Eddie Flynn 03-The Liar

by Steve Cavanagh

  The only sound was the steady, reassuring hum from the engine. From the freeway I saw the occasional light from a house a half mile or so away – stark and bright in the darkness. At the first rest-stop sign, Marlon left the interstate and looped around a two-lane slip road that brought us to a gas station with a restaurant tacked on to the side. A giant fiberglass hotdog, that had seen better days, sat on top of the diner with a sign below it that said, “Fill Up At Bob’s.”

  Thankfully, the rain had stopped.

  I got out of the car and Howell leaned over his seat for a final word.

  “I won’t forget what you’ve done. Thank you.”

  I started toward the restaurant, and was pleased to see some people inside. There were rigs and haulage trucks in the lot out front.

  And a single car.

  A car I recognized.

  It was a red Dodge Charger, with a black racing stripe on the hood.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Before I went inside the diner, I made a call. Rain hadn’t fallen for a full five minutes, but the diner’s guttering still poured water into drains. Harry Ford picked up after the second ring.

  “You still awake?” I said.

  “Uh huh. Can’t sleep.”

  “Is it a big case tomorrow?”

  He sighed and said, “No. I read it twice already. I’m thinking about that subpoena. I’m thinking about Max Copeland.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you about Copeland,” I said.

  “You had to. Actually, it helps. At least I know somebody is gunning for me. Copeland is as predictable as he is dirty. His first point of appeal is always to throw the original defense attorney under the bus. You remember what happened to Seth Bozeman?”

  I did. Stories like that weren’t easy to forget. Seth had been a litigator in a good-sized Manhattan law firm. He had a wife, two kids, and was working on a big mortgage for his brownstone family home. He coached little league on Saturdays and even earned himself a position as a deputy judge. His firm acted for a wealthy realtor named Pollack who got caught with a dead sixteen-year-old boy in his apartment and the partners assigned Seth to defend him. The dead boy was the same age as Seth’s son. There was no trial. Pollack pleaded guilty. Two years later he was out, and Seth Bozeman was inside. All thanks to Max Copeland who took on an appeal for Pollack on the grounds that the search of his apartment was technically illegal and that he’d been railroaded into a false confession due to ineffective and coercive counsel. The police search was declared illegal, so the NYPD had no evidence. Pollack walked. And Bozeman walked into a divorce – walked into the unemployment line when he got canned by his firm and lost his deputy judge post – walked onto the street when the bank defaulted his mortgage, but he had to be carried into Sing Sing because he assaulted Pollack on the street.

  “You’re a superior judge, Harry. That’s not gonna happen to you,” I said.

  “Seth Bozeman never imagined it would happen to him, either. Thing is, I always thought Julie was innocent. I wouldn’t have represented her otherwise. But the jury didn’t see it that way. She deserves to be exonerated,” said Harry.

  Nothing hits harder than an innocent client sent away for murder. The client never really leaves you. They are there when you’re taking your kids to school, they are there when you’re lying on the beach watching the sunset, they are right beside you when you close your eyes every night. Innocence has a way of haunting you like nothing else.

  “The jury sent her away. Not you. Remember what you told me? It’s the plea bargains and deals that get you into trouble.”

  The sad fact of criminal law is that a lot of innocent people plead guilty. Happens all the time. In fact, the system wouldn’t work if all the genuinely innocent defendants fought their cases. There simply wouldn’t be enough courtrooms and judges to handle that volume of work. Why do they plead guilty? Because they’d be fools to turn down a deal. The DA’s office makes an offer – you plead guilty, we offer one year jail time and with remission you’ll probably only serve eight or nine months, but if you’re convicted you’ll do eight years. Would you take that risk? Not many defendants are willing to take those odds to a trial. Often, when the defendant is a month into their sentence they suddenly think they didn’t get such a good deal after all and they blame their attorneys for bad advice, stating they are innocent people who were pressured into a deal.

  “I remember all right. Plea bargains are ticking time bombs for lawsuits. It’s just … this one had a bad feeling around it the whole time. There was something about her. I’d like to see the files before you hand them over. You still keep your old cases in that storage place in Brooklyn?”

  “Same place. If I get a chance tomorrow I’ll swing by and get it. Say, have you spoken to Julie Rosen recently? You get any kind of hint she was gonna try for an appeal?”

  Harry sighed, “Julie Rosen died in 2011. If she were alive I’d be the first one to support an appeal. The fact that she’s dead means only one thing. You don’t need me to spell it out.”

  He was right, I didn’t. Posthumous exonerations weren’t common. They either happened because law enforcement realized they’d made a mistake and wanted to try somebody else for the murder, or there was the other reason. The reason that applied in this case. Somebody was gunning for Harry. Copeland had been hired to appeal the case, but really his job was to ruin Harry Ford. Didn’t matter if you were a Supreme Court Justice, somebody alleges you once messed up a murder trial and your career, personal and professional rep go down in flames. This appeal could finish Harry’s career. And he lived for the job. Take away his judicial office and Harry would slide through a liquor bottle and into the grave inside of six months.

  “How did she die?” I said.

  “Liver failure, I think. I went to the funeral. She was one of the last prisoners on East Brother Island. The asylum shut down not long after she passed. Apart from an orderly and the chaplain, it was just me at the funeral. She deserved better.”

  “If Julie is dead, who is paying Copeland? Who’s got it in for you?”

  “I’ve no idea. Julie didn’t have family, not that I remember.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. Just try and get some sleep,” I said.

  “Not much chance. See you tomorrow.”

  Harry hung up the phone, and I stretched my neck, pulled the door to the diner and went inside. If the sign outside invited patrons to Fill Up At Bob’s, I guessed that they meant beer or coffee. That was all that was on offer. This was explained to me by the waitress/cook/bartender, Macy, who was a big woman in an apron only fit for much smaller frames than hers. She had an expressive face, and I could tell by the way she chewed her gum that she didn’t like my wet clothes dripping onto her floor. I guessed the floor was mopped once a day, and it was past due.

  Rock Radio played over the smell of stale coffee and bleach. Red vinyl seats dotted around a semi-circular counter. Booths beyond. The place didn’t look too clean, despite the smell. Springstein told us he was born in the USA as Macy popped a bubble over her lips.

  “We got pie,” she said, giving me a look that said she really couldn’t face the thought of having to go in back to fetch me a slice.

  “Pie and coffee, please, Macy,” I said.

  “How about a smile for the customer with that,” said a bearded man in a ball cap and check shirt, sitting at the other end of the long Formica counter.

  The answer to his question came in the shape of Macy’s middle finger and a smile that could easily have passed as a stroke.

  “I don’t know why I come in here,” said the man in the ball cap.

  Looking around, the booths were all but empty. Two men were reading newspapers in the left corner. And apart from the one-man Macy fan club at the counter, the only other person in the place had her back to me in a booth. She sat as far away from everyone else as possible. Brunette, with the strap of a laptop bag on the seat to her left, closest to the wall. She sat quietly and poured
a concentrated avalanche of sugar into a steaming cup.

  Agent Harper clearly enjoyed a sweet tooth.

  While Macy was safely in the kitchen, I turned to the man at the end of the counter.

  “Say, is there a bathroom in this place?”

  He looked over his shoulder, then looked at me. It seemed as though whatever helpful energy he had was spent already.

  I thanked him and made in the direction he’d indicated.

  There was a single room, directly off the diner, which doubled as a toilet and shower. At least there was a hand dryer.

  I took off my jacket, then my tie and shirt. Wrung what water I could out of them then tried to dry my shirt on the hand dryer. It was pretty hopeless. Same with my pants. At least when I put them back on they felt only moist instead of soaking wet.

  My socks, I put in the trash. Hand towels inside my shoes seemed to absorb the worst of the rain. Putting my shoes back on barefoot felt weird, but a lot better than wearing wet socks underneath.

  When I came out of the john, Macy had a hand on the counter, the other on her hip, and she was staring at me.

  “You like hand dryers, pal?” she said. Obviously, they’d heard the drier.

  “Just trying to dry off a little,” I said.

  “You know you can buy one of our tees for fourteen-ninety-five?” she said.

  Up on the wall behind Macy, nailed to the bare plaster, was a shirt that read, “I Filled Up at Bob’s.”

  “Who is Bob?” I asked.

  “Bob’s dead. You want a tee or not?” she said.

  Politely, I declined. I took my coffee and a slice of pale pie to a booth behind Agent Harper, so she couldn’t see me.

  The night was still a hot, wet, summer fog and at least the diner had some air con set at a comfortable temperature. Two or three mouthfuls of pie later I still couldn’t determine the flavor. It was either lemon and lime or toilet disinfectant. Pushing the plate to one side, I decided I’d be better off not knowing.

  At least Bob’s had free Wi-Fi. I accessed the court service website from my phone, entered my login details. The subpoena in my jacket was smudged with the rain, but I could still make out the docket number for the appeal. I searched under the reference number and found the appeal filing.

  Copeland had gone to town on Harry. Nothing specific, but he’d covered all the bases for the appeal in standard pleadings; incompetent counsel, negligent representation, failure to discharge duty to a client by performing due diligence, ineffective representation and professional negligence. Attached to the filing was an affidavit on the case.

  Julie Rosen had been found guilty of the first-degree murder of her infant child, Emily Rosen, in February 2003. The appellant alleged at trial that an unknown assailant had gained access to her house, injured her and then set fire to the place. The fire started in the nursery according to the report from fire marshal. In the cot, the calcinated bones of an infant were found. The fire had been so intense that the bones were practically ash. No witnesses in the area reported seeing any man in black. And then I saw something that gave me a hint of what Copeland’s appeal might touch upon. A year after her conviction, Julie Rosen had been declared insane and moved to an old asylum on East Brother Island.

  Copeland might argue that Julie wasn’t fit to plead in the first place – and Harry messed up by not getting her examined by a psychiatrist. I made a mental note to ask Harry about this in the morning.

  My pants were drying nicely, as was my jacket. Half an hour and two refills later, I felt a lot better. That little part of my head that I tried to keep quiet, told me that if I had a couple of beers with whiskey chasers I’d feel better still. Not for the first time, I tried to silence that voice and thought about Howell, and Caroline.

  Ten to three.

  The truckers thanked Macy, grabbed their gear and headed out to the lot. I looked around and found the diner empty, apart from Harper and Macy. There was a clinical stillness in the air. Thin Lizzy came on the radio and Phil Lynott told us he was waiting on an alibi. Cracking the spine on a paperback with a picture of a woman in a pink ball gown on the cover, Macy mumbled to herself about the cheap tips she’d been left and settled down to read The Enchanter’s Heart.

  Nine minutes until the exchange.

  Leaning to my right, I saw Agent Harper had inserted a black plastic device into the USB slot of her laptop. This was the same small, plastic device that Agent Washington had handed to her on her way out the door of Howell’s house. Since I’d walked into this place, Harper hadn’t turned around. Not even when the truckers left or during my conversation with Macy. Far as I could see it, Harper was in the zone; total concentration. My feet were crossed beneath me, my right foot cradling the left. In my efforts to see what Harper was doing, my foot slipped with a squeak of shoe leather on the polished floor.

  “You make a lousy spy, Flynn,” said Agent Harper, without turning.

  “I didn’t think you knew I was here,” I said.

  She turned around in her seat, gave me a look that conveyed exactly how stupid I felt, and said, “I made you before you even set foot over the door. I watched Howell let you out of his car in the lot. You get fired?”

  “No, what makes you think that?”

  “Cause you arrived at a mansion with Howell’s personal chauffeur, now you’re wet through and drinking bad coffee in the middle of nowhere and you seemed to have lost your briefcase.”

  “I didn’t want to wait in the house. You know, for word back about the exchange. I just needed to get out of there. My case is there, don’t worry.”

  “Is Howell at the drop?” she asked.

  I said nothing, drained my coffee and settled my back into the vinyl.

  “What’s the USB stick for?” I asked. “I know it’s a gift from Agent Washington, but I didn’t get the impression it was that kind of relationship.”

  Harper ignored me. Turned back to her screen.

  “You’re a good team. I’m guessing Washington doesn’t want to leave you out in the cold. I’d say the device sticking out of your laptop is keeping you in the loop.”

  She got up, came around and sat across from me. The metal zips from her leather jacket tinkled on the tabletop. It reminded me of the noise the handcuff chain had made.

  “You see a lot,” she said. “Do you know if Howell is going to the drop or not?”

  “I know,” I said.

  “But you’re not going to tell me?” she said.

  “The way I see it, I’ve got information. So do you. Why don’t we agree to share?”

  “What do you want to know?” she said.

  “I want to know what goes down in the rail station.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not at the rail station exchange,” she said.

  It was my turn to give her a disbelieving look.

  “Like I said, Washington is cutting you in. I want you to do the same with me.”

  “Why?” she said.

  I couldn’t tell her the real reason. I knew if things went down okay in Sleepy Hollow, Leonard Howell would likely come back to an arrest for perverting the course of justice, fraud, and a host of other charges. Whatever sense of right and wrong I had left – I knew that no father should have to pay a price for saving their daughter’s life. That just wouldn’t fly with me. Anything Harper could tell me about the dummy drop might help with Howell’s defense.

  “I want to know that Caroline comes back okay. I’m a father too,” I said. “Why do you want to know if Howell went to the rail station for the drop?”

  Her eyes took on a keen glow as she moved her body forward, her face inches from mine, she said, “Because I know the rail station drop is bullshit. And I know Howell knows it too.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Neither of us spoke. Macy turned a page of her book, the yellow paper whispering against the rough skin of her fingertips, the radio DJ introduced an AC/DC classic that needed no introduction, and the patter of heavy rain began t
o beat on the roof of the diner.

  “I heard what you said to Agent Lynch. Why do you think the drop at the rail station isn’t kosher?”

  “For the same reasons that your client believes it’s not the real kidnapper. First, the location. New Rochelle rail station is covered with security cameras. Every inch of it. If a bag of money goes in there – it’s not coming out without a set of eyes on it. There are three exits, and we can cover them all. The station is twenty minutes from the nearest Interstate. The drop is at three a.m., and the station will be practically empty. A train gets in at two fifteen a.m., and the next one isn’t until three thirty a.m. No crowd cover. May as well put the ransom in a fishbowl in the middle of Times Square. If you want to collect ransom then either you get it wired or you do the drop in an environment you can control and get out of in five seconds flat without a tail,” she said.

  “You’re supposing the kidnapper is a professional – maybe they’re rank amateurs.”

  “I don’t think anyone could be that stupid. Plus, there’s also the fact that this ransom demand only came in after your client’s face got plastered all over the news, appealing to whoever had taken Caroline to let her go.”

  “What about the proof of life, the photos?” I said.

  Her gaze fell across the table and she shook her head.

  “I don’t know about those. They looked genuine, but this drop stinks.”

  “How are the kidnappers communicating with the Bureau?”

  “Didn’t your client tell you?” she said.

  “He told me they were payphone calls. That right?”

  “I think I want to know if Howell is going to the drop. I’ve given you more than enough.”

  As a defense attorney, it went against all my basic instincts but right then, looking into Harper’s eyes I decided I could trust her with this at least.

  “Your boss persuaded him to stay away.”

  She checked her watch, got up and returned to her seat. I got up and slid into the seat beside her. There was no objection, so I didn’t ask permission.