Outfoxed

by David Rosenfelt

“What about Ricky?” I ask.

  “He’s fine, Andy. He loves it here, and he loves Celia. Besides, she’s got two neighbors that have boys Ricky’s age. They get along great; he won’t even notice I’m gone.”

  Laurie’s plane is ten minutes early, and I’m at baggage claim when she arrives. I’ve known that I love her for a very long time, but I’m still struck by how I feel when I first see her. It’s a feeling I hope I never outgrow.

  I wait until we get in the car to bring her up to date on the case. When I get to Daniel Bowie, I say, “It can’t be a coincidence that he was killed right after he spoke to me. I’m the reason he’s dead.”

  “Don’t go there, Andy. You didn’t kill him.”

  “Here’s what you can add to the list of things I don’t understand. When Marcus roughed up the guy who was collecting betting losses—”

  She interrupts. “Nicholas Winters.”

  “Right. We threatened him that if he told anyone about it, we would put out the word that he ratted out Petrone and Russo. He said he wouldn’t.”

  “He was under some duress at the time, right? Like Marcus’s kind of duress? Maybe he just said it to get you out of there.”

  I nod. “Very possible; let’s assume he did. But how would they have traced it back to Bowie? We never mentioned Bowie, and Bowie was one of probably twenty stops Winters made that night. How could they have known that Bowie was the one we talked to?”

  “Maybe he was under some kind of surveillance.”

  “But why would that be?” I ask. “The only way we came to Bowie was because Jimmy Rollins lost him as a client. It was random; there’s no way Petrone’s people could have known that. And betting sites need a lot of customers to make it worth their while to operate; they couldn’t be watching all of them.”

  “Maybe your phones at the office are tapped, or maybe ours at home. We need to have it checked.”

  She immediately makes a phone call to a former friend on the police force who has helped us out before. He promises to immediately check out both sets of phones and report back if there is any problem.

  As we’re nearing home, Richard Wallace calls me to say that he has convinced Linda Westman, widow of suicide victim Joseph Westman, to talk to me. At this point it has the most tenuous connection to our case; Joseph Westman happened to speak with Gerry Wright a few times the week of the murders.

  Richard says that I can head over there now, but to understand that Mrs. Westman is still devastated, and not particularly talkative.

  When I hang up, I ask Laurie, “You want to go with me to comfort a grieving widow?”

  She sighs, probably for effect. “It’s good to be home.”

  It can be argued that Central Park West has it all. Stretching north for fifty-one blocks from Fifty-ninth Street, it is all residential, so those living there do not have to put up with the swarm of shoppers that other New Yorkers do.

  But CPW is only one block from Columbus Avenue, two blocks from Amsterdam Avenue, and three blocks from Broadway, which means that shopping is convenient, and the excitement of the city is within an easy walk. You can live in an expensive, exclusive neighborhood, and still go downstairs at midnight and get a piece of pizza. Try that in Scarsdale.

  If you throw in the fact that directly across the street is the grandeur and beauty of Central Park, an oasis of green in the cement city, CPW is, for many, hard to beat.

  Of course, it wasn’t quite enough for Joseph Westman. Though he lived in the Dakota, perhaps the most prestigious building in all of New York, on Seventy-second and Central Park West, he still came to the conclusion that he was better off smashing his car at high speed into a tree.

  The Dakota has been home to countless celebrities, but its greatest and most dubious claim to fame is that it is where John Lennon lived and died, having been shot downstairs when returning home.

  The Westman suicide is far less embarrassing for the building and its residents. Of course, if he had taken a nosedive from his eighth-floor apartment, that would have created more of a stir for the Dakota than driving into an upstate New York tree.

  Laurie and I park in a ridiculously expensive lot on Columbus and walk to the Dakota. The doorman wears white gloves, which I guess is designed to make things classier. The amazing thing is that he keeps them white, even though I’m sure he helps with luggage and opening cab or limousine doors. He must have an extra glove supply stashed away that allows him to keep changing them.

  Linda Westman has left instructions that it’s okay to send us up, and as we head for the elevator, he calls to tell her we’re on the way. When we get up to her eighth-floor apartment, she greets us cordially, but without enthusiasm. This is a woman who has had the energy sucked out of her by tragedy; one look at her tells us that she is grieving and in pain.

  Laurie tells her how sorry we are for her loss, and Mrs. Westman’s reply is, “I’m sorry it took so long to see you; things have not been easy. But Mr. Wallace said that it was important.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “It may well be important; that will really depend on what we learn from you.”

  “I’ll help in any way I can.”

  There’s no easy way to say this, so I just go ahead and tell the truth. “The newspaper said that your husband was afraid he would go to prison because of his involvement in child pornography.”

  She nods. “Yes. My understanding is that he never participated in the creation of it, nor did he ever abuse any children.” She takes a deep breath; this is obviously extraordinarily hard for her to talk about. “But he was a consumer of that trash; there can be no doubt about that.”

  “Do you know how long that went on?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t. I know this may be hard to believe, but I only became aware of it the day before Joseph’s death. And even then I did not understand the extent of it.” She starts to dab at her eyes with a tissue.

  “I’m sorry,” Laurie says. “I can only imagine how hard this must be.”

  “With all respect, I suspect it’s beyond what you can imagine.”

  “Does the name Gerry Wright mean anything to you?” I ask.

  “It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “Your husband never mentioned him?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “Do you know what made your husband think he was a target of the police, or that they even knew about what he was doing?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t. I only know that he sat me down and said that he had something to tell me, something horrible. And he told me, and he cried, and said he couldn’t help himself. And that he had kept the secret for so long, from me and everyone else, and that it was not a secret any longer. He said that he believed he would go to jail for what he had done.”

  “That’s all he said about it?”

  She nods. “Yes. He was growing increasingly irrational those last few weeks. I should have seen it, but maybe I refused to. He was a troubled man, but he retained a talent for hiding those troubles until the end. And I obviously retained my talent for denial.”

  She pauses to do a bit more reflecting and eye dabbing. “Anyway, the day after he told me, he went off to work, and I never saw him again. The police confirmed that the trash was on his computer, but thankfully I never actually saw any of it.”

  We ask her some more questions, but she really has nothing more to offer. This is a woman whose entire world has just been shattered, but there is also a strength that comes through loud and clear. She’ll get through this, but it won’t be easy.

  And if any of this is related to our case, I don’t see how.

  As we’re getting ready to leave, she asks what it is we are trying to connect to her husband’s death.

  “He spoke to Gerry Wright a few times in the weeks before he died. Gerry Wright was himself murdered; perhaps you read about it.”

  She shakes her head to indicate that she had not. “Good luck,” she says. “I hope I was helpful.”r />
  “You were very helpful,” I lie.

  “I ask that you do one thing … follow the facts, not the words.” That is now Norman Trell begins his opening statement to the jury. We’ve empaneled twelve people who wanted to be here enough that they didn’t lie during voir dire to get out of it. There are seven men and five women, eight whites, three African-Americans, and one Hispanic. I agreed that each of them could be on the panel, and yet I don’t have a clue what they might be thinking going in.

  “The facts are going to be easy. As Judge Henderson has already told you, one of those facts has been agreed to by both the prosecution and defense. It is an undisputed fact that Brian Atkins broke out of jail three hours before Gerald Wright and Denise Atkins were brutally murdered. You don’t have to conclude that, it has been stipulated to, so it is a given.

  “There are other facts that we will bring forward that the defense will, of course, differ with. Those are the areas in which you will be called upon to exercise your reason and judgment. When you do so, please differentiate between hard evidence and mere words and theories.

  “We will demonstrate, through clear and convincing evidence, that once Brian Atkins engineered his escape, he stole a car. Then he drove to the house of his former partner, Gerald Wright, where he found Mr. Wright and his own wife.

  “Shortly after that, an eyewitness saw him leaving the house, rushing to his car, and fleeing the scene. That same eyewitness then entered the house and discovered the carnage.

  “So this is not a whodunit, and it is not even a why-dunit. Brian Atkins was enraged, both at the partner who helped put him behind bars, and the wife who jilted him. But in this county, in this state, in this country, you don’t get to kill people you happen to be mad at.

  “So those are the facts you will hear, supported by the evidence. But you will also hear words, supported by theories. You will hear from the defense that a sinister, criminal element is behind all of this.

  “Straw men will be created, to fool you into not seeing this for what it is: a convict bent on revenge, taking matters into his own hands, committing a horrible act.

  “Words and facts. Facts and words. Please keep in mind, as I know you will, that there is a difference.”

  Hatchet asks me if I want to give my opening statement now, or wait until it’s time to present the defense’s case. As I always do, I opt not to wait.

  I never write out my statements in advance; I find it’s better when I simply know what points I want to make, without restricting myself to a set speech. That allows me to react spontaneously to what else has been said in the courtroom, which is what I do now.

  “Mr. Trell is right that we agree on the fact that Brian Atkins escaped from prison. But he is wrong when he says that is the only thing we agree on. We also agree that facts matter more than words.

  “But as it relates to why you are here, the murders of Denise Atkins and Gerald Wright, words are all he is going to give you. There is no eyewitness testimony to the killings. There is, in fact, no forensics evidence that Brian Atkins is guilty of this horrendous crime. Yes, let me repeat that, you will not see a single shred of forensics evidence pointing to Mr. Atkins’s guilt.

  “So you will be presented with facts and words, and you will have to determine which is which. That’s your job; it’s why you’re here. But there is something you have, which everyone has brought with you today, that will help you make your decision.

  “It is logic. No one asked you to check your logic at the door when you entered this courtroom. Your ability to reason is what makes you human, and it is what makes humans good jurors.

  “Brian Atkins did not kill those two people. That is what I am telling you today, right now, standing here. When this trial has concluded, you may agree with me, or not, but I submit that you will at least have a reasonable doubt as to his guilt.

  “So listen to the words, look at the facts, and use your logical minds to decide what weight to give all of it. That’s all I ask. Thank you.”

  Brian smiles when I head back to the defense table. “Thank you,” he says, and shakes my hand when I get there. He’s feeling good, because someone has finally risen to his defense and said something supportive.

  I’m glad he feels that way, but he’d better hang on to it, because it’s going to be a while before he feels that way again. It’s going to be downhill from here.

  Hatchet turns to Trell and says the chilling words that are going to start our descent. “Call your first witness.”

  For the first time in as long as he could remember, Joseph Russo was worried. He had been in dangerous situations before; his work life was defined by dangerous situations. But somehow they always felt within his control, as though through guts or toughness or smarts he could survive and triumph. This time was different.

  He wasn’t panicked, not even close. He always survived and advanced, and he would again; this time was no different. But this time he couldn’t yet see the path that it would take, and for the first time, he didn’t have full confidence in the person choosing that path.

  Russo had always had complete faith in Dominic Petrone. He never questioned his confidence in Petrone, never had come close to doing so, and it had ultimately served him well. Petrone was smart, brilliant in fact, and Russo had always been in awe of that. He felt Petrone combined smarts and toughness in such a way that he could have, and should have, been president of the United States, had he chosen a very different career path.

  Actually, were Russo to think about that some more, he would have realized that Petrone could not have put up with the bullshit that went with the presidency. Too much trying to get other people to go along, too much compromise. That was not Petrone’s way.

  But Petrone’s way was changing. He had always been content to dominate within his sphere of influence, and let others do the same within theirs. But he had been presented with this opportunity and had grabbed it.

  Part of his explanation and reasoning was that if he hadn’t done so, someone else would have. It would have put Petrone in the same position that he is now putting others. But Russo didn’t buy that, not for a second, and it made him uncomfortable to have these feelings of borderline disloyalty.

  Worse yet, Russo had been made the front man for the operation. He knew that it was because he was the person Petrone most trusted and had confidence in, and in a way he relished the power and prominence it gave him.

  But with the prominence came vulnerability; Petrone was making some serious enemies and Russo would be in their crosshairs. That’s the way it had always been; the stakes were just much higher now.

  Recently added to the equation was Andy Carpenter. Russo felt he should be ignored; he was a smart guy, but he’d never figure out what was going on. Sending the two guys to scare him off at the Giants game had been a mistake, and now it was a public one.

  But now Petrone was telling Russo to compound that mistake. He didn’t want Carpenter threatened, he wanted him dead. And Russo thought that was a terrible idea.

  It led to Russo paying a visit to Willie Miller. Russo didn’t have many soft spots, but he had one for Willie. Of course, Willie had earned it by beating the shit out of three guys out to kill Russo in prison. Willie was a stand-up guy, and Russo owed him big-time. That would never change.

  Russo and two of his guys showed up at the Tara Foundation building in Haledon. They walked in and found Willie on the floor in the main play area, wrestling with six dogs and having them fetch balls and toys.

  When he saw Russo, he lit up. “Joey, how’s it going?”

  “You still doing this?” Russo asked. “What the hell is it with you and dogs?”

  “They’re the best,” Willie said. “When they’re your friend, it’s for life.”

  The dogs were barking loudly, and Russo said he wanted to talk to Willie alone, where they could hear. So Willie took him back to the office where potential adopters filled out their applications.

  When they got back there,
Russo said, “Willie, I’m telling you this because you’re a good guy. Your boss is causing trouble.”

  “My boss?”

  “Carpenter.”

  “Oh, he’s not my boss. We’re partners.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s causing trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “He’ll know what I’m talking about when you tell him to lay off.”

  “He wouldn’t listen even if I told him, which I won’t.”

  “Don’t get on the wrong side of this, Willie.”

  “I know Andy pretty well, and I’ve never seen him on the wrong side.”

  Russo looked at him, sizing him up, although he already knew what he was going to find. Willie Miller, unlike just about everybody else that Russo dealt with, was simply not afraid of him.

  “Take care, my man,” Russo said.

  “You too, Joey.”

  Russo left the office and went into the main area, only to find his two men having assumed the Willie Miller role of playing with the dogs and throwing tennis balls.

  “You got to be kidding,” Russo said.

  Trell starts off by making a tactical mistake. At least that’s my opinion. He calls Donnie Thigpen to the stand, an unusual choice at best. Thigpen currently resides in the state penitentiary, and will be spending at least the next ten years there for aggravated assault.

  Most prosecutors will first call witnesses whose testimony, if not crucial, is ironclad and immune to serious challenge on cross-examination. You want to give the feeling that you are confident in your case and that you have your act together.

  Prison squealers are notoriously unreliable and unlikely to be trusted by juries. Just as Trell thinks the jury will look down on Brian for having been in prison, they will likely look down on Thigpen for the same reason. But Trell clearly wants to go with motive first, and that’s why he made this call.

  “Mr. Thigpen, where are you currently living?” Trell wants to be open and upfront about this, though he really has no choice.