A theory is forming in my mind, but I don’t have the time right now to analyze it in depth. Hawpe has responded to my announced plan to call Jeffrey Blalock to the stand by asking Judge Gordon to refuse to allow his testimony. The judge has decided to convene a hearing, outside the presence of the jury and media, to consider the matter.
“Exactly what is Mr. Blalock going to testify to?” the judge asks.
“He is going to describe documents that he has reviewed that demonstrate conclusively that Stacy Harriman’s background has been faked in an effort to conceal her true identity.”
Hawpe stands. “Your Honor, unless he is prepared to present a credible explanation for how the deception was accomplished, it is pure speculation and should not be admissible.”
“That makes no sense, Your Honor,” I say. “He is going to be stating facts that exist independent of anyone’s knowledge or understanding of how they came about. It is similar to a witness testifying to a cell phone call without understanding the technology behind it. But I might add that Mr. Blalock will also be advancing his view that the fake background was created in the context of the witness protection program.”
Hawpe shakes his head. “The court has already convened a hearing on that matter, and it was determined that Ms. Harriman was not in that program. The U.S. Marshals Service very clearly represented that to the court.”
“We think they lied or were misinformed,” I say.
Judge Gordon does not seem pleased to hear this. “If you’re going to stand up in open court and in effect accuse the government of lying, you’d better have more than what you just ‘think.’”
“We have an expert presenting his point of view,” I say, but I can feel this slipping away.
Judge Gordon shakes his head. “Not good enough. I’ll allow the testimony regarding the background, but in the absence of new factual information, there will be no reference to the witness protection program. Anything else, gentlemen?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say. “We are in the process of determining Ms. Harriman’s real identity right now. My intention would be to have Mr. Blalock review this new information tonight and then present it to the court tomorrow.”
Hawpe starts to object, but the judge cuts him off so that he can question me about how we learned her real identity. I describe the process of getting the fingerprints from the cabin and running them through the national registry. I leave out the actual identities for now; they are not important to the issue we’re arguing, and I don’t want to give Hawpe a heads-up.
Unfortunately, Hawpe doesn’t seem to need one. He argues that none of the fingerprint information should be admissible. There is no chain of custody, no way to be sure that Stacy left the prints there at all. Anyone could have gotten into the cabin in that time, and therefore it is impossible to say how they were left there, or who left them.
I argue the point, but I have no bullets to fire. Hawpe is right; no one can say with certainty that the woman we know as Stacy Harriman left those prints.
Judge Gordon rules the identity inadmissible unless and until further information is brought forth that could demonstrate its reliability. It has not been a good hearing for us; all we got out of it is the right to argue that Stacy’s background was faked. Any second-year law student could have won that point.
The amount of information we’re gathering is starting to take off, and I can feel us getting closer to the truth. It would have been nice to convey that truth to the people deciding Richard’s fate, but his lawyer couldn’t quite pull that off.
At least my client will have a great story to tell his cell mates.
* * * * *
KEVIN HAS SPOKEN to Captain Reid about Diana Carmichael, the woman who became Stacy Harriman.
The army lists her as deceased, but they are not referring to her death in the water off New Jersey. Her death is recorded as having taken place just three weeks after the helicopter crash in Afghanistan that supposedly killed Durelle, Banks, and the others. I suspect that they created this fake death as a way to ease her into the witness protection system.
Unfortunately, that’s all the records show. The rest of her file is listed as classified, and not even Captain Reid or his boss has access to it. Reid considers this very unusual but is powerless to do anything about it.
Kevin and I struggle to come up with a theory, but what we wind up with is vague and only loosely based on facts. Our thought is that Stacy, which is how I can’t help referring to her even though her real name was Diana, was likely stationed in Afghanistan. She was probably a witness to wrongdoing, and witnesses very often need protection.
The wrongdoing could have been misconduct by American soldiers, perhaps mistreating the enemy, or it could have been financial. There have been a number of stories written over the past couple of years about the chaos that existed just after the Taliban was defeated, and the corruption that was part of the reconstruction efforts. Billions of dollars were alleged to have been lost.
Billions. People have killed for a lot less.
It’s possible that the government itself didn’t believe that lives were really lost in that helicopter crash, or perhaps it knew of other bad guys that got away and would pose a threat to Stacy. In any event, those in charge obviously felt it necessary to tuck her away where she wouldn’t be harmed.
Pete comes over and joins the discussion, mainly to report once again that no progress has been made toward finding Reggie, and that he seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. I’m going crazy about it and getting more and more pessimistic that we’ll never get a ransom demand. If we were going to get one, it would have come already.
We bring Pete up to date on what we know and what we suspect about Stacy’s real identity and why she was a protected witness. He has a slightly different take on this. “If it’s money that was stolen, maybe they put her in the program not so much so that she could someday testify, but rather to insure that she never would.”
I don’t understand, and I tell him so. He continues, “That money is gone; they’re never going to see it again. If they catch the crooks and have a trial, then they have to publicly confront the embarrassment that they screwed up and lost billions of dollars. If they don’t, then nobody finds out the truth about it.”
“Right. But if there was some other kind of misconduct, like if she witnessed torture or something, the army might also want to keep that quiet.”
Either scenario makes sense in light of the way the government has acted, trying to keep the case from being reopened and, failing that, attempting to thwart us at every turn.
We kick this around a while longer until it’s time for Kevin and me to start our trial preparation for tomorrow. It’s extraordinarily frustrating to realize that nothing that we have learned today or talked about tonight is going to make it to the jury.
Before Pete leaves, he gives me three sheets of paper. It is the result of the investigation I suggested into Franklin’s work at customs, a comparison of the cargo entering before and after his death. I want to look at it because I still have no idea where Franklin fits into all this, but I just don’t have the time right now.
Kevin and I are at it until almost one in the morning, including a half-hour walk that he takes with Tara and me. I’ve been trying to get Kevin to get a dog, since he loves them, and he’s weakening. He explains that right now he’s trying to figure out what he would do with the dog if he had to spend an extended time in the hospital.
“Why? Are you sick?” I ask.
He smiles weakly. “You have no idea; I just don’t like to talk about it.”
Oh.
Our first witness in the morning session is Michelle Miller, a travel agent with an office in Englewood. She met with Richard the day before Stacy died, and she testifies that the meeting was to finalize their honeymoon plans.
“They were going on a cruise through the Panama Canal,” she says.
“Did he give you a deposit?”
&nbs
p; She nods. “He did. One thousand dollars.”
“Was it refundable in the event that they had to cancel their trip?” I ask.
“It was not.”
I turn her over to Hawpe. “Had you spent a great deal of time with Mr. Evans and Ms. Harriman when they were together?”
She shakes her head. “No, I actually never met Ms. Harriman.”
“I see. So you did not know what you would describe as intimate details of their marriage?”
“I did not.”
“If the deposit had been refundable and then Mr. Evans committed suicide, would he have been around to receive the refund?”
I object and Judge Gordon sustains, but Hawpe’s point had been made. A murder-suicide is an irrational act, and simply making a honeymoon reservation is no proof at all that Richard could not have done it.
We then call a series of witnesses who spent time with Richard and Stacy and who talk about how much they seemed to love each other.
Hawpe is basically dismissive of these witnesses, getting each one to admit that they have no idea what goes on behind the closed doors of anyone’s relationship other than their own.
It’s been a day of making small gains and pretending they are big, but we’re going to have to do much better. And our chance will come tomorrow, when we call Dr. King and Jeffrey Blalock.
I head home for a long night with Kevin preparing for our witnesses. Dr. King presents an interesting problem, and a role reversal of sorts. In most cases where there has been a preliminary hearing, the witnesses that testify are almost exclusively those of the prosecution, since the purpose is to establish probable cause. The defense thus has the advantage of having heard the testimony before it is given again at trial.
In this case, because the burden was on us at the hearing to bring this to a retrial, it is our witnesses, like Dr. King, who have already been on record. It’s an advantage for Hawpe, but one we have to live with.
It’s almost midnight when we’re finishing our preparations. Kevin’s getting ready to leave, and I’m reading the report Pete left with me, when I immediately see it. “Look at this,” I say.
Kevin comes over, and I hand him the papers. “It’s the list of companies bringing large amounts of goods into Franklin’s area of customs, before and after his death.”
Kevin looks at it, but nothing registers. “And?”
At the bottom of the second page is a list of companies that have had dramatically less come through customs since Franklin’s death. “If I remember correctly, a few of those names were on the list that Sam tracked down. The companies that Hamadi was dealing with.”
I check back through the files and confirm my suspicions; four of the companies are on both lists. The man whom a worried Donna Banks called after my visit seems to have been involved with Franklin in customs activity. I don’t believe in coincidences, but even if I did, this wouldn’t be one of them.
By the time Kevin and I finish thrashing this out, it’s one thirty in the morning and we’ve got a plan. At least, I’ve got a plan; Kevin cautions me against it.
The first part of the plan involves calling Vince Sanders. I want to do it now rather than the morning, because I will be heading for court early, and I want him to get on it first thing. Also, psychologically I want to get the ball rolling.
Vince groggily answers the phone with “This better be good, asshole.” Apparently he’s not so sleepy that he can’t see his caller ID.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Vince, but I need a big favor.”
He doesn’t say a word, which could mean he doesn’t want to, or else that he fell back asleep. I decide to push on. “Vince, I need to speak to Dominic Petrone.”
“Is that all?” he asks, and then speaks to an imaginary person in bed with him. “Dominic, honey, Andy Carpenter wants to talk to you. And when you’re finished, could you run over to the asshole’s house and put a bullet in his head?”
“Vince, it’s urgent, and I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that he’ll be glad you set up the meeting.”
“You want to tell me what it’s about?”
“I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“Repeat after me. If a story of any kind comes out of this, Vince is the person I will give it to, along with an exclusive interview.”
I repeat the vow, and Vince agrees to call Petrone in the morning.
Tomorrow is showing signs of being an important day.
* * * * *
DR. GERALD KING has brought his A game to court today.
In direct examination, he is even more effective than he was at the hearing. He’s a consummate witness; all a defense attorney has to do is wind him up and let him go.
I let him go over his assessment of what happened that night on the boat, and his absolute certainty that Richard did not take any pills. It’s basically the same story he told at the hearing, with more charts and even more assertiveness.
Hawpe certainly has been preparing for him for weeks, but if he makes a dent, it’s not worth calling the insurance company to repair. The best Hawpe can get from him is an admission that the prosecution’s version of events is “not impossible,” but even that draws a sharp comeback from Dr. King.
“Not impossible?” he asks. “Is that the standard the prosecution has to meet to send a man to prison?”
It’s an unprofessional comment, and Hawpe’s objection gets it stricken from the record, but the point is made, and the jury certainly heard it. By the time Dr. King gets off the stand, I think that Hawpe is ready to throw him a good-bye party.
Mercifully, a juror comes down with a stomach virus, and the afternoon session is canceled. I don’t wish anyone ill, and if I could outlaw viruses forever I would, but if someone in America had to come down with one, I’m glad it’s a juror on this case. I need the time to focus on our efforts to learn the truth about Stacy and why she was killed.
I call Vince, who tells me that he just got off the phone with Petrone’s people. Whatever they talked about, it hasn’t improved his mood any. “They want you at Spumoni’s Restaurant on Market Street at five thirty.”
“Five thirty? That’s a little early for dinner.”
“That’s because you’re not invited for dinner,” he says.
I want to make sure I have all this straight. “Who should I ask for?”
“Who are you going to see?”
“Dominic Petrone.”
“Then why don’t you start by asking for him and see how that goes? Oh, and they said you should come alone and unarmed.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That not only will you not bring a gun, you probably won’t bring any balls.”
“Thanks, Vince.”
Before he gets off the phone he makes me repeat the “I’ll give the story to Vince” pledge, which I willingly do. Vince is a major pain in the ass, but the next time he doesn’t come through for me will be the first.
I call Marcus and give him the evening off. Ever the responsible bodyguard, he presses me about why, and I’m forced to tell him. He reluctantly agrees, and I only hope he’s telling me the truth.
I show up at the restaurant at the appointed time. It has been on this downtown street for more than fifty years and is said to have extraordinary Italian food.
I just hope Clemenza left me a gun in the bathroom.
I’ve worn fairly tight jeans and a thin pullover shirt. I’m not trying to make a fashion statement; I’m just not a big fan of getting frisked by burly men, and I’m hoping this will render that unnecessary.
It doesn’t work. I’m not in the door for twenty seconds before I’ve been frisked and ushered into a back room, where Dominic Petrone sits having a drink with two other men. He moves his hand almost imperceptibly, and they get up and leave the table. Three of Petrone’s people take positions around the room, with their backs to the walls.
“Sit down, Andy,” says Petrone.
“Thanks, Dominic,” I say as I do so.
“Try the veal. It’s the best in the city.” He doesn’t seem to get the Godfather reference, which is just as well. But Sam Willis would have gotten it.
“Vince says you’re here to help me.”
“I was hoping we could help each other. I have some information you can use, and hopefully you can get information that I need.”
“Let’s start with me,” he says.
I’m not going to get rolled here. “Do we have a deal?”
“Let’s start with me,” he says again, with a little less patience.
“Dominic, the way I envisioned this is-”
“You don’t trust me?” he asks.
I just got rolled. “Of course I do.” Strangely enough, I do trust him, though I know that were it in his best interests, he would kill me without spoiling his appetite.
I pause a moment to try to control the tremor in my voice. What I’m about to say can have serious repercussions, most notably to me.
“In the course of my investigation of the Evans case, I’ve learned that you have been sending large amounts of money, in small-and medium-sized bills, out of the country.”
Petrone doesn’t flinch, nor does he blink. He simply waits, probably deciding in his own mind how I am to be killed.
I continue. “I have not told anyone about it, but I have also learned something else. There is about to be an intense investigation into unusual activity down there, and if you have any cargo there or ready to be shipped in the next few days, it might pay to pull it back immediately.”
“And you are the reason this investigation is taking place?” he asks, his voice completely calm.
I shake my head. “I have told no one about this other than you,” I say, and for the moment that is true.
“And the information you need?”
“Four companies-I’ve brought the list with me-have been bringing goods into this country through the Port of Newark. They came in through Keith Franklin’s section. I need to know what was in those shipments.”
Play Dead ac-6 Page 23
