And it’s a human reaction to be disappointed when there is none.
One thing that the arraignment does accomplish is letting me know what the media interest in the trial will be. Whenever a cop is accused of murder, the case is followed pretty closely. Today’s strong turnout by the press is an indication that this case will continue that tradition.
Richard Wallace and three members of his team are already in court when I arrive with Hike and Laurie. He walks over to me and we shake hands. “This is not going to be fun,” he says.
“That is the last thing you’re going to say in this court that I’ll agree with.”
He smiles. “I would expect nothing less. We have any reason to talk later?”
He’s asking if Pete and I would consider plea bargain negotiations. “Zero.”
He nods. “That’s what I figured, though I’m not sure whether I wanted to hear it or not.”
“Pete wants the trial at the earliest possible date,” I say, because it’s true.
Richard nods. “Okay.” I’m sure he’s surprised; quick trials are not usually the approach the defense takes.
But Pete made it very clear to me that he wants this behind him, and even though I don’t think it’s in his best interest to rush, he insisted on it. He has more confidence in me than the current situation warrants.
I hear a noise, turn, and see guards bringing Pete into the room. His hands are cuffed in front of him, which annoys me no end, but in the short term there is nothing I can do about it. Long term, I’m going to shove those cuffs down the state of New Jersey’s throat.
Pete has a thin folder under his arm, which he gives to me when he sits down, doing so awkwardly, because of the cuffs. “It’s the list of possibles you asked me to come up with. I’m sure I’ll think of more.”
“Good.”
“Did you talk to Phillips?” he asks.
“I did. He’s a fun guy. But he gave me a list as well.”
Pete knows the drill very well, so I don’t have to prepare him for what is to come. Very often clients are excited to be out of jail and have the world paying attention to them, and they think that something good could happen. Pete knows better, which for his lawyer is a relief.
Judge Cynthia Matthews is presiding, and unless some conflict develops, it is very likely that she will be on the bench for the actual trial. I’m fine with that; she’s smart, fair, and in the past has been willing to tolerate my courtroom style more than most.
The charges are read, and Pete is asked how he pleads. He answers “Not guilty,” in a voice that is firm and confident. I’m glad about that, though legally his tone of voice is of no consequence. It’s of some small importance only because the media will report on it, and the future jury is out there hearing about this through the media.
Once that is out of the way, I request that bail be set. Richard immediately responds that the seriousness of the crime dictates that my bail request be denied. Precedence is firmly on his side; murder defendants very rarely get released on bail.
“Your Honor,” I say, “Captain Stanton has had an exemplary career as a public servant. He has never once been charged with a crime; there has never been the hint of any wrongdoing on his part. We will demonstrate he has been wrongly accused here, but that will take some time.
“He is innocent until proven guilty, and he will never be proven guilty. To deprive him of his freedom in such a situation is unfair and unnecessary.”
Judge Matthews turns to Richard for a response. If he has any sympathy for Pete, one would not know it by his words. He argues effectively that Pete should be considered both a threat to the community and a flight risk.
I quickly respond. “Your Honor, I would propose a very substantial bail, and the defendant can be subject to house confinement, with an ankle bracelet to monitor his movements. But there is one more thing, Your Honor. Are you familiar with the name Frank McCoy?” I see Richard grimace when I mention the name.
“No, I am not,” she says. “What does Mr. McCoy have to do with this case?”
“Sergeant McCoy was a Newark police officer, convicted on corruption charges, and sentenced three years ago to ten years in prison. He was murdered six months into his sentence.”
“And your point is?”
“My point is that prisons are a dangerous place for police officers. Some of the inmates are only there because of Captain Stanton’s efforts to protect the public.”
Richard interjects. “Is Mr. Carpenter suggesting that New Jersey does not have the ability to protect the defendant?”
I turn to Richard. “I would imagine that Sergeant McCoy’s family would be somewhat skeptical of that ability. But let’s assume for the moment that the prison authorities would take the necessary steps to keep Captain Stanton safe. How much would that cost? And would he have to live in solitary confinement? Is that a fair reward for arresting criminals?”
Turning back to the judge, I say, “House arrest and electronic monitoring should be more than sufficient, but if it would make the court feel more secure, the defense would be willing to pay for guards at the defendant’s house. And we would find a significant bail to be appropriate and acceptable.”
I can feel Pete staring at me, but I don’t turn to look at him. Instead, I continue, hoping to close the deal. “The defendant would be confined, the public safety would be ensured, and there would be no expense to the government. It is the textbook definition of a win-win.”
I consider asking that he be allowed to stay at my house instead, but I’m afraid the state would then make Ricky leave, since living with his father’s accused murderer might not be viewed by Children’s Services as ideal.
Richard renews his objections, and Judge Matthews takes a few moments to consider her decision. “Very well,” she finally says. “The defendant will be confined to his own house, with electronic monitoring, and round-the-clock police guards, paid for by the defense.”
Richard, accepting the defeat, says, “Your Honor, a search warrant is being executed on the defendant’s house this afternoon. Therefore we would request that he remain in custody until tomorrow.”
“I was going to suggest tomorrow anyhow,” she says. “To that end, Mr. Wallace, please provide the court by tomorrow morning a full plan for how the house detention would be executed.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Richard says.
Judge Matthews continues. “Bail is set at $750,000.”
She adjourns the proceeding, and Pete immediately says, “Andy, I don’t have $750,000. I’m short about $749,000.”
“Really?” I ask. “What have you been doing with all the money you haven’t been spending on beer and hamburgers?”
“Andy, what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m loaning you the money, interest free. Assuming you don’t skip bail, I’ll get it back. If you do skip bail, I’ll hunt you down and shoot you like the animal that you are.”
“Andy, I can’t let you do this.”
“If the situation was reversed, would you do it for me?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
“Good. That proves I’m a better person than you.” As the guard comes over to take him, I tap him on the shoulder and say, “Hang in there. You’re out tomorrow.”
Tommy Haller is, at his core, a very successful businessman.
He started an operation from scratch, found a product that there was a demand for, and brought that product to market. He has managed to maintain and increase his market share, and is known to be fiercely competitive.
It would be fair to say that Tommy is living the American dream, if not for the fact that the products he sells are hard, illegal drugs. And if not for the fact that he often eliminates his competitors by killing them.
Organized crime in northern New Jersey has long been dominated by Dominic Petrone, but Petrone is aging, and his grip is loosening. On his worst days, Petrone, while responsible for countless illegal activities, including murder when he deems it n
ecessary, is Mother Teresa compared to Tommy Haller.
Petrone has never shown much enthusiasm for the drug trade, and that reticence allowed others to move in. At one point the main operative in the area was one Carlos Quintana, a truly psychotic killer whose demise I helped organize, in order to prevent my own. It was not my finest hour, but it allowed me to continue to have hours.
With Quintana out of the picture, others rushed to fill the vacuum, especially with Petrone not inclined to stamp out competition, as he had in the glory days. Haller proved the most resourceful and ruthless, and he gradually ascended to the top by killing off his challengers one by one. He is brutal and apparently without conscience, though marginally more reasonable and level-headed than Quintana was. And most importantly, unlike Quintana, he is smart enough to manage to peacefully coexist with Petrone.
Tommy Haller is at the top of the lists prepared by both Pete and Phillips as someone who is most likely to exact revenge against Pete. About a year ago, Pete arrested Tommy’s brother, Jimmy, on an assault charge. It seems that Jimmy was in a dispute with a customer who found himself unable to pay for goods received.
Jimmy, clearly not the sharpest tool in the Haller shed, attempted to buy his way out of difficulty by offering Pete a substantial bribe. The effort earned him an additional felony charge, but the importance of that paled somewhat when the assaulted customer subsequently died of his injuries.
Pete’s testimony at Jimmy’s trial helped the state of New Jersey put him away for a sentence of forty years to life, and it came as no surprise to anyone that brother Tommy had expressed some displeasure with Pete’s efforts.
“I think it’s unlikely that Haller is behind this,” Laurie says.
“Why?”
“Not his style; there’s way too much finesse involved. If he wanted to go after Pete, he’d just try to put a bullet in his head.”
I basically agree with her, although I can’t be close to sure, since I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Haller. We travel in different circles: he doesn’t attend crossword puzzle tournaments, and I avoid drug kingpin conventions.
“I need to talk to him,” I say, regretting the words even as I am saying them.
“Why?”
“To get a sense of him; to decide if he’s worth looking into. We don’t have a lot of time, or a lot of people, and we can’t chase down blind alleys.”
“So you’re just going to go talk to Tommy Haller,” she says, her tone indicating she considers me out of my mind.
“I’m going to try.”
“We are going to try” is how she corrects me. “There is no way you are doing this alone.”
“I hope the ‘we’ includes Marcus,” I say.
She nods. “Of course it does. I’ll call him.”
While she does that, I have a little time to think about how to allocate the limited time and resources at our disposal. It’s a more difficult task in this case, because we have three distinct, and very different, directions that we must take.
First is the traditional defense: we must try and prove that Pete is innocent of the crime. If we can do that, which is going to be a tall order, then nothing else matters.
Second, we can try to figure out who actually committed the murder. To do so, we will need to dig into Danny Diaz’s life, and his death, and reveal who had the motive and opportunity to kill him.
Third, and this is the area that Tommy Haller falls neatly into, we need to figure out who set Pete up to take the fall. There is no question that the answers to questions two and three will be the same, but we can go after that answer from both directions.
Laurie comes back into the room and says, “Marcus will be here whenever we need him.”
“What did he say?”
“What did Marcus say?” Laurie asks, somewhat incredulously. Marcus never says anything, beyond a well-placed grunt or two.
“Does he know Haller?” I ask.
“I don’t think so.”
“Is he worried about dealing with him?” I ask.
“Marcus? You’re asking me if Marcus is worried? If Marcus was worried, he wouldn’t be Marcus. He’d be Andy.”
It isn’t easy to make an appointment with Tommy Haller.
There’s no phone number to call where the receptionist answers and says, “Drug-land … may I help you?” Haller doesn’t seem to have an admin setting his schedule, at least not one I know how to reach.
Whether or not he has any information to provide, I can’t imagine he’ll be interested in talking with us. The defense has no ability to force potential witnesses to submit to a deposition, but even if we did, it wouldn’t apply to a situation like Haller’s. At this point we couldn’t begin to demonstrate that he has any relevance to our case.
I call Lieutenant Phillips and ask where I can find Haller, and he asks, “Why would you want to find Tommy Haller?”
“So I can talk to him.”
“Who might your next of kin be?”
That doesn’t sound particularly encouraging, but I persist and he tells me the address of the place where Haller is known to work out of, sort of his headquarters. It’s on Bergen Street in Paterson, an area that is not for the faint of heart. Which is a problem, because my heart is considerably fainter than most.
Bergen Street runs up to and dead-ends at the Passaic River. It’s an area that used to flood frequently, as a good rain would make the river overflow. They finally did something to mitigate that, so the people who live and work there did not need access to canoes on a regular basis.
Because it’s a dead end, the only way out is to reverse the way in. When I’m in situations that involve any kind of physical danger, I have a tendency to focus on the “how to get out” part. This address is not a great setup for that, especially since Haller’s location is at the very end of the street, right on the river.
I drive, with Laurie in the passenger seat and Marcus in the back. As we get close, I appear to be the only one of us who is nervous, though Laurie seems to be on alert. I look back at Marcus, and he is either meditating, or asleep.
We arrive at Haller’s at ten o’clock in the morning. Marcus tells me to park halfway down the block, at least a hundred yards from Haller’s place. I have no idea why, and I don’t ask. In situations like this, Marcus’s decisions are not to be questioned. At least not by me.
I tell myself that this is no big deal. Even though Haller has a reason to hate Pete, he’s still something of a long shot to be involved in the current case, and that actually lessens the danger here. We’ll ask a couple of questions, he’ll deny them, and we’ll leave. No harm, no foul.
There are three steps leading up to Haller’s door, in what was probably once a two-family house. A very large individual sits on the top of the steps, back against the wall, just to the side of the door. He watches us as we walk up the street, probably wondering if we are coming all the way to him. I imagine very few uninvited people do that.
When we reach him, it’s clear that he is even larger up close than he seemed at a distance. He’s borderline enormous; I actually think he could swallow me without chewing more than once or twice.
He doesn’t say anything, just stares, so I feel obligated to break the ice. “We’re here to see Tommy Haller.”
“That right?” he asks.
“That’s exactly right,” I confirm.
“What for?”
I clearly have no interest in telling him why we’re here, so I say, “We’re from Publishers Clearing House. He’s won a substantial prize.”
“Get lost, assholes.”
I don’t take kindly to anyone calling Laurie an asshole, but basically that is what he has done. Either Marcus or I is going to defend her honor, and I figure I’ll let Marcus take first crack at it.
Marcus doesn’t seem to have taken offense, but nor does he seem intimidated. He motions for us to follow him, and he starts walking up the steps. The Enormous One at first seems surprised, but then starts to rise to inte
rcept Marcus.
What happens next is a blur, so fast and so barely perceptible that if I didn’t see the result, I would question whether it happened at all. Marcus makes a quick movement; it seems like he flicks out his elbow. From my vantage point, I don’t see it hit anything, but I hear a crunching noise.
Enormous no longer is getting up, in fact he sits back down in the same position he was in before, back against the wall. The only difference is that he is no longer conscious, which is fine with me. He’s actually more fun to be with this way.
There are two windows in the front of the building, and they are shaded so that one cannot look in from the outside. But there is the chance that someone inside has seen what transpired, and Marcus seems to take that into consideration. Rather than knock on the door, he puts his ear to it, listening.
I don’t hear anything, because my heart is pounding so loudly that it’s hard to hear over it. Marcus seems to hear something, though, because he hesitates, as if trying to figure out his next step.
As steps go, it turns out to be a beauty.
Marcus kicks forward and up, and it’s amazing to watch. His foot hits the door so high, it’s actually over his head, yet he doesn’t seem to launch himself in the air to do so, and he maintains perfect balance coming down. The Rockettes have never kicked that high, and I hate to use this word describing Marcus, but they’ve also never looked so graceful.
It is as if the door explodes, crashing forward, leaving an empty space where there once was a door. We move forward, following Marcus, as he steps on the fallen door into the room.
As I also step on the door, it seems unsteady, and I realize with some horror that there is a person under it. I know that because I can see a foot sticking out, and a voice obviously attached to that foot is screaming in pain.
Marcus steps on an area that sounds like where the voice might be coming from, and the voice stops. It is only then that I actually look into the room, and it is nothing like what I expected. It’s modern, with chrome office furniture, and artwork on the walls. It all seems so out of place that I feel like we stepped into a different dimension by accident.
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