Bury the Lead (15 page)

• • • • •

L
AURIE AND
I
STAY UP
most of the night talking about my meeting with Petrone and whether it should or will have any impact on the trial. I ask her what she thinks he will actually do if I continue to point the finger at him.

“If he’s smart, he’ll wait a year or two and make your death look like an accident,” she says.

“And if he’s not smart?”

“He’ll have your brains blown out a few weeks after the trial.”

“He seems pretty smart,” I offer hopefully.

She nods. “Good. It gives you time to get your affairs in order.”

She’s kidding—at least I hope she is—and I move the conversation toward Petrone’s impact on the trial. I have a very real dilemma in that at the end of the day I believe Petrone. His fond feelings for Linda Padilla seem genuine and tie in directly with what her boyfriend, Alan Corbin, told me. I’ve never had any strong reasons to believe Petrone is involved in this, so I have some ethical problems with continuing to insist that he is, misleading the jury in the process.

I could switch my focus to Tommy Lassiter, but his name is not publicly known, and it will have far less psychological impact than Petrone’s. It would also have the secondary result of pissing off a crazed hit man, something my parents specifically warned me against as a youth. While the other kids were always being admonished to “be careful crossing the street” and “be home early,” my mom and dad would throw in, “and don’t go pissing off any crazed hit men.”

The real question is how much I should let my personal physical jeopardy get in the way of my client’s representation. Should I report what has gone on to Calvin? I don’t think so; I’m not sure that there’s anything he could do, and his knowledge would possibly inhibit my actions.

Our staying up so late talking leaves me a little bleary-eyed when I get to court in the morning. Tucker looks typically fresh and confident, easy to accomplish in light of his having an entire state full of lawyers to do his legwork, and a powerful case to present to the jury.

“Rough night, Andy?” he asks with a smile before Calvin enters the courtroom. For a moment I consider the possibility that Tucker knows about my session with Petrone, that perhaps he is having me followed. It’s unlikely; the more plausible explanation for his comment is that I look like shit.

I look around the courtroom and notice that Vince is in his place, as is the Cleveland contingent, minus Eliot Kendall. It’s the first day that Kendall has missed, though I doubt that it represents a crack in his support for Daniel.

Tucker’s first witness is Neal Winslow, the chief engineer for the cell phone company that Daniel uses. His appearance is to demonstrate that Daniel was lying when he said he was fifteen minutes away from Eastside Park when he received what he claimed was the phone call from the killer.

Tucker and Winslow have rehearsed this testimony well, and Winslow describes the process by which towers cover certain areas, and that a cell phone’s general location can be determined by the tower that “handled” the call. His presentation is clear and concise, and such that even a technological moron can understand it. I know this because I happen to be one.

Daniel’s apparent lie has two negative consequences, one of which has already taken place. It served as the impetus for the police to get a search warrant, which led to all the real evidence subsequently discovered.

The other consequence, almost as serious, will set in if I can’t shake Winslow’s testimony. The jury will ask themselves why Daniel would have lied about something like this, and their answer will be that it was to cover his guilt. It is something that I have grappled with since that night, and Daniel has never come up with a satisfactory explanation.

“Mr. Winslow,” I begin, “why is it that sometimes I can receive a clear cell phone call, but at other times I have no service in the same location?”

“There could be a number of factors. Weather . . . heavy usage periods . . . they would be the most likely reasons.”

“So weather and heavy usage can impact service?”

He nods. “Definitely.”

That gives me a little progress in casting doubt on the science, but it’s a small victory.

“Now, you told Mr. Zachry that the cell tower has a radius of about four miles.”

“Right,” he says in answer to a question I didn’t ask.

“So if the tower were in the middle of Times Square, it would route calls to my cell phone if I were on the corner of Madison and Eighty-fifth, three miles away?”

He shakes his head. “No, in Manhattan the towers would have a much smaller radius.”

I look surprised, though I’m not. “Really? Is it a different type of tower?”

“No, but—”

I interrupt. “Then why is the range different?”

“Because of the many tall buildings. We refer to it as the terrain.”

“So terrain can make a difference also? Just like weather and heavy usage and who knows what else?”

Tucker objects to my characterization, and Calvin sustains. I withdraw the question and move on. “Mr. Winslow, assuming perfect weather, normal usage, and average terrain, the radius is four miles. Correct?”

“Approximately.”

I smile at the increasing inexactness of this science. “Yes,
approximately
four miles. Right?”

“Yes.”

“So it covers a total diameter of eight miles? In such a perfect world?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Mr. Zachry read Mr. Cummings’s statement from that night into the record, where he said he drove fifteen minutes after getting the call. Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say anywhere in that statement that he drove fast, or even in a straight line?”

Tucker objects. “Your Honor, this is not within the witness’s area of expertise.”

I shake my head. “I am simply asking his recollections based on what he heard Mr. Zachry read. I can give him a copy of the statement, and then his recollections will be perfect.”

Calvin overrules Tucker, and Winslow answers. “I didn’t hear him read that he drove fast or in a straight line, no.”

“Do you ever drive in North Jersey, Mr. Winslow?”

“Yes. Every day.”

“Do you find that the speed with which you drive depends on things like weather and heavy usage and terrain?”

The jury and gallery laugh and Winslow can’t suppress a smile. “I do,” he says.

“Traffic is an inexact science, isn’t it, Mr. Winslow?”

Tucker objects and I withdraw the question. I let Winslow off the stand and sit down next to Daniel, who, despite my admonitions, looks positively euphoric.

• • • • •

L
ESS THAN THREE HOURS
after court is adjourned, my shuttle flight is landing at Logan Airport in Boston. I haven’t been here in almost twenty years, but the drive into the city brings home the memories as if they were yesterday.

As a teenager, I was a huge Larry Bird fan, which caused me some uncomfortable moments living in the New York area. But I took the abuse from my friends, and while Bird was in the league I was a traitor to my beloved Knicks. I was, heaven help me, a Celtics fan.

My father handled the situation well, and didn’t do what other Knicks-loving fathers would do. He didn’t beat, starve, or humiliate me, though in retrospect I deserved it all. Instead, he tolerated my treasonous impulses, in fact did more than that. He would take me up to Boston to watch play-off games in Boston Garden. Fortunately for me, the Knicks were terrible in those years and never made it to the play-offs themselves.

Boston Garden was an amazing place, a true shrine to basketball as it should be played, and attending a game there was unlike attending a sports event any place else in the world. The Celtics were blessed with talent, smarts, and a relentless will to win, a team worthy of their home, and I’m glad to have witnessed them in action. But today Larry Bird is retired, the old Boston Garden is no more, and I am securely back in the Knicks fold.

I arrive at Carmine’s, a small downtown restaurant, at seven-thirty, and Cindy is already there, waiting for me at the bar. She is a very attractive brunet, looking even better than the last time I saw her, which was almost six months ago. The guy on the next stool over is futilely attempting to hit on her, and if you gave him three hundred guesses, he couldn’t come up with her occupation. She is Cindy Spodek, FBI special agent, Organized Crime Division.

I met Cindy last year when she testified at Laurie’s trial. Cindy had become aware that her boss at the Bureau, until then considered an American hero, had in fact been running massive, illegal operations that extended to murder. Her turning on him was an act of real courage, and she did so at great jeopardy to her career.

In the months that have passed, she’s been reassigned to the Bureau’s Boston office, but has survived the expected backlash from her colleagues. I last spoke to her a couple of months ago, and she seemed fairly happy. Her career was back on a decent track, and she had met a guy that she felt just might be the one.

Cindy brightens when she sees me, and gives me a warm hug and kiss. It’s enough to send Mr. Barstool on to more receptive pastures, and he makes his way down the bar. Cindy and I head to our table in a quiet corner of the restaurant.

We exchange pleasantries, including pictures of our dogs. Cindy has a two-year-old golden named Sierra that I rescued and gave to her. She thinks Sierra is the best dog in North America, an impossibility unless Tara and New Jersey have relocated below the equator without my knowing it. But I tolerate this nonsense because I’m here on a mission.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I say.

She frowns. “Yeah, right. You reeled me in like a fish.”

I called Cindy yesterday and left a message saying that I needed to talk to her about Tommy Lassiter. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist that, and I further knew that she’d learn everything about Lassiter that she could before we met.

“So what do you know about Lassiter?” I ask.

She smiles the smile of someone barely tolerating an idiot. “To save time, I decided on the rules for this conversation on the way over here,” she says. “Here’s how it’s going to work. You tell me why you’re asking and what you already know, and then I’ll decide if I’ll say anything or just leave you with the check.”

I grin. “Sounds fair to me,” I say, and lay out the particulars of Daniel’s case and what I know about Lassiter’s involvement in it. She listens intently and doesn’t ask any questions until I’ve finished.

“How do you know Lassiter is involved?”

“Marcus got one of the prisoners involved in Randy’s murder to talk.”

She frowns, mainly because she knows Marcus. “Marcus reasoned with him?” she asks.

“Yes. He can be very reasonable when he wants to be. I believe it’s your turn to speak.”

She considers this for a moment, then nods. “Tommy Lassiter is an extraordinarily talented and cold-blooded murderer. He is also a maniac. The Bureau wants him very badly.”

“Does the Bureau have any information connecting him to my case?”

She shakes her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“There are a lot of murderers in this country; what makes him special enough to be on your radar?”

She hesitates before answering, as if deciding whether or not she should confide in me. I’m sure she thought this out before coming here, so it must be significant enough that she’s having second thoughts. “Because he’s added a new wrinkle to the process. His fee is twice as high as anyone else’s because he does more than just murder.”

“How’s that?” I ask.

She looks at me intently. “This is just between you and me. That’s it. Agreed?”

I nod. “I’ll tell only Laurie and Kevin.”

She continues, since she knows they can be trusted. “He also provides a guilty party, to throw suspicion away from himself and the people who hire him. He frames someone; it’s part of his full-service operation. And he’s good at it.”

This piece of news hits me right between the eyes. For the first time I truly believe, I truly know, that Daniel is innocent of these murders. It is simultaneously a huge weight lifted from my shoulders and an incredible pressure added to those same shoulders. It is now far more important that I get him off.

“Will you testify to this?” I ask.

She laughs a short laugh. “Are you out of your mind? Of course not.”

“An innocent man is on trial for his life.”

“Maybe, or maybe Lassiter had nothing to do with it. And with no other evidence, you couldn’t even get my testimony admitted if I were willing to give it, which I’m not.”

“Let me worry about getting it admitted,” I say.

“Andy, think this through. If word of this got out, every murderer in every prison in the country would be filing appeals saying that Lassiter was the real murderer and that he planted all the conclusive evidence their prosecutors used.”

I understand her point, and I don’t try to refute it, at least for now. The fact is that her testimony would not be admissible at this stage anyhow. I would first need to independently tie Lassiter into Daniel’s case, and neither Marcus’s informant nor Dominic Petrone is about to raise his right hand and tell it to the jury.

She adds, “Be careful with this, Andy. Lassiter is more than a tad insane.”

I nod, change the subject, and we have a thoroughly pleasant dinner, absent talk of serial killers and severed hands. She waits until we’re having coffee to smile and make her announcement. “Todd and I are getting married.”

“Congratulations. Who the hell is Todd?”

“I told you about him. He’s a Boston cop. A captain.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Three months,” she says. “But I would have said yes after three weeks. When you know, you know.”

I nod, silently wondering why, if Todd and Cindy and I all seem to “know,” Laurie remains in the dark.

“Things still well with you and Laurie?” Cindy asks.

She seems to have read my mind, so I get a little defensive. “Yes, well . . . very well . . . totally well . . .”

She smiles. “Sounds like you’ve reached new levels of wellness.”

“We have.”

“So when are you getting married?” she asks.

“Married? Me? No, thank you. I’m a free spirit . . . an eagle. No woman can clip my wings. I’ve got women all over the world. Paterson, Passaic, Trenton . . . you name it.”

“So Laurie doesn’t want to get married?”

I shrug. “Not so far.”

On the flight home I try to figure out what I’ve learned and what I still have to learn. I now completely believe that Tommy Lassiter killed Linda Padilla, though demonstrating that to a jury is very much another matter. What I don’t know is who, if anyone, hired him, or why he needed to kill three other women in the process.

Also puzzling to me is why he chose Daniel to frame. There are much less visible people, with far fewer resources, that he could have more easily pinned it on. He chose Daniel in such a way that the entire series of murders played out as a public spectacle, yet Lassiter’s previous history was always to lurk in the shadows.

He could have planted the incriminating evidence on virtually anyone, yet he chose Daniel. Daniel must have made himself an inviting target, or perhaps he had a previous connection to Lassiter that he hasn’t shared with me.

It’s time to talk to my client.