Shelby thought for a moment. Dom was pretty sharp. And he had been right when he said the publicity would help the case; better still, he hadn’t gloated about it when he showed her the Arrujo memo. “Excellent point, Detective.” She clinked her glass against his. “We may have to send you to law school. And guess what? It’s up to the client to prove the existence of the attorney-client relationship. So we can at least force Prefontaine to prove he was Arrujo’s client. But it’s pretty easy to prove. So we’re probably going to need other evidence, it seems to me.”
“Yeah, I agree. Without the lawyer’s testimony, all we really have is the car match. And that’s not enough to convict. But it’s definitely enough to get a search warrant to search his car and his clothes. Maybe get some more evidence.”
“Sounds like a good idea. I’ll clear it with Jennifer.”
* * *
Pierre and Carla took a seat at a corner table in a small Italian restaurant in the North End. They were celebrating.
As far as Carla knew, they were celebrating Pierre and Howie’s purchase of the Fenway Place project. Pierre had spent the last few days at the complex, and he was more bullish on the project than ever. Felloff was being as cooperative as he had promised he would be, and already they had begun removing many of the warts on the project. Pierre was sure the deal would be a huge winner.
But, privately, Pierre was also celebrating Charese’s death. As close as he and Carla were, he couldn’t openly rejoice over the death of another human being. Yesterday he had showed Carla the Herald article, trying to be as matter of fact about the situation as he could, reminding her that Charese’s death would allow them to quickly flip the condo for a $35,000 profit. Less than the $60,000 profit he had originally hoped, but at least they would finally be able to get their heads above water.
Carla, too, seemed relieved that their financial pressures would soon be eased. But when the police detective came to their home to question Pierre about the murder, Carla had, for a brief second, looked at Pierre a bit funny. And Pierre couldn’t really blame Carla for wondering—he clearly had a motive to kill Charese. But he was confident there was nothing else to tie him to Charese’s death.
“You know, Pierre, I can’t get over this Charese murder. You know how I always say that you step in shit and come out smelling like a rose? Well, this was a huge mound of manure, but now Charese is dead and you end up smelling like a bordello.” Carla stopped there—Pierre understood perfectly what had gone unsaid, and what still needed to be spoken.
Pierre took Carla’s hand in both of his and looked her straight in the eye. “Honey, I understand why you might be worried, especially with the police coming to question us and all. But I can’t believe they really think I’m a suspect. I mean, she was a hooker working the streets of a big city. Anybody could have killed her.”
The waiter came and interrupted their conversation. Carla ordered her meal, then excused herself to visit the ladies’ room.
* * *
Carla eyed herself in the mirror. She had been listening carefully to Pierre’s words. Now she replayed them in her mind—he never actually said he didn’t kill Charese. But would an innocent man even bother to proclaim his innocence to his wife? Didn’t it go without saying? And did she even want to press the issue? She had agreed to marry Pierre for better or for worse, and she still loved him deeply. Not to mention how close he and Valerie were. Should she ask him straight out if he had killed Charese? If he were innocent, the question would, understandably, offend him. And if he were guilty, he would either have to lie to her or admit to the crime. If he admitted to it, could she stay married to a murderer? She took a deep breath, lightly dabbed some cold water on her face. He was a good man—a decent, loyal, kind, generous man. And totally incapable of murder.
She left the ladies’ room and caught the eye of the waiter on the way back to the table. He scurried over. “Could we have a bottle of champagne, please? We’re celebrating tonight.”
CHAPTER 45
[June 22, 1990]
Bruce was eating Friday night dinner at his desk, even though he had no work to do and many of his co-workers had already left for the weekend. It was only a matter of time now. And when his pigeon came home to roost, he didn’t want to be out at McDonald’s stuffing his face.
The phone rang. “Bruce, thank God you’re still there. This is Pierre Prefontaine. I’ve got a major problem.”
You don’t know the half of it, Pierre. “Calm down. What’s wrong?”
“The cops are here, at my house. They’ve got a search warrant, and they’re tearing up the place. They think I killed Charese last weekend.”
Bruce sighed deeply, partly for effect and partly because he was nervous. This was his best—and probably only—chance. “Listen, Pierre, I’ll do whatever I can to help you. But I have no experience in criminal law, and this firm only does white collar stuff. But I know a guy who does a lot of criminal defense work who I think can help you. Do you want me to call him for you?”
“Yeah, please, Bruce.”
“All right, I’m going to put you on hold while I try to catch him before he leaves for the weekend.” Bruce put Pierre on hold, then looked down at the phone number scrawled onto the piece of paper in front of him. He dialed Mike Callahan’s number. Callahan had successfully defended Bruce from the assault charges stemming from the beating Bruce inflicted on the tenant activists six years earlier. At the time, Callahan was just a young lawyer from West Roxbury trying to make a name for himself. And he had taken a liking to Bruce—boys from West Roxbury saw nothing wrong with throwing a few punches to knock some sense into a bunch of Cambridge pinkos. Since then, Bruce kept in touch with him—he was never sure when he might need a good criminal defense lawyer again.
It didn’t hurt Callahan’s career that he had four older brothers and close to a dozen cousins and uncles in the law enforcement community. Just as he had gained experience in the court system, other Callahans had moved into increasing positions of prominence in various law enforcement arenas. Today, at the relatively young age of 34, he was known as one of the most effective members of the criminal bar. It wasn’t so much that he possessed outstanding trial skills. It was more that he was so well-connected and well-liked that it was rare that he couldn’t cajole a benign plea bargain out of the DA’s office. As a member of a police family, he bought into the assumption that his client was guilty; otherwise, why would the police have arrested him? From that common ground, it was simply a matter of persuading the overworked ADA to avoid the risk and expense of trial in exchange for a reduced sentence for his client. And if a case did go to trial, he didn’t attempt to embarrass the police on the witness stand, didn’t reveal prosecution misconduct or incompetence to the press, didn’t create political brushfires by turning criminal trials into forums on racism or socio-economic injustices. He re-paid favors, with interest, didn’t hold grudges, and was quick to buy a round of drinks or hand out a pair of Bruins tickets. He was the consummate deal-maker, in a city where nobody considered that moniker to be anything less than a badge of honor.
Bruce arranged for the defense attorney to come to his office, then picked up Pierre’s line. “We got lucky, Pierre. I just caught him before he left the office. Can you come down here right now?”
“I think I should wait here until the cops leave. But I’ll come right down after.”
“Good. Why don’t we say nine o’clock? And don’t worry if you’re going to be later than that. We’ll wait for you.”
“Thanks, Bruce. Thanks a lot.”
* * *
It was almost ten o’clock before Pierre finally staggered off the elevator and into the reception area. He couldn’t help remembering the pride he felt the last time that he was here, preparing to close on a multi-million-dollar real estate purchase.
Bruce, who had been sitting on a couch in the reception area waiting for him, put down Fortune magazine and stood up to greet him. “We’re going to beat this Pierre
, don’t worry.” He clenched Pierre’s hand firmly with his right hand and squeezed Pierre’s shoulder with his left. “Mike Callahan is the criminal lawyer I was talking about. He’s in the conference room now, reviewing the newspaper articles on Charese’s death and calling around to his contacts in the police department to see what he can find out. Come on in and meet him, see if you like him.”
Callahan was just hanging up the phone when Bruce and Pierre walked into the conference room. They shook hands, and Pierre couldn’t help but wonder whether an experienced criminal lawyer like Callahan could tell if a man was innocent or guilty just by looking at him, the way an art expert can tell a masterpiece from an imitation with just a glance.
The three men sat down. Callahan looked to Bruce, deferring to him to lead the meeting.
Bruce turned to Pierre. “Listen, Pierre, there’s something I have to tell you. I think it will explain why the police view you as the chief suspect. Remember when you first came here to go over the Fenway Place deal with me?” It was a rhetorical question, and Bruce didn’t wait for a response. “After you left, I paged you and you called me back. I forget why—I had a question about something. Anyway, at the end of that phone call, you told me about the problems you were having getting rid of a tenant, and about how it was a major financial drain for you. And then you said something to the effect that maybe the only way to get rid of her was to kill her, and you asked me about the death penalty in Massachusetts.”
Pierre felt his face begin to flush. Why was Bruce bringing this up now? “But I was only joking around. You knew that.”
Bruce nodded. “You’re right. I thought you were only kidding. I didn’t know for sure, but that’s what I thought. But then I couldn’t get it out of my mind, that you might possibly have been serious. I mean, I hardly knew you then. So I typed up a memo to memorialize our conversation, and I was going to give it to the police. I mean, just in case you were serious, I didn’t want to have it hanging over my head. And if you were only kidding, then what difference would the memo make, right? So I typed up the memo on the computer at work. But then I realized that I better check the attorney ethical rules—before I gave the memo to the police, I wanted to make sure it was allowed under the attorney-client confidentiality rules. And it turns out I wasn’t allowed to tell the police, because I didn’t know you were going to commit a crime, I only had suspicions. So I added a note to the memo explaining why I wasn’t giving it to the police. Then I stuck the memo in my briefcase, and pretty much forgot about it.”
Bruce paused here and picked up a pen. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he tapped it repeatedly on his yellow legal pad. He turned away from Pierre and focused on the pen. “And that’s where I really fucked up, Pierre. Last week sometime, I lost my briefcase. I think I left it on the subway. Anyway, according to Mike’s sources at the police department, somebody found it and turned it into the police. And they read the memo.”
Pierre stood up and began pacing. The three men had been gathered at one end of the rectangular table, and Pierre was now walking in a U-shape, up one side of the table, around the end, down the other side, stop, back up the side, around the end, down the first side, stop, and then back up again.
Bruce waited a few seconds, allowing Pierre to digest the meaning of this revelation. “Anyway, Mike knows all about this already, and he’s looked at it from a legal point of view.”
Callahan took his cue. He spoke with a noticeable Boston accent, which Pierre guessed was an asset rather than a liability in a Boston courtroom. “There’s actually a silver lining to this cloud, Pierre. The memo—along with some other things—definitely makes you the prime suspect, but the good news is that the DA can’t use the memo as evidence since it’s hearsay. And they can’t compel Bruce to testify against you because you can assert the attorney-client privilege.”
Pierre stopped pacing and leaned heavily onto the back of a chair. “That sounds like great news, not good. Right?”
Callahan responded. “Well, it’s not that clear-cut. And before I even get to that, let me tell you what they’ve got on you so far, because it’s more than just the memo. They’ve got motive: You couldn’t get rid of her as a tenant, so why not knock her off? They’ve got opportunity: You said you were at the Sox game that night, right?”
“Yeah, with Bruce actually.” Bruce nodded.
“And you’ve got a neighbor who saw you come home around 12:30. But the game ended in plenty of time for you to drive over to Arlington Street, kill Charese, and still get home by 12:30. So you really don’t have an alibi.”
“I was stuck in traffic, for God’s sake.”
Callahan smiled at Pierre comfortingly. “Look, Pierre, I don’t doubt that, but it really is going to be next to impossible to prove. Unless you gave somebody the finger or something, and they remember you.”
“No, nothing like that.”
“So motive and opportunity are there. Plus they’ve got evidence.”
“You mean the memo?”
“No, more than that. They took some tire prints off of Charese’s arm and some carpet fibers out of her fingernails. They’ve identified the car she was killed in as a blue or gray Grand Am, 1988, ‘89 or ‘90.”
Pierre felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He leaned over and pounded his fist against the table. “What is going on here? My car’s gray. 1988 Grand Am. This is un-frigging-believable.” Pierre took a deep breath, exhaled, and slumped into a chair.
“Yeah, I know. But that’s all they have so far, unless they found anything at your apartment today, which they don’t think they did. I don’t think it’s enough to convict on, without the memo or Bruce’s testimony. So let’s talk about that. First of all, the attorney-client privilege can only be used if you and Bruce had an attorney-client relationship at the time you guys had the conversation. According to Bruce, the client in the Fenway Place deal was actually Howard Plansky, not you.”
“Yeah, but I’m part owner of the property with Howie.”
“That’s what Bruce told me, and that definitely helps us. The problem is, we’ll have to prove you’re a part owner.”
“So why can’t we just show the partnership agreement?”
Callahan turned to Bruce, who addressed Pierre. “We can, Pierre, but there’s a problem with that, too. After you called tonight, I pulled out the Fenway Place file to get the partnership agreement out. I had some time to kill while we were waiting for you, so I was just looking through the rest of the file. Remember at the closing, I asked the woman from the RTC to send me copies of all the documents from this transaction so we could make a closing binder for you?” Pierre nodded. “Well, my secretary made a nice binder, all organized and indexed and everything. So I was looking through it tonight, and I found this.”
Bruce handed both Callahan and Pierre a one-page typewritten document entitled Bidder Affidavit. Pierre looked at it, noticed his signature on the bottom, and looked back up to Bruce. “So?”
“Well, look at paragraph 4(b). It basically says that the bidder, under the pains and penalties of perjury, states that there will be nobody in the bidder’s ownership group who is in default on any RTC mortgages. Now, I had no idea you had signed this affidavit; from the date at the bottom, it looks like you signed it when you submitted your bid. And you never gave me a copy. If I had known about it, I never would have set up the partnership to make Felloff one of the partners, since he is definitely in default on his RTC mortgage. But I never saw this document until tonight.”
Pierre stared down at the paper, rubbing his forehead.
Callahan took over. “The problem, of course, is that if we show them the partnership agreement to prove you were a client of Bruce’s, they are also going to see that this Felloff character is part of the ownership group and that you lied on your affidavit.”
“But I didn’t know when I signed the affidavit that we were going to make Felloff a silent partner.” Pierre directed the statement to Callahan.
&nb
sp; “I appreciate that, Pierre. And I agree that it’s a valid distinction from an ethical point of view. But legally, it’s irrelevant. You signed the affidavit. Then you signed the partnership agreement, right above Felloff’s signature. So you’re going to have trouble arguing you didn’t know Felloff was part of the ownership group.”
Pierre took a deep breath, slowly exhaled it through pursed lips. “So what? If I can beat the murder charge, what do I care about the affidavit anyway? I mean, what’s the punishment for lying? It’s not like anybody got hurt by it.”
“It’s not that clear-cut a choice. For one thing, they can use the fact you lied on the affidavit as evidence that you aren’t telling the truth when you say you didn’t kill Charese. But to answer your question, I heard of a guy in Texas who got two to three years—I’ll have to check to get the exact range for you. Plus, forfeiture of the property you bid on.”
Pierre swallowed. “Even so, compared to murder, that’s nothing, right?” He continued to direct his questions to Callahan. “And who’s to say they’ll even make the connection between the affidavit and the partnership agreement?”
“Good point, they might miss it totally. It is sort of an obscure point. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First of all, the police aren’t anywhere near finishing their investigation. They may find more evidence. If they don’t, my bet is that they know they don’t have enough to convict you on—all they would really have is a car match, and a jury isn’t going to convict on just that. But, from the guys I talked to, they’re pretty convinced you’re the killer. They may agree to some kind of plea bargain, but they’d rather try the case and lose than let you walk away. Maybe the deal is that you plead guilty to defrauding the RTC, or maybe it’s just a straight plea on a reduced charge if they miss the RTC thing. But either way, you might want to start getting used to the idea of some jail time.”
[Boston Law 01.0] Unlawful Deeds Page 28
