“He was lying down on the stairs leading up to the pavilion. About two steps from the top.”
“Was he conscious?”
“Yes,” says Hobart. “He spoke to me.”
“What did he say?”
“That the killer called him . . . told him to come to the park.”
“Did he say anything about a murder that might have taken place there?” Tucker asks.
“No. He said he did not know what might be in the pavilion, that he was attacked on the steps. He thought he had lost consciousness.”
Hobart goes on to testify how he entered the pavilion, saw Linda Padilla’s body, and immediately secured the scene. He questioned Daniel briefly, before the detectives arrived and took over.
Tucker turns the witness over to me. There’s not much for me to go after, but I want to at least make our presence felt to the jury.
“Officer Hobart, how did you come to be in the park that night?” I ask.
“The dispatcher sent me there. They received a 911 call.”
“Who made that call? If you know.”
“I don’t believe the caller gave his name.”
“Was the caller there when you arrived?” I ask.
“No.”
“But this anonymous caller was on the scene that night? And saw what happened?”
He shrugs. “I really don’t know what they saw, or if they even saw anything.”
I nod. “Right. Maybe they didn’t see anything. Maybe they called 911 to report that nothing was happening at the pavilion in the park at one o’clock in the morning. And maybe your dispatcher sent you out to confirm that nothing was happening. Is that how you figure it?”
Tucker objects that I’m being argumentative, and Calvin sustains. Hobart switches tactics and talks about the vagrants in the park and how they would not want to give their names, for fear of getting involved. I’ve made my point, that there was someone else on the scene, so I move on. I bring out the fact that Hobart saw the wound on Daniel’s head and that there was significant bleeding.
“What is your responsibility once the detectives arrive?” I ask.
“To make sure the area remains secure,” he says.
“Do you brief the detectives on what you’ve learned at the scene?”
He nods. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“And you offer your impressions as well? If you think they are significant?”
“Yes.”
“You’re trained in these types of things?”
“Well . . . sure.”
“And whatever you tell them, you later put in a report?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I get a copy from Kevin, then hand it to Hobart and get him to confirm that it is in fact the report he submitted. “Please show me where in the report you voiced suspicions about Mr. Cummings.”
“There’s nothing like that in there.”
“So everything seemed normal to you? You didn’t suspect Mr. Cummings hit himself in the head?” I ask.
“No . . . not really. But I had other things to pay attention to.”
“And you left Mr. Cummings alone while you looked around?” I ask, the clear implication being that if he suspected Daniel of anything, he wouldn’t have left him unguarded.
“Yes.”
“No further questions.” I haven’t done that much with Hobart, but that’s okay, since there was little damage to repair. That will come later, when Tucker trots out his big guns. We had better be ready.
I head back to the office after the court day ends. Our team meeting isn’t until six at my house, and I’ve agreed to meet with some of Daniel’s supporters from Cleveland. They asked for twenty minutes of my time, but I’m hoping to wrap it up in ten.
When I arrive at the office, three of the seven people in the courtroom today are already there waiting for me. Edna has one of them engaged in a conversation about investments and finance. She introduces him as Eliot Kendall, who I know from reputation is the son of Byron Kendall, founder and chairman of Kendall Industries, an enormous trucking company headquartered in Cleveland. As the president of the company and future heir, Eliot must be worth hundreds of millions of dollars, yet he patiently listens as Edna tries to get him to transfer his investments to her cousin Fred.
The other two visitors are Lenny Morris, a fellow reporter of Daniel’s at the Cleveland newspaper, and Janice Margolin, the director of a local Cleveland charity which Daniel actively supported.
Eliot Kendall is no more than thirty, and though Lenny and Janice are at least twenty-five years his senior, Eliot seems the natural spokesman for the trio. He explains that the others in court today had to go back to Cleveland, but that the three of them “are here for the duration.”
“So how can I help you?” I ask, trying to move this along.
Eliot smiles. “That’s what we’re here to ask you. We’re here to support Daniel, which means we will support you in any way we can.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But I think we’re covered.”
“I’m sure you are. But if at any point you need some extra pairs of hands, no job is too small.” The others nod enthusiastically in agreement. “And while I doubt money is an issue for Daniel, if it becomes one, I’m available to help. You tell us your problems, we’ll help solve them.”
This is an impressive display of support from some pretty substantial people. It pleases me that my client is so well liked and respected by them. “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, keeping things as bland as I can. Despite their offer to hear our “problems,” I’m not going to get into any specifics of the case with these people.
“There’s also something you should know,” Eliot says. “We’ve hired a private investigator to look into things. Not to get in your way . . . just a fresh pair of professional eyes. If we uncover anything helpful, it’s yours to use as you see fit.”
My initial reaction to this news is negative; it feels like an invasion of my turf and a potential annoyance. On the other hand, maybe it will turn up something. Besides, they aren’t asking for my approval.
“As long as your investigators do not claim to be representing the defense.”
Eliot nods agreeably. “Absolutely. No problem.”
“Daniel is lucky to have such good friends,” I say.
Eliot smiles a slightly condescending smile. “Let me tell you a brief story, Mr. Carpenter. My younger sister ran away from home when she was fourteen . . . left a note saying she couldn’t deal with her problems anymore. My family kept things very quiet, foolishly not wanting to confront the embarrassment. Finally, my father decided that the media could help spread the word, perhaps help find her. We didn’t know Daniel, but we knew of his reputation, so we gave him the story.”
I search my mind for a memory of this story but can’t come up with one. “Did you find her?”
His shake of the head is a sad one, as the remembered pain seems to hit him head-on. “No, but not for lack of effort on Daniel’s part. He made finding her his personal crusade, but that’s not why I remain grateful to this day. He treated the story, my sister, and our family with incredible compassion and sensitivity. No sensationalism, no grandstanding . . . just outstanding reporting by an outstanding human being. He’s been my friend ever since.”
It seems a sincere tribute and is echoed by less dramatic stories from Janice and Lenny. I finally extricate myself from the meeting by promising to keep in touch should I need their help in any way. What I don’t tell them is that their stories would qualify them as excellent character witnesses for the penalty phase of the trial. That will only come if we lose the case and are trying to avoid a death sentence.
I’m finally able to get them out the door, and I head for the meeting at my house. Laurie and Kevin are there when I arrive, and I can tell from the pained expression on Kevin’s face that Laurie’s already ordered dinner. Since we are real men who cannot survive on tofu and veggie burgers, I break out the potato chips and pretzels, and Kevin dives for them like they are life preservers floating in the ocean.
My overriding concern with this case is that it is going along too predictably, too comfortably, and that we are
