We start talking about the case, and she asks why Willie's lawyer, a man named Robert Hinton, didn't plead it out last time. It's a question I've wondered myself, and I make a note to ask Willie about it. Maybe Willie adamantly refused to plead down for a crime he didn't commit in the first place. It's also possible that my father wouldn't go for it. Even though he wasn't the death penalty type, he may well have been under a lot of pressure to take this one all the way.
I ask Laurie if she's ever heard of Hinton, but she hasn't and neither have I. We're going to have to find him; he should be able to give us some insight that the cold transcripts don't provide.
What the transcripts do provide is a version of the fateful night that appears devastating to Willie's case. According to the prosecution, Willie Miller left work an hour before the murder, went on a drinking binge, and came back through the alley and into the back door. He went into the ladies’ room, where he came upon Denise McGregor. Willie allegedly hit Denise over the head and dragged her out into the alley, where he slashed her with a steak knife from the bar.
Cathy Pearl, a thirty-five-year-old waitress from a nearby diner, came through the alley on the way home from work and saw Willie standing over the body. He ran off, dumping the knife in a trash can three blocks away, before settling into a doorway and collapsing in a drunken stupor.
As if that weren't enough, there were scratch marks all over Willie's face, and his blood and skin were found under Denise's fingernails. Just to add another positive character trait for the jury to consider, there were needle marks in Willie's arms. It is such an airtight case that I am suspicious of it.
Laurie believes every word of the government's case, while I say that is for a jury to decide.
“They already have,” she notes.
“The conviction has been set aside,” I point out.
“He admits it.”
“No, he doesn't dispute it. He can't remember anything. He was too drunk.”
“Andy, read the transcript. This is not exactly a major whodunit.”
“It reads like a frame-up to me.”
She laughs derisively. “You're amazing,” is what she says, but what she means is that I am an asshole.
“Thank you, but enough about me. What do we know about the victim?”
Laurie recites the facts that I already know. Denise McGregor worked as a reporter for a local newspaper, the
“Isn't that Victor Markham?”
“I have no idea what Victor Markham looks like,” she says. But then she points at the man standing next to him in the picture. “But I think I recognize him.”
He doesn't look at all familiar to me, and Laurie tells me that she thinks it's Frank Brownfield, a real estate developer who has built ugly malls all over the New York metropolitan area. Laurie has a friend who works for him, and she had met Brownfield about a year ago. All this does is add to the puzzle; my father never mentioned knowing Brownfield either.
Laurie turns the picture over and reads the date, June 14, 1965, off the back.
“Now,
“What?” I ask.
She digs a piece of paper out of her purse and confirms her recollection. “The cashier check your father got for the two million. It was deposited on June 17, 1965.”
Less than a week after my father posed for a picture with the future Who's Who of American industry, all of whom he never admitted knowing, he received two million dollars, which he never admitted having. If these two facts aren't related, then we're talking serious coincidence here.
Laurie asks if she should check further, but I've got to get my priorities straight. I tell her I need her working full-time on the Miller case, and we agree she'll find Hinton, Willie's lawyer, to get his notes and impressions from the first trial. Meanwhile, I'm going to kill one witness with two stones and have a chat with Victor Markham.
MY GUESSIS THAT VICTOR MARKHAM NEVER GETS LOST on the way to work. First of all, he no doubt gets into the back seat of a car and says to the chauffeur, “Take me to my office.” But if by some chance he were left to fend for himself, he would just have to look up. There, towering over the office buildings in Paramus, are the huge words “Markham Plaza” emblazoned across the top.
If he got to the underground parking lot and was somehow still unsure that he had reached the right place, he would be reassured as he took a ticket from the machine. A computer-generated female voice would say to him, “Welcome to Markham Plaza. Please take a ticket. Have a good day.”
“Thank you, I will,” I reply graciously when the machine welcomes me. I think that perhaps this particular computer-generated female might have a crush on me, but when I pull into the lot I hear her welcoming the guy in the next car just as warmly. Women.
I take the elevator up to the lobby, which is large enough for the Knicks to play their home games. I enter another elevator, and this time a computer-generated male voice addresses me. “Welcome to Markham Plaza. Please press the floor of your choice.”
“Will do,” I say. “By the way, there's a gal in the parking lot you might like. Short, a little metallic-looking, but a good personality.”
Unfortunately, a couple is getting on the elevator behind me, and they hear my conversation.
I smile lamely at them. “The elevator talks.” Heh, heh.
They don't respond, and we have an uncomfortable ride up, especially for them. They're the ones trapped in an elevator with a lunatic.
The reception area outside Victor's office is nothing short of spectacular. I'm pondering the cost of the paintings on the walls, when I realize that I could probably afford them. I've got to get used to the concept; I am the most nouveau of all the nouveau riche in the country.
Victor's secretary, Eleanor, appears to have a permanent scowl on her face. Clearly her job is to protect Victor, and I doubt that Norman Schwarzkopf could lead a battalion past her without an appointment. Fortunately, I have one, and she buzzes me through.
I enter Victor's office, which makes the reception area look Third World. Victor is at his desk. He's tall, graying at the temples, wearing a three-piece suit which strains slightly to contain his rather bulky midsection. I don't think I've ever sat at my desk without taking off my jacket, but there's Victor wearing all three pieces, sitting back in his deep leather chair, staring out at the world as if he hasn't got a care in it. And there's really no reason that he should.
“Mr. Markham, my name is Andy Carp-”
He cuts me off. “I know who you are. I'm sorry about your father. Good man.”
“Yes, I wanted to talk-”
He does it again. “You wanted to talk about that killer.” He means Willie Miller, but I doubt he even knows his name. “I won't help you with that,” he goes on. “You shouldn't have gotten a new trial. It's a waste of taxpayer money. End of discussion.”
Since this hasn't really been a discussion, I consider his announcement of its ending to be premature. “Actually, I thought that since-”
And again. “Since I have influence, and since the victim was my son's girlfriend, I could talk to the governor, get that scum's sentence reduced to life in prison. Forget it. As I said, end of discussion.”
This is getting annoying. “I like beer,” I say quickly.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demands.
“Nothing. I just wanted to see if I could get in one complete sentence without you interrupting, and ‘I like beer’ was the quickest sentence I could think of.”
This is the point where the gruff, overpowering type usually laughs grudgingly and warms up. Victor, unfortunately, doesn't seem to be familiar with that stereotype. He looks at me with the same respect he would a roach that he just found in his Rice Krispies.
“You're as big a wiseass as I've heard.”
