Outfoxed

by David Rosenfelt

  He sighs loudly for effect. “You’re a pain in the ass. Okay, here’s the deal. You say whatever you have to say, the full story, and then you can tell me at the end what’s on and off the record, and what I can print.”

  “Deal. My investigation is showing that Brian Atkins did not murder those two people.”

  “Wait, let me run back and stop the presses,” he says. “I can write the headline now. Legal Shocker: Defense Lawyer Claims Client Is Innocent.”

  I ignore him and continue. “And I’m going to tell the jury who ordered the killings: Dominic Petrone.”

  That shuts him up successfully, at least for the moment.

  “And one of the reasons I know about Petrone is that he sent two goons to threaten me and tell me to back off.”

  “When was this?” he asks.

  “Sunday, at Giants Stadium.”

  “The two guys they found unconscious in the parking lot?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Marcus?” he asks.

  Another nod from me. “Marcus.”

  “Can I take Marcus to my next meeting with the publisher?”

  I go on to tell Vince the whole story, while not revealing any privileged communications between Brian and me. The other thing I leave out is any mention of Ricky being at the game, or Laurie’s and my concern about his well-being.

  I tell him that he cannot publish Petrone’s name, but he can make references that will make it clear to most people who I am talking about. He also needs to say that I have gone to the police and told them of the threat, the implication being that if I turn up dead, they will know who to go after.

  When I’m done, he asks why I’m placing the story. “So the jury pool out there will understand there is another side to the story, and also so Petrone might hesitate to go after me once all this is public.”

  He thinks about it and says, “You may not be as dumb as you look.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It might work,” he says.

  “I hope so.”

  “But keep Marcus around just in case.”

  Jimmy Rollins was the first to come through. The name he gave me was Daniel Bowie, and when I asked if it took much convincing to get him to meet with me, he said it had not.

  “What did you tell him?” I asked.

  “That you’d bring money.”

  I don’t like to pay for information, but in this case I am making an exception, for two reasons. One is that I figured it would be necessary to get Bowie to talk with me. And two, while taking money would compromise his effectiveness as a witness, I can’t foresee a situation where I would actually call him to the stand. All I’m looking for is a road map.

  When I called Bowie, he agreed to meet me at his house, but he set the meeting for eight o’clock. He sounded nervous, and I had the feeling that the time was set because it will be dark out when I arrive. Apparently the chance to be seen with the famous Andy Carpenter was not something that he found particularly appealing.

  Bowie lives in Clifton, about a block and a half from Nash Park. My high school baseball career was littered with failure, but some of my worst experiences were at Nash Park against Clifton High School. My last pitch there was hit so hard and far that I think it might still be rolling.

  It’s pouring when I pull up, so I delay getting out of the car for a few minutes in the hope that it will let up. It doesn’t, but I’m still glad I waited, because while I’m still sitting there Laurie calls to tell me they’ve arrived safely at Aunt Celia’s.

  The call gives Laurie a chance to remind me to be careful five or six more times. It has become her mantra, but I don’t complain, because I know that she is upset she can’t be here to watch over me.

  Bowie seems nervous when he comes to the door, looking around at the street as if he fears someone might be watching. Hopefully the only one out there is Marcus.

  Bowie is a smallish guy, maybe five seven and a hundred and fifty pounds. His hair looks like it hasn’t been combed since February, though he doesn’t have that much of it. He wears a Maryland sweatshirt, along with sweatpants that don’t brag about being from any particular university.

  He doesn’t offer me anything to drink, but does say I can sit in one of the two chairs in the sparsely furnished living room. “You bring the money?” he asks, as a way of breaking the ice.

  I nod. “I have a check.”

  “A check?” His disappointment in my chosen method of payment is clear.

  “Right. A check.”

  He considers this for a moment, and then nods his assent. “Can I have it?”

  “Once we talk.”

  “How come?” he asks, officially getting on my nerves.

  “Look, Daniel … here’s the way it’s going to work. We’re going to talk, and you’re going to honestly answer my questions to the best of your ability. I will then keep your answers in confidence; no one will ever know we talked. I will also give you a check for five thousand dollars for your trouble. If that isn’t acceptable to you, then tell me now, and my check and I will leave.”

  “No … it’s okay. I’m just being careful.”

  “I understand. Now, Jimmy Rollins tells me that you’ve been placing sports wagers on the Internet.”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is not one of those offshore books?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No. This is better.”

  “Better how?”

  “That offshore stuff, you got to put money up to bet. Here you get credit, like with Jimmy.”

  Traditional bookmakers, like Jimmy Rollins, don’t require money up front to place a bet. His customers bet on credit, and then at the end of the month, he and the player settle up. Having credit is preferred by gamblers because it enables them to bet more, and on more games.

  “Why didn’t you just keep betting with Jimmy?”

  “This site has more action. Every kind of prop you can think of.”

  He’s talking about proposition bets, which are different from bets on the outcome of the games themselves. For instance, a proposition bet on a football game might be whether Adrian Peterson gets more than 105 yards rushing in the game. They can get pretty obscure; you can actually bet on the coin toss. For players in need of “action,” and my guess is that Bowie falls into this category, proposition bets can be pretty irresistible.

  “Show me,” I say, and he picks his laptop off the table. He sits at a chair away from the table and, using the word “laptop” literally, he places it on his thighs and starts pressing keys. Within a minute or so, he shows me the site he has gotten to.

  I’ve seen offshore betting sites, and this one has less frills than most. It’s a nuts-and-bolts betting site, which would be fine for someone like Bowie. He wouldn’t care about the glitz; he’d only be interested in the action.

  I copy down the link to get to the site; I want to show it to Sam. Then I ask, “Do you know who runs the site?”

  He shakes his head. “Not really; just guys. Scary kinda guys.”

  “How do you pay and get paid?”

  He smiles his first smile. “Get paid? I haven’t found that out yet.”

  I nod my understanding. “Then how do you pay?”

  “I put an envelope with cash in my mailbox when they tell me to. It’s always at night. They pick it up.”

  “So you never talk to them?”

  “No. They e-mail me. They called me once when I didn’t pay on time. That’s how I know they’re scary.”

  “I’ll need their e-mail addresses.”

  “But you’ll keep me out of it?” he asks, obviously worried.

  “I will.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “So you haven’t seen them? Could you identify them?”

  “No, and I wouldn’t if I could,” he says.

  “When are you due to pay next?”

  “Tomorrow night. They said to have it in the mailbox before eight o’clock.”

  “And will you do that?” I ask.


  “If your check clears.”

  I leave Bowie’s house with no better idea whether or not Petrone is behind the gambling Web site he uses. Even if he is, I don’t have a way to connect it to the two murders that Brian is accused of.

  There are probably better ways to spend five thousand dollars.

  MOB CONNECTION TO ATKINS CASE? That is the headline on the top of page one in Vince’s newspaper, and I have to admit I couldn’t have written it better if I tried. Based on the big block letters, Vince obviously thinks it will sell papers, and I hope and think he’s right.

  The article is filled with quotes from me, some of which I actually said, and some Vince made up. He had called and cleared the latter quotes with me, and I approved all but two of them.

  Basically, the piece says that I have evidence that a local mob boss was behind the murders. I wouldn’t name names, and my reason was that it was more appropriate for the jury to hear it first. Anyone who lives in New Jersey and has not been asleep for the last decade will assume that I mean Dominic Petrone.

  The article goes on to mention that I’ve been threatened, without connecting it to the incident at Giants Stadium. I don’t want any investigation into what happened to involve Marcus in any way.

  I finish the article with a feeling of satisfaction. At least some future jurors will likely read it, which was my main goal. My second goal, that of dissuading Petrone from going after me because of the public attention, may or may not have been achieved. I won’t really know that until all this is over; I’ll either still be alive, or not.

  I’m sort of hoping that I will.

  Judge Henry (Hatchet) Henderson is pissed. To make matters even worse, I’m the one he’s pissed at. Lawyers are scared to death of Hatchet, and those who have annoyed him have often never been heard from again. You might say that Hatchet is the legal version of Petrone.

  But he’s got me in his crosshairs, and I knew it was coming. I deliberately antagonized him in order to help my client. I took a bullet for the team.

  Hatchet has called the prosecutor, Norman Trell, and me into his chambers for a pretrial conference. I’m the target, but I’m glad Trell is here. This way, he’ll be able to tell my loved ones what happened, and where my body is buried.

  “So I was reading the newspaper this morning over coffee,” Hatchet says. “I like to read the paper; it’s the way I learn what evidence I am going to admit at trial.”

  I don’t say anything; one of the anti-Hatchet techniques I have learned is not to volunteer anything, but rather simply to answer questions he asks. He hasn’t asked any yet. He will.

  “Today’s reading was particularly interesting. It said that you, Mr. Carpenter, are going to tell our jury about some mysterious mob connection. I assume you were quoted accurately?”

  “More or less, Your Honor. But I never said you were going to admit it. I said I would present it. I meant present it to you, for you to consider. I’m hopeful that you will admit it; I think it is relevant and significant.”

  “You were talking to prospective jurors,” he says.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “You admit it?” he asks, clearly surprised.

  “Of course. But I was doing exactly what Mr. Trell was doing when he called a news conference to announce my client’s arrest. He was telling the future jurors that Brian Atkins did it, and now I was saying that he didn’t. Mr. Trell’s press conference was one of the reasons I asked for a change of venue, which Your Honor denied.”

  Trell sees an opening and says, “I was merely announcing an arrest. It is standard procedure, and is in the public’s interest.”

  I nod. “And I didn’t lodge a complaint, or protest in any way. What you did was fine with me, and what I did should be fine with you.” I turn to Hatchet. “I believe what I did was proper, Your Honor.”

  “You are perilously close to annoying me, Mr. Carpenter.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor; that couldn’t be further from my intention. There is not a person on the planet I would be less anxious to annoy.”

  “I’m not going to impose a gag order on this case, but be very careful what you say to the media, or you will wish that I had. And do not ever again force me to read about what is or is not going to take place in my courtroom.”

  Trell and I both express our agreement with this point of view, and then Hatchet adds, “Have you had settlement discussions?”

  “No, Your Honor,” Trell says. “My assumption was that the defense had no interest in plea bargaining.”

  “Oh, but we do,” I say. “And now would be a good time, if it’s acceptable to Your Honor.”

  “I would encourage it,” Hatchet says.

  Trell looks suspicious, as he should be. “I’m willing to listen, but he murdered two people in cold blood. What do you have in mind?”

  “One year on the escape charge.”

  “That’s it?” Trell asks. “No plea on the murders?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Why should we agree to that?”

  “Because this trial is about the murders. We acknowledge that he escaped, and that he should be punished for it. But it will only clutter up the trial, and is unnecessary for the jury to deal with.”

  Hatchet nods. “Cleaner is better.”

  Trell is unconvinced. “The jury needs to know that he escaped from prison.”

  What Trell really wants to make sure is that the jury knows Brian was in prison in the first place. They will assume that the jury that put him there was correct, and that he is a criminal. But we were never going to keep that out anyway, so there’s no sense fighting that battle.

  “We’ll stipulate that he was in prison, and that he escaped,” I say. “Your Honor can announce that at the beginning of the trial.”

  Hatchet nods and says, “Mr. Trell?”

  “I’m not sure about this.”

  “Look,” I say. “We all know he escaped. Our position is he did so to prevent the deaths, and your position is that he did so to cause them. If you’re right, then he’s going away forever, and the year we’re talking about doesn’t matter. If we’re right, and the jury agrees, he shouldn’t have to spend an extra minute on the inside.”

  Trell thinks about it for a few moments, and then nods. “Agreed.”

  Hatchet smiles. “I’m glad we had this meeting.”

  I don’t usually try to arrange “alone time” with Marcus. I’ve had to be with him in a car a number of times, including a couple of stakeouts, as well as a long drive to Maine on a case. A “Marcus minute” feels like an hour. It’s as if there’s a hand grenade on the seat next to me; it never says a word, and I’m always afraid it might explode and kill me.

  Tonight we’re alone in the car, because that’s the only way this will work. We’re parked on the Clifton Street where Daniel Bowie lives, with a sight line to the mailbox in front of his house. He said that the people he gambles with online will be there to pick up his cash payment for the money he has lost.

  We’re going to be here to watch it happen.

  At ten minutes to eight, Bowie comes out of his house, an envelope in his hand. I’m sure he has cash in there, and that it came from the money I gave him to talk to us. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but without having done so we wouldn’t be here. It remains to be seen whether that is a good or bad thing.

  Bowie puts the envelope in the mailbox, and then goes back in the house. For the next half hour, absolutely nothing happens outside or inside the car. I speak four words: “I hope they’re coming.” Marcus says one word, but I can’t make it out. It sounds like “Drruh.”

  At about eight thirty, an SUV—it’s a dark color but I can’t tell in the darkness if it’s black—comes down the road and slows to a stop in front of Bowie’s house. It appears as if there is only the driver in the car, but it’s hard to know for sure.

  He gets out of the car, leaving it running with the lights on. He doesn’t bother to close the door as he walks the few ste
ps to the mailbox, quickly opening it and taking out the package. He does not look around as he does so, obviously not afraid that he is being watched. All he does is get back in the car and drive off.

  And we follow him, for two hours, as he makes eighteen more stops throughout North Jersey. At nine of the stops he takes an envelope out of the mailbox, and at the other nine he puts an envelope into it. If half the people are winning on their bets rather than losing, they’re better at it than I am.

  We get close enough at one point to see the license plate number on the car, and I call Sam. I could have called Pete for the favor, but then I would have had to answer too many questions.

  “Sam, if I give you a license plate number, can you get me the name and address of the car owner?”

  “You insult me by even asking the question,” he says. “I’ll just get it off the DMV computer.”

  The access he has to this stuff amazes me. I give him the plate number and ask, “You want to call me back?”

  “No, hold on a second,” he says.

  It takes more than a second, more like three minutes, but he gets back on the line. “Nicholas Winters, 551 Seventeenth Avenue, in Passaic.”

  “That was fast, even for you,” I say.

  “No big deal. I was on their computer this afternoon, fixing a speeding ticket. So I knew my way around.”

  “You can fix speeding tickets?”

  “Sure. You got one?”

  “Not exactly. I went through a stop sign,” I say.

  “Same difference; I’m on it.”

  “Before you do, can you find out whatever you can about Nicholas Winters? Let me know tomorrow.”

  “You got it.”

  There’s no telling how many stops Winters is going to make tonight, but following him any more won’t help us. We’ve seen all we need to see, and we have no way to get near him. When he makes one of the stops, if we pulled up he’d see us coming, and have time to react.

  So instead we go to his home in Passaic. There’s always a chance he won’t return here tonight, but we’re betting that he will. It’s our only chance to get to him.