A Criminal Defense

by William L. Myers Jr.

  Susan flinches at the idea of perpetuating that sham.

  “If we put him on the stand,” I say, “he’s going to have to tell the jury where he was.”

  “And his fairy tale about the long walk isn’t going to fly,” adds Susan. “Which brings me to what I think the big question is. If David didn’t kill Yamura, where was he, really, at the time she was murdered? What could he have been doing that is so terrible he wouldn’t disclose it to save himself from a murder conviction?”

  “Even if there comes a point when we want David to disclose his alibi, we have a Rule 567 problem,” Vaughn says.

  He’s referring to the rule of criminal procedure that requires the defendant to notify the court and prosecutor within thirty days after the arraignment of the defendant’s intent to offer an alibi defense, specifying the details as to where the defendant claims he was and whom he claims he was with. That window, of course, has come and gone.

  “So we’re in agreement,” I say. “We keep David off the stand if at all possible.” I look at Vaughn and Susan, and both nod. “Which brings us to heart of the matter. Reasonable doubt. Does the prosecution have enough to convict? Let’s start with the evidence of motive. There is none. Sure, Devlin can speculate that David and Jennifer had a falling-out. But that’s all it will be: speculation. And David’s prints and hair and DNA being all over the house? Of course they were, he owned the place and had been there a hundred times. And as for David getting caught in the house, it was more than nine hours after the murder. Walker hasn’t identified a single eyewitness who can put David there at the time of the crime. Bottom line is that the prosecution may have the goods to make the jury pretty sure David killed Yamura. But it doesn’t have the evidence to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “Nice closing, Mick,” Susan says. “But David is tainted in the eyes of the jury pool, the whole city. Pretty sure may be enough for a conviction in this case.”

  “Okay. I think we’ve done enough for today,” I say, ignoring her take. “Nice job, Vaughn. We’ll press on with this tomorrow.”

  That’s his signal to leave. Then I look at Susan and ask her to stay in the room with me. When Vaughn’s gone, I close the door and sit next to my partner. I put my elbows on the table, rub my eyes with my hands, and blow out some air. “Susan—”

  “Look,” she interrupts, “I know this case must be hard for you, with David being your friend. Are you sure you even want to be first chair? I can step up if you need me to.”

  “Thanks. But I can push through it. And I think I better do it alone. That’s what I want to talk about. I know I promised you I could play it straight. But there are things going on in this case that you don’t know about, and that I can’t tell you. The fact is, I may have to go completely cowboy once we get to court. And the whole thing might blow up in my face. If that happens, I don’t want you anywhere near the fallout.”

  Susan leans back in her chair, crosses her arms. “What exactly are you telling me here? Or not telling me? Did David confess to you? Are you looking to get rid of me so you’ll have a free hand to put him on the stand, help him perjure himself? I mean, what the hell? That’s not the type of law practice I want to be a part of. I used to be a United States attorney. I can’t have you helping clients lie on the stand.” She emphasizes the point by nailing the conference-room table with her index finger.

  “It’s not that. I’m not going to help David lie under oath.”

  “Then tell me what’s going on.”

  “I can’t tell you,” I say too loudly. “And that, too, is to protect you. All I can say is that you don’t want to get too close to this one.”

  Susan exhales, waits for a minute before saying anything. “Is this the only thing that has you so on edge? Or is there more? Is it the firm’s financial problems? Things at home?”

  Though I’ve not gone into any great detail, I’ve confided to Susan that things between Piper and me could be better.

  “None of that helps,” I say. “But, look, the firm’s been short of cash before, and we’ve gotten through it. And Piper and I . . .” I shrug. “What can I say? It is what it is.”

  “So it’s just the case, then?”

  I nod.

  “And you’re going to handle it the way Marcie told you? Whatever it takes?”

  “Whatever it takes. That’s exactly how it’s going to be. How it has to be.”

  Susan studies me, then stands and pats me on the shoulder. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she says. “For everyone’s sake.”

  “So do I,” I answer.

  For everyone’s sake.

  It’s 7:30 p.m., and I’m alone in the office except for the cleaning lady, who’s finishing up our suite. My phone rings. It’s the night-shift security guard, calling from the front desk. “I have a visitor—Mr. Hanson. Is it okay to send him up?”

  A minute later, I hear the elevator door ding and see David turn the corner, walk down the hall. He’s wearing an Italian black-leather jacket that likely cost as much as I make in a month. His jacket hangs over a light-blue, herringbone, button-down shirt that David probably had made in London. His wool trousers are sharply pleated and break perfectly over his shoes. I remember David telling me once that he had all his dress shoes made for him in Argentina, that he flew down once a year to meet his shoemaker, pick out the leathers, have his feet remeasured.

  David’s face shows me he’s still basking in his victory at the gag-order hearing. He’s all smiles. He won’t be for long.

  I open the door for David, shake his hand perfunctorily. I offer few words. All business. I lead David into my office, close the door, and lock it. David sits on one of the chairs across from my desk. He’s sensed my tension.

  “Is everything all right? With the case?”

  “Turn your chair around,” I say. “I have to show you something.” David turns his chair so he’s facing the large TV screen, which is linked with my computer. I pull the DVD out of its plastic container, slide it into the computer.

  Five minutes later, David is slumped in the chair, his expression that of a man standing before a firing squad. It is so quiet now that I can hear the second hand of my watch. I let it tick for a full minute.

  “I didn’t do it, Mick. I didn’t kill Jennifer.”

  I stare at David, wait a beat. “Sure you didn’t—just like you never went to her house that day. That is what you told me, right?”

  David lowers his head, closes his eyes. More time passes. “I’m sorry for lying to you. But she was dead when I got there. I swear it.”

  “Then why didn’t you call the police?”

  “I froze. I panicked. I thought about calling the police; I really did. But I knew it would all come out. I was on the verge of some big things with the company. A scandal would have ruined it. Years of work down the drain.”

  Years of plotting and scheming, I think.

  “So you just left her there, a woman you’d been intimate with who-knows-how-many times? Someone you laughed with, played with, maybe even bared your soul to? You left her lying on the basement steps?”

  David closes his eyes again. “It was an awful thing to do. A cowardly thing. If I could go back, do it again, I’d call the authorities.”

  “Why go back at all, if you knew what was in there? Why expose yourself to getting caught in the house with a body? How could you even dream that you could sanitize a crime scene so well that the CSU guys wouldn’t pick anything up?”

  David’s jaw tightens. I get the impression he’s asked himself the same question a hundred times. “It was a stupid thing to do,” he says. “Idiotic.” We sit for a minute as David stews. Then he considers what he’s seen on the tape and asks, “Was I the only one on the video?”

  “Yes,” I answer. A lie. I can’t tell David who else was on the original video, which I edited down to the much shorter version that I just shared with David.

  David clenches his jaw. “Fucking Devlin Walker must be dancing
in the streets over this.”

  “Devlin Walker has no idea this video exists,” I say. “And it’s my intention to keep it that way.”

  David is puzzled.

  I answer him before he asks. “This tape was delivered to me as part of a blackmail attempt.”

  “Blackmail?” David literally shouts the word, and I almost laugh out loud at his indignation. After everything he’s done, he’s upset at mere extortion? David steams for a few seconds, until his practical side kicks in. “Who? How much?”

  “It’s better you not know who,” I say. “As for how much . . .” I tell David the figure, and he shouts again.

  “No way! That’s insane. I want to know who’s behind this.”

  I sit calmly, my elbows and forearms on my desk, hands together. “I’m not sharing that with you. And as for ‘insane,’ I think it would be crazy of you not to pay.”

  “Let Walker have the video. I’m not afraid of what’s on it. I’ll explain to the jury that Jennifer was dead when I got there, and you’ll argue that someone else killed her before I arrived.”

  “Was she dead when you first got there? Or only by the time you left?”

  “Fuck you, Mick! Fuck you. I did not kill Jennifer. I told you—”

  “You told me a lot of things!” Now it’s my turn to yell. I shoot out of my seat, point my finger at David. “You told me you weren’t at Jennifer’s house anywhere near the time of murder, and that was a lie. You told me you’d only been seeing her a few weeks, and that was a lie. And you’ve been feeding me and my staff that fairy tale about spending the whole afternoon taking a thirteen-mile walk in your suit and custom-made shoes. So stop telling me you didn’t kill that woman and insisting that I believe you. I’m not accepting anything you say at face value anymore. As a matter of principle.”

  David’s face is purple now. The veins in his temples are throbbing. His teeth are showing. Something flashes across his eyes. Glee, a cruel glee, is what I see. David is itching to tell me something. But he pulls back. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then another. He sits down, puts his elbows on the chair arms, steeples his fingertips. I use the pause in our fight to remove the DVD from the computer, walk it to my wall safe, lock it inside. Then I return to my chair and address my antagonist in as calm a voice as possible.

  “I’m going out on a limb here. It’s against everything I believe in to give you this advice. It’s unethical—in fact, illegal—for me to say this, but here it is. You have no choice. You must pay the money.”

  David stares at me, matches the control in my voice, and tells me, “I’ll think about it. That’s all I can promise.” Without saying more, he stands and walks out.

  I wait until I hear him leave our suite, hear the door click behind him. Then I pick up my phone, dial the number, and wait for her to answer.

  “Hello, Marcie,” I say. “It’s Mick. Remember what you told me when Susan and I came to your house? Whatever it takes?” I pause. Marcie waits quietly at the other end, wondering what I’m going to say, calculating. “David’s just left my office. He’s very upset. I’ve told him to do something he doesn’t want to do. He’s going to ask your opinion. When he does, you will advise him to pay the money.”

  I close my eyes and sit still in my chair, let the silence wash over me. For the first time in a long while, I feel I’ve managed to get some control over things. David Hanson will pay the money; I have no doubt. Marcie will make him. That will ensure that the video does not reach Devlin Walker until I decide it’s time to show him the parts of the tape he needs to see. I smile as I envision the look on Devlin’s face when that time comes. David, of course, will still have to unveil his real alibi. And in the end, if all goes well, David will walk. Jennifer’s other killer will stay hidden. And my family will be preserved.

  19

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6; SUNDAY, OCTOBER 7

  It’s almost midnight, and I am still awake. Gabby is in her room, asleep. Piper is probably on Amtrak, heading toward 30th Street Station, returning from yet another trip with her girlfriends to New York City.

  I sigh and open my eyes. I’m not going to fall asleep anytime soon. The neon-blue numbers on my alarm clock change to 12:00 midnight exactly, and I begin to wonder what all the important people in my life are doing right now.

  I see David and Marcie Hanson sitting in David’s study, surrounded by priceless art, drinking tea or sake out of dainty Japanese cups, plotting their next move, some bold gambit designed to direct public attention away from David’s apparent guilt, portray him as a pawn in the ambition-driven plans of the district attorney’s office.

  I envision Anna Groszek, dreaming of returning in triumph to her hometown of Poznan, showing up at the home of her ex-husband in a chauffeur-driven limousine. Anna sends the driver to knock on the door and watches from the car as Emeryk Groszek and his cow-faced second wife walk out onto the porch, peer at the limo, try to figure out what great and important person has come to visit them. Anna rolls down her tinted window, takes in the shock on Emeryk’s and Agneska’s faces as they realize who it is. She laughs, leans out the window, and spits on the road in front of their house.

  Finally, my mind lands on Tommy. I see him with terminally ill Lawrence Washington, the two of them sitting at the picnic table outside Tommy’s trailer in Jim Thorpe, bundled in heavy sweaters against the chill of the fall night air. Tommy gets up to fetch them each a bottle of Bud. He sits back down, and the two of them stare at each other and take turns swigging their beers. Again, I wonder why Tommy’s putting himself through the same passion play he shared with our father. And, for the first time, I think I might know the answer: Tommy’s using Lawrence to punish himself. The cop’s slow death is another thing to feel guilty about. To beat himself up over.

  I sit up in bed, swing around so that my feet are resting on the floor. I’m terrified that Tommy is going to wander off the straight and narrow again, disappear back into his netherworld of dive bars, fleabag hotels, and impulsive violence. I’ve been afraid of it since the day he was released from prison, and my fears deepened when Lawrence Washington told me about Tommy working for the cop drug ring to pay off his gambling debts.

  “Damn, Tommy.” I say the words out loud. What can I do to help him? Why must he punish himself like this?

  I sit for a long time. I can hear the ticktock of the grandfather clock in the living room downstairs. Across the hall, Gabby murmurs in her sleep. I stand up, walk to her room, sit on the bed next to her. Gabby’s mop of dark hair is spread all over the pillow. Her tiger, Toby, has fallen onto the floor, and I reach down, pick him up, and put him into her arms.

  As if on cue, Gabby flips onto her stomach. I shiver as the image of Jennifer Yamura, faceup on her basement steps, flashes through my mind. I think of Jennifer’s parents. I’d read in the Inquirer that their names were John and Margaret Yamura. That John was a longtime IT specialist with the University of Southern California, and Margaret a stay-at-home mom. The article said John and Margaret’s own parents had been rounded up during World War II and held in the internment camps. After the war, of course, they were all released—to pay their taxes and raise children who could serve the country in later wars. Jennifer’s father served two tours in Vietnam, and her uncle died there.

  I cannot imagine what they’ve been going through these past five months. Every moment, every milestone Piper and I have experienced with Gabby, the Yamuras enjoyed with Jennifer. And they had twenty more years’ worth of memories. Lacrosse and basketball—sports Jennifer played in high school, according to the Inquirer. Prom night. High school graduation, college graduation, the first job, the big move to the East Coast to take a job with a major-market TV station. And, I imagine, adult conversations. Late-night telephone calls to Mom or Dad when Jennifer was lonely or had suffered a setback, in need of a small slice of the comforts of home.

  And, finally, the call that ended it all. Some police officer telephoning from three thousand miles away to tell J
ohn and Margaret Yamura that their daughter had been murdered and asking would they mind flying to Philadelphia to identify her body. They did, of course, right away; their pictures were in the paper. With them was their son and Jennifer’s fraternal twin, Brian, a computer guy like his father, who’d gotten in early at MyFace, the social networking site, and made $1 billion when the company went public. Brian Yamura, the American dream, brother of Jennifer Yamura, the American nightmare.

  I lean over and kiss Gabby on the cheek, whispering, “I will never let anyone hurt you.” I sigh and leave the room, climb back into my bed.

  About an hour later, I hear the automatic garage door open for Piper’s car. I hear her high heels on the wood floor as she walks around the kitchen. She pulls something out of the refrigerator, probably a cold bottle of Smartwater. Before long, Piper is in the bathroom, brushing her teeth, then in our bedroom and taking off her clothes. I don’t open my eyes, don’t stir, wanting her to think I’m asleep. Piper climbs into bed next to me. I can tell she’s lying on her side, her elbow on the bed, her hand holding up her head. I can’t see her, but I can tell she’s looking at me. Studying me.

  Piper stays this way for what seems like a long time, and I begin to get the sense that she wants to say something. Emotion surges suddenly through my chest. Is this the night she’s going to confess? Is she ready to tell me? Am I ready to hear it? I hold my breath, start to count. One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand three. Piper turns on her back, exhales. Tonight is not the night. I exhale, too.

  I wake up to the smell of bacon. Sunlight washes through the front bedroom windows. The alarm clock reads 8:00—the latest I’ve slept in a long time.

  “Look, Daddy!” I turn to see Gabby standing in the doorway, a white porcelain mug in her hand. “Mommy made you coffee. You can drink it in bed!” Taking her time so as not to spill, Gabby delivers the mug to me. I take the mug, inhale the rich aroma of freshly brewed Starbucks French roast. Gabby climbs into bed with me and tells me how she’s been helping her mother cook our breakfast. “We’re having eggs and pancakes and bacon, and you’re going to read the Sunday paper, and me and Mommy are not allowed to bother you, and that’s an order.”