Play Dead ac-6

by David Rosenfelt

  The driveway turns out to be quite steep, and by the time I get to the house I’m hoping that the woman knows CPR. If not, there are plenty of other people who might. The large reconstruction operation is going on near the back of the house, and at least fifteen workmen are back there hammering away.

  She has parked her car under the carport, making a total of three cars now positioned there, and is walking toward the front door, when she sees me near the top of the hill. She eyes me warily, and I’ve got a feeling that any moment she’s going to have a mace dispenser in her hand. She also looks vaguely familiar to me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a model and I’ve seen her in magazines or television commercials.

  “Hi,” I say. I find that clever conversational gambits like that have a tendency to relax people.

  “Can I help you?” she asks in a tone that indicates she doesn’t want to be particularly helpful at all.

  I nod agreeably, granting her request. “I’m here to see Yasir Hamadi. My name is Andy Carpenter.”

  “Is he expecting you?” she asks, not bothering to tell me her own name.

  “Could be. We could ask him and find out.”

  “He’s not at home,” she says, and I confess I am doubting her veracity. It was something about the way she said it, and the fact that there are three cars in the carport. Somebody else must be home, and Sam said that Hamadi is not married and has no children.

  “Oh,” I say. “Then I’ll wait for him. Are you Jeannette Nelson?”

  She reacts with some surprise that I know her name, and seems a little uncomfortable with it. I can’t say I blame her; as strangers go, I’m a little weird. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to come in,” she says without confirming the name.

  I nod agreeably. “No problem. But in case you find out that he is home, could you give him this?” I take out a sealed envelope that I brought for this situation if it arose. Inside is a note that says, “I’m going to be talking about you and Donna Banks on Larry King on Wednesday night.”

  She takes the envelope and goes in the house. I decide not to trudge down the hill, in case I’m summoned within the next few minutes. It’s better than walking up the hill again, especially since none of the vehicles in the carport is an ambulance.

  Within three minutes, Jeannette Nelson, if that’s who she is, comes back out. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me standing there. “Mr. Hamadi will see you,” she says, apparently feeling no obligation to explain how he will do that if he’s not home.

  I follow her inside, closing the door behind me. The interior of the house is even nicer than I expected. I’m not a good judge of the value of paintings and furnishings, but it’s a safe bet that none of what is here has ever been in a flea market.

  She leads me through the house, toward the back, then ushers me into a large den, which seems to function as a private office. “He’ll be down in a moment,” she says, then turns and leaves.

  Her prediction is accurate, as Hamadi soon enters the room, closing the door behind him. He is about forty, at least six feet and in excellent shape, with a demeanor that can best be described as polished. He fits in this house.

  “Mr. Carpenter, I did not expect to see you here.”

  “I tried calling you at your office.”

  “As do many people. But few come unannounced to my home”-he holds up the note that I wrote-“with so cryptic a message.”

  “I hoped it would get you to see me, and in fact, it did.”

  He nods and says, “State your business.”

  “I’m a criminal defense attorney representing a client in an upcoming trial, and Donna Banks has emerged during my investigation as a person of some interest. In checking into her background, I’ve learned that she receives a very substantial monthly stipend from you.” I say this even though I don’t know this to be true; all I know is that she receives money from a company in Switzerland called Carlyle Trading, and that she called Hamadi after I left her apartment.

  My hunch pays off. “And you are wondering why?” he asks.

  “Correct.”

  “Ms. Banks is an old, very close friend of mine. She was in dire financial straits when her husband passed away. As you can see, I have been blessed with considerable success. So I have made her life easier without causing any hardship to my own.”

  “That’s quite generous of you,” I say.

  “I am a strong believer in friendship.”

  “Does your wife share that belief?”

  He smiles patronizingly. “Jeannette is not my wife; she is an employee of my company. She’s here to deliver some documents for my signature.”

  He’s lying. She may not be his wife, but she’s a hell of a lot more than an employee. Employees don’t get their mail delivered at their boss’s house.

  “So you have no desire to keep your relationship with Ms. Banks secret?”

  “There is no relationship, not the way you envision it. But if you feel the need to go on television and tell your suspicions to the world, that is your prerogative.”

  “Did you know Donna Banks’s husband?”

  He shakes his head. “I did not. I believe he was killed while in the service. Very tragic.”

  “What kind of business are you in?” I ask.

  “Is that important to your investigation as well?”

  “I like to collect information and figure out how it can be helpful later. Is yours a secret business?”

  He smiles, though without much amusement. “I am what could best be described as a facilitator. If your business needs something that is difficult to find, perhaps produced in an obscure part of the world, I find it for you and arrange for you to receive it. For that my company receives a fee. Or I purchase it and resell it to you.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  He shrugs. “Could be anything. An unusual fabric, metal alloy, high-speed computer chips, whatever is needed.”

  “And it all passes through U.S. Customs?”

  “Everything that enters this country passes through U.S. Customs.”

  I ask a few more questions, and he deflects them with ease. If he’s worried that I’m uncovering some significant secret, he’s hiding it well. Ever agreeable, he tells me that if I think of any more questions, I should call him at the office.

  I head back to the city, having learned very little. Hamadi is either a very accomplished liar and villain, or a rich guy taking care of a woman with whom he had an affair. I’m suspicious, especially since his work involves U.S. Customs, but I have nothing concrete on which to base those suspicions.

  I call Sam and tell him that I want him to learn everything he can about Interpublic Trading, Hamadi’s business. I want to know who he does business with and just how lucrative that business is. He promises to get right on it.

  Before heading home I stop off at the hospital to see Karen again. She’s not in her room, having gone next door and made friends with her neighbor. If she stays in here much longer, she’s going to organize a block party.

  The doctors have told Karen that they want her to stay three more days for observation, but she has negotiated that down to two. I’m going to have to make arrangements to protect her, and since Marcus is already covering my ass, I’ll need to recruit someone else.

  “Do you like all dogs?” I ask. “Or just Reggie?”

  “Are you kidding? I love them all.”

  I’m thinking Willie Miller would be a perfect choice to watch out for her, and since he spends his time at the foundation, maybe she can help out down there.

  “I’d really like that,” she says when I broach the idea. “Taking care of dogs, finding them homes-I can definitely get into that.”

  “But you’ll need to listen to Willie and do whatever he says. It will be his responsibility to make sure that you’re safe.”

  “Is he cool?” she asks.

  “He’s even cooler than me,” I say.

  “Andy, nobody’s cooler than you.”

&n
bsp; Aw, shucks.

  * * * * *

  THE WEEKS LEADING up to a trial are unlike any others.

  For one thing, they are much, much faster. A pretrial month feels like about two days. The preparation is so intense that every moment is precious, and those moments just seem to fly by.

  The intensity during this period is also without parallel, at least in my life. Every witness, every word that is spoken, will have the potential to change the outcome, and the lawyers must be completely ready to deal with every eventuality. It is the pressure that comes from the need to cover absolutely every base that is so exhausting.

  The period leading up to New Jersey v. Richard Evans has gone even faster than most. A lot of that has to do with the lack of progress we have been making; it has been frustrating and has created a feeling, of if not desperation, then of very significant concern.

  Kevin and I have looked at our mission as twofold. First there is the need to mount an effective defense for Richard, to punch holes in the prosecution’s case and thereby create a reasonable doubt. Just as important is our goal of coming up with a possible villain, someone we can point to and say or imply, “He did it, not Richard.” Juries, like movie audiences, like to have a story reach a resolution. They want to blame someone for the crime, and the easiest place to lay that blame is on the defendant. If they can’t do that, then they at least want to be given a theory of who the bad guy really is.

  It is in this second area that we have the most problems. Hamadi has so far been a dead end; Sam’s report is that he has substantial, apparently legitimate business relationships with at least six other companies. We have also been unable to learn any more about Archie Durelle or the significance of his apparently faked death on that helicopter.

  Equally puzzling is the government’s role in all this. They tried to tap my phone, and the FBI mysteriously took over and put a lid on the investigation of the highway shooting. Perhaps it has to do with Franklin and his job with the Customs Service, but we haven’t made the connection with any certainty whatsoever. And juries like certainty.

  To complete the circle to nowhere, Pete Stanton has reported no progress on the investigation into Karen’s shooting and Franklin’s death. There are no leads at all, leading Pete to believe that they were professional hits.

  One thing I don’t like to overprepare for is my opening statement. I just figure out the points I want to make, without writing a speech or doing much rehearsing. I also like to relax and get away from the case the day before the trial starts, and since tomorrow’s the big day, I’m taking today off.

  I stop down at the Tara Foundation to see how things are going. It gives me a peaceful feeling to hang out with the dogs, all of whom would have been killed in the animal shelter had we not intervened. They’re now well fed, warm, and safe as they hang out in what is a halfway station on their way to really good homes.

  Karen’s influence on the place has been remarkable. She’s added a grooming station, decorated the visiting area in which potential adopters hang out with the dogs, and brought an overall warmth and enthusiasm that had been in short supply. Willie and Sondra are crazy about her, and she about them. Fortunately, no further attempts have been made to harm her, but Willie is ever vigilant.

  “What are you doing here?” Karen asks. “Don’t you have to get ready for tomorrow?”

  “Andy’ll be ready,” Willie says. “He’ll have the prosecution idiots for lunch.”

  Willie has an overly generous assessment of my legal abilities, but I make it a point never to correct him.

  “Tomorrow’s just jury selection,” I tell Karen. “There won’t be much excitement.”

  “Andy, every single moment of that trial is going to be exciting. And you are going to be great.”

  I spend about an hour there soaking up the compliments and then head down to Charlie’s so Vince and Pete can insult me back to reality. And reality is where I need to be, because starting tomorrow, Richard Evans will be counting on me to save his life.

  * * * * *

  “THIS IS A very simple case,” is how Daniel Hawpe begins his opening statement to the jury we have chosen together. I don’t think that either side achieved any real advantage in the jury selection process; we’re both going to have to win it on the merits.

  “We are going to simply present to you a series of facts, many of them uncontested even by the defense. You will then look at those facts and decide whether or not Richard Evans killed Stacy Harriman, and I believe your conclusion will be that he did so.

  “The evidence you hear will be mostly circumstantial, and I’d like to discuss what that means. There is no eyewitness to this crime, no one who saw Mr. Evans kill Ms. Harriman and throw her body overboard. This is true in many, many murder cases. Most murderers don’t want to commit their crimes while others are around to observe them. So they do it when they are alone with their victims, when there is no chance for anyone to intervene and stop them.”

  Hawpe has a smooth, conversational style of speaking, of connecting with his audience. It will serve him well in politics, and I have no doubt he’s thinking that achieving a guilty verdict in this trial will serve him equally well.

  “But circumstantial evidence can be far more powerful than eyewitness testimony. The most common way to illustrate this is the snowfall example. If you go to sleep at night and the ground is not snow covered, and you wake up in the morning and it is, you know circumstantially that it snowed that night. You weren’t an eyewitness to the event, but you know it well beyond a reasonable doubt.

  “The same thing can be true of crimes. Eyewitnesses, in the excitement of the moment, can make mistakes. Facts do not make mistakes.

  “So we will present you with facts that prove conclusively that Richard Evans went out on his boat one night with his fiancée, Stacy Harriman. Those facts will prove that he crushed her skull and threw her body overboard, then attempted to kill himself by taking a bottle of sleeping pills. Her blood was on the floor and the railing of the boat, and her body washed up on shore three weeks later. She was telling us her story even in death, and we must in turn bring her justice.

  “The defense will paint a different picture, but instead of facts, they will use fantasy and wild theories. They will base their defense on a magical dog, and unseen villains who came out of the water like pirates, armed with clubs and sleeping pills.

  “None of it will make sense, and it could not be expected to, because it will be up against the facts. So if there is one thing I ask of you, it is to listen only to those facts. And if you do, your conclusion will be obvious.”

  As is customary, Judge Gordon gives me the option of presenting my opening statement now or at the beginning of our defense case. I would only defer it in the face of an inept statement by the prosecution, which isn’t the situation here. Hawpe was effective in connecting with the jury, and he made points that cannot go unchallenged.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you are not the first jury of twelve citizens to consider the case against Richard Evans. Another group of people, just like yourselves, sat in this very courtroom and did the same. And they voted to convict Mr. Evans of the murder of Stacy Harriman.

  “Yet we’re back here, going through this process again, and there is a very simple reason why. Because in that trial the prosecution presented a series of facts to that jury, a number of which have turned out not to be true. I’m not saying they did so deliberately; in fact, I’m quite sure they did not. But they were wrong, and their facts were wrong, and they will admit to that. So when Mr. Hawpe stands and tells you that he is going to present you with facts, please remember that they are his new version of the facts. And once again, they are wrong.

  “Richard Evans is not a murderer-not even close. The prosecution will not be able to tell you about a single violent act he has ever committed in his entire life, and believe me, they have searched for them. He had no reason to hurt Stacy Harriman; they were going to be married. If he had wanted to end th
e relationship-and he did not-he could have just broken off the engagement. He had no motive for murder, and you will not hear any from the prosecution during this trial.

  “Nor did he have a reason to attempt suicide. He worked for the United States government for fourteen years, protecting our shores, and he was promoted four times. He had a great many friends, a loving family, and a bright future in front of him. To anyone who knew Richard Evans, suicide was inconceivable.

  “Yet he sits before you today, an innocent man in the middle of an extended, horrifying nightmare. It is a nightmare that you can end by recognizing an obvious truth: Richard Evans has done nothing wrong. He himself has been the victim of a terrible crime, and basic justice deserves that he be set free to live his life.

  “Thank you.”

  I turn back and sit down, noticing that Karen is giving me the thumbs-up from the front row. Richard whispers to me, “Good job,” but I’m not comfortable with what I said, because I’m not comfortable with our case. All we have is reasonable doubt, and “reasonable” is certainly in the eyes of the beholder. And these jurors seemed to want to behold Hawpe a lot more than they did me.

  Hawpe’s first witness is Coast Guard Captain Ron Ferrara. He was in charge of the cutter that boarded Richard’s boat that night, and Hawpe will use him to set the scene, and other witnesses will provide background to it. But it is the scene itself that is probably the most incriminating factor against Richard.

  “We received the warning at approximately twenty-two fourteen,” says Ferrara, using military time and demonstrating that he does not have a great understanding of the word “approximately.”

  “And then you passed it on to the private and commercial boats in the area?” Hawpe asks.

  Captain Ferrara shakes his head. “No, those warnings are sent out over the alert frequency from land-based positions. Our responsibility is to make sure that the boats leave the area and assist those in difficulty.”

  “How bad was the approaching storm?”