“Do you have any idea where we could find him now?” I ask Reid.
“We don’t keep those records,” he says, “but we have some resources we can call upon when it’s absolutely necessary.”
He says this cryptically and ominously, and I’m afraid to ask him what he’s talking about, since if he tells me, he might have to kill me. Kevin’s not the bravest guy either; right now he wouldn’t open his mouth if I offered him a raspberry turnover.
“Lieutenant Colonel Prentice indicated everything was possible,” I say.
Reid smiles. “Yes, he did.”
Reid leaves, suggesting we go over to the mess hall, as aptly named an establishment as has ever existed, for lunch. I just have some coffee, then watch as even Kevin is challenged to find something edible. Finally, he settles on a plate of what looks like baked linoleum. He puts things in his stomach I wouldn’t put in a Dumpster.
“It’s not bad,” he says, and goes up to see if he can negotiate another helping. The server agrees; I’m sure it’s the first time he’s ever been confronted with a request for seconds. Kevin is polishing off plate number two when a soldier comes in and summons us back to see Captain Reid.
“You guys get enough to eat?” Reid asks us when we return.
“I would say we both had as much as we wanted,” I say.
“Good. Terry Murdoch has not exactly been a credit to the army since he went civilian.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“He’s currently serving time in Lansing.”
Lansing is a federal prison in Pennsylvania, less than a hundred miles from here. “What is he in for?”
“Counterfeiting,” he says. “Twenty-five to life, must serve the twenty-five minimum?”
“Which means he can’t get out until he’s seventy-five years old. Can you get us in to talk to him?”
Reid hesitates. “Lieutenant Colonel Prentice didn’t mention anything about interceding with federal prison authorities.”
“I’m sure it just slipped his mind,” I say, and then turn to Kevin. “He’s your brother-in-law, why don’t you call and ask him?”
Captain Reid shakes his head with authority. Actually, he does everything with authority. “Won’t be necessary,” he says. “When do you want to go?”
It’s getting late in the day, and we haven’t done any case preparation yet. I also want some time to figure out how to approach Murdoch, so I say, “How about tomorrow, late afternoon?”
Reid nods. “Done. He’ll be expecting you. Whether he talks to you or not is up to him.”
Reid tells me that I should not hesitate to contact him if I need anything else, so before we leave, I test that by asking if we can have copies of the files on all three men. Within moments I have them. This kind of power is so intoxicating that I’ve decided I want to be a lieutenant colonel when I grow up.
We get home, and after briefing Laurie on what we’ve learned, Kevin and I get started on preparing for our own witnesses. Edna is there, making sure we have pens, paper, coffee, or whatever else we might need. After all this is over I’m going to take some time to reflect on the concept of Edna working weekends.
The most difficult part of the preparation is our belief that a significant part of the defense will involve the Dorsey-Cahill-Murdoch connection, yet we don’t know where that is going to take us. We may even have to try to string out our case, delaying and taking more time while we follow the dots. One of our problems is that Hatchet’s never been real big on case stringing.
In order to maximize our time, and to pretend I’m a big shot, I agree to spend six thousand dollars to charter a private plane to fly to Lansing. Having somebody go to all this effort and expense just to see him will no doubt make Murdoch the envy of the entire cellblock.
I have Edna reserve the plane, and I’m so focused on the case that alarm bells don’t go off in my head when she asks, almost offhandedly, “How much do you weigh?”
When I see the contraption she has chartered the next morning, the meaning behind Edna’s questions becomes clear, and I immediately wish I had exercised more at Vince’s gym. But Clyde, the pilot, seems like a nice enough guy, and he swears that we’ll make it, no problem, so I get on.
I have a great time, the first relaxing moments I’ve had in a while. Clyde lets me take the controls, and I mentally shoot down about thirty Russian MIGs, anachronistically teaching those “dirty commies” what American skill and courage are all about.
As we land at a small private airport just outside Lansing, ground control tells the pilot that the prison has sent somebody out to meet me. Good old Captain Reid can really get things done.
A car pulls right up to the plane as we taxi in. I get out and am greeted by a thin, pasty-complexioned guy who gives me a limp handshake and actually introduces himself as “Larry from Lansing.” My immediate mental connection is to a sports talk-radio show: “Hi, this is Larry from Lansing … I’m a first-time caller … uhhhh … how do you think the Mets are gonna do this year?”
I tell Larry I want to get right out to see Murdoch, but he says, “The warden sent me out to tell you there’s a problem with that.”
Uh-oh. “What kind of problem?”
“He killed himself last night. Slit his throat in his cell,” says Larry from Lansing with the kind of passion normally reserved for readings of the telephone directory.
The news is simultaneously devastating, frustrating, and yet further confirmation that we are on the right track. I have Larry from Lansing take me to the prison, a collection of gray buildings surrounded by barbed wire in the middle of nowhere.
The warden is Craig Grissom, who looks and sounds just like Eddie Albert in The Longest Yard. When I meet him, it’s immediately obvious that he isn’t grieving too much over Murdoch’s death; nor do I get the feeling he stayed up agonizing over the eulogy. The closest he comes to serious reflection is, “Things like this happen. You try to prevent them, but they happen.”
I coax the particulars out of Grissom. The guard found Murdoch in his locked cell while making his midnight rounds last night. The doctor’s estimate was that he had been dead at least an hour.
“How did he get the knife?” I ask.
He seems surprised. “Who?”
“Murdoch.”
“You think he got the knife?”
“Larry said it was a suicide. That he slit his own throat,” I say.
Grissom shakes his head sadly. “Larry’s not exactly the sharpest tool in our shed. How many suicides slit their own throat from ear to ear, then still have the knife tucked in their hand after they bleed to death and fall to the floor?”
“So somebody got into his locked cell in the middle of the night and killed him? Warden, this is a maximum security prison.”
He nods. “That’s why they didn’t hang him in the mess hall during dinner.” He can see me getting more and more frustrated. “Look, this is not the Boy Scouts. We’ve got murderers in here, so we’ve got murders. We do our best, but it is what it is.”
“Had he been told I was coming?”
Grissom nods. “I told him myself. He seemed to like the idea. Maybe somebody else didn’t.”
“Did he make any phone calls?”
“Hard to tell,” he says. “We monitor the pay phones, but they can get access to cell phones.”
“Cell phones in the prison?”
He shrugs. “They got money or things to trade, they can get whatever they want in here. Think of it as the old economy—a return to the barter system.”
Grissom gets Murdoch’s file at my request and tells me that he was serving a lengthy term for counterfeiting. It was only incredibly bad luck on his part that got him arrested. There was a fire in his house while he was out, and when the fire department broke in, among the things they saved were plates with American presidents on them. His lawyer had claimed that the evidence should be suppressed since the firemen had no warrant, but the judge correctly ruled that they had good reaso
n to enter the burning building.
Referring to Murdoch’s murder, I ask, “Are you going to investigate this?”
He laughs a short laugh, then nods. I’ve got a hunch the investigation is not going to be relentless, nor is it going to get anywhere. Just like I’m not going to get anywhere with Warden Grissom. I hope Burt Reynolds comes here, puts a football team together, and kicks his ass.
I have Larry from Lansing take me back to Clyde the pilot, so I can take my new frustrations out on those dirty commies.
I call ahead to Kevin, tell him what happened, and ask him to assign Marcus to find out everything he can about Terry Murdoch. The first thing I do when I get home is go through the military files again, looking for some connection, any connection, but there just isn’t anything there.
Kevin and I finish our preparations for tomorrow’s witnesses, and Laurie and I get to bed early. For the past couple of weeks, we’ve pretty much kept our conversations about the case out of the bedroom, more to help our insomnia than for any other reason.
But tonight Laurie breaks that unwritten covenant. “I want to testify,” she says.
“I know you do. We’re just not ready to make that decision yet.”
“I’m ready, and I’ve made it. I’m not going to jail without having told my story. I’m telling you now so you can factor it in.”
“Consider it factored,” I say a little petulantly. I need to focus on tomorrow’s witnesses, not a decision that is now, no matter what my client says, hypothetical and premature.
The problem is, now that it’s in my head, I spend the next hour thinking about it. Like every other defense attorney practicing on this planet, I am generally loath to put my clients on the stand. There is just too much that can go wrong, and not enough potential upside to counterbalance that.
The main reason not to put Laurie on, besides the unseen pitfalls inherent in such a move, is that she doesn’t have any evidence to present. It’s not like she has an alibi for the night of the murder; all she can say are the things she didn’t do. “I didn’t kill him, I didn’t frame Oscar, I didn’t own the gas can.” Etc., etc., etc. These are self-serving statements which won’t and shouldn’t carry any weight with the jury. The truth is, anything positive that she might have to say about the facts of the case I can introduce through other witnesses, without exposing her to a withering cross-examination.
At this point the only reason I can come up with to put her on is to give the jury a taste of who she is. There has always been an incongruity between Laurie’s demeanor, her persona, and the crime she is accused of committing. Dylan’s task, even with the overwhelming evidence in his favor, has first been to get the jurors to consider Laurie capable of such an act. The more they get to know her, the harder it will be for them to believe it.
If Laurie does testify, she will be the last witness we call. Tomorrow morning will be considerably less dramatic, but it’s important that we get off on the right foot. I have no doubt that if the jury were to be polled right now, they would vote to convict. Which means we have twelve formerly open minds to win back.
THOUGH THE PROSECUTION BUILDS THEIR case brick by brick in logical order, my style of defense is to shoot random darts, jumping around so they won’t know where the next attack is coming from.
Our first witness is Lieutenant Robert Francone, the officer who directed the Internal Affairs investigation of Dorsey. Since Celia Dorsey told me that her husband was in cahoots with an unidentified lieutenant, in my mind everyone with that rank is a suspect. However, Francone is widely considered above reproach, and Pete Stanton endorses that view.
I take Francone through the particulars of the investigation. He’s not hostile, just reluctant, viewing the material as not meant to be public. Nevertheless, the information ultimately comes out, and the portrait painted of Dorsey is that of a corrupt cop, selling out to, and profiting from, the criminals he was sworn to combat. Those criminals will have to go unnamed during this trial, as per an edict Hatchet issued earlier in the case.
“So Ms. Collins was correct in her initial report about Dorsey?”
He nods. “She was, although she was just skimming the surface. Most of it was brought out by our subsequent investigation.”
“Did you think it was proper that he only received a reprimand?” I ask.
“That’s not really my area. My job is just to report the facts.”
“Then let me ask it a different way. Were you surprised when he received only a reprimand?”
“Yes.”
“The people Dorsey was involved with, the criminal element you refer to, would you consider them capable of murder?”
He says yes quickly, before Dylan has time to object to my improper question. Since the jury has heard the answer anyway, I withdraw the question.
I get Francone to say that there were no complaints of any kind directed at Laurie in all her time on the force, and then turn him over to Dylan.
“Lieutenant Francone,” Dylan begins, “regarding these alleged mob people you say Alex Dorsey was involved with, to your knowledge, did any of them ever cause him harm?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“And they were in something of a partnership, is that right? Both sides benefited from the relationship?”
“Yes.”
Dylan then asks him a few questions about the type of violence organized crime generally practices, and he says that decapitations and body burnings are very atypical.
Dylan lets the lieutenant off the stand, satisfied that he’s done little damage to the prosecution. He’s right: All we’ve managed to show is that Dorsey was not a choir-boy and hung around with dangerous people. There is absolutely no evidence that those people had anything to do with Dorsey’s death, but unfortunately plenty that Laurie did.
Next up is Celia Dorsey, a less important witness for us than she would have been if we were still contending that Dorsey is alive. Her testimony is a self-indictment of a wife looking the other way while her husband descended into a life of crime and violence.
With quiet dignity, she talks about their life together, about his increasing secrecy, the talks with the mysterious other lieutenant that she overheard, and his stealing their money before leaving.
“And he was gone for a week before the murder?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Were the police looking for him?”
She nods. “Yes. I told them that I didn’t know where he was. But that if Alex didn’t want to be found, they wouldn’t find him.”
“Why did you say that?”
“He was too smart. And he used to brag about being able to disappear, to blend in so well that he couldn’t be seen. Said he learned it in Vietnam.”
“But whoever killed him found him,” I point out.
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I think whoever killed him wasn’t somebody he was hiding from. It had to have been somebody he trusted.”
Dylan objects that this is speculation, and Hatchet sustains.
“What else did you hear him say about how he might disappear?”
“He said he would fake his death. That they might bury his coffin but that he wouldn’t be in it.”
I’ve debated with Kevin whether I should open the door to Celia’s “fake death” story, and we decided it was something we needed to do, if for no other reason than to have the jury know we didn’t create the idea out of thin air.
I turn her over to Dylan, who treats her fairly gently but makes the point that she has no actual knowledge of what happened to Dorsey, just theories.
Hatchet sends the jurors off on their lunch break, after which we catch a break of our own. One of the jurors has taken ill, either a bad stomach virus or food poisoning. Hatchet sends everyone home for the day, giving us some much-needed additional time in the process. A key strategy in our defense will now be hoping that whatever the juror has, it’s contagious.
But I have to assume that the worst will happen, that t
he other jurors will stay healthy. Therefore, I must prepare for tomorrow’s witnesses tonight, which will make for an excruciatingly boring evening.
The two witnesses we are likely to get to tomorrow are a blood spatter expert and a retired medical examiner. Their testimony, which I hope will be significant, will also be dry as dust, and Kevin has to force me to concentrate on the nuances of it. He knows this stuff better than I do, and I offer to let him handle at least one of the witnesses, but he thinks I have developed a good rapport with the jury, and to change lawyers, even for one witness, would be messing with that chemistry.
It’s not until almost eleven o’clock that he feels secure enough with my grasp of the subjects to head home. I’m not tired, so as I do almost every night, I take paperwork that I have gone through countless times and go through it again.
It is a curiously relaxing part of my routine. I take a glass of wine and the documents into the den, and Tara grudgingly joins me on the couch. I hope to find something significant but don’t expect to, since I’ve been over these things so many times before. So if I uncover a gem, wonderful. If not, my expectations are low enough that I’m not disappointed.
Tonight’s no-pressure reading includes the respective military records of the recently murdered partners in the Green Beret firm of Dorsey, Cahill, and Murdoch. There simply has to be a connection between these men; the computer-masked, anonymous tipster was certainly right about that.
I wonder if she knows that by simply giving me Murdoch’s name, she caused his death.
I am simultaneously all-powerful and all-oblivious.
The detail in the files is extraordinary. My admittedly uninformed mental picture of the military experience in Vietnam includes jungles, napalm, land mines, snipers, and daring chopper missions. Yet based on the size of these reports, half the people we had there must have been typists. Every hangnail, every training proficiency score, every reported enemy sighting, every move they must have made … it’s all been dutifully chronicled.
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