the top guy in the room after all. “Okay.”

  “I have just one more question before I become the answer man.”

  “You’re a pain in the ass,” Givens says, making it unanimous, and for the first time, I see Pete nod in agreement.

  “Stipulated. So here’s the question: You could have called me in to your office, sat me across from your desk, and asked me where Jeffries is. Instead, you assembled an entire platoon of FBI agents here to observe the process. Which leads me to believe there is an urgency to this. What might that be?”

  Givens hesitates and says, “There is an urgency. We have reason to believe Jeffries is involved in something that can be very dangerous to a lot of people.”

  “And what might that be?” I ask again.

  “That’s all I’m going to tell you. Now I’ll ask you directly, where was Jeffries when you got his fingerprint?”

  I’ve extracted all I’m going to get; it’s time to hold up my end of the bargain.

  “The Cayman Islands. I can give you the name he’s using and where he’s living.”

  “Please do,” he says.

  “Call your first witness,” Judge Avery says.

  Carla stands, a serious, somber expression on her face, and says, “The state calls Mr. John Paxos.” Churchill spoke with less drama in his “blood, sweat, and tears” speech.

  Paxos, a pleasant-looking man who is probably nearing retirement age, walks up to the stand and agrees to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.

  Game on.

  Paxos is there to set the scene. He discovered Zimmer’s body on the truck, but his testimony is not crucial. He has no special knowledge essential to solving the crime; he just happened to be the first one there after it happened.

  “Mr. Paxos, where were you on August 14, at around 1:00 P.M.?”

  “I stopped in a rest area off the Garden State Parkway, near Exit 156.”

  “Why did you stop there?”

  He smiles with some embarrassment. “To use the bathroom. I had been driving a long time.”

  “Were there any other vehicles parked there when you arrived?”

  “Yes. A large tractor trailer; but I didn’t see the driver.”

  Carla painstakingly takes Paxos through his trip to the bathroom, then his curiosity about the truck, hearing the barking, finally entering it and seeing Zimmer’s body, and calling animal control and then 911.

  She chronicles his every move with the exception of zipping up his fly in the bathroom; if she continues at this pace through the trial, we’re going to be here a very long time. I think I see one of the jurors grimace, but it could be a gas pain.

  Finally, she reluctantly turns the witness over to me. There’s really nothing for me to gain from his testimony, since it neither hurt nor helped us. “Mr. Paxos, that must have been an upsetting experience for you.”

  “You mean testifying just now?” he asks.

  I smile. “That too,” I say, and the jurors and those seated in the gallery laugh. “But I’m talking about that day at the rest stop.”

  “Sorry. Yes, it was.”

  “Did you see anyone besides the victim at the rest stop? I mean, before you made your phone calls for assistance.”

  “No.”

&nbs
p; “For all you know, there could have been twenty people there before you arrived?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “A marching band could have come through there?”

  “Yes.”

  Carla objects, but since Paxos has already answered, the point is moot. Judge Avery cautions him to pause before he answers, in case the lawyers want to object.

  “You said that you thought the truck was parked in an unusual position, did you not?”

  He waits a while because of Judge Avery’s instructions; the effect is as if he’s testifying via satellite, with a delay. “I did.”

  “Can you describe that for us, please?”

  Another exaggerated delay, and then, “Well, the parking spaces outside the building are perpendicular to it, you know what I mean? If you park there, you’re facing the building directly. But the truck was at an angle, so it was taking up like … I don’t … at least seven of the spaces. And it wasn’t against the curb, it was backed away from it. I had to park around the corner from it because it didn’t leave me any room.”

  “You said that when the dogs heard you, they started to bark.”

  “Right.”

  “How long did it take them to stop barking?”

  “I don’t think they did, at least not all of them. Then people started showing up, so they started again.”

  “But they apparently had had enough time to calm down from whatever happened before you made the noise?” I want to convey the idea that Paxos got there well after the killing, because I want there to have been enough time for the third person, Eric Benjamin, to have gotten away.

  “Yes, I guess so,” he says.

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  Carla calls Ralph Brandenberger to the stand to testify to his actions and observations that day. Ralph has nothing to add of an evidentiary nature; he didn’t discover the body, nor did he have any role related to the scene once he got there. All he did was show up to possibly care for the dogs.

  But Carla is no dummy. She questions Ralph about the dogs in great detail. She clearly wants the jury to see Zimmer as a savior of stray, helpless animals. The more sympathetic the victim, the more the jury will want to identify and punish his killer.