The truth is, I’m not that anxious to be here for that either.
Dylan doesn’t have much more to say, so he’s going to keep saying it.
His first witness today is Randall Henderson, a forensic scientist with the New Jersey State Police. He is the person who did the original testing on the paint can in the days after the fire, and whose work has since been confirmed by the FBI’s lab.
If I play my cards right, he will be the only witness today. One of the jurors has a doctor’s appointment that has been deemed necessary, so court will not be in session this afternoon. Since it’s Friday, that will give me two and half days out of this courtroom, which will feel like a three-month world cruise.
Henderson is a very competent professional, and there is little doubt that his testing was done correctly. Though I made the FBI scientist look bad on cross-examination, the fact that the test results of both labs were identical makes it impossible to effectively challenge the results. They know that, Dylan and I know that, and the jury sure as hell knows it.
Dylan does me a favor by dragging out his testimony for two hours. I just have to keep Henderson on the stand for a few more minutes, and it’s hello, weekend.
“Mr. Henderson, in examining the can, did you weigh it?”
“No, there was no reason to, not for my purposes.”
I take the can and ask De Luca if I can hand it to him. When he says that I can, I ask Henderson to hold it and guess its weight. “Maybe six pounds,” he says.
“And it’s empty?”
“Yes.”
I walk back to the defense table, and Hike hands me the second can, which I give to him. “What about this one, which is now two-thirds filled with liquid?”
Henderson is a pretty big guy, maybe six feet, a hundred and eighty pounds, and he has no trouble lifting it. “I don’t know … fifteen pounds.”
“I weighed it earlier, and it totaled thirteen and a half pounds. Does that seem about right?”
“I would think so,” he says.
“There was earlier testimony that the amount of flammable liquid used would have required between four and five of those cans. That would mean between fifty-four and sixty-seven pounds, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Would it not be incredibly difficult to carry four or five of these rather unwieldy cans, weighing sixty or so pounds?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
I receive permission from De Luca to ask him to step down from the witness stand. Hike reaches under the table and starts handing me additional cans, one at a time. I pretend that I’m having a little difficulty carrying them, and I make four trips over to Henderson, each time carrying one can.
“Mr. Henderson, each of these cans is identical to the original, wouldn’t you say?”
“They look the same,” is his grudging reply.
“And they all are filled with fluid, and each weighs thirteen and a half pounds. You don’t have a bad back, or anything like that, do you?”
“No,” he says.
“Great. Then would you please carry them to the back of the courtroom? All at once, please.”
Dylan stands. “Your Honor, please…”
De Luca stares him down. “Your Honor, please?” he mimics. “Is that an official objection?”
De Luca instructs Henderson to carry the cans as I asked, providing he is not afraid he will injure himself. It’s a fairly impossible task, because there is no way two hands can grip all the various handles at the same time.
Henderson gives it his best try, and much to my delight drops one of the cans after walking only a few feet.
“Pretty tough, huh?” I ask. “And remember, this fire was set on the third floor, so these cans were carried up the steps.”
“It’s difficult, but not impossible,” Henderson says.
“You want to try it again? We’ve got time.”
He doesn’t want to, so I let him get back onto the stand.
“Mr. Henderson, let’s say for argument’s sake, all evidence to the contrary, that one person could do what you just failed to do. If you saw someone doing it, just walking down the street, do you think you would notice him?”
“I suppose I would, depending on what I was doing at the time.”
“Yet no one reported seeing Mr. Galloway doing that.”
Dylan finally makes the correct objection that these questions have nothing to do with Henderson’s lab work, and De Luca sustains.
“When you were testing this can in your lab, did you ever have trouble finding it?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Ever misplace it?”
He shakes his head. “Of course not.”
“It stands out, doesn’t it? Be pretty tough to lose.”
“I certainly would not lose it, or misplace it.”
“Yet no other cans were found, not in Mr. Galloway’s apartment or anywhere else. Does it seem strange to you that he would leave the can with his charred skin on it right out on the street, but would hide the other cans so carefully that an entire police department could not find them?”
Before he can answer, Dylan objects, and De Luca tells him not to answer the question.
I try another one. “Did you have occasion to test any items from the actual house itself?”
He nods. “I did.”
“Any significant results?”
“Depends what you mean by significant,” he says. “But basically no. Everything in that house was pretty much incinerated.”
“Do you think that was the plan, and that’s why napalm was used?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Well, would whoever used the napalm have been likely to know that incineration would be the result?”
He nods. “I would certainly think so.”
“Then why not leave the cans behind to be incinerated along with everything else?” I ask. “Why take one can that he burned himself on, and carry it three blocks?”
“I can’t say.”
“That’s too bad.”
“We got something, Andy. Hilda found it.”
It’s the first message on my answering machine when I get home, and as I’m listening to it, Laurie walks into the room.
“Sam found something,” I say.
“I know; I spoke to him. They’re on the way over.”
“They?”
She laughs. “Apparently they travel as a group.” When I grimace, she adds, “They’re nice people, Andy. This is an adventure for them.”
“Do you know what they found?”
“No, Sam wouldn’t say; he wants Hilda to have the honor.”
“The State of New Jersey, the prosecutor’s office, and the FBI versus Hilda Mandlebaum. It’s a steel-cage fight to the finish.”
“My money’s on Hilda.”
Before they arrive, Marcus shows up. Laurie had called him in case whatever it was that Sam’s gang came up with needed following up.
Tara practically lights up when she sees Marcus, who never fails to pet her. She follows him as he heads straight for the kitchen and the refrigerator, giving me time to ask Laurie, “How many of Sam’s five interns are going to have a coronary when they see Marcus? I would make the over-under number three.”
“I think they’re probably tougher than you think,” she says.
Sam and his gang walk in about fifteen minutes later, four hundred and twenty-seven years of hard-nosed investigators, not including Sam. Each of them carries a briefcase; they look like an army of aged accountants.
If they are intimidated by Marcus, they don’t show it, and Morris Fishman mentions that Marcus looks like somebody he knew in Korea.
“You fought in Korea?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I bought fabric there. I was in the dress business … shmatas.”
Marcus nods knowingly, as if he’s spent the weekend shmata-shopping with Hilda. I feel like I’m on the planet Goofball.
“Let’s get started, sha
ll we?” I ask.
Sam nods. “Sure. Hilda?”
Hilda shrugs and says, “You go ahead, Sammy. You can tell it better than I can.”
Sam opens his briefcase and takes out some pieces of paper. He hands a copy of the first one to Laurie, Marcus, and me. Each of the “gang” also takes out their own copy to refer to it. It’s a photograph of a distinguished-looking man, about forty-five years old.
“This is Walter Holland. He’s the presiding judge in the Delaware Chancery Court. Undergraduate at Princeton and then went to Virginia Law, top of his class. Clerked for a justice in the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals. Married to the former Alice Simmons for three years; they have one adopted child, Benji, and they live a mile from the courthouse. Very well respected, and considered to be the leading jurist on business law in the country. We’ve listed the rest of his bio and some of his most important cases at the bottom of the page.”
I don’t have to ask why I should care about Judge Holland or his background, since he was on the cell phone list. Laurie had tried repeatedly to reach him, but was unable to. What I am now waiting for is what Sam has learned about Holland that has caused him to single him out.
Sam takes out more paper from his briefcase, again handing a copy to the three of us. Again, the “gang” does the same. Another man is pictured in this photo, a little younger than Holland, and a little harder. Even in this photo, it’s clear that this man does not suffer fools gladly, and is used to getting his way.
“This is Alex Bauer,” Sam says. “He is the CEO of Entech Industries, a relatively small energy company, with holdings in the South and Midwest. He’s a former marine, former amateur boxing champ, reputation for being tough.”
“I spoke with him,” Laurie says. “He gave me the party line, that he had no idea what I was talking about, and I should call him back when I had more specifics.”
“Well, you’re about to have some. For the last five and a half years, Entech Industries has been trying to acquire Milgram Oil and Gas, a publicly owned company with a market capitalization that makes it maybe thirty percent larger than Entech.”
“So Entech is borrowing the money to buy it?” I ask.
“That’s not clear,” Sam says. “Either that, or they have other investors behind them, or they’ll sell off pieces of the acquired company. One way or the other, Bauer and Entech do not seem concerned, and they’re offering a forty percent premium on the stock, up from an initial offer of a twenty percent premium.”
“Why isn’t Milgram accepting the offer?” I ask.
“Two reasons. One, it’s a mostly family-owned company, been one for generations. Between five siblings they have more than thirty percent, and just don’t want to give up the business. The second reason is that they have been pioneers in wind technology, and have invested heavily in it. There’s a school of thought that as a country we are headed in that direction, and that the government is going to make a huge investment in it. They’d be on the ground floor.”
“Is that why Entech wants it?” Laurie asks.
“Probably, but they haven’t commented on it. Milgram also has land holdings that it is drilling for oil on, and a lot that it has the rights to but hasn’t gotten started on yet.”
“Why haven’t the other seventy percent of the stockholders taken the offer?”
“Because the board is controlled by the Milgram family, and they’ve adopted a poison pill. Stanley used to be a stockbroker … Stanley?”
Stanley says, “Companies that don’t want to be taken over, but think, oy, it could happen, make a poison pill. There are different types, but this one says that if any outsider buys more than twenty percent of the shares, the current shareholders can buy more shares at a reduced price. It dilutes the value of the newcomer’s shares. The more he buys, the less they’re worth.”
“Oy,” Laurie says, and I look at Marcus. If he says “Oy,” I’m out of here.
“But how do the two tie together?” I ask.
“Bauer and Entech are suing Milgram, claiming the poison pill is illegal,” Sam says. “If they win, they get the company. Milgram’s been fighting it, and draining their assets in the process. It’s considered very unlikely that they’d have the resources to appeal and have this drag on further in the courts.”
“Let me guess. The suit is being heard in Delaware, with Judge Holland presiding.”
Hilda points at me and says to Sam, “He’s very good.”
“Hilda, if I was that good, I’d know what to do with this.”
I tell Laurie I’ll work on Judge Holland, while she deals with Bauer.
The problem is that I have no idea how to do that. It’s pretty tough to get hold of big-time judges, though the fact that Holland doesn’t know me is a plus. Judges who know me have a tendency not to be too fond of me.
It’s also not the smartest thing in the world to accuse judges of doing bad things, especially when the accuser has no evidence and doesn’t know what the bad things are.
So basically, I need to figure out a way to reach him, and then figure out what to say if I do.
“Judge Holland’s office,” is how the woman answers the phone when I call. I’m surprised anyone answered the phone, since it’s Saturday. But he’s apparently preparing an opinion, so I thought I’d take a shot.
“I’d like to speak to the judge, please,” I say. “My name is Andy Carpenter.”
“May I ask what it is in reference to?”
“It’s a personal matter between Judge Holland, Alex Bauer, and myself. Mr. Bauer suggested that I call.”
“Just a moment, please.”
Waiting for her to come back on the phone, I figure there is about a two percent chance that Holland will get on the phone. Maybe less.
“I’m afraid Judge Holland is unable to speak with you, Mr. Carpenter.”
“Unable or unwilling?”
“I assume you are aware that Judge Holland is currently presiding over a case in which Mr. Bauer is an interested party?”
“I am.”
“Then you should know that all contact must go through the court. Good day, sir.”
As my mother would have said about my attempt to reach Holland, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” I always found the saying annoying, but it crystallized a clear difference in attitude between us. To her, the “ventured” part was important; while all I ever really cared about was whether something was “gained.”
With nothing better to do, I plunge into as much information as I have been able to accumulate about the case before Judge Holland in Delaware.
Financial litigation has never been a specialty or interest of mine, and this case, if nothing else, confirms that attitude. It is deadly dry, lawyers arguing in arcane legalese about issues which do not seem terribly consequential. Regardless of which company prevails, the world will not be a better, or even appreciably different, place.
But there is something in here, something that relates to Noah Galloway’s trial, and to the murder of twenty-six people six years ago. At least I hope that’s true, because it’s the only hope I have.
The phone rings, and it’s Pete, telling me that he has the list of missing persons from that period six years ago. It’s a very, very incomplete list, he says. “If it helps you, I’ll be surprised.”
I ask him to e-mail it to me, and then I call Sam and tell him I’m forwarding it to him. It’s Saturday, probably a day that most of his gang rests, but he promises to get right on it.
He asks what I specifically want. “Actually, hold off until I get you the rest of the names,” I say, thinking of the list that Cindy Spodek is working on. “Meanwhile, any other connections between people on the cell phone call list?”
“No, but we’re still rechecking it,” he says, and I let him off the phone to do his work.
I take Tara and Bailey for a walk, and when we get back, Laurie comes out on the porch to greet us. “I reached Bauer,” she says.
“And?”
&nb
sp; “He did a one-eighty; now he wants to talk. He says he has a lot he needs to say.”
“Needs?” I ask.
She nods. “Needs. It sounds like he wants to get something off his chest.”
“Sounds good to me. Does he have a specific time and place for the unburdening?”
“He’s going to call me back; he said this must be done in absolute secrecy. Made me promise that I would never reveal that he talked to us.”
“Did you promise?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“I’m glad I didn’t.”
“Andy…”
“Let’s see what he says, okay? Maybe he’ll admit to setting the fire. Either way, let’s see if keeping your promise justifies Noah spending the rest of his life in jail.”
“Carpenter called me. He said he was calling on behalf of Alex Bauer.”
If it wasn’t panic in Judge Holland’s voice, it was something close to it.
“Did you talk to him?” Loney asked.
“Of course not. I had my assistant tell him it was inappropriate for me to do so, because of Bauer’s involvement in the case.”
“Good,” Loney said. “You handled it perfectly.”
“You don’t seem to understand; he obviously knows what’s going on. You think he’s going to stop because my assistant said I wouldn’t come to the phone?”
Loney was tired of babysitting these people. They were all leaders in their fields, accomplished people, yet they turned to mush when the going got difficult. “He’s not calling you because he knows … he’s calling you because he’s trying to find out.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because if he knew what was happening, you wouldn’t be the judge that he would go to,” Loney said. “His focus is on his trial, and getting Galloway off.”
“Galloway should get off.”
“Get a grip, Judge. Your part in this is almost over.”
“It doesn’t feel like that. It feels like it will never end,” Holland said.
“Have you finished writing your opinion?”
“Almost.”
One Dog Night Page 19