Sudden Death ac-4

by David Rosenfelt

  I ask him to tell me everything he knows about the night that Preston disappeared. “I didn’t kill him,” he says. “I swear to God.”

  I nod. “Good. That covers what you didn’t do. Now let’s focus on what you did do. How well did you know him?”

  He shrugs. “Pretty well. I mean, we weren’t best friends or anything-he played for the Jets. But in the off-season a lot of guys hung out…”

  “So you hung out with him that night?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Not just him… a whole bunch of people. We went to the Crows Nest. No big deal. We probably did that three or four times a week.”

  “How many people were there that night? With you and Troy.”

  “Maybe fifteen.”

  I take him through the events of the night, which mainly consisted of drinking beer, talking football, and occasionally leering at women. I never realized how much I had in common with star football players. “How long did you stay there?” I ask.

  “I was real tired, so we left about twelve-thirty.”

  “We?”

  He nods. “I gave Troy a ride home.”

  This is not good and confirms the media reports. The last time the victim was seen, it was by fifteen people, who watched him leave with my client. “Was that an unusual thing for you to do?”

  He shakes his head. “No, he lived about two blocks from me. And I don’t drink that much, so he’d leave his car at the bar, and I guess he’d pick it up in the morning.”

  “So he lived in Upper Saddle River?” I ask.

  Kenny shakes his head and explains that Preston lived in an apartment in East Rutherford. Kenny did as well; he and his wife had only recently purchased the house in Upper Saddle River and hadn’t fully moved in yet. This explains the boxes spread around the house.

  Kenny claims to have spent the fateful night in his East Rutherford apartment, alone. “I dropped Troy off and went home. That’s the last time I saw him.”

  “Why did the police come to your house in Upper Saddle River?” I’ll learn all this in discovery, but it’s helpful to hear my client’s version first.

  “The next morning my car was gone. I parked it on the street, and I figured it was stolen. Which it was. I reported it to the police. I hadn’t even heard about Troy being missing yet. Then yesterday I got a rental car and went up to the new house. I was unpacking boxes when I saw some blood on the floor. Then I found his body in that closet. I was about to call the cops, but before I could, they showed up at my door with guns. I freaked and wouldn’t let them in.”

  “And took a shot at them,” I point out.

  “They pulled out guns first… I wasn’t even sure they were cops. They could have been the guys that killed Troy. Even when I figured out who they were, I was afraid they’d come in shooting. Hey, man… I wasn’t trying to hit them. I just figured if they found the body like that, they’d think I did it. Which they did.” He sees the look on my face and moans. “Man, I know it was stupid. I just freaked, that’s all.”

  Kenny doesn’t know what brought the police to the Upper Saddle River home, but he believed from their attitude that they were there to arrest him. I’ll find that out soon enough, so I use our remaining time to ask him about his relationship with Preston.

  “I met him when we were in high school,” he says. “One of those sports magazines did an all-American high school team, and they brought everybody to New York and put us up in a hotel for the weekend. I think he was from Pennsylvania or Ohio or something…”

  “But you’ve never had an argument with him? There is no motive that the prosecution might come up with for your killing him?”

  He shakes his head vigorously, the most animated I’ve seen him. “No way, man. You gotta believe me. Why would I kill him? It don’t make any sense.”

  The guard comes to take him back to his cell, and I see a quick flash of shock in Kenny’s eyes, as if he thought this meeting could last forever. I tell him that I will get to work finding out whatever I can and that the next time I will see him is at the arraignment.

  For now I’m far from sure I believe in his innocence. But I’m not sure that I don’t.

  * * * * *

  LAURIE’S FLIGHT IS more than an hour late because of heavy thunderstorms in the area. They are my favorite kind of storms, the ones where the skies get pitch-black in late afternoon on a hot summer day, and then the water comes bursting out, bouncing off the street as it lands. Eat your heart out, Los Angeles.

  I stand with a bunch of people in the Newark Airport baggage claim waiting for the passengers. Laurie walks in the middle of a group of about twenty; she couldn’t stand out more clearly if she were wearing a halo. I have an urge to nudge the guy next to me and say, “I don’t know who you’re waiting for, loser, but that one is mine.” It’s an urge I stifle.

  I’m not big on airport arrival hugs, but Laurie gives me a big one, and I accept it graciously. I ask, “How was your flight?”-a witty line I picked up from our LA driver. Laurie shares my general disdain for chitchat, so by the time we’re in the car, she’s questioning me about the recent events.

  “Are you going to take the case?” This is the key question for her, since as my main investigator it will determine how she spends the next few months of her life.

  “I don’t know; I haven’t heard the evidence yet.”

  “I’m not saying he’s guilty,” she says, “but they wouldn’t go after a high-profile guy like that unless they felt they had a strong case. And he didn’t help himself by turning his house into the Alamo.”

  What she’s saying is certainly true. On the other hand, “Willie says he’s innocent.”

  “Willie might be slightly biased,” she points out. She’s referring to both the fact that Schilling is his friend and also the fact that Willie himself is a walking example of a law enforcement mistake. As a wrongly convicted man Willie has less than full confidence in the justice system.

  Laurie has other questions, and almost on cue, Kevin calls me on my cell phone with some of the answers. None of it is good. At the arraignment on Monday morning Schilling is to be charged with first-degree murder. To make matters worse, Dylan Campbell has been assigned to prosecute the case. Dylan is difficult and obnoxious, which would be okay if he weren’t also tough and smart.

  And Dylan will have a more personal incentive to win. Last year Laurie was herself on trial for the murder of a Paterson Police lieutenant, her boss in the days that she was on the force. I defended her and won her acquittal, despite Dylan’s vigorous prosecution. It was a high-profile trial, and I have no doubt he’s been lying in wait to kick my ass on another case.

  Dylan refused to give Kevin a preview of their evidence, despite the fact that they will have to turn it over in discovery early next week. It is a confirmation of how contentious this case will be, which on one level makes me more eager to tackle it. I would take great pleasure in beating Dylan again, but it would be nice to know if I have a shred of evidence to utilize.

  Laurie doesn’t even want to stop off at her place; she wants to come home with me. The way we’ve structured our living arrangements is to have our own homes while staying together Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday nights. It’s flexible, but since today is Friday, I’m glad we’re not exercising that flexibility tonight.

  Camped out in front of my house when we pull up are half a dozen media types, with two camera trucks. The thirst for news on this case is going to be unquenchable, and Schilling’s lawyer will be a permanent source. Since I am that lawyer, at least for now, I’ve got to get used to it and learn to use it to my advantage.

  I pull the car into the garage, and Laurie goes inside while I go outside to speak to the press. I’ve got nothing whatsoever to tell them, especially since I don’t yet know the facts of the case. The last thing I want is to blow my future credibility by saying something that turns out to be wrong.

  “Listen,” I say, “I just came out to tell you that I have no comment. And I thought
you’d want to hear that in time to change the front-page headline.”

  Karen Spivey, a reporter who’s covered the court beat far longer than I, is the only one of the group to laugh. “Thanks, Andy. We can always count on you.”

  “Glad I can help. And you’re welcome to sit out here as long as you like, but I’m going to be in there sleeping.”

  They take that as a signal that they can safely leave without missing any breaking news, and pack up to leave. I go inside, and Laurie and I are in bed within fifteen minutes, including the five minutes she spends petting Tara. Laurie turns on CNN, which would not have been my first choice. SEX would have been my first choice. But Laurie didn’t get to follow the news much the last few days, and she apparently wants to let Larry King bring her up-to-date on what’s happening in the world.

  Ol’ Larry proves to be quite the aphrodisiac, because within ten minutes the TV is off and Laurie and I are making love. We’ve only been together for two years, and maybe there will come a time when I take our physical relationship for granted, but I can’t imagine when.

  I’m just about to doze off when she says, “I really love you, Andy. It’s important to me that you know that.”

  Something about the way she says it worries me, but I can’t figure out why. It’s the same feeling I had when I talked to her on the phone, and I briefly consider whether to reveal my concern. “I love you too” is what winds up coming out. I am Andy, master conversationalist.

  Kevin phones the next morning to suggest that he come to the house to discuss our plans for the case. It’s Saturday, so he says it’s more comfortable than going to the office. He doesn’t mention that this will also provide him with an opportunity to eat Laurie’s French toast and to act surprised when she offers to make it.

  While he is inhaling his breakfast, we do little more than acknowledge the fact that there is nothing we can effectively do until the arraignment. Laurie sits in on our conversation, a tacit acceptance of the job as investigator for our team.

  We turn on the television, since that seems to be our main source of news, and receive another jolt. An anonymous source within the prosecution has leaked the fact that Kenny failed the drug test administered after his arrest. If this is true, and it probably is, it would mean that Kenny lied to me, not a good way to start a lawyer-almost-client relationship.

  I’m torn about whether I want to handle this case at all. On its face it seems a near-certain loser, mainly because there is a very substantial chance Kenny is guilty. My financial and professional situation is such that I have little stomach for securing the release of people who shoot other people and stuff them in closets.

  On the other hand, I don’t know that Kenny is guilty, and this case represents a chance to get back into the action. Ever since the Willie Miller trial, I have been very selective in picking my clients, with the result being a lot of downtime. It’s been three months since I’ve been in a courtroom, and I can feel the juices starting to flow. The fact that I could be taking on Dylan is an added, competitive benefit.

  Once Kevin leaves, Tara and I take a ride over to the building that houses the Tara Foundation, the dog rescue operation that Willie and I run. More accurately, Willie and I finance it, and Willie and his wife, Sondra, run it. It’s a labor of love for them, and I’ve loved helping them rescue and place over six hundred dogs in our first year.

  As we enter, Willie and Sondra are behind the desk while a young couple gets to know one of the dogs, a large yellow Lab mix named Ben. They are sitting on the floor and playing with him, unknowingly making a good impression on Willie, Sondra, and me in the process. As a general rule, people who get on the floor with dogs provide them with good homes.

  I overhear Sondra talking to Willie before they see me. “Samuel Jackson?” she says. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Apparently, Willie is nearing a final casting decision. Sondra sees me and tries to enlist me in her cause. “Andy, tell him that Samuel Jackson is old enough to be his father.”

  “Samuel Jackson is old enough to be your father,” I say as instructed.

  “Then what about Danny Glover?” Willie persists.

  “Damn,” says Sondra. “Danny Glover is old enough to be Samuel Jackson’s father.”

  Willie is getting frustrated, so he turns to me. “You got any ideas?”

  I nod. “Sidney Poitier.”

  “Who’s he?” asks Willie, and Sondra shares his baffled expression.

  “A new guy,” I say. “But he has potential.”

  I go off to pet the dogs that have not yet been adopted, and then Tara and I head home. Starting Monday, I’m going to be totally focused on the Schilling case, and until then I’m going to be totally focused on the NBA play-offs.

  Between now and tomorrow there are six games, culminating in the Knicks-Pacers game tomorrow night. All the games have betting lines and are therefore totally watchable. I have gotten so used to betting on these games that sometimes I wonder if I’m actually a basketball fan anymore. Would I be watching if I couldn’t wager? I’m confident I’d watch the Knicks, but would I care if Detroit beats Orlando? I’m not sure why, but these are somewhat disconcerting issues to contemplate.

  The flip side is even more worrisome. If I could gamble on other events, currently exempt, would I automatically become a fan of those events? If I could wager on ballet, would I be pulling for the team in green tutus? And what about opera? If I could bet that the fat lady would sing before the fat guy, would I become an opera buff?

  I’ve got to get control of myself and erase these self-doubts. The last thing I ever want to do is ask my bookie if he has a wagering line on the Joffrey or an over/under on how many haircuts will be given by the barber of Seville.

  Tara is a help to me at times like this. She gets me to focus on that which is important: the beer, the potato chips, the dog biscuits, and the couch. I’ve taught her to fetch the remote control, and her soft golden retriever mouth never damages it.

  Laurie’s having dinner with some of her girlfriends tonight and then coming over tomorrow to spend the day. She doesn’t seem to be acting strangely anymore, and I would spend time reflecting on how pleased I am by that if I didn’t have to watch these games…

  * * * * *

  LAURIE COMES INTO the room carrying a blanket. That’s not what’s worrying me. What’s worrying me is that she also has two pillows. I have to assume that she intends for my head to be occupying one of them, which is a problem, because it’s Sunday evening and I have other plans for my head. At least for the next two hours.

  “Let’s go,” she says, instantly confirming my fears.

  “Go where?”

  “Outside. It starts in less than half an hour.” I think she can tell from my blank expression that I have no idea what she is talking about, so she explains. “The eclipse, Andy. Remember?”

  I do remember, at least partly. I remember that Laurie had said an eclipse was coming and that it would be really nice if we could lie outside and watch it together. Unfortunately, it never entered my mind that God would have scheduled an eclipse at the same time the Knicks were in their first play-off game in four years.

  My mind races for a solution; there must be something it can instruct my mouth to say to get me off this literally astronomical hook. “Now? The eclipse is now?” Suffice it to say, I was hoping to come up with something stronger.

  “Eight-thirty-one,” she says, since eclipses are really precise things.

  “Just about the beginning of the second quarter,” I say. “Talk about your coincidences.”

  “Andy, if you’d rather watch the basketball game…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but based on her tone, an appropriate finish would be, “then you can kiss my ass.”

  “No, it’s not that,” I lie. “It’s just that it’s a play-off game, and it’s the Knicks. How often does that happen?”

  “The next eclipse won’t happen for over four hundred years,” she counters.

 
I shake my head. “That’s what they say, but don’t believe it. They always announce that the next one won’t come until 2612, so everybody goes out to see it, but then there’s another one two weeks later. The whole thing is a scam.”

  “Who’s doing the scamming?” she asks, a slight gleam in her eye, which could mean that she’s either secretly finding this amusing or planning to kill me.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “It could be the telescope industry, or maybe blanket and pillow manufacturers. But take it from me, these people are not to be trusted.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” she says. “Why don’t you tape it?”

  “Great!” I say enthusiastically. “I didn’t even know you could tape an eclipse.”

  Her expression turns serious; banter time is over. “Andy, we need to talk.”

  Maybe there’s a more ominous phrase in the English language than “We need to talk.” Perhaps “Michael Corleone says hello.” Or maybe “I’m afraid the test results are back.” But right now what Laurie just said is enough to send spasms of panic through my gut.

  I could be overreacting. Maybe it’s not so bad. “We need to talk.” That’s what people do, they talk, right? But the thing is, a talk is like a drink. It’s fine unless you need to have it. Then it’s a major problem. And I’ve got a feeling Laurie is going to play the U.S. Air Force to my Republican Guard and drop a cluster bomb in the middle of my life.

  I take a pillow from Laurie and follow her outside. Tara trails along; she clearly considers this “talk” potentially more entertaining than the Knicks game. We don’t say anything as we align the blanket and pillows to view the stupid eclipse. I’m so intent on what is about to be said that if the sun and moon collided, I wouldn’t notice.

  “The sky’s clear; we should be able to see it really well,” she says.