“Those companies you listed did not receive any goods coming through customs.”
This both troubles and confuses me. “I have the documentation that they did.”
“That was intentional. The documents listed shipments that never actually were delivered-that did not even exist.”
This doesn’t make sense. I expected arms, or drugs-“nothing” was not on my list of possibilities.
“Do you know why?” I ask.
“I neither know nor care.”
“But you’re sure about this?” I ask, and immediately regret the question.
“I only say things I am sure of,” he responds. “As an example of that, let me say that I do not want to hear from you again.” With that, he hangs up the phone. Just to show he can’t push me around, I hang up my dead phone as well.
So Stacy Harriman was killed because she knew that certain people were smuggling nothing into the country.
I’m glad we cleared that up.
* * * * *
I FEEL AS if we are operating in parallel universes.
There is the trial, which is nearing conclusion and can certainly go either way. If I were inclined to make predictions, which I am not, I would say we’re in some trouble.
Then there is the investigation operating outside the trial. We are making progress there, but not nearly fast enough. I am gripped by the fear that we’re going to win the eventual investigation battle but lose the immediate war. I don’t want to have to tell Richard the truth about Stacy in a visiting room at the state prison.
There is also the terrifying possibility that we can uncover the whole truth but that it will have no effect on the trial or on a subsequent appeal of another guilty verdict. No matter what happens in the world of Stacy, Hamadi, Franklin, Durelle, Banks, et al., it could be ruled irrelevant to Richard’s case. A jury or an appeals court could say that yes, she was not nearly who she claimed to be, but that doesn’t mean Richard didn’t kill her.
The other, even more frustrating situation is Reggie’s uncertain fate. It is terribly painful to think about, and it is a pain that Richard, Karen, Kevin, and I have in common.
Kevin shares my assessment that we need to take fast action. We discuss whether to turn over what we know about Stacy, Hamadi, and the others to law enforcement. At some point we will do that, but for now it simply doesn’t serve our purposes. It will take too long, and if the government’s performance on this matter to date is any indication, the actions they would take in response to our information may be somewhat less than vigorous.
The only acceptable option Kevin and I can see is to be aggressive and shake matters up. We’ve got a client to defend.
I place a call to Hamadi’s business phone number at Interpublic Trading and reach an answering service. It’s seven o’clock, and it’s logical that no one would still be there. When your company’s sole function is to arrange the importation of absolutely nothing into the country, not much overtime is required.
I tell the woman that I am trying to reach Hamadi on absolutely urgent business. Her reaction is not exactly heartening; she sounds as if she’s falling asleep as I give her the message. I ask her to tell Hamadi that “I know about Franklin and the empty crates, and the world will know about it tomorrow.”
I hang up with no confidence that the message will be conveyed tonight. I try to get Hamadi’s home number from information, but the operator says it’s unlisted.
This is obviously a job for Sam Willis, who laughs in the face of unlisted phone numbers.
I call Sam, who, for the first time in my experience, doesn’t answer his cell phone. This is so unusual that if I were a good friend I would start calling hospitals to see if he’s in a coma somewhere. Instead I leave a message that it’s urgent that he call me back.
Kevin and I start to go over the closing statement I will be giving. As with my openings, I like to plan the main notes that I am going to hit, but not write out a speech or memorize anything. I feel I connect better with the jury that way.
Less than ten minutes goes by before the phone rings. I pick it up quickly, expecting it to be Sam. It isn’t.
“Mr. Carpenter, this is Yasir Hamadi.”
“Mr. Hamadi, you’re about to be in a lot of trouble.”
“Or we can both walk away from this with our respective goals achieved.” He sounds unruffled and unworried. I, on the other hand, am very worried and thoroughly ruffled.
“Please explain that,” I say.
“As I’m sure you understand, this is coming at me quite suddenly. I will need some time to deal with it, and providing me with that time will very much be to your client’s benefit.”
“How will my client benefit?”
“I will give you information that will result in his acquittal.”
“How much time do you need?” I ask, though I can’t imagine an answer that I will be willing to go along with.
“Ninety-six hours.” I am struck not only by the absurdity of the number but also by its specificity.
“You’re wasting my time. You have ninety-six
He doesn’t answer for so long that I think he may have quietly hung up. Finally, “I will meet you tonight.”
“In a public place,” I say, thinking of Franklin’s arranged meeting with Karen.
“No, it can’t be. Believe me, that is not possible.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“You don’t know the people you are dealing with. But you can choose our meeting place, and you can bring anyone you want with you, so long as it is not the authorities. I will be alone.”
I’m not thrilled with this, but I don’t think I can push him any further. I direct him to Eastside Park, where I will have home field advantage, and he says he can be there by eleven. That will give me plenty of time to make sure my buddy Marcus is there by my side.
As soon as I get off the phone I call Marcus. He’s probably right outside the house but doesn’t say so one way or the other when we talk. I tell him what is going on and that I want him here at 10:45. He grunts either yes or no; I’ll know for sure at 10:45.
“What will you do if Marcus doesn’t show up?” Kevin asks when I hang up.
“Call Pete Stanton and ask him to come.”
“Didn’t Hamadi say no police?”
“I’ll tell Pete not to show his badge.”
Marcus shows up right on time, and I explain the ground rules to him. “I just want to talk to the guy. If he wants to do anything other than talk, you should stop him. As hard as you want.”
Marcus and I drive to the same area of the park where we had our encounter with Windshield Man. It is on the lower level near the baseball fields, and to get there we drive down a road that we referred to as Dead Man’s Curve when we were kids. While it’s a fairly steep hill as it wraps around, the nickname we gave it shows that a child’s perspective can be a little warped.
Marcus and I are there at a minute before eleven, and we get out of the car together. There’s plenty of moonlight, and I walk a few yards to where I can see the curve, since that is the way Hamadi will be entering. There is no sign of him, but it’s not that easy to find this place, so I’m willing to give him a grace period.
“Let’s give him a few minutes,” I say to Marcus, but he doesn’t answer, which is no great surprise. What is a surprise is that when I turn to look at Marcus, I discover that he is gone.
“Marcus?”
No answer. I’m going to take it on faith that Marcus is still here but has decided that protecting me is more easily accomplished by staying out of sight.
With nothing better to do, I look back toward the curve. At about ten after the hour I see a car up above,
