Bury the Lead (11 page)

• • • • •

N
O MATTER WHO
killed Linda Padilla, one of the many secondary effects of the crime was to take away Michael Spinelli’s meal ticket. It’s a safe bet that Spinelli, as Padilla’s campaign manager, was planning to follow her to the governor’s mansion and beyond. Her death means it’s time for him to come up with a new plan.

Vince has set up my meeting with Spinelli at Padilla campaign headquarters. I’m sure a couple of weeks ago this place was bustling with activity, but as I enter no one asks me or cares who I am. It has become an organization without a reason for being, and dejection surrounds the place like faded wallpaper. The few remaining staffers are quietly packing their things, and I ask one of them where Spinelli might be. He points to an office and returns to what he is doing.

I enter Spinelli’s office and introduce myself, which prompts an immediate and unsolicited soliloquy. “I damn well shouldn’t be talking to you,” he says. “I mean, I know everybody’s entitled to a defense, but nobody forced you to represent the son of a bitch. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t talk to you. But you know what a pain in the ass Vince can be.”

“That’s something we can agree on.”

“So what do you want?”

“I want to know about Linda Padilla.”

“You mean, like, what did she eat for breakfast? Or how fast she could run a mile? You think you could be a little more specific? Because I don’t feel like chatting about this forever.”

“Okay,” I say, “here’s how it works. At the end of the day I want to find out who killed Linda Padilla. So I ask questions about her. I can’t only ask what’s important, because I won’t know what’s important until after I’ve asked a hell of a lot more questions. Of course, if you know who killed her, and why, you can blurt it out and save us both a lot of time.”

“The police think your client killed her,” he says.

I nod. “Yes, they do. I’m working on a different theory. My theory is that he’s innocent.”

He sighs and sits at his desk. “So where should I start?”

“With your relationship to her,” I say.

“I’m a political consultant; I find politicians and try to move them up the ladder. I teach them what to say, how to say it, and who to say it to. But they need to have something special going in, something that’s there before I get to them, or they can only go so far. Linda had it, and there was no ceiling for her. None at all.”

“Why did she want to go up that ladder? What was in it for her?” I ask.

“The real reason, or the one she would give if your client hadn’t killed her and you could ask her yourself?”

The question isn’t worthy of a reply, so I don’t give him one.

“She would tell you she wanted to help the people on the bottom,” he continues. “So that everybody could have a shot at the American dream like she did. She would even have believed it while she was saying it.”

“So what was it really? The power? The celebrity?”

“Duhhh . . .” is his mocking reply, letting me know that of course it was the power and celebrity, that it’s always the power and celebrity.

“Was she wealthy?” I ask.

He nods. “Loaded. Linda had the first nickel she ever made, and the last couple of years she was making a shitload of nickels.”

I continue asking questions, but he answers mostly in generalities, not providing much insight into who Linda Padilla was. There’s a good chance he has no idea, that she never let him get close.

I finally ask about the rumored connections to Dominic Petrone and organized crime, and he’s careful and measured in his response. “I never saw them together. Nothing was ever said in front of me.”

“But you have reason to believe she knew him?” I ask.

“I don’t have reason to do anything.”

Finally, probably to get me out of there, he suggests I talk to Padilla’s boyfriend, one Alan Corbin. Corbin is a high-powered businessman and had only recently been seen with Padilla in public. According to Spinelli, they were considerably closer than they let on to the press.

“Just don’t tell him that I sent you to him,” he says.

“Why not?” I ask. The fact is, Corbin was next on my list to talk to anyway, so Spinelli’s naming him is not in any sense a big deal.

“He’s not a guy I want pissed at me.”

My next stop is Sam Willis’s office, to ask him to use his computer expertise to help us on the case. It’s a move I make reluctantly because of the death of his assistant. But we need someone, and Sam has often expressed a desire to contribute, so I convince myself it’s okay.

I spend about ten minutes repeatedly and obnoxiously telling him to be careful, that if he senses anything unusual or dangerous, he is to stop and call me. There’s no reason to think he’s in any danger, but I want to make totally sure he’s safe. He promises he’ll call, more as a way to shut me up than anything else.

“I want you to find out as much information as you can about these people,” I say, referring to the victims. I give him the documentation we’ve accumulated from the police reports and other sources. “I especially want you to look for any connection at all between them. If they ate at the same restaurant, sat in the same section at Mets games, whatever, I want to know about it.”

He glances through the documents. “Not much here,” he says. “Is there a last name on this one?”

He’s talking about Rosalie, whom we and the police know almost nothing about. “She was a street hooker. I’ll get her roommate to try and come up with any information she can, but there won’t be much. Hold her off for last.”

He nods. “Okay. This could take a while.”

Sam’s ability to hack into computers and come up with information is legendary. It also was once criminal, and I represented him when charges were brought against him for hacking into a large corporation’s computer system. He had done it in retaliation for the corporation’s mistreatment of one of his clients. I got him acquitted on a technicality and in the process developed a healthy respect for his unique talents.

“If you can’t come up with anything, don’t worry about it,” I say, knowing he will take it as a challenge.

He motions me closer. “Listen, do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell?”

He’s doing the Beatles, but I pretend not to notice. “I promise,” I say, though he knows I noticed.

“If it’s in the computer, and it always is, I can find out anything about anyone.”

It’s a process that truly amazes me. “How does it all get in there?”

He shrugs. “Companies that people deal with share the information with other companies—that’s part of it. But you wouldn’t believe how many people sit in their rooms and type their life into their computers.” He shakes his head sadly. “All the lonely people . . . where do they all come from?”

My mind, already cluttered, races to find a Beatles reference that I can counter with. Alas, I cannot, so I decide to leave and let Sam get started. “Call me if you come up with anything good. Okay?”

Sam nods. “Okay. And take it easy, Andy. You look tired. Something wrong? Did you have a hard day’s night? Been working like a dog?”

Got it. “I don’t know,” I say, “it must be this case, but suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be. There’s a shadow hanging over me.”

He nods. “Let it be. I’m speaking words of wisdom. Let it be.”

• • • • •

A
LAN CORBIN DOESN
’
T
want to talk to me. I suspect this because I’ve been trying to reach him for a week with no luck. And that suspicion was strengthened somewhat yesterday when he accidentally picked up my call and said, “I ain’t fucking talking to you, you little roach.”

Vince knows Corbin, of course, since Corbin is an inhabitant of this planet, but even he has been unable to arrange a meeting. I’ve used Vince to get messages to him, and one of them was a threat to subpoena him for a deposition. It was an empty threat, since I’m not legally empowered to do so, and Corbin’s lawyer called me and told me to back off.

Since backing off is not my forte, I sent another message, again through courier Vince, in an attempt to be more persuasive. I warned that I was going to go on
Larry King
and tell the nation—actually the world, since CNN is seen everywhere—that Alan Corbin has very strong underworld connections and was in fact Linda Padilla’s link to Dominic Petrone.

Vince further conveyed to Alan, although he said Alan was by this time screaming so loud he might not have heard, that the only way I would cancel the
King
interview is if there was a scheduling conflict. For instance, if I were talking to Corbin instead.

After threats of lawsuits for slander and libel, and so much wrangling and negotiating that Vince likened it to the U.N. Security Council, Corbin agreed to see me in his office for fifteen minutes. That is why I am right now in his reception area, with his secretary glaring at me as if I were Andy bin Laden.

I’m finally let in to the great one’s office. It’s immediately evident that there is a difference between “high-powered businessman” and “tall-powered businessman.” Corbin can’t be more than five foot five; one of his reasons for dating the much taller Linda Padilla must have been to secure her help in reaching things on high shelves.

“Thanks for seeing me,” I say cheerfully.

He looks at his watch. “You’re on the clock, asshole. You’ve got fifteen minutes.” He’s referring to the agreed-upon length of our interview, and I’m somewhat put off by his attitude.

I look at my own watch. “You’re short,” I say.

“I told Vince fifteen minutes,” he insists.

“I wasn’t talking about the time, I was talking about your height,” I say. “You’re short. I would say . . . five two-ish? Asshole?” It’s a tough call whether or not I should be coming back at him like this, but there’s no chance I’ll get something out of him if he thinks I’m just going to accept his bullshit.

He seems ready to go back at me but then thinks better of it. We’re even with the insults, and he wants to get this over with.

“Ask your questions,” he says.

“Who might have had reason to kill Linda Padilla?” is my first softball.

“No one that I know. But then again, I never met your client.”

“She made a career out of blowing the whistle on people, every one of whom would have a grudge against her. What I want to know are the special ones, the ones who really hated her, who she might have been afraid of.”

“Linda wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody.”

“Tell me about her connections to Dominic Petrone.”

He laughs a mocking laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not asking you if they were connected. I already know that from five different sources. What I want to know is the extent of the relationship.”

He hesitates, unsure of what I know or how to respond.

“I will ask you these same questions on the stand if I have to,” I say.

“Don’t threaten me.”

“Look,” I say, softening my voice and acting conciliatory, “my only interest in this is proving my client is innocent. To do that, I just may have to find out who is guilty, or at least provide the jury with a reasonable alternative. I only care about Petrone if I think there’s a chance he had Padilla killed. If there’s nothing there, I don’t bring in Petrone and I don’t bring in you.”

He thinks for a moment; the idea of avoiding future involvement appeals to him. “She knew Petrone,” he says. “She met him at business dinners, political gatherings, that kind of thing.”

Those kinds of meetings are quite conceivable. Petrone has the appearance and manner of a sophisticated businessman, and he has relationships with important people from the legitimate side of the tracks.

Nevertheless, I’m skeptical. “You make them sound like casual acquaintances. I know it was much more than that.”

He nods. “He liked her, thought she was smart and had guts. He sort of took her under his wing. And she liked him, but she knew it would look bad for her politically. So she kept him at arm’s length.”

“Did that piss him off?”

He stares hard at me. “Dominic Petrone would never have done anything to hurt Linda Padilla. No way. No how.”

“Is that right?” I ask skeptically.

He nods. “That’s very right. He wouldn’t harm a hair on her head. But you? He’d break you like a twig and bury the pieces under Giants Stadium.”

Oh.

• • • • •

T
RIALS DO NOT
creep up on a lawyer. Birthdays and holidays creep up. The start of the baseball season creeps up. Trials steamroll; one minute it seems like you have plenty of time to prepare, and the next the bailiff is asking you to rise.

The bailiff will be asking us to rise in the case of
New Jersey v. Cummings
the day after tomorrow. We’re not ready, not even close. But it’s not the timing. Our real problem is, we haven’t made progress refuting the evidence, evidence that seems to increase daily.

Vince has asked me to meet him at Charlie’s tonight for a final pretrial discussion. It’s one I’m dreading, almost as much as I’m dreading the trial itself.

I’d feel better if Laurie were able to join us, but she’s with Sondra tonight. They’re out to dinner, a sort of celebration that Sondra has finally recovered from her injuries. Tomorrow I’m bringing her down to the foundation to meet Willie, who has been asking me every day for weeks when his devoted underling is arriving.

Vince has grown increasingly subdued and depressed over the last few weeks and appears the same when he arrives tonight. We order beers, and I wait for the questions that I know are coming.

He throws me a curve. “I want to announce that Daniel is my son,” he says. “I don’t want it to be a secret anymore.”

Vince has to this point not come forward with his relationship to Daniel. It would be a brave thing to do, since it would expose Vince to the same kind of public scorn and hatred as the rest of us in Daniel’s camp. It is also a piece of news that can only impact Vince’s career and reputation negatively.

“That’s your call, Vince.”

He nods. “But I want to make sure it doesn’t hurt his chances in any way.”

“In the trial? I don’t see why it would. It might even be a slight positive, maybe make him a little more human and worthy of support. But the impact on the trial wouldn’t be big enough either way for you to factor it in.”

“Then I’m going to do it,” he says.

His decision made, I change the subject. “Vince, how well did you know Daniel’s wife?”

“Margaret? I knew her . . . we weren’t close or anything. We went out to dinner a bunch of times.”

“When you visited, did you stay at their house?”

“Nah, I stayed at a hotel. It was easier that way.”

“Did you like her? How were they together?”

I expect a quick “Yes” and “Great,” but that’s not what I get. Vince takes a while to think about it, measuring his answer. “She was always nice to me,” he says, “and I never saw them arguing or anything . . .”

His answer invites a “but . . . ,” so that’s what I give him. “But . . .”

“There is a poem,” he says, “by Edwin Robinson. It’s called ‘Richard Corey.’”

I nod. I’m vaguely familiar with the poem, mainly because Simon and Garfunkel had a song that ripped it off. The fact that Vince is talking about it is rather stunning. Until now I thought his intellectual awareness extended about as far as “knock, knock” jokes.

He continues. “It’s about this really wealthy guy, who everybody in the town thinks has the greatest life in the world. At the end of the poem, they’re all shocked ’cause the guy goes home one night and puts a bullet in his head.”

“So Daniel and Margaret seemed to have a great life, but you didn’t think it was real?”

He nods. “Something like that. She had all this money, and they lived in a great house and had fancy cars and stuff, but there was something missing . . . something a little off. I couldn’t place it then . . . I can’t even place it now . . . but I felt it.”

Vince seems like he’s getting upset, so I try to lighten the moment. “So now I’ve learned that not only did you once have sex, but you’ve also read a poem. What a life you’ve lived.”

My effort at lightening lands with a heavy thud. “Andy, you’ve been on this for a while now. You think Daniel could have done this? Killed those people? Killed Margaret?”

It’s the first time I’ve seen him exhibit any doubt, though I’ve always suspected it had to be there. It’s ironic because I’ve become more and more willing to believe that Daniel is innocent. “I don’t know anything about Margaret, Vince. I can’t really give an opinion on that. These killings here, though, they don’t fit with Daniel. But I’m not going to lie to you . . . I’m not sure, and I definitely could be wrong.”

“Thanks,” he says, and then without another word just gets up and walks out of the place.

This is not at all the Vince I know. Except for the part where he didn’t pay the check.

I pick Sondra up first thing in the morning for the drive over to the foundation. The transformation in her has been remarkable. It’s not just the conservative clothing Laurie has gotten for her; it’s also a change in attitude. Her reluctance to go after this new life has gradually faded, if not to eagerness, then a willingness to give it a shot. Laurie has performed miracles with her.

I’m a little nervous about Sondra and Willie meeting. He could come on with a heavy-handed “me boss, you slave” routine, which might cause her to bail out. On her part, she could decide that, even though she claims to like dogs, feeding them, cleaning their cages, and doing menial paperwork don’t constitute an upward career move.

There is also the potential for a natural clash of personalities. Both are strong-willed and independent, used to taking care of themselves and only themselves. The idea of a close working relationship might be culturally repugnant to either or both of them.

Sondra and I enter the foundation building. Willie is nowhere to be seen, so I tell Sondra to wait as I look for him. He turns out to be in the back, playing with one of the dogs that has kennel cough, a minor ailment but one that is contagious. Dogs that have it must be quarantined for seven days.

“Your assistant is here, Willie.”

He jumps up enthusiastically. “All right! There’s a lot to be done around here, man. Let me get my list.”

He hasn’t met Sondra yet, but he’s actually written down a list of tasks for her to do. “Hold off on the list, Willie. And go easy on her at the beginning, okay? Your personality can take a few decades to get used to.”

He doesn’t respond; I don’t think he’s heard me. He’s too busy rushing to meet his devoted servant.

Willie gets out there before I do, preventing me from making the formal introduction. The first thing I hear is Willie’s voice. “Sondra!”

“Willie! I can’t believe it!” she yells, not concealing her delight.

By the time I get in the room, they are hugging each other and laughing, and Willie is whirling her around. This introduction has gone somewhat better than I expected.

“Let me guess,” I say. “You two know each other.” My hope is that their relationship did not begin with Willie as a customer of hers.

“For a long damn time, man,” Willie says. Then, to Sondra, “How long has it been?”

“Too damn long,” she says.

I’m finally able to ascertain that “damn long” takes them back to high school. They actually dated in their junior year and shared many of the same friends.

“What you been doing?” Willie asks as I cringe.

“Hooking,” says Sondra, and Willie nods, as if she had just said, “Marketing.”

“And writin’ letters,” says Willie. “I really appreciated that. I should have called you when I got out.”

“That’s okay,” Sondra says. “You were busy.”

Willie, seeing I’m puzzled by the conversation, explains that Sondra wrote to him in prison, among other things telling him to hang in there, and that she knew he could never have committed such a crime.

I can’t remember when anything I’ve planned has gone as smoothly as this meeting. Willie starts showing Sondra around the place, so I leave, but there is no way they notice.

On the way out, I hear Willie ask Sondra, “You want a cup of coffee? We got every kind there is.”