Hawpe walks over to the jury and stands maybe three feet from them. “If one of you took a gun out right now and shot me, thinking my name was Daniel Hawpe, you would be arrested. If later you found out that my real name was Bill Smith, or Carl Jones, it wouldn’t matter. You would be just as guilty.
“On behalf of the State of New Jersey, I want you to listen to the judge’s instructions, follow your common sense, and vote your conscience. If you do that, Richard Evans will never be in a position to murder again.”
As soon as Hawpe sits down, I am gripped by exactly the sense of fear and anxiety and dread that I face every single time I give a closing statement. This is my last chance; once I sit back down I will never have another opportunity to influence this jury.
It’s like a baseball pitcher who throws a three-and-two pitch with the bases loaded and two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series. The pitcher is in control until the moment the ball leaves his hand, and then he has no control over his fate whatsoever.
Once I finish this statement, I’m a bystander.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have been involved in a lot of trials, more than I sometimes care to remember, and I have seen many different prosecutorial approaches. A good prosecutor adjusts his case and his style to the facts he has to present, to the strength of his case.
“Mr. Hawpe is a very good prosecutor, and it is obvious that he carefully assessed his evidence before coming up with the tactic that best fit this trial. What he wound up with is the ‘well, maybe, but’ approach.
“You heard it throughout. When we proved that Reggie was alive, his response was basically, ‘Well, maybe he is alive, but…’
“When it was shown that Richard did not take Amenipam in pill form, Mr. Hawpe backed off with ‘Well, maybe he didn’t, but…’
“When it was demonstrated that Mr. Evans could not have sustained his injury in the way it was presented, Mr. Hawpe allowed that ‘Well, maybe he didn’t, but…’
“And when it was proven beyond doubt that the very identity of the murder victim was a lie and a mystery, he conceded, ‘Well, maybe it was faked, but…’
“Before a prosecutor asks you to send someone to a life in prison, he has to be certain of his facts. He should not be constantly amending them when they prove wrong. He cannot be allowed to tap dance his way to a murder conviction. Richard Evans deserves better than that.
“Stacy Harriman’s entire life was a lie, a complete fabrication, even to her own future husband. This is not something that she would have done casually. How many people do you know that have done it? She was a young, beautiful woman so afraid of where she had been that she couldn’t get herself to reveal it to the man she loved.
“She lived alone with her fear, her secret, until it killed her.
“Richard Evans has never done anything criminal—not on the boat that night, not in his life. Before this nightmare he was a dedicated public servant, a caring friend, a loving brother.
“He can be all that again, if you will let him. Thank you.”
I turn around and walk back to the defense table. I see Karen in the front row, sobbing, and Richard grabs my arm as I reach him.
“Thank you,” he says. “No matter how this turns out, thank you.”
IT SEEMS THAT you can never get a good coma going when you need one.
My strong preference would be to remain in an unconscious state while a jury is deliberating. In fact, I’d like to be wheeled into the courtroom that way and not woken up until the very moment that the clerk is starting to read the verdict.
That way I would be able to avoid the anxiety, the doubt, and the second-guessing that I inflict on myself. I wouldn’t have to go through my ridiculous preverdict superstitions, and my friends wouldn’t have to deal with me at my most obnoxious.
This is not a fun time.
Making matters worse is Karen Evans’s understandable desire to hang out with me while we wait. She knows I’ll hear things first, so this is where she wants to be. This gives me the unwanted burden of having to be reasonably pleasant at a time when I am always impossibly cranky.
Karen also assumes I know more about this process than she does, but she’s wrong about that. I have no idea what is going on in that jury room, or what decision they might reach. The entire thing is impossible to predict and, more significantly, completely out of my control. That is what makes it so maddening.
Kevin and I have tried, with little success, to divert ourselves with our investigation of Stacy’s background, though it is too late for anything that could come of it to help in this trial. The reason it hasn’t been that diverting is because we no longer know what the hell to investigate. By now Stacy, Durelle, Franklin, and Hamadi are all dead, which leaves us with precious few suspects.
In fact, the only suspects left from the dwindling pool are Anthony Banks; Mike Carelli, the Special Services chopper pilot; and Captain Gary Winston, the surgeon who went down with the others. We have never been able to locate any of them, and we certainly don’t seem to be ready to start now.
Banks and Carelli are the most likely candidates for bad guy, since Hamadi’s car was shown to have been blown up by a grenade launcher. Since surgeons are not usually trained in grenade launching, Dr. Winston is probably off the hook.
Sam Willis had a brainstorm yesterday to go to Hamadi’s funeral and surreptitiously take pictures of all in attendance. Since Kevin and I had seen photographs of Banks, Carelli, and Winston in their army files, he thinks maybe we’d see one of them at the funeral.
The suggestion made very little sense to me, since if these guys are actually alive and in hiding all these years, the idea they would come out to attend the funeral of a man they killed doesn’t add up. But Sam wanted to do it, probably so he could get to use a tricky hidden camera gizmo he recently bought, so I let him.
Sam has gone through all the pictures and printed them out off his computer. Digital cameras are amazing; I just wish I didn’t find them so bewildering. When I want to take pictures, I buy one of those disposable cameras, take the shots, and then leave them undeveloped in the camera for years.
I call Sam and tell him he should bring the pictures over now. Karen and Kevin are both here, and I figure it will be good for Karen to think we’re doing something proactive, even though we’re not.
Sam brings in his computer and shows the pictures to us in something called PowerPoint on the wall. It’s as if he were making a presentation to a board meeting. But he’s enjoying the literal spotlight, so I pretend to be paying attention.
There are more than seventy-five pictures, documenting in excruciating detail the perhaps hundred and fifty attendees at the funeral. Most of the photos have five or more people in them, so obviously, many people are seen much more than once.
By the thirtieth picture, I haven’t seen anyone that looks remotely familiar, and I’m so bored I would rather be at the ballet. Kevin’s face tells me he’s as miserable as I am, but I don’t speed Sam up, because Karen is so into this. She keeps saying things like “Wait… hold on… that person looks like… can we focus in on him…?” but ultimately she doesn’t recognize anyone, either.
Just as Sam is gathering up his material to leave, the phone rings. A ringing phone while waiting for a verdict is equivalent to a drumroll and ominous music at any other time. Everybody stares at it for a moment, but I’m the only one with the courage to answer it.
“Mr. Carpenter?”
“Yes?”
“This is Ms. Battaglia, the court clerk. The jury has informed us that they have a verdict. Judge Gordon has convened a court session to hear it at three o’clock.”
I hang up the phone and turn to Kevin and Karen. “We have a verdict.”
“Finally!” Karen says, with obvious relief.
That one word completely sums up the difference between me and that strange group of people called “optimists.” Karen is glad that there’s a verdict; she sees a positive res
ult as now a few hours away. I have no idea what the result is, but the fact that there is one is enough to make me physically ill.
Kevin is in another class altogether; he’s always physically ill.
We hit a lot of traffic and don’t get to the court until a quarter of three. The media is out in force to see the result of what has become a very public legal battle.
The public is kept behind police barricades, and as nervous as I am, I still reflect on what could possibly bring someone here to stand in the street. It’s not as if they’ll get special insight into the case; they’d be able to hear the verdict just as quickly on television. And they’re clearly not here out of an intellectual interest in the workings of the justice system; the most intelligent question I hear is, “Hey, Andy! You gonna win?”
We’re in our seats at five to three, and Richard is brought in moments later. Daniel Hawpe looks over at me, smiles, and mouths, “Good luck.” He has the calm manner of a lawyer who doesn’t have a client with his life on the line.
Richard seems under control, though I can’t imagine the stress he must be feeling. He just looks at me and offers a weak smile. “One way or the other,” he says.
I nod. “One way or the other.”
Karen gets out of her seat in the front row and hugs Richard from behind. She’s not supposed to do that, but the guards who would ordinarily prevent her understand that these are extraordinary circumstances.
Kevin looks pained and miserable. I have seen him in stressful situations like this, and they tend to increase his hypochondria fivefold. Right now I’m afraid he’s going to have urology issues under the defense table.
Judge Gordon takes his seat at the bench and asks that the jury be brought in. It takes either ten seconds or ten minutes for them to do so; time doesn’t seem to have structure or meaning at moments like this.
For some reason it always bothers me to know that the jury’s decision has already been made, even though we’re first finding out about it now. It’s like watching a football game on tape and not knowing the final score; it doesn’t help to root, because the boat has already sailed.
This verdict has already sailed.
Judge Gordon asks the foreman if a verdict has in fact been reached, and he confirms that it has. He hands the verdict slip to the clerk, who hands it to Gordon.
Gordon reads it, and his face remains as unrevealing as those of the jury members. He hands it back to the clerk and asks Richard to stand. Richard, Kevin, and I all do so, and out of the corner of my eye I see Karen rise in her seat, a gesture of total solidarity. If I’m ever in a foxhole, I want her with me.
I put my arm on Richard’s right shoulder, as much to support myself as him. He grabs my arm and holds it, and we brace ourselves. Here it comes…
The clerk starts to read at the pace of what feels like one word every three hours. “In the matter of the State of New Jersey versus Richard Evans, we the jury find the defendant, Richard Evans… guilty of murder in the first degree.”
Richard lowers his head for about fifteen seconds, then turns to Kevin and me and says, “We gave it our best shot.” The courtroom is deathly quiet, and I can clearly hear Karen behind me, sobbing.
I put my arm on Richard’s shoulder and lean down toward him. “It’s not over,” I whisper. “I swear to you, it’s not over.” He doesn’t answer, probably because he doesn’t believe me. And there’s no reason he should.
I’m sure Richard feels worse than I do, but right now it seems impossible that anyone could. My client was innocent, and I couldn’t get a jury to believe me. Hawpe got twelve people to vote on his side, even though his side was wrong.
Judge Gordon thanks the jury for their service and schedules sentencing for three weeks from now. The gavel pounds again, bringing the proceedings to a close. The jury files out, and the guards lead Richard away.
If there’s a moment in my life that I’ve hated more than this one, I don’t remember it. Maybe when my father died.
Maybe not.
BEFORE I LEAVE, I ask the court clerk to get me in to see Judge Gordon.
It is not necessary to include Hawpe in the meeting, because the trial is over. This is just between Judge Gordon and me.
The clerk gets me back into his chambers right away, and Judge Gordon starts the conversation with “Tough loss in there.”
I nod my agreement. “Very tough. Your Honor, I am here to report that I am aware of a crime about to be committed.”
He’s obviously surprised to hear this. “By whom?”
“My client, Richard Evans. As you know, even though it was told to me in a privileged conversation, I am permitted to reveal it because it involves a future crime. I am actually compelled to reveal it.”
“What is the crime?” he asks.
“Suicide. Mr. Evans had revealed to me his intention to kill himself in prison should he be convicted.”
“What is it you want me to do?” he asks.
“My request is that you take affirmative action to stop the crime from occurring, by ordering that Mr. Evans be kept on a suicide watch in prison.”
Judge Gordon thinks about this for a while, but he really has no choice in what to do. He nods and says, “Thirty days, at which point we will revisit this.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
Karen and Kevin are waiting for me back in the courtroom when I leave the judge’s chambers. Karen comes toward me and we hug, one of the longest hugs I can remember, without either of us saying a word.
When we break it off, she says, “You’re not going to give up, right?”
“Right. Whatever it takes.”
I want to talk to Karen about what she can do to keep Richard’s spirits up, but I don’t want to do it here. We make plans to have dinner tonight, even though I know my preference will be to hide under the covers.
When I get home, the answering machine tells me that Laurie has already called me twice. She’s going to tell me how I can’t blame myself, how I did the best I could, and how the odds were stacked against me. It has absolutely no chance of helping.
I call her back, and she tries her best to make me feel better, but I’m certainly not having any of it. “I started the case with an innocent client and a dog. Now my client is in jail for the rest of his life, and the dog is gone. I pulled off the daily double.”
“Andy, I’m not saying you shouldn’t feel terrible; I’m just saying that you can’t wallow in it. And you can’t let it prevent you from capitalizing on your progress.”
“Which progress might that be?” I ask.
“Come on, you know as well as I do that you’ve learned an amazing amount about the crime. All along you’ve been operating on two parallel tracks, the investigation and the trial. You’ve been wishing that they could coincide, but they didn’t. The good news is, you only had to win one of them to win.”
She’s right, of course. I could have won by getting Richard acquitted, but I can just as certainly win by finding out the real killers and bringing them to justice. And we have taken some substantial steps toward doing that.
Laurie and I talk it out for a while. The truth is, we know who Stacy Harriman really was, and we can assume that she was killed to prevent her from someday testifying. We even have a rough idea of the conspirators involved in her murder. What we need to do is keep pushing until we and the rest of the world know everything. And I’m going to make that happen if I have to hire every investigator in America.
I take Tara for a walk and then drive to Karen’s to take her to dinner. The devastating verdict has left her subdued, and it’s obvious that she has done quite a bit of crying.
During dinner we talk mostly about Richard and the need to keep him hopeful. It may be false hope, something I usually try to avoid in dealing with clients, but this time it’s necessary. The suicide watch will not last forever, and if Richard is determined to kill himself, he will manage to do so.
Karen promises to do what she can and asks a bunch of
questions about the status of the investigation. I tell her everything, and I can feel her optimism starting to return the more she hears.
It’s almost eleven o’clock when we leave the restaurant. As we near Karen’s house, she says, “Do you think I can visit Richard tomorrow?”
I shake my head. “I doubt it; they’ll be transferring him back to Rahway. I’ll be able to see him because I’m his lawyer. I want to explain to him that it’s my doing he’s under a suicide watch.”
“Andy, I wrote a letter to him this afternoon. I wanted so badly to talk to him, but I couldn’t, so it helped me to write it. Could you give it to him tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
We pull up in front of Karen’s darkened house, and we both get out of the car. Karen starts to get her keys out as we go up the steps, but it’s hard for her to see in the dark. “I hope we didn’t have some kind of power failure,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because I’m sure I left some lights on.”
I look over at the attached garage and see that there is a small light coming from underneath the garage door, which is open a few inches. I’m about to say that she obviously has electricity, when suddenly I’m gripped by a clarity of thought and an instinct I didn’t know I possessed.
“Karen!” I yell, and I pull her arm just as her key reaches the door. She screams in surprise, and we lose our balance and fall back down the two steps. At the very moment this is happening, the front door seems to explode at its center in front of us.
Another noise comes from inside the house, and I grab Karen and we start to run. I make a quick decision that the street is not the place for us; it is too well lit. Instead I lead her into the alley, back into a darkened area that serves as a corridor between the houses on this block and the block behind it.
There are sheds and Dumpsters back there as well, but it’s hard to navigate in the darkness. I can hear someone pursuing us from behind, so I pull Karen down behind one of the Dumpsters. It is so dark that I can’t see Karen, which means the intruder shouldn’t be able to see us.
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