A Criminal Defense

by William L. Myers Jr.

  Devlin and I have a history. He was, to put it simply, my major rival at the DA’s office. Devlin graduated law school two years before I did and was one of my mentors for a time. I found he was someone I could go to for both practical advice and help on issues of law. Then something happened that cooled him toward me. Devlin began taking note that, like him, I was working seven days a week and always on the hunt for bigger cases to handle. “You’re on his radar,” a colleague warned me. “Watch out.” During the next several years, Devlin won a number of important cases and, in the flush of his victories, became more magnanimous, more indulgent toward me again. Then when I began trying and winning major jury cases, Devlin went back on the offensive. Criticism of how I’d prepped certain witnesses or tried a case would float into the ear of a senior ADA, who’d then happen by my office and question me about it. Or Devlin would suddenly steal away a junior ADA who was working to help me prepare for trial. “Sorry, man,” Devlin would say. “Got an emergency. Have to pull rank.” Then came my string of high-profile drug-trafficking victories. Devlin declared all-out war against me. I won’t pretend it was a one-sided battle by then. I was incensed at what I felt to be an unprovoked attack, so I began to impede Devlin and to enlist other ADAs to help me. By the time I decided to end my career as a prosecutor, a dozen of the more ambitious attorneys had aligned themselves with me against Devlin, and vice versa. Either Devlin or I, most believed, would eventually become district attorney. So bets were placed on whose coattails to hang on to.

  It shouldn’t have surprised me, then, that when I announced my decision to leave for private practice, my supporters directed a great deal of anger toward me. A few did everything they could to persuade me to change my mind, fearing that Devlin would direct all the good cases to his guys and the junk cases to them.

  My colleagues’ worries proved to be unfounded. Devlin Walker didn’t punish the attorneys who had aligned themselves with me; he didn’t have to. He’d won the war. So, Devlin, ever the strategist, did what America did to the Germans and Japanese after World War II: he co-opted his former enemies, made them into his allies. The result was that my former friends continued to hate me for leaving, but they ended up loving Devlin Walker.

  So, I wonder, why is he here today?

  Devlin hands me the complaint as he looks up at the magistrate and declares, “This is a very serious matter, Your Honor. A promising young woman is dead. A young woman who had information vital to an ongoing grand-jury investigation. Information that may now be lost forever. And now she’s the victim of a premeditated murder.”

  Magistrate Smick rolls her eyes. “Why the speech, Mr. Walker? There’s no jury here. No press. Oh, wait. Is that Ms. Cassidy I see?” I glance back and see Patti Cassidy, a reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer. “Now, how did you know to be here?”

  I hear Judge Smick’s words through a fog. Devlin’s reference to premeditation has jarred me. I begin to review the complaint, knowing what I’ll find. Despite what the young ADA told me, the DA’s office is charging David Hanson with first-degree murder.

  Scanning the complaint, I see something that grabs my attention. The DA is alleging that, before he fled the scene, David had tried to clean the house of evidence. The complaint says the dishwasher was running, the vacuum was sitting in the middle of the floor. Cleaning supplies and rags were sitting on various tables.

  I lift my eyes from the complaint to the small flat-screen television sitting by the judge’s bench, just in front of the defense table. The image is of David sitting in a cluttered cinder-block room in the Ninth District station house. He is looking right at the camera, but his eyes are glazed. I’m not sure how much he sees or comprehends.

  The magistrate asks Devlin what the Commonwealth’s position is regarding bail.

  Walker answers immediately. “The people vehemently oppose bail. Bail is almost never accorded in murder cases. And we need to send a message to the community that no exceptions will be made just because a defendant is rich and connected.”

  Magistrate Smick looks at me over her readers. “Is that your position, Mr. McFarland? That I should allow your client to be released just because he’s got a lot of money?”

  “Of course not, Your Honor. Mr. Hanson should be released on bail because it’s called for by the guidelines. First, the primary purpose of bail is to secure a defendant’s appearance at trial, and there is no chance that Mr. Hanson will fail to appear. He has close ties to the community; indeed, he is a community leader. And he is highly motivated to appear for trial in order to prove his innocence and restore his good reputation. The second purpose of bail is to ensure the safety of the community. There’s no reason to believe that whoever killed Ms. Yamura has a larger plan to harm additional people. Certainly, there’s no basis to believe that Mr. Hanson would perpetrate some sort of crime spree. Finally, there are facts that cast doubt on Mr. Hanson’s guilt.”

  “For example?”

  “The fact that the complaint doesn’t state when Ms. Yamura was killed, let alone that it was close in time to Mr. Hanson’s having been found in the house. Furthermore, the complaint alleges no specific motive for Mr. Hanson to have killed Ms. Yamura.”

  Devlin heatedly argues the points, conceding that although the preliminary forensics—primarily the temperature of the body—point to a time of death many hours before David was captured fleeing the house, he was caught trying to clear the house of evidence. Devlin then claims that Hanson’s motive will undoubtedly become clear as additional facts are uncovered.

  Magistrate Smick stops the argument and reminds Devlin and me that a preliminary arraignment is not the place to decide the merits. She sets bail at half a million dollars. I see David exhale with relief through the CCTV. It’s the first sound I’ve heard from him throughout the proceeding.

  “Will you be waiving the preliminary hearing, Mr. McFarland?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Most experienced defense attorneys will opt for a preliminary hearing to learn details of the prosecution’s case. I don’t want a preliminary hearing for David because the result—that the court will find sufficient evidence to bind David over for trial—is a foregone conclusion. If we hold a public hearing, the details of the young woman’s death and David’s flight will wind up all over the media.

  After the arraignment, I approach Devlin Walker in the hallway. “Murder one?” I say. “Really?”

  Devlin looks down at me, his face set in stone. “Murder one, Mick. Really.”

  “You can’t even put him in the house at the time of death. By your own admission, it was hours after the crime that the police saw him leaving.”

  “Not leaving. Running away. After spending an undetermined amount of time trying to clean up his mess. As for his whereabouts at the time of death, if he wasn’t with the victim, where was he? If he has an alibi that can be corroborated, then this is all just a big misunderstanding, and I’ll drop the charges.”

  “Do you really think there was premeditation? That he went into the house intending to kill her?”

  “I don’t know whether he went there with a plan to kill her or whether he formulated that plan once he was alone with her. But you know as well as I that the period of premeditation can be very brief. That’s criminal law 101.” Walker pauses, then adds, “On the other hand, your client and the decedent could have gotten into a fight. He could have flown off the handle and pushed her down the stairs in a fit of rage. That would only be voluntary manslaughter. I could see that. Is your client thinking of coming clean, pleading out?”

  “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Your first-degree murder charge scares my client into admitting that he killed her in the heat of passion? A quick, easy win for the prosecution, and one step closer to becoming district attorney?”

  Devlin flinches at my reference to his ambition. “Let’s not make this personal, Mick.”

  “The defendant is a close friend of mine,” I answer, almost choking on the words. “I won’t be serving y
ou any silver platters here. You want this one, you’re going to have to take it from us.”

  Devlin leans into me. “That’s exactly what I’m paid to do.”

  With that, he turns and walks away.

  It takes two hours to arrange for David’s bail. We are set upon as soon as we leave the station house. Reporters surround David and me and follow us down the block like a swarm of yellow jackets. They jam microphones into our faces as we walk toward the car I have waiting outside.

  “Did you kill her?”

  “Were you having an affair?”

  “Why did you try to hide evidence if you didn’t do it?”

  Once we’re at the firm, I sit David in a conference room and tell Angie to get him some coffee. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell David.

  I go into my office, sit behind the desk, take a breath.

  But before I have time to think, Angie calls on my speakerphone. “Patti Cassidy from the Inquirer is on the line. She wants a quote.”

  I sigh, say I’ll take it, and let Cassidy machine-gun questions at me. When she’s spent, I count to three and say, “Okay, Patti, here’s my statement. Mr. Hanson will cooperate fully with the police in the investigation into Ms. Yamura’s death. He’s as eager as everyone else for the real perpetrator to be apprehended and brought to justice.” Before Patti can attack me with a barrage of follow-up questions, I hang up. I hope she quotes me word for word. I want to convey to the reading public—i.e., the potential jurors—that David is cooperating and that the investigation is ongoing, implying that even the police aren’t sure they got the right guy. Bullshit, of course, but, hey.

  I return to the conference room, tell David to go home. “We’ll meet again on Monday and discuss the case in detail. In the meantime, say nothing to anyone about the charges, or your guilt or innocence. Except to Marcie, of course.”

  David’s face turns white at the mention of his wife’s name. “She’s visiting her sister in Los Angeles, with the boys.” He holds up his cell phone. “I just left a message with her brother-in-law. I told him to tell her I’d been arrested, but that it’s all a huge mistake and that she shouldn’t believe anything she hears.” David looks like he’s about to break. He looks down at his shoes, then back up at me. “This isn’t going to just go away, is it?”

  “No. The DA’s going to push hard to convict you.”

  “But I didn’t do it.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” I say. “Once the DA charges someone, the prosecutors and police stop looking for another perp and work together as a conviction machine. I’ve been there. I know how it works. They won’t stop until they get a plea or a guilty verdict.”

  I walk David through the firm’s reception area and watch him leave the office. “He already looks like a dead man walking,” I say to Angie.

  She doesn’t answer me, but from the look on her face, I can tell what she’s thinking: He threw that poor girl down the steps; he deserves what he gets.

  For the next hour, I create a computer file for the Hanson case and type in everything I know about it.

  Angie calls me over the speakerphone. “Detective John Tredesco is calling on the Hanson case. Want me to say you’re not here?”

  I think for a minute, then tell Angie I’ll take the call.

  “Hello, Detective.”

  “So I hear your client is eager to cooperate with the police,” Tredesco says snidely. “When can I expect to meet with him and take his statement?”

  “Funny as ever, John.” Tredesco is known for having no sense of humor. At all.

  There’s a pause at the other end of the line. “So you’re telling the press that Hanson is doing everything he can to help us out, but he’s not even going to meet with us? How is that helping our investigation?”

  I smile. “By making sure that a jury isn’t bamboozled into finding Mr. Hanson guilty. He and I will, ultimately, free the police department and the DA up so you can find the real culprit.”

  “So I guess that means you won’t agree to produce a DNA sample?”

  “You’ll get it when you file your motion.”

  “That’s the way it’s going to be, eh?”

  “It’s a murder case, John.”

  “That’s exactly what it is. And your client is the murderer.”

  With that, the line goes dead.

  I know the DA’s motion to compel a DNA sample will be filed with the court by morning and granted by the afternoon. My refusal to volunteer David’s spittle is pointless. But, like I said to Tredesco, this is a murder case. I’m going to make the prosecution dot every i and cross every t to get what they want.

  I buzz Angie, ask whether Tommy’s called me back. She says he hasn’t, so I dial his cell again. It’s the only phone he has. Voice mail. I’m not happy. I want to hit the ground running, but my investigator’s gone AWOL.

  I leave the office at 4:30. In the car on the way home, I call Piper. She asks how it went with David. I pause, then tell her the prosecution is going for murder one, and that it seems Devlin Walker himself will be handling the case. I hear Piper take a deep breath. Before I can say anything else, she tells me she’s tired but that she has long-standing plans to go out with two of her girlfriends. I’m tempted to snipe that I knew nothing about those plans, but it’s just as well that I’ll be on my own for the evening. I need time to think. The Hanson/Yamura thing is going to be complicated. A murder case is an unruly beast under the best of circumstances. And these are not the best of circumstances.

  By six o’clock, I’m sitting behind the desk in my home office, eating a Primo Italian hoagie that I picked up on my way home. On the wall across the room from me is a large flat-screen TV. I pick up the remote and turn on the local news. The dapper Action News anchor, Jim Snyder, leads off with the handsome millionaire’s brutal slaying of a promising young reporter. The newsman begins with a brief recap of Jennifer Yamura’s budding career, starting with her graduation from college, her brief stints as a field reporter in smaller markets, her jump up to Philadelphia, and her recent scoop in breaking the story about the DA’s investigation into the crooked-cop ring. Then he feeds the audience with background on David Hanson. He tells them that David is forty-two years old, that he was raised along Philadelphia’s Main Line, where he attended Episcopal Academy, an ostentatiously expensive private school attended by the offspring of the region’s wealthiest citizens. That he graduated seventeen years ago from the University of Pennsylvania Law School. That he’s an executive vice president and general counsel of Hanson World Industries, the multi-billion-dollar Philly-based conglomerate David’s grandfather founded eighty years before. Then Jim moves to the juicy stuff. He says the police apprehended David as he ran from Jennifer Yamura’s house, that he appeared to have been trying to clean the house of his fingerprints and hair, and that he may have been having an affair with the young reporter. As the pièce de résistance, the news show’s producer flashes a photo taken of David and Jennifer standing together at a black-tie charity event. Both of them are smiling, and the teleprompter tells Jim to say that the picture was “taken in happier times for both David Hanson and Jennifer Yamura.”

  Being early June, it’s still light out at seven, so I decide to drive over to Valley Forge Park for a quick six-mile run. A couple of hours after I get back, Piper returns. She tells me she had too much to drink at dinner and that the lobster isn’t agreeing with her. She makes another early night of it.

  I call Tommy’s cell phone once Piper is upstairs but still can’t reach him. I figure he’s hiding out at his trailer near Jim Thorpe, a small town eighty miles north of Center City. He goes there to brood when he’s in one of his funks. Hopefully, he’ll work himself out of it by Monday. I leave a message telling him I need him on the Hanson case. He must have heard about it on the news.

  Come on, Tommy. Don’t disappear on me now.

  3

  SATURDAY, JUNE 2

  The weekend passes slowly. On Saturday I play a round of
golf at Aronimink, the country club Piper and I joined at the insistence of her father, Thatcher Gray. My foursome includes my next-door neighbor along with two criminal defense attorneys. They pepper me from the get-go about the Hanson case, and I deflect their questions for three or four holes until they get the hint that I’d rather not talk about it.

  When I get home, Piper tells me she’s handed Gabby off to her parents for the entire weekend. I’m not happy.

  “I thought we agreed to take Gabby to Longwood Gardens tomorrow,” I say. “She was looking forward to it.”

  Piper shrugs and says she’s taking a day trip to New York with her friends.

  “Don’t you think you should have asked me before you sent our daughter away?” I ask. “You know things will heat up quickly with the Hanson case. I may not have a lot of free weekend days for a while.”

  Piper cocks her head. “It’s really not a big deal, Mick. Just go play another round of golf.”

  I hear her open and close the back door on her way to the garden. Through the kitchen window, I watch her lay out a dozen or so potted flowers to plant. She arranges them three different ways before settling on a pattern. I close my eyes, shake my head.

  I met Piper during my seventh year with the DA, while I was busy with a high-profile murder trial. The defendant was a young neurologist who’d killed his wife to clear the way for a relationship with his married next-door neighbor, with whom he’d been having an affair. The case garnered a lot of news coverage, largely because of the salacious details that came out in the testimony. Quickies in the kitchen. Blow job at the barbeque. It all made for quality journalism. Even Anchorman Jim’s eyes sparkled as they scanned the teleprompter.