The Hidden Man

Sammy walked in, deputy escort in tow, and remained silent until the guard had locked him to the table and left the room. He had darker circles under his eyes than yesterday, and those eyes fixed on me with none of the curiosity and tolerance from our first meeting. He nodded without enthusiasm at the case file in front of me as he reached for his cigarettes. “So you know everything?”

You never know everything from a cold file. “They have you at his apartment building at the time of the murder,” I said. “You got any valid reason to have been in that neighborhood?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“You own a thirty-eight special?”

“Nope.”

The cops didn’t recover the gun, which was something, at least. Nor did they recover the brown bomber jacket or green stocking cap from Sammy’s place. Obviously the theory would be that Sammy tossed the gun and clothes, but at least plausible deniability was an option.

“Anyone ever borrow your car?”

Sammy stared at me with a sour expression. “Yeah, there’s this guy who goes around killing child molesters who wanted to borrow my car that night. You think that might be important? Should I have mentioned that before?”

He was in a real mood. What did he think, I wouldn’t ask him any questions? But I played along. “This vigilante, did he own a brown jacket and green stocking cap?”

He didn’t seem to like my return volley. He was pissed off about something. Maybe it was my questions, which reminded him of how tight the state’s case was. Maybe it was the fact that he was looking at life in the pen. It felt like something more personal.

“Sammy, your public defender ever mention a diminished-capacity defense?”

He blew out smoke with disgust. “What’s that? You mean the insanity shit?”

That’s what I meant. Temporary insanity, irresistible impulse-the idea that Sammy was so overcome with rage after seeing his sister’s killer that he lost all ability to act with reason.

“Yeah, he mentioned it, and I said no.” Sammy leaned forward, banging his manacles on the table, eyeing me. “I’m not saying I was nuts. I may not have a fancy law degree, but I ain’t nuts.”

Okay, so it was directed at me. But I didn’t have time for it. Sammy needed to see the big picture here. I silently cursed his public defender for not helping him do so. Diminished capacity was the obvious play here.

I said it quietly, trying to defuse the hostility. “Listen, Sam-all you’d be saying is that your act was legally justified. You get to tell the jury why you killed that piece of shit. And the jury would go along with that, Sam. If you say you didn’t do it, then everything that Griffin Perlini did in his past, to Audrey, to others-none of that is relevant. It’s not relevant because you’re saying you didn’t kill him. My guess is the judge wouldn’t even let the jury hear about all the sex crimes Perlini committed. So you go to trial on this murder beef, and you and I know what Griffin Perlini did-we know all the shit he’s done-but the jury has no idea. You get me?”

“Yeah,” he said evenly. “Even without a college degree, I get you.”

I sighed. My take was that Sammy had thought about things last night, how things had turned out for the two of us, and he was figuring that he’d drawn the short straw. “Listen, your best defense is to say, yes, you killed him, but here’s why-because that scumbag killed your sister. I think the jury would walk you, Sam. That’s more important than some damn principle. You get your life back. Let’s tell the jury what he did to your sister.”

By now, Sammy had broken eye contact. He was being stubborn but, I thought, also had trouble, to this day, thinking about what happened to his sister. I was hoping my plea had sunk into his logic. “And how do we prove what he did to my sister?” he asked me.

Well, now, he had a point. The police couldn’t stick anything against Griffin Perlini back then. They had a pedophile with a history, they had photographs of Audrey-and many other girls-found all over his coach house, but they never found Audrey’s body and couldn’t get a confession out of him. That was the extent of my knowledge of the case, from the perspective of a seven-year-old boy. The cops couldn’t prove their case. But now I’d have to revisit all of this. I would have to find a way to prove that Griffin Perlini killed Audrey Cutler.

“Maybe-maybe look at other people he hurt,” said Sammy. “Other families had a beef with this guy, right? Audrey wasn’t the only one.”

It was an obvious thought, a good one. But Sammy didn’t seem to be rushing forth to proclaim his innocence, so I doubted that pointing the finger at another father or brother or victim of Griffin Perlini’s crimes would ultimately get me anywhere.

“I’ll do that,” I promised. “But I need more than a month to prepare, Sam. I need six months, minimum.”

Sammy shook his head. “No. No more time. I want out of here.”

“If you make me go to trial in four weeks, you’ll never get out of here.”

“I said no.”

I sat back in my chair. I understood that he’d want out of this place, but trading a couple months for a lifetime in the pen was an easy call. What was the problem here?

“Let me do this the right way, Sam. The jury will see a child killer. They’ll see the anguished brother. We’ll have a fighting chance.”

Sammy remained motionless, but I could sense violence welling up within him. His hands were balled in fists, his arms and shoulders trembling. A shade of crimson colored his rugged face. I didn’t blame the guy, but I didn’t see what the problem was. I was right, and we both knew it.

I decided to change topics. “Tell me about Smith. What’s his story?”

It took him some time to decompress. His only bodily movement was a faint shrug of his shoulders. “Guy says he represents some interested parties or shit.”

“Other victims? Their families?”

“You’re the guy went to college.”

“Shit, Sammy, what the fuck do I know about this guy? I don’t even know his real name.”

Sammy took out some frustration on his cigarette, stubbing it into oblivion. “Guy says people wanna help me. They got money. They can get me some fancy lawyers to spring me. I say, you gonna get me a fancy law yer, I want Kolarich. He says he can get me someone better. I say it’s gotta be someone I-”

He stopped there, emotion choking his throat. Someone I trust, he was going to say. Sammy probably hadn’t received sparkling representation in his previous forays into the criminal justice process. He was counting on an old friend.

“You should’ve called me day one, Sammy. I don’t care about money.”

“Well, you’re here now, and you’re gettin’ your money, so win this fuckin’ case. I’ve been sitting in here for a year and I ain’t waitin’ more than four weeks, and I sure as shit ain’t gonna say I was crazy. This guy Smith, he’ll give you what you want. So win this case, all right, varsity athlete?”

With that, Sammy pushed himself out of his chair, though he couldn’t move from his position with the manacles. He nodded to the guard, who walked to the glass room and opened the door. “You owe me, Koke,” he said. The guard unlocked him from the table and led him out.

“I know,” I answered, after he’d left the room.

11

YEAH, that Sammy’s one piece a work.”

Patrick Oleari, the public defender assigned to Sammy Cutler, parked himself in a chair in the diner located in the criminal courthouse basement. All around us, defense lawyers and prosecutors negotiated plea deals and traded