was just a law-abiding, pompous reporter.
I decide to broach this with Vince, who is the reason I’m in this mess in the first place. “You know, Cummings might want to pick his own attorney” is the wimpy way I go about it.
Vince shakes his head. “No way. You’re the best. He knows that; I told him that.”
“Vince, I agreed to represent you and the newspaper. I didn’t know I-”
Vince interrupts me, a flash of panic in his eyes. “You’ve got to do it, Andy. You’re the only lawyer I trust to handle this.”
Just then an officer comes out and tells me that I can see Cummings. I nod, but first I want to finish this with Vince.
“Vince, it doesn’t matter who
“No, it’s got to be you.” Vince doesn’t seem to be willing to let me finish a sentence, so I just let the officer lead me off to see Cummings.
I’ve never physically been with someone when they are being processed after entering custody, but in addition to fingerprinting, photographing, emptying of pockets, and the like, the arresting authorities must go over the accused with a confidence-remover.
All but the most seasoned criminals come out of these sessions looking simultaneously depressed and distraught, and Cummings is no exception. Gone, at least for the moment, are the cockiness and air of superiority that I experienced in the past. There is not yet even room for outrage; the fear and humiliation are too dominating. It may be an indictment of myself to say so, but I like him better this way.
“Have you said anything to them since your arrest?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “You told me not to.”
I nod. “Good. That becomes a rule from this day forward. Now, tell me what you know about why you were arrested.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea. One minute I was working with them, telling them what the killer was telling me, and the next thing I know they’re saying
“I’m not going to lie to you, Daniel.” My mind registers that I’ve started thinking of him as “Daniel,” rather than “Cummings,” because I need to get personally close to my clients. Then my mind registers that I am thinking of him as a client, which means I must at least be considering taking on the case. Sometimes my mind has a mind of its own.
I continue. “That same pressure you’re talking about would make them extra careful about charging someone unless they’re sure.”
His mind doesn’t seem to fully register this. “So what are you saying?”
“That they must have some evidence, evidence that they consider substantial, tying you to this. You need to think about what that could be.”
He nods and takes some time to think. “I guess only that I knew information . . . like where the bodies were, how they were murdered, things that only the killer could have known.” He throws up his hands in a gesture of frustration. “But that’s because the killer was telling me everything!”
“And why did he pick you?”
“I don’t know,” he says with some frustration. “I already told you that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you told me before. The world has changed now; you have to look at everything from an entirely different perspective. There’s-”
He interrupts me. “But you don’t understand-”
I return the favor, interrupting him. “It’s you that has to understand . . . so listen carefully. There is a reason you’re here. For us to prevail, we have to find out what the reason is, then shoot it down. And your recollections, your perceptions, can be our most valuable tools. So I know this is hard, but you don’t have the luxury of worrying, or feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve got to help yourself, by helping me.”
There is no chance that little speech will get through to him, at least not yet, since the shock of his arrest is too fresh. But if I harp on it enough, it will eventually have an effect.
For now I’ll give him a specific assignment. “You know as much about these murders as the police do. So what I want you to do is piece together where you were when each one was committed. I want to know where you were, what you were doing, and if anyone saw you do it. If we can prove you didn’t do any one of the four, their case falls apart.”
Daniel nods, but it’s not hopeful, and I’ve got a feeling he’s going to report that he was home in bed, alone, at the time of the murders. Or that aliens abducted him and sprayed him with antimemory juice.
The door opens and Millen and another cop in plain clothes come into the room. Millen speaks to me. “We would like to question your client, if that’s okay with you.”
“It’s not.”
“Maybe he would like to present his side of the story,” he says.
“Maybe you should have given him that opportunity before you arrested him.”
Millen just nods and the two of them leave. He doesn’t seem terribly disappointed; he knew I’d never let Daniel speak to him. As a thorough cop, he had to go through the motions.
The guard comes to take Daniel back to his holding cell, and when I leave, there are two messages waiting for me at the desk. One is a notification from the district attorney’s office that the arraignment is scheduled for tomorrow, which is Friday. They are moving quickly and don’t even want to wait until Monday, another sign of confidence. They think their case is strong enough already and have no doubt the grand jury will indict based on it.
The other message is from Laurie, reporting that she and Vince will be at Charlie’s, waiting for me. I head over there, though in truth I would prefer to go home and think things through.
Laurie and Vince are sitting at our regular corner table when I arrive, but it would not take Sherlock Holmes to look at this scene and know there is something amiss. First of all, there is a full plate of french fries on the table, and Vince is paying no attention to them. I can’t overemphasize the inconceivability of such an event. Secondly, the television facing their table is tuned to the local news, while every other one in the entire bar has ESPN.
Vince sees me walking toward them and stands up, as if somehow that will get me there faster. “What happened?” he asks. “How did it go?”
I explain that Daniel volunteered nothing much to me and that I refused to let him volunteer anything to the police. “But they seem very confident of their case.”
“What is their case? What do they have?” He’s asking questions in pairs.
“I don’t know, and Daniel claims not to either. I’ll probably learn more when I meet with the DA, and in any event they’ll have to turn over everything in discovery.”
He tosses out another pair. “So this is going to trial? We can’t stop it?”
“Not unless Daniel pleads guilty.”
He shakes his head. “Impossible. Won’t happen.”
“Vince, why don’t you tell me everything that you know and I don’t?”
He sighs and then nods in resignation, as if this is something he dreads. “Daniel was married when he lived in Cleveland. Things didn’t go well for him.”
“Meaning . . . ?”
“About a year and a half ago his wife was murdered.”
The thud that echoes through the bar is the sound of my stomach hitting the floor.
“Did they catch the killer?” I ask.
“Nope. It’s still an open case.”
“Was Daniel a suspect?”
“Of course not. I mean, you know how it is, they always check the family first. Especially since she had a lot of money; her parents left her a bundle. But there was no evidence he was involved, which he wasn’t.”
“And you kept all this a secret?”
He flashes some annoyance. “What secret? He didn’t do anything wrong. Nobody kept it a secret. The guy’s wife was murdered. Is that something you’re going to go around broadcasting?”
“How was she killed?” I ask.
