“From who?”
“Alex Dorsey.”
I try not to overreact to this announcement, and Kevin and I take Laurie into the den to talk. There are no rules for situations like this, but I instinctively feel that phone calls from headless murder victims should be viewed calmly and rationally.
Laurie explains that she had answered her cell phone and immediately heard a voice she recognized as Dorsey’s say, “Hello, Laurie, it’s Alex.”
Laurie says she was momentarily too stunned to respond, and Dorsey went on to say that it was payback time, that she’d be sorry for what she did to him, and now was the time.
“Can you tell us his exact words?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t know what his exact words were. I was pretty shocked that he was calling. But that’s definitely close to what he said.”
“What did you say?”
“That it wouldn’t work, that somebody would find him, that he should give it up now.”
“And his response?”
“All he said was, ‘So long, rookie,’ and hung up.”
“But you’re positive it was him?” I ask.
She nods. “As positive as I can be. It sounded just like him, and he used to call me ‘rookie’ because he knew it irritated me. Andy, I don’t understand this. They said they ran a DNA test. The body was definitely Dorsey.”
We spend the next hour kicking around how we should handle this. Laurie’s testimony as to the facts would have no practical significance. For the accused to announce that she and she alone knows that the victim is really alive would obviously be recognized as self-serving and suspect. Nor does she have an obligation to report what has happened; it is not up to the defense to provide the prosecution with information of any kind.
But it is obviously in our interest to bring this to the attention of the authorities. The phone call opens up questions that must be investigated. For example, can the call be traced? How could the DNA test have gone wrong? Whose body was burned in that warehouse? Where is Dorsey, and how can we get the police to try to find someone they believe to be dead?
Kevin believes that we should call Dylan immediately and make the judge aware of the development as well. I disagree; Dylan will ridicule our claims and not act on them at all. For me the issue is whether to bring this to the police or the press. At this point Lieutenant Sabonis has not given me reason to mistrust him, so I decide to start with the police. The press will be backup if Sabonis doesn’t take action.
Most important is what we have learned from this. Obviously, and most significant, we have learned that Dorsey is alive. And while we have always known that someone was framing Laurie for Dorsey’s murder, now we know it is Dorsey himself doing the framing. Dorsey must have sent Stynes.
Making the phone call, though, was a brazen and overly self-confident act on Dorsey’s part. It also reveals the depth of his hatred for Laurie. It is not triumph enough for him to ruin her life; he wants her to know that it is he himself who is ruining it.
I call Sabonis and ask to meet with him as soon as possible on a new development. He is surprised and a little uncomfortable with the request, since normal protocol would be for me to go through Dylan.
“This information is too important to get buried,” I say. “Obviously, you can discuss it with whoever you want once I tell you, but it’s important to me that you hear it directly.”
He agrees, and I ask if he can come to us, since Laurie can answer any related questions he might have. He says that he’ll be over in twenty minutes.
I use the time to brief Laurie on how to answer his questions. She has been the questioner, but never the accused, and I tell her that she is to pause before answering anything, so that if I want to intervene, I’ll have the time to do so. Having a client answer police questions is uncomfortable for a defense attorney, but in this case it is necessary, as long as those questions relate to the Dorsey phone call.
Sabonis arrives five minutes early. I thank him for coming and bring him into the den, where Laurie proceeds to describe the phone call. He listens quietly and respectfully, not saying anything at all until she’s finished.
“I assume you didn’t tape the call?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “No, it was on my cell phone.”
“Who has that number?”
“A lot of people, mostly my friends. But calls to my home are being routed to it.”
“Did you have that phone number when you were on the force? Would it have been in your file?”
She nods. “I think so.”
“What do you think, Nick?” I ask.
He pauses a moment, then, “I think you were right in not bringing this to Dylan; he’d throw you out of his office and laugh in your face while he was doing it. My reaction would be the same with typical murder suspects, but Laurie is not your typical murder suspect.”
“So,” I ask, “will you treat it as a reliable piece of information and keep me posted on what you learn?”
“I’ll treat it as information to be investigated. Whether it’s reliable or not is still to be determined. As far as keeping you posted, you know that’s Dylan’s responsibility.”
“He’ll shut the door on us,” I say. “I’ll have to go to the judge.”
“No skin off my ass.” My sense is that he’d be fine if I did that; it might lessen the hassles he has in dealing with Dylan.
Sabonis tries to take advantage of the proximity to ask Laurie some case-related questions, but since they are not about the phone call, I don’t let her answer them. He leaves, and Kevin goes off to amend our motion for discovery on Dorsey’s department file to include this latest development in the investigation.
I had planned to think about what would be best for Marcus to work on, but this turns that decision into a nobrainer. I call him and tell him that his time should be devoted to finding out whatever there is to find out about Alex Dorsey.
“I want you to find his head and tell me if there’s a body attached to it,” I say. He grunts, but I think it’s an agreeable grunt. And I leave it at that.
Laurie is freaking out, but not from fear. It’s only been a few days, but the inactivity and feelings of frustration are really getting to her. Now that she knows Dorsey is out there directing this torture, the desire to get out and find him is overwhelming. I’ve had to devote more and more time to either calming her down or easing her fears.
I receive a pleasant surprise when I get a call from FBI agent Cindy Spodek, who identifies herself as assigned to Darrin Hobbs’s command at the Bureau. Agent Dead End Hastings has been true to his word and told Hobbs, the agent in charge of the Dorsey-related investigation, that I wanted to meet with him, and Agent Spodek is calling to say that Hobbs will be at his Manhattan office that afternoon. I expected to have to wait weeks for this meeting, and there is no way I will not fit this in.
Traffic into the city is light, and I’m there a half hour before the two-thirty meeting. I go in anyway and am greeted by Agent Spodek, a tall, attractive brunet in her early thirties. She very crisply informs me that Special Agent Hobbs is in a meeting, and we can wait in Hobbs’s small conference room just outside his office.
Looking around, I have to assume we visitors are often deposited in here first to impress us, as the room is a shrine to Special Agent Hobbs. Hastings had told me that Hobbs was a star within the Bureau, and the decor drives that point home. Hobbs’s commendations and newspaper clippings detailing his heroics cover most of the walls and almost obscure the top of every piece of furniture in the room. The only remaining spaces are taken by similar tributes to his exploits in Vietnam. Based on all these chronicled heroic triumphs, it’s amazing we didn’t win.
“Very humble,” I say.
“He’s earned it” is Agent Spodek’s response.
It seems like my time with her is heading for a conversational wasteland, so I immediately trot out the line guaranteed to turn that around. “By the way, I saved a golden ret
riever from death row at an animal shelter.”
“How nice for you,” she says with no enthusiasm, leaving me to wonder where I went wrong. Maybe the line requires Tara to be standing next to me, or maybe it only works outdoors. It’s certainly going to require further study, but for now I just nod and look around the room.
I’m holding one of the photos from Vietnam in my hand when the door opens and Hobbs walks in. He’s probably fifty years old, not that imposing in size but energetic and fit, the type who hasn’t found a room he can’t dominate. He sees me holding the photograph.
“Those were dangerous but exciting times,” he says. “Were you over there?”
I was a good fifteen years too young for that, but I don’t mention this. “No, I missed it,” I say, ruing that fact by snapping my fingers. “Just my luck.”
“It was no fun, believe me.”
I already knew that, so this is not a revelation that throws me off my stride. At least not as much as his handshake, which reminds me of Superman squeezing a lump of coal so hard it turns into a diamond. “Darrin Hobbs.” He smiles. “Good to meet you.”
I could wait to speak until the circulation returns to my hand, but I don’t think he invited me here for a sleep-over. “Andy Carpenter. Thanks for seeing me so quickly.”
“No problem.” He looks at his watch. “Although I don’t have a hell of a lot of time. Hastings said it was important.”
“It is. I’m representing a woman charged with the murder of Alex Dorsey.”
Hobbs looks over to Agent Spodek, as if realizing for the first time that she is even there. “We’ll be fine, Spodek” is how he dismisses her.
Once Spodek has left the room, Hobbs picks up the conversation as if she had never been there. He shakes his head, as if remembering past times. “Dorsey was always a murder waiting to happen.”
I nod. “But my client didn’t make it happen.” I decide not to share with him the fact that Dorsey is still alive and making phone calls. That has nothing to do with what I’m trying to learn.
He smiles. “Another innocent client … so what is it you want from me?”
“I know you were familiar with Dorsey’s actions a couple of years ago, when he was almost nailed by Internal Affairs. I know you, or at least the Bureau, intervened.”
“You know that?” He smiles, apparently amused.
“Are you telling me otherwise?”
He seems about to say that he is, but then shrugs with some resignation. “What the hell, sure. Inside these four walls … that’s basically what happened.”
“Was Dorsey the target of the investigation?”
“No way. We had bigger fish to fry.”
“And they were?”
“They were none of your business. Next question.”
“Is the investigation ongoing?”
His smile is a sad one. “No, I wish it were. The Dorsey stuff killed it—too much publicity.”
Dead End Hastings had indicated the investigation was in fact ongoing, but Hobbs is denying it. Could it be that Hobbs doesn’t trust Andy Carpenter, defense attorney?
I continue asking questions, and he continues smiling and answering them, all the while providing me with absolutely no useful information. He may have such information, but I’m sure not getting it out of him. Or he may not.
I leave after about a half hour, with Hobbs wishing me luck and offering to be available should I need more help in the future. I make a note to myself that if I ever want to have another completely unproductive meeting that is a total waste of time, I will give him a call.
I meet Kevin back at the house, and he tells me that Dylan has turned over some information from Dorsey’s file, though not anything relating to Laurie’s accusation against him or anything about the Internal Affairs investigation.
Before we get started going through it, we eat the dinner Laurie has prepared for us. Since she has little else to do besides worry, she’s been spending a lot of time in the kitchen, and the results have been extraordinary. Tonight is a crabmeat salad, followed by fusilli amatriciana, followed by freshly baked brownies. It is absolutely delicious, and I match Kevin chomp for chomp. It’s lucky we’ve pressed for a speedy trial, or I would have “Goodyear” painted on my ass by the time we reach opening statements.
Kevin and I roll ourselves into the den afterward to go through the Dorsey discovery material. It’s basically a chronological biography, and a very positive one at that. Dorsey grew up in Ohio and earned a B.A. in history at Ohio State. He enlisted and served a long hitch in Vietnam, apparently seeing a good deal of combat and earning several commendations for his service. He returned home and moved to Paterson, where he signed up for the police academy. His rise up the department ladder was rapid and relatively uneventful.
Certain little items are left out, nitpicks like his connections to organized crime, the Internal Affairs investigation and subsequent reprimand, as well as his disappearance and real or faked decapitation. Kevin will file our motion to get access to those facts tomorrow, and it’s becoming more and more crucial that we win.
As we are finishing, the phone rings and Laurie answers it. I hear her side of the conversation, mostly consisting of how-are-yous? and I’m-okays.
After about thirty seconds of this, Laurie puts down the phone and says to me, “It’s Nicole.” She is talking about Nicole Carpenter, my wife of twelve years, from whom I was divorced just a few months ago, and to whom I haven’t spoken since.
As I move toward the phone, the uniqueness of this situation flashes through my mind. I’ve just overheard a conversation between my ex-wife, whose father I caused to be convicted of multiple murder, and my current love, who is facing a decapitation-murder charge. I don’t remember what my high school yearbook listed as my future goals, but I don’t think any of this was foreseen.
“Hello, Nicole” is my clever opening line.
“Hello, Andy. How are you?”
This brilliant conversation goes on for another minute or so, as we both wait for her to get to the point of her call. Finally, she tells me that she needs to talk to me, in person, tomorrow morning, she hopes.
I don’t want to meet with her, I don’t have time to meet with her, there is no reason for me to meet with her, I can’t be forced to meet with her, there is no way I’m going to meet with her, so I tell her I’ll meet her at ten at a breakfast place near her house.
TO SEE NICOLE, YOU WOULD NEVER KNOW THE kind of year she has had. She’s been shot and severely wounded by people aiming for me, her United States senator father has been convicted and jailed for multiple murder, and she’s gone through a divorce. All this happened to a woman whose largest prior disappointment, at least that I am aware of, was when she got bumped out of first class on an overbooked flight to Paris.
She looks wonderful, with such a deep tan that, if she’s spending a lot of her time visiting her father, he must be serving his sentence at Oahu State Prison. She gives me a little hug of hello, and we go to our table.
Mercifully, Nicole seems to know that we used up all our meaningless chitchat on the phone last night, because she comes right to the point.
“My father has cancer,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She nods. “Thank you, but he’s not sorry at all. Oh, I guess he’s sorry that it’s not a massive fatal heart attack, but anything that kills him is fine with him.”
She’s saying that being in prison is so horrible for Philip that he would rather be dead. What she’s not saying, but which we both know, is that I put him there. It’s a rather large hurdle to scale in reestablishing a friendship, if in fact that is what we are attempting to do.
It’s not. Nicole has contacted me about Willie Miller’s lawsuit against Victor Markham’s estate and her father. His terminal illness gives her an even clearer connection to the suit: Half of whatever money Willie gets will come straight out of her inheritance.
“I’m frightened, Andy. I’m afraid I’m go
ing to lose everything.”
“Nicole,” I say, “we shouldn’t be having this conversation.” That is understating the case; it is completely inappropriate and unethical.
“I’ve lost so much already.”
I don’t point out to her that her father is astonishingly wealthy, that the most generous jury verdict imaginable for Willie would still leave her with close to two hundred million dollars. She has to know this; she is not a stupid or uninformed woman. But her fear is so powerful that it is completely blinding her.
Her plea presents me with a curious ethical dilemma. The issue isn’t whether I will be less vigorous on Willie’s behalf; I will not. But Nicole’s revealing her frightened mind-set to me presents me with a clear tactical advantage. To know that the opposition is so frightened is to know how far they can be squeezed. Can I wipe that from my mind? Should I?
“Nicole, you’re hurting your negotiating position.”
She’s offended. “Negotiating? Is that what we’re doing? After all these years, we’re negotiators?”
“Nicole, talk to me through your lawyer. And my advice is to tell him what you’ve told me. It’s a piece of information he should have.”
She shakes her head in disagreement. “Andy—”
I cut her off. “I’m sorry, but this conversation is over. One of us is now going to leave. Do you want it to be you or me?”
She doesn’t say another word, just gets up and walks out. I wait five minutes, then do the same.
I’m starting to become more comfortable with my personal connection to Laurie’s case, and on the way back to the house I’m able to focus on that case as I would any other. I view it as a competitive puzzle, to be played with strategy and discipline and logic. Always logic.
Actually, my type of logical approach is more appropriate here than in any case I’ve ever had. I view every detail, every piece of the puzzle, as if it had been planned. In my mental world there is no room for coincidence, or even happenstance. Every fact, no matter how small, must be related to the case and significant. Of course, after analysis much turns out to actually be happenstance and/or insignificant, but it helps me attack the case to assume otherwise.
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