I can’t focus on any of that anymore; or at least it can’t be my priority. It’s simply not my job.
My job is to get Keith Wachtel out of jail, to prove he is not guilty of the crime for which he has been convicted. It is not incumbent on me, or any defense attorney, to identify the actual perpetrator. What I must do is show that there is reasonable doubt that it was my client. Not an easy task, but they don’t pay me the big bucks—or in this case, one single buck—for nothing.
So my focus now has to be on securing a new trial for Keith. It certainly is not where Jill Hickman wants me to direct my attention; she only cares about where Dylan is and how she can get him back. But Jill Hickman is not my client.
I call Richard Wallace and tell him I need to meet with him again, this time more formally. I also say that he might want to have Mitch Kelly sit in on the meeting. Kelly was the attorney who prosecuted Keith at trial, and I have to assume Richard will want him to continue on the case, since he knows so much about it.
Richard must know what I want to talk about, since I’ve already told him that I’m representing Keith. Suggesting Mitch sit in will remove any doubt in Richard’s mind. He doesn’t ask me about it; he knows that if I want a meeting, then a meeting is when and where I want to make my pitch.
It’s on the way to Richard’s office that Hike calls.
“Let me guess,” I say. “You bought a house down there, and you’re going to commute to work in New Jersey.”
“No, but houses are really cheap. And Billy’s brother is a real estate agent.”
“We’d miss your wit, Hike.”
“I know. Anyway, I’ve got something for you.”
“What is it?”
“A photograph of Teresa Mullins with the dog.”
“Are you serious? How did you get that?”
“She took him to some kind of canine dog show that the local Rotary Club ran … it was like a fair, with all kinds of funny events.”
“So someone took a picture of her?”
“Billy’s brother—a different one, not the real estate agent—had the job of taking pictures for the Rotary magazine. He remembered she was there and went through the pictures. She showed up in two of them with the dog, but one of them is hard to make out. The other one is her, no doubt about it.”
“Hike, you did a hell of a job. You are hereby made the official South Carolina representative of the Andy Carpenter law firm.”
“I accept,” he says.
“When are you coming home?”
“I’m in the car now. Billy’s wife, Sheila, is driving me to the airport.”
“Don’t look back, Hike.”
I’m brought right into Richard’s office, and Mitch Kelly comes in soon after. Mitch is not a big fan of mine; we went against each other once at trial, and he lost. Mitch is also not a big fan of losing.
“So what’s on your mind?” Richard asks, but I have no doubt that he already knows.
“I’m filing a motion for a new trial for Keith Wachtel. I wanted to give you a heads-up about it first.”
Kelly makes a noise, sort of a derisive, aborted snort.
“Thanks for sharing that,” I say.
“You have new evidence?” Richard asks, ignoring both Kelly’s noise and my comment.
“I expect to, but my motion is based on discrediting old evidence.”
“What might that be?” Kelly asks.
“Teresa Mullins lied in her testimony. Without going into details right now, I can prove it.”
“Has she come forward and recanted?” Richard asks.
“She came forward in a manner of speaking. But she won’t be doing any recanting. She’s been murdered.”
They are obviously taken by surprise by this.
“When?” Richard asks.
“Just last week. She was murdered as a result of coming forward in the manner that she did.”
“That’s a little cryptic,” Kelly says.
I nod. “Yes, it is. Thanks for noticing.” I don’t want to reveal anything else just yet.
It’s Richard’s turn. “So you can prove that she lied about Keith Wachtel being the kidnapper without further testimony from her?”
I shake my head. “Not exactly. But I can prove she lied about other parts of her testimony. Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus.”
I love saying that phrase, because I get to speak Latin so rarely and can almost never work it into a conversation. Maybe I should look up more phrases and speak Latin to Laurie; I think it makes me sound pretty sexy.
In English, falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus means “false in one, false in all,” meaning that the jury can distrust all of a witness’s testimony if that witness is shown to have lied in any part of it.
Kelly tries to get more out of me so that he can get a head start in preparing a rebuttal, but I don’t want to play any more of my cards yet. One of the reasons for that is I don’t want him to have the head start, and the other reason is that when it comes to playing cards, I don’t exactly have a full deck.
Finally, Richard says, “So what is it you want from us?”
“Not much,” I say. “I’m here really as a courtesy. But I would hope that you don’t put up any unnecessary delays. Keith has been in jail a long time.”
“He’s right where he belongs,” Kelly says. “And he’s not going anywhere. That case was a no-brainer.”
“Is that why you were given the assignment?”
Richard intervenes. “Boys, boys … let’s behave or I’ll have to give you a time-out.” Then, “When are you filing the motion, Andy?”
“Hike is writing it today, and we’ll file tomorrow. We’re requesting an expedited hearing.”
Richard smiles. “Then I guess we’ll see you in court.”
ike is much better at preparing motions and filing briefs than I am. He’s actually a brilliant lawyer whose career has only been held back until now by his, shall we say, difficulty with interpersonal relationships. His bleak view of everything doesn’t help either; people listen to him and think the world is ending, although if the alternative is spending more time with Hike, then the end of the world doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.
Of course, that’s all changed since Pod Hike came into being. Based on his performance in South Carolina, he is apparently now the gregarious center of every room he’s in. Hopefully, his legal skills have remained intact.
In any event, I’ve turned the writing of the motion to get a new trial over to Hike so I can do other stuff. My next step is to visit with Robbie Divine, the richest person I know, and, coincidentally, one of the smartest.
Robbie is an investor. That’s his job; he invests. And he must do it pretty well, because according to Forbes, he is a multibillionaire.
I met Robbie at a charity dinner a few years ago, and we’ve sort of become friends. I have close to $40 million, mostly the result of inheritance, and Robbie thinks of me as a member of the struggling lower-middle class.
I’ve called on him a number of times to get insight into how the other side lives when I’ve needed it to help on a case. He’s always ready and willing, as he was when I called him this morning. He suggested I meet him in the lobby of his building on Fifty-seventh Street between Fifth and Madison, and we’d go to lunch.
I arrive at twelve thirty, and he’s already downstairs waiting for me in a limousine. It’s not one of those ostentatious stretch ones, more like a large sedan with a chauffeur. He opens the rear passenger door and says, “Get in.”
As always, Robbie is wearing a baseball cap. Usually, it’s a typical Chicago Cubs hat; he’s a fanatic. This is a different Cubs hat; it says WORLD CHAMPIONS on it.
I haven’t spoken to him since the Cubs won, so I congratulate him. “The first of many,” he says, grinning broadly. “The first of many.”
“This is the Mets’ year,” I say.
He laughs. “Be serious.”
We head uptown, so far uptown that for a moment I think we might be
heading for the George Washington Bridge back to Jersey. Instead we pull up to a small storefront pizzeria on Broadway near 101st called Sal and Tony’s.
“You, my boy, are about to experience a culinary masterpiece.”
We both get pizza with nothing on it except beautiful cheese, and we sit at a small table in the corner. One bite tells me that the rich really know how to live; this is a pizza for the ages. He has four pieces, and I have three; I pick up the tab, and with drinks, it costs thirty bucks.
“So what do you need?” he asks.
“Two pizzas to go.”
He laughs. “What else?”
“Well, I’m investigating something in connection with a DNA company called Finding Home, and I—”
He interrupts. “I know them well.”
“How?”
“A few years ago, the owner, a woman named … I can’t think of her name…”
“Jill Hickman,” I prompt.
“Right. Jill Hickman. She came to me for money.”
“She did?”
He nods. “She went to everyone for money; you as a poor person would have been exempt. They had some kind of new process, which as I recall sounded promising. But it wasn’t right for me, so I passed.”
“They got the money from the Parsons Group. Do you know them? That’s the private equity company that bailed Jill Hickman out by first investing in Finding Home, and then buying half the company.”
Robbie’s mood changes immediately. “Don’t get involved with them.”
“You know Ted Parsons personally?”
“Forget about Ted Parsons; he’s not a player.”
“Doesn’t he run the company? Isn’t that his name on the door?”
He frowns. “Remember that scene in The Godfather when Don Corleone and Tom Hagen are driving back from the big meeting?”
I do remember it, and I tell him so. Robbie and I share a bizarre devotion to the first two Godfather movies, but he outdoes me. He can virtually quote every line.
He proceeds to demonstrate that talent. “After the don referred to Barzini, Tom said he thought the adversary was Tattaglia. So the don said, ‘Tattaglia’s a pimp. He never could’ve outfought Santino. But I didn’t know until this day that it was Barzini all along.’”
“I’m not sure I’m following,” I say, demonstrating my capacity for understatement.
“Ted Parsons is Tattaglia. He’s nothing. A puppet in a suit and a dumb one at that.”
“So who’s Barzini?”
He pauses for a moment. “Okay, I want to be precise here. I’ll tell you what’s fact and also what I have heard and believe to be true. And I’ll tell you which is which, so pay attention.”
I nod. “Got it.”
“The fact part is that Ted Parsons is an empty suit; I wouldn’t hire him to do my laundry. He’s a front man for other people’s money; people who don’t want to be seen.”
“And the belief part?”
“Most of the money comes from Renny Kaiser.”
“Renny? Strange name … what’s it short for?”
“Who gives a shit?” Robbie asks.
“That makes sense,” I say. “If I were named ‘Who gives a shit,’ I’d shorten it to Renny also. What do you know about him?”
“I don’t know anything; not firsthand. But I have little doubt that he has made his money, very big money, providing drugs to people.”
“He’s a drug dealer?” I ask.
“That is a natural assumption based on what I just said.”
“So he would be using drug money to invest in legitimate companies?”
“Of course. Understand that by the time it shows up at places like Ted Parsons’s company, it’s been washed more times than the sweatpants you’ve had since college. The only difference is that the money doesn’t shrink.”
“Where does he live?”
“Depends on the day; he gets around. But he is in New York a lot; New York is where the money is.”
“Do you have a New York address for him?” I ask.
“What do you think I am, Google?” Then, “Yeah, I think I do; I’ll e-mail it to you. I was at his apartment once for a charity fund-raiser; one of those things where we rich people get together to pretend we give a shit about you poor people. He’s got the top two floors of a building on Park Avenue. I think he also has a place up in Connecticut … I may have both addresses.”
“He’s doing charity fund-raisers and hanging out with legitimate people?”
“That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me. Here’s what you need to realize; he thinks he’s a businessman. He buys and sells and manufactures. And the truth is that he’s right; he is a businessman. His product is just illegal, and it kills people and destroys lives.”
“Amazing,” is all I can say.
“He’s probably got kids who play Little League baseball and a wife who goes to PTA meetings. I’d bet he has season tickets to the Knicks and orders in pizza. He’s a typical citizen who happens to be a scourge to society.”
“Is he as rich as you?” I ask.
“Let’s not get carried away. But if Renny Kaiser put his money in Finding Home, then there’s something going on there, so be careful. You might want to call Luca Brasi.” Robbie met Marcus once, and that’s how he refers to him.
“Why?”
“Because Kaiser is a bad guy—a very bad, very dangerous, very evil guy. He might even be a Cardinals fan.”
nce again, I take Laurie with me to see Jill. Laurie brings extra insight to these kinds of interviews, but this time, I’m bringing her to give me someone to hide behind. Jill is not going to be thrilled with what I’m going to talk to her about.
We meet this time at Jill’s home, at my insistence. And once again, she asks us whether we have any news at all.
“Nothing close to concrete,” I say, “but I wanted to talk to you about Dylan.”
“What about him?”
“We’re trying to cover all our bases here,” I say. “I told you that last time.”
She nods. “I know. What about Dylan?”
“It could be important to find out who his natural parents are. Or maybe it won’t be important at all. There’s no way to know until we know.”
“I told you, I have no idea who they are.”
I nod. “I understand that. Which is why we need to test his DNA.”
“Test his DNA?” she says, getting upset. “How is that going to help you?”
Laurie jumps in. “If either or both of his parents are in the DNA registry, it will show up. It’s worth a try.”
“I don’t want to know who his parents are. I deliberately made no effort to find out.”
“We understand that,” Laurie says. “And we won’t reveal it to you if you don’t want us to.”
“But you’ll contact whoever they are, and then they will show up and be in my life,” Jill says. “I don’t want the people who could give up Dylan to be in my life.”
“We won’t contact them unless it’s absolutely necessary, and even then, we will do everything to ensure that they don’t seek you out.”
Laurie jumps in to deliver the closing argument. “This could be important, Jill.”
She thinks about it for a few moments and then seems to sag in defeat. “How will you get his DNA? Do the police have it?”
“You left his room intact,” Laurie says. “I’m sure it will be in there.”
Finally, Jill gets up and leads us to Dylan’s room. When we get there, she says, “You go in. I only go in when I’m alone.”
Laurie and I go in and start to look around. It really has been left intact, though obviously, Jill or a housekeeper has cleaned it regularly.
It doesn’t take long to find three items that might well have Dylan’s DNA on it, even after all this time. We take two pacifiers and a baby’s hairbrush, putting them into three separate plastic bags so as not to contaminate them.
I give one of the pacifier bags to Laurie, to hold in c
ase we need testing done from an independent lab later on. By the time we get back to the den, Jill has regained her composure and is just finishing a phone call.
“Did you get what you needed?” Jill asks.
“We did.”
“I just called Steven Emmonds. He’s the chief chemist at Finding Home, and I told him to conduct the tests on an expedited basis. He’ll send a messenger to pick them up.”
“Actually, I was planning to talk with him anyway,” I say. “Can you tell him I’ll bring the samples down there myself?”
“Of course. When will you be there?”
“Two hours.”
I drop Laurie off at home so she can be there when Ricky gets home from school, and I head for the Finding Home offices. Once again, the place does not seem at all crowded, especially in the satellite buildings. The receptionist tells me that Emmonds is expecting me, and I’m ushered right in.
For some reason, I expected a younger guy, maybe because I see this as cutting-edge work, but Emmonds is probably pushing sixty. He’s also probably pushing two sixty, which looks pretty large on his frame. He’s shorter than I am, and I’m five eleven and a quarter. Don’t ever forget that quarter.
“Jill said you have some samples for me?”
I nod. “And some questions.”
“She didn’t mention that.”
“I could call her, and she could then call you and mention it. Or I could just ask the questions and you could answer them. I think the latter approach will be faster and will involve less dialing.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
“I am.”
“I haven’t had many positive experiences with lawyers,” he says.
“Join the club. Do you know Keith Wachtel?”
He shakes his head. “Just by reputation and seeing the work he produced when he was here. We never met; I came after he left.”
“He did good work?”
“Absolutely.”
“But he wasn’t involved in the new process the company has developed?” I ask.
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