Unleashed (18 page)

Matuszak and Agent Wilson Cardiff drove out to Austin’s house at 8:00
A.M
. as planned, but their arrival was delayed by the presence of police cars blocking off the street.

The agents presented their identification to Detective Lieutenant Nancy Francis of the Columbus PD, in charge at the scene, and asked what was going on.

“A woman named Lois Cassidy works as a cocktail waitress in town. She got off at two
A.M
. and came to this house, to see her boyfriend.”

“Kyle Austin?” asked Matuszak.

Francis nodded. “Kyle Austin. He wasn’t home, and she figured he was out, probably cheating on her. It apparently wouldn’t have been the first time. But she couldn’t reach him on the phone, so she went to sleep. In the morning, she decided to leave and noticed the garage door was open.”

Matuszak took a quick look in the direction of the garage, which was where most of the people were. He assumed, correctly, that the forensics people were doing their work.

Francis continued. “His body was on the floor, one bullet in the back of the head at close range. Looks like he got hit just after he came home, coroner estimates some time between nine and midnight. Shooter was obviously a pro.”

“Suspects?”

“Not yet,” Francis said. “What’s your interest in this?”

Matuszak was not about to share that with a local cop, at least not at that point. “We were hoping to question him.”

“Good luck with that.”

Today is the key day in the trial, at least so far. To the gallery, and the media that are covering it, it’s going to seem dull and dry as dirt. Today we’re going to discuss the forensic analysis of the traces of botulinum toxin. Oh, boy.

I arrive at court at eight thirty, as I do every day. On the way I call Sam to receive any updates he might have for me. Sam works late into the night, so the morning is usually a good time to speak to him.

Sam doesn’t answer the phone, which is rather unusual. He and Crash are probably taking a bath. I make a note to call him during the first break this morning.

I take my seat at the defense table, where Hike is already waiting. Bader’s team is at the prosecution table, but Bader hasn’t arrived yet.

Almost the moment I sit down, the bailiff comes over to me and says, “Judge Hurdle wants to see you in chambers.”

There’s no sense asking why, since the bailiff would likely not know and certainly wouldn’t tell me if he did. “Let’s go,” I say to Hike, but the bailiff shakes his head.

“The judge only wants to see you.”

I’ve got an uneasy feeling about this, though there’s not necessarily any reason to think it’s anything of consequence. Most likely it’s a juror issue; maybe one was acting improperly.

If that’s the case, I hope “improperly” is understating the case, since a mistrial would be a gift from heaven. My first choice would be that the juror was caught in a sex romp with Bader, the judge, two other jurors, and the arresting officer. And to finish off my sure mistrial scenario, at the height of passion I hope the judge screamed, “The hell with fair trials!”

When I get to the judge’s chambers, Bader is already there, alone with the judge. I’m not thrilled with this; proper procedure calls for the judge never to be with only one of the lawyers. But they don’t seem to be talking, so it’s likely a no-harm-no-foul situation.

“Mr. Carpenter, take a seat,” Judge Hurdle says.

I do so and then ask, “What’s going on?”

“I’m waiting for a phone call, and then we can begin. Should be just a few moments.”

The few moments become ten of the most uncomfortable minutes I’ve ever experienced. Not a word is spoken, even if you’re one of those people who consider eye contact to be speech.

Finally the ringing of the phone pierces the silence. The judge picks it up and says, “Yes?” then listens for maybe ten seconds. He follows that with “Thank you.” Hurdle is one great conversationalist.

“Mr. Carpenter,” he says, “I should start by informing you that Mr. Bader is already aware of what I’m about to say. He learned it here, in my chambers, minutes before your arrival.”

I don’t like the sound of this at all.

“Your client, Denise Price, asked to speak with me in private, and she did so last evening.”

“Why wasn’t I contacted?” I ask, now annoyed.

“Because she specifically asked that you not be,” he says. “She had an agenda to discuss, and part of that agenda was to file a complaint about your actions in this case.”

“What does that mean?”

“She said that you were aware that she possessed information that might have been exculpatory in nature, and that you insisted she not reveal it.”

“This isn’t making any sense.” It’s not often that I am completely bewildered, but that’s what I am at the moment.

“I’m not commenting on the veracity of her statements, I’m merely summarizing them.”

“What is the information she claims to have?” No matter where this goes from here, it is an unmitigated disaster.

“Let me continue,” he says, as if I were stopping him. “She has admitted to an extramarital affair, and she believes that the man she was involved with murdered her husband.”

“Who is that?” I ask, feeling like my head is about to explode.

“Samuel Willis. The police executed a search warrant on his home early this morning, and I was just advised in that telephone call that he has been placed under arrest.”

Kaboom.

The judge goes on to tell me that he has no choice but to declare a mistrial. Denise is going to remain in custody. Far more investigation will be necessary before consideration could be given to dropping the charges against her.

He also says that he is obligated to commence an investigation into my conduct and whether or not Denise’s charges have any merit. She has told him that she does not want to speak with me, and he directs me not to try. It’s just as well, since I would probably strangle her.

But at this point I really don’t care what he’s saying. All I care about is finding Sam, wherever he has been taken.

He’s going to need a lawyer.

Me.

Sam has been taken to the Passaic County Jail. That is because the arrest was made in Paterson, but once jurisdictional issues have been resolved, I’m quite sure he’ll be transferred to Morris County.

I call Laurie on the way, and she is as stunned as I was. There will be time later for us to try and figure out what happened and why, and to talk strategy, but right now the only thing to do is help Sam.

Laurie does have one piece of information for me, though, which in its own way is another bombshell. Agent Muñoz called, asking to speak to me right away. She explained that she was my investigator and pressed him for information, so that she could determine whether it was important enough to interrupt me during the court day.

It would have been, that is, if I had a court day. Muñoz said that Kyle Austin, the Columbus, Ohio, individual who had also received wired money, was murdered last night.

It is very significant news. I had basically been interested in Muñoz’s investigation only because I thought it might help me defend my client. I still am, maybe even more so, even though I have effectively switched clients.

When I get to the jail, Pete Stanton is waiting for me. Dispensing with hello, he simply says, “I made the arrest.”

“Why?”

“We got a request from a sister law enforcement agency. It was going to happen, so I figured it was best if I did it.”

Pete’s making the arrest was actually a kind gesture; he knew Sam would find it slightly less intimidating if he did so. “Has he been booked?” I ask.

“Yeah. You can see him now.”

“I need to check in and go through the process.”

He shakes his head. “Not today you don’t; I took care of it.” With that, he motions to the sergeant behind the desk, who nods his assent.

“Thanks.”

I’m led into an anteroom, where Sam is waiting for me. He has a cuff on one wrist, and the other end is attached to the table. Seeing it really pisses me off.

“Andy, am I glad to see you. What the hell is going on?” His voice is surprisingly calm, without any trace of panic or anger. He just seems bewildered, which gives him something in common with his attorney.

I tell him everything Judge Hurdle told me, and I watch his confusion grow. “Why would Denise do that? Why would she lie like that? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Is it all a lie, Sam?” It’s a question I have to ask, so I don’t make a wrong move.

“What do you mean? Come on, you think I could murder someone?”

“Of course not. That’s not what I was talking about. Were you and Denise Price ever intimate?”

“Absolutely not. Andy, I need you to fix this. You have to find out what the hell is happening and get me out of here as soon as possible. I’ve got some money; I’ll pay whatever your fee is.”

“This one’s on the house,” I tell him, though I don’t mention a problem that I just recognized. The fact that I was representing Denise, who has now accused Sam and myself, creates a whole boatload of conflicts that could interfere with my ability to represent Sam. It’s a problem I’m going to have to deal with, and quickly.

Then I think of still another problem, in what I’m sure will be an endless list. “Sam, where’s your computer?” If the prosecutor gets his hands on it and sees Sam’s efforts to delve deeply into Barry’s finances, it’s a disaster, legal and otherwise.

“In the bunker.”

“Does anyone know about that place other than you and the team?”

“No.”

“Good.” I make a note to call the Holiday Inn and give them my credit card information, so the computer can stay in that room as long as we want.

“What about Crash?” Sam asks.

It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about his dog. “Where is he?”

“At my house.”

“I’ll check into it. Most likely they took him to the shelter.”

Sam starts to literally moan, so I continue. “Don’t worry. You can imagine how well Willie and I know the people down there. I’ll get Crash out and he can stay at my house.”

“Thanks, Andy. The thought of him in a cage drives me crazy.”

It’s not a good time to point out the irony that Sam himself is about to spend a lot of time in a cage. And the thought of that drives me crazy.

Security would have been heavy anyway. It’s just a fact of modern life: politicians are more carefully guarded than they used to be. Special Agent Muñoz always viewed it as people being protected at a level inversely proportional to their competence.

But an event like the Northeastern Governors’ Conference would have called for a very substantial law enforcement presence in any case. Twelve governors were to attend the event, which moved each year on a rotating basis. This particular year it was being held in Augusta, Maine.

There was no way the Augusta police force was prepared to handle the responsibility on its own. As was typically the case at these conferences, the state police bore the brunt of the load, with federal help if requested.

But this time it didn’t have to be requested. Though there was no hard evidence of a specific threat, the pieces of the puzzle that Muñoz was dealing with worried him.

Murders linked to talk of assassinations had taken place in the state capitals of Maine and New Hampshire, and now that Ohio had been indirectly added to the group, Muñoz’s concern was heightened. The chief executives of each of those states would be together at the conference, which made it something of a target-rich environment.

So Muñoz received permission to heavily inject the FBI into the security assignment, and more than thirty agents descended on Augusta. He understood that it wasn’t really logical. If the governors were to be targeted in Maine, then the men chosen to be the assassins made little sense. For example, if they were going to try to kill the governor of New Hampshire while he was in Maine, why would it have been necessary to hire an assassin from that governor’s hometown?

But neither Muñoz nor his bosses had any desire to wind up with a bunch of dead governors, so every precaution would be taken. A meeting was called of all the participating agencies, and a strategy was agreed upon.

Maine State Police would remain the lead agency, but they and everyone else were aware that the feds would be calling any important shots that needed to be called. The individual governors, their staffs, and their own security details were all updated and brought into the process, and all agreed to exercise more vigilance than usual.

The conference was scheduled to last just thirty-six hours, and they proved to be just about the most blissfully boring thirty-six hours that Muñoz and his colleagues had ever spent.

Absolutely nothing of consequence happened, and at least during the meetings Muñoz sat in on, that included the political discourse as well. But there was no danger—no incidents, no arrests, and not even an angry word during the entire time.

The makeshift law enforcement unit disbanded once all the politicians were out of town. To a person, they were relieved that it had proved to be a false alarm.

Muñoz had no way of knowing if the obvious internal strife among the bad guys, which had led to so many murders, had forced them to call off their plans. There was simply no evidence that he and his colleagues had dodged a bullet, or that one was ever planned to be fired.

But if those bullets were eventually going to be fired, it would be up to Muñoz to find out where and when, and to make sure they missed.

Been here, done this. I’ve already sat in this courtroom dealing with the legal system’s efforts to convict the murderer of Barry Price, and now I’m here again. But now Sam is sitting next to me at the defense table, so as the movie tagline said, “This time it’s personal.”

Little else is different. Hike is also with me, and across from us Thomas Bader sits with what looks like his same team. Since the Denise Price bombshell, Bader has been decidedly more adversarial toward us. Whatever his pretense was for pretending to be Mr. Cooperative, he’s dropped it.