to be a constant fight. Of course, to let anything slip by us is to invite a disaster in court.
Basically, the case against Laurie as outlined in the material has two powerful linchpins. First is her presence at what has now been identified as the murder scene behind Hinchcliffe Stadium, and what the police see as her attempt to retrieve the evidence. Obviously, the most incriminating part of that evidence is her bloody clothing, and I have no doubt that DNA will reveal it to be Alex Dorsey's blood on both that clothing and the knife.
The second very damaging piece of evidence has been found as the result of a search warrant, executed on Laurie's house. In her garage was an empty can with the residue of a fluid that appeared to be gasoline, and which when tested was the exact same mixture as that used to set Dorsey's body on fire. Laurie is stunned when she hears this, and swears that she has never seen that can in her life.
The remainder of the file consists of witness statements. It's very early in the process, but the police are already making headway in this regard. Oscar and others in his neighborhood claim that Laurie was there frequently, apparently following Oscar. There is also a witness who puts Laurie in the area of the warehouse the day of the murder.
A major piece missing from the discovery documents is any reference to the victim's actions, record, and history. Dorsey must have a file the size of South Dakota, but despite our request, nothing has been included. Only by getting those records will we know why they don't want us to have them.
'Pancakes?' It's Laurie, standing at the door, the smell of her prepared breakfast wafting into the room.
A prime factor that the NFL uses for talent evaluation is the player's speed in the forty-yard dash. If instead they measured the time from den to kitchen, Kevin would be All-Pro and a future Hall of Famer.
Edna and I eat one pancake each, and Laurie has two, so including Kevin we eat a total of sixteen. When we're done, we go back into the den, and we plot our initial moves. Kevin will work on getting access to Dorsey's police records, initially by renewing our request for voluntary discovery. We expect Dylan to again reject it, so Kevin will simultaneously prepare a motion to convince the court to compel him to comply.
The other assignment I give Kevin is to find an investigator to work with us on this case. I'm afraid that Laurie will feel as if she is being replaced, and might get frustrated and upset. I'm wrong again, and she jumps in with ideas for people that we might hire.
When Kevin leaves, Laurie leads me into the bedroom, out of earshot of Edna. Once we're there, she says, 'Andy, we need to talk about money.'
'What about it?' I ask.
'I've got twelve thousand dollars in the bank,' she says.
'That's all? I've got twenty-two million.'
'Andy, I've always been self-sufficient. It's how I've defined myself. But right now I can't come close to paying for my own defense, and I don't know what to do about it.'
'There's nothing for you to do. I'll pay for it, but first I'll negotiate with myself to cut my hourly rate.'
'This case will cost a fortune.'
'Then we're really lucky, because I happen to have a fortune,' I say. 'Look, we bring different things to our relationship, to our friendship. One of the things I bring is money. It's never been that important to either of us, but right now we need it, and there it is. If we spend every penny of it, that's fine.'
'Andy--' she starts, but I cut her off.
'I know how you feel, Laurie, but every minute we spend thinking about this is a minute we're not thinking about what's really important. And that is winning this case.'
'So this is something I'm going to have to deal with?' she asks.
I nod, and even though she still seems uncertain about her ability to do that, she hugs me. 'I love you,' she says.
'I love you too.' As I said, it's not a response we consider automatic, and there's no obligation to say it, but sometimes it feels right.
I head back into the den, and by that time Edna has worked out phone arrangements. The phone company will be there within the hour to install our office line separate from my home line. Laurie wants to take personal calls on her cell phone, so as not to interfere with our activities. Edna is by now already on another project, though I have no idea what she could be working on. It's possible that some body-snatching work-pod took over Edna's body while she slept last night. Not wanting to disrupt whatever the Edna-pod is doing, and even though I'm still picking pieces of pancake out of my teeth, I go to lunch.
This lunch is with FBI Special Agent Robert Hastings. Pete Stanton, who set it up, told me that Hastings's friends call him Robbie, but that since I'm a defense attorney, I should call him Special Agent Hastings. Pete knows him from a few cases where their paths intersected, and he describes him as a stand-up guy.
The stand-up guy is already sitting at a table when I get there. At least I think he's sitting. Right now he's about half a foot taller than I am when I'm standing. I had asked Pete how I'd recognize him, and he described Hastings as dressing conservatively and balding slightly. Apparently, Pete considered these more distinctive features than the fact that Hastings is in the neighborhood of six foot nine, three hundred pounds.
Hastings is looking at his watch when I arrive. The lunch was called for noon, and a quick check of my own watch shows it to be one minute after.
I reach the table and introduce myself, and then say, 'I'm not late, am I?' I say this with the full knowledge that I'm not.
'Yeah, you are,' he says.
'Didn't we say twelve o'clock?' I ask.
A slight nod of his massive head. 'Yeah.'
I decide not to pursue the time issue any further, and I quietly let him take the lead in the conversation. It turns out that conversation-leading is not a specialty of his.
After about five silent and excruciatingly uncomfortable minutes, he says, 'Pete tells me you're a pain in the ass.'
I smile. 'I've been called worse.'
'Yeah,' he says. 'I'm sure.'
Hastings goes on to tell me that Pete also said that even though I'm a little runt, there's not a lunch check ever made that's too heavy for me to pick up. He picked this really expensive restaurant to test out that theory.
He's in the middle of ordering enough food to feed the Green Bay Packers when it hits me. 'Hey, you're not Dead End Hastings, are you?'
It turns out that he is, in fact, Dead End Hastings, who spent two years playing for the Denver Broncos and who was so named because when running backs came into his area, they were entering a dead end with no way out. An untimely knee injury cut a very promising career short.
The transformation is immediate. He goes from quiet and surly to affable and gregarious. Fortunately, his mouth is large enough that simultaneous talking and eating presents no difficulty for him at all. He regales me with stories of his playing days and is impressed with my knowledge of rather arcane pieces of football trivia. I always knew that all those Sunday afternoons in front of the television set would turn out to be worthwhile.
We're having dessert when I bring up the reason I wanted to have this lunch in the first place. 'I need to know everything there is to know about Alex Dorsey. I'm representing the person accused in his murder.'
His nod confirms my expectation that Pete had alerted him to at least this general subject matter. 'And why exactly did you come to me?' he asks.
'Because I know the Bureau conducted an investigation that somehow involved Dorsey and that it got him at least temporarily off the hook when Internal Affairs was coming after him. That's all part of the public record.'
I'm stretching the truth some: FBI involvement with Dorsey was never publicly confirmed. Hastings doesn't seem to care one way or the other. 'It's not my case,' he says, 'so all I can do is tell you whose case it is.'
'That's a start,' I say.
'Darrin Hobbs. He's number two man in the eastern region, heading for number one.'
'Thanks,' I say. 'Any chance you can set up a meeting for me with him?'
He shrugs. 'I can tell him you want to talk to him. I wouldn't count on it, though. He's a busy guy.'
'I understand,' I say. 'By the way, you said 'is.''
'What's that?'
'You said it
