I was in the office late one night, working on the case, when District Attorney Ned Hoffman came into my office and ordered me to accompany him to a political fund-raiser at the art museum. Ned’s date had canceled on him at the last minute, and he needed someone to go with him.
An hour later, Ned and I were standing together in the grand staircase discussing my trial when a tall, rail-thin man in his fifties approached us with a stunning young woman in tow. Having attended political functions before, I’d assumed the woman was a trophy wife—or an escort. Then Thatcher Gray introduced himself and his daughter, Piper.
“Thatcher is a partner at Morgenthau Harrison,” Ned told me. “Tom, this is Michael McFarland, whom you’ve probably read about in the papers. He’s trying the neurologist murder case.”
Thatcher Gray nodded his approval. “That surgeon sounds like one rotten egg,” he said. “I hope you get a conviction. Do you think you will?”
Before I could answer, Ned interceded. “Mick’s our best trial attorney. Relentless. Precise.”
“Plodding. Tedious,” I interjected. Everyone but Thatcher Gray laughed. I spoke a little bit about the case, sharing some details that had not yet been disclosed at trial.
Piper’s father studied me as I spoke. “You seem like a serious young man. And these days, that’s exactly what we need.”
I thought Piper’s father was talking about fighting crime, but I would later learn his remark was referring to his daughter’s dating history. Thatcher Gray believed she’d frittered away too much time on subpar men.
“Piper works right here at the museum, in the contemporary art department,” her father said. “She studied fine art at Yale. Spent another year at the Sorbonne.”
Piper rolled her eyes.
“Contemporary? As in Picasso?”
“And one or two others.”
“You could take Mr. McFarland on a tour of the collection right now,” Thatcher Gray suggested to Piper, whose smile vanished.
“That would give us a chance to talk,” Ned said, taking the tall lawyer by the elbow and leading him away.
“That was smooth,” I said to Piper as we took the hint and walked off. “Like they’ve done this before.”
“I love my father, but he’s a meddler.”
“Does that mean you won’t show me?” I asked. “The collection?”
“I’d be glad to get away from this reception,” Piper answered. “I only came because my mother bowed out, as usual. She hates these things. And I could hardly claim to my father that I couldn’t make it here because of work. But I’d rather not go back upstairs. Would you mind if we ducked out of the building altogether? Grab a bite in town?”
It was a pleasant fall night, and Piper and I walked the mile or so down the Ben Franklin Parkway to Center City. We decided to get something to eat at Mace’s Crossing, a tiny pub right on the Parkway.
We spent the next hour feeling each other out, sharing the CliffsNotes versions of our lives. I told Piper I’d gone to college at Penn State and law school at the University of Pennsylvania; that I was raised just outside of Lancaster, a small city about sixty miles west of Philly; that both my parents were dead; and that I had a brother. I didn’t tell her that Tommy was serving six years for aggravated assault at the State Correctional Institution in Fayette, Pennsylvania. Piper told me that her parents had raised her in Villanova. She’d attended elementary school at Agnes Irwin in Rosemont, then moved on to Episcopal, the same school David Hanson had attended. I already knew from Piper’s father that she’d gone to Yale and then studied in France.
I asked Piper what drew her to art.
She laughed.
“What’s funny?” I asked.
“Art is part of life. Asking someone what draws them to art is like asking what draws someone to air, or food. I can’t imagine a life in which art doesn’t play a major part.”
I thought about her answer. “And why contemporary art, specifically?”
“Because it’s still alive,” she answered. “Still evolving, growing.” Piper told me she appreciated the Old Masters, recognized their genius. “But when I look at a painting by Rembrandt or Da Vinci, it feels dead to me. Like I’m in an antique store, looking at a worn piece of furniture. That’s sacrilege, I know, and some of my friends at the museum would have a fit if they heard me say it. But art has to feel alive to me for me to enjoy it.” Piper talked on for a while, then she shared her secret pleasure: abstract expressionism. Artists like Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko. Piper said she was entranced by the exuberance and frank aggression of their brushstrokes and the resulting intense imagery of their work. The nonrepresentational splashes of paint, which I’d always scoffed at, were, for Piper, liberating bursts of pure passion unconstrained by antiquated notions of form and structure.
When Piper had finished, we sat quietly for a moment. Then she asked me what drew me to law. I tipped back my second Guinness. “When I was in high school, I picked up a book about the My Lai massacre. That’s where a company of American soldiers slaughtered more than three hundred civilians in a village in South Vietnam. Mostly women and children. The book told the story of the young military lawyer who prosecuted Lieutenant William Calley, the only soldier court-martialed for the massacre. It told how the lawyer fought against the high-priced civilian lawyers brought in to defend Calley. How the lawyer took the court, step-by-step, through the massacre until, by the end of the trial, he’d laid out the overwhelming case that led to Calley’s conviction. When I was done reading the book, I decided that was going to be me. I was going to become a lawyer, go after the bad guys, lead my juries step-by-step through the crimes, build my cases fact upon fact, until there was no outcome possible other than a conviction.”
When I was done, Piper waited a moment and asked, “What happened to that lieutenant?”
“Calley was sentenced to life in prison, but his sentence was reduced, and he served only a few months in a military jail.”
Piper’s jaw dropped. “That’s outrageous.”
I nodded.
Piper thought for a minute, then asked if I’d ever lost a big case.
“One or two,” I answered. “But sometimes all you can do is fight the good fight.”
“Is that how it feels to you when you’re in court? Like you’re fighting the good fight?”
“Most of the time. Pretty much all of the time,” I said, though even then I had some doubts. “I’ve had a few cases where I wasn’t convinced that a jail term was warranted.” I’d seen many cases handled by other prosecutors where the state locked someone away it needn’t have. Like Tommy.
“So, are you as serious a man as my father thinks you are?”
I had crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue. Piper laughed.
I watch Piper now, planting her plants. One of her favorite things to do. But I see no joy in her face. Today, the gardening is just work. Sweat and toil and the passing of time. Something to keep her distracted. I sigh, then clench my teeth, my heart tossed in a crosscurrent of fury and sadness. I close my eyes and lower my head. “Oh, Piper.”
4
MONDAY, JUNE 4
When I finally get to the office at 2:00 p.m., Angie greets me, then hands me the Monday editions of Philly’s two papers: the Daily News and the Inquirer. “The Inquirer is the worse of the two,” she says.
I scan the front-page articles of both papers as I walk down the hall to my office. The Daily News article, headlined “Millionaire Murderer?,” sits above a full-color picture of David Hanson. The article recounts the details of the death of Jennifer Yamura, then gets right to the meat: David’s wealth. According to the article, David earns more than $1 million a year as general counsel at Hanson World Industries. His stock holdings in the company, most of which he inherited when his father died, are estimated to exceed $90 million. The article lists various properties owned by David, including his estate on the Main Line, a beachfront shore house in Stone Harbor, New Jersey, valued at $5 million,
and another house in Costa Rica.
“Just wonderful,” I say out loud to no one. This is the kind of reporting that makes it so difficult to select a fair jury.
The Inquirer article is indeed worse, though for different reasons. Written by Patti Cassidy, its headline is “The Millionaire’s Mouthpiece.” It isn’t as much about David as it is about David and me. It explains that David and I were classmates at Penn Law, that we lived together in an apartment with two other law students during our second and third years, that we were moot-court partners, that we both interned at the district attorney’s office, and that I was a groomsman at David’s wedding. The story carries over to page two, where our law-school “pig book” photos are displayed side by side. Reporter Cassidy concludes the article by mentioning that my firm represented one of David’s uncles in an insider-trading case, and that I’d handled a drunk-driving matter for David’s nephew. Patti calls me the Hanson family’s “go-to guy” for criminal matters.
The most damning thing about the article isn’t the factual history but the unwritten insinuation that David and I are somehow tied together in the crime itself. This type of accusation could irreparably poison potential jurors and ruin any chance of David’s getting a fair trial. One thing I’ve learned in my career is that, whatever the jurors may think about a client, it is imperative that they see his lawyer as acting in good faith; that is, that the attorney believes in his client and his client’s case. When that happens, the attorney wins a lot of goodwill from the jury, and that goodwill can, in a close case, carry the day. On the other hand, any hint that an attorney is knowingly working a con in the courtroom will cause jurors to despise him and his client both.
I toss the paper into the trash and call Tommy again. David Hanson is due in at three o’clock. I’d wanted Tommy to sit in on the meeting, but he’s nowhere to be found. “Tommy, I really need you in the office,” I tell his voice mail. “This is the fifth time I’ve called. What’s going on?”
David arrives fifteen minutes later. I meet him in the lobby and shake his hand. His grip is tentative, and he releases his hand quickly. His face is drawn, his mouth downturned. His weekend with Marcie must have been hell.
I lead him to the conference room, where I introduce him to Susan and Vaughn Coburn, our associate. Angie has been kind enough to bring in a coffee platter. The silver tray, porcelain cups, and pastries sit in the center of the table. No one reaches for any of it.
“So, do you have any idea who you want to handle the case from this point forward?” I ask, getting ahead of Susan. “I can draw you up a list of names, though I expect you already know the defense bar’s biggest players.” My offer is an insincere one. I could never admit it to anyone, but I would do anything to keep David’s case.
David stares at me. “You’re the one I called, Mick. I want you.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and prepare to move on. But Susan jumps in.
“That’s not a good idea,” Susan says. “If you read the Inquirer this morning, you already got a taste for what the press is going to do. And it’s never a good idea to let a close friend handle a case this important.”
“I’ve known Mick a long time,” David says. “I know I can count on him.”
My gut twists, but I say nothing, just nod my head. David and I study each other for another long moment. “All right, then, let’s get to it.”
I open my leather portfolio and pull out the yellow legal pad inside. Then I remove the Montblanc pen from my shirt pocket and lay it on the table. “Before I begin writing anything down,” I start, looking directly at David, “I want to say something very important. If you committed the crime—”
“I didn’t!” David interrupts.
“Please let me finish. If you did do it, and if you have any intention of going to trial rather than accepting a plea, you must not tell me or any member of the firm that you did it. Under the code of ethics, a defense counsel’s ability to question his client at trial is severely circumscribed when the lawyer knows the client is guilty.”
David leans forward. “I went to law school, too. I know the rules. But, please, will you just listen to me? I. Didn’t. Do. It.”
I nod. “I’m glad to hear that. It makes our job easier. All we have to do is tell the truth. Which means, at this point, that it is imperative that you do tell the truth to me and Susan and Vaughn. The truth about everything even remotely connected to the crime. What you were doing at the time of the murder. Your relationship with the victim.”
“Why you were in the victim’s house at 11:30 at night, trying to sterilize the place,” Susan adds.
“Everything,” I say. “Understand?”
“I get it,” David says.
I nod again, pick up my pen. “Okay, then. Tell us what happened.”
David looks around the room, at me, then Susan and Vaughn. He takes a deep breath. “Well, you know about Marcie,” he says to me. “Her illness.” David looks at Susan and Vaughn, sees that they don’t know. “My wife, Marcie, was diagnosed with breast cancer four years ago. The doctors said all she needed was a lumpectomy and some radiation. So she had the procedure and the radiation, and that was supposed to be the end of it. Marcie plowed through it and seemed to have recovered. Her first-year exam was clear, and we breathed a sigh of relief. But at the two-year mark, the cancer was back, and the doctors told her she had to have a mastectomy. They gave her genetic testing and discovered she was at high risk for developing cancer in her reproductive system as well, so she had her uterus and ovaries removed, too. She lost her breasts, her uterus, her hair. She was sick as a dog again, from the chemo. Then she started on a drug called Tamoxifen, and it threw her into menopause. That was last September—eight months ago—and she hasn’t been the same since. She was depressed all the time. She didn’t sleep. Constantly snapped at the children, at me. I dreaded coming home at the end of the day. I know it sounds terrible, but it’s true. It’s . . . awful.”
He pauses, and we all nod our understanding.
“Anyway, it all got to me. The stress. The worry. I needed to escape, somehow. I was weak. I ended up making a big mistake . . . with Jennifer.”
David stops here, looks at me, at Susan, at Vaughn.
Susan glances at me, then says, “So you had an affair . . . because your wife got cancer?”
David snaps, “Don’t judge me. You don’t know what it’s been like. I wanted to be there for Marcie. I was there for Marcie.”
Susan closes her eyes. She’s biting her tongue so hard I won’t be surprised if it starts bleeding.
“I know it’s wrong, what I did. I’ve hurt Marcie terribly. And I feel awful.”
“How long,” I ask, “were you seeing Jennifer Yamura?”
“Not long at all. A month, six weeks. We met at that charity event in January or February. We got together a few times after that. It was just a casual thing.”
“What’s a few times?”
“I don’t know. A handful. Five, ten.”
“Ten is two handfuls,” Susan pipes in.
David pretends not to hear her.
“Where did you get together?” I ask.
“Always at her house. Never in public. And I came in the back door, through the alley, so no one would see me.”
“When is the last time you saw Jennifer Yamura alive?” asks Susan.
“Maybe a week before she was killed. We got together.”
“Not on Thursday, the day of the murder?” I ask. “You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
I wait a beat, then say, “I have a friend in the crime-scene unit. He said the official time of death won’t be determined until the autopsy, but based on the rate of body cooling, CSU estimates that Yamura was killed sometime between one and three o’clock Thursday afternoon. So here’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: Where were you between one and three o’clock on Thursday?”
“I was at work all morning.” David pauses here. “Then I left the office. An
d, well, who’s to say I didn’t just drive home?”
Vaughn speaks up for the first time. “Your parking card, for one.”
“My parking card?”
“Your office is in the Comcast building,” Vaughn says. “I’m guessing you park in the lot and that you’re a monthly. There’s a computer record showing every time you enter or leave the lot. So you can’t claim you drove out at lunchtime unless you actually did.”
Vaughn Coburn’s got a great street sense, an awareness of the nuts and bolts of life in the big city. Vaughn grew up in one of Philly’s toughest neighborhoods. A fair-haired kid of middling height and weight, Vaughn probably would have had a hard time except that his uncle was an ex-boxer who operated a gym where he trained up-and-coming fighters. Vaughn spent a lot of time there, working out and sparring, and he got to the point where he could handle himself anywhere. After high school, Vaughn went to Temple for both undergrad and law school. Spent two years with the public defender’s office before joining the firm last year.
“I didn’t say I did,” David says, suddenly testy. “But isn’t it the prosecution’s burden of proof to show where I was when Jennifer was murdered? Rather than my burden to show where I wasn’t?”
Vaughn, Susan, and I all exchange glances. “David, let me be frank,” I say. “The police have you inside a young woman’s house late at night for who knows how long while the woman’s body lies on her basement steps. Instead of calling the police like an innocent person would do, you decide to try and erase all history of your presence in the house. Then when the police do arrive, you don’t open the door for them but run out the back door and down the alley. So, prosecutor’s burden of proof or not, you’d damn well better have an alibi showing that you were nowhere near Jennifer Yamura when she was murdered.”
A Criminal Defense Page 4