Play Dead

by David Rosenfelt

  Karen takes her seat directly behind us as Janine Coletti and the rest of her team occupy their places at the prosecution table. Coletti nods at me and smiles and doesn’t appear at all nervous, which has the effect of making me nervous.

  The five minutes that pass until the bailiff announces Judge Gordon’s entry feel like five hours. Mercifully, he gets right down to it. “I’m going to make a very brief statement, and post the entire decision on the court Web site,” he says.

  Kevin looks over at me, a worried expression on his face. I know what he’s thinking. The overwhelming percentage of people in the room want Richard to get a new trial. If Judge Gordon is going to deliver bad news, he might want to do it quickly and let the Web site do the rest.

  This is the way nervous, worried lawyers think.

  The judge then goes into all that led to his decision. It goes on for three or four minutes, leading me to start calculating whether my bad-news theory might be wrong.

  It’s an art form to give a lengthy preamble to a decision, listing the facts used to make the judgment, without giving away what the final decision will be. Judge Gordon has mastered it, and it takes me by surprise when he pauses and says, “Therefore…”

  He pauses after the word, a delay that serves as a silent drumroll. I can feel Richard tense up next to me, and I can only imagine Karen behind me. She must have exploded by now.

  Judge Gordon continues, “… it is the decision of this court that the defense has met its burden, and a new trial is hereby granted in the case of New Jersey versus Evans, said trial to commence on June fourteenth.”

  There is not an explosion of noise in the courtroom; it is more the sound of a hundred people exhaling at once. Richard lowers his head into his hands and keeps it there until Karen vaults out of her seat and starts pounding him on the back and shoulders in triumph.

  He turns and hugs her and then does the same to Kevin and me. Judge Gordon is considerate enough to let this emotional scene play out for a brief while before gaveling order into the courtroom.

  The judge has set a trial date for six weeks from today. It’s rushed, but Richard has already told me that he doesn’t want to wait a moment longer than necessary.

  I pursue the matter of bail, but it is almost never granted in first-degree murder trials, and Judge Gordon does not make an exception here. Richard is disappointed, but I’ve prepared him for it.

  The proceedings end, and the bailiffs come over to take Richard away. “You did great,” he says to me.

  “It’s only the beginning, Richard. I know you know that, but I’ve got to say it anyway. The case starts now.”

  He smiles and nods, having expected me to temper his enthusiasm. “Give Reggie a hug for me,” he says.

  “That I can do.”

  Kevin and I head back to the office, rejuvenated by our triumph and by the certainty that we will now get our day in court. We both know that it will be like starting a six-week marathon; a murder trial takes total concentration and an incredible intensity.

  Unfortunately, as soon as we start our meeting we have to face the fact that Judge Gordon’s decision does nothing toward helping us understand what the hell is going on here. If we’re going to tell a jury that Stacy was murdered and Richard was set up by some evil third party, we had better be prepared to credibly advance a theory of why it happened and who that third party might be.

  The only two areas that seem to hold potential answers right now are the customs operations at the Port of Newark and the Army connection to Archie Durelle. There is little I can do about the customs area other than hope that Keith Franklin comes up with something, so I decide to focus on the Army and Durelle.

  I make a couple of calls to set up meetings for tomorrow and then head for home. I give Tara and Reggie some celebratory biscuits, and then we go out for a long walk.

  After I take them home I head for Charlie’s to watch some baseball and drink some beer with Pete and Vince. “Congratulations,” Pete says in a surprising burst of humanity.

  “You gonna win?” Vince asks.

  “Is this off the record?”

  He nods. “Yeah.”

  I shrug. “I hope so.”

  He frowns his disdain. “You sure I can’t use that? Because that’s the kind of quote that sells newspapers.”

  I update Pete on what we learned about the chopper crash, and I give him the names of Mike Carelli, Dr. Gary Winston, and Anthony Banks, the other people on the flight, just in case he has anything on them. He says that certainly nothing comes to mind, but that he’ll check.

  “I called a friend in the State Police to see if I could find out any progress they’re making on the highway shooting,” Pete says.

  “Thanks.” I had asked him to do that; even though the shooters were dead, a full investigation would certainly take place. “You find out anything?”

  He nods. “The case was turned over to the FBI.”

  This is a stunning development. “FBI? Are you sure?”

  “Am I sure?” he asks with annoyance. “You think I get letters confused? Maybe they said they’re turning over the case to the DMV? Or maybe LBJ?”

  His sarcasm doesn’t make a dent on me; I’m too focused on this news. “What the hell could the FBI have to do with an attempted murder on a New Jersey highway?”

  “That, counselor, is something you might want to figure out.”

  IF YOU WANT to live thirty stories above New Jersey, the place to do it is in Fort Lee at Sunset Towers. It sits on the edge of the Hudson River and offers its upscale tenants spectacular views of the New York skyline. Its lobby and basement areas include a grocery store, cleaners, and drugstore, making running errands an easy jog. The place is so classy that the doorman is called a concierge.

  I’ve come here to see Donna Banks, widow of Anthony Banks, the second lieutenant who, the records show, died in the same helicopter crash as Archie Durelle. I called yesterday and explained who I was, though I did not say why I wanted to talk to her about her husband. She agreed to see me this morning, though she did not seem pleased about it.

  I left Kevin the job of trying to reach Cynthia Carelli, the widow of Mike Carelli, the chopper pilot listed as killed in the same crash as Durelle and Banks. She lives in Seattle, a rather long trip to make in person, considering the small likelihood that he has anything to do with our case.

  I stop at the “concierge” and tell him that I am here to see Ms. Banks. He nods, picks up the phone, and dials her number. There must be hundreds of apartments in this building, and his not having to look up the number is impressive.

  He receives confirmation that I am expected and sends me up to her twenty-third-floor apartment. The high-speed elevator has me there within seconds, and Donna Banks answers the door within a few moments of my ringing the bell. She is an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, but dressed and carrying a handbag as if ready to go out. Not a good sign if I’m hoping to have a long interview.

  “Ms. Banks, thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Come in, but I don’t have a lot of time. I’m quite busy,” she says.

  I nod agreeably as I enter. “We could do this some other time, when you’re not as rushed.”

  “I’m afraid I always seem to be rushed.”

  “What is it you do?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  I shrug. “I mean your work—what it is that keeps you so busy?”

  She seems taken aback by the question. “Volunteer work… and I have many friends… You said you needed to talk about Anthony.”

  I sit down without being offered the opportunity and take a glance around the apartment. It is expensively furnished, and neat to the point that it doesn’t even looked lived in. “Are you married, Ms. Banks?”

  “No. I’m sorry, but I really am in a hurry, Mr. Carpenter. Can we chitchat a little less and get to why you’re here?”

  “Sure. How much did the Army share with you about the circumstances of your
husband’s death?”

  “They said he was on a helicopter that went down in enemy territory. They weren’t sure at the time if hostile fire was involved.”

  “And did they ever become sure?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t pursue it.”

  “Does the name Archie Durelle mean anything to you?”

  “No.” Her answer was instantaneous; she’s not exactly racking her brain to remember.

  “Antwan Cooper?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever had any reason to question the Army’s account of the helicopter crash?”

  “No. The circumstances are not important. Anthony was important, and his death was important. Whether they were shot down or had a mechanical failure doesn’t change anything.”

  I ask a few more questions and get similarly unresponsive answers. When she takes out her car keys and stands up, it’s rather clear that her volunteer work and friends can’t wait another minute. I thank her for her time and leave.

  There is nothing about this woman that I trust. She was completely uncomfortable talking to me, yet if that came from an ongoing grief over her husband’s death, she hid it really well. There I was, asking what should have seemed like out-of-the-blue questions about the event that turned her into a widow, yet she showed no curiosity about where I was coming from. All she cared about was when I would leave.

  I don’t believe she was rushed, and I test that by waiting at the elevator for five minutes. Even though she had her handbag and car keys in hand, there’s no sign of her.

  I go down and get my car out of the underground parking garage. I wait another half hour, positioned to see the garage exit and the front door of the building. It’s my version of a stakeout, without the doughnuts.

  She doesn’t show up, which comes as no surprise to me. I head back to the office, calling Sam Willis on my cell phone as I drive. I tell him that I have another job for him.

  “Great!” he says, making no effort to conceal his delight. He’s probably hoping it results in another high-speed highway shooting.

  “The woman’s name is Donna Banks. She lives in apartment twenty-three-G in Sunset Towers in Fort Lee. I don’t have the exact address, but you can get it.”

  “Pretty swanky apartment,” he says.

  “Right. I want you to find out the source of that swank.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I want to know how she can afford it. She doesn’t work, and she’s the widow of a soldier. Maybe her name is Banks because her family owns a bunch of them, but I want to know for sure.”

  “Got it.”

  “No problem?” I ask. I’m always amazed at Sam’s ability to access any information he needs.

  “Not so far. Anything else?”

  “Yes. I left her apartment at ten thirty-five this morning. I want to know if she called anyone shortly after I left, and if so, who.”

  “Gotcha. Which do you want me to get on first? Although neither will take very long.”

  “I guess her source of income.”

  “Then say it, Andy.”

  “Say what?”

  “Come on, play the game. You’re asking me to find out where she gets her cash. So say it.”

  “Sam…”

  “Say it.”

  “Okay. Show me the money.”

  “Thatta boy. I’ll get right on it.”

  I hang up and call the office, to make sure Kevin is around. I want to tell him about Donna Banks and my distrust of her. He’ll think my suspicions are unfounded and vague, which they are, but he’ll trust my instincts.

  Kevin is there, and he tells me that his conversation with Cynthia Carelli yielded little. She has remarried and was reticent to discuss her previous husband with a stranger over the phone. Kevin did get her to say that she had no reason to question anything the Army told her about the crash, and he came down on the side of believing her. If we’re going to pursue that further, it will have to be in Seattle.

  I don’t get a chance to tell Kevin much about Donna Banks, because we receive a phone call from Daniel Hawpe, the head prosecutor of Somerset County, and therefore Janine Coletti’s boss. He would very much like to meet with me as soon as possible at his office. He has cleared his schedule for the day, so whenever I arrive will be fine.

  It is an unusual development on a number of levels. Just the fact that Hawpe, rather than Coletti, made the call is a surprise, but the entire tone is strange. Prosecutors as a rule spend every free minute they have complaining that they never have a free minute. They wear their overwork as a badge of honor, and for someone on Hawpe’s level to clear an afternoon’s schedule for a defense attorney might well get him drummed out of the prosecutors’ union.

  Kevin is busy working on some pretrial motions, so I decide to drive down there myself. I arrive at about three o’clock, and Hawpe’s assistant just about lights up when she sees me. “Mr. Hawpe said to bring you right in,” she says. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  I’m starting to let this feeling of power go to my head; I almost demand a pipe and slippers. But instead I let myself be led into Hawpe’s office.

  There are basically three types of prosecutors. The first group consists of those who love their work, feel that they are contributing to society, and are likely to do this for the rest of their working life.

  Then there is the group that sees it as a launching point to the other side, the defense side, where there is more money to be made. Having spent time as a prosecutor gives a defense attorney some additional credibility. It’s like hiring an ex-IRS agent to represent you in an audit. You feel that you’re better off having someone who’s been on the “inside.”

  The third group, and the one to which Daniel Hawpe belongs, consists of people who view the prosecutor’s office as a stepping-stone to higher and greater political office. Hawpe is maybe thirty-five, tall, and good-looking and might as well be wearing a sign on his forehead that says, “One day you will be calling me Governor Hawpe.”

  But for now he starts off by telling me to call him “Daniel,” and I, ever gracious, give him permission to use “Andy.”

  “Andy, I’ve been following your career; you’ve won some great cases. I told Janine Coletti you were going to be a handful at the hearing.”

  “Is she joining us for this meeting?” I ask.

  “She’s been reassigned. I’m going to handle this from now on.”

  This is a surprise, and probably unfair to her. She did a decent, albeit unspectacular, job. “She’s a good attorney,” I say.

  He nods vigorously. “Damn good. Damn good. This is no reflection on her; we’re just going to take this case in a new direction.”

  “Which direction might that be?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

  “It’s time to wrap this up, Andy. We don’t need another trial, even though I think we’d win it. And Evans certainly doesn’t need it. It’s time to plead it out.”

  I’m not surprised that he’s making the offer, though the speed with which he’s making it is quite unusual. We only got the new trial yesterday. By doing it in this manner, he’s looking more than a little anxious, and thereby hurting his negotiating position. He must know that but clearly isn’t bothered by it.

  “What’s your offer?” I ask.

  “Time served plus ten. He’ll be up for parole in five, and we won’t oppose it as long as he’s a good boy in prison.”

  It’s a shocking offer. In the original trial, the prosecution went for life without the possibility of parole and got it. Now we’ve got some new forensic evidence and a dog that didn’t die, and Richard can be out in five years. It’s generous to the point of nonsensical, and if we accept it, it will be an embarrassment for his office.

  “I’ll convey it to my client,” I say. “But he’s already been in prison too long.”

  He shrugs. “Just let me know.”

  My hunch is that the decision to make this offer was not his, and that he’d b
e happy if we turned it down. “I’ll get back to you within a few days.”

  “Going up against you in court might be fun,” he says.

  I nod. “A real hoot.”

  I DON’T WITHHOLD information like this from a client one second more than necessary, which is why I have called this early morning meeting with Richard, Karen, and Kevin at the prison.

  “The prosecutor has made an offer, which I will tell you now,” I say to Richard. “But I don’t want you to make a decision about it until I’ve described the entire situation.”

  He nods. “Fair enough.”

  “The offer is time served plus ten, with an agreement going in that you’ll be paroled in five.”

  Richard nods thoughtfully, not saying anything. Karen says, “Oh, man…” Their outward reactions couldn’t be more different, but I have no idea what each is thinking.

  I proceed to lay out everything that I know about the case. He’s already heard a lot of it, but I add my discussion with Petrone and with Antwan Cooper’s family, what we learned from the Army files, and my recent visit with Donna Banks. I leave nothing out and, for the moment, do not give my subjective interpretations about it. There will be time for that later.

  “I’m not sure what all this means,” Richard says, a confusion that I unfortunately share.

  “There is one consistent thread that runs through it,” I say. “A lot of people, including some in the government, are concerned about what we are doing. Whether it’s trying to kill your lawyer, tapping his phone, or offering an overly generous plea bargain, I think there exists a great desire on the part of a wide variety of people that this not go to trial.”

  “You think the plea bargain offer is overly generous?” he asks.

  I nod. “I do, but that doesn’t mean you should accept it. It’s just very unusual for an offer like that to be made in these circumstances, and my guess—and it’s only a guess—is that pressure from very high up was brought to bear on the prosecutor.”