“Are you aware that eight of the people on that list are dead?”
His head snaps up from the list. “Dead?”
“Dead.”
He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I have no inclination to tell him what I’m talking about, so instead, I give him a group of copied pages that Sam has gotten from hacking into computers. “Please look through these pages and tell me if they are copies of your credit card bills.”
He looks, though not too carefully. His mind must be racing, trying to figure out a way out of the trap that he’s just “wheeled” himself into. “Yes… they look like mine. Sure.”
“You can take some time to confirm this, but I will now tell you that based on your credit card receipts, you were within two hours’ drive of every one of those deaths at the time they happened. Yet you lived in New Jersey, and these deaths occurred in all different parts of the country.”
“You’re not saying I killed these people. Is that what you’re saying?” He’s showing a proper measure of confusion and outrage, an amazing job under the circumstances. But for someone who can fake paralysis for years, this bullshit must be a piece of cake.
“So you did not kill them? You did not kill any of them? Including the victim in this case?”
“I have never killed anyone in my life.”
“And everything you’ve said in court today is truthful?”
“Totally.”
“Equally truthful? None of your statements were less true than others?”
“Every single word has been the truth.”
“How did you get to court today, Mr. Pollard?”
Finally, a crack in his armor, the kind of crack that the Iraqi army left on the way to Baghdad. First his eyes flash panic, then anger. “You son of a bitch,” he says.
Harrison admonishes him for his answer, and I ask the question again. “How did you get to court today, Mr. Pollard?”
His voice is soft, his teeth clenched. “I drove.”
“Using the set of hand controls you described earlier?”
“Yes.” He has the look of a man being dragged closer and closer to a cliff. All the while his mind must be racing, trying to figure out if I can prove that he’s lying. If I can prove it, he’ll stop lying and try to lessen the damage. If I can’t, there’s no reason for him to stop.
“And that statement is as truthful as every other one you’ve made today?”
“Yes.”
I let him off the stand, asking that he remain in the court, subject to recall. Harrison grants the request, and Dylan doesn’t object. Dylan looks like he’s planning to follow Pollard over the cliff.
Pollard takes a seat near the back of the room, and I call Lester Mankiewicz, a client of Sam’s. Mankiewicz was a computer technician for the Ford Motor Company at their Mahwah, New Jersey, plant. He worked there for eleven years, installing and operating the computers that exist in every car made today.
Lester agreed to Sam’s request for help in this case because it sounded like fun, and Sam says there’s pretty much nothing that Lester won’t do for fun. I had explained to Lester that what he would be doing was technically illegal, but that I could guarantee that he would not be charged with a crime. Once I told him what we wanted him to do, I think he would have paid us for the opportunity.
I have a television and VCR brought into the courtroom and take Lester through his story. He and Sam taped every aspect of it, so his words are like televised voice-over.
“Last night at three A.M. I entered Bobby Pollard’s unlocked vehicle, which was parked on the street in front of his neighbor’s house. I installed a device that is technically a small computer chip but really operates like an alarm clock. In this case it was set to go off five minutes after the car was started.”
“What would happen when it went off?” I ask.
“It would disable the hand controls… neither the brakes nor gas would work, other than by using the foot pedals.”
He continues to describe the rest of the operation. He installed another device to measure pressure on the foot pedals, and both devices could be monitored at a remote location.
“Please take us through what happened when Mr. Pollard started driving,” I say.
His presentation is devastating. I expected that when the hand controls lost power, Pollard would be forced to use his legs to control and drive the car, secure that no one would ever know the difference, since he was alone. Amazingly, Pollard never used the hand controls at all, using the foot pedals the entire time. Every bit of this is measured by computer.
I let Lester off the stand and try to introduce copies of Pollard’s medical records. They show that he was in fact in an accident in Spain but that it was relatively minor. The accident left him paralyzed, but the attending physician found no medical explanation for it.
Dylan objects to the introduction of the medical records, on the grounds that there is no one in the court qualified to authenticate them. Harrison agrees, as I figured he would, and we don’t get to use them.
Next up is Carlotta Abbruzze, a shrink I went to for a while when my marriage was breaking up. I decided I didn’t want to be shrunk, and my marriage broke up, but Carlotta and I remained friends. She has more Ph.D.’s than anyone I know, and she is easily qualified to testify in this case.
I ask Carlotta to explain psychosomatic paralysis. In layman’s terms she explains that while there is no physical reason for it, the paralysis itself is real. She also describes how the human mind, if it leans toward such a syndrome, can be incredibly opportunistic. A minor car accident such as Pollard had could have triggered the immediate mental response to develop the syndrome.
“How long might it last?” I ask.
“Anywhere from a few minutes to a lifetime. When it disappears, the patient might intentionally continue to fake the paralysis, if it is providing some mental comfort for him.”
“Just hypothetically, if a young man whose entire life was dedicated to football came to believe that he was not good enough to make it in the NFL, might even that subconscious realization bring on the syndrome?”
“It’s certainly possible,” Carlotta says.
Dylan’s cross-examination is relatively effective, getting Carlotta to admit that she has never examined Pollard and that she can’t be sure that he has ever suffered from this syndrome. I’m ultimately satisfied with her testimony; the jury understands this is a possible explanation for Pollard’s situation.
To cap off an extraordinary day, I call a devastated Bobby Pollard back to the stand. “Mr. Pollard,” I ask, “were all of your previous answers to my questions truthful?”
His reply is terse. “I take the Fifth.”
“Have you been lying about your medical condition?”
“I take the Fifth.”
“Did you kill members of the high school all-American team that you were chosen to be on?”
“No.”
I let Bobby go and call Pete Stanton. He testifies about Adam’s murder, including the fact that Adam’s computer showed that he had been investigating the high school all-American team. He also confirms that the phone bill from the phone Adam used in my office shows two calls to Bobby Pollard the day he was murdered.
“And where was Kenny Schilling on that day, the day Adam Strickland was murdered?” I ask.
“In County Jail,” Pete says.
Dylan’s cross-examination is quick, as if he doesn’t want to concede Pete has had anything important to say. “Lieutenant Stanton, have you arrested Bobby Pollard for the murder of Adam Strickland?”
“No.”
“Have you decided to?”
“Not at this moment.”
Dylan nods; his point is made. “But you did arrest someone for this murder?”
“Cesar Quintana, but he was released for lack of evidence.”
“And you believed that he was the killer and that the murder was a case of mistaken
identity? Is that not true?”
“I believed it then, but I’ve learned a lot since then.”
“But again, you haven’t learned quite enough to make another arrest?”
“It won’t be long now,” Pete says.
Dylan smiles. “I can hardly wait.”
Pete leaves the stand, and I call Dr. Stanley Robbins, my last witness of the day. He testifies as to the properties of potassium and its ability to cause fatal heart attacks while being very difficult to discover.
Dylan’s cross-examination is brief, and a very eventful court day is over. As I’m leaving, Laurie arrives, looking somewhat shaken from her experience at the TV studio with Teri Pollard.
“It was horrible,” Laurie says. “Before she knew what we were doing, she was confiding in me, talking about how difficult their life has been since Bobby’s injury. Then, when she realized what was going on today, and that Bobby was faking that injury… I don’t think she had any idea, Andy.”
Laurie is feeling guilty about having deceived her, and I am as well, but I don’t know how it could have been helped.
I do know one thing… I’m glad I’m not there to hear the conversation in the Pollard house tonight.
TONIGHT’S MEETING is to make the most important decision a defense attorney has to make in every trial: whether or not to let the defendant testify in his own defense. Usually, that important decision is a no-brainer, and my clients would have to walk over my dead body to reach the witness stand. Of course, most of them would prefer it that way.
This case is different, mainly because Kenny is the only person who can testify to a crucial fact: the subject of the “team meeting” the high school kids held in that restaurant those many years ago. Only three people are left alive who were there and know about the pact to share their NFL riches with each other. One is Kenny, one is Pollard, and the other is Devan Bryant, who is currently serving in the United States Army, stationed fifty miles outside of Kabul, Afghanistan. Bryant is unavailable to us, and Pollard seems likely not to aid in his own demise, so that leaves only Kenny.
Kenny wants to testify, which is typical of most defendants. In his view he will tell his story, and everyone will then believe him, and he can go home. This fantasy is greater in celebrities than mere mortals; they are used to their fans hanging on their every word. The problem is, Dylan is not a fan.
Laurie and Kevin are divided on the issue. Laurie thinks that Kenny should testify, that without the story of that pact the players took, there is not a strong enough basis for anyone to accept the serial killing connection. She doesn’t think the statistical-probability evidence, while unequivocal, got through to the jury.
Kevin, with proper lawyer’s caution, is opposed to Kenny testifying. He has seen too many people, many innocent, self-destruct under a wilting cross-examination. Dylan is good. Kevin knows it and doesn’t want to take the chance.
This is a decision I always make myself, with equal amounts logic and gut instinct. Both are telling me that Kenny should not go near that stand, that the benefits of the “pact” story and Kenny’s appealing demeanor will be outweighed by the negative of cross-examination. I don’t want to give Dylan a chance to take Kenny through the facts of this case, most of which are incriminating. And I sure don’t want Kenny up there talking about how he held off the police at gunpoint while Troy Preston’s body was stuffed in his bedroom closet.
Kevin leaves, and I start thinking about my closing statement. Like my opening statement, I don’t write it out, rarely even take notes, because I want it to be as spontaneous as possible. But there are points I want to be sure I cover, so I start mentally ticking them off.
Laurie comes into the den and asks if I want something to eat. I don’t, and I’m about to tell her so when the phone rings. She picks it up. “Hello.”
She listens for a few seconds and then says a tentative “Hi.” Since the initial “Hello” should have covered the greeting part of her conversation, and since I can hear a tension in her voice, I immediately know that this is a charged phone call.
The rest of the call is peppered with clever Laurie-phrases like “I see,” “I will,” and “Of course.” Laurie sneaks glances over at me to see if I’m paying attention to her, so I try to pretend that I’m not, though of course she knows I am.
She throws in a final “I will,” and then hangs up. She looks over at me, and I say, “Wrong number?”
She smiles slightly, as if caught, and says, “That was Sandy. They’re pressuring him to pressure me for an answer.”
“You said ‘I will’ twice. Was that as in ‘I will move back to Findlay,’ or as in ‘I will never leave the love of my life, Andy Carpenter’?” I’m trying to make my tone sound flip, which is tough considering I’m so nervous I can’t unclench my teeth.
“It was as in ‘I will have an answer by next week,’” she says.
“You don’t know what you’re going to do yet?” I ask.
“Andy, you will know the moment I do.” She comes over and sits next to me, putting her hand on my knee. “And I’m sorry to put you through this… it’s just very hard for me. I’m finding this so terribly difficult.”
“Join the club,” I say.
Laurie leaves me to work on my closing statement, not the easiest thing to do under these circumstances. Tara lays her head on my knee, in the same place where Laurie’s hand had just been. “You’re going to stay with me, right?” I say to her. “I’m prepared to guarantee you biscuits for life if you do.”
She snuggles against me. Just what I like, a woman who can be bought.
THE MOMENT COURT is called to order, I announce that we are resting our case. Harrison asks Dylan if he would like to adjourn until after lunch to prepare his closing argument, but Dylan’s preference is not to wait. He clearly had correctly predicted I would not let Kenny take the stand, and is fully prepared.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dylan begins, “when I stood before you at the start of this trial, I told you that Mr. Carpenter would invent theories and attempt to confuse you with irrelevancies. I told you that you should keep your eyes on the evidence and not let his sleight of hand fool you. But I’ve got to be honest, I had no idea how far he would go with it.
“Think about it. None of it had anything to do with the facts. Those facts haven’t changed, haven’t even been challenged. Kenny Schilling was seen leaving the bar with Troy Preston shortly before he was killed. Mr. Preston’s blood was found in Schilling’s abandoned car. His body was found in a closet in Schilling’s house.
“But we hear that Mr. Schilling was somehow framed; that he’s innocent, pure as the driven snow. So how did this innocent man act when the police arrived? He shot at them and barricaded himself in his house.” Dylan shakes his head sadly. “Amazing.
“Now, Mr. Carpenter is a very clever lawyer, but when confronted with these facts, he acted like a man in a trap. First he tried to get out of that trap by claiming a Mexican drug gang did it, though he neglects to say why. Then, when he realized that exit was closed off, he tried to escape the trap by completely reversing direction, claiming it was part of a serial killing and the trainer did it.” Dylan chuckles slightly to himself and shakes his head at the absurdity of it.
“I don’t know how those poor young men died, but I do know the police in each case did not consider them murders… not even suspicious. And I also know that those deaths bear no resemblance whatsoever to the kind of death Troy Preston suffered: dumped in a closet and shot in the chest.
“I also don’t know what drives a man like Bobby Pollard to fake such a serious injury. And I don’t know how cell phones work, or what keeps airplanes in the air, or how we landed a man on the moon. And all of those things that I don’t know have nothing to do with this case.
“I do know that Troy Preston is dead,” he says, and points to Kenny, “and that this man killed him. And I am confident that you know it as well and that you will find him guilty as charged.”
; Dylan has outdone himself; I have never heard him better. I feel a momentary panic that, while I’ve been focused so much on the deaths of all those football players, the jury might well see them as irrelevant.
I stand and walk slowly toward the jury. “On a December weekend almost eight years ago eleven teenagers were brought together. They came from Iowa, and Wisconsin, and Alabama, and Texas, and California, and Pennsylvania, and Nebraska, and Ohio, and North Carolina, and two from right here in New Jersey.
“Except for the two men from New Jersey, Kenny Schilling and Bobby Pollard, they were all meeting for the first time. So they spent the weekend together, and they talked. In fact, one of their talks was so secret that they asked the only adult in the room to leave so he wouldn’t hear them.
“And then the weekend ended, and they went home, and one after another they died.
“There is simply no chance that this is a coincidence. You did not hear me arguing against the DNA evidence, because that was simply a matter of mathematics, and numbers don’t lie. Well, you heard an expert tell you that the odds of these deaths being a coincidence are one in seventy-eight billion, and those numbers don’t lie either.
“But if you’re shaky on those numbers, just add in the fact that Bobby Pollard and Kenny Schilling were both geographically available to have committed every one of those murders. I should have asked the mathematics professor what the odds would be against that. I probably can’t count that high.
“So it is reasonable for you to assume that either Bobby Pollard or Kenny Schilling killed these people. That alone should tell you, after you listen to Judge Harrison’s charge, that you should vote to acquit Mr. Schilling. If it could have been either one of them, then by definition there is more than a reasonable doubt that it was Mr. Schilling.
“But that’s not all you know. You know that Adam Strickland, who was in the process of investigating Bobby Pollard, was suddenly and brutally murdered to cover up what he learned. You also know that Mr. Schilling was in jail, was living through this trial, at the time. Even the prosecution would admit that Kenny Schilling did not murder Adam Strickland.
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