I interrupt. “Then why is the range different?”
“Because of the many tall buildings. We refer to it as the terrain.”
“So terrain can make a difference also? Just like weather and heavy usage and who knows what else?”
Tucker objects to my characterization, and Calvin sustains. I withdraw the question and move on. “Mr. Winslow, assuming perfect weather, normal usage, and average terrain, the radius is four miles. Correct?”
“Approximately.”
I smile at the increasing inexactness of this science. “Yes,
“Yes.”
“So it covers a total diameter of eight miles? In such a perfect world?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Mr. Zachry read Mr. Cummings’s statement from that night into the record, where he said he drove fifteen minutes after getting the call. Did you hear that?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anywhere in that statement that he drove fast, or even in a straight line?”
Tucker objects. “Your Honor, this is not within the witness’s area of expertise.”
I shake my head. “I am simply asking his recollections based on what he heard Mr. Zachry read. I can give him a copy of the statement, and then his recollections will be perfect.”
Calvin overrules Tucker, and Winslow answers. “I didn’t hear him read that he drove fast or in a straight line, no.”
“Do you ever drive in North Jersey, Mr. Winslow?”
“Yes. Every day.”
“Do you find that the speed with which you drive depends on things like weather and heavy usage and terrain?”
The jury and gallery laugh and Winslow can’t suppress a smile. “I do,” he says.
“Traffic is an inexact science, isn’t it, Mr. Winslow?”
Tucker objects and I withdraw the question. I let Winslow off the stand and sit down next to Daniel, who, despite my admonitions, looks positively euphoric.
• • • • •
LESS THAN THREE HOURS after court is adjourned, my shuttle flight is landing at Logan Airport in Boston. I haven’t been here in almost twenty years, but the drive into the city brings home the memories as if they were yesterday.
As a teenager, I was a huge Larry Bird fan, which caused me some uncomfortable moments living in the New York area. But I took the abuse from my friends, and while Bird was in the league I was a traitor to my beloved Knicks. I was, heaven help me, a Celtics fan.
My father handled the situation well, and didn’t do what other Knicks-loving fathers would do. He didn’t beat, starve, or humiliate me, though in retrospect I deserved it all. Instead, he tolerated my treasonous impulses, in fact did more than that. He would take me up to Boston to watch play-off games in Boston Garden. Fortunately for me, the Knicks were terrible in those years and never made it to the play-offs themselves.
Boston Garden was an amazing place, a true shrine to basketball as it should be played, and attending a game there was unlike attending a sports event any place else in the world. The Celtics were blessed with talent, smarts, and a relentless will to win, a team worthy of their home, and I’m glad to have witnessed them in action. But today Larry Bird is retired, the old Boston Garden is no more, and I am securely back in the Knicks fold.
I arrive at Carmine’s, a small downtown restaurant, at seven-thirty, and Cindy is already there, waiting for me at the bar. She is a very attractive brunet, looking even better than the last time I saw her, which was almost six months ago. The guy on the next stool over is futilely attempting to hit on her, and if you gave him three hundred guesses, he couldn’t come up with her occupation. She is Cindy Spodek, FBI special agent, Organized Crime Division.
I met Cindy last year when she testified at Laurie’s trial. Cindy had become aware that her boss at the Bureau, until then considered an American hero, had in fact been running massive, illegal operations that extended to murder. Her turning on him was an act of real courage, and she did so at great jeopardy to her career.
In the months that have passed, she’s been reassigned to the Bureau’s Boston office, but has survived the expected backlash from her colleagues. I last spoke to her a couple of months ago, and she seemed fairly happy. Her career was back on a decent track, and she had met a guy that she felt just might be the one.
Cindy brightens when she sees me, and gives me a warm hug and kiss. It’s enough to send Mr. Barstool on to more receptive pastures, and he makes his way down the bar. Cindy and I head to our table in a quiet corner of the restaurant.
We exchange pleasantries, including pictures of our dogs. Cindy has a two-year-old golden named Sierra that I rescued and gave to her. She thinks Sierra is the best dog in North America, an impossibility unless Tara and New Jersey have relocated below the equator without my knowing it. But I tolerate this nonsense because I’m here on a mission.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I say.
She frowns. “Yeah, right. You reeled me in like a fish.”
I called Cindy yesterday and left a message saying that I needed to talk to her about Tommy Lassiter. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist that, and I further knew that she’d learn everything about Lassiter that she could before we met.
“So what do you know about Lassiter?” I ask.
She smiles the smile of someone barely tolerating an idiot. “To save time, I decided on the rules for this conversation on the way over here,” she says. “Here’s how it’s going to work. You tell me why you’re asking and what you already know, and then I’ll decide if I’ll say anything or just leave you with the check.”
I grin. “Sounds fair to me,” I say, and lay out the particulars of Daniel’s case and what I know about Lassiter’s involvement in it. She listens intently and doesn’t ask any questions until I’ve finished.
“How do you know Lassiter is involved?”
“Marcus got one of the prisoners involved in Randy’s murder to talk.”
She frowns, mainly because she knows Marcus. “Marcus reasoned with him?” she asks.
“Yes. He can be very reasonable when he wants to be. I believe it’s your turn to speak.”
She considers this for a moment, then nods. “Tommy Lassiter is an extraordinarily talented and cold-blooded murderer. He is also a maniac. The Bureau wants him very badly.”
“Does the Bureau have any information connecting him to my case?”
She shakes her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“There are a lot of murderers in this country; what makes him special enough to be on your radar?”
She hesitates before answering, as if deciding whether or not she should confide in me. I’m sure she thought this out before coming here, so it must be significant enough that she’s having second thoughts. “Because he’s added a new wrinkle to the process. His fee is twice as high as anyone else’s because he does more than just murder.”
“How’s that?” I ask.
She looks at me intently. “This is just between you and me. That’s it. Agreed?”
I nod. “I’ll tell only Laurie and Kevin.”
She continues, since she knows they can be trusted. “He also provides a guilty party, to throw suspicion away from himself and the people who hire him. He frames someone; it’s part of his full-service operation. And he’s good at it.”
This piece of news hits me right between the eyes. For the first time I truly believe, I truly know, that Daniel is innocent of these murders. It is simultaneously a huge weight lifted from my shoulders and an incredible pressure added to those same shoulders. It is now far more important that I get him off.
“Will you testify to this?” I ask.
She laughs a short laugh. “Are you out of your mind? Of course not.”
“An innocent man is on trial for his life.”
