Night on Fire

by Douglas Corleone

  “Yes,” Mia says, matter-of-factly. “All four of them were.”

  CHAPTER 46

  “Where the hell is Flan?”

  No sooner do I say it than a soaking wet Ryan Flanagan steps through the door and into our conference room.

  “Sorry, Kev. Had to bail Casey out of jail this morning.”

  “Jail?” Jake says. “What the hell for?”

  “She was riding around downtown Honolulu last night with some thugs in a stolen car.” Flan shakes it off. “But enough about her. How did it go in court yesterday?”

  “We accomplished what we set out to with Mia Landow,” I tell him. “We’ve doubled-down on the motives of a few viable suspects. But there is still no physical evidence pointing at any of them, and our best prospect, Isaac Cassel, has a paper alibi.”

  “And you exposed Trevor Simms for what he was, I assume?” Flan says as he takes a seat next to Jake.

  I nod. “Thing is, putting the victim on trial in this case isn’t going to win it. Bottom line: there were eleven victims.”

  “Can’t put ’em all on trial,” Jake says.

  “That’s right. Which means, we lose unless we have someone reasonable to point to. What we need to do is pick a party and fill that empty seat.”

  “What happened with Turi’s firebug?” Flan asks.

  “Full confession from Corwin Pierce,” I say. “Four times, story didn’t change a bit.”

  “Well, that’s great.”

  “Hell it is,” Jake says.

  “There are three problems with pointing at Corwin Pierce,” I tell Flan as the rain pounds against our floor-to-ceiling windows. “One, his story is too perfect, down to the last detail.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Flan says.

  “His confession sounded rehearsed,” I say. “He recited it from memory like he did a poem he wrote, some crazy shit he made me listen to when I first got there.”

  “So?”

  “So he could have picked up those details from watching two hours of Marcy Faith. She has been blathering about this case on her prime-time national cable news show for six months now, revealing every scintilla of evidence—admissible or inadmissible—to the masses and speculating on precisely how the crime was committed.”

  Jake shakes his head wearily. “One more thing the American system of justice has to thank brainless cowards like her and Gretchen Hurst for.”

  “All right,” Flan says. “What else?”

  “Two,” I tell him, “Corwin Pierce, this notorious fire-junky, this pyromaniac, this fucking crazier-than-hell sociopath, claims he was paid to take out Trevor Simms.”

  “By who?”

  “By whom,” I say.

  “Fuck you. By whom?”

  “By Javier Vargas.”

  “The Angry Rooster?”

  “The Angry Rooster.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Flan cries. “That’s motive.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Firebugs and motives don’t mix. Pyromaniacs like Corwin Pierce don’t set fires for money. They set fires to get off, to watch shit burn.”

  “Instant gratification,” Jake adds. “See the flames, smell the smoke, then watch as the world spins into chaos all because of something you created. Sit back and listen for the alarms and sirens, watch for the fire engines, the flashing lights. It’s a rush. It would be an insult for someone like Pierce to be asked to do it for a couple hundred bucks.”

  “Not to mention,” I add, “since when do violent-as-all-hell L.A. street gangs hire out their wet work to head cases like Corwin Pierce?”

  Flan shrugs his shoulders, frustrated by the entire conversation. “Can’t this Corwin Pierce and Javier Vargas be exceptions?”

  “Sure,” I say. “And we have no choice but to follow up on this lead. But here’s the third problem.” I lean back in my seat and painfully cross my right leg over my left. “Corwin Pierce knew every single detail about the fire—how it started, where it started, what happened to the lighter, all of it. Everything except for one thing, one crucial piece of information that even Marcy Faith can’t squawk about.”

  “Which is?”

  “He couldn’t tell me what the hell he did with the knife.”

  CHAPTER 47

  I am standing at the podium completely frozen for the moment and I can’t think of a time in my career as a trial lawyer or even as a law student taking part in mock trials when I stared at a witness this long and couldn’t conjure a single question to ask him.

  “Mr. Corvelli,” Judge Maxa prods.

  I stare at Koa and he at me and neither of us can speak for entirely different reasons and I realize then that I have lost that fire in my belly. I wonder briefly if I will ever be able to participate in another trial of any kind, whether this is once and for all the last stand for Kevin Corvelli.

  “I have no questions for the witness at this time,” I say in a voice that is not my own. “But I would like to reserve the right to recall this witness during the defense’s case-in-chief.”

  “Very well,” Maxa says, and Koa is excused, released from the witness stand, and as he passes me he whispers something that sounds like an apology, but he has no reason to apologize because he told the truth.

  Koa told the jury on direct examination about Erin and Trevor Simms and their actions at Kanaloa’s on the night of the fire. He answered yes when asked whether there had been an argument between the newlyweds, whether the argument had been heated, whether the argument became physical at any point during the evening.

  “Yes,” Koa said. “At one point, the defendant slapped the victim hard across the face.”

  Koa testified about his own dispute with Erin Simms, how she refused to obey the bar’s no-smoking policy, how she then attempted to take her alcoholic beverage beyond the black iron gate. He described what she was wearing at the time—the red dress already burned into my memory—and I saw her clear as I had that very night. Finally, Koa described in sufficient detail the Zippo lighter Erin used to light her cigarette at the bar.

  “Silver,” Koa said. “And I believe it was engraved, though with what words or letters I couldn’t tell you.”

  Slowly I make my way back toward the defense table and my right leg sends an urgent message of pain to my brain and I hobble, glance out the window at the continuing rain, and wish that I was somewhere else.

  “Please call your next witness, Mr. Maddox,” says Her Honor, and he does.

  * * *

  Izzy Dufu is a large man but not by Samoan standards. On direct he testifies about his position as assistant security chief at the Kupulupulu Beach Resort, where he has toiled for the past seven and a half years. His obvious courtroom jitters clearly endear him to the jury but they put me on high alert. Because I have seen Izzy around the resort, I’ve witnessed him introduce performers in front of crowds that would overflow this courtroom. Suffice it to say, Izzy Dufu is not ordinarily what you would describe as the shy type.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Dufu,” I say once the witness is proferred to me. “Or may I call you Izzy?”

  I want to calm those jitters, get him comfortable speaking with me, so that when I hammer him to hell and back the jury will notice the difference in his demeanor.

  “Yes, sir,” he says. “Izzy’s fine.”

  To accomplish this, I throw a few softballs to start, allow him to rehash his work history and the duties of his current job. Then I take him suddenly and without preamble to the night of the fire.

  “The second time you visited Mr. and Mrs. Simms’s honeymoon suite,” I say, “that’s when you tell us you first observed the canisters of charcoal lighter fluid, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right, sir.”

  “That second visit, that is also when you tell us you first observed a small leather Fendi handbag, is it not?”

  “That’s when I first and last saw the handbag, that’s correct, sir.”

  “Izzy, would you kindly remind the jury where the handbag was situ
ated when you observed it during that second visit to the honeymoon suite?”

  “The handbag was sitting on the nightstand next to the bed, sir. On the right-hand side.”

  “I see. And would you also remind the jury where the canisters of charcoal starter fluid were situated when you observed them during that second visit to the honeymoon suite?”

  “The canisters were on the floor in front of the minifridge in the corner of the kitchenette.”

  “That would be the far right corner of the suite, correct?”

  Izzy thinks about this. “Yes, that’s correct, sir.”

  “How many canisters did you see?”

  “Three.”

  “You’re sure there were three?”

  “Certain.”

  “And remind us, Izzy, what was the brand name of the charcoal lighter fluid you say you saw in the room?”

  “Kingsford.”

  “Kingsford? And you’re certain of that, too?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You read the labels?”

  “I recognized the containers. A lot of barbecuing goes down at the resort, so I’ve seen that brand hundreds of times.”

  “And you are certain, Izzy, that the handbag you observed on the nightstand was a Fendi?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It couldn’t have been a Gucci?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Couldn’t have been Prada?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Could it have been Coach?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How about a Burberry?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Definitely a Fendi?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How was the handbag positioned when you observed it?”

  “Standing straight up on the nightstand.”

  “And this handbag was about five or six inches tall, you testified? About nine or ten inches wide?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the handbag read Fendi across the front of it?”

  Izzy hesitates. “No, sir. I don’t believe I said that.”

  “All right, but you did testify that you were certain this handbag was a Fendi. How did you identify the manufacturer of the handbag if the handbag didn’t read F-E-N-D-I across the front of it?”

  “By the markings,” he says.

  “The markings?”

  “You know, the logo.” He clicks his fingers as he searches for the right word. “The insignia.”

  “The insignia?”

  “Yeah, the two capital F’s performing sixty-nine on each other.”

  Even Judge Maxa smiles but she quickly puts an end to the chuckles by slapping her gavel. She was once a trial lawyer; she understands the importance of momentum.

  Grinning, I say, “I won’t ask you to draw us a picture, Izzy.” When the new round of chuckles dies off, I add, “But I will ask you to describe for us the Burberry insignia.”

  Izzy shakes his head, still smiling. “That I can’t do.”

  “Okay,” I tell him. “Then please describe for us the Coach insignia.”

  Izzy’s smile begins to fade. “Sorry,” he says. “I can’t.”

  “Prada?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No problem, Izzy. I’ll give you an easier one. Describe the Gucci insignia for us.”

  The smile has vanished, the nervous tics returned.

  “No?” I say. “Not even Gucci? Even I can describe the Gucci insignia.”

  “Then you’d better go ahead and do it,” Izzy says before Maddox can rise with his objection.

  “Sustained,” the judge says. “Strike Mr. Corvelli’s last comment.”

  I fold my hands together at the podium and watch Izzy squirm a bit on the stand. “How is it then, Izzy, that you came to recognize the Fendi insignia?”

  There are plenty of acceptable answers Izzy can provide that will help to resurrect his credibility as a witness, at least half a dozen answers I can think of off the top of my head that will stop me dead in my tracks. Izzy is reaching for one of them, I can see that. But I can also see that each of those answers remains safely out of his grasp.

  “The two F’s,” he says, nearly mumbling now. “They just, you know, came to me as I was looking at the handbag on the nightstand.”

  “So right away, you recognized the bag as a Fendi?” I say.

  “Not right away…”

  “But as you were still looking at the bag?”

  “Yes, sir. I took a long, hard look at it.”

  Gotcha. “You testified earlier, didn’t you, Izzy, that on your second visit to the Simms’s honeymoon suite, you stood at the door for a grand total of under a minute while Erin Simms hurled expletives at you?”

  A hesitation. “Yes, sir.”

  “And you testified that during the entire exchange Erin Simms stood in the doorway in what you perceived as an effort to block your entrance into the suite?”

  A visible swallow. “Yes, sir.”

  “And you testified that Erin Simms refused to open the door all the way, that in fact, Erin Simms opened the door no more than quote ‘the size of my fist’ at any time during the exchange?”

  A slow nod. “Correct, sir.”

  “But in that time, in under a minute, with a woman blocking your view and hurling expletives at you, with the door open no more than five or six inches, you were able to not only observe but to identify three canisters of Kingsford charcoal lighter fluid and a small leather Fendi handbag that were situated, by your own admission, no less than twelve to fifteen feet apart from one another?”

  Izzy stares at me with moist eyes, his lips visibly trembling. “What can I say, I have exceptional observation skills.”

  “That you do, Izzy. Either that or one hell of a fertile imagination.”

  CHAPTER 48

  “… secrets?” Josh says.

  We’re sitting on my lanai in Ko Olina, the kid and I, for what may very well be the last time. Sebastian Haslett, the boy’s father, expressed no interest in taking custody of Josh, so the issue will be left for the courts to decide. Sometime next week, Josh will be interviewed in downtown Honolulu by a state social worker. For the time being, however, the kid is still living with Chelsea in Waikele, where I picked him up this morning, because Chelsea prefers to spend her days alone in Waikiki having a good time.

  “What?” I ask him.

  I’m not listening. My mind is whirling, tossing around images of Erin and Trevor and the night of the fire. I’m thinking of Brandon Glenn. Wondering how it is going to feel to lose this case, to lose Erin Simms forever. I’m trying to decide whether I can go on, whether I can remain in Hawaii, whether I can continue practicing law.

  “I asked if you had any secrets,” Josh says.

  “A few,” I tell him.

  Josh is sitting in the chair beside me, stroking Grey Skies in his lap as it continues to drizzle. With all that has happened to the kid in his brief life, I wonder how he can stand it, how he can seem so unaffected. Then I realize something I’ve said to myself a countless number of times: Kids are resilient.

  But it catches up with them in time.

  Like Erin.

  Like Nikki.

  Like myself.

  “What kinds of secrets?” Josh says.

  “Well,” I say without looking at him, “if I told you they wouldn’t be secrets anymore, now would they?”

  “So you should never tell a secret?”

  I immediately call to mind Brandon Glenn’s secret, that he was gay, a fact that had I known it at the time, may very well have won him an acquittal. Brandon’s secret was a secret that could have saved his life. A secret that would have changed nothing between us had he told me.

  Then I think of Joey Gianforte’s secret, that he was engaged. That secret nearly cost Joey a lifetime stay in the pen.

  “What if you have to give test-money?” Josh says.

  “Testimony,” I correct him for the umpteenth time.

  Immediately my
mind leaps back in time to yesterday, to Izzy Dufu’s testimony. Why did he lie? What did Izzy Dufu have to gain by saying he identified the little leather Fendi? Was he coached by Maddox? If so, why? Would an up-and-comer like Luke Maddox suborn perjury and risk an ethics charge just to place the little leather handbag in the honeymoon suite at that particular time of night? It doesn’t add up, doesn’t make sense. Unless Izzy is somehow involved in the crime. Well, he or Luke Maddox.

  “What about testimony?” I finally say.

  “You told me that you have to say the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that if you lie, the judge will give you a spanking.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But what if you have a big secret that you’re not s’posed to tell?”

  “Then your lawyer won’t put you on the stand.”

  “What if your lawyer doesn’t know about the secret?”

  I’m about to give the kid the most vital piece of advice an attorney could share with his client—It is imperative to tell your lawyer everything—when my cell phone rings on the coffee table in my living room. “Excuse me,” I say as I step past the sliding screen door.

  I flip open the clam shell and put it to my ear. “Speak.”

  It’s Flan returning my call. “What can I do for you, Kev?”

  “Have Hoshi draw you up two subpoenas addressed to the Kupulupulu Beach Resort. One for a copy of any and all excessive noise complaints received at the front desk on the night of the fire and one for a printout of all security passkey activity, including the passkey belonging to Izzy Dufu.”

  “But we already received that stuff,” Flan says.

  “We received a copy from Maddox’s office. Now I want a certified copy directly from the resort, and I want you to stand there while they print it. Then we’ll see if the two match up.”

  “You got it,” he says.

  I click END and immediately put a call through to Milt Cashman’s cell.

  Five rings later Milt answers the call. “Speak,” he hollers into the phone.

  It’s well after eleven at night in New York but there’s plenty of background noise: loud music, the clanking of forks and knives, the sound of a champagne bottle being uncorked.