One Dog Night

by David Rosenfelt

  “You will see Noah Galloway for what he is, and what he has done, and you will do your job. As unpleasant as all of this will be, I have no doubt you will do your job.

  “So I thank you for your service.”

  Dylan has done an effective job of bringing the jurors on to his team, the team that is dedicated to protecting society from the horribly evil people on my team. It no doubt fits the narrative they came in with, so I’m sure it landed on receptive ears.

  As I stand I glance at Noah, who is staring straight ahead and betraying no emotion, as I have counseled him to do. But I can’t help wondering what’s going through his mind. Before I met him, he was resigned to his fate, and comfortable with it. He felt he deserved whatever the system decreed, and that would be that.

  But he’s a smart guy, and though he isn’t quite willing to admit it, he must be coming to believe in at least the possibility of his own innocence. That automatically gives him something major at stake, and also gives him a reason to be frightened, and bitter, and angry, and very, very anxious.

  He’s not showing it, and that’s good, but he’s got to be feeling it.

  I pat him on the shoulder, as much for the jury’s sake as his own, and stand. “I’ve been in my job a lot of years as well,” I say, “but I’ve already had a relatively new experience this time. Very often I can go an entire trial without agreeing with anything the prosecutor says, but this time we are on the same page on a major issue.

  “What happened that night six years ago is horrible … no doubt about it. And I would like the person who did it to go away for the rest of his life, and I would be fine if that life wasn’t a long one.

  “But your job is not to punish the person that the prosecutor says is guilty. You are not punishers, you are finders of fact. It is your job to decide whether Noah Galloway is guilty, not to protect society. Society is not protected by an innocent man going to prison; it suffers for it.

  “Noah Galloway had a disease; it’s called drug addiction. It is a horrible disease, and one that is terribly difficult to overcome. But he’s done just that; he’s turned his life around and become a model citizen. He’s been recognized for his accomplishments and his good works by many, many people, a group that happens to include the President of the United States.

  “But his achievements in the last six years don’t make him innocent; nor do his troubles before that make him guilty. When you come to know him then and now, when you know who Noah Galloway is and what makes him tick, then you will know he is incapable of this kind of act.

  “The evidence is convenient, rather than compelling. It suddenly appeared as if by magic, and it came in torrents. The case was handed to the prosecutor on a silver platter, and he ran with it. I don’t know about you, but when I’m handed something on a silver platter for no reason at all, I check to see if it’s real silver.

  “Well, you will soon see that none of this is real, and that Noah Galloway is a victim. So, like Mr. Campbell, I ask you to do your job, based solely on the facts. Then maybe the police and prosecutors can focus on finding the real fiend, who is out there laughing at us.

  “Thank you.”

  Noah whispers a thank-you to me when I sit down, and even Hike nods that he feels it went well. A positive nod from Hike is the equivalent of a ticker-tape parade from a normal person, so I’m feeling good about things.

  That feeling is wiped away by one sentence spoken to Dylan, by De Luca. “Call your first witness.”

  I guess I was hoping the judge would forget about the witness part, and go right to the verdict.

  It was one of the more unpleasant phone calls in Loney’s recent memory.

  Carmine Ricci had called at three A.M. and he was not happy. The hour of the call was not a surprise; Carmine was on Vegas time, so it was only midnight, and he never slept anyway. He also was not particularly concerned about waking Loney; in fact, based on the tone of his voice, he would have been happy to kill Loney.

  “You been watching television?” Carmine asked, instead of “hello.”

  “Now?” Loney asked. “I’ve been sleeping for … what time is it?” He looked at his watch, and then continued, “Three hours.”

  “The lawyer was on television tonight.”

  “What lawyer? Carpenter?” Loney asked. “What did he say?”

  “Find out yourself, and then call me to explain. If he calls me before you do, you’ve got yourself a problem.”

  “Okay … just tell me … what show was he on?”

  “How the hell do I know? You think I watch that shit? I heard it was one of those lawyer shows.”

  Click.

  Loney set about trying to find out what the hell Carmine was talking about, a task which proved easier than he expected. The cable news and talk shows are repeated frequently in the early-morning hours, and he was able to catch the appearance on the Doug Burns show at four A.M.

  It confirmed his worst fears; Carpenter had traced the calls that Camby made, which would not have been that difficult. But then he had somehow managed to delve into Loney’s phone records, and find out who he had called.

  This would have been a disaster waiting to happen, if it hadn’t already happened. He would have to call everyone on the list, and explain what had taken place. He would not mention Camby’s death, though they would learn about it from Carpenter’s TV appearances.

  Actually, the circumstances of Camby’s death might help him convince them not to talk to Carpenter. They would not want to share Camby’s fate, and even though public disclosure by Carpenter could prove somewhat embarrassing, a bullet in the head would be even more problematic.

  His bosses would be upset, though that would quickly turn to anger. Loney knew that they saw him as a necessary evil, a conduit to use to accomplish their goals. Conduits are supposed to handle problems, not cause them, and his bosses were going to see this as a very big problem.

  But the worst part was Carmine, because at the end of the day, Carmine was the only player here who was of any real importance. So if Carmine was pissed off, nothing else mattered. And Carmine was pissed off.

  Loney called him back, but didn’t bother to apologize. Carmine never wanted to hear apologies; he considered them unnecessary. He already knew that someone who displeased him would by definition be sorry that they had done so, since they would want to stay alive.

  All Carmine was interested in was that the situation be rectified, and Loney promised that the process would begin, effective immediately. He didn’t say how he would do that, since another thing Carmine was not interested in was details. He was a results-oriented guy.

  In the morning, Loney set out to make calls to everyone that could be on Carpenter’s list. He started with Fowler, asking him if he was aware of what Carpenter had said on television.

  “I saw it,” Fowler said. “I’m still trying to figure out how you could have let that happen.”

  “It was a mistake,” Loney admitted. “I’m dealing with it.”

  “You’d better. Your boss is as unhappy about it as we are.”

  “I’ve talked to him. Carpenter is in the dark on this, he’s groping. If his people get in touch with you, your position should be that you don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  Fowler’s voice sounded coldly amused. “Now you’re telling me my position?”

  “I’m telling everyone the same thing,” Loney said.

  “Just make sure they listen to you.”

  It was a ridiculous comment for Fowler to make, since there was no question the people on that list would listen to Loney. Their fear of Loney, and in some cases their dependence on him, is what made the entire operation run in the first place.

  By noon, Loney had made all the calls. He knew these people, he knew what made them tick, and he could have anticipated each of their reactions.

  Some were nervous and afraid, which for the most part they tried to conceal. A few were less concerned, and two even relished the danger. But all promised
to stonewall anyone who contacted them. They would not be intimidated; if Carpenter made their names public they were prepared to take him to court for defamation of character.

  It was the reaction Loney wanted, though he was not sure each of them could be trusted. He would have to monitor things vigilantly, and perform whatever corrective actions might be needed.

  Corrective action was a Loney specialty.

  Assistant Chief Peter Hayes is Dylan’s first witness.

  Chief Hayes comes from Passaic County Fire Department royalty; his family has been in the department since the early 1900s. Three of his ancestors have been chiefs, including his father, and there is no doubt that Hayes will ascend to the top spot as soon as the current chief reaches retirement age.

  Hayes has an imperial attitude about him, as if his title should be “Emperor” rather than “Assistant Chief.” Dylan treats him with a nauseating reverence, so much so that I’m surprised he doesn’t spread rose petals in front of him as he heads for the witness stand.

  Dylan starts by taking him through his career path. Hayes has been a firefighter for twenty-four years, and based on this endless testimony, he has received pretty much every commendation and award it is possible to receive, except for maybe a Grammy.

  Finally I can’t take it anymore, and I object. “Your Honor, the witness’s service has certainly been admirable, but he’s not here applying for sainthood. He’s presenting evidence of a specific incident.”

  De Luca nods. “Sustained. Let’s move it along, Mr. Campbell.”

  Dylan turns Hayes’s attention to the night of the fire. “Were you the first one on the scene, Chief Hayes?”

  “No, I wasn’t. I got there seven minutes after the alarm was received, but three units were already deployed and on the scene.”

  “So you were not the first person to enter the burning building?” Dylan asks.

  “No firefighter entered that building,” Hayes answers, uttering the words as if they are momentous. “The intensity of the fire would not permit it. And within six minutes of my arrival, there was no longer any building at all. It had completely disintegrated.”

  “How many fire scenes have you visited, Chief?”

  “I couldn’t say. Thousands.”

  “Was this one unusual?” Dylan asks.

  “You mean for reasons other than the toll in human lives?”

  “Yes, I’m talking about the qualities of the fire itself.”

  “It was the hottest, most intense fire I have ever witnessed, or investigated.”

  Dylan pretends to be surprised by the answer. “Why is that?”

  “The chemical mixture that was used, and the way it was distributed throughout the structure.”

  Dylan takes Hayes through a long presentation on the chemical compound that investigators determined was used to start and spread the fire. It was a combination of benzene and polystyrene. There was some gasoline added, which Hayes says made it easier to ignite.

  “Is there a name for this mixture that we would all be familiar with?” Dylan asks.

  Hayes nods. “It’s a form of napalm.”

  Dylan is positively shocked to hear this. “Napalm? You mean the weapon used to incinerate jungles in Vietnam?”

  “Yes,” Hayes says, and goes on to describe the different types of napalm, and its devastating properties.

  The description is impressive in its detail, and will be very damaging when the jury learns that Noah has the training and education to have concocted it.

  Dylan is not going to wait for that to happen. He hands Hayes a piece of paper, and asks him questions about it. It is a copy of Noah’s course studies in college and graduate school, and lists his Ph.D. in chemical engineering. I question the document’s admissibility and Hayes’s standing to testify about it, but De Luca shoots me down, as I knew he would.

  “Does this background suggest to you that the defendant would know how to make this mixture of chemicals?”

  I object on the grounds that Hayes could not be aware of Noah’s base of knowledge. De Luca sustains the objection and asks Dylan to rephrase.

  Finally, Hayes is allowed to say that people with Noah’s background should certainly have the capability of concocting it.

  Dylan does not ask Hayes anything about the incinerated bodies that were left in the rubble; he will call the coroner later to describe that in horrible detail. But Hayes has done a very effective job, and by the time Dylan turns him over to me, we already have a steep hill to climb.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hayes.” I’m not going to call him “Chief”; at the very least that gives him the upper hand and an added credibility in the jurors’ minds. It’s a small thing, but trials are made up of many small things.

  “Good morning, Mr. Carpenter.”

  “You talked about the elaborate way in which the fire was started, how the mixture was carefully spread out and placed, and how igniting it would have been difficult.”

  “Yes.”

  “The person doing it would have to have been intelligent, or at least very familiar with this type of thing?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And he or she would have to have been patient in the process? It needed to be carefully thought out and executed?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And clearheaded and alert?”

  There’s a flash of worry on Hayes’s face; he knows that the prosecution’s theory is of a drug-desperate Noah exacting revenge on the people denying him those drugs.

  “I’m not sure I can speak to that.”

  “If you’d like to ask Mr. Campbell’s permission, we can wait.”

  Dylan explodes out of his chair to object, and De Luca admonishes me.

  “Mr. Hayes, you’ve already stated that the perpetrator had to be knowledgeable in these matters, patient and careful. You think someone could have done all this while not clearheaded and alert?”

  “I suppose that would have been the case, at least for a short while,” Hayes concedes.

  “Good. Now this clearheaded, intelligent, careful, patient, alert arsonist would have to have had a knowledge of the chemicals in napalm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you can’t just walk into Home Depot and say, give me a jugful of napalm, can you? There are no Napalm R Us stores around, right?”

  “That is correct. It is illegal to possess it, or purchase it.”

  “And it requires a chemical engineering degree to create it?”

  “Certainly doesn’t hurt,” he says.

  I introduce four pieces of paper and have them marked as defense evidence exhibits. I then hand the first one to Hayes, and I give copies of all four to Dylan.

  “Mr. Hayes, I have just handed you a copy of a Google search page, have I not?”

  Hayes holds it away from him, as if it might be contagious. “Yes, I believe so.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “That’s what it is,” he says.

  “Please read the subject line at the top.”

  “‘How to make napalm.’”

  “And near the top it mentions how many hits there were on that subject. Please read that as well.”

  He mutters the answer. “Two hundred and sixty-four thousand.”

  I tell him that neither I nor the jury could hear his response, and I get him to say it louder.

  “Mr. Hayes, I think we can assume that these two hundred and sixty-four thousand napalm teachers think the reader has a place to do it, like a napalm office or something. In case they don’t, can you read the subject line and the number of hits on this search page?”

  I hand him the next piece of paper, which he sneers at. “‘How to make napalm at home,’” he says.

  “And how many hits?”

  “One hundred and ninety-five thousand.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” I say. “But there’s always a catch. For instance, what if the person wanting to make napalm can’t read? Then he must be out of luck, right? Or ma
ybe you can read this subject line.” I give him paper number three.

  “‘Making napalm videos,’” he says.

  “And the hits?” I feel like I’m dragging him to the edge of a cliff.

  “One thousand six hundred and ten hits.”

  “So I guess illiteracy wouldn’t be a deterrent after all. Live and learn. My bad.” I walk toward him with paper number four. “One more,” I say, and hand it to him. “What’s the subject line?”

  “‘Need a chemical engineering degree to make napalm,’” he says.

  “And the hits?” I ask.

  “No results found.”

  I’ve only partially succeeded in my cross of Chief Hayes.

  I’ve won what I classify as “debating” points, rather than “verdict” points. Debating points are part of a “gotcha” cross-examination, in which the witness might look bad, or get caught in a mistake. But those kinds of points don’t accomplish much in real life; they don’t win over the jury and help them make up their minds. Only verdict points do that.

  I showed how silly it was to assume that it takes a chemical engineering degree to know how to mix the chemicals necessary to make napalm. I’m sure the jury gets that intellectually, and I even think they will give me credit for a smooth piece of lawyering.

  But ultimately they will dismiss it as a debating point. At the end of the day they will think that if an arsonist went to the trouble of mixing such a concoction, then it is more likely than not that he had a knowledge of chemicals. And there, sitting at the defense table sits the accused, a chemical engineer.

  It will all seem to fit for the jury. It won’t be the deciding factor; it will be a contributing one. And unfortunately Dylan is not nearly finished making evidentiary contributions.

  His next witness is Detective Sue Pyles of the Paterson Police Department. She’s one of the lead detectives in the drug enforcement division. Pyles has been fighting the thankless, mostly losing battle against drugs for almost twenty-two years.

  Dylan asks her about the occupants of the two ground-floor apartments in the destroyed building, and Pyles prefaces her testimony by saying that there are things she cannot say, and names she cannot mention, because it could prejudice an ongoing investigation.