New Tricks

by David Rosenfelt

  “I guess so.”

  “Are you the only person in the marines who does what you do?” I ask.

  “No. Of course not.”

  “How many such instructors are there? And again, you can ballpark it.”

  “Maybe a hundred.”

  “So if we assume there have been a hundred for the last twenty-one years, and each person trains three hundred people a year, then in that time a total of…” I turn to Kevin, who has been using a calculator, and he hands me the calculator with the total on it. “… six hundred and thirty thousand people have been trained in the use of these explosives?”

  Antonaccio is not pleased with the way this is going. “I can’t verify those numbers.”

  “I understand,” I say. “Now, do the army and navy blow things up as well? Do they train people in explosives?”

  “Of course.”

  I shake my head slightly and smile at where this is going. “I won’t go through the numbers for them, because I’m not a math major. But it sounds like you can’t walk down the street without banging into someone who is an expert in explosives.”

  Richard objects and Hatchet sustains, so I switch to another area. “How would someone no longer in the service go about getting Cintron 321?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Really? For instance, you wouldn’t know if it’s available on the black market?”

  “I’m told if you have enough money you can get anything,” he says.

  “Including Cintron 321?” I ask.

  “I would assume so.”

  “And detonators?”

  “Yes.”

  “If people had enough money, and they could buy explosives and detonators, could they also pay someone to show them how to use it all?”

  Richard objects that I am asking something outside the witness’s area of expertise, but Hatchet overrules and makes him answer. “I would think they could.”

  “Captain Antonaccio, I’d like you to consider a hypothetical. Suppose you sold me Cintron 321 and a detonator to set it off. Would you be able to prepare it in such a way that all I would have to do would be to plant the explosive, and then dial a number on my cell phone to set it off? Would that be possible?”

  “Yes.”

  “So were you to do that for me, all I would have to know is how to dial a phone?”

  “Well…”

  “In my hypothetical,” I say.

  “Then yes.”

  “So even though, based on your previous testimony, I seem to be one of the few people in America not trained in explosives, I could blow something up with your help, just by placing a call? Would I have to include the area code?”

  Richard objects and Hatchet sustains, but I couldn’t care less. My point has been made as well as I can make it. In reality, of course, it’s a debating point; the jury is still going to find Steven’s expertise in the explosive used to blow up the house to be a damning fact.

  And the truth is that they should.

  THE MOMENT I GET HOME, I dive into the discovery documents.

  The police and forensics reports confirm what I realized during Antonaccio’s testimony this afternoon. They refer to one explosion as causing all the damage, the one that took place near the center of the house.

  Yet I was there that day, and I am positive that I heard a second, much smaller blast, which seemed to come from farther back in the house. I just assumed, if I thought about it at all, that it was a secondary explosion, perhaps a gas tank or water heater, precipitated by the first one. It certainly seemed much weaker than the initial blast, and the damage had already been done.

  I still think all of that may be true, but the diagram of the house shown today reminded me that Walter Timmerman’s home laboratory was back in that area of the house where the second explosion seemed to take place.

  I discuss all of this with Laurie, and we kick around what to do with it. “We’re going down the tubes at trial,” I say. “And the courtroom is not the place we’re going to win it. If we’re going to get Steven off, it’s by understanding what his father was doing, and who wanted to stop him from doing it.”

  Laurie agrees. Even though she has not been in the courtroom, Kevin and I have kept her up to date. We’ll put up a fight there, and we’ll score some points, but at the end of the day the existing evidence is on the side of the prosecution.

  I alluded in my opening statement to Walter Timmerman’s work causing him to be murdered. But the truth is, at this point I can’t even introduce evidence of that on a good-faith basis. Of course, we have no hard evidence anyway, but even if we did, we have only guesswork to tie it to the murder.

  I call Sam on his cell phone, which is the only phone he ever uses. He answers on the first ring, which I think he has done every time I’ve ever called him. He must keep the phone taped to his ear.

  “Talk to me,” he says, his standard greeting.

  “Sam, I’ve got an assignment for you. You can do part of it on the computer, but you may have to do real legwork on the rest.”

  “Can I carry a gun? I just got a license… in case.”

  Sam has some serious mental issues. “No gun, Sam. This isn’t official police business. But you can say stuff like ‘ten-four’ and ‘roger’ if you like.”

  “I copy that,” he says.

  “Good. I want you to find me the best expert you can on the work that Walter Timmerman was doing.”

  “What kind of work was he doing?” Sam asks, quite logically.

  “I don’t have the slightest idea,” I admit.

  “That’s going to make it harder.”

  “Let’s start with DNA. Timmerman was an expert in it, and we have that e-mail about him sending his own DNA in to be tested. So we’ll start there. Bring me the mayor of DNA-ville.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Sam, if you find someone, but they don’t want to help, don’t shoot them. Move on to someone else.”

  But Sam has already hung up, so he doesn’t hear me. I turn to Laurie, who has overheard my side of the conversation. “Sam has a gun?” she asks.

  “Apparently so.”

  “You might want to confiscate his bullets.”

  My next call is to Martha Wyndham, who is not at home. I leave a message that I need to talk to her, and I give her the address of the house, should she be able to come over after court tomorrow.

  Laurie and I talk some more about the case, and we then go upstairs to the bedroom. I head into the bathroom to wash up and brush my teeth, and when I come back Laurie is already in bed. This is not a surprise. What is a surprise is that she’s naked.

  “You’re naked,” I say, trying not to drool.

  “Wow, you don’t miss a thing.”

  I put on a fake Western accent. “Where I come from, when a lady gets herself naked, she’s got a reason for it. At least that’s what my pappy always told me.”

  “You had a wise pappy,” she said.

  This is shaping up as a too-good-to-be-true moment, but I’m also slightly concerned about it. “You’re sure you’re okay?” I ask. “I mean, you’ve been through a lot. Are you up for this?”

  She smiles. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  It turns out that we are both more than equal to the challenge. It also turns out to be one of the most intense, loving experiences of my life.

  It wasn’t long ago that I thought I had lost Laurie forever, and now she’s here, with me, fully and completely.

  As Al Michaels once said, “Do you believe in miracles? YES!”

  ROBINSON ARRIVES AT THE HEARING with eight lawyers. Since I don’t attend bar association meetings, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen this many lawyers in a group before. I’m not even sure it’s called a “group” of lawyers; maybe it’s a flock or a gaggle.

  The lead attorney is Stanford Markinson, one of the founding partners of Markinson, Berger, Lincoln & Simmons. It is one of the largest law firms in New Jersey, with offices around the stat
e. Robinson must be a hell of a big client to get Markinson to show up personally at a dog custody hearing.

  Hatchet makes it clear that he is not at all happy to have to be going through this, and he tells both sides to be economical with their time. This is going to be done before lunch, or he’s going to have the attorneys for lunch.

  I am very concerned about this hearing, and it has nothing to do with the number or quality of lawyers that Robinson has enlisted to represent him. The fact is that I have very few legal bullets to fire; if I were Markinson I would view this as a slam dunk.

  More important are the stakes involved. I don’t trust Robinson and view him as a possible suspect in the Timmerman killings, which automatically makes him a suspect in the attempted Waggy killing. Even if he were innocent of all that, I certainly don’t trust him to protect Waggy in the way that I have been doing.

  Complicating matters is my inability to share with the court the danger that Waggy is facing. Clearly I can’t reference what Childs confessed to Marcus, and without that I have no evidence at all of any threat to Waggy.

  I am also in the uncomfortable position of not really having a positive goal that I can verbalize. Robinson’s is clear: He wants to be named custodian of this dog. My preferred outcome is more vague. I want to maintain my role as the court-appointed decider when it comes to Waggy’s future, even though I have done nothing but avoid making a decision for months.

  What I want is for Steven to take custody, but I certainly can’t guarantee with any certainty at all that Steven will ever again be in a position to do so. Hatchet knows that as well as anyone. I have to try to play a continuing delaying game until I can win Steven his freedom.

  Markinson calls as his first witness a trainer named Pam Potter. She has been the primary trainer of Robinson’s show dogs for four years, and she describes the conditions that Robinson provides as humane and perfectly acceptable.

  “You would be aware if that were not the case?” Markinson asks.

  “Oh, yes. I’m around the dogs all the time. I wouldn’t stay there if they were being mistreated. I love dogs far too much for that.”

  “And Mr. Robinson provides whatever veterinary care is necessary?”

  “Certainly. Money is never an object.”

  Markinson turns the witness over to me for cross-examination, but before I can start, Hatchet calls both of us to the bench for a whispered conference. He directs his comments to Markinson.

  “What was that witness all about?” he asks.

  Markinson is taken aback by the question; he’s not used to Hatchet’s eccentricities. “Well, Your Honor, we were using her to show that the dog will be well cared for by Mr. Robinson.”

  “Why?”

  “So that you would feel comfortable awarding the dog to him.”

  Hatchet gives him the icy stare. “This dog is not going to the person who will provide the cushiest life. He is going to the person with the strongest legal claim to him. So stick to the ownership issues.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “I would still like to cross-examine this witness, Your Honor,” I say.

  “To what end?”

  “To challenge what she said.”

  Hatchet is not very adept at concealing his annoyance. “I just told you that what she said does not matter.”

  “I understand, but it’s still in the record, and I would not like the record to show that it went unchallenged.”

  “For possible appeal?” Hatchet asks.

  “If we don’t prevail here,” I say. I’ve got to be careful with this, since Hatchet is not only the judge, he is also the jury. It doesn’t make much sense to piss him off.

  “If you take more than fifteen seconds to cross-examine this woman, then it’s a good bet you won’t be prevailing,” he says.

  I nod, and Markinson and I go back to our respective tables. He has been “Hatcheted” for the first time, and seems a little shocked by the experience.

  “I have no questions for this witness,” I announce, and I see Markinson smile when I say it.

  Markinson calls Charles Robinson to the stand, and studiously avoids asking any questions about how well the dog will be treated. He focuses on his friendship with Timmerman, and their partnership in owning three dogs, none of whom is in competition anymore.

  “This dog was special to Walter,” Robinson says. “He told me many times that he thought he could be a champion. I know he would want me to help realize that dream.” The words would be enough to make me gag no matter who said them, but coming out of the mouth of this slimy worm make them even harder to take.

  There is no way I can let this guy have Waggy.

  My first question on cross-examination is, “How long has it been since you were in partnership with Walter Timmerman on a dog?”

  “A little over four years,” he says.

  “How many dogs have you owned since then?”

  “I’m not sure. I would have to check the records.”

  “I’ve checked the records,” I say. “Does eleven sound about right?”

  “Sounds right,” he concedes.

  “The records also say that Walter Timmerman has had fourteen dogs since then. Does that sound about right?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he says.

  “You and your close friend and partner didn’t discuss these things?”

  “We did. I just wouldn’t know the exact number.”

  “So between you, you’ve had twenty-five dogs since your partnership ended?” I ask.

  “Our partnership never ended.”

  I nod. “I see. You no longer owned dogs together, but you were partners on some metaphysical level. How come your partner didn’t leave the dog to you in his will?”

  “He left it to his wife. I’m quite sure that if he had any idea she would be killed, he would have included me as well.”

  “So you believe he made a mistake in leaving you out?”

  “Yes. Definitely. It surprised me.”

  “I can imagine your shock, especially after you left him your dogs in your will.”

  Robinson doesn’t respond, so I ask, “You did leave your dogs to your friend and partner, Mr. Timmerman, didn’t you?”

  He suddenly becomes more subdued, and it doesn’t take Freud to sense an intense anger beneath the surface. “No.”

  “So you made the same mistake that surprised you so much when Mr. Timmerman made it?”

  “I’m afraid that I did.”

  There’s little more I can do with Robinson except get some things on the record in case the worst should happen and he gains custody.

  “If you had possession of the dog, what would you do with him? Would he be a household pet?”

  “The first thing I would do is have my trainer, Ms. Potter, evaluate him and determine what his potential is as a show dog.”

  “Because that’s what you think Mr. Timmerman would have wanted?”

  He nods at finally hearing something he can agree with. “Exactly.”

  “So he would spend the first month or so at Ms. Potter’s training facility, so as to see if he is capable of fulfilling Mr. Timmerman’s dream. Is that what you are representing to this court?”

  “Yes.” He’s not happy at the direction this is going.

  “And if he were judged incapable of mastering the training necessary to be a successful show dog, you would then have no interest in keeping him?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “So what do you say?’

  “I’d deal with that situation if it came up, but I doubt that it will.”

  “No further questions.” I at least got him on record as promising to keep Waggy at the trainer’s facility for a month. I’m not sure how that will help, but I’d feel better if he were there than at Robinson’s.

  I have no witnesses to call, since my position is that Steven remains the rightful heir. The only place I can make that point is in my closing argument, and I’ll get to have the final word,
as Markinson will be speaking first.

  He’s a smart guy and has caught on to Hatchet quickly, so he leaves out anything referring to the health and well-being of the dog. Instead he focuses on Robinson being the court’s only real option. Mrs. Timmerman is dead, Steven is obviously not in a position to take the dog, and there are no other candidates.

  He adds the importance of a timely decision being reached, since show dogs must start their training at an early age. Obviously Walter Timmerman would have trained Waggy as a show dog, and the court has an obligation to try to follow through on his wishes when they are as obvious as this. If Charles Robinson is named custodian, he will see that Timmerman’s wishes come true.

  It is a professional, persuasive closing, and the truth is that no matter what I say, it is likely to carry the day.

  “Your Honor, as you know, Steven Timmerman is currently on trial for murder. You also know that I believe him to be wrongly accused, but that is now for the justice system to decide. And that decision will be reached in a relatively short period of time.

  “Mr. Robinson’s alleged close friendship with Mr. Timmerman has not been demonstrated by a shred of evidence before this court, only by Mr. Robinson’s own testimony. And their partnership in the showing of dogs, such as it was, has not existed for a number of years. If Mr. Timmerman had wanted to place Mr. Robinson in the line of succession for custody of this dog, he could have. But he did not, and no evidence has been presented to show that his failure to do so was an oversight.

  “If a verdict of not guilty had already been reached in Steven Timmerman’s trial, we would not be having this hearing. He would have been granted rightful custody of the dog, and justice would be done, and that would be that.

  “I would submit that for Steven to lose custody before the verdict is reached would be to deny him his rights. And make no mistake: If Charles Robinson is made the custodian, Steven will never get this dog. The only proper reason for granting Mr. Robinson’s petition would be a demonstration that irreparable harm would be done by waiting for that verdict.

  “The only such harm even claimed by the plaintiff, though also not supported by the evidence, would be that this animal’s future as a show dog would be damaged by a delay in training. Therefore, I will guarantee the court that if a decision is delayed, I will employ a leading trainer to work with the dog until a verdict in the Timmerman trial is reached.