by Ray Flynt
I nodded.
Talk of a murder investigation might ruin the mood. “Tomorrow morning I figured we’d sleep in and relax.”
She fluttered her eyebrows. “Uh huh.”
“In the afternoon, we’ll take a water taxi to Fort McHenry, where Francis Scott Key wrote The Star Spangled Banner.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“And tomorrow night I have box seats for the Oriole’s final game of the season. We’ll have dinner at Ruth’s Chris before the game.”
She blew me a kiss. “I love baseball. You left out lunch. What are we doing for lunch?”
“I thought we’d try pizza. There’s a place Detective Jackson mentioned—Antonello’s.”
We ordered coffee, leaning in to each other for small talk. After I paid the bill, we walked back to the hotel hand in hand—her fingers occasionally rubbing my palm.
While Valerie used the bathroom, I stripped to my boxers, propped myself against the headboard, and tuned into the ten o’clock local news for a report on the jail attack and Trambata’s transfer to the hospital. The story, relegated to twenty seconds before the final weather forecast, focused on protecting the public by keeping a homicide suspect under twenty-four-hour guard in intensive care.
Valerie sidled into bed next to me, grabbed the remote from my hand, and turned off the TV.
Her fingers ran through my chest hair, and I nuzzled her neck. It wasn’t long before our lips eagerly met amidst exotic flavors of garlic and seafood seasoning.
The weekend flew by. We enjoyed sightseeing and a baseball game on Saturday, and combined a business-with-pleasure lunch trip to Antonello’s pizza. Valerie didn’t suspect a thing and said it was the best pizza she’d had in years.
We talked about renting a boat on Sunday for a trip out to the Chesapeake Bay, but when the air turned chilly it provided an excuse for Valerie and me to snuggle—as if we needed one. Lunch was courtesy of room service.
After escorting Valerie to her three o’clock train, I watched the Eagles drop a heartbreaker to the Cardinals, wishing she’d still been around to console me after the loss.
28
Monday, October 8, 2001
Lucas Emmanuel woke me from a sound sleep at six-fifty Monday morning, alerting me to a ten-thirty hearing and asked if I could attend. I promised to be there. He provided the address.
Carlin remained hospitalized and the bail outcome hearing would take place without his presence. Regardless of what happened in court, Lucas wanted us to return to the hospital to question Carlin further.
That plan suited me fine. Although Todd Vicary wanted me involved, I worried that Carlin might still want to employ Sal Zalinski.
I flipped on Good Morning, America, where the buzz focused on Barry Bonds’ record-setting weekend with homers 71, 72, and 73 before a home town crowd at Pacific Bell Park. For a nation still mending from the 9/11 attacks, an occasion to celebrate felt good.
Temperatures had dipped into the thirties overnight. I pulled my suit coat tightly about me as I exited the hotel, wishing I’d brought a top coat. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for a cab to appear.
I met up with Lucas in a busy courthouse hallway. He told me to find a seat while he searched for Stephanie Wilkins, his sparring partner in the Trambata case.
The courtroom reminded me of the DMV office following a holiday weekend. I grabbed a bench in the last row and saved the open spot next to me for Lucas. Attorneys paired up with defendants, many wearing jumpsuits, huddled in the back of the room.
Lucas returned a few minutes later and whispered, “We’re third on the docket.”
Moments later, he nudged my arm and aimed a finger to the right side of the gallery.
“What?”
“That’s Josie Rodriguez from the Sun,” he whispered. “This could work to our advantage or blow up in our faces.”
The clerk announced the arrival of the Honorable Michael McLaren and everyone stood. The judge, with tanned features and a snow-white pompadour, cast a jaundiced eye on the assembled crowd, then gaveled court into session.
Each of the first two cases took no more than three minutes. Clearly, McLaren hoped for an early lunch.
With Trambata’s case called, Lucas lumbered down the center aisle on his crutches. Since other participants had moved out, I relocated to a seat directly behind the balustrade separating the gallery from the tables for legal counsel.
Assistant DA Wilkins spoke. “Your Honor, Mr. Trambata is charged with criminal homicide.”
A soft-spoken Emmanuel said, “Your Honor, my client pleads not guilty to the charge, and we request bail.”
I strained to hear Lucas. Perhaps he wanted to deprive the reporter, several rows back, of critical information.
DA Wilkins countered. “The State objects to bail. Given the serious nature of the crime, Mr. Trambata should remain in custody to ensure his appearance at trial.”
The judge adjusted his glasses and glanced at Emmanuel. “Where is your client?”
“University Medical Center, Your Honor. The State has hardly done a good job so far to ensure his availability for trial. My client was brutally attacked at the jail on Friday and is now in intensive care—requiring a trach in order to breathe.”
McLaren scowled. “Ms. Wilkins.”
“An unfortunate incident, Your Honor.”
The judge’s features twitched at her characterization.
The DA continued, “Mr. Trambata is not a resident of this jurisdiction. He owns four homes, including two outside of the United States—in Martinique and Saint-Tropez on the French Rivera. We fear he will flee to avoid trial.”
“Your Honor, my client is sixty-two years old. Aside from his jail-induced injuries, he has a chronic debilitating disease. He’s also CEO of a Fortune 500 company. He would be more than willing to wear an electronic monitor, so that he can recuperate in a less hostile environment.”
Wilkins started to speak. “Again, Your—”
Judge McLaren rapped his gavel. “Defendant will be subject to electronic monitoring, his movements confined to the United States, with bond set at $1 million. We’re finished here. Call the next case.”
Lucas traveled half-way up the central aisle of the courtroom before I rose from my seat. A few other spectators wedged between me and him; then I spotted the Sun reporter trying to catch up to him.
In the hallway, the reporter paced in front of the men’s room. I assumed Lucas had noticed her following him and ducked into the one place where he could be assured sanctuary.
The reporter didn’t know me, so I plopped down on a bench where the courthouse hallways formed a T. Ms. Rodriguez alternated between staring at her watch and eyeing the restroom door. As time wore on, I suspected the attorney really did need to use the facilities or was biding his time long enough for the reporter to lose interest. The reporter pulled out a cell phone and meandered a few steps away from me.
In the hallway straight ahead, Lucas emerged from an alternate door, saw me, and motioned for me to give him cover.
We only needed to walk twenty feet further to the elevator. Once outside the building, Lucas again raised his crutch to hail a cab.
I slid next to him in the back of the taxi. “Where are we going?”
“I’m dropping you at the hospital. Use your magic with that alphabet paper to find out more from Trambata. I’ll contact Herron Industries to arrange for the million-dollar bond.”
On the way to the hospital, I filled Lucas in on what I learned during the Saturday visit to Antonello’s pizza. It was a small family business, with the owner, two grown children and his son-in-law. They remembered the pizza order from Trambata, because deliveries to his upscale lodgings were rare, since it had its own room service and the hotel menu included flatbreads.
Antonello’s daughter, Sophie, took the order mid-afternoon on the day after Joel was killed. She remembered a male caller asking the size of their smallest pizza. When told it was eight inches, he res
ponded, “That’ll work,” and ordered the $5.95 special. She promised delivery in thirty minutes. Neither the Ravens nor the Orioles were in town that Sunday, which is why she could promise such a quick delivery.
Antonello’s son-in-law took the pizza to the hotel. He found a man pacing the hallway just ahead of Trambata’s room number. “Is that for 328?” the guy asked. When told it was, he forked over a twenty-dollar bill and said to keep the change.
Lucas turned toward me. “Did the son-in-law remember what he looked like?”
“Thirty-something, average build, nothing like Trambata.”
A uniformed officer sat outside of Trambata’s ICU room. He stood as I approached. “Where the hell are you going?”
“I’m part of Mr. Trambata’s defense team.” I knew Lucas wouldn’t object to my description.
He waggled his fingers. “ID.”
I handed him my driver’s license and business card. “Detective Jackson knows me.”
The officer snorted, handing me back my license. “I don’t care who Jackson knows. You can’t go in there right now.”
Through the open doorway, beneath a drawn curtain, a couple pair of legs huddled at Trambata’s bedside.
The officer shot me a cheesy grin as I realized he’d kept me out because medical staff were with their patient. Perhaps boredom made him play games. I wasn’t amused, but didn’t want a hassle with local law enforcement. He’d learn soon enough about Trambata’s bail and probably return to street patrol that afternoon. I took a few steps down the hall, waiting for the medical team to leave, then quickly returned, walked in, and shoved the door closed behind me.
Carlin’s room seemed quieter than my prior visit. His face still obscured by the curtain. I walked to the foot of the bed. His eyes were closed and a couple days’ worth of stubble covered his face, but the trach had been removed and the ventilator was now a silent sentinel.
I stood alongside him, calling his name.
He moved his head and moaned.
“It’s Brad Frame. I was here with your lawyer on Friday. How are you doing?”
His eyelids fluttered open.
“Can you speak?
Carlin’s hands, no longer tied to the railings, trembled as he groped the spot at his neck where a bandage covered the trach incision. I remembered his Parkinson’s.
When he spoke, in a thin breathy voice, I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
After several tries, I heard: “I can talk.”
His vocal chords may have been damaged due to the trach. “Rest your voice.”
Trambata struggled to prop himself higher in the bed. Minus all the tubes, I appreciated my dad’s description of him as looking like Ross Perot. He found the remote control and raised the angle of the bed. He sipped water from a Styrofoam cup and cleared his throat.
“Is that better?” he croaked, words still not distinct.
I stepped back. “Maybe I should return in the morning.”
Trambata held a finger in the air and sputtered a cough. “I did not kill anyone.”
“I know.” I didn’t really, but since I finally heard him, wanted him reassured that I was on his side.
I moved a nearby chair and sat closer to the bed, putting me at eye level. I asked him to elaborate on how Joel Driscoll had invited him to come to Baltimore.
In stops and starts, punctuated with coughs and sips of water, Carlin explained what happened. I detected the British accent Dad mentioned from Trambata’s formative years in India.
He’d received a typewritten note, accompanied by Joel Driscoll’s business card, hand delivered to his Valley Forge office on Friday, September 28th. He couldn’t remember the exact words. After saying he loved Megan, Driscoll asked that the two of them meet to “work things out.” He advised Carlin to check into the Baltimore Convention Center Hotel on Saturday and Joel would call his hotel room sometime after 4 p.m. to arrange a meeting.
Carlin remembered a PS on the note saying that Joel had family around that weekend and asking for him to be discreet.
I tried to ascertain who else knew about the note. He informed Tanesha Goodling of his plans to visit Baltimore but didn’t disclose the specifics. He had not alerted Megan, since she’d already left for Boca Raton.
The note, envelope, and business card were stowed in his suitcase and taken by the police after his arrest.
Joel’s fingerprints would not be found on the document, of that I was confident. Typewritten note, hand delivered...all felt like a setup designed to play on Carlin’s possessiveness of Megan. A man with a few billion dollars less might have questioned the arrangement.
I felt sorry for Carlin. This aging man, in the throes of a debilitating disease, manipulated into hanging on to his trophy wife. I also tried to reconcile the image of the broken man in front of me with the cold, calculating businessman who’d put my father’s success in jeopardy.
The rest of Carlin’s story fit the same pattern. He received a phone call in his hotel room from a man who said, “This is Joel,” around 5 p.m. on the day of the murder. The man gave him an address which put Trambata—with the cab’s dispatch records as witness—in the vicinity of the railroad museum just before the murder.
He was told to arrive at 7:50 p.m. In addition, the man said, “If you don’t see me in fifteen minutes, I can’t get away, and I’ll have to reschedule.”
This timeline demonstrated the pre-meditated nature of the attack on Joel.
A rap sounded at the door. A man entered in suit and tie, asking, “Carlin Trambata?” He didn’t look like a doctor.
Carlin nodded.
“I’m here to place an electronic monitoring device on you, per court order.”
Trambata scowled and turned to me.
Events had moved faster than I anticipated. “Attorney Emmanuel has arranged for you to be out on bail,” I explained. “Once you’re released from the hospital, you’ll be able to go home.”
Carlin stared in disbelief, his lip quivered. A tear welled in his eye before trickling down his cheek.
29
Shortly after the man who attached the ankle monitor had left, an aide arrived to wash up Trambata and change his bed linens. She asked me to step out for a few minutes.
The guard no longer stood watch in the hall. Even his chair had disappeared.
I walked to a nearby lounge and called Tanesha Goodling’s office.
“Yes, Mr. Frame, how may I help you?” She must have had caller ID on her desk phone.
“Do you remember a plain white envelope hand delivered to your boss on Friday, September 28th?”
She hesitated. “Yes. I recall.”
“What can you tell me about the person who delivered the message?”
“I never saw him. The envelope was dropped off in the main lobby.”
How does she know it was a man?
“Could you check with the reception desk to see if anyone can describe the man?”
“I could...but we don’t have a regular employee working there. Receptionists from each floor rotate the assignment.”
Sounded like a blind alley, but she agreed to put the word out. I wasn’t optimistic.
Next I called Dad.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing Dad.”
“You never call me at this time.”
Didn’t realize that Dad clued into my calling habits. “I want to talk with you about Carlin Trambata.”
“Did he die?”
I laughed, recalling our previous conversation. “Not yet. I’ve been talking to him. Based on your negotiating experience with Trambata, what advice would you offer?”
A few quiet moments ticked by before Dad spoke. “Everything for him is about the almighty dollar...grab a buck, keep a buck. Understand?”
I grunted that I did.
“You’ll never get the upper hand, but the playing field might feel level—at least for starters. He doesn’t leave anything to chance...always three or four moves ahead of
you.” After a pause. “Of course, my experience with him was six or seven years ago.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll give you a call later.”
When I returned to Trambata’s room, he looked like a new man; freshly shaved, rosy cheeks, and the half-scowl characterizing his demeanor had turned into a smile. News of his getting out of jail had acted like an elixir.
I thought about what Dad said. This was a man used to being in control. Carlin had no control in the jail or lying in a hospital bed tethered to a respirator. At home, even with his Parkinson’s, he had the resources to compensate for his disability.
Perhaps he was still vulnerable enough for me to get to the truth.
Once again, I pulled up the chair next to his bed. “I’d like to get a few more answers.”
“I told you everything I know. I didn’t kill Mr. Driscoll.” Even his voice sounded stronger.
“A few weeks ago, you went to Washington for meetings at the Pentagon and then you disappeared.”
A wry smile. “I knew where I was.”
“But Megan didn’t, and your office became concerned.”
“No one missed a meal or a paycheck as a result of my absence.”
Interesting choice of phrase.
“What were you doing? And why did Sal Zalinski follow me?”
He made a dismissive hand gesture. “On the latter question, I couldn’t have you getting too close.”
“Why were you in hiding?”
Carlin faced me. “You’re not my lawyer, so there’s no attorney/client privilege. You’re not a priest, so we don’t have the privacy of the confessional. Why should I tell you?”
“If you committed an illegal act, I don’t want to know. Otherwise, I promise you the assurance of my confidence.”
He folded his hands in front of him. “I stayed in Washington to undergo experimental treatment for my Parkinson’s, under the auspices of Dr. Aruna Khatri. She employed a combination of acupuncture and herbal medicine. Her office is in Bethesda. When I left government housing, I checked into a luxury hotel a few blocks from her office.”