“So, how’s the Hanson investigation coming?” I ask, looking at Tredesco. “You figure out yet that you got the wrong guy?”
Tredesco laughs, sort of. “The investigation’s going well. We got a body and your client standing over it, trying to clean up the mess.”
“So what’s to talk about?”
“I’m here to give your client a chance to help himself. The DA might be willing to go easy on him, let him plead down. All he has to do is turn over the victim’s computer. The money and jewelry he can keep.”
I look from Tredesco to Cook, then back. “I’m sure you can’t wait to tell me what you’re talking about.”
“What, Hanson hasn’t told you already? He took Yamura’s laptop—the one with all her notes—when he murdered her earlier in the day. He took her money and her jewelry, too. He didn’t mention any of that?”
“Wow. That’s dynamite stuff. And if Hanson can find the laptop, he gets to cop a plea to what? Manslaughter?”
Tredesco glares at me. Shifts from one foot to the other. Tries another tack. “Look, Mick, you and I go way back. We worked some good cases together. Put away some real bad guys.”
“And some not-so-bad guys,” I interrupt. Tredesco knows who I’m talking about. The year before I left the DA’s office, I’d prosecuted Derek Blackwell, a young numbers runner Tredesco had arrested for the murder of a competitor. It was only after I’d won a conviction that someone I knew heard Tredesco bragging that he’d framed Blackwell—apparently he’d been spending time with Tredesco’s girlfriend. I confronted Tredesco about it as soon as I learned the truth. It became a bone of contention between us, and we never worked together again.
“Get your client to turn over the laptop. The DA figures it’s where Yamura kept all her info on the grand-jury investigation. If we could look at it, we could learn who her source was and press him for more names. Take down the whole ring, not just a few of them. That’s why Walker’s willing to deal.”
I smile, take a minute to think about what Tredesco has told me. “So, to summarize our conversation so far, you’ve given me evidence of at least two people other than my client with a motive to kill Jennifer Yamura. A cash-strapped nonmillionaire who robbed Yamura of her jewelry and money. And a snitch cop who betrayed the police department and desperately doesn’t want his name disclosed. Anyone else have a motive? Oh, right—all the crooked cops who haven’t been identified yet who’d love to have gotten their hands on the reporter’s computer and shut her mouth permanently at the same time.”
Tredesco’s narrow-set, fish-pale eyes turn to ice. “Just remember: I gave you a chance to help your client.”
I smile at the two detectives until they turn to walk away, but the smile’s a lie. I’m worried sick.
Back in the office, I’m at my desk when Tommy walks in. Today he’s dressed in jeans and a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt which, along with his buzz cut and veal-shank arms, makes him look like a thug. He takes one of the visitors’ chairs. I wait for him to say something. He doesn’t, so I start in myself.
“Do you have anything yet? Have you spoken with the neighbors? Anyone see anything?”
“Slow down, Kemo Sabe.” Tommy’s words are lighthearted, but there’s an edge in his voice. He pauses, rubs his brow. “I’m on top of it, all right? I talked to the neighbors on both sides of Yamura’s house. One guy works in advertising. He was in New York and didn’t get home until the afternoon after the murder. So he doesn’t know anything. An elderly, gay couple lives on the other side. The one guy was asleep in the afternoon. The other one says he was watching TV, so he didn’t see or hear anything. They both went to bed around ten and were woken up after David was nabbed in the alley and all the cop cars showed up. I talked to some of the neighbors across the street, too, and the ones who were home during the day didn’t see anyone come in or out of the house all day, not that they were looking out their window. None of ’em called 911.”
Tommy pauses. While I consider what he’s told me, he reaches over to my desk, lifts one of the pictures. It’s the one of him and me and our parents at the beach. “I always liked this picture,” he says. “Except, did you ever notice how Mom and Dad and I are all looking at the camera, but you’re looking away? Like you’re somewhere else.”
It’s a loaded comment, given our history, and I choose to ignore it. “Anything else, or is that it?”
Tommy stands and replaces the picture. He casts me a hard glance, then turns and leaves. So much of our conversations consist of what we don’t say to each other.
After the cerebral hemorrhage took our mother, it was just Tommy, our father, and me. The first two weeks after the funeral were a whirlwind as Dad tried to keep the three of us out of the house and away from the bottomless hole created by our mother’s absence. He whisked the three of us to Hershey Park, Gettysburg, a Phillies game, tractor pulls, even the firing range.
After two weeks, Dad had to go back to work at the asbestos plant, and I was charged with overseeing Tommy. Dad’s rules for Tommy and me that summer were simple: we were to check in with Ms. McBreen, a neighbor who agreed to keep an eye on us, every day for lunch; I was to keep Tommy near me at all times; we were not to ride our bikes on busy streets. Finally, the nearby quarry was off limits—no swimming, no climbing. Hunger motivated us to comply with the first directive. As for the second, it wasn’t totally unbearable for me to have Tommy tag along, because both of us hung with a larger group of kids from the neighborhood. So I could ignore my pesky younger brother while still keeping him within eyesight. The rules about riding our bikes on high-trafficked roads and not playing in the quarry were, of course, absurd, and Tommy and I and all our friends—whose parents had imposed the same proscriptions—broke them at will. I can remember a dozen times when my friend Mike and I, riding our Schwinn ten-speeds, led others down the highway in the baking heat of summer afternoons, cars and flatbeds and semis whizzing past us as Tommy and all the other younger brothers struggled to bring up the rear. We’d race for the quarry and the relief its cool, dangerously dark waters would bring to our scorched, shirtless backs.
Only once did Tommy and I get into real trouble with Dad that summer. It was a weekend day in late August, just before the new school year, and our whole group was taking turns swimming in the quarry and scaling its jagged rock walls. Tommy and another kid his age, Danny, were the best climbers. “Spiders,” Danny’s brother called them every time Tommy and Danny climbed the quarry wall, their arms and legs extended wide as they inched their way up, down, and sideways. Normally, we would all ride to the quarry together and leave together. That day, though, Mike and I had decided to go off by ourselves. Mike had heard of a place farther down in the county where some teenagers supposedly drag-raced their cars. Mike said if we rode hard, we could get there in an hour, watch some action, and still get home before dinner. I figured Tommy would be all right at the quarry without me because the other older kids were still there. But Mike and I got lost. By the time we got back, it was almost dark. I was late for dinner and was envisioning Dad scolding me while Tommy smirked. But when I entered the front door of our house, I could see instantly that Dad wasn’t in a mere scolding mood. He was furious. Not because I was hours late, but because Tommy had not yet come home.
“Where is he?” our father demanded. “Where the hell is Tommy?”
Pride required that I not burst into tears, but the effort took all my strength. My mind raced for something to say that wouldn’t get me into even bigger trouble than I was in already. But there was nothing to grab hold of. Finally, I blurted it out. “We were at the quarry. Mike and I left. But everyone else stayed. All the older kids. And Tommy.”
“Jesus Christ!” It was hardly the only time I’d heard my father take the Lord’s name in vain. But this time was different. Even at twelve, I could tell that Dad wasn’t cursing out of anger but fear. “Come on!” he ordered, and the two of us hopped into his F-150 and tore for the quarry.
We fo
und Tommy in the gathering darkness halfway up the quarry wall, sitting on a small ledge. I didn’t understand why he was there. The ledge was only twenty feet above the water and an easy climb down. Then my eyes scaled the wall upward until, another twenty feet up, I saw Danny, hanging on for dear life. I knew instantly what had happened: Danny had lost his nerve. He was too terrified to move. Tommy stood guard below him, having refused to abandon his friend.
My father cursed under his breath. Then he looked down at me. “Wait here,” he ordered. “Do not move.” Then he made his way along the narrow dirt-and-gravel path that rimmed the quarry on one side. The path was just a foot wide, and Dad had to navigate it facing the quarry wall, holding on in places to reach the part of the wall where Tommy and Danny were perched. In the light of the rising moon, I could see that our dad’s back was soaked with sweat by the time he reached Tommy. I heard the two of them talking, and I figured Tommy was giving Dad directions on how to get up to Danny, whose whimpering I could now hear clearly. Then Dad started up the wall. His climb to Danny seemed to take forever. I could see that every movement required intense effort and concentration. He paused often and wouldn’t move a limb off a hold until he tested all three other limbs for solid purchase. He was sucking wind by the time he was halfway up. But he continued, talking to Danny, reassuring him the whole way. Finally, he managed to reach Danny, got him to hang on his back, and began the long, torturous climb back down, Danny’s choking arms wrapped around his throat the entire time.
Only when Dad and Danny reached the ground did Tommy begin his own descent. It was effortless and took him less than a minute.
I stood at the entrance to the quarry as Dad, my brother, and Danny made their way toward me. The four of us stood for a minute. Danny continued to whimper while Dad huffed and puffed. Tommy stood still with his feet apart, glaring at me.
“Everyone left us. And you left us first. You fucker.”
I looked over at our father. Instead of scolding Tommy, he merely looked back at me. I could see in his eyes exactly the same thought Tommy had just uttered: You fucker.
It’s Friday and I’m home early, just before six o’clock. Gabby runs out to meet me in the garage. I bend down and grab her, then swing her in the air and cradle her in my right arm. I use my left to bend down and pet Franklin, who has ambled up behind his human sister. Gabby immediately starts in on a story about the dog chasing a rabbit in the yard. Her enthusiasm and energy make me smile, and I stand for a few minutes as Gabby recounts her tale. Then I carry her through the hallway and into the kitchen where, having finished her story, she impatiently wiggles out of my arms and runs off to another adventure.
Piper is in the kitchen, blending herself a smoothie. She doesn’t turn to face me as she begins anew our now-ongoing fight about the roof. I reiterate to Piper’s back that we cannot afford a new $30,000 cedar-shake roof right now. “The only money we have coming in is David’s retainer,” I say. “And that isn’t going to go far. Especially since he cheaped me down on the amount.”
Piper turns to cast me a harsh look, then looks back at the blender and jams a banana into it. She closes the lid and turns on the mixer, drowning me out.
I leave Piper and walk into my home office, sit behind the desk. One of the photographs on my desk is of Piper on our wedding day. She is standing on the lawn after our ceremony, radiant in her white gown, a broad smile on her face. I remember the picture being taken, and I remember exactly what I was thinking: I can’t believe I just married this beautiful woman.
Piper and I were married in May, fifteen months after we met. We had discussed having a small ceremony and were thinking about Washington Chapel in Valley Forge Park. Thatcher Gray had other ideas. His only daughter, he insisted, was going to have an appropriately sized wedding at a proper venue. So Piper and I ended up getting married at the Church of the Holy Trinity on Rittenhouse Square in a ceremony that included seven groomsmen, seven bridesmaids, the bishop, and three hundred guests including key partners at Thatcher Gray’s law firm, some industry executives, and local politicians. On our wedding night, I joked to Piper that I’d had to spend most of the reception being introduced to my own guests. Paid for almost entirely by Thatcher Gray, the reception itself was an ostentatious affair at the Rittenhouse Hotel.
The first year and a half of our marriage was the happiest time in my life. I sold my tiny condo downtown, and Piper and I used the money to buy a small twin in Chestnut Hill. I continued to work hard, riding herd on the city’s bad guys while Piper stayed on at the art museum. When I wasn’t on trial, I made it home around eight, about the same time as Piper, and the two of us would prepare dinner together as we talked and laughed about our days. On the weekends, we went out with other young couples—assistant DAs and their spouses, Piper’s friends from work, and some law-school classmates of mine who’d decided to practice in Philly—including David Hanson and Marcie. Piper and I saw ourselves as young and hip and happy, on the fast track to fantastic lives.
The only fly in the ointment was Tommy. Piper admitted to me early on that she, to some extent, and her parents were uncomfortable with the fact that my brother was doing hard time for a violent crime. I tried to explain to Piper and her parents that despite his criminal record, Tommy was not a bad guy, that he’d had a tough time of it growing up because of what had happened with our parents. Thatcher answered with the old chestnut that I, too, had suffered the deaths of my parents and I’d turned out fine. I replied that Tommy had been much closer to what happened with my father because he was still living at home while I was away at school. Piper and her mother, Helen, tried to understand, but Thatcher Gray was having none of it. To him, the line between Tommy and me was as clear as the demarcation between good and evil.
About four months after we were married, I decided it was time for Piper to meet my brother. I drove her to the state prison outside Harrisburg, where he was locked up. At that point, he wasn’t scheduled to be released for a couple of more years, but I wanted to begin breaking the ice between him and Piper sooner rather than later. I even dreamed that they might eventually strike up a true friendship, that Piper would welcome Tommy into our family once he was released.
Piper fidgeted the whole way. Her father had clearly terrorized her with overblown notions about the danger of prisons and convicts. The security procedures necessary to gain entry only added to Piper’s anxiety. And when Tommy finally entered the visiting room and I saw Piper’s eyes, I knew I’d made a mistake. He strode into the room like a bull. He must have weighed 220 pounds, all of it muscle. His head was shaved. His neck revealed a fresh—and infected—blue-green prison tattoo. The knuckles on his hands were black and swollen. His eyes were flat, his lips tightly pursed. Halfway through his prison term, my little brother had successfully erased all outward appearances of humanity.
Tommy reluctantly allowed me to give him a brotherly side-hug. Then Piper stepped around him and tried to put her arms around him, too, which didn’t go well at all.
The next hour was an exercise in awkwardness. I tried to start up a dialogue, but Tommy limited himself to clipped answers to my questions. For her part, Piper prattled on and on and on—about the weather, the war, politics, the ride up, her parents. Everything but the three of us. In the end, no one reached anyone.
The drive home was interminable. Piper regretted having let me bring her to see Tommy, and she was angry at herself for “botching it.” She fell silent for a long time. Then she looked over at me and said, “Those poor men. Forced to live like animals in that awful place.”
I glanced over and saw a tear running down the left side of her face. I remember wondering at that moment whether she had changed her views about what I did for a living.
The TV in my office grabs my attention when it flashes the photographs of three police officers. The big story on the six o’clock news—based on the reporting of the late Jennifer Yamura—is the disclosure of the names of three of the cops who allegedly participated i
n the drug ring and were given immunity to testify before the grand jury. I’m surprised that Yamura was able to obtain such confidential information. Everyone involved in the grand-jury process is made to swear an oath of secrecy. The penalties for violating that oath are severe and include imprisonment. Why would anyone take the enormous risk of telling her?
In the wake of Yamura’s death, the station and its lawyers supposedly struggled over whether to make the information public. “In the end,” says Anchorman Jim, “Channel Six had to attach paramount importance to the public’s right to know.” With that, Jim reads off the names of the policemen: “Officers Terrance Johnson and Stanley Lipinski, and Lieutenant Lawrence Washington.”
The last name shocks me. I had worked with Lawrence on a dozen cases while I was with the DA. He was a good cop, hardworking and honest. Lawrence was never the type to plant evidence or press for inflated charges against a defendant. He wasn’t rough with the perps, either. He treated everyone with respect. He was a gentleman.
I stare at Lawrence Washington’s police photograph. He looks older than when I last saw him five years ago. He’s lost some hair. His jowls are looser. And there’s something in the eyes that I haven’t seen before. What is it? A guilty conscience? Sorrow? Or was he simply tired the day they took the picture? I shake my head.
“Lawrence.”
I say his name aloud, feeling suddenly sad for him, close to him.
I take my eyes away from his photograph and scan the other two. Lipinski I know but wish I didn’t. A bad actor. I’ve never met Terrance Johnson, who appears to be much younger than the other two. I wonder what bad break or twist of fate motivated him and Lawrence to betray themselves, their families, the police force. What surprise did life spring on them at exactly the right moment to make two good men go bad?
6
MONDAY, JUNE 11
The following Monday, the prosecution’s case materials arrive in my office. The documents include the incident reports, a compilation report, the arrest memo, and the property receipts of the items that were taken from David on his arrest, along with the CSU log. Because David’s case is so high profile, it has been rushed through the system, which means that I also receive the crime-scene photos, autopsy report, and photographs—they usually take more time. Still, it will be a while before I get the fingerprint and DNA analysis.
A Criminal Defense Page 6