Bury the Lead

by David Rosenfelt

  On the way there, Kevin says, “Listen to this.” He then proceeds to flap his left arm against his body, much like a chicken. “Do you hear that?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “This.” He flaps his arm again.

  “You’re flapping your arm like a chicken,” I point out, trying to be helpful. “So I guess I hear a flapping noise.”

  “You don’t hear the clicking?” he asks, renewing the demonstration.

  “I don’t think so. It’s more of a flapping. What’s wrong?”

  “Rotator cuff.” He flaps his arm again. “It hurts like hell when I do this.”

  “Is there a reason you need to do it?”

  He doesn’t have time to answer, as we are just arriving at the courthouse. The press is out in full force, another reminder that this case will be as high-profile as they come. Public sentiment is going to be stacked against us; there is a natural inclination by people to believe that if the police charge someone, that person is almost certainly guilty. Add to that the fact that these are murders that scared and shocked the entire metropolitan area, and we’ll be lucky if a lynch mob isn’t formed.

  Once inside, we are brought into an anteroom to see Daniel. I want Kevin to meet him and give me his assessment, since I’m still not wholeheartedly into this representation.

  Cummings has regained some of his self-confidence since the last time I saw him. He shakes Kevin’s hand vigorously and welcomes him to the “team.” I see Kevin wince slightly and flap his arm a few times, probably making sure the rough handshake didn’t increase the clicking.

  “The ‘team’ is what I want to talk to you about, Daniel,” I say. “As I’m sure you realize, I was originally retained by Vince to represent the newspaper—and only by extension, as one of its employees, you.”

  He nods and waits for me to continue, so I do. “This is now an entirely different matter, and you are entitled to the counsel of your choice.”

  He looks puzzled, as if trying to understand what I’m getting at. “Are you saying you don’t want to represent me?”

  “Not at all. I’m saying you can have whoever you want.”

  “Including you?”

  I nod. “Including me.”

  He smiles, leans over, and shakes Kevin’s hand again. “Then welcome to the team . . . officially.”

  Now that we’ve got a team, it’s time for the coach to issue some pregame instructions. I tell Daniel that the arraignment is a formality, that the only time he will be asked to speak is to plead.

  “I assume you want to plead not guilty?” I ask.

  “Damn right,” he says.

  I go over my rather healthy fee with Daniel, which he agrees to as if it is of no consequence. He says he will ask Vince to bring him his checkbook, so he can give me a retainer of two hundred thousand dollars. I make a mental note to find out just how much money he inherited from his murdered wife.

  “I want you to make a list of everybody you’ve ever known who might have a grudge against you. Also, everybody you’ve ever known that you would consider capable of these kinds of murders.”

  Daniel agrees to start thinking about these things, and Kevin and I go out to the courtroom. We are there before the prosecution, which is no surprise, since Tucker wouldn’t have it any other way. Just as the champion comes into the ring last for a title fight, so Tucker considers himself the titleholder for this court fight.

  When the Great One finally enters, he sees me and comes over, his charming smile lighting up the room. “Andrew, good to see you,” Tucker says, bringing to a total of one the number of people who call me “Andrew.” My guess is, he believes addressing me by a name I don’t use will somehow get under my skin. It doesn’t, but I’ll get my revenge anyway.

  “Nice to see you, Tucky my boy,” I say, watching his quick, involuntary grimace. “You know Kevin Randall?” He turns and shines the charm spotlight on Kevin, which relieves me from the glare for a moment or two.

  They greet each other, and then Tucker turns back to me. “I hear you were tough on my assistant.”

  I shrug. “All in the pursuit of justice. We need to meet.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” he asks.

  “No, right now we’re exchanging insincere pleasantries and chitchat. I want to discuss the case.”

  His smile gets about forty degrees colder. “If you’re looking for information, you’ll get it in discovery. If you’re looking to plead it out, you’re wasting your time. This one is going all the way.”

  Before I have a chance to respond, Judge Lawrence Benes comes into the courtroom, and Tucker and I go back to our respective corners. Judge Benes is unlikely to be the trial judge; his role is strictly to handle the arraignment.

  Daniel is brought in, and the arraignment begins uneventfully. He is held over for trial in the murder of Linda Padilla; at this point Tucker is not including the other murders. My request for bail is denied, and the setting of a trial date is postponed until a judge is assigned. Daniel’s not guilty plea is spoken firmly and with conviction, which is important only because the press should report it as such.

  I make a demand for immediate discovery, since there really is nothing we can effectively do until we know what they have.

  Tucker stands; he can get up and down hundreds of times without wrinkling his pants. I get up once and it looks like I hung my suit in a blender.

  “Your Honor,” Tucker intones, “the prosecution, in representing the people of this state, is keenly aware of our responsibilities. This case is being watched all across this great country of ours, and we will do nothing to jeopardize this defendant’s rights under our Constitution. The materials to be turned over to the defense are being compiled even as we speak.”

  I take a moment to control my nausea and then respond. “Your Honor, if you could ask Mr. Zachry to provide transcripts of these speeches in advance, then we could stipulate to such revelations as the greatness of our country. And I should point out that it is the defense position that our country is great from the mountains to the prairies to the oceans white with foam.”

  Laughter erupts from the gallery, and I see a momentary flash of pain on Tucker’s face. He does not like to be embarrassed, so I make a mental note to embarrass him as much as possible. If he reacts emotionally, then he might make a mistake in front of this “great country of ours.”

  The hearing ends, Daniel is taken back to his cell, and for the first time I notice Vince sitting near the back of the courtroom. I walk toward him, and he waits as the gallery empties out.

  “Tucker doesn’t look too worried,” he says.

  “He’s not.”

  “I am,” he says.

  I can’t think of anything positive to say, so I don’t.

  • • • • •

  THERE IS A MESSAGE on my phone machine when I get home. It’s from Sam Willis, reminding me about a commitment I had made for tomorrow night. Like most advance commitments I make, I somehow vaguely thought it would never arrive and had thus wiped it from my mind. Now it’s here, and I can’t think of a way out of it.

  This particular event is a charity wine tasting. I don’t know exactly what that is, but there’s almost no chance I’m going to like it. I should have asked Laurie to join us; she would have been pleased to. Laurie’s social consciousness is such that she would willingly sign up for a charity root canal.

  My plan for the daytime Saturday hours is to watch college football and indulge in some noncharity beer tasting. This is the beginning of the season, so there are mostly mismatches between teams at the top and the bottom, rather than competitive conference games. It therefore represents another day to give thanks to the inventor of the aforementioned point spread.

  I watch sixteen games over nine hours. Now, this may sound like an extraordinary accomplishment, but I am a humble man, and I always share credit when it is warranted. So I want to go on record as saying that if the Academy of Televised Sports Degenerates in America pre
sents me with its award, the coveted ATSDA, even before I thank the academy I will thank my devoted partner, the remote control.

  Without it, I’d be just another commercial-watching loser, unable to control my own fate. But with the remote secure in the palm of my hand, or more often resting on my chest, I am all-powerful. I don’t think I’ve missed an important play since the Carter administration. The remote control, to paraphrase Tom Cruise to Renee Zellweger in Jerry Maguire, “completes me.”

  As I get dressed to attend the charity wine tasting, I turn on the news to see if the world exploded while I was watching the games. I discover that while I have effectively shut out thoughts of the Cummings case during football, I’m the only one who’s done so. Two of the three cable news networks are discussing Daniel’s prospects, and their collective opinion seems to be that the only question is whether he will get a lethal injection or a public beheading. One of the talking heads refers to me as Daniel’s “flamboyant attorney” and warns that my skills are not nearly strong enough to carry the day.

  Sam pulls up outside and beeps the horn. I wave that I’ll be right down, then go through my departure ritual with Tara. Just before I leave, she always jumps up on my bed and I pet her for a short while. Then I put a biscuit on the bed, but she pretends to be uninterested in it. Of course, it’s always gone when I return home.

  Sam Willis is my accountant and friend, not necessarily in that order. He is brilliant when the subject is money, but lacks the ambition to match. As a result, I am probably his only rich client, and when I came into my fortune, he acted like a five-year-old in a toy store.

  As I approach the car, I realize with a small jolt that I have not prepared for what constitutes the competitive aspect of our friendship. We have come to call it song-talking, which basically means smoothly fitting song lyrics into what is otherwise a normal conversation. Sam is an absolute master of it, and the gap between our skills has grown steadily.

  “Hey, Sam, let’s get a move on it, okay?” I say as I get into the passenger seat. “We’ve got a ticket to ride.”

  It’s such a weak opening that I cringe as I say it, and Sam just shakes his head sadly. He knows that true greatness is measured by the stature of one’s opponents, the “Ali needed Frazier” theory. What I’ve just said is further proof to Sam that I’m not exactly his lyrical “Smokin’ Joe.”

  Sam doesn’t even bother to respond in kind, holding his big guns back until later. Instead, he mentions that he saw coverage of the Cummings case on television and that it was mentioned that I’m his lawyer.

  “You gonna need my help?” he asks.

  In addition to being a financial genius and an amazing song-talker, Sam is a computer wizard. I used him to help me on Laurie’s case, and he and his assistant made such great progress that the criminals came after them. Tragically, the assistant, Barry Leiter, was killed in the process, and I will never get over the intense guilt that I feel about it.

  “I don’t think so, Sam.”

  I say this in a tentative way, and Sam immediately understands what is behind my answer. “Because of Barry?” he asks.

  I might as well answer semihonestly, since he’ll see through it if I don’t. “Partly. I just can’t take a chance.”

  “That wasn’t your fault, Andy. We’ve been over this a thousand times.”

  He’s right about that, so I avoid number one thousand and one by not bothering to answer. Instead, I change the subject. “Where is this place we’re going?”

  “Well, I was looking at this map,” he says, holding up the map he’s talking about, “and according to this, it’s only just out of reach, down the block, on a beach, under a tree . . .”

  My heart sinks, not because Sam has chosen West Side Story, but because lately he has elevated his song-talking game to a new level. He hammers me with themes, using different but related songs throughout an entire evening. Recently, we were discussing vacations, and in the course of an hour he welcomed me to the “Hotel California,” promising that I would get a taste of “life in the fast lane” in a “New York Minute.”

  He’s still looking at the map. “Wait a minute . . . on second thought it looks like it’s around the corner . . . or whistling down the river.”

  Our destination turns out to be nowhere near the river. It’s a culinary institute in lower Westchester, and we are two of about eighty people there to taste wine for charity. We’re divided into groups of twenty and put into what seem like typical classrooms. The only difference is that on tables in front of each chair are five glasses of wine.

  “This is gonna be great,” Sam says.

  “Yeah. Yippie,” I say, not quite sharing his enthusiasm.

  Sam lifts up one glass in a toast. “Come on, Andy, cheer up. We’re gonna rock it tonight. We’re gonna jazz it up and have us a ball.”

  “Do me one favor, will you, Sam? Just don’t tell me you feel pretty, oh so pretty.”

  The “class” begins, and I am immediately transformed to another planet, a place where people spin wine around in their glass, analyze it as if it’s a top-secret formula, and use words like “flinty,” “oaky,” and “brassy” to describe the taste. Not having previously chewed on flint, oak, or brass, I have no idea what those things taste like, which puts me at a considerable disadvantage. I’m not even sure what they mean when they say a wine is dry; I spilled some and had to mop it up with my napkin just like I would something wet.

  My sense is that this particular charity’s goal is not to educate me, but rather to get me so sloshed that I won’t realize how big a check I’m writing when they make their pitch at the end. I fool them by taking little tastes, mainly because I know that I’m going to have to drive Sam home, as he is downing flinty drinks with his left hand and dry, oaky ones with his right.

  I write my check and we head out toward the cars. Our walk takes a little longer than it should, since we are stopped by about a dozen reporters, as well as three or four cameramen with television lights.

  “Hey, Andy,” one of them calls out, “have you heard what they’re saying about Cummings?”

  Nothing good can come from that question, and I cringe in anticipation. I could fake it and give a “no comment,” but I want to know what has happened, and when I find out, I might well have a comment.

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve been inside, toasting to charity.”

  Another reporter jumps in. “They’re not talking on the record, but they’re saying he also murdered his wife.”

  “I assume the ‘they’ you’re talking about is the prosecution. Unlike Tucker Zachry, we intend to prove our case in a courtroom. Thanks for coming, people. I recommend the wine, although it’s a little oaky.”

  I start walking toward the car. Behind me, with the cameras off, I hear the incorrigible Sam explaining my cranky mood in terms that only Officer Krupke could understand. “He’s very upset. He never had the love that every child oughta get.”

  I lead Sam to the car, and I get in the driver’s seat. Sam looks at me with genuine concern. “Is your boy innocent?” he asks.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  Sam can read me, and he knows I have some very real doubts about that innocence. “I thought you always had to believe in your clients.”

  “Belief is an evolving concept.”

  “But you’re sure you want to represent him?” he asks.

  “I’m sure,” I say without conviction.

  Sam shakes his head disapprovingly. “I don’t think you should.”

  Just what I need, more advice. “And why is that exactly?”

  “A boy like that, he’d kill your brother. Forget that boy and find another. One of your own kind. Stick to your own kind.”

  • • • • •

  THE INITIAL EVIDENCE against Daniel Cummings arrives in three boxes at ten o’clock on Monday morning. Its promptness is a further demonstration that Tucker is going to play this strictly by the book. He has no intention of being nai
led on any kind of technicality involving procedure; his case must be too good for that.

  What is here represents only a small piece of what will eventually be the prosecution’s case. The investigation is ongoing and in fact just beginning, but this is daunting enough.

  The first set of documents is technical in nature. I am nontechnical in nature, so it takes me a while to understand them. Basically, what they say is that technology exists that can tell in fairly precise terms the location of a cell phone when it receives a call. They’ve employed this technology in this case, and the results run counter to Daniel’s story. According to the reports, Daniel was already in or near the park that night when he received the call, which was made from a nearby pay telephone. Daniel had said it took him fifteen minutes to get to the park after receiving the call. Even worse, Daniel’s fingerprints were found on that pay phone, leaving the clear impression that he made the call to himself so as to fabricate a story.

  With this information on hand, the police then executed search warrants on Daniel’s house and car while he was in the hospital. Hidden in the car’s trunk were Linda Padilla’s clothes, including a scarf, which the police believe was used to strangle her. And wrapped in that scarf were her severed hands.

  It goes downhill from there. Three other scarves, bloody but mercifully without severed hands, were found hidden in Daniel’s closet at home. Tests are being done to confirm that they are from the previous three victims. I would say it’s a pretty safe bet that they are.

  When Kevin, Laurie, and I finish going through the documents, it’s so quiet in the office you can hear a severed hand drop. It’s Laurie who finally breaks the silence. “This is bad,” she says, vastly understating the case.

  Kevin doesn’t respond, which means he agrees. It’s up to me, as the lead defense attorney, to give the upbeat analysis. “This is just their side of it” is the best I can manage.