Sudden Death

by David Rosenfelt

  “I just spent twenty-eight hundred bucks on your birthday. Can you be a little more specific?”

  Pete, Laurie, and Larry then alternate being very specific, and the picture they paint of Paul Moreno is not a pretty one. About five years ago a group of young Mexican immigrants started a drug pipeline from their former country to their current home in North Jersey. It was mostly street stuff and relatively small money for this industry.

  What distinguished this gang was the violence they were quite willing to use in running their business. Led by a young hood named Cesar Quintana, they became the area’s primary source of cheap drugs and ruthless violence, and they were limited only by their inherent lack of intelligence. They were not businessmen, and business acumen is needed to sell all products, including illegal drugs.

  Enter Pablo Moreno, born in Mexico to a family of very significant wealth, said to be dubiously earned. Moreno was educated in this country, graduated from the Wharton School of Business, after which Pablo Moreno became Paul Moreno. He returned to Mexico for a while and then settled in North Jersey two years ago to apply his business expertise in earnest.

  It seems as if he conducted an analysis and determined that the best opportunity for success in this country was to become a part of the still-fledgling, unsophisticated operation Quintana was running. Moreno’s style, reputation, and money overwhelmed him, and they soon became partners. They allegedly split the profits, but Quintana has allowed Moreno to call the shots, perhaps the first sign of intelligence he has ever shown.

  In the eyes of law enforcement their operation now represents the worst of both worlds. Moreno provides the smarts and the capital, and Quintana supplies the muscle and willingness to use it. In the process they’ve branched out to higher-end drugs and higher-level clientele.

  “Which is why they’ve become a major pain in the ass of Dominic Petrone,” Pete says.

  “And he hasn’t taken them on?” I ask. Rumor has it that both end zones in Giants Stadium are built on a foundation of people who became pains in the ass of Dominic Petrone.

  Pete shakes his head. “Not yet. Drugs have never been the main part of Petrone’s operation, so he’s let it go so far. There’s no telling how long that will last. It’s a war he’d win, but it would be ugly.”

  “So where does my client fit into this?”

  Larry answers. “He probably doesn’t, but Troy Preston does. Moreno loves football, and he took a liking to Preston. Preston in turn took a liking to Moreno and his lifestyle. The word is, they were really close.”

  “So Preston was dealing for him?” Laurie asks.

  “Not in a serious way at first. More to his friends, certain other players… that kind of thing. People tell me it made him feel like a big shot. Then he started liking the fact that it was supplementing his income, so he branched out some. The bigger problem is, he started using what he was selling, which is not the best thing for a pro football career. And as his career went down, his need for money outside football went up.”

  My mind of course is focused on finding a killer other than Kenny Schilling. I start thinking out loud. “So Petrone could have killed Preston to send a message to Moreno. Or maybe Preston pissed Quintana off, and he killed him.”

  “Or maybe your client is guilty,” Pete says, ever the cop. “The victim’s blood was in his car, and his body was in his house. Not exactly your classic whodunit.”

  “More like your classic frame-up,” I say.

  Pete laughs. “And exactly why would they pick Schilling to frame? It’s not like they would have left evidence for the police to track them down. Petrone’s been murdering people since he was four years old. You think we could have tied him to this?”

  “You? No. The state cops? Maybe.” I don’t really believe what I’m saying; it’s my pathetic attempt to get back at Pete for the birthday bash.

  If Pete is wounded by my attack, he hides it well. He shakes his head. “Nope. Petrone didn’t do Preston, and the job was too classy for Quintana. He would have sliced him up and dumped him in front of City Hall.”

  He’s probably right, but at the very least this opens up a huge area for a defense attorney to explore and exploit. I’m already working out strategies in my mind; the money for this evening’s fiasco may actually turn out to be well spent.

  We pull up at Pete’s car, and as he and Larry get out, Pete pats my arm. “Thanks, man. This is the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me, even if I was the one that did it. But you didn’t get too pissed, and I appreciate it. You’re a good friend.”

  “Happy birthday,” I say. That’ll teach him.

  THERE ARE A FEW things I don’t like about my job. One is that it doesn’t involve playing professional sports, though my placekicking brainstorm should take care of that. Two is that it gives me the creeps to have to call anyone “Your Honor.” Three, and most important, I don’t like to mislead people.

  But misleading people is something a good defense attorney does, and this case is about to become a textbook example. I do not believe that Troy Preston was murdered by Dominic Petrone, Paul Moreno, Cesar Quintana, or anyone else involved with illegal drugs. Those are not people who would have gone to such lengths to frame Kenny Schilling. They would have put a bullet in Preston’s head and dumped him in the river, or buried him where he’d never be found. And, as Pete was quick to point out, they would not have left a trail so they could be caught. And if they weren’t in legal danger, there would be no reason to frame somebody else.

  But these bad guys present perfect targets for me, people who I might get the jury to believe could have done it. It helps me create reasonable doubt that my client is guilty, so I must pursue it vigorously, even though I don’t believe it. I’m not lying, but it still makes me uncomfortable. I’ll go forward with it, though, since our justice system makes no allowances for lawyer discomfort.

  Adam Strickland is with Kevin and Edna when I arrive at the office. He takes notes as Edna regales him with more of her ideas for the crossword puzzle film, and I hear Kevin ask if Adam can use the actual name of Kevin’s privately owned business in the Willie Miller movie. It’s called the Law-dromat, and the gimmick is that Kevin gives free legal advice to his customers. Of course, he can only be there to do that when we are not busy on a case. The way the Schilling case is shaping up, there are going to be a whole lot of poorly advised launderers running around North Jersey for a while.

  Adam tells Kevin that he’ll definitely put the Law-dromat in the script and refers to Kevin’s idea as My Beautiful Laundrette meets The Verdict. Unfortunately, Adam forgets to mention that the script will ultimately travel through the pipe and into the sewer.

  I haven’t thought about Adam since I discussed him with Kenny, but I make a decision in the moment to let him hang out with us. Kenny didn’t mind, and I made a commitment to the studio, so I might as well. I have Edna type up a standard agreement, and within minutes Adam is an employee of my firm, bound by the same confidentiality guarantees as the rest of us.

  I explain to Kevin what we’ve learned about Troy Preston’s relationship to Paul Moreno and the drugs he distributes. I find myself feeling self-conscious with Adam listening in, especially since he is staring at me so intently as I speak that it feels like he’s literally inhaling my words.

  Because of Adam’s presence, I don’t mention to Kevin my feeling that, while we now have some people to point the finger at, I don’t really believe they are guilty. This is not a good start to this relationship; I’m going to have to either trust Adam or renege on our agreement and remove him from our team.

  Kevin and I kick things around for about a half hour, until Laurie shows up with Marcus Clark. I had told her to bring in Marcus once I learned that we were going to be dealing with people as dangerous as Cesar Quintana and Paul Moreno. It makes me feel secure to have Marcus in our camp, in the same fashion that Don Corleone felt secure having Luca Brazi on his side. Having only seen Luca in the movie, and never meeting him i
n person, my view is that Marcus is far scarier. To me, Marcus makes Luca look like Mary Lou Retton.

  Adam looks stunned when Laurie and Marcus enter, and it’s easy to understand why. There could not be two human beings on this planet who look more different, yet each has achieved a type of physical near perfection. Laurie is white, tall, blond, and breathtakingly beautiful, with a face that combines intelligence, compassion, and more than a modicum of toughness. Marcus is African-American, short, bald, and carved from burnished steel, with a perpetual scowl so fearsome that my initial instinct is invariably to back away from him, even though he’s on my side.

  What Marcus and Laurie have in common is that they are both talented investigators, though their styles are as different as their looks. Laurie is smart and relentless, pushing and probing, until she learns what she has to learn. People provide Marcus with information in the hope that he will continue to let them live. And sometimes he does.

  I introduce them to Adam, mentioning that Adam is a writer.

  “Books?” asks Marcus, a man of few words.

  “Movies,” says Adam. He says it nervously, because when people talk to Marcus, the goal is not to say the wrong thing. “I write screenplays, and—”

  “Rambo?” interrupts Marcus.

  “Uh, no. I didn’t write Rambo,” says Adam, glancing quickly at me in the hope I’ll jump in and help, which I won’t. “But I liked it. It was a wonderful film. They… they were wonderful films… all the Rambos.”

  Marcus just shakes his head and sits down, no longer interested in Adam or his portfolio. He also doesn’t say a word as I go over everything I know about Paul Moreno and Cesar Quintana. I’m speaking strictly for Marcus’s benefit, since Laurie already knows all of this, having been my date for Pete’s birthday extravaganza.

  When I’m finished, it’s time to give out the assignments. I say to Marcus, “I’d like you to find out everything you can about Quintana and whatever connections he has to Troy Preston or Kenny Schilling.”

  Marcus just stares at me, not saying a word. Also not a nod or a blink or a shrug or any other human response. It’s disorienting, but it’s pure Marcus.

  I continue. “Be careful, these guys are very dangerous.”

  Again I get the Marcus stare, but no other reaction.

  “I’m glad we had this chat,” I say. “I always find these exchanges of ideas very helpful.”

  Apparently also satisfied with the discussion, Marcus gets up and leaves.

  “Jesus Christ,” says Adam. “Godzilla meets Shaft. Are we sure he’s on our side?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” I say. “If we find out he’s sleeping with the fishes, we’re in big trouble.”

  With that, I leave to begin what may be an impossible project. I’m going to attempt to reverse the tide of public opinion that has been building against Kenny, the overwhelming feeling that he must be guilty.

  While Kenny has always been relatively popular, this belief in his guilt amounts to mass wishful thinking, by both the public and the press. The media see this as a monster story, sure to sell newspapers and lift Nielsen ratings for months. The public views it as entertainment, much more fascinating and exciting than whether Britney and Justin will get back together. They are looking forward to following the soap opera that will lead up to and include the trial.

  All of this anticipated fun for everyone would be wiped away if something came out to vindicate Kenny and lead to the charges being dropped. So while no one would ever admit it, the wishful thinking is that he is guilty, so the show can go on.

  I’ve decided to let our developing defense point of view leak out into the public discourse, but I can’t do so openly. I have to do it in a sneaky, underhanded manner, which our system fortunately encourages. My only dilemma was in deciding which member of the press to make my partner, since the number of willing candidates would literally number in the thousands.

  I briefly considered whether to go national, to slip my story to Time, Newsweek, or one of the cable outlets. The advantage would be immediate widespread coverage, but in this situation it’s just not necessary. Any story, no matter its origin, will be picked up in the hurricane that has become this case and spread everywhere. I could plant this in the afternoon with a stringer for the Okefenokee Swamp Gazette, and it would be the lead on CNN before nightfall.

  Once I made the decision to do this locally, the choice of whom to go to was a difficult one. Vince Sanders, editor of one of the local papers, has helped me a number of times in the past. He’s also a good friend, which is the main reason I can’t go to him. I can’t have my fingerprints on this. Everybody will assume I’m behind it anyway, but if Vince breaks the story, they’ll know it for an actual fact. Vince is going to kill me for not going to him, but I’ll make it up to him later on.

  I narrowed my choice down to two or three prospects and finally settled on Karen Spivey, a real pro who has covered the courthouse beat for as long as I can remember. She’s a no-frills, old-fashioned reporter who grabs a story in her teeth and pulls on it until all the facts come out. She’s also done me a bunch of favors in the past, and it’s nice to be able to repay one.

  I called Karen yesterday and told her that I had a scoop for her but that it was off the record—“background,” as it’s known in reporter jargon. We agreed to meet at the duck pond in Ridgewood, an out-of-the-way place where we’d be unlikely to be seen. Her office is in Clifton, but she was quite willing to travel the half hour or so to get to Ridgewood. The truth is, she was so excited to hear from me that she would have agreed to meet me in Beirut.

  I stop on the way and pick up Tara, since the duck pond ranks with her favorite places on earth. We don’t even bring along her favorite tennis ball, since throwing it causes a commotion that makes the ducks swim away from us. Tara likes them close-up, where she can observe them.

  We arrive before Karen, and Tara immediately goes into staring mode, watching every move the ducks make. They watch her just as carefully; it’s as if they’re all here because they’re writing a dissertation on the habits of the other species. The ducks don’t seem at all threatened by Tara, though they shy away whenever other dogs show up.

  Karen arrives, and as she gets out of her car and looks toward me, I point at a deserted picnic area. I call Tara to come along with me as I go to meet her, though Tara would much rather stay and watch the ducks. I don’t like to take her away from them, but I care for Tara as I would a child, and you don’t leave children alone at the duck pond or anywhere else.

  Karen, in her business suit, looks completely out of place in these surroundings. Her reputation is that she works twenty-four hours a day, and it’s unlikely her job brings her to very many duck ponds.

  “Thanks for coming, Karen,” I say, pretending that she’s done me a favor.

  She taps her foot on the ground. “What is all this green stuff?”

  “Grass. And the brown material under that is dirt.”

  She shakes her head, as if in wonderment. “Damn. I heard about this stuff. But I didn’t realize there was any around here.”

  “Next time I’ll show you flowers.”

  “You do that. Are we going to make small talk all day?” Her trip to nature is over; she’s back to business.

  “Unless you confirm that we’re off the record.”

  She nods. “We’re off.”

  “You can say you got this from sources close to the defense,” I allow, “but my name doesn’t get mentioned.”

  “Agreed.”

  I proceed to tell her what I know about the drug connection Troy Preston had with Cesar Quintana. I don’t mention Paul Moreno, and I don’t mention the rivalry with Dominic Petrone, preferring to hold all of that until a later date. There is always the possibility that Karen, being a good reporter, will uncover it on her own, and that would be fine with me.

  “Was Preston involved in their drug business?” she asks.

  I nod. “That is our information, though we’re
not ready to prove it. He certainly had drugs in his system.”

  “As did your client.”

  “Preston took them voluntarily,” I say.

  She seems surprised. “And Schilling didn’t?”

  “Schilling didn’t.”

  “So how did the body get in Schilling’s house and the blood in his car?” she asks.

  “We’ll take that up next semester.”

  Karen looks skeptical, as she should be. “You think Quintana framed him? Why would they do that?”

  I smile knowingly, even though I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m talking about. “Come on,” I say, “I’ll show you how cute Tara is with the ducks.”

  Much to my amazement, Karen has no desire to see how cute Tara is with the ducks. She declines, then rushes off across the green stuff to her car so she can prepare her story.

  THE PHONE WAKES me at six A.M., and Laurie answers it.

  “Hello,” she says, then listens for a moment and hands the phone to me. “It’s Vince. He wants to talk to the ‘shithead source close to the defense.’”

  I take the phone. I’ve dreaded this conversation and was hoping to put it off until later than six in the morning. “Hello, Vince, old buddy,” I say. “How are you?”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Vince has obviously read Karen Spivey’s story already. “I’m sorry, Vince. If I gave the story to you, everyone would have known I planted it.”

  “Who do you think they suspect now? The queen of fucking England?”

  I actually feel bad about this, but I’ll get over it. “You’ll get the next one. I promise.”

  “I’d better. And just to show there are no hard feelings, you can have my next one. It’s about your client, and you’re not going to like it.”

  “What is it?”

  Click.

  Vince hanging up on me is not a news event, but what he said leaves me a little unsettled. He’s a terrific newsman with a first-rate staff of reporters and very capable of having come up with something on Kenny. If he said I’m not going to like it, it’s safe to assume that I won’t.