“So, you cops?”
“I’m a lawyer,” I say. “Did you know Antwan Cooper?”
“They want to talk about Pops,” he says, and I realize he’s talking to someone else. I look over, and there’s a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway between this room and the kitchen. She is holding a kitchen towel in her hand.
She looks at us. “What about?”
“Was he your husband?”
She looks at me evenly and says with considerable pride, “He was. Now, who are you?”
“My name is Andy Carpenter. This is Laurie Collins. Just before your husband died, the passenger in the car he was driving tried to kill me.”
“I’m sorry about that. I’m sure Antwan meant you no harm.”
“Do you know why he was driving the car?”
“That man paid him five hundred dollars.”
“Archie Durelle?”
“I didn’t know his name,” she says. “But Antwan knew him. He trusted him. Said when you fight next to a man, that was all you needed to know about him.”
“Were they in the Army together?” Laurie asks.
“Yes. But Antwan didn’t recognize him at first. I think ’cause he hadn’t seen him in a long time. He just showed up one day, said he needed a favor, and that he would pay Antwan five hundred dollars.”
“And Antwan didn’t ask what the favor was?”
She looks at me as if I’m not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. “It was five hundred dollars.”
“What happened to the money?” Laurie asks.
“He had it when he died. You think I’ll ever see it?” It’s a rhetorical question; she knows the answer all too well.
I reach into my pocket and take out a fistful of cash. I’ve taken to carrying a lot of it lately, ever since a cash machine ate my card a couple of months ago. I have a little over six hundred dollars, which I put on the table. “Thank you for the information,” I say. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
As we turn to leave, the teenager says, “How’d you get past Little Antwan downstairs?”
He must be talking about Statue Man, who could only be called “little” in comparison to the Chrysler Building. “You call him ‘Little Antwan’?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s downstairs talking to little Marcus.”
We leave, and once we close the door behind us, Laurie says with a smile, “Now you’re paying for information?”
“Why not? Who am I, Sixty Minutes?”
LAURIE COMES BACK to the office with me for a meeting with Kevin.
These meetings are basically of dubious value, since all we seem to do is list the things we don’t understand in our preparation for a trial we don’t know will even take place.
It’s the first chance I’ve had to tell Kevin about my meeting with Petrone. When I get to the part where Petrone denied trying to have me killed, Kevin asks, “And you believed him?”
“I did.”
“Just because that’s what he said?”
I nod. “As stupid as it might sound, yes. I’ve had dealings with him before, and he’s always told me the truth, or nothing at all. And he had nothing to gain by lying.”
“Andy, the guy has had a lot of people murdered. How many confessions has he made?”
“I think Andy’s right,” Laurie says. “If he admitted that he was behind the shooting, there’s nothing Andy could have done about it. He could still easily have denied it later. And if he is trying to scare Andy off of the case, saying that he was out to kill him would have been more effective.”
I nod. “You got that right.”
“Okay,” Kevin says. “Petrone wasn’t trying to kill you, but somebody was. Unless it was a random shooting.”
I shake my head. “No chance. Durelle specifically went to hire Cooper to be the driver for the attempt. He paid him five hundred bucks. Random shooters don’t do that kind of thing.”
“So the question is, who was Durelle and what did he have against you?”
“Right,” I say. “And I’m betting the answer has to do with the Army. That’s how Durelle knew Cooper, and Durelle was in the service when he apparently faked his own death. And it also might explain why the government was tapping my phone. Cindy Spodek said it could have been the Defense Intelligence Agency.”
“This sounds like a job for my brother-in-law,” Kevin says. “I’m glad I send him a birthday card every year.”
Kevin’s brother-in-law is Colonel Franklin Prentice, stationed at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. He was nice enough to help us on a previous case, and at the time he was only a lieutenant colonel. Now that’s he’s moved up a notch, maybe we can get him to solve the case for us.
Kevin will call him to learn all he can about Archie Durelle, the shooter who was killed in the helicopter crash and who came back to life. I’m particularly interested in whatever contact he and Antwan Cooper had in the service, and who else was on the copter with Durelle when it went down. If Durelle didn’t die, maybe they didn’t, either.
Laurie and I head home to enjoy our last night together before she goes back to Wisconsin. Wild and crazy pair that we are, we’re going to spend it by ordering in a pizza and watching a movie on DVD. We each have our role to play. I order the pizza and she chooses the movie.
She chooses Inherit the Wind, which is one of the few lawyer movies that I can tolerate. I especially like when Spencer Tracy, playing Clarence Darrow, gets to crucify the opposing lawyer, William Jennings Bryan, played by Fredric March. I’ve wanted to cross-examine a few prosecutors in my day. The fact that the prosecutor then literally collapses and dies when making a speech in the courtroom is as good an ending as you’re going to find anywhere.
We eat the pizza while watching the movie, carefully saving the crusts for Tara and Reggie. They have completely different eating styles. Tara virtually inhales the crusts in a matter of moments, while Reggie savors them, chewing slowly and carefully, then licking his lips clean after each one. The net effect is to have Tara finished and watching him, probably hoping in vain that he won’t finish. It must drive her nuts.
Laurie and I share a bottle of Rombauer chardonnay, though the dogs don’t get to sample it. Our drinking styles mirror the way the dogs eat. Laurie slips her wine slowly, while I chug it down like an ice-cold Pepsi on a hot day.
I know nothing about wine, but this tastes pretty good. Of course, in this setting I could serenely sip gasoline. “Mr. Carpenter, might I recommend an ’88 Chevron? Or perhaps a ’91 Texaco? Both are fruity and quite flammable.”
Laurie doesn’t say much all night, and it isn’t until we’ve made love that she decides it’s time to talk. It’s unfortunate, because I have already come to the conclusion that it’s time to sleep.
“Andy, I’m going to tell you something because I think we should be open and honest.”
Uh-oh, I think, bracing for what is going to come next.
“I’m taking a risk by saying this.”
I don’t say anything, because I find it hard to talk and cringe at the same time.
“Andy, I think that if you told me the only way to keep us together would be for me to move back here, I would move. That’s how important you are to me.”
This conversation just took a turn for the better. “I feel the same way about you,” I say, and then worry that I may have just offered to move to Wisconsin.
If I made the offer, thankfully she doesn’t pick up on it. “I love where I live, Andy, and I love my job, but I would give it all up if that were necessary to keep you.”
My mind is racing for a way to appear understanding and generous and yet actually get her to move back here. “I would never want you to give that up,” I say. My mind obviously didn’t pull off the trick.
“And you’ll tell me if that changes? Because right now I love you more than ever.”
“I’ll tell you,” I say, knowing I won’t, because then she’d love me less than ever.
In the morning we ha
ve a quick breakfast, and I drive Laurie to the airport. We don’t talk about when we will see each other again, because we both know it might be quite a while. She’s used up her vacation, and if we get the new trial for Richard, I’m going to be intensely occupied with it.
I’ll still be jealous and worried about what she might be doing in Wisconsin, and who she might be doing it with. That usually begins about twenty-four hours after she gets on the plane to go home. She has never given me any reason to be concerned; my jealousy is more about my insecurity than her lack of trustworthiness.
“I wish I could stay and help you,” Laurie says.
“You’ve got your own criminals to catch.”
“You’ll keep me updated on what’s going on?”
She’s feeling left out; she’s not used to seeing me work a case without her having a role as my investigator. “I will.”
“I’m sorry, Andy. I’m having a tough time with this.”
“Move back here, Laurie. That’s the only way I’ll ever be completely happy.” That’s what my mind is thinking. What my mouth winds up saying is, “It’ll be fine, Laurie. It’ll be fine.”
And maybe it will. And maybe it won’t.
IN MY NEXT life I want to be an Army colonel.
Okay, maybe it’s not my first choice. But if I can’t be the starting quarterback for the Giants, or an all-star shortstop for the Yankees, then Army colonel is right up there on the list.
People listen to colonels. They follow their orders and don’t ask questions. They don’t ask if they can do it later or why it has to be done at all. Working for a colonel, Edna wouldn’t last ten minutes. What’s a five-letter word for “you’re out of a job, woman”?
The second-best thing to being a colonel is having one on our side, and thanks to Kevin’s sister’s choice of a husband, we have a beauty. I’m sure Kevin would have preferred that she marry an internist, but this has worked out pretty well.
Kevin has explained to Colonel Prentice that we need his help, and after asking a few questions, he made a phone call, and here we are at Fort Monmouth.
It’s the second time we’ve been to Fort Monmouth, and the place still does not look like an army base. It looks more like a collection of civilian office buildings, which is probably what it is about to be. The Army is closing Fort Monmouth as part of their overall base-closing plans. The town, like other towns facing the same situation, is quite upset about it. The base is a source of jobs and revenue that is hard to replace.
Last time Colonel Prentice helped us, he did so by sending us down here to meet with Captain Gary Reid, and he’s done the same thing this time. Captain Reid is now Major Reid, and he greets us just as crisply and politely this time. He informs us that he has already processed Kevin’s telephone request and has copies of the documents we need. They cannot leave the post or be recopied, he says, but we are free to sit in a private office and study them as long as we want. We are also allowed to take notes.
Archie Durelle’s Army record is relatively distinguished. He enlisted in 1994 and entered infantry training. He reached the rank of sergeant by the time he was sent to Afghanistan in 2001, and was a participant in the overthrow of the Taliban. He won a Purple Heart for his efforts, the result of a laceration from shrapnel.
It was about three months later that he was hitching a ride on a helicopter back to Kabul. The chopper crashed in a remote area, and Durelle was killed along with the pilot, a Special Forces officer named Mike Carelli, and two others. One was Captain Gary Winston, an Army surgeon whose tour of duty was up in just three days, and the other was Lieutenant Anthony Banks, a special services officer assigned to assist in Afghani reconstruction. It took a while for the American command to realize that the chopper had gone down, and another significant amount of time to find and reach the wreckage.
By the time search and rescue arrived on the scene, the enemy forces had been there first. The bodies and anything else of value had long since been carted off—at least, that’s what the report said. We now know the truth is that Durelle’s body was never there at all; if it had been, he wouldn’t have made it to the New Jersey Turnpike with a gun in his hand—a gun that was shooting bullets at me.
There are pictures of all the victims in the file, but I never would have recognized Durelle. I got only a brief glimpse of him on the highway, and I’m sure I was paying more attention to the gun in his hand. Also, the picture is at least eight to ten years old.
If Durelle had a family, it’s not listed in these reports, so instead we copy down the names of the others allegedly on the downed chopper, along with any family contacts they had. I have no idea if the others were involved with Durelle in anything criminal, but it’s an avenue we need to pursue.
We leave the base, having gotten all the available information, but disappointed with what we got. I had no reason to expect any kind of smoking gun, but it would have been nice to gain a little insight into what the hell is going on.
There isn’t exactly a lot of insight waiting for us back at the office, either. Keith Franklin has left a cryptic message that indicates he has been keeping his eyes open but has not detected anything unusual about Roy Chaney’s operations at customs.
Karen Evans is also waiting for us, and I can tell that the stress of waiting for a ruling on the new trial is straining even her natural level of exuberance. She’s been visiting Richard every day at the jail, which makes me feel a little better, since I haven’t been getting there as often as I should.
“How’s he doing?” I ask.
“Not great,” she says. “I’m trying to keep him upbeat, but he knows everything’s riding on this. Not knowing when the answer is coming is pretty tough, also. Even for me.”
I nod. “How about the solitary confinement? How’s he handling that?”
She smiles. “I think he likes it, at least for now. He hadn’t made a lot of friends there anyway.”
“I wish I had some news for both of you,” I say.
She nods. “I know… and I don’t want to be a pain, but is it okay if I hang around here more? It feels like if I’m here I’m closer to hearing the good news.”
“What about your dress designing?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I’ve been working on that at night; I haven’t been sleeping much. So what do you say?”
There’s no reason to deny her that request, so I don’t. “Sure. Come by anytime.”
I hang around for a while longer and then head for home. That doesn’t cheer me up a hell of a lot, either, since Laurie is back in Wisconsin. But Tara and Reggie are both there, tails wagging and smiles on their faces, and I reward them for their good mood with a two-hour walk in the park.
When we get back I turn on the television to the local news and then play the message on my blinking answering machine. In this way, the newscaster and the court clerk give me the message simultaneously: A decision has been reached in the Evans case, and it will be announced at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.
I spend the rest of the night fielding calls about the upcoming decision, from Laurie, Kevin, Karen, and an assortment of media types. I profess confidence to everyone outside our team; if we get the new trial, it is best if it appears we had expected nothing less. If we don’t get the trial, then nothing else matters anyway.
Karen professes certainty that the news will be good, though I can’t tell if she believes it or is trying to convince herself. Laurie is supportive and hopeful but really has no more idea about what awaits us than I do. Kevin is typically pragmatic, insisting that we plan our first steps after the new trial is granted. It’s the right approach, because we will have to move quickly to be ready for trial. And if there’s no trial to be ready for, then we’ll still push toward another appeal.
In a lot of ways this is even worse than waiting for a verdict. When the jury reaches a decision, there is the possibility that the client will be free and exonerated. Here we’re just hoping for the chance to get to a jury. So in a way, a bad decisi
on is devastating, but a good decision is just the beginning.
Tara and Reggie seem to reflect my stress, getting close to me, as if being supportive. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I actually feel as though I owe Reggie something, and I don’t want to let him down. And not reuniting him with Richard would be letting him down.
Before I go to sleep I pet Reggie’s head. “Big day tomorrow, buddy,” I say.
He just looks at me, as if not willing to let me off the hook that easily. I look over and see Tara staring as well, supporting her friend against the hand that feeds her.
I pet him again. “No matter what happens, you’ve always got a home here.”
Again he stares at me, the same way he stared at me that first day in the kennel.
I pet him a final time. “All right. Don’t mention this publicly, but we’re gonna win.”
“WHAT HAPPENS TODAY affects only the timing, not the ultimate result.”
I say this as Kevin and I are meeting in a court anteroom with Richard and Karen. In fifteen minutes Judge Gordon is going to announce his ruling, and I’m trying to cushion them against the psychological devastation of a loss.
“We are going to find out the truth, and we’ll prove your innocence in court. If Judge Gordon rules against us, it will only delay our victory, not prevent it.”
Richard is in the process of establishing himself as unique among all the people I have ever defended. To this point he has not once asked me if I think we are going to win or lose. Usually defendants bombard me with the question, as if asking it repeatedly is going to unearth some secret truth that I am otherwise sworn to defend. Richard either senses that I have no idea what is going to happen, or thinks I have an idea and doesn’t want to hear what it is.
At nine o’clock sharp we enter the courtroom, which is packed to capacity and has all the energy of a major trial verdict moment. I have been to some huge prizefights, including the first Tyson-Holyfield, and the electricity that courses through a courtroom at moments like these is similar to the feeling at those venues, albeit on a much smaller scale. One side is going to lose, and one will win, and nothing will be the same afterward.
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