“Was Alex nervous about going on the trip?”
She shakes her head. “Very. I told him not to go, but I don’t think he ever considered it. He would never turn down Mr. Freeman.”
We talk a little while longer, but she really has nothing to tell me that can help Billy, and I don’t have the sensitivity or the power to help her. The only consolation she can seem to find on her own is in the fact that Alex and Freeman were killed instantly. She thanks God that they didn’t suffer, but doesn’t seem to ask Him why they died.
I’m sure she’ll eventually move on, but it’s going to take a while, and involve a lot more pain.
When we say our good-byes, she says she hopes she’s been of some help.
“Absolutely,” I lie.
When I get back to the office, I call Colonel William Mickelson, Erskine’s immediate superior back when Erskine was alive enough to have one. General Prentice had told him I was going to call and cleared the way, so he gets on the phone right away. Having a general on your side is like having a military genie.
I tell him why I’m calling and offer to come down to Washington at his convenience, providing I’m not in court. He doesn’t seem thrilled by that, and mutters about how busy he is. But he tells me he’s going to be in New York next week for a speaking engagement, so we make arrangements to meet then.
I doubt that I’ll learn much more than what was in the report, but it can’t hurt to try. If he’s evasive, I’ll just keep mentioning how close I am with the general.
“I’M TEMPTED TO SAY WE CAUGHT A BREAK.” Laurie says this as soon as I walk in the house. I didn’t even have a chance to say, Honey, I’m home, or ask how little Ricky’s soccer practice went.
“So go ahead and say it,” I say. “Actually, you can say it over dinner.”
“There is no dinner. I’ve been working. I thought you could bring in Taco Bell.”
“You clearly don’t have this domestic-bliss thing worked out yet. Tell me the break.”
“Sam’s been trying to find the soldiers who were discharged as a result of the explosion in Iraq. It’s been hard, which is probably revealing by itself. But he managed to trace down one of them, Tyler Lawson, to a condo in Albuquerque, New Mexico.”
“Good.”
“So I used a few connections, and wound up talking to a detective out there. It seems Lawson went to Vegas a couple of weeks ago, checked into a hotel, and played some blackjack.”
“Why are you only ‘tempted’ to call it a break? Sounds like a full-fledged one to me.”
“Because he might be another murder victim. The first night he was there, he disappeared. Security cameras in front of the hotel showed him getting into the passenger seat of a car with a guy, and they drove off. That’s the last anyone has seen of Lawson.”
The story isn’t making perfect sense to me. “Why would Vegas cops have checked the security tapes? People leave those hotels early all the time, usually because they’ve lost money. Did they suspect foul play?”
“When Lawson never checked out, they went into his room. All his stuff was there, and the safe was locked. So they opened it and found two hundred thousand dollars in cash. With that kind of money involved they obviously became suspicious, which is why they checked the tapes.”
“Any idea who the driver was?”
“No. He seemed to know where the cameras were, and never gave them a good shot at his face. They traced the plate number on the car; it was rented at Avis with a fake driver’s license and credit card.”
“But Lawson got in the car willingly?”
“According to this detective, yes.”
This is a potentially big development, though “potentially” is the key word. Five soldiers left the army as a direct result of negligence that day in Iraq, and one an indirect result; if two of those six, Erskine and Lawson, were subsequently murdered within a short period of time, then that would be way beyond an enormous coincidence. And it would be great for Billy, since he was an involuntary guest of the county when Lawson disappeared.
Of course, there’s no proof that Lawson was murdered; for all we know he may be at the Cathouse Ranch. On the other hand, it’s a fact that people don’t generally leave two hundred grand behind in hotel safes.
We’re also very far from certain that we will be able to introduce any of this as evidence. My hope is that Eli will open the door to our doing so, by bringing in testimony about the alleged grudge Billy was holding against Erskine for his injury in the explosion. But Eli may stick strictly to the physical and eyewitness evidence, and then it’ll be much harder to bring in all this Iraq stuff.
“We need to find the other four soldiers,” I say.
Laurie nods. “I know. Sam’s working on it; he’s got more things he can try. But for the moment they’ve disappeared.”
“That’s significant by itself. The average guy being discharged from the army wouldn’t likely be wealthy enough to go on a round-the-world cruise. He’d have to make a living, unless he had money from some other source.”
“The kind of money Tyler Lawson had.”
“Right.”
Although it doesn’t change the effort I’ll put into defending him, my confidence in Billy’s innocence is starting to increase. If Lawson was murdered, my theory would be that there was a conspiracy to make the explosion happen, and now the conspirators are being silenced.
It’s the kind of story juries like to hear, but unfortunately judges don’t allow stories. They allow evidence.
I’m feeling guilty that Tara and Milo have been cooped up in the house. It’s way too dangerous to take Milo outside for a walk, and I haven’t been taking Tara very often, because I don’t want to make Milo feel bad.
Laurie and I bring them into the backyard and throw tennis balls to them, but there isn’t that much room to run. Milo is amazing; he jumps and grabs the balls in midair and never misses. Tara, on the other hand, is content to amble over and pick up the balls after they roll to a stop. She unfortunately has inherited my energy level.
All this activity makes me hungry, so I head over to Taco Bell to get dinner. I’m back with a bunch of burritos and quesadillas within fifteen minutes, and we chow down immediately.
We’re finished by eight thirty, at which point I make a terrible mistake. I pour us some wine and then turn on the television without knowing in advance what channel it is tuned to. This is like a lawyer asking a witness a question that he doesn’t already know the answer to.
Major faux pas.
What comes on the screen is a black-and-white movie. Worse yet, it’s the beginning of a black-and-white movie, and Laurie sees it before I can turn it off. Laurie is constitutionally incapable of not watching a black-and-white movie; it could be the worst film ever made, but if it’s in black and white it has a built-in status that demands her reverence. If they filmed Santa Claus Slasher in black and white, Laurie would consider it a work of art.
I don’t have to be a math major to know that if the movie lasts two hours, we’re not going to bed until at least ten thirty. That would be much later than my planned schedule, which had me in a sexually satisfied sleep by ten o’clock.
“Haven’t we seen this one already?” I ask.
“Of course. It’s Tracy and Hepburn.”
“As I recall, they argue and are completely incompatible for ninety percent of the movie, and then they fall in love. I hope I didn’t spoil the ending for you.”
“The ending is my favorite part,” she says. “Let’s watch this, okay? We can talk later.”
The last thing I want to do after this is over is talk. “Okay, sure. You want to watch a love story without nudity… hey, I’m all for it.”
“Keep it up and there’s not going to be any nudity at all tonight. On television or off.”
This sounds like a threat, and Andy Carpenter does not take kindly to threats. “I’ll go make the popcorn,” I say.
That’ll teach her.
JURY SELECTION IS T
HE PITS. I think the technical legal term for it is Pitsius Corpus, but “pits” sums it up nicely.
Eli and I spend seemingly endless hours questioning people, trying to figure out which ones are more likely to take our side in a future verdict.
This is difficult enough on its face, but the problem is vastly compounded by the fact that most of the people we talk to are bullshitting us. The direction of the bullshitting is generally determined by whether or not they want to sit on the jury in the first place. Depending on their point of view, they’ll say either what they think we want to hear, or the opposite.
Of course, we don’t know what we want to hear. We have our theories, and our general idea about the right juror for a particular case, but basically we’re just guessing. And we won’t know if we’ve guessed right until the verdict comes in.
The court has summoned a total of eighty-one citizens from whom we are to choose our panel of twelve, with four alternates. That will be more than enough, though there is an endless supply of people to call upon if it isn’t.
I have never finished jury selection with any idea how our side has done, and I would be just fine picking the jury by lottery, with no questioning at all.
Today’s questioning is no different from any others. I’m basically looking to get people with above-average intelligence, who might be more likely to grasp and accept more than the obvious evidence put before them. To this end, six of the first eight accepted by both sides are college graduates, so I guess I’m doing okay.
At least twenty of the prospective selections are eager to say that they have predispositions about the case, are related to a cop, or are strongly pro- or anti-military. They believe these are factors that will get them sent home, and they’re right.
The ninth juror selected is in his forties, sells medical supplies, is a college graduate, and clearly wants on this panel. He answers everything earnestly, and takes every chance to show how open-minded he is.
Of course, open-minded isn’t my first choice; biased in our favor would be my preference. But I have no reason to turn him down, other than a slightly uncomfortable feeling that he is too anxious to be chosen. Salesmen generally work on commission, and spending two weeks in a courtroom therefore cuts down on income. But if number nine isn’t concerned with that, then I guess I’m not, either.
We plow through until the end of the day; Judge Catchings obviously wants to get this over with. It’s almost five o’clock when we empanel the fourth alternate, and the lucky group is asked to be here first thing tomorrow morning.
All in all, I’m happy with the group.
Or not.
I’ll let you know when I know.
WILLIE SAW THEM AS SOON AS THEY ENTERED. Joseph Russo and his two bodyguards came in the front door of the Tara Foundation and checked out the place as if they were setting foot on Mars.
Of course, they looked upside down to Willie, since he was seeing them while lying on his back in the center of the foundation’s play area. He was participating in an energetic wrestling match with eleven dogs, and loving every minute of it.
It took him a while to get to his feet, since there were probably four hundred pounds of dogs on his chest. The largest of these was a New-fie, who insisted on licking Willie’s face during the entire process.
Finally Willie was able to make it over to Joseph and his men, all of whom seemed pleased to be behind the fence separating the main area from the play area.
“Hey, man. I didn’t expect you to come by,” Willie said.
“This is what you do?” Russo asked, not bothering to hide his incredulity.
“Yup. Every day.”
“Whose dogs are these?”
“Ours,” Willie said. “Until people adopt them; then we go out and get more.”
“You’re a fucking whacko.”
Willie nodded. “You got that right. Your friends want to come in here?” he asks, referring to the play area.
Russo looked at his bodyguards, whose expressions clearly conveyed the fact that they had no inclination whatsoever to enter the madhouse. He laughed. “I don’t think so. Is there someplace we can talk?”
Willie led Russo into the office, and the bodyguards waited just outside the door. “So, did you find out who hired Childress?’
“I did.”
“What’s his name?” Willie asks.
“He don’t have a name. They just call him M.”
“M like the letter M?” Willie asks.
“Yeah. He used to work out of Chicago; only handled big-time hits. Then he dropped out, but the word is he’s working for serious money people.”
“You know who they are?”
Russo shook his head. “No.”
“So how do I find this M guy?”
“Willie, this is not somebody you want to find. We’re not talking about a guy in a prison yard with a knife. We’re talking about bad news.”
Willie wasn’t about to back down. “I want to find him.”
Russo looked at Willie and knew he wasn’t going to be talked out of it. “Okay, I got the word out, but it won’t be easy. The cops have been looking for him for years. Every once in a while there’s a rumor he’s dead, like that Osama asshole. But he ain’t. He makes other people dead.”
“Thanks, Joseph. I appreciate this.”
“No sweat. So maybe I’ll get myself a dog. One of the big ones.”
“Yeah?” Willie said, showing no enthusiasm whatsoever.
“You don’t think that’s a good idea?”
“Do you like dogs?”
Russo shrugged. “Yeah. As long as they shit where they’re supposed to.”
“Where would you keep it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where would it sleep?”
“In the backyard. I’d get one of those doghouses. A real nice one.”
Willie shook his head. “Sorry, can’t help you. The dogs we adopt out live in houses with the people. Hanging outside is a pretty crummy life, you know?”
“So you’re telling me I’m not good enough for one of your dogs?”
“No, I’m saying that you’re good, and the dogs are good, but you ain’t good together.”
Russo didn’t say anything for ten seconds, trying to digest what he’d just heard. Then he smiled. “Your balls haven’t gotten any smaller, have they?”
Willie returned the smile. “Hope not.”
“HOW THE HELL DID YOU FIND THAT OUT?”
“What’s the difference?” Willie asks. “I told you I wanted to help out, and that I wanted to know who hired Childress. So I did both.”
“M? That’s the guy’s name?”
“That’s what they call him.”
“Willie, I need to know where this came from.”
“Why?”
“So I can judge how reliable it is. No offense, I trust you completely, but anyone can be wrong.”
So Willie reluctantly tells me about his friend Joseph Russo, and how he is sure Russo is correct about this. I have no doubt he’s telling me the straight scoop, and I’m also sure that Russo is the type of guy in position to have access to this information. As search engines go, the Vincent Petrone crime family has the power of about six Googles.
“You took a big chance, Willie.”
“The piece of shit held a gun on Sondra. M sent him, so M is going down, no matter what kind of chances I have to take. Besides, I told you, Russo is a friend, and he thinks he owes me.”
“Why does he think that?”
“Because I took care of three guys that were trying to kill him in prison.”
“You took care of them?” I ask. “How did you do that?”
“They were coming at him with knives, and I didn’t think that was fair, so I stopped them and put them in the hospital.”
“Oh.” I’m amazed that such a momentous event could have happened, yet Willie is so nonchalant about it that he never told me. If I heroically thwarted a murder, I would have a book deal and
a Today show appearance within an hour. I would also walk around wearing a sandwich board proclaiming myself a “hero” sandwich.
“Russo’s going to put out the word to try and find him,” Willie says. “And I want to help as well.”
Obviously Willie is going to be active in this hunt whether Laurie and I want him to or not, so I can’t say no. Nor do I want to; he’s learned more in a few days than I have since I got on the case.
“Okay. We’ll—” I’m interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Since Edna is off somewhere being Edna, I answer it myself.
“Hello,” I say, using a clever phone conversation opening that I’ve perfected over time.
“Hello, Andy.” It’s Cindy Spodek; the first time I’ve spoken to her since I asked if she could get the FBI report on the Iraq explosion.
“I hope you’re not calling for another favor,” I say. “I’m starting to feel taken advantage of.”
“Don’t push it, old friend. I tried to get a look at the report you asked about.”
Her use of the word “tried” doesn’t exactly fill me with optimism. “And?”
“And there is no way. I’d have an easier time getting my hands on the nuclear codes.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I say. “Is that to be expected in a situation like this? Is it standard operating procedure?”
“Even without seeing it, I can tell you that there’s nothing standard about that report. It’s classified in the extreme; Homeland Security is all over it.”
“Homeland Security? This happened in Iraq, not Iowa.”
“Andy, think of the world as one big happy homeland.”
This is confusing to me, which means it gets added to the list. “Thanks, Cindy. I appreciate your trying. And while I have you…”
“Uh-oh,” she says.
“If I say ‘M,’ what does it mean to you?”
“I hope you mean, like in Mary.”
“No, I mean like in criminal or hit man,” I say.
The next ten seconds defines the phrase “ominous silence.” “Cindy?”
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