Unleashed

by David Rosenfelt

  This too points to Denise; she knew that Barry was making the flight.

  The police had moved quickly, and there are already interviews with friends of the Prices who claim that their marriage was a troubled one. None of them are yet ready to believe that Denise could have done it, but that will not be a help to her attorney. Somebody did it, and there is no reason the jury would consider her incapable of being the one.

  So that’s the bad news.

  And here’s the other bad news: I’m finding myself getting into it.

  I’m reading these pages as if I am Denise Price’s attorney, and worse yet, I’m semi-okay with that. It’s forcing me to think logically, to start to problem-solve, and rather than dreading the work, I’m sort of looking forward to it.

  Is industriousness contagious? Can you catch a work ethic from someone? And is there a cure?

  “This is your fault,” I say to Laurie, who is reading the pages as well.

  “What did I do now?”

  “You made me get involved with this, and it is stirring my long dormant freeze-dried work juices.”

  “You’re leaning toward taking the case?” she asks, obviously surprised.

  “Unless I wake up tomorrow having come to my senses.”

  “Are you reading something that makes you think Denise Price is innocent?”

  “Nope.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Andy. I think your getting back to work is great, but I thought your standard was you needed to believe in your client.”

  “It is. But these pages, this investigation, are the work of the prosecution. And I’m more interested in what I’m not reading.”

  “What might that be?”

  “I’m not reading that Barry Price was looking for a criminal attorney.”

  “So what if he was?”

  “Well, unless he was worried about being charged with felony masturbation, his crime had to involve other people. People he either stole from or stole with or whatever. People who might have had a reason to kill him. The fact that he was killed the day he was looking for a criminal attorney creates a reasonable doubt, at least in my mind.”

  She points to the documents. “This evidence is pretty compelling, and there might be more to follow.”

  “It’s their job to assign guilt. My job is to develop my own facts and to attack their case.”

  She smiles. “You have a job?”

  “I’m afraid I might. Botulism is as bad as it gets as a way to die. I’d have to be convinced that the Denise Price I met, who Sam swears by, could do that to someone she lived with for twenty years.”

  “You don’t know what went on behind their closed doors.”

  “How would you kill me?” I asked.

  “That’s easy. I’d get you to commit suicide.”

  “How?”

  “Make you talk about relationships, bring you to couples therapy, buy you a treadmill, disconnect your cable TV, get you a subscription to the ballet…”

  “What an awful way to go,” I say.

  She smiles. “Just don’t get on my bad side.”

  “As far as I can tell—and believe me, I have looked from all angles—you don’t have a bad side.”

  I’m human; I make mistakes on a case, and this first one is a beauty. I’m driving up to Connecticut to check out the scene where Barry Price’s plane went down. It’s not likely I’ll learn anything, but that’s not my mistake.

  My mistake is bringing Hike along.

  It’s about a two-hour-and-forty-five-minute ride, which means that round-trip will be five and a half hours, alone in a car with Hike. My only way out, and it is one I am seriously considering, is driving off the George Washington Bridge on the way.

  Hike is going to be working with me on the case, if I make the final decision to take it, so I want him to start focusing on it. I always begin by going to the scene of the crime, usually with Laurie, since she is my lead investigator.

  But because this was a plane crash, the benefit of going is not likely to be significant. Therefore I think Laurie is better off working on things in Jersey, hence my invitation to Hike.

  He spends the first half hour of the ride reading discovery documents, so it’s mercifully quiet. Then all of a sudden he says, “Wow … botulism. That’s pretty cool.”

  “You’re a botulism fan?”

  “I know a lot about poisons; it’s sort of a hobby. Botulism isn’t my favorite, but it’s in the top twenty.”

  I’m not sure I want to go down this path, so I don’t say anything. It doesn’t dissuade Hike from continuing the discussion.

  “Did you know there are at least four thousand undiscovered poisons? And don’t get me started on viruses.”

  I have absolutely no intention of getting him started on viruses. “How do you know about them if they’re not discovered?”

  “Statistics. We know how many they find each year, so you just extrapolate it out. It’s basic math.” He looks at me with obvious surprise. “You don’t read the CDC reports on human toxins?”

  “No, but I get Entertainment Weekly.” Please God, let this conversation be over.

  It isn’t. “You want to know my favorite poison?” Hike asks.

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “It’s sarin. First it collapses your lungs; you feel like there’s a hippo sitting on your chest. Then you start unloading, I mean stuff starts coming out of every opening you’ve got, and some you didn’t know you had—”

  “Hike, that’s—”

  “Of course, it’s all over in like fifteen minutes,” he says with apparent sadness.

  “You want it to last longer?”

  “Depends on who takes it.”

  Right about now I’d be inclined to take some, but I don’t mention this to Hike, because he probably has a pocket full of it. Instead I just point to the documents he hasn’t gone through yet. “Keep reading,” I say.

  We’re met at the scene by Terry Bresnick, a retired investigator for the National Transportation Safety Board. As is the case in all plane crashes, NTSB is conducting the investigation, and the scene is still under their control.

  Thomas Bader, in the homestretch in his campaign to be named “most cooperative prosecutor in America,” has arranged for us to get access.

  I met Terry on a case about ten years ago. He was a witness for the prosecution, and I cross-examined him. I scored a lot of points, but he knew his stuff, and I thought he held his own pretty well.

  But he was angry about the way I treated him, and once the trial was over, he came to my office to tell me so. Since he’s about six five and two hundred and forty pounds, I was less than delighted to see him. I would have hidden behind Edna, had she been in that day.

  Within three minutes, we left my office, went over to Charlie’s, and had some beer and burgers, and we have been friends ever since. I’ve done him a couple of favors with legal work in recent years, and he’s always talked about wanting to repay me in kind. That’s why he jumped at this opportunity when I called.

  Terry has gotten the lay of the land in advance of our arrival, helped along by his old friends from the agency. Because of that, he is able to take Hike and me on a quick tour. There is a large area that has been fenced off by the NTSB, and Terry walks us to the back end of the area, which is wooded.

  “The plane hit in those trees,” he said, “and it started to break up. That’s where the pilot was thrown.”

  “Is it possible to tell where he was in the plane when it happened?”

  “That’s easy. He was still belted into the pilot seat.” He points toward an open, grassy area. “He came down over there. I’m told the body was pretty well intact.”

  “Where did the rest of the plane come down?” Hike asks.

  “I’ll show you.” He walks us what seems to be at least a quarter mile away, and we can see the wreckage strewn over a large area.

  “Any chance the plane exploded?”

  “You mean in flight, as i
f the explosion was the cause?”

  “Yes.”

  “Certainly doesn’t seem like it, not based on the way the wreckage lays out. But I don’t have access to all the facts.”

  “So why did it come down?” I ask.

  He hesitates. “I’ll tell you what I’ve heard, okay? But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  I nod. “Deal.”

  “It’s early, but they’ve found nothing mechanically wrong with the plane, and it was serviced and inspected the morning of the flight. There was some rain, but not enough to have caused a problem, and minimal wind.”

  “So pilot error?”

  He shrugs. “If by ‘error’ you mean he didn’t do anything. There’s no sign he took any action at all, and certainly he never got on the radio to say anything. Maybe the black boxes will reveal more, but I doubt it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a heart attack or passed out for some reason.”

  Obviously Terry hasn’t been told about the poison, and there’s no reason for me to mention it. He’s confirmed the prosecution’s theory that Barry Price was incapacitated, even if he doesn’t know why.

  Any defense that Denise Price couldn’t have killed her husband because she didn’t have a knowledge of airplane mechanics is off the table. At this point it’s not a crowded table.

  On the way back, Hike asks, “You gonna take the case?”

  “I think so.”

  “What happened to the client-has-to-be-innocent thing?”

  “We don’t know that she did it.”

  “You mean because she hasn’t confessed and there’s no video of her administering the poison?”

  I nod. “There is that.” Then, “Are you in?” I’m asking Hike if he wants to work on the case. It will mean a big commitment from him in time and energy, to say nothing of the fact that a trial like this can be emotionally wrenching, draining everything out of a lawyer in what can ultimately be a losing cause.

  On the other hand, Hike would be getting paid, which for him is a surefire antidote for wrenching and draining.

  “Sure,” he says. “Regular rate?”

  “Regular rate,” I confirm.

  He smiles. “Let’s go get ’em.”

  “Nothing that happens today will be significant.”

  “Why?” Denise asks, obviously disappointed. We’re in an anteroom in the courthouse, and I am prepping her for the arraignment, set to begin in a few minutes.

  “It’s all a formality. They will read the charges against you, and you should not show any expression at all when they do, just stare straight ahead. Then they’ll ask how you plead, and you should simply say, ‘Not guilty, Your Honor.’”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we prepare for trial.”

  Like most defendants, Denise is constantly expecting someone to snap his or her fingers and realize in the moment that she is not guilty and that this is all a mistake. I’ve been trying to make her understand that it won’t happen, that it’s going to be a difficult grind, but it always takes a while to internalize it. It is going to take waking up in a jail cell, day after boring day, to get the message across.

  “Denise, a few of the witnesses the prosecution spoke to mentioned that they attended a party at your house the night before Barry died. Sam was there as well.”

  “Right. The parties were more Barry’s idea, and we had them periodically.”

  “Who would attend?”

  “There were a lot of his clients and some friends. Barry thought it was best to mix the two, that it would make the conversation more interesting to have people from different backgrounds.”

  “How many people were there that night?”

  “Probably fifty or so.”

  “Can you write out a list of the people you remember being there?”

  “I can try; I’m not sure if I can remember everybody.”

  “Did you argue with Barry that night?” I ask, knowing that there have been references to that in the witness reports, and Sam had mentioned it as well.

  “I argued with Barry almost every night. We usually tried not to do it in public, but that time we did.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Please work on that list.”

  I open the door and we enter the adjacent courtroom. It probably seats about seventy-five people, and every seat is taken. The media have adopted this as a story worthy of covering, probably because of Barry’s money and the fact that Denise is good-looking.

  Denise recoils slightly when she sees all the people; this is humiliating for her. Of course, when the final resolution comes, she will either have vindication, or if not, then humiliation will be the least of her problems.

  I recognize only a few people in the room. Hike is at the defense table, Thomas Bader is at the prosecution table with three assistant attorneys, and Sam is in the front row.

  Judge Calvin Hurdle takes his place behind the bench. I’ve never tried a case before him, so I’ve asked around, and I’ve been told he’s a no-nonsense judge.

  Of course, that really doesn’t help me much, because I haven’t exactly run into a whole bunch of nonsense judges. You don’t find too many judges who are real practical-joking cutups, putting shaving cream in lawyers’ shoes and whoopee cushions on jurors’ chairs.

  Judges are a predictable group, disciplinarians who pride themselves on maintaining total control of their courtrooms. They have their humor genes surgically removed when they take the oath. It’s one of the reasons they can’t stand me.

  Judge Hurdle goes through some housekeeping issues, and then the charges are read. Denise follows my instructions well and stares impassively throughout. My reason for cautioning her about this has nothing to do with the judge or any of the court members; I simply don’t want the media characterizing her in a negative way. The people who matter are not here today. They are out there in the real world, and they will be reading and hearing about the case through the media. And after they do, some of them will make their way to the jury box.

  Finally it comes time to enter her plea, and Denise does so in a clear, firm voice. A trial date is set, and Judge Hurdle taps his gavel and adjourns the session. A guard comes to escort Denise out, and she looks at me pleadingly, fear evident in her eyes.

  I really want to help this woman, and I really, really hope she didn’t administer a deadly poison to her husband.

  I go out through the back to avoid waiting reporters. I’m not above playing them for my benefit; I’m just not in a position to do so now. At some point I will be, and then I’ll be Mr. Accessible.

  Sam comes along with me, asking, “How did it go?”

  “Same as always. A nonevent.”

  “I just thought there was a nuance that I might have missed.”

  “Nope, it was a nuance-free zone. You on the team this time?” Sam has been a valuable member of our investigative team on previous cases, mostly because of his genius on a computer. He can hack into pretty much anywhere, getting information we might otherwise never have access to.

  Unfortunately, he extended his responsibilities to the noncyber world on our last case without my approval, and he almost got killed in the process. Marcus saved him, but it shook him up very badly, as it should have, and may have cured him of his desire to be involved in this stuff.

  It didn’t.

  “I’m in all the way, Andy. Just tell me what to do.”

  “Come on back to the office; we’re going to talk about it.”

  Sam had driven out to the court with Hike but for some reason doesn’t want to go back with him. I can’t imagine why.

  So Sam rides with me, which means I have to spend forty-five minutes listening to what a great dog Crash is. This despite the fact that he’s still recuperating and hasn’t yet left the vet’s office.

  “He’s amazing. I talk to him, and he understands what I’m saying.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just know, I can tell. It’s like we have this bond.” He pauses a moment and then says
momentously, “God sent this dog to me, Andy. He sent him to save my life, to prevent me from getting on that plane.”

  “Why didn’t he just give you a flat tire?”

  “Because this was a test, to see what I would do,” Sam says.

  “I hope he doesn’t use the flat tire test on me. I don’t even know how to work the jack.”

  We meet Hike, Laurie, and Marcus Clark at my office for the initial preliminary meeting we have on all cases. Everybody is by now used to having Marcus around, though it’s impossible to totally get used to having Marcus around.

  Marcus is the scariest, toughest individual on the planet, and he’s particularly valuable if we need to do something that requires physical action, like, say, invading Argentina. I hope there’s no violence involved in this case, but Marcus also has terrific investigative skills. As always, he’ll work directly under Laurie, since she’s the only one who’s not scared to death of him.

  Marcus almost never talks, and when he does he usually just utters barely comprehensible syllables. So it’s left to everyone to ponder what he might be thinking, a hopeless task if ever there was one.

  Edna is the last one to arrive, although mentally I think she is in tournament mode. When I ask her, “How is the preparation going?” she says, “Twenty-four.”

  “Twenty-four? What does that mean?” I ask.

  “That’s how many letters were in your question,” she says. “Ability to count letters quickly is very helpful.”

  I nod. “Okay.” And then I say, “Four,” but she doesn’t seem amused by my joke. All she does is sit at her desk, enveloped in thought, completely uninterested in our meeting or case. What’s a four-letter word for unwillingness to work, first letter is e?

  I start the meeting by bringing everyone up-to-date on the little that has happened so far and the information in the discovery documents that we have received.

  “The prosecution’s case is going to be mostly forensics,” I say. “There will also be witnesses describing the state of the Prices’ marriage, which they’ll use to provide motive.”

  I’m distracted by Sam’s phone, which is sitting on the desk. His screen saver is a series of pictures of Crash, which alternate automatically in a slide show. There are at least twenty pictures of him, all lying in the same dog run.