Marcus and I get out and walk into the bar. It’s the kind of place that has only “regular” customers, and is not welcoming to others. I would doubt that Fordham University students out on a date are popping in here for a drink. Marcus and I being far from “regular,” all eyes turn to us as we walk in.
It’s nine o’clock at night, and there are maybe ten people in the place. Behind the bar to the left is a door, and I am guessing that Costa is behind that door. That’s because three scary-looking guys are in front of it. Mazzi was taken by surprise the night he was killed; Costa is not planning to let the same thing happen to him.
Marcus and I walk up to the three men. I am petrified; Marcus not so much. “I’d like to talk to Tony Costa.”
“Who the hell are you?”
It’s not the most welcoming of responses, but I overlook it. “Andy Carpenter. Tell Tony I’m here.”
“Tony don’t see no little pricks. Get lost.”
I’ve got a feeling he was referring to me, rather than Marcus. I’m tempted to follow his advice and get lost, but I figure I’ll take one more shot at it. “No.”
The guy moves toward me but never quite gets there. Marcus leans forward and meets him with a right uppercut that just about lifts him off the ground. Gravity wins, however, and he winds up on his back, first hitting his head on the door.
I’m expecting the other two guys to jump into the fray, and then I see that Marcus has brandished a gun in his left hand, causing them to freeze. It’s amazing that his right and left hands can work in tandem like that; Marcus would make a great juggler. Of course, if his only skill was juggling, I would be the one lying on the floor.
He indicates with a head nod that I should go into the office. I nudge the fallen guy slightly with my foot so that I can open the door, and I go in, leaving Marcus to watch the three guys, two of whom are conscious.
It’s a shaky plan, because for all I know Costa has three other guys with bazookas with him. Mercifully, he doesn’t; he’s alone, at a desk. He seems to have just stood up, probably because he heard the sound of his guy hitting the ground. There’s a look of some alarm on his face, and he actually seems relieved to see me. That’s because he no doubt views me as harmless.
“How the hell did you get in here?” he asks. “I told them nobody gets through.”
“Sometimes an irresistible force meets a movable object,” I say. “I need to talk to you.”
“Again?”
“You told me to come back when I had something real. Something to get Petrone.”
“Why would I want to get Petrone?” he asks.
“Because he’s killed your boss and taken over your operation. Because you’re sitting in a room under guard, scared about who might walk through that door. Because you were once a big shot, and now you’re nobody.”
“I should put a bullet through your head.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t,” I say. “I’d prefer you help me finish off Petrone.”
He thinks about this for a few moments, and then says, “Talk to me.”
So I do. I tell him about Starlight, and how Petrone had gotten Gerry Wright to sign on with him to create a new business model for criminal activity. “He’s taking over from the Angelo Mazzis of the world. Mazzi must have resisted, and you know how that wound up. You are obviously also resisting, which is why you’re holed up in this room, with three goons out there protecting you. But believe me, if I could get in, Petrone can get in.”
“How much of this can you prove?”
“I can prove all of it, but I can’t tie it into Petrone. That’s why I need you.”
“To do what?”
“Tell what you know. Under oath, to a jury.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“What’s wrong with it? You don’t want to squeal on Petrone? You think that violates some ethic you’re clinging to? The guy has moved in on you, and will move further. You take him down, or he will eventually take you down.”
“I’d rather that than go to prison.”
“I can get you immunity,” I say, and I can see he’s interested.
“How?”
“I have connections to the FBI, and they want Petrone as much as you do.”
“I can’t get you to Petrone,” he says. “The meeting we had was with Joseph Russo.”
“That’s close enough.”
The next two minutes are excruciating. Costa literally walks all around the room, not saying a word, for the entire time. Then, “You get me the immunity, and I’m in.”
“Then you’re in,” I say. “I’ll get back to you with the details. But give me your phone number. I’d rather not have to get by your bouncers again.”
“How did you do that?”
“Come see for yourself.”
We open the door, and see that the two conscious goons are sitting back to back on the legs of the unconscious one, though he seems to be coming to. Marcus just stands there watching them, as is pretty much everyone else in the bar.
“Jesus Christ,” Costa says.
“No. Marcus.”
I call Cindy and tell her the great news. She’s not quite as euphoric as I am. “We want Petrone, not Joseph Russo.”
“Let’s look at the big picture here, shall we? He’s Petrone’s number two; you nail him and he’ll flip as well. If not, he’s a nice catch, considering you’re giving up nothing.”
“We’re giving up immunity.”
“Big deal. Costa is nothing; he wasn’t even on your radar. You’re promising not to prosecute someone you had no intention of prosecuting.” Cindy is getting on my nerves; I’m handing her a major victory, and she’s acting put upon.
“I’ll talk to my people, but the best I’ll be able to get is use.”
She is talking about use immunity, which is not full. It simply promises that nothing Costa says in his testimony will be used to prosecute him. That’s not to say he can’t be prosecuted if independent evidence is developed, it just means his testimony can’t be used against him.
I would think that should be sufficient, but I don’t tell Cindy that. “I’ll try to sell it” is what I say.
“You’d better sell hard, because that’s all I can get. If I can get that.”
“Well, you better get it quick, because it’s almost time to present the defense case.”
As I’m getting off the phone, Laurie comes into the house. “Where have you been?” I ask.
“Renewing old friendships.”
“Boyfriends?” I ask, instantly moving into pathetic mode.
“No. Coworkers,” she says, obviously meaning her former colleagues on the force. “I’ve been asking about blackmail situations that have come up in the last few months, and there are two that fit. Neither was aware of who was blackmailing them, but they paid for a while, and then shut off the tap.”
“What happened?”
“The things that they were being blackmailed for were broadcast online. One was stealing money from a company, and the other was having an affair.”
“How did they pay?” I ask.
“They wired money. When the cops tried to trace where it went, they wound up in a cybermaze and got nowhere.”
“Sounds like our guys.”
“There’s one other thing. A guy named Lenny Butler was murdered last month; it seemed like a mob hit. He was apparently distributing drugs.”
“So?”
“So the drug guys can’t figure out where he was getting the goods,” she says. “They think he was selling for more than he paid, and turning a profit. But he did not seem to have connections to get the stuff in the first place.”
All of these stories seem to fit our scenario, and I would think that at least some certainly do.
“But we still can’t tie it to Petrone,” she says.
“Maybe we can,” I say, and tell her about the situation with Tony Costa and Cindy. “She’ll get it done,” Laurie says.
“The tough part will be get
ting Hatchet to buy it.”
Pete Stanton is going to be Trell’s wrap-up witness. It makes sense, because he’s in a position to testify to all aspects of the case. And Trell knows that Pete is an excellent witness: authoritative, believable, and hard to rattle.
Trell takes him through his credentials first, documenting Pete’s impressive and swift rise from street patrolman to captain. Pete has also won a substantial number of commendations and positive citations, and Trell does not leave a single accolade unmentioned.
Finally, I object. “Your Honor, unless we’re going to hear that Captain Stanton has also won a Golden Globe and Grammy, can we wrap this up? Despite his performance in this case, the defense is perfectly willing to stipulate that he is ordinarily a fine police officer.”
Hatchet overrules my objection, but does tell Trell to move it along, and the Stanton Hit Parade ends shortly thereafter.
“What was your first involvement with this case?” Trell finally asks.
“A 911 call was received about a probable homicide. I got the assignment, and immediately went to the scene.”
“What happened when you got there?”
“Patrol officers had gotten there before me. Once I arrived, I was approached by Ms. Sarah Maurer, who had made the 911 call. She confirmed that she had looked in the open door and seen what looked like a large amount of blood. I entered the house and found the bodies of Gerald Wright and Denise Atkins. I called in forensics and the coroner, as well as backup units. The house was searched for any perpetrators who might still be on the scene, but none were found.”
“Did Ms. Maurer tell you anything else?”
“Later, when I interviewed her, she told me that she saw Brian Atkins leaving the scene, and that he told her to call the police. She said that she was positive about the identification, since she knew Mr. Atkins quite well. I called in this information, and learned that Mr. Atkins had escaped from prison earlier that day.”
“What did you do then?”
“I called Mr. Carpenter and asked him to come to the scene, since I knew that he was Mr. Atkins’s attorney. I recommended strongly to him that if he were in contact with Mr. Atkins, he should tell him to turn himself in.”
“What did Mr. Carpenter say in response?”
“I don’t remember the exact words, but it was clear that he wasn’t interested in taking legal advice from me.”
“What happened then?”
“A full-blown alert was put out. The next morning, I decided to follow Mr. Carpenter, as he and Mr. Willie Miller set off in Mr. Miller’s car. I had two black and whites follow behind me at a distance.”
“Where did you follow them to?”
“A rest area on the Garden State Parkway. When we arrived, Mr. Atkins was walking the dog he had escaped with.”
“How did you know that Mr. Carpenter knew Mr. Atkins’s location?”
“I was hopeful but had no knowledge. It turned out that he actually didn’t know his whereabouts; they were following a GPS signal on the dog’s collar.”
“Did Mr. Atkins resist arrest?”
“No, he did not.”
Trell thanks Pete and turns him over to me. If Pete is worried about a potential attack, he’s hiding it well. “Captain Stanton, in addition to Mr. Atkins, who else did you consider a suspect during any point in your investigation?”
“Mr. Atkins was the only suspect,” he says.
“So you heard about him from Ms. Maurer at around 6:00 P.M., and at around 9:30 A.M. the next morning you arrested him. Did you sleep that night?”
He nods. “I did.”
“How long?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Maybe seven hours.”
“So if we deduct time for dinner and breakfast, as well as the hour and a half following me, your active investigation prior to arresting Mr. Atkins was about five hours or so, during all of which you were focused on him?”
Pete smiles, as if tolerating this silliness. “I’ll go with your math.”
“Did your investigation after the arrest include looking for any possible additional suspects?” I ask.
“There was no need for that.”
“Because an eyewitness placed Mr. Atkins at the scene?”
“That was a main reason,” he says.
“Ms. Maurer was also at the scene. Why wasn’t she a suspect?”
“She hadn’t escaped from prison.”
“So it was the escape that preempted your investigation? Did you ever consider that he might have escaped to prevent the murders?”
“I did not.”
“Obviously,” I say. Trell objects and Hatchet sustains. “You said when you arrived on the scene, there was a great deal of blood.”
“Yes.”
“Were there bloody footprints leading from the bodies?”
He nods. “There were some, yes.”
“Were the forensics people able to measure the size of the shoes that made those prints?”
“It was very difficult because they were smeared. The estimate was ten and a half.”
“Do you know the size the defendant wears?” I ask.
“Nine and a half.”
“But that information didn’t cause you to question your lack of investigation?”
“No. As I said, forensics had little confidence in the measurement,” he says.
“Are you familiar with the earlier testimony that based on the wounds, there would definitely have been blood spurting onto the perpetrators and around the scene?”
“I did not hear that testimony, but I believe that it’s likely, though not certain,” he says.
“Yet Ms. Maurer did not see blood on Mr. Atkins’s clothing, did she?”
“She did not report seeing any, no.”
“Seeing blood all over someone is the kind of thing that makes an impression, doesn’t it? It’s sort of memorable, right?”
Trell objects, and Hatchet sustains and tells Pete not to answer.
I continue. “When you took Mr. Atkins into custody, did you find blood on his clothing?”
“No.”
“In his car?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Not even a trace?” I ask, feigning surprise.
“No.”
“What about the motel room where he had spent the night? Any blood there?”
“No.”
“Captain Stanton, if you had investigated for an additional ten minutes or so, would you have wondered why there was no blood?”
“He could have changed his clothes and discarded the blood-stained ones.”
“Well, the prison officials didn’t see him carrying a suitcase with him, so do you think he walked into a store, wearing blood-soaked clothing, and bought a new outfit?”
“I don’t know what he did. It was a well-planned escape; he could certainly have arranged for a change of clothes.”
“Have any local stores reported that he was a customer?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Did you canvass local businesses to ask if he’d bought clothes or supplies?”
“No.”
“Did you find the murder weapon in Mr. Atkins’s possessions?”
“No.”
“Any local store come forward to say that they sold him a knife?”
“No.”
“So, if I can recap, the only evidence of any kind that you found is the eyewitness testimony of Ms. Maurer?”
“We have him present at the scene, and we have him fleeing the scene.”
“Is fleeing the scene the same as leaving?”
“In this case it is.”
“Is it possible that he feared you would conduct an incomplete investigation and jump to the conclusion that he was guilty? Could he be smart enough to know exactly what would actually happen?”
Another objection, which is sustained, so Pete doesn’t have to answer.
“Last question, Captain. When you and the other police cars arrived on the scene at the
Garden State Parkway rest stop, did anything happen with the dog that Mr. Atkins was walking?”
“Yes, it ran in front of the cars as they were pulling up.”
“What did Mr. Atkins do?”
“He ran toward it and pulled it away before it could be hit.”
“Risking his own safety in the process?”
“Definitely,” Pete says, earning him points in my mind, and hopefully earning Brian points in the minds of any dog lovers on the jury.
“Thank you, Captain. No further questions.”
It’s going to be a long weekend. Just the act of readying the defense case is pressure enough; I need to be completely prepared to elicit exactly what I want from every witness. But this situation is infinitely more difficult, because I have to focus on getting Hatchet to let us present the case we want in the first place.
There is no doubt that Westman’s computer, as well as Bowie’s, constitutes a strong case of criminality. That is an easy argument to make; the problem is trying to make it to this jury. Because Hatchet’s question, posed in judge-speak, is going to be, “What the hell does that have to do with these murders?”
So I have to get by Hatchet and then deal with Trell. The latter presents another series of problems, but those are more traditional, and I face them every time. I have to anticipate the weaknesses he will see, and respond to them in my own head, before I can do so in front of the jury.
There is one thing that has bugged me right from the start. I don’t believe in coincidences; I never have. By that I mean I know they can happen, but chalking something up to coincidence is a last resort. Nothing can be classified as a simple coincidence until every other possible explanation is exhausted.
The coincidence in this case is Gerry Wright and Denise Atkins being murdered on the same day that Brian Atkins escaped. The timing worked perfectly to blame him for the crime, even though the killers could not have known he was going to escape, or when he was going to.
Or maybe they could.
I have no idea why I didn’t think of this earlier, but I don’t have time to beat myself up over it now. I’ve got to get out to the prison.
I get there in no time, because there is so little traffic on Saturdays. Brian is surprised to see me, since this is an unplanned visit. “Something wrong?” he asks. The question makes sense; the way the trial has gone so far there’s more reason to think a new development is negative than positive.
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