“Yes?”
“Have the guy call me.”
“Thank you, Andy. Thank you so much.”
Thus concludes my first conversation with Laurie in four and a half months. Simultaneously concluding is my “get a grip” vow from the night before. What I’m reduced to now is replaying the conversation in my mind, judging my performance, and trying to decipher if she had other motivations for calling besides helping the guy she arrested.
I take Tara for a quick walk and then head for the office. It’s Saturday, so Edna is not there to bombard me with questions about the status of her estate. I’m not exactly a champion Internet surfer, but I know how to find out-of-town newspapers online, and I read as much as I can about the murders in Findlay.
Most of the papers have picked up the AP story, which reports the basic fact that Jeremy Alan Davidson, twenty-one, a resident of Findlay, Wisconsin, was arrested for the stabbing murders of Elizabeth Barlow and Sheryl Hendricks, residents of Center City, about ten miles from Findlay.
Davidson and Barlow were students at the Findlay campus of the University of Wisconsin and were said to be planning to marry. Speculation is that Barlow broke off the relationship and went home to Center City, where she and her friend Hendricks commiserated over the situation. Davidson, unable to handle the rejection, is said to have gone crazy and murdered both Barlow and Hendricks, who had the misfortune to be with her friend at the time. The bodies were buried in a hurried, makeshift grave in Davidson’s backyard.
The
I’m about to head home to watch some college football when the phone rings. It’s unusual for it to ring in the office on a Saturday; in fact, lately, it doesn’t ring much at all. I have a quick flash of hope that it might be Laurie, which is supported by the caller ID showing an area code I don’t recognize.
“Hello,” I say, figuring just in case it’s Laurie, I might as well be at the top of my conversational game.
“Mr. Carpenter?” It’s a male voice that I don’t recognize, and definitely not Laurie.
“Speaking.”
“My name is Richard Davidson. Laurie Collins said that you would speak to me.”
“Right.”
“Would now be a good time?” he asks.
“As good as any.”
“I can be at your office in less than an hour. If that’s okay.”
This is not computing. Wisconsin is not an hour away. If it were, Laurie and I would still be living together. “Where are you?”
“In a cab leaving Newark Airport.”
I agree to wait for him, masking my annoyance. Laurie obviously told him that I would speak with him even before she spoke to me. She just as obviously has confidence that she can manipulate me and get me to do what she wants. I’m pissed off because she’s been proven right.
Richard Davidson arrives within forty-five minutes. He’s probably six foot two, a hundred and sixty pounds, the kind of annoying guy who can suck in a freezerful of Haagen-Dazs without gaining an ounce.
I instantly feel sorry for him for two reasons. First, he has the look of a man who is totally exhausted, his face already bearing deep lines of concern, be it from lack of sleep or intense stress. Considering that his son has been arrested for a brutal double murder, it’s probably both, and I expect his black hair should be gray within the hour. Second, he’s wearing a suit, meaning he figured that to do so would impress me. This is a desperate man.
My office is about as unimpressive as one is likely to find, situated above a fruit stand in downtown Paterson. It looks as if it was decorated in early Holiday Inn, during a chambermaid strike. Yet Davidson does not seem to notice any of this; his total focus is to try to get me to help his son.
I offer him water or a cup of coffee, and I’m relieved when he chooses the former, since I have no idea how to make the latter. “I’ve planned what I was going to say on the way here, but right now I have no idea where to start,” he says.
“I’ve read up as best I can on your son’s case,” I say. “Just the newspaper stories.”
He nods. “It’s horrible… just horrible. Those two poor girls.”
“Did you know them?” I ask.
“Just Elizabeth… not Sheryl Hendricks. Elizabeth and Jeremy were talking about getting married. They were so terrific together.”
“Until she broke it off?” I ask.
“Yes, until she broke it off. She told Jeremy that she still loved him but that it just couldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Pressures from her parents, her town, her religion… the place she’s from is a very closed society. I had warned him about that; those people have always kept to themselves. But even though she ended it, he would never hurt her, not ever. Mr. Carpenter, I know my son is innocent.”
“You believe he is.” It’s an important distinction to make; I’m pointing out that he has no real evidence.
“It’s the same thing. There is simply no way he could have done this. Laurie knows that as well as I do.” He’s exaggerating this for effect; Laurie has not professed a strong belief in his son’s innocence, she has simply expressed doubts about his guilt. There’s a difference.
“How do you know Laurie?”
“We lived next door to each other growing up. She and my little sister were best friends. She’s gotten to know Jeremy some since she moved back.”
Laurie’s doubt about Jeremy’s guilt is compelling. She has spent her adult life in law enforcement, and in the face of powerful evidence is not inclined to take the side of the accused. It’s the main reason I don’t think she ever felt fully comfortable working for a defense attorney like me. She was always concerned she might contribute toward letting a guilty person go free.
Also adding to the significance of Laurie helping Jeremy is her position as acting chief of police. She has taken a real chance of alienating her constituency by facilitating the conversation between Davidson and me.
My sympathy for Davidson is starting to be challenged by my desire to get home and watch football. “What is it you want from me?” I ask. “I don’t know nearly enough about the facts of the case to make any coherent recommendations.”
He’s obviously surprised by the question. “I want you to represent Jeremy.”
I guess Laurie forgot to mention that part. “Mr. Davidson, that is not going to happen. I’m sorry.”
“Please,” he says, in such a childlike, desperate way that I expect his next words to be “pretty please.”
“I just can’t pick up and go to Wisconsin to try a murder case. It’s really out of the question.”
“Can’t you at least look into it before you make your decision?”
“It’s too late for that; I’ve already made my decision. And I’m sorry, but looking into the case wouldn’t change anything.”
“I can pay whatever your fee is.”
I nod. “Good. Then you can afford any lawyer you want… except me.” I can see the disappointment in his face, so I soften it a little. “I can do this for you: I can make some phone calls and help you find a first-class lawyer closer to the trial venue.”
He’s not satisfied by this or anything else I say, and I soon give up trying. I have no desire whatsoever to go to Wisconsin and represent someone who is probably a brutal murderer. At this point I haven’t even factored in the close proximity I would have to Laurie, but were I to, it would no doubt be a negative rather than a positive. I’m not going to get on with my life by spending an upcoming chunk of it in her hometown.
As Davidson is leaving, Kevin Randall is coming in, and they mumble a quick hello to each other. Kevin has been my associate for almost two years now, after his disenchantment with the justice system prompted him to take a three-year hiatus from practicing law. During that time he opened the Law-dromat, an establishment that offers free legal advice to customers while their clothes are washing and drying. Kevin still spends much of his spare
