“I agree,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.
“Prison and claustrophobia do not mix,” she says.
“He doesn’t belong here at all.”
She smiles. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. All I can do is try and deal with his symptoms while he’s here.”
“Thank you. Can I see him?”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Will he be able to go to court tomorrow?”
“We won’t know that until tomorrow. I’m hopeful; at least he didn’t physically injure himself.”
I nod. “If he can’t make it, I’ll get a continuance.”
I turn to leave, since there’s nothing left for me to do here. I’m prepared for court tomorrow, or whenever the trial begins.
It’s been a while since I’ve felt this kind of pressure. I have got to get this man out of here.
“First of all, ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you for your service.”
That’s how Tasker begins his opening statement; it’s what all lawyers, including myself, say in our opening statements. We say it even though we know that a number of those jurors providing this service are doing so because they couldn’t figure out a way to avoid it.
Carrigan has made it into court, so no continuance request was necessary. He gave me a weak smile and nod when I asked how he was doing. If I’d gone through what he did, and was medicated like he is, the only way they could get me out of bed would be with a shovel.
Laurie came into court today to provide moral support for our client. She gave him a reassuring hug just before the judge entered. I heard her say, “Andy’s the best. You’ll see.”
“Believe me, the last thing I want to do is give you a lecture on the law,” Tasker continues. “I sat through many of them in law school and I know they can be torture. But I do want to talk to you briefly about circumstantial evidence.
“Most people hear that phrase and they think that such evidence is suspect. It’s not. Circumstantial evidence can be as powerful and every bit as compelling as direct evidence.
“Not every crime is committed in daylight, with a bunch of eyewitnesses watching. Not every crime is recorded on video, or uploaded to YouTube. And the crime you are going to hear about in this courtroom had no such witnesses, and no such video. So you will hear mostly circumstantial evidence, but I predict you will have no doubt that what you hear will remove any reasonable doubt in your mind as to the guilty party.
“The classic example of circumstantial evidence is the following: You go to bed at night and notice that there is no snow on the ground. You wake up in the morning and there is six inches of snow on that same ground. You therefore know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it snowed during the night. You know this even though you didn’t actually see the snow fall. What convinced you was circumstantial evidence.
“Donald Carrigan is not a master criminal, not even close. He’s not even very good at it. He robbed and murdered Steven McMaster, and then made mistakes that implicated himself so clearly that the truth of what happened could not possibly be missed.
“Donald Carrigan was trained to kill, and he killed in exactly the manner he was trained. Then he left behind evidence, incontrovertible evidence, that proved he was on the scene. After that he was found to have the stolen property, and then, believe it or not, he bragged about having committed the crime.
“He may not be a master criminal, but he is a deadly one.
“This is not the time for me to go over the evidence with you; trust me that you will see and hear all of it. And then you will make your decision. And as surely as you would have known that it had snowed in my example, you will know that Donald Carrigan committed the crime for which he is charged.
“So again, I thank you for your service, because what you are doing is very important. You have an opportunity to take a killer off the street, to see to it that he never again claims another victim. There are few jobs more crucial than that.
“I know and rely on the fact that you will do your job.”
I’m going to give my opening statement after the lunch break, so I use the break to call Pete. He answers the phone with, “Hey, I was just going to call you. Your boy has been arrested.”
Since I have no idea what he is talking about, I ask, “What are you talking about?”
“We got one print off the glass, sent it to NYPD, and they were supposed to make the arrest when he showed up for work this morning.”
“Who? Work where?” This is not successfully computing.
“The waiter from that restaurant. He was wanted on a breaking and entering charge.”
“I didn’t want the damn waiter, Pete.”
“Then why did you give me his print?”
This is not going anywhere productive. “That was the only print on the glass?”
“Yeah. The others were smudged. It was a water glass; they have a tendency to get wet,” he says.
“Thanks for sharing that news. What about the photograph?”
“I didn’t do anything with it because we got the print. I can ask around if anyone recognizes the guy.”
“You arrested the waiter.” I say it out loud, because I can’t really believe it.
“Yeah. Good work, Sherlock.”
I get off the phone and call Laurie. I tell her about the fiasco with Pete and ask her to call Cindy Spodek, something I should have done in the first place. Cindy is a good friend of mine and a better friend of Laurie’s; she also happens to be the number two person at the Boston FBI headquarters.
She’s helped us in the past, and we’ve helped her. But she complains that I only call her for favors, never to chat about friend stuff. She’s right, but I never call anyone about friend stuff.
In fact, I have no idea why anyone would call anyone about friend stuff; that’s why they have emails and texts. Phone calls can go on forever, and they have empty pauses, and you have to figure out a way to end them. With emails you hit send and you’re done with it.
“Ask Cindy to run it through their facial recognition software,” I say.
Laurie doesn’t like to take advantage of Cindy, but doesn’t push back this time. She knows it’s important.
“Okay … I’ll call her now.”
I hang up and reflect on what just happened. The bad news is that our case is in deep shit. The good news is we just took a waiter off the street.
Just before court is about to start, Laurie calls me back. “Cindy says she’ll do it; I’m emailing her the photo now.”
“Did she send me her best?” I ask.
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Like Mr. Tasker, I would also like to sincerely thank you for your service.”
That’s how I begin my opening statement, and now that the horseshit is out of the way, I can get to the important stuff.
“I would also like to point out that our gratefulness for your service will be the last thing you hear Mr. Tasker and I agree on for the duration of this trial.
“Just to be clear, while circumstantial evidence can be compelling and persuasive, it can also be contrived and fabricated and misleading. And that describes the prosecution’s case quite well.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Tasker start to get up to object, but then decide against it. It’s considered bad form to interrupt opposing counsel’s opening or closing argument.
He is upset that I said the prosecution will be presenting fabricated evidence, and since I will be doing exactly that and can prove it, I wish he would object.
So time to goad him again. “Yes, you heard me right. You will be asked to listen to fabricated evidence … intentionally made up out of whole cloth.”
“Objection, Your Honor. That is an outrageous charge.”
“Overruled. But you’d better be prepared to back it up, Mr. Carpenter. Continue.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. The prosecution did not discuss their evidence in any detail, or tell you what you would hea
r from their side. So there is nothing for me to respond to; I’ll let the trial speak for itself.
“But I would just like to tell you a little about Donald Carrigan. He not only served this country admirably as a Green Beret, but he is a war hero. Highly decorated at that. We owe him our admiration, not our accusations.
“But his post-military life deteriorated, wholly as a result of his service. I won’t go into it now, because it isn’t relevant, and it’s private. Some of it will come out in the course of the trial, which is unfair but unfortunately necessary.
“But for now I will tell you this; there is no way, no possible way, that he committed this crime. The very idea of it is ludicrous.
“Thank you.”
I sit down and Carrigan thanks me for what I’ve said. Tomorrow the prosecution will start presenting its witnesses. I will tell him to gear up for tomorrow and the days to follow; during the prosecution’s case, Tasker will be the puncher, and Carrigan will be the bag.
I’m still annoyed with myself for waiting to ask Cindy Spodek to run the photograph through the FBI’s facial recognition system. The days are going by; before we know it the jury will be deliberating, and we need a hell of a lot of help.
When I get home, Sam Willis is there, but Laurie and Ricky aren’t. I certainly wasn’t expecting him, so I’m glad I didn’t yell out “Honey, I’m home.” I wouldn’t want to give him the wrong impression.
“Laurie and Ricky went to the market,” he says. “She forgot to get something for dinner. We’re having pasta.”
I nod. “That explains why they aren’t here, but it doesn’t quite cover why you are.”
“I have news for you.”
“I hope the news is not that you’re renting the room above the garage.”
“Nope, even better than that. Way better than that.”
I like the turn this conversation just took. “You know who our cell phone guy is?”
“No, but I know where he’s been.”
“Where?”
“You know where that body was found the other day? In that warehouse near Market Street?”
“He was there?” I ask.
“Not only was he there, he was there the night before the body was found. He got there at ten fifty, and left at eleven fifteen.”
“You’re sure about this?”
He nods. “GPS doesn’t lie.”
I pick up the phone and call Pete and am told he left for the day. I know he’ll be at Charlie’s; there’s a Knicks game on tonight. “Tell Laurie I’ve got to go to Charlie’s to talk to Pete.”
“Should I tell her why?”
“Have you told her about our boy being at that warehouse?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Then she’ll know why.”
I head down to Charlie’s and sure enough, Pete and Vince are in their seats. They’re here so often, I think there’s a chance they’re even nailed to those seats.
“Well look who’s here,” Pete says. “You want me to identify your prom pictures next?”
“There is no reason to talk to our meal ticket, I mean close friend, like that,” Vince says.
I ignore him and talk to Pete. “Just tell me one thing: The guy whose body was found in that warehouse … was he killed the night before he was found?”
“Why?”
“Just tell me. And if the answer is yes, I am going to make you the happiest incompetent detective in America.”
“Yes,” he says.
“Time of death around eleven P.M.?”
He can’t hide the fact that he’s interested; for all his complaining, he knows that I have never given him bad information.
“They can’t narrow it down that much, but that is definitely within the range.”
“Was his neck broken? The cause of death wasn’t mentioned in media reports.”
Now I really have his attention. “Yes.”
“Last question. Who was he? I haven’t seen that in the media.”
Vince interjects. “Then you haven’t been reading my newspaper. His name was Charlie Keller. Paramilitary guy, served as a mercenary in various places around the world. No criminal record here.”
I turn to Pete. “Is that right?”
Vince gets annoyed. “Is that right? You think we write bullshit? Of course it’s right.”
Pete nods his agreement.
I’m still talking to Pete. “Okay. Listen carefully. I am going to tell you what I know, but I am not going to tell you how I know it. The guy in that photograph that I gave you? I don’t know his name yet, but I know where he lives. And I know that he is your killer.”
Tasker’s first witness is Sergeant Tom Quaranto.
I’m not familiar with him, just like I won’t be familiar with many of the witnesses Tasker calls. They are Essex County people, and I’ve never tried a case there.
Tasker gets Sergeant Quaranto to confirm that he and his partner were the first ones to arrive at the Steven McMaster murder scene.
“What made you go there?”
“We received a phone call from a neighbor, a Mr. Walter Zimmer. He had discovered the body.”
“What did you do when you arrived?”
“Mr. Zimmer was outside the garage waiting for us. He brought us in and showed us where Mr. McMaster was. We determined that he was deceased, then called in Homicide and the coroner.”
“Did you have an idea as to the cause of death? Was it obvious to you?” he asks.
“That’s up to the coroner to determine, but Mr. McMaster’s head was twisted at a grotesque angle, and there was no blood.”
“Did you see anything else at the scene that interested you?”
Quaranto nods. “A woolen cap, lying on the floor of the garage. We left it there for forensics, and Sergeant Frierson took control of it.”
Tasker asks him a few more essentially meaningless questions, merely to further describe the terrible scene Quaranto had come in on. Tasker introduces photos of the body into evidence, and I can see the jury recoil at the twisted head and neck. Then he turns the witness over to me.
“Sergeant Quaranto, did Mr. Zimmer tell you why he happened to be in Mr. McMaster’s house?”
“Yes, he said that Mr. McMaster’s wife called him and asked him to check on the place, that she couldn’t reach her husband and she was worried.”
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know what time she called him, but I arrived on the scene at ten forty-one.”
I’m trying to plant a seed that it was mighty early for her to be so worried that she called a neighbor. It won’t register with the jury now, but might later as I start to paint a target on Karen McMaster.
“You said you were interested by the presence of a hat in the garage. Was it cold that night?”
“Pretty cold, yes.”
“Mr. McMaster was likely accosted in the garage. Isn’t it possible that it was his hat?”
“Possible.”
There is no sense in me badgering Quaranto, trying to score points, because they would be meaningless. His testimony is accurate and unbiased; he came to the scene and he found a body. We have no interest in claiming otherwise. “No further questions.”
Next up is poor Mr. Zimmer himself. If I’m right, not only did he discover a murder, but he was sent to the house for the express purpose of discovering a murder. It was not a terribly neighborly act on Karen McMaster’s part.
Tasker wastes a bunch of time establishing a relationship between the Zimmers and the McMasters. It turns out there wasn’t much of one; they didn’t exactly play charades or bridge once a week. The best thing that Zimmer can come up with is that they were apparently the only neighbor that the McMasters had anything to do with.
“I think they stayed at their New York apartment quite a lot,” Zimmer says.
“But Karen McMaster felt close enough to you to call you to check on her husband?”
Zimmer nods. “Apparently so, though she actually spoke to my wife.�
��
Zimmer describes walking to the house and seeing it mostly dark. The garage was open, which was apparently an unusual occurrence. He walked to it, then saw that the door to the house was also open. He called out and got no answer, then nervously entered the house, and saw the body.
“What did you do?”
“I went to him. My thought was that he had fainted, or even had a heart attack. I went to feel for his pulse; I have some CPR training. But then I saw the way his head was bent … it was horrible. And I knew he hadn’t fainted.”
“What did you do next?”
“I backed away and walked down the block a short ways; I walked backwards, because I was afraid whoever did it could still be around. While I was walking I called the police and then waited for them to arrive. They were there very quickly.”
Tasker turns him over to me. “Mr. Zimmer, how old was Steven McMaster, if you know?”
“I think I read that he was thirty-eight.”
“What night of the week was this?”
“A Friday.”
“Did you wonder why Mrs. McMaster would be so worried about her husband being out at ten thirty on a Friday night?”
“No, I didn’t think about it.”
“Did she ever call you and ask you to do something like this before?”
“No. First time.”
“No more questions. Thank you.”
“His original name was Yuri Ganady. He was a captain in the Serbian military back in the Milosevic days,” Laurie says.
She’s reading from the notes that she jotted down during her conversation with Cindy Spodek. Apparently the cell phone owner formerly known as Carl Betters has a face that is well-known to the FBI’s facial recognition system.
“That already doesn’t sound good,” I say. “What do they know about him?”
“Surprisingly little. He seems to show up in various places around the world, basically and literally as a hired gun. He’s been here at times, they know that, but they have never been able to connect him to anything. Having said that, they don’t think he falls into the ‘tourist’ category.”
Deck the Hounds--An Andy Carpenter Mystery Page 15