by Ed Gaffney
“Well, actually, I need to know that you understand it,” Zack replied. “And then I need you to sign it—if you agree with it, of course.”
Lombardo paused. For a prison inmate, he was extremely well groomed. His face was clean-shaven, his clothes looked freshly laundered, possibly even ironed. His hands were folded and resting on the table. Each one of his fingernails was a perfectly shaped white crescent, exactly the same size.
“I fully understand the document,” Lombardo said, looking directly into Zack’s eyes. “In order for you to represent me, I have to acknowledge the fact that it might be difficult—and maybe impossible—for you to be objective when you are reviewing the work your father did when he was my trial lawyer.”
Zack quickly looked at Terry, who was studying Lombardo carefully. It wasn’t often that they represented someone who was both intelligent and articulate. Even if his mannerisms were extremely disconcerting. “That’s it in a nutshell,” Zack told Lombardo. “Terry and I will do our best to tell you what we think about your chances for getting a new trial. And we’ll try to help you get one. But because my relationship with your trial attorney creates a conflict of interests, we have to inform you of the conflict, and advise you that our representation might be compromised because of it. Of course you always have the option of representing yourself—”
“Excuse me,” Lombardo interrupted. The blinking accelerated. “I went through all of this with Judge Baumgartner. I know the risks, and I still want you to represent me.” He selected one of the several pens and highlighters that rested on the table beside the clipped transcript before him, painstakingly signed the waiver, then passed it to Zack. “I assume that you’ll send me a copy of this.”
“Of course,” Zack said, looking down at the signature. He hadn’t seen handwriting so precise since Mrs. Baylor’s third-grade penmanship class. He put the waiver in the thin manila folder that he had brought with him to the meeting.
Terry exhaled loudly. “So now that that’s out of the way, can we talk a little bit about the case?” He clicked his pen a couple of times and turned to a fresh page on his legal pad. “I was hoping that we could get into how this all started. You know, when you first learned you were a suspect, whether you turned yourself in, or whether you were arrested, that kind of thing.”
Normally, inmates jumped at the chance to explain all about how unfairly the police had treated them, or how innocent they were.
But instead of launching into a tirade, Lombardo merely steepled his fingers together, and pursed his lips. Then he moved the pens a few inches away from the transcript that he had marked up, and slid it across the table. “Actually,” he said, “I think you’ll find that I’ve already pulled out and highlighted the parts of the transcript that will be most useful in getting me a new trial. And”—blink blink—“could you please stop making that noise with your pen?”
Oh, this was going to be interesting. Terry had a nervous habit of clicking his pen whenever he held it in his hand. He probably did it about five thousand times a day. Asking him to stop was like asking him to give up inhaling. It was going to be the battle of the twitches.
Terry looked up from the document. “Me?” he asked in surprise. Then he looked down at the pen in his hand. “Oh. Sure.” He put down the pen, flipped through a few pages of the transcript, and then pushed it toward Zack. “Great,” he said, picking up the pen again, clicking it a few times, jotting a note on the pad, clicking the pen a few more times and then looking back at Lombardo, who had given up blinking, and was now wincing. “Oops,” Terry said, putting the pen back down again.
“Terry and I will read the whole transcript,” Zack interjected, “as well as everything else written about your case—but first we’d like to get an idea of how this all unfolded. Like, what were you doing when the police first contacted you? Where were you? What did they say?”
Terry picked up his pen, clicked it a few times, and began to scribble a few things on his pad.
Lombardo reacted to the noise of the pen, but Terry was too busy concentrating on what he was writing to notice. The inmate brought his attention back to Zack. “I really don’t see how that will help,” he said. “As I mentioned, the transcript is full of errors, which I’ve already marked for you.” He motioned to the stack of paper he’d just passed to them. “In fact, I think you’ll see that in the judge’s final instructions to the jury on the burden of proof, he made at least three errors that were so serious that there’s no question that my case will be flipped. All you have to do is simply prepare the motion for new trial, file it, and we can go from there.”
This was getting weird. Did this inmate really expect that he was going to call the shots? Terry had finished whatever he was doing, and was now regarding Lombardo with a quizzical look. He clicked his pen twice, stared down at it as if he hadn’t remembered what was in his hand, then dropped it hastily.
Zack tried again. “I understand what you’re saying, Mr. Lombardo, but I’m still interested in learning everything I can about the circumstances of the arrest, and anything else I can learn about the investigation, at least from your perspective. That’s why I’d like you to tell me about how this case first came to your attention. You must have been aware of all the publicity around the case at that time. ‘The Springfield Shooter’ was on the front pages all the time back then, right?”
Lombardo appeared to consider what Zack said. He blinked his flat, nondescript brown eyes too many times, then took a deep breath. “I guess I’m a little confused,” he said. “I’ve already identified the arguments you can use to support a motion for new trial. I don’t really understand why we need to waste a lot of time talking about things like my arrest.”
Terry looked positively astonished. But Lombardo smiled, somewhat patronizingly. “Believe me, I’ve lived with this case longer than either of you will ever have to. Trust me: there’s no appealable issue with my arrest, or the indictments, or anything else other than the errors made at my trial.” He pointed to the transcripts again. “And they’re all in there, marked up and ready to go.”
Okay. Now there was a problem. If this guy expected that they were just going to write up a motion for a new trial based on a review of only those parts of the transcript that he figured were important, he was going to be very disappointed. “I’m sorry, Alan,” Zack said, “but I’m a little confused myself. Is there any reason that you don’t want us to know about how the charges against you were initiated?”
“Of course not. But why spend time looking into issues that have no chance of helping support a motion for new trial?”
Before Terry tried to jump across the table and wring this idiot’s neck, Zack stood up. “Tell you what,” he said. “Obviously, you have given your case a lot of thought, which is terrific.” He picked up the stack of papers Lombardo had prepared for them. Terry stood, and Lombardo followed suit, looking a little surprised. “Terry and I will review the work you’ve done, but we’re also going to read the entire trial transcript, and the appeals briefs, and then we’re going to come back and ask you about the arrest, and everything that happened to you starting from that point forward.” The two lawyers headed for the door, where Terry signaled the guard that their meeting was over. “By that time, you’ll have had a chance to decide whether you are comfortable addressing those aspects of the case. I hope so, because we won’t represent you unless you choose to answer the questions that we ask.”
Alan clearly wasn’t expecting that the meeting would end so abruptly, but he said nothing as he was led away to his cell. Zack and Terry headed in the opposite direction, toward the control area where the guards would process them before leaving the facility.
As they walked down the long, tiled hallway, Terry muttered, “Dude’s got issues.”
Zack nodded. “If he can’t answer the simplest questions, we can’t do anything for him.”
After a moment, Terry looked back at his partner, but said nothing. It was as if he was waiting fo
r Zack to say something else. “What?” Zack demanded.
The big man blew out some air. “I just want to say that when somebody wears their brand-new, designer, charcoal gray, pin-striped suit for the first time, you’re supposed to say something like, ‘Nice suit.’”
Now Zack understood why he’d heard so much about the suit. “Oh.” They walked another few paces, and then he added, in a ludicrously disingenuous voice, “Hey, Elvis. Nice suit.”
Terry shook his head in disgust, and kept walking. “You suck.”
FIVE
August 22
STEPHANIE HARTZ LOOKED ACROSS THE TABLE at her father as he cut into the slab of rare prime rib he shouldn’t have ordered for dinner. The few strands of white hair still on top of his head did little to soften his thin, weathered face, which carried more lines than the face of a normal seventy-year-old.
“Tonight I renounce poltroonery, my daughter, and henceforth vow to be lionhearted.”
Not that there was much normal about Stephanie’s father.
“My will is stout, my resolve unshakeable. I have fire in my heart, and brimstone in my liver. That is, whatever is left of my liver.”
Tonight’s dinner was the latest in a string of surprise gestures that had started several weeks ago. Last month, out of nowhere, he had sent her a card with a reproduction of a Van Gogh painting that he knew she liked, just because he saw it in the store, and “couldn’t think of any reason in the world not to send it.” And two weeks before that, he had called her, without any provocation, to let her know that one of her favorite movies, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, had been released in a special edition DVD.
After more than a dozen years of neglect thanks in large part to his alcoholism, and then a half dozen more thanks to his self-conscious and tenuous sobriety, this recent attention was very unsettling.
“I say now, Stephanie, as I have oft said before, if those self-aggrandizing jackals in the news media so much as whisper the vaguest innuendo, I shall fly on Hermes’s winged feet to the halls of justice, and stop at nothing to staunch the flow of their fetid bile.”
Malcolm Ayers’s aversion to the press was understandable.
Forty years ago, he’d been an English teacher at a high school in upstate New York, and working on his master’s degree at night. In his spare time, he had been writing a little novel called Sally’s Gift.
That’s right. That Malcolm Ayers.
As if there was anyone who didn’t already know, Sally’s Gift captured the imagination of America like no book in recent memory, and mere months after its publication, middle schools, junior high schools, and high schools across the country began to order the book for use in their English classes. It became widely accepted as an instant American classic.
Everyone read it.
And Malcolm Ayers’s life was turned completely and utterly upside down.
“Oh good,” Steph replied, exasperated. “Lawyers and Greek gods. Our problems are solved.”
Malcolm took another bite of his beef. “Sarcasm does not become you, my dear.” He looked over at her plate. “And you’ve barely touched your dinner.”
Steph squeezed her eyes shut. “All I know is that I’d feel a lot better if you had an alibi.” She opened her eyes and looked again at her father, as he continued to act as if nothing was wrong. “The idea that this whole thing could be starting up again just makes me so angry.”
The tidal wave of fame and fortune that washed over Malcolm after Sally’s Gift had been published was more intense than even he ever could have anticipated. His mailbox overflowed with letters from readers, his phone rang incessantly, and his small town was overrun with strangers—tourists—hoping to meet him, take his picture, chat about his book.
Malcolm had always been a very private person, and the attention he was suddenly attracting was far more than he could bear. He began using alcohol to cope. He quit his job. For years, he went into hiding, assuming that he and his book would soon be forgotten.
He was only half right. By 1973, the public’s fascination with him had declined enough for him to move to Indian Oaks, and resume his career as a teacher at nearby Colton College. But the popularity of Sally’s Gift did not weaken.
Malcolm swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes before he answered. “Starting up again? I refuse to allow another family’s tragedy to dominate and overwhelm our lives a second time.” He took a sip of water, and blotted his lips with his napkin. “And for the record, I do understand that it is not for me to determine how you should feel. However, I would like to remind you that I have always provided the bitterness and resentment in our relationship. If anyone is to be unreasonably angry, kindly allow it to be me, Stephanie. I excel at it.”
By 1980, Malcolm was living what he considered an idyllic existence. He had been married to fellow professor Marilyn Inserra for five years, and their daughter, Stephanie, was three years old. He and Marilyn were happy and fulfilled in their careers and as parents.
But then, completely out of the blue, Marilyn was diagnosed with breast cancer. She died within months.
Once again, Malcolm’s life had been upended. And as tempted as he was to escape through alcohol, now he had a little girl to care for, alone. And so he resisted.
But as Stephanie grew older and Malcolm’s loneliness grew deeper, he began to drink once again, only in the evenings, to help him sleep. By 1982, he was getting drunk almost every night. Yet he still maintained enough control over his life to care for his daughter, however imperfectly, and to hold on to his job.
“May we change the subject to something more pleasant?” Malcolm took another forkful to his lips. “How is your friend Nolan? It’s been quite a while since you’ve spoken of him.”
Nolan Fogg was a physical therapist for three local hospitals, including Steph’s. During an uncharacteristically glum period about a year ago, Steph had gone out on a handful of dates with Nolan, to cheer herself up. But after a short while, it became clear that although Nolan had graduated from college many years ago, he had not yet emotionally moved out of his fraternity house.
Steph’s far-too-early and completely unsuccessful marriage to her college sweetheart had taught her that no matter how big or how old, men who had not left boyhood were not great husband material. She did not hide her feelings from Nolan, and he had seen the handwriting on the wall. So on one of their last outings together, he took Steph to a Red Sox game with Malcolm. It was a shameless attempt to stave off the breakup that he knew was coming, by worming his way into Steph’s affections through her father, an insanely devoted Boston baseball fan.
Despite the obvious incompatibility between Nolan and Steph, Malcolm still harbored hopes that Nolan would magically evolve into a fully functional adult, and that Steph would then fall in love with him.
Not so far.
“Nolan is fine, as far as I know. Last I heard, he was dating a kindergarten teacher from Ludlow.”
“Ah. Well, if you run into him, please give him my regards.”
Steph took a halfhearted stab at her spinach salad. At any moment they could learn that an avalanche of suspicion and intrusive reporters was bearing down on them from this latest murder, and yet here they were, discussing Nolan Fogg, for goodness sakes. “So that’s it? The plan is for us to make small talk and just hope that this all goes away?”
“Perhaps the Alcoholics Anonymous philosophy is finally taking hold,” Malcolm replied. “I am accepting those things I cannot change.”
“Fine. But wouldn’t it be easier if you could change things? Why not try to establish an alibi? What harm—”
“Stephanie, dear, on the night of this most recent tragedy, I did the same thing that I’ve done every night for the past eleven years of my life. I stayed at home, reading and working. Alone. It is what I do. I am sorry to disappoint you, but just like those nine murders of twenty years ago, I have no alibi.”
“I have no alibi. You’re going to have to lock me up, I guess.”
<
br /> Paul Merrone was not amused at the telltale odor of tobacco that wafted into the den as George Heinrich emerged from his private bathroom. “C’mon, Mr. Heinrich. What am I supposed to tell Neil?”
Officially, Paul was Vice President of Heinrich Contracting, a construction firm headquartered in the heart of Springfield’s industrial district. But really, Paul was old man Heinrich’s bodyguard.
Back in the day—hell, even five years ago—being George Heinrich’s bodyguard really meant something. The man ran the entire south side of Springfield from his firm’s office. Numbers, loan sharking, protection. Heinrich’s influence was everywhere—city and state government, the courts, you name it. George Heinrich had this little area of the world in his pocket.
And his reputation was golden. For a man doing the business he did, George Heinrich was known as absolutely, always honest. Good, bad, or otherwise, if Mr. Heinrich said it, you could take it to the vault. For Paul, that always made his job, even when it got ugly, a little easier.
“Oh, what difference does it make? So I had a cigarette. I’m dying, Paulie. The doctors say if I’m real lucky, I got two more months. You think one more smoke’s gonna make any difference?”
Actually, Paul really didn’t think it was going to make any difference. If it were up to him, he’d let Mr. Heinrich do whatever the heck he wanted for the last few weeks of his life. He’d sure earned it. Smoke, drink, party. Hell, live it up, right?
But Mr. Heinrich’s only kid, Neil, was the one calling the shots now, and Neil very much did not want his father to smoke, drink, or party. Watching his father die was killing Neil, and he was fighting it every step of the way.
“I guess it can’t hurt,” Paul answered. “As long as you don’t rat me out to Neil. You ready to go? We’re supposed to meet him at The Seaside at noon.”
Mr. Heinrich started to answer, but got overcome by a coughing fit instead. So he just waved his hand, and walked past Paul toward the door to the driveway. They got in the car and headed off.
