Bury the Lead

by David Rosenfelt

  This situation is even more troubling than most. With all the media attention, the district attorney and police would be particularly loath to make a mistake. They have been under tremendous pressure, but it would increase tenfold if they arrested a suspect and then released him.

  They also must know that if they have the wrong man, then the world will realize it as soon as another murder is committed. They would not risk looking so foolish unless they were positive they were right.

  I’m not at all sure I even want to take on this case. Cummings might well be guilty, and I don’t really have any compelling need for a serial killer as a client. Besides, I wasn’t even that crazy about him when I thought he was just a law-abiding, pompous reporter.

  I decide to broach this with Vince, who is the reason I’m in this mess in the first place. “You know, Cummings might want to pick his own attorney” is the wimpy way I go about it.

  Vince shakes his head. “No way. You’re the best. He knows that; I told him that.”

  “Vince, I agreed to represent you and the newspaper. I didn’t know I—”

  Vince interrupts me, a flash of panic in his eyes. “You’ve got to do it, Andy. You’re the only lawyer I trust to handle this.”

  Just then an officer comes out and tells me that I can see Cummings. I nod, but first I want to finish this with Vince.

  “Vince, it doesn’t matter who you trust. You’re not the client. And there are plenty of good lawyers. All I’m saying is—”

  “No, it’s got to be you.” Vince doesn’t seem to be willing to let me finish a sentence, so I just let the officer lead me off to see Cummings.

  I’ve never physically been with someone when they are being processed after entering custody, but in addition to fingerprinting, photographing, emptying of pockets, and the like, the arresting authorities must go over the accused with a confidence-remover.

  All but the most seasoned criminals come out of these sessions looking simultaneously depressed and distraught, and Cummings is no exception. Gone, at least for the moment, are the cockiness and air of superiority that I experienced in the past. There is not yet even room for outrage; the fear and humiliation are too dominating. It may be an indictment of myself to say so, but I like him better this way.

  “Have you said anything to them since your arrest?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “You told me not to.”

  I nod. “Good. That becomes a rule from this day forward. Now, tell me what you know about why you were arrested.”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea. One minute I was working with them, telling them what the killer was telling me, and the next thing I know they’re saying I’m the killer. It’s insane; they must be under so much pressure to make an arrest that they just picked the closest person.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Daniel.” My mind registers that I’ve started thinking of him as “Daniel,” rather than “Cummings,” because I need to get personally close to my clients. Then my mind registers that I am thinking of him as a client, which means I must at least be considering taking on the case. Sometimes my mind has a mind of its own.

  I continue. “That same pressure you’re talking about would make them extra careful about charging someone unless they’re sure.”

  His mind doesn’t seem to fully register this. “So what are you saying?”

  “That they must have some evidence, evidence that they consider substantial, tying you to this. You need to think about what that could be.”

  He nods and takes some time to think. “I guess only that I knew information . . . like where the bodies were, how they were murdered, things that only the killer could have known.” He throws up his hands in a gesture of frustration. “But that’s because the killer was telling me everything!”

  “And why did he pick you?”

  “I don’t know,” he says with some frustration. “I already told you that.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you told me before. The world has changed now; you have to look at everything from an entirely different perspective. There’s—”

  He interrupts me. “But you don’t understand—”

  I return the favor, interrupting him. “It’s you that has to understand . . . so listen carefully. There is a reason you’re here. For us to prevail, we have to find out what the reason is, then shoot it down. And your recollections, your perceptions, can be our most valuable tools. So I know this is hard, but you don’t have the luxury of worrying, or feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve got to help yourself, by helping me.”

  There is no chance that little speech will get through to him, at least not yet, since the shock of his arrest is too fresh. But if I harp on it enough, it will eventually have an effect.

  For now I’ll give him a specific assignment. “You know as much about these murders as the police do. So what I want you to do is piece together where you were when each one was committed. I want to know where you were, what you were doing, and if anyone saw you do it. If we can prove you didn’t do any one of the four, their case falls apart.”

  Daniel nods, but it’s not hopeful, and I’ve got a feeling he’s going to report that he was home in bed, alone, at the time of the murders. Or that aliens abducted him and sprayed him with antimemory juice.

  The door opens and Millen and another cop in plain clothes come into the room. Millen speaks to me. “We would like to question your client, if that’s okay with you.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Maybe he would like to present his side of the story,” he says.

  “Maybe you should have given him that opportunity before you arrested him.”

  Millen just nods and the two of them leave. He doesn’t seem terribly disappointed; he knew I’d never let Daniel speak to him. As a thorough cop, he had to go through the motions.

  The guard comes to take Daniel back to his holding cell, and when I leave, there are two messages waiting for me at the desk. One is a notification from the district attorney’s office that the arraignment is scheduled for tomorrow, which is Friday. They are moving quickly and don’t even want to wait until Monday, another sign of confidence. They think their case is strong enough already and have no doubt the grand jury will indict based on it.

  The other message is from Laurie, reporting that she and Vince will be at Charlie’s, waiting for me. I head over there, though in truth I would prefer to go home and think things through.

  Laurie and Vince are sitting at our regular corner table when I arrive, but it would not take Sherlock Holmes to look at this scene and know there is something amiss. First of all, there is a full plate of french fries on the table, and Vince is paying no attention to them. I can’t overemphasize the inconceivability of such an event. Secondly, the television facing their table is tuned to the local news, while every other one in the entire bar has ESPN.

  Vince sees me walking toward them and stands up, as if somehow that will get me there faster. “What happened?” he asks. “How did it go?”

  I explain that Daniel volunteered nothing much to me and that I refused to let him volunteer anything to the police. “But they seem very confident of their case.”

  “What is their case? What do they have?” He’s asking questions in pairs.

  “I don’t know, and Daniel claims not to either. I’ll probably learn more when I meet with the DA, and in any event they’ll have to turn over everything in discovery.”

  He tosses out another pair. “So this is going to trial? We can’t stop it?”

  “Not unless Daniel pleads guilty.”

  He shakes his head. “Impossible. Won’t happen.”

  “Vince, why don’t you tell me everything that you know and I don’t?”

  He sighs and then nods in resignation, as if this is something he dreads. “Daniel was married when he lived in Cleveland. Things didn’t go well for him.”

  “Meaning . . . ?”

  “About a year and a half ago his wife was murdered.”

 
The thud that echoes through the bar is the sound of my stomach hitting the floor.

  “Did they catch the killer?” I ask.

  “Nope. It’s still an open case.”

  “Was Daniel a suspect?”

  “Of course not. I mean, you know how it is, they always check the family first. Especially since she had a lot of money; her parents left her a bundle. But there was no evidence he was involved, which he wasn’t.”

  “And you kept all this a secret?”

  He flashes some annoyance. “What secret? He didn’t do anything wrong. Nobody kept it a secret. The guy’s wife was murdered. Is that something you’re going to go around broadcasting?”

  “How was she killed?” I ask.

  “She was shot.” He says this with a measure of triumph, as if the difference in causes of death completely exonerates Daniel from being involved in any of this. “And both her hands were still on the body.”

  I look over at Laurie, who doesn’t seem surprised at what Vince is saying, which means that Vince told her all of this before I arrived. She and I make eye contact, but my eye-reading skills are not quite well developed enough to know what she is thinking.

  “Vince,” I say, “you need to face the possibility that Daniel is guilty. There can be some civil ramifications for your newspaper, so—”

  “He’s not guilty. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “You’ve met your quota. So why don’t you tell me how you can be so sure?”

  I see Laurie flinch slightly; she must know what’s coming and also knows I’m not going to like it.

  “I’m sure because he’s my son,” Vince says.

  • • • • •

  “I WAS IN THE RESERVES, stationed in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri,” relates Vince. “Putting in my six months so I could get out of going to Vietnam. I got a weekend pass, I met Daniel’s mother, she got pregnant, end of story.”

  My keen intuition is telling me that her pregnancy was in fact not the end of the story, so I probe further. “So you’ve kept in touch with Daniel all these years?” I ask.

  He shakes his head with some sadness. “No. His mother never told me about him . . . we had no contact at all. Then, when he was eighteen, he contacted me. Since then I’ve tried to do what I can. I mean, I’m not Ward Cleaver, but I’ve done okay. I’ve been there when he needed me. I paid for the parts of college that his scholarship didn’t cover.”

  Vince, a responsible father. The mind boggles. I wouldn’t trust him to watch my beer.

  “Where is his mother now?” Laurie asks, helping me out. She knows that I have trouble speaking when I’m totally incredulous.

  “She died about three years ago,” Vince says.

  “I don’t suppose it was of natural causes?” It’s an obnoxious question to ask, but Vince doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Yeah, some kind of cancer,” he says. “I’m not sure . . . we didn’t really have a relationship . . . it was just that one night.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me this?” I ask. “I mean, having a son, that’s the kind of thing people usually mention.”

  “You always tell me everything?” is his challenge back, knowing that our friendship is not nearly that intimate. “I mean, we’re guys, right?”

  I see Laurie roll her eyes, one of the few eye signs I can actually read.

  “We sure are, and proud of it. The Two Musketeers.” I’m trying to lighten things up a little.

  “I guess I was ashamed,” Vince says, some emotion getting through the gruff exterior. “I missed so much . . . I never saw him grow up.”

  “How could you know?” Laurie asks.

  “I guess I couldn’t. But I sure never tried to find out. Then when he wanted to go into journalism, I figured I could help him more if people didn’t know he was my kid.”

  “Makes sense,” I say, even though I’m not sure it does.

  “So you’ll stay on the case?” Vince asks. “You’ll defend him?”

  I’m in a bit of a quandary here. I’ve pretty much decided there is no way I’m going to take on this case, but I have no idea how to tell this to Vince. “I’ll defend him” is what I say, probably not the best way to get my point across.

  He smiles, and I can tell he’s relieved, because he reaches out to shake with his right hand and grab a french fry with his left. “Thanks, Andy. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. And believe me, Daniel can pay your fee, no problem.”

  My nod is pained; my client can pay for his defense against charges of murder with the money he inherited from his murdered wife. “Why don’t you ask Laurie if she’ll work on it with me?” I ask, fully subscribing to the “misery loves company” theory.

  Vince’s head turns toward Laurie as if it’s on a swivel. “Will you?”

  She reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Of course.”

  Vince goes at the french fries with both hands; he’s feeling a hell of a lot better. “I really surprised you, didn’t I?” he asks, smiling for the first time.

  I nod. “You sure did. I still can’t believe it. You actually had sex with someone.”

  We hang around for a few more minutes and then leave. Laurie and I don’t go home together, since it’s Thursday and we only stay together on Sundays, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It’s one of the goofy little rules we’ve set up to keep our relationship from moving too fast, though by now I’ve forgotten why fast is a bad thing.

  Tara is waiting for me when I get home, and we go for a long walk. I hate walking, yet love walking with Tara. If she weren’t around, I would drive to the front curb to get the mail. Fortunately, I don’t have to even think about that, since she will always be around.

  During the walk I make another attempt at introspection, trying to understand my feelings about friendship. A murder case is an enormous undertaking, and this one is bigger than most. It will dominate my life for months. I don’t want to do it, yet I am going to because I consider Vince my friend. I only met him a year ago, I obviously know very little about him, yet that friendship is pushing me over a legal cliff.

  I take Tara home and go right to sleep; this introspection stuff can get really tiring.

  I wake up in the morning, not with a plan exactly, but with a desire to get things moving. I arrange for Kevin and Laurie to meet with me at the office at nine A.M. Kevin’s reaction to the situation as I lay it out is fairly close to mine; he’s feeling anxious to get back in the legal saddle, but not at all comfortable with the horse we are about to ride.

  There is a press conference scheduled by the DA, Tucker Zachry, at ten o’clock, and we turn on the television to watch it. I’m sure that Tucker is not going to reveal key elements of their case, but I am curious to find out who in his office will be assigned to prosecute it.

  Tucker Zachry was elected to his office last November with sixty-three percent of the vote, a healthy majority to be sure. Based on his looks and television presence, I’m surprised he didn’t get ninety percent. He’s in his late thirties, six foot two, and apparently in just as good shape as he was when he came in fourth in the Heisman balloting as a quarterback at Stanford. He has a ready smile for his constituents and was even a decent lawyer before moving into this higher office.

  Obviously, I hate him.

  Tucker opens the press conference with a self-promoting speech about the horror of the crimes, about his dedication to protecting the populace, and about the extraordinary police work that has resulted in Daniel Cummings being arrested. He should begin the speech with “Dear jurors,” since every word he says is meant for the prospective jurors out there in television land.

  There is no mention of the particulars of the prosecution and the case against Daniel. Tucker professes to wish that he could share the juicy details, but the fact that he is conducting an ongoing prosecution makes that impossible. He even waxes eloquent on the rights of the accused, rights that he wouldn’t really care about unless someone mussed his hair with them.

>   It isn’t until the question and answer session that the first piece of news comes out. “Who will be the prosecutor on this case?” a reporter asks.

  Tucker permits himself a small smile. “You’re looking at him.”

  The reporter, surprised, follows up. “You personally?”

  Tucker nods. “Yes. I think it’s that important. And with all the attention sure to be paid to it, I want to be the one on the firing line. If something goes wrong, I will take the heat.” He pauses for effect, setting his jaw in determination. “But nothing will go wrong.”

  I turn the television off. “This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

  “That’s my Mr. Positive,” Laurie says.

  “Have you ever seen him in court?” Kevin asks. “Is he any good?”

  “Good, not great,” I say. “But he’s aware of his limitations, so he’ll have the top people in his office backing him up. The problem is that he knows the evidence, knows the case, and if he thought there was one chance in a thousand he could lose, he wouldn’t go near it.”

  We’re all aware that there’s not much we can do about refuting the evidence without knowing what it is, so I put in a call to Tucker to arrange a meeting. His secretary says he’s not there, a claim that has some credibility, since I was watching him give an interview to CNN just moments before.

  “I want to meet with him sometime today, after the arraignment,” I say.

  His secretary makes a noise that indicates she finds that timing rather unlikely. “Mr. Zachry is quite busy today.”

  “See if he can fit me in between Bill O’Reilly and Larry King. Or if he’d rather, I can get the judge to juggle his schedule for him.”

  It’s a rather empty threat, since the prosecution’s obligation is to turn over the evidence in discovery, not to meet with the defense attorney. But the secretary seems cowed. “I’ll speak to him as soon as he gets back.”

  Kevin and I drive down to the hearing. Laurie really has no function there, so she heads off to wrap up some final details on her insurance case.