Willie arrives so quickly that I think he must have been waiting on the front lawn for Edna to call. With him, as always, is Cash, who is probably delighted at the prospect of digging up another head.
“What’s up?” Willie asks.
“We received an official response from the other side.”
“We did?” he asks nervously. “You got any beer?”
“You want a beer before you hear their answer?”
“Every time I’ve ever gotten good news in my whole life I’ve had a beer in my hand. Every single time.”
“Really?” I ask. “What about the time the jury found you not guilty and you got off death row?”
That time had slipped his mind. “Okay, forget the beer. What did they say?”
I hold up the settlement agreement. “That if you sign this paper, they’ll give you a check for over eleven million dollars.”
Willie looks at me, not speaking, for about twenty seconds. Then he leans over, picks up Cash and holds him right up to his face, and says, “Did I tell you? Did I tell you?”
And then he starts to cry. Not huge sobs, but serious sniffles and definite tears. Cash seems far less upset, no doubt recognizing that he has gone from roaming the streets eating garbage to a future filled with designer biscuits.
Willie turns back to me, apparently wanting to explain his reaction. “This doesn’t make up for what I went through, you know? But it’s pretty damn good.”
I had long ago told Willie I would handle his case for ten percent, which is far lower than customary. Even at that, I’ve just earned more on this one case than I’ve made in the totality of my legal career.
I laugh at the realization and turn to Kevin. “Do you realize that we just made over a million dollars in commission?”
“What do you mean ‘we’?”
“You’re in for half,” I say.
Ever honest, Kevin says, “Andy, you pay me a hundred and fifty an hour.”
I shake my head. “Not on this case. On this case you get half a million. You can buy those triple-load washers and dryers you’ve had your eye on.” I turn to Edna. “And you get two hundred.”
“Dollars?” she asks.
“Thousand,” I say.
Laurie comes into the room, and I give her the rest, which she can put toward her legal fees. Within a few moments we’re all laughing, out of control, a brief but welcome respite from the ongoing pressure we’ve been under for months.
Edna calls cousin Fred, making appointments for him to talk to both Willie and herself about investing their windfalls. Kevin and I adjourn to the den to plan for tomorrow’s hearing. Based on what we come up with, I probably should have saved Kevin’s half million to offer to Hatchet.
We’re joined in court by Darrin Hobbs, Cindy Spodek, and Edward Peterson, the U.S. attorney representing the FBI’s position. Hobbs, certainly still angry about my supposed threat to do exactly what I’ve now done in bringing him to court, ignores me. Spodek does the same, no doubt taking the lead from her boss.
Hatchet calls on me first, admonishing me to be brief, since he’s already read our motion papers. I recount what I know about Dorsey’s involvement with organized crime, and the FBI’s intervention with Internal Affairs on his behalf. I then talk about Cahill/Stynes, starting with his visit to my office, his “admission” about the bloody clothes behind the stadium, right up to his murder of Barry Leiter.
I think my story is intriguing, if not compelling, but rather weak regarding relevance to the FBI files. It is difficult to conceal what is the essential truth: We have no idea what is in those files, and our seeking them is nothing more than a fishing expedition.
Dylan is quick to see it for what it is. “Your Honor, this is a fishing expedition,” he says. “The defense counsel is telling an uncorroborated story to help the defense. Even if the court were to take it at face value, which I am certainly not suggesting, the link to this FBI investigation is just not there.”
Hatchet then turns to Peterson, the government lawyer, who presents a stipulation from Special Agent Hobbs that there is nothing in the files regarding Dorsey that would be helpful to either side in this case and that there is no mention at all of Cahill/Stynes. Peterson takes great pains to point out that Hobbs is a highly decorated military officer, who has earned similar praise in his career with the Bureau. There should be no reason, according to Peterson, to question his word.
Peterson doesn’t stop there. “The details in the file are of little consequence to the government,” he says. “Its insignificant revelations would have no impact on this case, but the act of releasing it could have widespread ramifications on other cases. By their very nature, these investigations must be cloaked in secrecy; many who cooperate do so with that secrecy as a condition. If that trust is violated, the inhibiting effect on future investigations could be devastating.”
Hatchet, bless his heart, seems unmoved. “We are not talking about publishing this in the New York Times,” he says, “we are talking about my looking at the material in camera to determine probative value to this case.”
“Respectfully, Your Honor,” Peterson counters, “Agent Hobbs has stipulated that there is none.”
“And he may be correct. But he’s a war hero, not a judge. Which balances things out quite well, since I’m a judge and not a war hero. I assume you brought the file with you?”
Peterson nods. “As you ordered, Your Honor.”
“Good. Turn it over and I’ll review it.”
Peterson just nods in resignation, and Hobbs turns and walks out, with Spodek behind him. It’s a victory for us, but whether it will turn out to be a meaningful one will depend on what Hatchet finds in the file.
DYLAN HAS SOME FINISHING TOUCHES TO COVER before he rests his case. These take the form of fact witnesses, basically noncontroversial, who will provide information to round out and support the prosecution’s theories.
First up is the 911 operator who received the anonymous tip alerting the police to Oscar Garcia’s guilt, information that proved erroneous.
The tape is played in court, though I’ve of course heard it many times. It’s a female voice, masked somewhat by some computer or electronic technique. Dylan’s theory is that the caller was Laurie, and he buttresses his contention by pointing out that the caller referred to Oscar as a “perpetrator.” It’s a term, in Dylan’s view, that a cop or ex-cop like Laurie would be likely to use.
I have an expert prepared to testify that, computer enhancement techniques being as advanced as they are, the original voice could be female, male, or a quacking duck. There’s no sense questioning the prosecution’s witness about it at this point, so I let her off the stand with no cross-examination.
Next up is the police officer who found Dorsey’s gun in Oscar’s house during the execution of a search warrant. Since Oscar has been cleared, and since Laurie has been placed near Oscar’s apartment, this supports the theory that she planted the gun there as part of her frame-up of poor Oscar.
Once again there’s little I can do with this witness, other than to get him to confirm that Laurie’s fingerprints were not found anywhere in the apartment. I’m sure the jury would consider Laurie, as a former cop, too savvy to have left any prints, so I don’t accomplish much.
The parade continues with Rafael Gomez, a police officer who found the gas can in Laurie’s garage and who testifies that the gas/propane residue in it is the same mixture as that used to set Dorsey’s body on fire. While that is no doubt true, his testimony at least gives me an opening to score some points.
“Officer Gomez, were there any fingerprints on the gas can?”
“No, sir. Wiped clean.”
“Really? So you think she was stupid enough to leave this terribly incriminating piece of evidence in her own garage but smart enough to wipe off the prints?”
“Well …”
He’s unsure, so I push the advantage. “Maybe she figured the police wouldn’t be able to figure out whose gara
ge it was?”
He thinks for a moment and comes up with a pretty good answer. “Maybe she didn’t wipe it. Maybe she was wearing gloves. To keep the gas off her hands.”
“Is the gas dangerous to touch?” I ask.
“No, but some people—”
I interrupt, and Dylan doesn’t object, even though he should. “Where did you find the gloves?”
“We didn’t find any gloves.”
“But you said you conducted a full search of the premises,” I point out.
“We did, but there were no gloves. Maybe she threw them away so we wouldn’t find them.”
“Under the theory that Ms. Collins would get rid of the gloves but keep the can of gas?”
“I can’t say what she would do” is his fairly lame response.
“Is that what you would do?” I press.
“I wouldn’t murder anyone.”
“You and Ms. Collins have that in common,” I say. “No further questions.”
I’ve done with Officer Gomez exactly what I’ve done with many of Dylan’s witnesses, no more and no less. I’ve shown that if, after the murder, Laurie had done the things Dylan has alleged, then her behavior was illogical. The problem is that there is no reason a jury should expect someone who has decapitated and set fire to a police officer to act logically. In effect, I am saying, “She couldn’t have committed this bizarre crime because if she did, look how strangely she acted afterwards.” In this case, strange behavior fits neatly with the crime and could be taken as an indicator of guilt, rather than as exculpatory.
Dylan’s last witness is retired Paterson police captain Ron Franks, probably Dylan’s best friend on the force. Though Franks retired more than a year before the Internal Affairs investigation that Laurie instigated, Dylan’s purpose in calling him is to present the positive side to the victim.
It makes sense. We have been tearing Dorsey down as best we can, and Dylan certainly knows that will be a big part of our defense. The worse Dorsey looks, the less compelled the jury might feel to avenge his murder.
Franks is only on for fifteen minutes, but he talks warmly and admiringly of Dorsey’s years of public service, both in the military and especially with the police department.
My cross-examination is brief, honing in on the fact that Franks knows nothing about the Internal Affairs investigation or the facts that caused Dorsey to go on the run. The man seems to sincerely have been a friend of Dorsey’s, and it will do me no good to attack him.
Dylan rests his case, I move for a dismissal, and Hatchet denies my motion. Since it’s late, and it’s Friday afternoon, he excuses the jury and tells me I can start our defense Monday morning. Unfortunately, he means this coming Monday.
As we’re about to start one of Laurie’s perfectly prepared dinners, a phone call comes in that certainly has the potential to ruin it. It’s from Hatchet’s office, setting up a conference call between Dylan, Hatchet, and myself. Dylan is already on the line, but I’m not in the mood for chitchat, so I just wait for Hatchet.
After a few minutes His Majesty gets on the line. “Gentlemen, I have made a ruling on the defense motion, and I thought you should hear it immediately so that you can be guided in your preparations for court on Monday.”
He pauses, but neither Dylan nor I say a word, so he continues. “I have carefully reviewed the FBI material, and I have determined that it provides no new or relevant information to this case. Lieutenant Dorsey is mentioned only peripherally, and Mr. Cahill, or Stynes, is not mentioned at all. There is also no indication of another police lieutenant that may have been in a conspiracy with Mr. Dorsey.
“Therefore, my ruling is that the probative value of these documents as it relates to our trial is effectively zero and certainly not worth interfering with an FBI investigation. Any questions?”
Dylan, the victor, responds first. “Not from my end, Your Honor. I think you made the right decision.”
“That’s comforting,” Hatchet responds dryly. “Mr. Carpenter?”
“Have a nice weekend, Your Honor.”
The loss of this motion does not come as a great surprise. We have no choice but to shrug it off, and Kevin and I work until almost eleven o’clock on our defense strategy. Our plan is to work all day tomorrow and then take Sunday off, resting up before the battle begins.
Laurie is already asleep when I get into bed, and I lean over and kiss her lightly on her forehead. My concern for her is almost overpowering. We’re heading into the homestretch, and she doesn’t have a hell of a lot of horse under her.
I’m just dozing off when the phone rings, and I jolt upright, immediately alert. The last time I got a call at this hour, it started the chain of events that led to Barry Leiter’s death. I have an initial desire to just let the phone ring, but I force myself to pick it up.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end is immediately recognizable, as it should be, since I heard it a number of times earlier today. It is the computer-masked female voice that in the 911 call identified Oscar Garcia as Dorsey’s murderer.
“Mr. Carpenter, you’re not looking in the right place.”
This of course is not exactly shocking news. “Where should I be looking?” I ask.
“Vietnam. That’s where it began. That’s where you’ll find the connection.”
“Connection between who? Dorsey and Cahill?”
There is no answer, and I’m desperately afraid she’s going to hang up. “Come on, please,” I say, “what about Vietnam? I need more to go on.”
Again there is no answer; for all I know she may not even be on the phone any longer. Then she answers hesitantly, as if not sure whether to tell me more. “Talk to Terry Murdoch.”
“Who is he? Where is he?”
Click.
I don’t even put down the phone; I just dial Kevin’s number.
“Hello?” he answers with not a trace of sleepiness in his voice.
“What time do lieutenant colonels go to sleep?” I ask.
KEVIN IS OVER BY SIX IN THE MORNING TO JUMP-start our weekend. He informs me that, even though he planned to call his brother-in-law this morning, he couldn’t resist and called him last night. It was a great thing to do, because it, has already gotten the ball rolling.
Lieutenant Colonel Prentice has already contacted the Records Division at Fort Monmouth and instructed them to fully cooperate with our investigation. He’s established a liaison there, Captain Gary Reid, to deal with us.
Laurie is just getting up as Kevin and I are ready to leave for Fort Monmouth. She’s excited about the news and the possibilities it represents and amazed that so much has happened while she was asleep. I can tell it’s killing her that she can’t go with us today, but she’s forced to leave it up to us.
Fort Monmouth is located on the Jersey Shore and is surrounded by beach communities. We’ve left early to try to beat the beach traffic, but the only way to really do so would be to leave in February.
It’s a phenomenon that has always amazed me. People get in their cars in the height of the summer heat and crawl along for two or three hours, all for the right to spend an afternoon lying in grainy dirt, baking, sweating, and burning under a barrage of cancer-causing rays. Their only escape is to enter the water, which can best be described as a freezing, salty urinal. Then, unless they’ve endured the day covered with sticky grease, they can spend the two or three hours on the way home watching their skin blister.
As you may have noticed, I’m the type of guy who sees the ocean as half-empty.
We arrive at Fort Monmouth, though the only thing that tips us off to the fact that it’s an army post is the “U.S. Army” sign at the main gate. It is basically an office complex of nondescript brick buildings, set in the middle of a residential area. For every soldier we see walking around, there are three or four civilian workers. Kevin, whose mind is filled with obscure knowledge like this, tells me that the fort is mainly involved with electronics and that its chaplain school has
recently been moved to Maryland.
We head to the main building, and Captain Reid is there to meet us. He is the personification of the buttoned-down military man and looks as if he had his uniform pressed while he was in it. He openly tells us that the order from Lieutenant Colonel Prentice was quite clear: He is to do whatever is necessary to facilitate our investigation. Which is good, because there is no doubt that this is a guy who follows orders.
Captain Reid assigns four young enlisted men to do our bidding. It gives me a feeling of power; I’m tempted to send them into Guatemala Bay to rescue the otters. But first things first, and we request all military files related to Dorsey and Cahill, as well as a search for any records for a Terry Murdoch, the only stipulation being that he be someone who served during the Vietnam era.
Within moments we are looking at and comparing the military histories of Dorsey and Cahill. The files are quite detailed, listing on an almost daily basis every commendation, every assignment, every communication, even every illness that they had.
There are similarities to be sure. Both were Army Special Forces, both had advanced infantry training and were considered outstanding soldiers, and both served a lengthy hitch in Vietnam. Dorsey’s time there started two months after Cahill’s, which means they overlapped for a long time.
Unfortunately, there is no obvious connection. The two men came from different parts of the country, went to different schools, trained stateside at different posts, and were assigned to different divisions in Vietnam. There is no evidence, at least none that we can see, that they knew each other. Certainly nothing that should have caused them both to die, their deaths interrelated, all these years later.
Captain Reid comes in with the military records of two men and one woman, all named Terry Murdoch. They all served in Vietnam, but only one of the men was there at the same time as Cahill and Dorsey. He was also Special Forces, advanced infantry, and much decorated, but again has no other obvious connection to the others. Murdoch left the army in 1975, and as with Cahill and Dorsey, that is when the army lost track of him.
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