Sudden Death

by David Rosenfelt

  As startled bystanders come over, Ugly staggers to his feet, still apparently more hurt from the effects of Marcus’s punch than his fall. He makes it to a nearby parked car, opens the door, and falls into the passenger seat. The driver, who was waiting for him, pulls out.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say. “I’ve got to go buy some cantaloupes.”

  I go downstairs to pay Sofia Hernandez, the owner of the fruit stand, enough money to take care of the damage and aggravation. She’s amazingly calm about it, as if thugs falling from the sky are an unfortunate but expected part of doing business.

  I’m ready to go back upstairs when Pete Stanton pulls up, along with two other cars with patrolmen. Pete comes over to me, a grin on his face. “When I heard on the radio that the guy came flying out of your office window, I had to take the call.”

  “Thanks for caring,” I say, and suggest that he come upstairs. “Marcus is up there.”

  Pete nods in understanding. “Ah, the human launching pad.”

  Pete comes up, and Laurie and I watch with barely concealed amusement as he tries to question Marcus. If a transcript could be done of this interview, and there were a thousand words spoken, Pete would be shown to have spoken nine hundred and seventy of them. Marcus simply has little to say, whether he is talking to Pete, the SS, or anyone else.

  Finally, Pete turns to me as a witness to the events. I ask Marcus if I can speak for him, and he both nods and grunts, which represents a ringing endorsement of me as his spokesman.

  I describe Ugly, though it is a basic, not very helpful description. I have no comprehension of how some people can remember faces as well as they do. More amazing is how they can describe them. It’s not even just a question of memory; if you gave me a picture of someone to refer to, I still couldn’t describe him or her well enough for a police artist to draw.

  When I am finished, Pete says, “He sounds like any one of a hundred people who work for Quintana.”

  “Except this one can fly,” I point out.

  “Right. Now, exactly how did that come about?”

  “It’s pretty simple,” I say. “He was hassling me, Marcus asked that he stop, he attacked Marcus, Marcus picked him up, Laurie asked Marcus to put him down, and Marcus put him down.”

  “Outside the window,” Pete says.

  Laurie says, “My mistake was in not telling Marcus which side of the window to put him down on.”

  “The guy was having trouble breathing,” I say, “and Marcus has heard Edna mention that the air is fresher out there. He was doing him a favor.”

  “After this, Quintana’s going to send people after you in bunches,” Pete says, injecting some depressing reality. “Is Marcus always going to be there?”

  I look at Marcus, who shrugs. It’s not the most reassuring shrug I’ve ever seen. Marcus can stop a lot of people, but eventually, one is going to get through. To me. And if one of them gets through to me, it’s game, set, and match.

  Pete leaves, and Laurie, Marcus, and I talk about how we should proceed in light of this new, very disturbing development. Laurie is concerned for my personal safety, and while I pretend to be stoic about it, I certainly share that concern. Our hope is that Ugly’s visit, while embarrassing to Quintana, might be thought to have served its purpose. I’ve been warned, and although our collective reaction to the warning was to toss Ugly out the window, Quintana can at least be sure the warning was delivered.

  Almost as disturbing was Ugly’s claim that Kenny had something belonging to Quintana, and his demand to get it back. If true, Kenny certainly hasn’t shared the news with me. If not true, Quintana is just going to get more upset when he doesn’t recover whatever it is he’s missing.

  We agree that Marcus will keep an eye on me for now, though from a distance. He’s very good at it, and it makes me feel safer, at least for the time being. But the trick is not to throw all of Quintana’s people out the window. The trick is to get Quintana to stop sending those people in the first place.

  There is only one person who can do that.

  PAUL MORENO’S personal assistant is so cute and perky she could be a cheerleader. She greets me at his office at PTM Investments with, “Hello, Mr. Carpenter, and welcome to PTM. My name is Cassie. It’s so nice to meet you.” If I gave her some pom-poms, I think she’d jump in the air and yell, “Give me a P! Give me a T!” I can’t tell if she’s completely sincere, but so far I like Moreno’s staff a hell of a lot better than Quintana’s.

  There’s a lot I don’t know about PTM Investments. For instance, I don’t know what the “T” stands for, and I don’t know what they invest in. But I can find out that stuff some other time; right now my goal is to convince Paul Moreno to prevent me from being killed.

  In the next five minutes Cassie announces my presence to Moreno, fields two calls, brings me some delicious hot coffee, and gets me in to see Moreno. All of this she accomplishes with a smile. She is the anti-Edna.

  Moreno’s office is done in chrome and steel, ultramodern to the point that it looks like it was furnished in the last couple of hours. His desk has only a phone on it; paper and writing instruments are nowhere to be seen.

  Moreno’s window looks out at Van Houten Street in downtown Paterson, and it seems incongruous considering the obvious expensiveness of the office furnishings. The street is not a slum, but nor is it the kind of view that’s going to make Ritz Carlton buy up the adjacent land.

  When I enter, Moreno is standing behind his round bar, making a couple of drinks. He gives me a warm smile. “Mr. Carpenter, welcome.” For a ruthless drug dealer’s office, things are pretty friendly.

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I say.

  He comes around the bar, holding two drinks. The liquid in them is pink, almost red. “Try one of these,” he says.

  “It’s a little early in the day for me.”

  “Not for this. It’s made from fruit trees at my home. They’re crossbred, unlike anything you’ve ever had.”

  I take one and sip it. It hits me with a jolt; it’s one of the best and most distinctive tastes I’ve ever experienced. “This is unbelievable,” I say, and guzzle down the rest of the glass. He laughs and heads back to the bar to pour another.

  “So what can I do for you?” he asks.

  We’re about to get to the unpleasant part of the visit; I briefly wonder if I should wait until he gives me another glass full of that great juice. I decide to go ahead. “Tell Cesar Quintana not to try and kill me.”

  I guess I haven’t offended him too badly, because he hands me the drink before responding. “Who is Cesar Quintana, and why would he want to kill you?” he asks.

  He’s either playing a game with me or worried that I’m wearing a wire. Either way, I have to go along with it. “He’s a drug dealer whose name came up in connection with the Kenny Schilling case. He sent an emissary to my office to warn me not to mention him again.” I decide to leave out the part about Schilling having something that he wants; Moreno is probably very aware of it, but just in case, it gives me something to hold back.

  “Why are you telling this to me?”

  “Because he is either your partner or your employee, and I’m told that you can control him.”

  “If that were true, and I’m certainly not saying that it is, why would I want to control him? How would that be to my advantage?”

  “To keep your own name out of the press. Bad publicity, no matter how unfair, is bad for investments. Think Martha Stewart.” I hold up my glass. “Although you make a better drink.”

  Moreno walks over to his desk, picks up his phone, and says something I can’t quite hear. Within five seconds the door opens and two very large men in suits come in. I would have preferred perky Cassie.

  Before I can react, they have ahold of me and push me up against the wall. One of them keeps me pinned, unable to move, while the other frisks me, no doubt checking for a wire. Finding none, they leave as quickly as they came. If there was a seconda
ry goal to leave me feeling intimidated and vulnerable, Moreno has achieved that as well. Physically, I’m okay, except my heart is pounding so hard I don’t think I’ll be able to hear over it.

  “Mr. Carpenter, do you have any idea how much you will shorten your life span by threatening me?”

  I try to compose myself, to not look as frightened as I am. “I didn’t intend it as a threat,” I say. “I see it as a negotiation… a deal.”

  “With all the publicity surrounding this football player’s case, killing you now could bring unwanted attention to my business, but it would be a manageable inconvenience.”

  My mind flashes to my future headstone: “Here lies Andy Carpenter. He was a manageable inconvenience.” I decide not to mention my headstone image to Moreno, for fear that he’ll make it come true. “Think how inconvenient it would be for me,” I say.

  He smiles. “That’s not really my concern. Cesar Quintana is not someone who can easily be controlled. Especially after the embarrassment in your office yesterday.”

  I return the smile, which is difficult, since my lips are shaking along with everything else. “Maybe you can reason with him. As one businessman to another.”

  He shakes his head, as if I just don’t get it, but I decide to push it. “Look, after all this, the police would know where to look if anything happened to me. They’d come straight for Quintana and for you. Probably you could handle it, but maybe not. I’m just suggesting it’s not worth it to find out.”

  He thinks for a moment, as if deciding what to do. My hunch is that no matter what decision he is about to announce, he had made it before I even walked into his office. “I would strongly suggest you hold up your end of the bargain,” he says.

  “So we have a deal?” I decide to be explicit. “You call off Quintana, and I keep your name out of it.”

  He nods. “We have a deal.”

  I look toward the bar hopefully. “Let’s drink to it.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Goodbye, Mr. Carpenter.”

  My next stop is the courthouse, where there is a hearing before the judge recently assigned to the case, Henry Harrison. Judge Harrison is a sixty-two-year-old with an impressive résumé. He was a full marine colonel, a Vietnam hero with a Silver Star. He retired from the service at the age of forty-five, went to Seton Hall Law School, spent five years as a prosecutor, and eventually became a superior-court judge. Our backgrounds are quite similar, except for the fact that he’s spent his entire life serving society, whereas I’ve spent my entire life living in it.

  While assignment of judges is said to be random, my guess is that Judge Harrison was specifically chosen. His background is well known, and he has a large reservoir of respect from the public, which will help when his rulings are inevitably scrutinized. He is also firm and decisive on the bench, well equipped to deal with whatever bullshit Dylan and I try to throw at him. Lastly, he is nearing retirement age and not likely to be swayed by public pressure.

  I’m a few minutes from the courthouse when my cell phone rings and Vince Sanders’s voice cheerfully greets me with, “Where are you now, you traitor shithead?”

  “How long are you going to hold a grudge, Vince?”

  “Are you kidding? I still hate Jimmy Collins, a kid who pissed me off in kindergarten.”

  “Where is he now?” I ask, pretending I’m interested.

  “He’s a priest. Runs a soup kitchen and shelter on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Dedicates his life to helping the sick and the poor… the son of a bitch.”

  I can’t help laughing, though I know that will only encourage him. “What can I do for you, Vince?”

  “Get your ass over here. We’ve got a deal to make.”

  “What kind of deal?” I ask.

  “I give you some bad news about your client before it breaks, and you promise me future scoops.”

  Uh-oh. “What kind of bad news?”

  “Not over a cell phone, bozo. Anybody could be listening in.”

  I explain to Vince that I’m on my way to court, and we agree to meet at Charlie’s tonight. I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.

  Dylan is already in court when I arrive, but he glances quickly and then looks away as I enter. We are not going to be friendly adversaries during this trial, which is fine with me. I like to antagonize and annoy the opposing attorney in hopes of goading him or her into a mistake or misjudgment. It’s part of my style, and its effectiveness varies according to the opponent. Dylan has shown himself susceptible to this strategy in the past, so I’m not about to blow that potential advantage by getting chummy with him.

  I work my way through the press and packed gallery to join Kevin, seated at the defense table. Seconds later Kenny Schilling is brought in. I usually like to talk to my clients before each appearance so as to let them know what to expect. I arrived too late to do so today, which is no tragedy, since this will be little more than a formality. Kenny’s role will be merely to sit and watch.

  Judge Harrison comes in and immediately gets the hearing started. He’s basically an impatient man, and he usually presides as if he’s got a train to catch. Once Dylan and I are introduced as the respective counsel, Harrison says, “Talk to me, gentlemen.”

  Dylan surprises me by requesting a gag order on all interested parties. It is clear that he considers Karen Spivey’s story, and the furor that followed, to be a negative for the prosecution. He wants the focus kept on Kenny as the only possible killer.

  “Your Honor, the defense has been advancing wild theories in the press, which can only serve to pollute the jury pool,” Dylan says.

  I’m torn here. Basically, I’d be fine with a gag order, since I’ve already put out Quintana’s name, and I have nothing to add to that. I’m questioning myself, though, trying to make sure that I am not subconsciously in favor of it so that I can more easily keep my deal with Moreno. Keeping that deal has the additional benefit of keeping me alive.

  I stand. “Your Honor, the prosecution has been publicly proclaiming that my client is guilty since the moment of the arrest. The press coverage has been overwhelmingly in the prosecution’s favor. We would be in favor of the gag order as well; it’s too bad it couldn’t have been in place earlier.”

  Dylan half whirls in surprise, not knowing what to make of this. I believe he had been hoping I would be opposed to the gag order and that Judge Harrison would be reluctant to impose it. This would have allowed Dylan to play the aggrieved party while still playing to the press every chance he got.

  Harrison lets him off the hook. “Despite the apparent agreement on this issue by both parties, I am not prepared to issue the order at this point. But I do expect both the prosecution and defense”—he looks at the gallery—“as well as the media, to behave responsibly, or I will revisit the issue.”

  Harrison announces his intention to set a trial date, and Dylan suggests the first week in November. That would be quick for a trial of this magnitude, which is why Dylan is again surprised when I propose the first week in September. Dylan is right to be surprised: It is straight out of Defense 101 to delay as much as possible. Unfortunately, Kenny did not take that course, and he’s insisted on his right to a speedy trial.

  Harrison is also surprised. He’s six foot five, and from his position up on the bench it looks like he’s peering down from Mount Olympus. “Are you sure about this, Mr. Carpenter? That’s just six weeks from today.”

  I decide to try to turn this negative into a slight positive. “Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Schilling wants to miss as little of the season as possible.” The football season starts around the same time as the trial will start, and I want any Giants fans on the jury to be keenly aware of their power to put Kenny back on the field.

  Harrison handles a few minor “housekeeping” chores, then rejects my plea to set bail. I told Kenny that it was a formality, that there was no chance bail would be granted, yet I can still feel his disappointment when Harrison refuses.

  I arrange to sp
eak to Kenny in an anteroom for a few moments after the hearing. I tell him about the visit from Ugly and his comments that Kenny has something that belongs to Quintana.

  “Man, Preston must have been in with some heavy guys,” Kenny observes with some pleasure. Kenny’s no dummy; he believes that the more dangerous Preston’s associates were, the more chance that the jury will believe they killed him.

  “Do you have anything of his?”

  He shakes his head. “No, man. I don’t have any idea what they’re talking about.”

  I’ve given up trying to read the truthfulness of Kenny’s statements. I’m unable to do so, and it doesn’t do me any good anyway, so I just take them at face value.

  I head back to the office to do some paperwork before going to Charlie’s to hear whatever disaster Vince has in store for me. Alone at the office is Adam, typing away on his laptop. I feel a flash of guilt that I forgot to invite him to the hearing today and that I generally have not been that accessible.

  “How’s it going?” I ask.

  “Great,” he says with characteristic enthusiasm. “I’m working on an outline. I read through most of the transcript of the Miller trial today.”

  “What did you think?”

  “You’re damn good. I couldn’t write you that good if I started from scratch. Lucky I don’t have to.”

  “I could show you some other transcripts which wouldn’t impress you quite so much.”

  “I doubt it,” he says. I like this guy more and more every day.

  I decide to invite him to Charlie’s with Vince. He deserves some exposure to the inner workings of the case, and he’s sworn to secrecy, so it doesn’t seem as if it can hurt. He jumps at the opportunity. It’s hard to imagine an opportunity he wouldn’t jump at.

  I check through my messages before we leave, just in case someone else has called to confess to the Preston murder. No such luck, and within a half hour Adam and I are in the car heading to Charlie’s.