“The laptop,” I say.
A bitter smile forms on Devlin’s lips. “A couple of times when I went to Jennifer’s house, I brought my own laptop with me. I’d shower before I went home. I think she took that time to copy my files. I was supposed to put a password on the computer, but I never got around to it.” Devlin shakes his head. “And then, like you said, one day I woke up, went outside my house to get my paper, and there it was in black and white—the story about the grand jury and the crooked cops. I knew I was fucked. I made a big show of subpoenaing Jennifer to appear before the grand jury to disclose her sources. But privately I was pleading with her to fight the subpoena. That’s why I went to her house the day she was killed. I told her not to testify. And I begged her not to implicate me.”
“And she admitted what she’d done? Copied the files from your laptop?”
“She didn’t even apologize for it.”
“And that’s when you threw her down the stairs,” I say.
“No. That’s not what happened. I cooled down, and we talked. I convinced her that she needed to hire her own lawyer. Someone other than the TV station’s hacks.” Here, he pauses, looks at me, and says, “I gave her the same name I’d given her before. Your name,” he says bitterly, and the irony slaps me in the face. “The next time I saw her was after the murder, at the crime scene, that night.”
I sit back in my chair. I understand the timing now. Jennifer called me at my office, having earlier been given my name by Devlin. Devlin then went to her house and pressured her again, and she called me a second time, telling me she needed to see me right away. So I went to her house. Later, when Devlin got the call that Jennifer had been killed, he knew the CSU guys would be at her house.
“So,” I continue, “you got a call from one of your contacts in the police department that David had been busted at Jennifer’s house, and you hightailed it over to Addison Street. You barged in and made sure to pollute the crime scene, including the basement, with your hair and skin and fingerprints—because you knew the CSU team was going to find all that stuff anyway. You’d been in the house during your affair. Hell, earlier that day.”
Devlin says nothing.
“I wonder whether it was in the back of your mind to kill her even before she opened the door for you.”
“Goddamn it! Why aren’t you listening to me?” Devlin’s voice is thick with exasperation. “I did not kill her! I thought we could find a way to make it all work out.”
“With my help?”
“You’re the best in the city, Mick. The slickest. And, quite frankly, the most ruthless. If there was anyone who could get her out of having to testify, I knew it would be you.”
I think back to Jennifer Yamura telling me there was someone we could blackmail—meaning Devlin. But that doesn’t make sense. Devlin didn’t want Jennifer to testify any more than she did, so blackmailing him wouldn’t have accomplished anything more than Devlin would have readily done on his own if he could’ve managed it. As for Devlin’s hope that I could figure out some way to rescue Yamura from the grand jury, it was a pipe dream. No lawyer was going to beat Devlin’s subpoena. Devlin and Jennifer were both so desperate, it clouded their judgment.
Devlin laughs bitterly, shakes his head. “Christ, what a fuckup. What a massive fuckup. One mistake. One fucking mistake, and everything down the drain.”
The words are a punch to the gut. It takes all my effort not to double over from the same sense of desperation that’s driving Devlin.
“I never should have let her lure me in, never given her the chance to trick me.”
I laugh. “Is that how you see it? She was the clever fox, and you were her witless prey?”
Devlin steels himself, looks at me. “I think she knew about the grand jury before I told her.”
“How could that be?”
“Your brother. He’s friends with Lawrence Washington. Lawrence probably told Tommy about his testimony. Or maybe,” and here Devlin leans toward me, “Tommy was a part of it all. Lawrence brought him into the scheme, and Tommy gave Jennifer the initial heads-up, when he was taking his turn with her.”
“You have a rich imagination.”
“How is Tommy doing these days? I haven’t seen him in court. Doesn’t he usually sit in?” I glower at Devlin, who glares back. “Whatever happens to me, to David Hanson, Tommy’s going down, and I think you know it.”
“The only person going down is you. And it’s going to happen today. I’m going to stop you from sending an innocent man to prison to cover for your own crime, and I’m going to destroy you in the process.”
Devlin’s shoulders slump, every ounce of bravado draining from his body. There’s no way out for him, and he knows it. I sit back in my chair for a long moment and enjoy it. Then I say the word that saves his life.
“Or . . .”
For the next twenty minutes, Devlin sits perfectly still, staring out the window behind me as I lay it out for him. When I’m done, he fixes on me, his face incredulous. “You expect me to let a murderer walk out of that courtroom, scot-free?”
“But it was always your plan to walk out of that courtroom. Now David—the man you set up to take the fall for you—is going to walk out, too.”
“Listen to me: I did not—”
“Stop it! Just stop it. No more trying to bullshit me into thinking you’re innocent. I’m giving you one chance to avoid the catastrophe you’ve brought on yourself. Take it or leave it. Either way, David Hanson’s going to walk.”
Devlin exhales, nods. He lifts himself out of his seat, as deflated as I’ve ever seen him, as spent as I feel myself. When he gets to the door, I call after him.
“We’re not done,” I say.
He turns, opens his arms: What else?
“One more thing,” I say. “Tommy. He gets a pass. You leave him alone. And you make sure everyone else does, too. Including Tredesco.”
Devlin glares at me. “You’re a prick, McFarland. You know that?” And he’s gone.
Vaughn gets in an hour later. I hear him greet Susan fifteen minutes after that. I give Susan a chance to situate herself in her office, then I go in and close the door. “I’m going to need your help this morning.”
“Sure, anything.”
“I need you to question our first witness.”
“This morning? Is he already prepped? Do you have a list of questions for me?”
“The witness is fully prepped.” Then I tell Susan who the witness will be and why I need her to be the questioning attorney. When I’m done, she stares at me, her jaw hanging. “Jesus Christ.”
Half an hour later, just before 9:30, Susan and I enter the courtroom. Susan heads for counsel table while I have the guard let me through the side door leading to David’s holding cell. I walk down the narrow hallway, the guard in front of me. He goes to open the door, and I say, “Don’t bother. Just give us some room.” The guard walks away, and I look through the bars at David, who stands up, wondering how this is going to play out. He knows with my first words.
“Piper told me everything,” I say. “You piece of shit.”
“Mick, I’m sorry. We never—”
“There will be an accounting, David. As soon as this is over, there will be an accounting.” With that, I turn and leave.
Minutes later, the jury is in the box, the judge on the bench, the spectators in their seats, everyone waiting for the show to begin. Judge Henry nods toward me and asks if the defense is ready to present our case.
When Susan rises instead of me, expressions of surprise echo from behind us, everyone wondering what she’s doing there. Her voice strong and clear, Susan declares, “The defense calls Piper McFarland.”
And the courtroom is instantly abuzz. I look across to the prosecution table, where Devlin is already on his feet.
“Objection,” Devlin says. “This witness wasn’t named on the defendant’s witness list.”
He’s sticking to the script. Good. He has to fight it on the
record, at least at first.
“Sidebar,” says the judge, and Susan and I, Devlin and Christina, make our way toward the bench. “What’s going on here, Mr. McFarland?” the judge asks me. “Is this witness related to you? What are you offering her for?”
“The witness is my co-counsel’s wife, Your Honor,” Susan interjects.
Judge Henry looks at me. “Your wife?”
“Yes,” Susan answers. “The defense is presenting her as our alibi witness. She was with the defendant at the time of the murder.”
The court reporter raises her eyebrows.
“I object,” Devlin repeats. “The time has long past for the defense to identify alibi witnesses.”
“Your Honor,” Susan chimes in, “Mr. McFarland only learned last night that the witness was an alibi witness, and—”
Devlin interrupts and speaks over Susan. “The rules require the defendant to disclose any alibi witnesses at the time they file their omnibus motion.”
“Your Honor,” Susan cuts in, “the defendant was prepared to go to prison for a crime he did not commit to protect the reputation of his alibi witness. But she decided she could not let that happen. Exceptional circumstances are present here.”
“I demand an offer of proof,” Devlin says, following my script. “I want to hear what this witness is going to say before she’s allowed to go anywhere near the jury.”
Bill Henry leans back in his chair. He gets it now. And despite his decades as a trial attorney and judge, seeing and hearing it all, he can’t quite keep the Holy shit from his face. “Very well, Mr. Walker, you’ll get your offer of proof. I want counsel, the defendant, and the witness in my chambers in ten minutes. You, too,” he says to the court reporter, whose vigorous nodding makes clear that wild horses couldn’t keep her away.
Ten minutes later, we are all assembled in chambers. The judge is behind his desk, the court reporter sits next to the desk, to the judge’s right. Four chairs sit in front of the desk, and seated in them, left to right, are Piper, Susan, Devlin, and Christina. Behind the four chairs is a long sofa. I am on the far left side of the sofa; David is on the right. David’s face, like mine, is set in stone.
Susan begins. “Your Honor, the witness is prepared to testify that on the day of the murder—”
“No,” says the judge. “You’re not going to summarize her testimony. She’s going to testify here, under oath, before me. I’m going to hear what she has to say and how she says it before I decide whether to let her take the stand.”
This is what I expected—and hoped for. I told Susan not to protest this if the judge required it. If he did not, Devlin was to demand it and Susan was to agree.
The court reporter administers the oath to Piper, who says “I do” in a barely audible voice. The judge tells her to keep her voice up, and Piper says, “Yes, Your Honor. I’m sorry.” Susan questions Piper briefly about her background, establishing that she is, indeed, my wife. Then Susan gets down to business.
“Please tell the court where you were on Thursday, May thirty-first, of this year, from 11:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m.”
Piper glances from Susan to the judge. “I was in room 703 of the Rittenhouse Hotel.”
“Were you alone?”
“No.”
“Who was with you?”
I watch Piper lower her head and hear her say . . . nothing.
Jesus Christ—she’s changed her mind.
I stop breathing. But then Piper lifts her head, looks at the judge, and says, “David Hanson was with me.”
“The whole time?” asks Susan.
“He arrived right at noon. But after that, yes, he was with me the whole time.”
“When he arrived, did he have any blood on him? Did he appear disheveled in any way?”
“Blood? No. He was dressed in his suit. He looked normal. Buttoned and tucked.”
“When did you first tell defense counsel about all this?”
“I told my husband last night.”
“Why didn’t you come forward sooner?”
Piper looks away from Susan, fixes her gaze on some invisible spot on the wall behind the judge. Of course, everyone in the room knows why she didn’t fess up earlier. Tell her husband that she was sleeping with his old friend.
“I just couldn’t face . . .” Piper’s voice trails off.
“Then why are you coming forward now?”
Piper looks squarely at the judge. “Because David Hanson didn’t kill that woman. I can’t let an innocent man go to jail. No matter what, I just couldn’t.”
Susan waits for the words to sink in, then says, “Thank you. Your Honor, nothing further.”
Devlin jumps right in with his cross. “Mrs. McFarland, what were you and Mr. Hanson doing all this time, in room 703 of the Rittenhouse Hotel?”
Piper stiffens. “We were . . . we were having relations.”
“You mean you were having sex.”
Susan is about to answer when Bill Henry interjects, “The court already understands what the witness meant. The follow-up remark is stricken.”
Devlin pauses, then asks a question I prepped him for. “Do you have any proof you were at the Rittenhouse Hotel that day?”
“Yes,” Piper says, and then she pulls out the hotel receipt showing the charge for the room. “David gave me money to pay the bill in cash so there wouldn’t be a credit-card record. But the hotel still gave me a receipt when I checked out.”
Devlin studies the bill and asks Piper to state what it is for the record. Then he turns to the judge and says, “Your Honor, I don’t want to be indelicate here, but I think I’m entitled to some more background. I need it to weigh what the witness is now telling us. And, quite frankly, I think the court is entitled to that as well.”
“I agree,” says the judge. Then he looks at Piper and says, in a kindly voice, “In requesting the court to let you testify at this late date, defense counsel is asking quite a lot. Normally, an alibi witness is identified well in advance of trial, giving the prosecution the chance to investigate the veracity of the alibi. Here, unless I were willing to suspend trial for some period to allow the prosecution to check out what you’re saying—which is not something I want to do—the prosecution will not have had that chance. So I’m going to allow Mr. Walker an opportunity to question you, at length, about the circumstances surrounding your alleged meeting with the defendant on the day of the murder. Do you understand?”
Piper nods. “Yes.”
“Does defense counsel have any objection to this?” Judge Henry asks Susan, who says she does not. “Very well, Mr. Walker. The witness is yours.”
Devlin spends the next twenty minutes excavating the details of Piper’s affair with David Hanson. When it began and how. How often they met and where. How they arranged their meetings so their spouses wouldn’t find out about them. It’s an agonizing interchange. It feels as though Devlin is taking a long sword and slowly pushing it through my heart, inch by inch. From time to time, he glances back at me. I can tell he’s enjoying my torment. And then comes the final plunge of the blade.
“One more question, Mrs. McFarland. And here I cannot help but be indelicate. To corroborate that you were in fact engaging in relations, can you describe any sort of mark or scar on Mr. Hanson’s body that wouldn’t be visible unless he were disrobed?”
Piper swallows hard. Her shoulders slouch. She averts her eyes from Devlin, then closes them. “He has a mole. On his upper thigh, the left one.”
Fury fills me as pictures of my wife and David Hanson flash across the movie screen inside my mind. It takes every ounce of my strength not to attack David right there in chambers, batter his face into pulp. Instead, I close my own eyes, take deep breaths. After what seems like an hour, but which can’t have been more than a few seconds, the judge asks Susan if the client will acknowledge that this is the case. But Devlin has a better idea.
“Your Honor,” my adversary interjects, “the Commonwealth needs more.”
; It takes a moment for Bill Henry to figure out what Devlin is asking, but when he does, he sighs and nods. He asks Devlin if he’s done with the witness, and if there’s any need for Piper to remain while the defendant disrobes.
Devlin glances at me, and I glare at him. “The prosecution has no more questions for the witness at this time. We have no objection to her leaving chambers during the examination.”
I stand as Piper leaves the chair. “With the court’s permission,” I say, “I’d like to be allowed to leave for this part as well.” Judge Henry grants me leave, and I accompany Piper out of chambers. I escort her past the secretarial well and out the door into the hallway. We walk quietly to the long bench by the windows at the end of the hall and sit. Piper leans into me. I wrap my arms around her and promise her, again, that this is all going to turn out okay.
After a few minutes, one of the judge’s law clerks walks into the hallway and summons me back to chambers. Judge Henry looks at me, concern and pity in his eyes. “The inspection corroborated the witness’s testimony,” he says. Then he turns to Devlin. “Does the Commonwealth still object to the defense’s presenting the witness?”
Devlin looks at the judge, then leans forward in his seat, places his elbows on the armrests, steeples his pointer fingers, and puts them to his lips. He closes his eyes for a long minute. Then he opens them again, leans back in his seat. “The Commonwealth is satisfied that the witness is telling the truth.” Then, as though he were thinking out loud, Devlin continues. “If the earliest the murder occurred was noon, as the pathologist testified, and if the defendant left his office at eleven fifty, it would be impossible for him to have traveled to Addison Street, even by cab, pushed the victim down the stairs, dragged her back to the stairs, cleaned off all the blood that would’ve gotten onto him, and made it to the hotel by noon.” Devlin pauses, sighs, and says the words that stun everyone present—except me. “We’re ready to drop the charges.”
A Criminal Defense Page 33
