An easy half-hour passed by in Bobby’s company. A pot of coffee helped him talk and I drank two cups while I listened. He was a farmer’s kid from Virginia. No brothers or sisters. His mom left when he was six. Took off with a guitar player she’d met in a bar. Then it was just Bobby and his father and the farm. He fell into that life pretty easily as a kid, and fell out with it about the same time he figured there might be the possibility of a different life. This realization hit Bobby on a Saturday afternoon when he was fifteen. His girlfriend took a drama class and Bobby got the times mixed up and arrived at the church hall around an hour before the class finished. Instead of waiting outside, Bobby decided to go in and watch.
That day changed everything.
Bobby was simply blown away. He’d never seen theatre before. Didn’t understand it, the power of it. This was strange to Bobby because he’d always loved movies, but never really thought about how they were made or the actors involved. When he picked up his girl he fired question after question at her, desperate to find out about acting. He signed up the next week, and six weeks later Bobby got his first taste of community theatre. There was no going back to the farm after that.
“My daddy, he did something very special for me. Day I turned seventeen he sold some cattle, gave me a thousand bucks in my hand. Man, at that time I thought it was all the money in the world. I’d never seen so much money. The bills were mostly tens and five-spots, pitted with soil and whatnot. Real cattle-trader’s cash, you know?”
I guessed Bobby was a millionaire, easy. Probably many times over. Still, his eyes sparkled when he talked about that wad of cash his father gave him.
“I folded up that money real good, stuffed half into my wallet and half in my pocket. Then he told me he’d bought me a bus ticket to New York. Jeez, it was like the best day ever. And it was the worst. I knew he was gettin’ on in years. He couldn’t handle the farm himself. But none of that mattered to him. He just wanted to make sure I got my shot, you know?”
I nodded.
“I took my shot because of my daddy. Seven years as a busboy, waiter, and audition veteran. I did okay. Got less than half of the jobs I went up for. Then one day, the right place and the right time and I’m straight onto Broadway. Those first two years were rough. My dad got sick and I was running back and forth. He got to see my opening night. Saw me play the lead in a Broadway play. He didn’t get to stick around for long after that. He didn’t get to hear about me getting the call from Hollywood. He would’ve liked that,” said Bobby.
“Did he get to meet Ariella?” I said.
Bobby shook his head, “No, he didn’t. He would’ve really loved her.”
He bowed his head. Swallowed. Told me the story.
They’d met on the set of a movie. An independent picture called Ham. A coming of age story. They didn’t have any scenes together in the movie, but they met on set by chance and after that they spent all their free time together. At that stage Ariella had already played some minor character roles in half a dozen mainstream movies. She had a career going for her that looked to be getting stronger and stronger. The part in the independent movie was her first lead – and she was banking on it being a sleeper hit and her calling card. And it turned out exactly like that. Her rising star meant Bobby’s star got pulled alongside hers for a while. Didn’t take long for them to become a young power couple. They landed the leads in the sci-fi epic, and signed a deal for a reality series.
“Things couldn’t have been any sweeter for us,” said Bobby. “That’s why none of this makes any sense. I was happy with Ari, things were great. We’d just gotten married. If I get the chance during my testimony I’m going to ask the prosecutor why the hell they think I would kill the woman I loved? It just doesn’t make any sense,” he said.
He slumped in his chair and began rubbing his forehead, gazing off into the distance. I didn’t need to go too far to come up with a dozen reasons why someone in his position would kill their new spouse.
“Since I might be working the case, Bobby, you should know I take every meeting as a practice for trial. If I hear you say something inappropriate I have to point it out so you don’t do it at trial, understand?” I said.
“Sure, sure. What did I do?” he said, straightening up in his seat.
“You said you were going to ask the prosecutor a question. You’re there to answer questions. That’s what testimony is all about. The worst possible thing that can happen if you ask a question like that is the prosecutor actually gives you an answer. The prosecutor might say you killed Ariella Bloom because you’d gotten everything out of her that you needed, that you didn’t love her, that you’d fallen in love with someone else and didn’t want a messy divorce, that you’d discovered that she’d fallen in love with someone else and you didn’t want a messy divorce, that you were high, that you were drunk, that a sudden jealous rage came over you, or she discovered your darkest secret …”
I paused. As soon as I said the word secret, Bobby’s eyes came to life, shuffled around the room before settling on my face.
It unsettled me. I liked the kid. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
“I don’t want any secrets between us. Same goes for you, Rudy,” said Bobby.
Both Rudy and I were about to warn him not to tell us something that might compromise his defense, but it was too late. Before we could stop him, Bobby told us everything.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A month ago it had taken Kane a full day to get this parking space. On that day he’d managed to get a space close to it, and he’d sat there until the space he wanted became free. Then he’d moved in, and left the car in place. Now, he sat in the driver’s seat of his station wagon, drinking hot coffee from a flask. He knew it was all worth it. The parking garage on Times Square was across the street from the Condé Nast building. If you parked on the eighth floor and took one of the ten spaces on the left you could get a pretty good view across the street. High enough to see what was happening on the street, and at eye-level with the offices of Carp Law, which seemed to be lit around the clock. With a pair of small, digital binoculars Kane had watched the defense team prepare for trial. He’d watched the associates give critique as Rudy Carp practiced his opening speech, he’d even watched two of the mock trials.
More importantly, Kane had watched Carp and the jury consultant as they placed eight-by-ten laminated photographs on a large board at the back of the conference room. The photos were of men and women from the jury pool. Some of the photos had changed, from week to week, as they made adjustments and tried to find their preferred jury selection for the trial. That evening, the final twelve had been revealed.
Kane had also listened in on strategy meetings in Rudy Carp’s generous, private office. A quick scan of the Carp Law interior with his binoculars had given him an idea of how to get a listening device in there after only a few days’ surveillance. It had some risk, but not much. He’d watched Rudy take the package from his secretary, open the box, and examine the trophy. A contortion of twisted metal, affixed to a hollow wooden plinth. A small brass plaque bore the legend, “Rudy Carp, World Lawyer Of The Year. EYLA.”
EYLA stood for the European Young Lawyers Association, according to the accompanying note. There was a return address. One of the first things Kane heard over the mic embedded in the fake trophy was Carp dictating a thank you note to be sent to the Post Office box in Brussels that Kane had set up.
From his vantage point in the parking lot across the street, Kane had watched Carp’s secretary place the award next to the others.
That was three weeks ago. Two days from trial now and Kane felt confident. The mock trials had resulted in convictions. The defense team were squabbling. Bobby Solomon looked increasingly like a man on the edge of a total nervous breakdown. And to top it all off the studio weren’t happy. They were putting Rudy under intense pressure. Hollywood wanted a ‘not guilty’ for Solomon and so far their money had failed to secure it. The studio executives just didn’t understand
what was going wrong.
Kane couldn’t have been happier.
Then he’d seen the final twelve jurors selected by the defense. There was no guarantee that any of them would make the final list, and he’d seen the picture of the man he now resembled on the list quite a few times, but not tonight.
Kane would need to make some adjustments of his own to the jury list.
As he thought about this, he saw the young lawyer sitting in Carp’s office. He’d been given a laptop. Signed a retainer. Now here he was talking to Bobby Solomon. A new lawyer. Solomon was giving this lawyer his life story. Trying to finesse him. Make him care.
Kane pressed the earphones tight and listened.
Flynn. That was the lawyer’s name.
A new player. He resolved to look further into Flynn that night. He didn’t have time just at the moment. Kane took out his cell phone, a cheap burner, and hit dial on the only number in the phone’s memory.
That familiar voice answered the call.
“I’m working. It’ll have to wait.”
The man who’d answered the call had a deep, resonant tone. There was authority in that voice.
“This can’t wait. I’m working too. I’ll need you to monitor the police traffic tonight. I’m paying a visit to a friend and I don’t wish to be disturbed,” said Kane.
Kane listened closely for any hint of resistance, or reluctance. Both men knew the reality of this relationship. It was not a partnership, or collective. The power lay with Kane. It always had, and it always would.
The man said nothing for a moment. Even that small, silent delay began to irritate Kane.
“Do we need to have a conversation?” asked Kane.
“No, we do not. I’ll listen in. Where are you planning on visiting?” said the voice.
“Here and there, I’ll send a text with a location later,” said Kane, and disconnected the call.
Kane was careful. He weighed the risks for every move. Even so, sometimes life threw Kane some curveballs. Roadblocks along the road to his destination. Most he could deal with himself, but occasionally Kane needed help from someone who could access databases or gather information that would be unavailable to most ordinary citizens. Such men were always useful, and this man had proven himself.
They were not friends. Kane and the man were beyond such relationships. When they talked, the man pretended to share Kane’s beliefs, and professed his devotion to Kane’s mission. Kane knew this to be a lie. The man did not care for Kane’s ideology, he only cared about his methods: the simple act of killing, and all the pleasures that came with it.
“I don’t want any secrets between us. Same goes for you, Rudy …” said Solomon. Kane heard it clear as day, over the mic. He put aside his phone and focused on the conference room. Carp sat with his back to the window. He couldn’t see the lawyer’s face. Flynn sat to the right of Carp, but was facing away from the window too, looking toward Bobby Solomon. Kane leaned forward and listened.
CHAPTER NINE
There’s no such thing as a bad case. Only a bad client. Judge Harry Ford, my mentor, had taught me that a long time ago. He’d been proven right. Time and time again. Sitting in a leather chair beside Bobby Solomon, I was reminded of Harry’s advice.
“Ariella and I had a fight the night she was killed. That’s why I left the house that night and went on a bender. I … I … just wanted you to know this. In case it comes up. We fought, but Jesus H. Christ I didn’t kill her. I loved her,” said Bobby.
“What was the fight about?” I said.
“Ari wanted me to sign the contract for Season Two of The Solomons, our reality show. I’d hated having the cameras follow us around, it was just … too much. You know? I couldn’t do it. We had an argument. Not physical, it was never physical. I wouldn’t have laid a hand on her. But it was loud, and she was upset. I told her I wouldn’t do it. Then I left,” said Bobby.
He sat back in his chair, blew out his cheeks and put both hands on top of his head. He looked like a man relieved to get something off his chest. Then the tears came. I studied him closely. The look on his face spoke one word – guilt. Whether it was guilt that his last words with his wife were harsh, or guilt for something else – I couldn’t exactly tell.
Rudy got up, held open his arms and gestured for Bobby to give him a hug.
Both men embraced. I could hear Rudy whispering, “I understand, I understand. Okay? Don’t worry. I’m glad you told me. It’s going to be alright.”
When the two men finally let go, I saw Bobby’s eyes glistening. He sniffed, wiped his face.
“Okay, I think that’s all I got. For tonight,” said Bobby. He looked down at me, held out a hand and said, “Thank you, for listening. I’m sorry I got emotional. Look, I’m in a tight spot. I’m glad you’re gonna help me.”
I stood for the handshake. It was surprisingly firm this time. I held on and took a moment to study Bobby up close. His head was still tilted toward the ground. I felt the nerves sending tremors into his hands. Despite the bodyguards, the fancy clothes, the manicures and the money, Bobby Solomon was a scared kid with the prospect of life in jail hanging over his head. I liked him. I believed him. And yet a thread of doubt still dangled there. Maybe this was all an act. A convincer, for me. The kid had a talent. Of that there was no doubt. Did he have enough acting talent to fool me?
“I promise I’ll do my best,” I said.
He placed his left hand on the top of my wrist and gripped my hand tightly with his right.
“Thank you. That’s all I can ask for,” he said.
“Thanks, Bobby. That’ll be enough for tonight. I’ll see you at court in the morning for jury selection. Car will be outside your hotel at eight fifteen. Go get some sleep,” said Rudy.
And with that, Bobby waved at us, and left the office. He was immediately enveloped in a cocoon of bodyguards – they were taking no chances. They marched him out of the office in a phalanx of long, cashmere overcoats.
I turned to Rudy. We took our seats.
“So how long had you known Bobby and Ariella were arguing about their reality show?” I asked.
“Since day one,” said Rudy. “I figured the client would open up sometime. Seems you have quite the effect on Bobby. He opened up to you straight away.”
I nodded, said, “It was good of you to act the part. Let him feel like he’d gotten something off his chest. That’ll boost his confidence.”
Rudy’s face darkened, he gazed at the desk, clasped his fingers together. After a moment, he raised his head, took the laptop from the desk and handed it to me.
“The evidence against Bobby is overwhelming. There’s a chance. A slim chance. And I’ll do whatever is necessary to make those odds more favorable. Look at the evidence tonight. You’ll see what we’re up against.”
I took the laptop from him, opened it up.
“It would take something extraordinary to kill two people in cold blood. Especially your wife and a man you knew well. It’s rare for someone with no history of violence to go off the deep end like that. Any history of psychological problems with Bobby? If there’s nothing violent in his medical history it might be worthwhile showing those records to the prosecution,” I said.
“We’re not using his records,” said Rudy, flatly. He pushed a button on the telephone and said, “I need secure transport.”
I detected something in Rudy’s voice. Either he didn’t welcome my views on that part of the case, or he was hiding something. Whatever it was, I guessed it wasn’t too important or the prosecution would’ve found it and used it. I let it go, for now.
The home screen on the laptop asked for a password. Rudy wrote something on a Post-it note, handed it to me.
“This is the password. We’re going to make sure you return to your office safely with this. So I’m going to ask a member of our security team to accompany you, if you don’t mind.”
I thought of the freezing temperature outside and the walk back to my office.
> “Does the security guy come with a car?” I said.
“Sure does.”
I looked at the note. The password read, “NotGuilty1”
Closing the lid of the computer, I stood up, shook hands with Rudy.
“I’m glad you’re officially on board,” he said.
“I said I’d look at the case files before I decided,” I said.
Rudy shook his head, “No. You told Bobby you’d help him. You promised to do your best. You’re in. You believe him, don’t you?”
There didn’t seem much point in hiding it. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
But I’ve been wrong before, I thought.
“You’re just like me. You can tell when you’ve got an innocent client on your hands. You just feel it. Never met anyone else who could do that. Until tonight,” said Rudy.
“I’m not Bobby Solomon, Rudy. You don’t need to kiss my ass. I know you brought him in here because you wanted me to meet him. You wanted me to look him in the eye. Test him. Make that call. You knew I would believe him. You played me. And while I don’t think he’s a murderer, I can’t be sure he’s not playing us both.”
He held up his hands, “Guilty as charged. Doesn’t change the fact that we have the nightmare scenario, here: an innocent man. Yeah, he can act. But you can’t act your way out of a double murder.”
The office doors opened. The man who entered the room needed both doors ajar and still he had to shuffle in sideways. He looked around my height. Bald. Broad as the frickin’ conference table. Black pants and black jacket buttoned to the neck. He crossed his arms in front, clasped his hands together. I figured he was older than me by five or six years, and he’d been a fighter. His knuckles stood out like gumballs.
“This is Holten. He’ll be making sure the laptop, and you, are safe,” said Rudy. He bent low, retrieved an aluminum briefcase from below the desk and placed it on top. Holten approached, we exchanged a polite greeting and he went straight to the case. He opened the catches, flipped up the lid and placed the laptop inside a molded recess. I watched Holten close the case, lock it, and take a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket. He secured his wrist to the handle of the briefcase, picked it up and said, “Let’s go.”
Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury Page 5