“Has he done anything that they can take him into custody for?” I ask.
“Apparently not anything they are aware of. Cindy must have repeated five times how careful we should be with this guy.”
“Message heard.”
I’m not sure what to do with this information. We know that he called Karen McMaster the night of her husband’s murder. With the description that Cindy just provided, there simply cannot have been a benign reason for that call. There is little doubt in my mind that the purpose of it was to tell her that the murder had taken place, and she could call her neighbor.
I can’t throw Sam under the bus and tell anyone how we know about that call, but I might be able to finesse it. The problem is that the existence of a phone call is not probable cause to make an arrest, and I don’t want Betters, or Ganady, or whatever the hell his name is, to know that we’re onto him.
Hanging over all of this is what has to be my first priority, which is getting this in front of a jury. Yes, I want to put Karen McMaster and Ganady and anyone else involved in the murder into prison, but it’s much more important to me to get Carrigan out. That’s how the system works.
I decide to call Pete, which proves to be unnecessary, since Pete calls me first. “I know his name,” Pete says.
“Let me take a wild stab at it. Yuri Ganady.”
“How did you know that?” he asks.
“I grew up with his cousin, Shirley Ganady. I met Yuri at her bat mitzvah. Small world.”
“Are you ever going to stop being a pain in the ass?”
“Apparently not. If I was going to make that radical a transformation, I think it would have happened already.”
“So we need to talk,” he says.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“We haven’t even begun. What can you tell me about this guy, and how do you know he committed the murder in the warehouse?”
“I can’t tell you that, and it wouldn’t matter if I could. You should just take my word for the fact that I know he was there at the time of the murder. I didn’t see him actually perform the act, but I think we can assume he did.”
“Keller, the guy that was killed, was a paid mercenary around the world. A connection with Ganady makes sense,” he says.
“It certainly does.”
“You must have evidence that I can use to demonstrate that he was there,” Pete says.
“Actually I don’t, definitely nothing that you could take to a judge.” I’m telling the truth, the fact that a cell phone in the name of Carl Betters was in that warehouse is nowhere near what Pete would need to get a warrant.
“What else do you know?” he asks.
“Okay, I’m going to tell you something, as long as you promise not to repeat it.”
“I can only promise that if not repeating it does not prevent me from doing my job.”
“It has nothing to do with your job. It’s not one of your cases.”
“Okay, then I promise.”
“Our boy Yuri either killed Steven McMaster or had him killed. Probably the former.”
I expect Pete to ridicule what I am saying as the rantings of a criminal defense attorney, but he doesn’t.
All he says is, “We need to put this guy away.”
The key part of the trial is today, and the jury won’t hear a word of it.
Tasker is going to attempt to bring in testimony about Carrigan’s assault history to portray him as a violent person, his so-called prior bad acts. He also wants testimony about Carrigan’s military training, basically to show his proficiency in “neck-breaking.”
We have filed a motion to keep all of it out. Hatchet could have handled this in the pretrial stage, but he chose not to. I would have argued with him about the timing, but the last lawyer who argued with Hatchet about timing was found floating in the East River with a gavel up his ass.
So we are meeting in open court, but with no jury or gallery present. “Let’s hear it,” Hatchet says to me.
“Thank you, Your Honor. The previous assaults for which my client was arrested bear no resemblance whatsoever to the crime alleged in this case. The so-called ‘prior bad acts’ must be of a kind with the current charge, and these are not. And they would be far more prejudicial than probative, which is the standard.
“To make the admission of such testimony even less consistent with the very clear rulings of numerous appeals courts, these prior bad acts are not even bad acts. After law enforcement examined each case, those entities chose not to file charges. This court should not reverse their considered and informed opinions by punishing my client after they chose not to.
“Regarding his army training, that is even further from relevance to these proceedings. Just because Mr. Carrigan once had an ability does not mean he has used it for nefarious means. Are we really going to take his outstanding service and use it against him?”
Hatchet’s expression gives away nothing; I have no idea if he found my arguments compelling or ludicrous. All he says is, “Mr. Tasker?”
“Your Honor, taking this in reverse order, the military training is absolutely relevant in that the broken neck was administered in the exact manner in which Mr. Carrigan was trained.
“Suppose the sniper shooter, Chuck Simmons, were captured and brought to be tried in this courtroom. Would his training as a sharpshooter not be relevant? How many people could do what he has done, with that accuracy? How many people could do what we contend Mr. Carrigan has done? Not enough to reduce its probative value.
“In terms of the prior bad acts, they speak to Mr. Carrigan’s violent outbursts. He is prone to physical violence, and physical violence is what we are alleging in this case. His hands are his weapons; that remains consistent through all of these acts, and for the murder of Steven McMaster. The fact that a robbery was committed at the same time does not make that violence less relevant in any way.
“Further, we have a witness prepared to testify that in one of those incidents, he grabbed a victim from behind by the neck in the exact manner we are alleging, and he was pulled away by bystanders. Had they not intervened, Mr. McMaster might be alive today, because Mr. Carrigan might well have been convicted of a different murder.”
We bat this around for a few more minutes. Hatchet is known for quick, decisive action, and that’s what he does in this case. He rules the army training testimony in and rules out the prior bad acts. We came out fairly well, but I disagree with the first part of the ruling. Because I have a well-developed self-preservation instinct, I’ll keep that disagreement to myself.
We head back into court, the jury is called in, and Colonel Jonathon Casey is called to the stand. He’s wearing his dress uniform, which seems to me to be a little much. But he’s an intimidating presence, and he commands the courtroom. I feel like asking him if he ordered the Code Red.
“Colonel Casey, what was your relationship to Mr. Carrigan?” Tasker asks.
“I was a captain back then, and I was his training officer at Fort Polk.”
“Did you train him in hand-to-hand combat?”
“I did.”
“Was he a good student?” Tasker asks.
“Excellent.”
“He became proficient at such combat?”
“Very,” Casey says.
“Did you see a photograph of the victim in this case, Steven McMaster, taken where he was found in his house?”
“I did.”
“The violence that was inflicted on him, is that consistent with what Mr. Carrigan was trained to do and, as you say, he was very proficient at?”
“He was not trained to murder; he was trained to combat our nation’s enemies.”
“I understand. I am talking about his physical talents. Would he physically have been capable and competent at this kind of violence?”
“He is very capable of it, but that doesn’t mean he did it.”
Score a point for army guys sticking together. Casey does not want to be responsible for one o
f his men going down.
“Thank you, Colonel. The jury will hear other evidence addressing that. I am simply asking about his training and his capabilities. So, just to recap, he was trained to do things like this, and he was good at it?”
“Yes,” Casey says, with some obvious reluctance.
I start the cross examination with, “First of all, Colonel Casey, thank you for your service.” I figure if it works with juries, it should work just as well with colonels. And colonels are doing what they do voluntarily, which is not the case with a lot of jurors. In any event, no harm no foul.
I continue. “Colonel, what kind of a soldier was Donald Carrigan?”
“In what sense?”
“Was he a problem for you to handle?”
“Never.”
“Did he question authority?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Did he execute the assignments he was given?”
“Always.”
“Did you consider him a credit to his uniform and his country?”
“Absolutely.”
“Ever charged with a crime?”
“Never.”
“Thank you. No further questions.”
For Judge Eric Yount, the pressure hadn’t let up.
The trial that he inherited from the deceased Judge Alexander was over. He had ruled for Baxter Optics in the patent case. He had known all along which way the case would go but even delayed the ruling a few extra days to give the appearance of serious contemplation. Otherwise the parties might think the pressure of all the sniper shootings had affected his concentration.
As long as the shooter was not yet captured, the security around him was still airtight. He didn’t want them around, didn’t believe he needed them, but couldn’t send them away. The Younts were even staying at a friend’s apartment in Manhattan; the friend was out of town, and being in the city made it easier on the security detail.
As bad as the pressure was on Eric, his wife, Nancy, felt it even more. She knew, on a very deep level, that her life and their marriage would never be the same.
But on this particular evening, he said to his wife, “I’ve got to go out.”
“Eric, don’t go. Stay home, please. This has got to end.”
“I agree. Which is why I am going now, without being followed.”
“Eric, please listen to me. This is dangerous. After all that has gone on, don’t do anything that will get you killed.”
“I’ll wait until it gets dark, and I’ll sneak out the back. Just a few hours, and I’ll be back.”
Once again she couldn’t stop him, but that was no surprise; she had been powerless since the nightmare began. So at eight thirty he snuck out on the service elevator, went out the back door of the apartment building, and got to his car unnoticed.
So Eric drove upstate, from the Henry Hudson Parkway to the Taconic. He knew how worried Nancy was, so once this was over, he’d call her and reassure her he was fine.
After almost two hours of driving, he pulled into a rest stop, parked, and used the bathroom. When he came out, there was someone else there.
“Hello, Judge,” the man said.
“Couldn’t you have found a closer place?” Eric asked. It was dark, so he couldn’t see the gun.
The man shook his head. “No, this is perfect.” And then he fired two bullets into Judge Eric Yount’s chest.
Tasker’s next witness is Sergeant Mike Frierson.
Frierson works in the Essex County forensics lab, and an earlier witness testified that he took control of the woolen hat to do testing on it. Frierson is there to say that the hairs in the hat matched Carrigan’s. Carrigan’s had been in the database because of his military service.
Tasker goes on to take him through a long, drawn-out process of describing how definitive the match is, how the chance it isn’t a match is one in many billions. That’s all fascinating but ultimately unnecessary, since I have no intention of challenging it.
When it’s my turn, I ask, “Sergeant Frierson, when did the hairs arrive at that hat?”
“What do you mean?”
“How long were they there?”
He shrugs. “I have no way of knowing that.”
“Could it have been months?”
“That’s possible, I suppose, but—”
“Thank you. Now on the night of the murder, who was wearing that hat?”
“I imagine the defendant.”
“Thanks for that. But we’re not here to test your imagination. Your role is to present facts, and if you aren’t sure of something, it’s okay for you to admit it.”
Tasker objects that I’m badgering the witness, but Hatchet overrules him.
I continue, “So, do you know for sure who was wearing the hat that night?”
“No.”
“Do you know if anyone was wearing it?”
“No.”
“Do you know how it got onto the floor of that garage?”
“No.”
“Thank you. No further questions.”
Next up is Sergeant Richard Fusina. Tasker introduces the ring that was allegedly found in Carrigan’s locker at the Welcome Home shelter. He gets him to say that Karen McMaster identified it, and that they confirmed the purchase three years earlier at a local jeweler.
I ask a couple of perfunctory questions to demonstrate that Fusina has no way of knowing who put the ring in the locker, and then let him off the stand. I’ll be challenging his testimony, just at another time.
The next name on Tasker’s hit parade is Jaime Tomasino. Jaime has dressed down for the occasion; even though he has taken to eating at nice restaurants, it hasn’t translated into a sense of fashion. Most likely Tasker wanted him to dress shabbily to burnish his image as a poor homeless guy who sat next to Carrigan at shelter meals and hung on his every word.
“Mr. Tomasino, were you a patron at the Welcome Home shelter at mealtimes?”
“You mean did I eat there? Yeah, when I was hungry.”
“Did you have occasion to meet the defendant when you were there?”
‘Yeah, we talked a lot.”
“Did he ever mention Steven McMaster?”
Tomasino nods. “Yeah. He told me he killed him. That he broke the guy’s neck and robbed his house.”
“Why did he confide in you about this?”
“We were friends; we talked about a lot of stuff. And he was bragging about it, like he was proud of what he had done.”
It feels like it takes forever for Tasker to finish with Tomasino, so he can turn him over to me. It’s all I can do to avoid salivating at the prospect.
“Mr. Tomasino, would you describe yourself and the defendant as buddies?”
“Yeah, sure, I guess so. I mean, we hung out.”
“You shared personal stories?”
“Some, yeah. He talked more than me.”
“But you’re a good listener?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m a pretty good listener.”
“Can you share with the jury any other personal things that the defendant told you? Other than the fact that he murdered Steven McMaster?”
I can see the worry come into his face as clearly as if he had a neon sign on his forehead that said “WORRY.”
“I can’t remember any of it now; it’s been a while.”
“Do you remember when I recently came to talk to you at the restaurant you were eating in?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember what we talked about?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a better man than me; I forget everything. But I wanted to make sure that I didn’t forget a conversation that I knew would be memorable, so I recorded it.”
I introduce the recording as evidence, subject to confirmation by the witness or a voice identification expert that I was prepared to call. Tasker objects, but gets nowhere.
“You didn’t tell me you were taping it.”
“I would think that based on your vast experien
ce as a lying informant, you would have known that New Jersey was a one-party consent state.”
Tasker objects and Hatchet warns me to be respectful to the witness.
I start the recording.
“Hey, aren’t you Jaime Tomasino?”
“Yeah. Who are you?”
I stop the recording. “Just to be clear, this is you and I talking, correct? Just a reminder, you’re under oath.”
He sneers at me, but admits that it’s him, so I resume the recording.
“Andy. Andy Carpenter! Don’t you remember me? We went to different schools together.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Hey, not a bad menu. You going to have the filet? I thought you were more into soup? Anyway, I hear you know Don Carrigan.”
“Who’s that?”
“You don’t know Don Carrigan?”
“Oh, yeah. Carrigan. The guy who did that murder. Who are you?”
“I’m his friend. I’m trying to help him, but not if he’s guilty.”
“They told me not to talk to anybody.”
“Who? The prosecutors?”
“I don’t want to say. You should take off.”
“I just have a couple of questions, then I’m out of here. Carrigan told you he killed that guy?”
“Yeah. He bragged about it.”
“You sure it was the same Carrigan? Short black guy?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Out of the corner of my eye I think I see Tasker actually wince. “Mr. Carrigan, would you please stand up?”
Carrigan stands, all six foot three of him, white to the point of being pale.
“Mr. Tomasino, is this your short black buddy?”
Hatchet calls for a meeting in his chambers, lead counsel only, which is fine with me.
He leaves the bench and Tasker and I follow him. Tasker looks like he’s heading for the electric chair; he should be so lucky.
Once Hatchet is seated behind his desk and Tasker and I are seated across from him, Hatchet says, “Mr. Tasker, I’m not sure how you work things in Essex County, but here in Passaic County, we generally prefer witnesses who tell the truth. It’s one of our idiosyncrasies.”
Deck the Hounds: An Andy Carpenter Mystery Page 16