New Tricks (21 page)

I nod. “But we’re not close to connecting the dots.”

Nothing Sam and Kevin have come up with on Robinson has moved our case forward. He originally earned his fortune as an energy
trader, sort of a one-man Enron. His reputation has long been as sort of a shady operator, but if the authorities were ever
close to catching him at anything, we can find no evidence of it.

He made worldwide contacts that enabled him to be a facilitator of many things, most of them energy-related. The trading of
energy across countries obviously involved huge fortunes, and Robinson has usually put himself in position to get a piece
of it.

In recent years he has entered other businesses as well, everything from magazines to a retail clothing chain. But these seem
to be secondary to his real business, and showing dogs and racing horses are just hobbies for him.

Kevin and I spend the rest of the evening preparing for tomorrow’s witnesses. These are the toughest days in a case like this.
One witness after another will lay a solid foundation of apparent proof that Steven is guilty. We’ll put a few dents in it,
but if we’re going to win, it’s going to be on the strength of our own case in chief.

I only wish we had a case in chief.

Richard’s first witness today is Captain John Antonaccio, the chief of ordnance at Camp Lejeune, in North Carolina. Antonaccio
is the person under whom Steven trained in explosives when he was in the service.

Richard takes Antonaccio through his qualifications as an explosives expert. I offer to stipulate as to his expertise, but
Richard asks Hatchet to let him detail it for the jury, and Hatchet reluctantly agrees.

To hear Antonaccio tell it, pretty much the only bomb in the last twenty years that he was not responsible for was
Waterworld
. His résumé is impressive, and he is clearly well aware of it.

Next Richard introduces a map of the Timmerman property, and a diagram of the house itself. He gets Antonaccio to show where
the bomb went off, near the center of the house, and Antonaccio says that this is where an expert would have planted it, so
as to cause maximum damage.

The demonstration is jarring to me, because it reminds me of something that I missed. I will not be able to bring it up on
my cross-examination, because I haven’t learned enough about it to risk asking a question I don’t know the answer to. It’s
a frustrating mistake on my part, and it’s not the first.

Eventually, Richard questions him about his time working with Steven. “Was he competent working with explosives?”

Antonaccio nods. “Very much so. One of my best students.”

“What qualities did he have that make you say that?”

“He was smart, he was careful, and he had a healthy respect for the materials he was dealing with.”

“Some people don’t respect the explosives?” Richard asks.

“You’d be amazed how many; they become complacent, overconfident. But Lieutenant Timmerman followed the correct procedures
every time.”

Richard introduces a document stating that the explosive used at the house was Cintron 321. I don’t object, because I know
that he could bring in an expert witness to say the same thing.

“Did Mr. Timmerman ever work with Cintron 321?” Richard would never call Steven “Lieutenant,” as Antonaccio does. To do so
could inspire respect from the members of the jury; I’m surprised Richard hadn’t told Antonaccio not to do it as well.

“Absolutely… all the time. He knew everything there was to know about it.”

“And the detonator that was used, which was set off remotely by a cell phone—to your knowledge he would have the requisite
expertise for that as well?”

“It would be a piece of cake for him.”

Richard turns Antonaccio over to me. It’s been an excruciating two hours, but an effective time for the prosecution. The fact
that Steven is an expert in the type of explosive that killed his stepmother is pure circumstantial evidence, but the type
that juries eat with a spoon.

“Captain Antonaccio, you testified that you have been teaching the use of explosives for twenty-one years? Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“During that time, how many people have you trained?”

“I don’t have an exact number.”

“That’s good, because I don’t need one. Ballpark it.”

He thinks for a while and then says, “About three hundred a year.”

“So for twenty-one years, that would be more than six thousand?”

“I guess so.”

“Are you the only person in the marines who does what you do?” I ask.

“No. Of course not.”

“How many such instructors are there? And again, you can ballpark it.”

“Maybe a hundred.”

“So if we assume there have been a hundred for the last twenty-one years, and each person trains three hundred people a year,
then in that time a total of…” I turn to Kevin, who has been using a calculator, and he hands me the calculator with the total
on it. “… six hundred and thirty thousand people have been trained in the use of these explosives?”

Antonaccio is not pleased with the way this is going. “I can’t verify those numbers.”

“I understand,” I say. “Now, do the army and navy blow things up as well? Do they train people in explosives?”

“Of course.”

I shake my head slightly and smile at where this is going. “I won’t go through the numbers for them, because I’m not a math
major. But it sounds like you can’t walk down the street without banging into someone who is an expert in explosives.”

Richard objects and Hatchet sustains, so I switch to another area. “How would someone no longer in the service go about getting
Cintron 321?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Really? For instance, you wouldn’t know if it’s available on the black market?”

“I’m told if you have enough money you can get anything,” he says.

“Including Cintron 321?” I ask.

“I would assume so.”

“And detonators?”

“Yes.”

“If people had enough money, and they could buy explosives and detonators, could they also pay someone to show them how to
use it all?”

Richard objects that I am asking something outside the witness’s area of expertise, but Hatchet overrules and makes him answer.
“I would think they could.”

“Captain Antonaccio, I’d like you to consider a hypothetical. Suppose you sold me Cintron 321 and a detonator to set it off.
Would you be able to prepare it in such a way that all I would have to do would be to plant the explosive, and then dial a
number on my cell phone to set it off? Would that be possible?”

“Yes.”

“So were you to do that for me, all I would have to know is how to dial a phone?”

“Well…”

“In my hypothetical,” I say.

“Then yes.”

“So even though, based on your previous testimony, I seem to be one of the few people in America not trained in explosives,
I could blow something up with your help, just by placing a call? Would I have to include the area code?”

Richard objects and Hatchet sustains, but I couldn’t care less. My point has been made as well as I can make it. In reality,
of course, it’s a debating point; the jury is still going to find Steven’s expertise in the explosive used to blow up the
house to be a damning fact.

And the truth is that they should.

T
HE MOMENT
I
GET HOME
,
I dive into the discovery documents.

The police and forensics reports confirm what I realized during Antonaccio’s testimony this afternoon. They refer to one explosion
as causing all the damage, the one that took place near the center of the house.

Yet I was there that day, and I am positive that I heard a second, much smaller blast, which seemed to come from farther back
in the house. I just assumed, if I thought about it at all, that it was a secondary explosion, perhaps a gas tank or water
heater, precipitated by the first one. It certainly seemed much weaker than the initial blast, and the damage had already
been done.

I still think all of that may be true, but the diagram of the house shown today reminded me that Walter Timmerman’s home laboratory
was back in that area of the house where the second explosion seemed to take place.

I discuss all of this with Laurie, and we kick around what to do with it. “We’re going down the tubes at trial,” I say. “And
the courtroom is not the place we’re going to win it. If we’re going to get Steven off, it’s by understanding what his father
was doing, and who wanted to stop him from doing it.”

Laurie agrees. Even though she has not been in the courtroom, Kevin and I have kept her up to date. We’ll put up a fight there,
and we’ll score some points, but at the end of the day the existing evidence is on the side of the prosecution.

I alluded in my opening statement to Walter Timmerman’s work causing him to be murdered. But the truth is, at this point I
can’t even introduce evidence of that on a good-faith basis. Of course, we have no hard evidence anyway, but even if we did,
we have only guesswork to tie it to the murder.

I call Sam on his cell phone, which is the only phone he ever uses. He answers on the first ring, which I think he has done
every time I’ve ever called him. He must keep the phone taped to his ear.

“Talk to me,” he says, his standard greeting.

“Sam, I’ve got an assignment for you. You can do part of it on the computer, but you may have to do real legwork on the rest.”

“Can I carry a gun? I just got a license… in case.”

Sam has some serious mental issues. “No gun, Sam. This isn’t official police business. But you can say stuff like ‘ten-four’
and ‘roger’ if you like.”

“I copy that,” he says.

“Good. I want you to find me the best expert you can on the work that Walter Timmerman was doing.”

“What kind of work was he doing?” Sam asks, quite logically.

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” I admit.

“That’s going to make it harder.”

“Let’s start with DNA. Timmerman was an expert in it, and we have that e-mail about him sending his own DNA in to be tested.
So we’ll start there. Bring me the mayor of DNA-ville.”

“Will do.”

“And Sam, if you find someone, but they don’t want to help, don’t shoot them. Move on to someone else.”

But Sam has already hung up, so he doesn’t hear me. I turn to Laurie, who has overheard my side of the conversation. “Sam
has a gun?” she asks.

“Apparently so.”

“You might want to confiscate his bullets.”

My next call is to Martha Wyndham, who is not at home. I leave a message that I need to talk to her, and I give her the address
of the house, should she be able to come over after court tomorrow.

Laurie and I talk some more about the case, and we then go upstairs to the bedroom. I head into the bathroom to wash up and
brush my teeth, and when I come back Laurie is already in bed. This is not a surprise. What is a surprise is that she’s naked.

“You’re naked,” I say, trying not to drool.

“Wow, you don’t miss a thing.”

I put on a fake Western accent. “Where I come from, when a lady gets herself naked, she’s got a reason for it. At least that’s
what my pappy always told me.”

“You had a wise pappy,” she said.

This is shaping up as a too-good-to-be-true moment, but I’m also slightly concerned about it. “You’re sure you’re okay?” I
ask. “I mean, you’ve been through a lot. Are you up for this?”

She smiles. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

It turns out that we are both more than equal to the challenge. It also turns out to be one of the most intense, loving experiences
of my life.

It wasn’t long ago that I thought I had lost Laurie forever, and now she’s here, with me, fully and completely.

As Al Michaels once said, “Do you believe in miracles? YES!”

R
OBINSON ARRIVES AT THE HEARING
with eight lawyers. Since I don’t attend bar association meetings, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen this many lawyers in a group
before. I’m not even sure it’s called a “group” of lawyers; maybe it’s a flock or a gaggle.

The lead attorney is Stanford Markinson, one of the founding partners of Markinson, Berger, Lincoln & Simmons. It is one of
the largest law firms in New Jersey, with offices around the state. Robinson must be a hell of a big client to get Markinson
to show up personally at a dog custody hearing.