“Okay, so let’s start at the beginning,” I say.
Kevin nods. “Good. Steven is at home in New York, and his father calls him and asks him to meet him in Paterson.”
Laurie, who has been reading the transcripts on a daily basis, nods and says, “And there’s testimony that he went through the toll-booth about half an hour later. He went to Mario’s, waiting to meet his father.”
“Wait a minute. Kevin, remember that note I passed you the other day? I asked how Walter got to the murder scene.”
Kevin nods. “And I told you the killer brought him there.”
“Then where did he meet the killer?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Well, he didn’t drive to where the killer was; the documents show his car was in the garage when the house was destroyed. He sure as hell didn’t take a bus to downtown Paterson. So how did the killer get to him? When and where did they meet that night?”
“Maybe he took a cab.”
“Why would he?” Laurie says. “He had a car. And if a cab picked him up a couple of hours before he was murdered, it likely would have come out already. The media coverage the day after the murder was substantial, I assume?”
“Very substantial,” I say.
“I admit it’s an interesting question,” Kevin says. “But what does it ultimately mean? We know that Jimmy Childs killed him, so what’s the difference how he got to him?”
“Because maybe he had help,” I say. “Maybe it’s a way to get Robinson back into the case. Let’s get the security guard logs at the house gate from that night. Maybe Robinson came there at the time in question and drove off with him.”
“We should be so lucky,” Kevin says, but promises to subpoena the records first thing in the morning.
Unfortunately, the morning comes way too quickly. I was hoping we could skip it entirely, along with the next few months. But that’s not how it works out, and before I know it Hatchet is taking his seat on the bench.
I make the obligatory yet pathetic motion to dismiss, and Hatchet immediately denies it. He tells me to call our first witness, and I call Jessica Santorini, a bartender at Mario’s.
After establishing that she was at the restaurant that night, I ask her if she remembers seeing Steven there.
She nods. “I do. He was sitting at the bar.”
“About how long was he sitting there?”
“I’m not sure of the exact time, but it was quite awhile. I remember because all he had was one or maybe two drinks, and I kept asking him if he wanted something else. He said no, and I think he said he was waiting for somebody.”
“Did you talk about anything else?”
“I’m not sure; it was pretty busy that night.”
On cross-examination, Richard asks her, “Did the defendant pay by credit card or cash?”
“Gee, I wouldn’t know,” she says.
Richard introduces the restaurant’s record that night, which show no credit card payment by Steven. “If he didn’t pay by credit card, then it must have been cash, correct? There’s no other choice, is there?”
“No, that’s it.”
“So there’s no way to identify his check?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “Not really.”
“And no way to know what time he left?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
I bring in a waitress and a patron at the restaurant that night, both of whom basically say the same thing: They’re pretty sure they remember Steven, but they can’t say for sure when he left.
We’re not exactly generating headlines here.
At lunch, a court messenger brings Kevin an envelope, and he opens it and takes out some papers. “The security gate logs from that week,” he announces, as he tries to locate the night in question.
“Robinson? Tell me he was at the house that night,” I say, hoping it will show Robinson can be shown to have arrived at the house and left with Walter Timmerman.
“No,” Kevin says, looking up at me. “But Thomas Sykes was. He arrived at a quarter to seven.”
The name surprises me. “Could he have been shacking up with Diana at that house?”
“Either that or he came to see Walter,” he says. “There’s no way to tell from this whether Walter was home.”
“Does it say if Sykes left alone?”
Kevin shakes his head. “No.” Then, “So what have we learned?”
“We’ve learned something; we just don’t know what it means, or if it has any value. We’ll figure it out tonight.”
I go outside and use my cell phone to call Laurie. “How are you feeling?” I ask.
“I feel fine,” she says.
“Ready to go to work?”
I can see her smile through the phone. “You’d better believe it,” she says.
“LET’S MAKE SOME ASSUMPTIONS about Thomas Sykes,” I say. “Let’s assume that he was not at the house that night for a quickie with Diana Timmerman. And let’s further assume that he was involved in the murder of her husband.”
“We have nothing to base that on,” says Kevin.
“I would say almost nothing. We do at least know he was at the house that night, and we know he was having an affair with Timmerman’s wife. But I’ll concede the point; we aren’t close to implicating him. I’m just suggesting we assume the worst, and try to figure out the pieces. If it doesn’t fit, then we’ll move on.”
“Okay,” Kevin says. “Sykes went to the house, grabbed Walter Timmerman, and drove him to Paterson, where Jimmy Childs was waiting to shoot him.”
Laurie says, “The head of security, Durant, says that if Walter Timmerman had been in Sykes’s car when he left there should be a notation to that effect.” I had asked Laurie to interview Durant while we were in court today, and she did so.
“He was in the trunk, or tied up in the back if Sykes had an SUV.” They both stare at me as if I’m an idiot, so I say, “Assumptions. Assumptions.”
“Fine,” Laurie says, going along. “He tied him up, and then when they got away from the house, he forced Walter to call Steven.”
Another piece, something I had completely missed until now, clicks into place, and I can feel my excitement starting to grow. “What happened to his phone?” I ask.
I pick up my own phone without waiting for an answer to my question, but before I dial I ask Kevin to dig out all the cell phone records. “The ones in discovery and Sam’s as well.”
I dial Billy Cameron, the public defender who was representing the young man originally accused of the Timmerman murder. He’s not home, but when I tell his wife who I am and that I am calling on an urgent matter, she gives me his cell number.
“Billy? Andy Carpenter.”
“Let me guess: They nailed you on the dognapping and you need me to arrange bail.”
“No, if that happened I would call someone competent. But I do have a question I need you to answer.”
“Shoot,” he says.
“Your client was picked up with Timmerman’s wallet. Did he have anything else of Timmerman’s on him?”
“I don’t think so. Like what?”
