Dead Center ac-5

by David Rosenfelt

  I briefly debate whether to go over there, but Laurie sees us and stands up. “Andy… over here.”

  I go over, but Calvin chooses to wait out front. By the time I get to the table, the laughter has pretty much subsided. Laurie does the introductions. “Andy Carpenter, this is my Aunt Linda and my Aunt Shirley and my cousin Andrea. My family.”

  The way she says “my family” drives home more clearly than ever why Laurie needed to come back to Findlay. The job opportunity was important, as were the old friends, but this cemented the deal. Her family is here.

  We banter for a few minutes, and they all tell me how much they’ve heard about me from Laurie. And how wonderful it is to have Laurie home.

  And that’s where Laurie is.

  Home.

  • • • • •

  JUDGE MORRISON has scheduled a nine A.M. meeting in his chambers, the invited guests being defense and prosecution counsel. He wants to go over the ground rules for the upcoming preliminary hearing. It’s a typical move for a judge who does not like surprises in his courtroom, which is just the way Calvin described him.

  The judge asks me to arrive fifteen minutes before the meeting is to start, never a good sign. I get the same feeling I have every time a judge summons me without opposing counsel; it’s as if I’m being called to the principal’s office. Actually, it’s worse: The principal’s power never extended to declaring me “in contempt of homeroom” and sending me to jail.

  I call Calvin and suggest he arrive for this advance meeting with me.

  “Did he say he wanted me to be there early?” Calvin asks.

  “No, but he didn’t say he didn’t either.”

  “Then I’d rather have my eyebrows plucked,” he says.

  There’s a definite possibility I’m going to have to teach Calvin the subservience etiquette involved with his being my second-in-command, but this is not the time. So I head down to the court, and the clerk takes me directly into Judge Morrison’s chambers.

  “Mr. Carpenter, thanks for coming in early.”

  “My pleasure, Judge.”

  “I had a conversation yesterday with a mutual friend of ours,” he says.

  Uh-oh, I think, and gird for the worst.

  “Judge Henderson,” he says, and I realize that even though I thought I had girded for the worst, I hadn’t. This is the worst, and I stand here ungirded. He is referring to Judge Henry “Hatchet” Henderson of Passaic County, New Jersey, who I have appeared before on numerous occasions. We have had our share of run-ins; he’s not fond of some of my more unconventional trial techniques. “He and I have met at a number of legal conferences,” the judge continues. “Good man.”

  I nod. “Very good man. Outstanding man.”

  Judge Morrison starts looking through some papers on his desk. “Let’s see… ah, here it is,” he says as he finds the paper. “He said you were a fine attorney.”

  “He did? Well, he’s a fine judge. Very fine,” I say.

  “And he also said you were”-he starts to read from his paper-“a disrespectful wiseass who considers proper court procedure something to trample on and make fun of.”

  “Maybe ‘fine’ was too strong. He’s a decent judge. Somewhat decent.”

  Judge Morrison takes off his glasses and stares at me. “I trust I will not have a similar problem with you?”

  I nod. “I don’t anticipate any problems at all.”

  He nods. “Excellent.”

  He calls in Calvin and Lester, both of whom reveal their dislike for each other in their body language. Calvin introduces me to Lester. “Lester’s the DA,” he says, then smiles slightly and adds, “He ran unopposed… and still almost lost.”

  The court stenographer comes in as well, since this little chat will be on the record. In a case of this importance it’s prudent to do it that way, and Judge Morrison strikes me as the prudent type.

  Judge Morrison opens the proceedings by formally accepting me to practice in the state of Wisconsin. I thank him, telling him that it is my honor to do so. I smile when I’m finished, showing him that I’m on my best behavior. He doesn’t smile back.

  The judge lays out the parameters of the preliminary hearing, which are pretty much the same as in New Jersey. The prosecutor will present some witnesses, though certainly not his whole case. He doesn’t have to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt in the hearing, simply probable cause that Jeremy should be tried for the murder. It’s a low burden, and one Lester will have no trouble meeting.

  “How long will you need?” the judge asks. He seems very concerned with time; his docket must be filled with upcoming jaywalking trials.

  “Less than a day,” Lester says. “We’ll be calling only two or three witnesses.”

  I tell the judge that we will likely not be calling any witnesses of our own, though we reserve the right to change that according to circumstances. Our advantage in the hearing is that Lester will have to reveal some of his cards, while we do not. That would be a more significant help if we had any cards not to reveal, but at this point we don’t.

  Judge Morrison goes over a few more points, mostly housekeeping in nature, and closes with, “Anything either of you want to bring up?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I say. “To date we have received less than one hundred pages of discovery. No witness reports, no forensics… only some basic police reports.”

  Lester jumps in. “The materials are being prepared even as we speak, Your Honor.”

  I shake my head. “The defense was entitled to them even before ‘we speak.’ Your Honor, Mr. Chapman has had access to all this information and we have not. That is a distinct disadvantage for us and prevents us from being adequately prepared for the preliminary hearing. Therefore, we request a continuance, the length of which to depend on how much longer the prosecution continues its improper delaying tactics.”

  Lester shakes his head in annoyance. “Your Honor, these things-”

  Judge Morrison cuts him off. “Mr. Chapman, where are these reports?”

  “In my office, Your Honor.”

  “Then make certain that copies of them are in their office by three o’clock today.” He points to Calvin and me. “If they are not, I will be obliged to grant a continuance, and that is something I do not want to do.”

  Lester is smart enough to know when to keep quiet, and the meeting concludes with his promise to comply with the court’s directive.

  Calvin and I drive over to the school that Jeremy and Elizabeth Barlow attended until her murder. It’s the Findlay campus of the University of Wisconsin, located about seven miles northwest of Findlay itself.

  I visited a friend at the main University of Wisconsin campus back when I was in college, but this has a decidedly different feel. This is a cozy, rather sleepy campus, the main feature of which is a central mall where the students can congregate and freeze to death in the winter. There’s certainly none of the Big Ten environment here; the closest this place will come to the Rose Bowl is the rounded greenhouse next to the botany building.

  Jeremy had not lived on campus, though Elizabeth had. Jeremy has said that it was a bone of contention between Elizabeth and her mother, but that Elizabeth’s desire to experience life away from home prevailed. The deciding factor was the amount of snow that they get here in the winter, and the long drive through that snow that Elizabeth would have to make to get to class.

  Calvin, who seems to know everyone in Wisconsin, called ahead to a friend, the dean of something, and we have been given permission to talk to students on campus, providing we do so with courtesy and discretion. Courtesy and discretion are not traits for which I have ever been known, and I expect Calvin is not particularly well trained in them either, but we’ll do our best.

  Our first stop is Silver Hall, the dormitory in which Elizabeth resided. It’s a girls’ dorm, but you could never tell that from the people in the lobby. There are as many boys as girls there, and both sexes stare at Calvin and me as if prehistoric creatures ha
ve arrived.

  We go to the desk in front and speak to a young woman whose sign identifies her as Renee Carney, Resident Adviser. She can’t be more than twenty-one herself and is dressed in a “Rage Against the Machine” sweatshirt. I think that if she were my adviser, I would take her advice under advisement.

  “We’d like to speak to some friends of Elizabeth Barlow,” I say.

  “She’s dead,” says Renee.

  “Yes, we’re aware of that,” I say. I’m also aware that there are students behind us, drawing closer so as to hear our conversation.

  “So why do you want to talk to her friends?”

  “Because we’re lawyers involved in the case and because Dean Oliva has given us permission to do so.” I point to the phone on her desk. “You might want to call him to confirm that.”

  She looks at the phone as if considering the possibility, then shrugs. “Pretty much everyone here was Liz’s friend, so talk all you want.”

  That’s as close as we’re going to get to a ringing endorsement from the resident adviser, so we turn toward the assembled students, who have no doubt heard the entire exchange.

  We walk up to a young woman standing off to the side and seeming less interested in us than the others. Calvin starts out as our spokesman, probably as a result of my less-than-inspiring success with the resident adviser.

  “Hi,” Calvin says, turning on the charm. “My name is Calvin Marshall, and my double-legged friend is Andy Carpenter. What’s your name?”

  “Emily Harrington.”

  “Emily, can we talk to you about Elizabeth Barlow?”

  Emily eyes us warily. “Are you on Davidson’s side?”

  “We’re just here to gather information… try and get to the truth,” is Calvin’s evasive reply.

  She’s having none of it. “But you’re on Davidson’s side?”

  Calvin nods. “We’re representing him, yes.”

  Emily casts a glance at the other students, hanging on every word. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  This starts something of a trend, as every other student in the place also refuses to answer any of our questions. Most of them seem less conflicted about it than Emily, but clearly, no one is going to do anything to help the person they believe killed their friend Elizabeth Barlow.

  Calvin and I head to our car, in the parking lot just outside the main gate. “Didn’t Jeremy have any friends here?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I guess we should find that out.”

  As we approach our car, we see that three young men, probably students, are sitting on the hood. They are all rather large, at least compared to Calvin and me, and they watch us as we near. My guess is that they didn’t choose our car at random.

  We reach the car, and I decide to try the conciliatory approach. I generally find that this fits in neatly with my basic cowardice. “Hey, guys, you mind getting off the car? We’ve got to be going.”

  One of them, wearing a Wisconsin football jersey, smiles an annoying, smug smile. “Is that right?” he asks.

  I think the question was probably rhetorical, but I answer it anyway. “Yes, that’s right.” I figure a snappy comeback like that is likely to cow them into departing.

  “You in a hurry to get back to Davidson? Maybe help him get out so he can kill a few more girls?”

  My patience is wearing a tad thin. “Time to go, boys,” I say.

  He smiles again, still reclining comfortably on the hood. “Is that right?”

  “YOU’D BETTER GODDAMN BELIEVE THAT’S RIGHT!” screams Calvin, exploding in anger. He holds up his fist. “You want some of this, you little shit?”

  The three of them sit up straight, as stunned as I am by the explosive outburst from this short, old, one-legged lunatic. My concern is that their surprise will not prevent them from realizing the obvious, that unless Calvin has a bazooka in his jacket, they can handle us with absolutely no problem.

  I decide to intervene, albeit verbally. “Guys, you don’t want to deal with him. And even if you’re able to, it’s just going to get you thrown into jail and out of school. I’m a lawyer, and I’ll see to it. Now, please get off the car.”

  They look at me, then at the still-fuming Calvin, and apparently decide that it makes more sense to deal with me. Pretending to maintain their dignity, they slowly but surely get off the car. The leader says to me, “We don’t want to see you around here again.”

  “Good for you,” I say as I hold open Calvin’s door for him. I want to make sure he is in the car, so he can’t change his mind and kill these three guys that combined aren’t as old as he is and outweigh him by about four hundred and fifty pounds.

  As we pull away, I look at Calvin, who offers a small smile. “Boy, that was a close one,” he says.

  • • • • •

  JUST THE NAME “preliminary hearing” says all you need to know about our chance for success. By definition, “preliminary” means there’s something else to follow, something bigger and more important. It’s like a preliminary boxing match: You know that the main event is coming up a little later. In this case the main event will be Jeremy’s trial for murder.

  In theory we are trying to defeat the prosecution in this hearing, to sway the judge into the belief that there is not enough evidence to hold Jeremy over for trial. In real life this never happens; the prosecution meets their burden of probable cause every single time.

  This is not to say that the exercise doesn’t hold its rewards for our side. Lester will not call all of his witnesses, nor will he present all of his evidence, but it will still be helpful to assess the witnesses that do come in. We will also get to question them under oath, which gives us the ability to use this testimony to impeach them at trial.

  A major negative in the process, and the reason Lester is going this route rather than a grand jury indictment, is that the unchallenged prosecution case will get into the media, and their victory will assume an importance in the eyes of the public that it does not deserve. If we were involved in an obscure, run-of-the-mill case in an inner city somewhere, this would not be a problem, since the media coverage would not be there. And the reason the media would not be there is that it seems they’ve all decided to come to Findlay.

  Waiting for Calvin and me on the courthouse steps when we arrive is a ridiculously large group of media types, including a number from the national cable networks. I should have expected this, since the original arrest caused them to cover Laurie’s press conference.

  I am at a loss to explain why the national media cover certain crime stories and not others. Thousands of murders are committed every year, and thousands of people disappear, so why did the media choose to saturate America with Elizabeth Smart, Jon Benét Ramsey, and Laci Peterson?

  Maybe they’re latching onto this one because pretty young coeds have been murdered, or maybe it’s because there’s apparently a religious aspect to it. All I know is that I’ve had enough media attention on my recent cases, and I don’t relish it on this one.

  The problem is really one of timing and focus. Preparing a murder trial requires a full-time commitment, mentally and even physically, and any energy devoted to spinning the media is inevitably a distraction. However, the media will be fed, and will fill their airtime with information, accurate or not, and I can’t cede that territory to the prosecution. In other words, if the media are going to broadcast bullshit to potential jurors, I want it to be our bullshit.

  I stop to answer some questions, mostly to get the point across about how the preliminary hearing process disproportionately favors the prosecution and that viewers should not attach any importance to it. The media people, of course, do not want a lecture on our legal system, they want juicy details about the case. This exchange, therefore, is not at all satisfying to either side.

  As it’s wrapping up, a reporter from MSNBC who I know from my panelist days, which seem like a hundred years ago, throws me a softball. “So, Andy, how do you see the case shaping up?�
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  “Well, the prosecution has more resources and obviously has the home field advantage, so it won’t be easy. The only thing we have going for us is an innocent client.”

  “Any chance of a plea bargain?”

  “Zero.” I say this even though I have no idea if it’s true. New facts can come out, trials can go south in a hurry, and our determination to fight to the end can change to a desperate attempt to avert the death penalty.

  When we’re out of earshot of the media, Calvin whispers to me, “I never thought I’d say this to anyone, but it’s possible you’re even more full of shit than I am.”

  “Calvin, no one is more full of shit than you are.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel good,” he says.

  Once we’re inside, I see that Lester has already arrived with his mini-entourage. I nod to him, but he doesn’t return the nod. This is hardball, Findlay-style.

  We sit down at the defense table, after which Jeremy is brought out. He takes his seat next to Calvin and within about two seconds asks if there is anything new with his case. If he is like my previous defendants, this is the first of five thousand times he will ask that question. What he’s really asking is if there has been a stunning development that will immediately cause his release, and he’s disappointed when he finds out there isn’t.

  Laurie is sitting near the front of the room, though she will not be testifying. She was not on duty the night of the murders, and Cliff Parsons handled the investigation. I assume he will testify, since he’s on Lester’s list, and I plan to rough him up some.

  Judge Morrison starts the hearing at precisely nine o’clock and begins by informing the packed gallery that if they are the cause of any disruptions, they will rue the day. I have a feeling there’s not going to be any ruing this particular day; I think the judge’s warnings will have the desired effect. To the nonmedia people in this room, this is the World Series, the biggest public event that Findlay is likely to experience. At least until the trial.

  Lester calls as his first witness Dr. Clement Peters, the county medical examiner, who Laurie and everybody else refers to as Clem. He is here to discuss the results of his autopsy to determine the cause of death, as well as to report on the results of tests taken to identify the bloodstains on the front seat of Jeremy’s truck.