Unleashed

by David Rosenfelt

  Judge Hurdle gives everyone a fifteen-minute break before I question Schroeder. I use the time to check my phone, and I see that Sam had e-mailed me the information that someone named Kyle Austin of Columbus, Ohio, had received one hundred thousand from Imachu in the same manner as Susser and the others.

  I quickly call Muñoz and tell him about Austin and then head back into the courtroom.

  “Professor Schroeder, about how many cases of botulism are there each year? If you know…”

  He flashes a glare at my raising the possibility that there is something about this subject he might not know. “There are slightly more than a hundred cases on average in the United States each year, just under a thousand worldwide.”

  “And what percentage of those are classified as murders?” I ask.

  “I don’t have that statistic, but it would be very low. The botulinum toxin occurs naturally.”

  “So for all the testifying you’ve done, it’s never been in a criminal case?”

  “No, always civil. They generally concern whether negligence caused the poisoning.”

  I’ve put in the jurors’ minds that perhaps this isn’t even a murder, but it’s only a temporary victory, since later evidence will definitely establish it as a murder. Having said that, the muddier the water, the better I like it.

  “Now, you talked about the wide variance of time it can take for the poison to kick in.”

  He smiles without humor. “I don’t believe I used the words ‘kick in.’”

  I smile back. “Do you want me to translate?’

  He shakes his head. “Not necessary.”

  “Then you said that the time between ingestion and symptoms can be controlled, based on the amount administered and the form it was in.”

  He nods. “Correct.”

  I introduce a book as evidence, point to a sentence, and ask Schroeder to read it aloud for the jury.

  Before he does so, he says, “I see what you’re getting at, but—”

  I interrupt him. “Please just read the sentence … that way we can let the jurors in on it.”

  He starts to argue again, but this time Judge Hurdle steps in and instructs him to read.

  “‘The incubation period after ingestion is decidedly unpredictable.’”

  “Thank you. So we now have something of a dilemma here. You’ve said in court that it can be predictable, and the author of that text said it is ‘decidedly unpredictable.’ It’s a regular battle of the experts. By the way, who wrote that book?”

  “I did,” says Schroeder, through teeth that seem somewhat clenched. “But I was referring to an accidental situation where the amount and manner of ingestion were not known.”

  “Oh, sorry. Can you read from the paragraph where you say that?”

  “It’s not included in the book.”

  “Did you write a sequel to this book, where you clear up mistakes like that?”

  Schroeder is unable to conceal his annoyance. “It was not a mistake.”

  “Fine. Let’s leave it there. The sentence you read was not a mistake. Glad we cleared that up.”

  Bader objects, but Hurdle overrules him, which qualifies as a news event.

  “Professor, if Barry Price was murdered, who did it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Which part didn’t you understand? If someone intentionally gave him the poison, who was it?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Because you don’t want to say or because you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Join the club. Thank you.”

  You can’t tell a bank by its lobby. The Island Bank of the Caribbean has a New York office on Madison Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, but if the name wasn’t on the door, you’d never know it. It is all cold marble, and except for the faint strains of Caribbean music in the background, it’s like every other bank in New York.

  I take the elevator up to the fourth floor, and during the ride the music is louder. Even so, I don’t think too many visitors to this place get the urge to take off their shoes and let the sand run through their toes.

  I’m here to see Richard Glennon, a bank officer whom Sam discovered through his online shenanigans has been the person in charge of the Imachu account since his arrival at the company six months previous. Since Imachu wired the money to the now-deceased individuals in Augusta and Concord through Glennon’s department, he may have relevant information to provide.

  He expressed a reluctant willingness to talk to me but made sure I understood that we would talk only about generic issues, not the confidential specifics of the bank’s client. That is certainly in line with my expectations, which are quite low. Basically I’m here because I have to be someplace, so this place is as good as any.

  When I introduce myself at the reception desk, I discover that my meeting with Mr. Glennon has been preempted, and I’m instead meeting with Randall Franklin, the head of the area of the bank responsible for the department in which Glennon toils. I guess it makes sense, since I am the unquestioned head of the Andy Carpenter law firm.

  We will be two titans of business, going one on one.

  Franklin very much looks the part of the high-level successful banker, right down to the perfectly tailored, expensive suit, the dignified but smug manner, and the cleft in the chin on his good-looking face. Think Cary Grant without the charm.

  “Due to the nature of your visit, I felt it more appropriate that you speak with me rather than Mr. Glennon, especially since he’s relatively new here.”

  “I didn’t even realize that my visit had a nature,” I say. “I certainly never mentioned it to anyone.”

  He smiles. “Intensive research was not required to figure it out. So what can I do for you?”

  “You have a client named Imachu, a Turkish company.”

  The smile doesn’t leave his face, and no words leave his mouth.

  “That company has sent some wire transfers from your bank, which is what I’m interested in.”

  “Mr. Carpenter, you’re a lawyer and no doubt well versed in matters of this kind. Surely you are aware that we would not be able to discuss any of our customer accounts with you. So I will neither confirm nor deny that this company you mention even banks here.”

  I nod. “So let’s try it another way. Let’s say any company has an account with your bank and they want to send a wire. Who on the company end would be empowered to authorize it?”

  “There’s no standard answer for that. It would be whoever the company so designates.”

  “And they could do it with a phone call?”

  “Up to a preset amount; above that would require documentation.”

  “Does the bank do any check whatsoever on the recipients of the transfers?”

  “Only in the rarest of cases; that is not our responsibility.”

  “What are the rarest of cases?” I ask. “Are there terrorist groups that you won’t send money to?”

  “Of course, providing the country we are operating in has placed restrictions in effect.”

  “Speaking of countries, why would an entity in another country use your bank?”

  “You would have to ask them. But I assume it is because we provide professional service and ample opportunity for growth and investment.” Another smile. “And we are discreet.”

  “Really?” I ask. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “You can help me understand why you are letting a client use your bank to send money to murderers.”

  His expression doesn’t change. “When and if you can provide proof of those allegations, we will take them very seriously.”

  I smile. “When I have proof, you’ll have no choice.”

  Unless prompted into urgent action, bureaucracies can be ponderous. The FBI is no exception to this, but in tracking down Kyle Austin, they moved relatively quickly.

  It wasn’t urgent enough for Muñoz to go to Columb
us himself, and in any event, he first wanted to do some background work on Austin. So he put in the request and asked for information ASAP.

  An agent got to work on it within a couple of hours, and an hour after that he electronically reported back to Muñoz. Austin was an Iraqi vet, but he’d had some issues since his discharge.

  He was convicted on a domestic violence charge, and though his girlfriend subsequently refused to testify, he did some jail time. He was out of work but had made some recent fairly expensive purchases, and three weeks prior had rented a house in an area that was an obvious step up from his previous residence.

  Agent Jim Matuszak, working out of the Columbus office, was assigned to the case, and he and Muñoz connected on the phone at six that same evening. Muñoz updated him on where things stood, focusing on Austin’s possible connection to it.

  It was decided that Matuszak and another agent would bring Austin in for questioning the next morning. Muñoz would watch the interview on video but would not participate in it. If Austin seemed like a promising lead as it related to the case, then Muñoz would likely fly out to Columbus that afternoon for further questioning and investigation.

  Of course, both men recognized the possibility that Austin would refuse to answer any questions or demand a lawyer before doing so. In that eventuality, it would kick Muñoz and the Bureau into a full-court press. Austin’s life would be turned upside down in an effort to find out what he was hiding.

  Matuszak and Agent Wilson Cardiff drove out to Austin’s house at 8:00 A.M. as planned, but their arrival was delayed by the presence of police cars blocking off the street.

  The agents presented their identification to Detective Lieutenant Nancy Francis of the Columbus PD, in charge at the scene, and asked what was going on.

  “A woman named Lois Cassidy works as a cocktail waitress in town. She got off at two A.M. and came to this house, to see her boyfriend.”

  “Kyle Austin?” asked Matuszak.

  Francis nodded. “Kyle Austin. He wasn’t home, and she figured he was out, probably cheating on her. It apparently wouldn’t have been the first time. But she couldn’t reach him on the phone, so she went to sleep. In the morning, she decided to leave and noticed the garage door was open.”

  Matuszak took a quick look in the direction of the garage, which was where most of the people were. He assumed, correctly, that the forensics people were doing their work.

  Francis continued. “His body was on the floor, one bullet in the back of the head at close range. Looks like he got hit just after he came home, coroner estimates some time between nine and midnight. Shooter was obviously a pro.”

  “Suspects?”

  “Not yet,” Francis said. “What’s your interest in this?”

  Matuszak was not about to share that with a local cop, at least not at that point. “We were hoping to question him.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  Today is the key day in the trial, at least so far. To the gallery, and the media that are covering it, it’s going to seem dull and dry as dirt. Today we’re going to discuss the forensic analysis of the traces of botulinum toxin. Oh, boy.

  I arrive at court at eight thirty, as I do every day. On the way I call Sam to receive any updates he might have for me. Sam works late into the night, so the morning is usually a good time to speak to him.

  Sam doesn’t answer the phone, which is rather unusual. He and Crash are probably taking a bath. I make a note to call him during the first break this morning.

  I take my seat at the defense table, where Hike is already waiting. Bader’s team is at the prosecution table, but Bader hasn’t arrived yet.

  Almost the moment I sit down, the bailiff comes over to me and says, “Judge Hurdle wants to see you in chambers.”

  There’s no sense asking why, since the bailiff would likely not know and certainly wouldn’t tell me if he did. “Let’s go,” I say to Hike, but the bailiff shakes his head.

  “The judge only wants to see you.”

  I’ve got an uneasy feeling about this, though there’s not necessarily any reason to think it’s anything of consequence. Most likely it’s a juror issue; maybe one was acting improperly.

  If that’s the case, I hope “improperly” is understating the case, since a mistrial would be a gift from heaven. My first choice would be that the juror was caught in a sex romp with Bader, the judge, two other jurors, and the arresting officer. And to finish off my sure mistrial scenario, at the height of passion I hope the judge screamed, “The hell with fair trials!”

  When I get to the judge’s chambers, Bader is already there, alone with the judge. I’m not thrilled with this; proper procedure calls for the judge never to be with only one of the lawyers. But they don’t seem to be talking, so it’s likely a no-harm-no-foul situation.

  “Mr. Carpenter, take a seat,” Judge Hurdle says.

  I do so and then ask, “What’s going on?”

  “I’m waiting for a phone call, and then we can begin. Should be just a few moments.”

  The few moments become ten of the most uncomfortable minutes I’ve ever experienced. Not a word is spoken, even if you’re one of those people who consider eye contact to be speech.

  Finally the ringing of the phone pierces the silence. The judge picks it up and says, “Yes?” then listens for maybe ten seconds. He follows that with “Thank you.” Hurdle is one great conversationalist.

  “Mr. Carpenter,” he says, “I should start by informing you that Mr. Bader is already aware of what I’m about to say. He learned it here, in my chambers, minutes before your arrival.”

  I don’t like the sound of this at all.

  “Your client, Denise Price, asked to speak with me in private, and she did so last evening.”

  “Why wasn’t I contacted?” I ask, now annoyed.

  “Because she specifically asked that you not be,” he says. “She had an agenda to discuss, and part of that agenda was to file a complaint about your actions in this case.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She said that you were aware that she possessed information that might have been exculpatory in nature, and that you insisted she not reveal it.”

  “This isn’t making any sense.” It’s not often that I am completely bewildered, but that’s what I am at the moment.

  “I’m not commenting on the veracity of her statements, I’m merely summarizing them.”

  “What is the information she claims to have?” No matter where this goes from here, it is an unmitigated disaster.

  “Let me continue,” he says, as if I were stopping him. “She has admitted to an extramarital affair, and she believes that the man she was involved with murdered her husband.”

  “Who is that?” I ask, feeling like my head is about to explode.

  “Samuel Willis. The police executed a search warrant on his home early this morning, and I was just advised in that telephone call that he has been placed under arrest.”

  Kaboom.

  The judge goes on to tell me that he has no choice but to declare a mistrial. Denise is going to remain in custody. Far more investigation will be necessary before consideration could be given to dropping the charges against her.

  He also says that he is obligated to commence an investigation into my conduct and whether or not Denise’s charges have any merit. She has told him that she does not want to speak with me, and he directs me not to try. It’s just as well, since I would probably strangle her.

  But at this point I really don’t care what he’s saying. All I care about is finding Sam, wherever he has been taken.

  He’s going to need a lawyer.

  Me.

  Sam has been taken to the Passaic County Jail. That is because the arrest was made in Paterson, but once jurisdictional issues have been resolved, I’m quite sure he’ll be transferred to Morris County.

  I call Laurie on the way, and she is as stunned as I was. There will be time later for us to try and figure out what happened and
why, and to talk strategy, but right now the only thing to do is help Sam.

  Laurie does have one piece of information for me, though, which in its own way is another bombshell. Agent Muñoz called, asking to speak to me right away. She explained that she was my investigator and pressed him for information, so that she could determine whether it was important enough to interrupt me during the court day.

  It would have been, that is, if I had a court day. Muñoz said that Kyle Austin, the Columbus, Ohio, individual who had also received wired money, was murdered last night.

  It is very significant news. I had basically been interested in Muñoz’s investigation only because I thought it might help me defend my client. I still am, maybe even more so, even though I have effectively switched clients.

  When I get to the jail, Pete Stanton is waiting for me. Dispensing with hello, he simply says, “I made the arrest.”

  “Why?”

  “We got a request from a sister law enforcement agency. It was going to happen, so I figured it was best if I did it.”

  Pete’s making the arrest was actually a kind gesture; he knew Sam would find it slightly less intimidating if he did so. “Has he been booked?” I ask.

  “Yeah. You can see him now.”

  “I need to check in and go through the process.”

  He shakes his head. “Not today you don’t; I took care of it.” With that, he motions to the sergeant behind the desk, who nods his assent.

  “Thanks.”

  I’m led into an anteroom, where Sam is waiting for me. He has a cuff on one wrist, and the other end is attached to the table. Seeing it really pisses me off.

  “Andy, am I glad to see you. What the hell is going on?” His voice is surprisingly calm, without any trace of panic or anger. He just seems bewildered, which gives him something in common with his attorney.

  I tell him everything Judge Hurdle told me, and I watch his confusion grow. “Why would Denise do that? Why would she lie like that? It doesn’t make sense.”