Following this to its logical conclusion, Dorsey and Petrone, or people working for Petrone, were in this together. But why? Dorsey benefits in obvious ways. He gets to safely disappear, while at the same time getting revenge against Laurie. But what does Petrone get out of this? Does he have any reason to hate Laurie? How does he benefit from Dorsey's successful escape?
All cases are a series of questions and answers. Early on there are far more questions, and the answers are few and far between. Eventually, the answers start to come, and the questions get fewer. If I can tip that scale far enough, I solve the puzzle and win the game. First prize is Laurie not having to spend the rest of her life in prison.
As I reach the house, it seems as if the press contingent stationed outside has gotten substantially larger. There are at least two additional camera trucks, which make it difficult for me to enter the driveway. I persist trying until they move, since I know if I relent and park on the street, I'll have given up the driveway for the duration.
As I get out of the car, I am swarmed by the reporters, all asking me if it's true that Laurie claims Dorsey is still alive and has phoned her. I decline to comment and with some difficulty make it through the horde and into the house.
Laurie, Kevin, and Edna are in the den watching television. The few afternoon news programs are having a field day with Laurie's claim of having spoken to Dorsey. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the ridicule has already begun. After pointing out that DNA results have confirmed the charred, headless body to be Dorsey's, one amused newscaster takes mock offense and says, 'I thought we were the only talking heads around here.'
Laurie is furious at the treatment she is getting, and I can't say I blame her. I have little doubt that Dylan leaked the story, and it's a public relations triumph for him. I should have been the one to take this public. Allowing Dylan to frame the issue has the effect of making Laurie look (a) desperate, (b) crazy, (c) guilty, (d) ridiculous, and (e) all of the above. Since the public is by definition the jury pool, it's not a good position for us to be in.
I can go to Hatchet and complain, and since he's not the most media-friendly judge around, he might sympathize with my position. However, it's beyond his power to erase what the public already knows, so all he could do is issue a gag order on the case from this point on. I'm not ready to advocate that; I still think there's more to be gained than lost in the public relations battle. I'm just not doing a very good job of it.
To that end, I conduct a press conference on the steps of the house. My intent is to openly acknowledge Laurie's claim that Dorsey is alive; at this point there is nothing to be gained by denying it. I point out that we did not try to take advantage of it in any way. We simply went to the police to ask for the investigation it deserved. Instead of focusing on that, they've seen fit to release it to the press.
'The district attorney's office is conducting a search for advantage, not for truth' is how I sum it up.
After my impromptu statement has concluded, I invite questions. The first one is from a woman representing the
I interrupt her. 'She got the phone call. She is a truthful person, as you will come to know. What you should already know is that nothing would be gained by our making this up. There was absolutely no possibility the police or prosecution would believe it without adequate and independent proof. We had hoped and expected they would look for such proof, rather than create a media circus designed to make my client look foolish.'
I take about five questions, making sure that every one of my answers includes an attack on the prosecution. I'm hoping to defuse the impact of today's revelation on the evening news, and once I've done the best I can in that regard, I go back into the house.
A couple of hours later we sit around the television and find out that my front porch salvo was too little too late. Laurie continues to take hits and ridicule, and while my protestations are included, they are given short shrift.
Laurie and I have been going to bed fairly early each night. For her it seems as if being asleep is considerably less painful than being awake. When we are awake, we don't want to talk only about the case, but there's absolutely nothing else that we can focus on. So we've been in bed by ten, and then, unable to sleep, I've been getting up at midnight or later to strategize and figure out my next steps.
Tonight is slightly different. Tonight we make love for the first time since this nightmare began. Laurie instigates it, and it is one of the most intensely passionate encounters I have ever experienced. There is a 'deck of the
I sleep through the night.
The most important thing I do when working on a case is ask questions. I ask them of anybody and everybody. Some of the questions are informed or even perceptive, but many are fishing expeditions. I get as many answers as I can and sift through them in my mind. Sometimes this helps me figure out the truth, but at the very least it helps me think of more questions to ask, which is fine.
Our situation in this case is so bad that I can't even come up with people to question. I can't get near Petrone, I can't find Stynes, and on behalf of the FBI, Special Agent Hobbs smiles and gives me nothing.
My plan for today reflects that lack of options. I'm going to go to Oscar Garcia's neighborhood and question some of the people that identified Laurie as having been in the area. I'm certainly not going to shake their stories; Laurie has admitted that she was there, keeping an eye on Garcia. I'm just going to see if they know or saw anything else, something, I hope, that can help my case.
An early phone call changes my plans for the day. It's from a woman who says, 'Mr. Carpenter, I know you're very busy, but I saw you on television last night, and I'd like to talk to you about my husband.'
'Who is your husband?' I ask.
'Alex Dorsey.'
She gives me directions to her apartment, coupled with the disclaimer that she's only lived there for about a month and isn't really sure if the directions are correct. They turn out to be exactly correct, and it takes me about fifteen minutes to get there. It would have been less, but I had Kevin park around the block, and then I sneaked out the back way and took his car. I don't know what Dorsey's wife wants, but I certainly don't want the press or Dylan to know she wants it from me.
Celia Dorsey lives in a small complex of garden apartments. She watches me from the window as I get out of the car, and opens the door before I can ring the bell.
'Thank you for coming, Mr. Carpenter. Please come in.'
I enter a one-bedroom apartment a little bigger than your average phone booth. Every square inch of the place is filled with furniture, photographs, and trinkets. She has said she's only lived here for a short time, yet this place already has the meticulously cared-for look of a longtime residence.
She is a petite woman, reserved and quiet. I didn't know Alex Dorsey that well, but I would never have placed them together. He was high-energy, gruff, and dominant in any room he occupied. If you added them up and divided by two, you'd be left with one normal personality. So, on second thought, they'd be perfect together.
She offers me coffee and I accept, mainly because it seems she couldn't handle the disappointment if I said no. Once we're set, coffee cups on coasters and sitting on her couch, she says, 'I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you here.'
'You said it was about your husband.'
She laughs a sad laugh. 'I'm not even sure he's still my husband.'
'What do you mean?'
'I filed for divorce three months ago. The final papers just came through yesterday, but I don't know if one can divorce a deceased spouse. Of course, now there is very considerable doubt that my spouse is deceased, which seems to complicate things even more.'
She starts to cry, softly, as if she's afraid if she lets it out full blast, it would disturb me. Of course, it probably would, so I just wait until she's finished. It only takes a few seconds, and she continues.
'I know the police don't believe your client, but I do. My husband is alive.'
'Why do you say that?' I ask.
'Well, for one thing, I simply cannot picture him dead.' She smiles. 'But you probably are hoping for something more concrete.'
'Yes.'
'I heard him talking about faking his own death.'
Yesss! Finally, a positive development. 'When?'
'Two years ago, when he was being investigated by the department.'
