“Maybe, or maybe Lassiter had nothing to do with it. And with no other evidence, you couldn’t even get my testimony admitted if I were willing to give it, which I’m not.”
“Let me worry about getting it admitted,” I say.
“Andy, think this through. If word of this got out, every murderer in every prison in the country would be filing appeals saying that Lassiter was the real murderer and that he planted all the conclusive evidence their prosecutors used.”
I understand her point, and I don’t try to refute it, at least for now. The fact is that her testimony would not be admissible at this stage anyhow. I would first need to independently tie Lassiter into Daniel’s case, and neither Marcus’s informant nor Dominic Petrone is about to raise his right hand and tell it to the jury.
She adds, “Be careful with this, Andy. Lassiter is more than a tad insane.”
I nod, change the subject, and we have a thoroughly pleasant dinner, absent talk of serial killers and severed hands. She waits until we’re having coffee to smile and make her announcement. “Todd and I are getting married.”
“Congratulations. Who the hell is Todd?”
“I told you about him. He’s a Boston cop. A captain.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Three months,” she says. “But I would have said yes after three weeks. When you know, you know.”
I nod, silently wondering why, if Todd and Cindy and I all seem to “know,” Laurie remains in the dark.
“Things still well with you and Laurie?” Cindy asks.
She seems to have read my mind, so I get a little defensive. “Yes, well . . . very well . . . totally well . . .”
She smiles. “Sounds like you’ve reached new levels of wellness.”
“We have.”
“So when are you getting married?” she asks.
“Married? Me? No, thank you. I’m a free spirit . . . an eagle. No woman can clip my wings. I’ve got women all over the world. Paterson, Passaic, Trenton . . . you name it.”
“So Laurie doesn’t want to get married?”
I shrug. “Not so far.”
On the flight home I try to figure out what I’ve learned and what I still have to learn. I now completely believe that Tommy Lassiter killed Linda Padilla, though demonstrating that to a jury is very much another matter. What I don’t know is who, if anyone, hired him, or why he needed to kill three other women in the process.
Also puzzling to me is why he chose Daniel to frame. There are much less visible people, with far fewer resources, that he could have more easily pinned it on. He chose Daniel in such a way that the entire series of murders played out as a public spectacle, yet Lassiter’s previous history was always to lurk in the shadows.
He could have planted the incriminating evidence on virtually anyone, yet he chose Daniel. Daniel must have made himself an inviting target, or perhaps he had a previous connection to Lassiter that he hasn’t shared with me.
It’s time to talk to my client.
• • • • •
“HE TOLD ME HE KILLED my wife.” Daniel says this after considerable prodding, actually berating, on my part. He says it after I told him that he was going to lose this case unless I knew all the facts, every single one of them. And he says it with a shaky voice, the emotion of that night and the night his wife died coming back to him in torrents.
He seems so upset that I restrain my very real desire to strangle him with his handcuffs. This represents something that was critical for me to have known at the very beginning, not now, at the beginning of the end.
“When did he tell you that?” I ask, maintaining a calm demeanor.
“The night he killed Linda Padilla. That’s what he said when he first called me.”
“What else did he say?”
“That he would meet me in the park. That he would tell me who paid him to kill my wife . . . to kill Margaret.”
“And you believed that he killed her?”
He nods. “He was telling the truth. Absolutely.”
“How do you know that?”
“He knew what she was wearing . . . a bracelet I had given her for her anniversary. He said he took it . . . he described it.” He nods vigorously to punctuate his point. “There’s no doubt, Andy. He killed her.”
“Okay. So you got to the park . . . and then what?”
“I went to the place we were supposed to meet, the steps near the pavilion. He must have come up on me from behind, because the next thing I remember I was lying on the steps and talking to the cop.”
“Why didn’t you call the police in the first place?”
“He said if I did, or said anything to them, I’d never find out who ordered Margaret’s death. I needed to know that . . . I still do.”
“Is that all?”
He shakes his head but is silent for a few moments, apparently weighing his words. “No . . . he said he had the power to frame anybody he wanted for Margaret’s death,” he says, then more quietly, “He said he could make me appear guilty.”
“So that’s why you never told this to the police?”
“Partly, I guess. But mainly, it was because I didn’t want to lose contact with this guy. You’ve got to understand, I never dreamed they would charge me with Padilla’s murder. Hell, when I first spoke to the cop, I didn’t even know she
I’m trying to process all this new information but having a difficult time. Right now all I can think about is what a selfdestructive asshole my client has been. It would make me feel better to tell him so, but I’m not sure his psyche could handle it.
“You’ve been a selfdestructive asshole,” I blurt out, choosing my feelings over his psyche.
“I know,” he moans, making me sorry I said it. “Is all this too late to help?”
“I don’t know,” is my honest reply. “What else haven’t you told me?”
“That’s it. I swear.”
“Do you believe that someone paid to have your wife killed?”
He thinks this through for a few moments. “I know he killed her, and I doubt very much that Margaret knew him. So I have no reason to doubt that he was paid for it.”
I head back to the office to brief Laurie and Kevin on what I’ve just learned. We talk about the possible ways we can get this information to the jury, but it’s a short conversation because at this point there is just one possible way, and that is to have Daniel testify. It is not something I’m inclined to do, but fortunately, it’s not a decision I have to make right now.
I call Pete Stanton at the precinct, but I’m told that he has the day off. I try his cell phone number, and he answers on the first ring. I tell him that I need to discuss something with him, and I can actually hear his ears perk up through the phone, as his mind races to figure out how he can cost me money. Pete has never really handled my wealth very well, so he tries to reduce that wealth in any way that he can.
“Maybe we can talk after the Knicks game,” he says.
The Knicks are playing the Lakers tonight, and I was thinking of going over to Charlie’s to watch it, so Pete’s request is surprisingly painless. “You want to meet at Charlie’s?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. I’m getting tired of that place.”
“So where do you want to watch the game?”
“Courtside.”
The game is starting in four hours, is completely sold out, and Pete is expecting me to get tickets. He knows that the only possible way I could do that would be to call a scalper and pay a small fortune.
“You know,” I say, “you’re a greedy lowlife who has no understanding of the meaning of friendship.” I didn’t
