the picture; on the other hand, he totally doesn’t trust me. This seems perfect for him, but he’s smart enough to know that if I want something, he shouldn’t.
Conflicted as he is, he decides on the one surefire approach: No matter what I want to do, he doesn’t want to give me the time to do it. “Your Honor, Mr. Carpenter is entitled to present whatever defense he wishes, but I see no reason for the trial to be delayed so that he can go on a fishing expedition to support a new strategy. Having said that, I assume his new witnesses would not be on the current witness list. Therefore, the state would reserve the right to request our own continuance, should we need time to prepare for our cross-examinations.”
Harrison turns to me. “How long a continuance are you requesting?”
Earlier in this session I used the words “in the interests of justice” because Judge Harrison is obliged to rule according to those interests, even if those rulings aren’t necessarily based on accepted court procedure. In a death penalty case the “interests of justice” principle becomes even more crucial. “To properly further the interests of justice, Your Honor, I would request one week.”
Dylan almost chokes. “Your Honor, we have a jury out there, and-”
Harrison cuts him off. “The trial is continued for two days. Court will resume at nine o’clock on Wednesday.”
I’m a little disappointed in the ruling; I was hoping for three days. But it should be enough time if we don’t waste any of it. I ask Judge Harrison to seal this proceeding for the time being, and for him to order that neither Dylan nor I reveal the substance of it, at least for now. Dylan argues, but I throw in another “interests of justice” argument, and Harrison agrees.
I head to a meeting in my office to finalize our plans, and if the radio news reports I hear on the way are a true indication, the media are going crazy over the just announced continuance. All that Judge Harrison has revealed is that it was requested by the defense, and as I near my office, I can see the media hordes outside waiting for me.
I call ahead and switch the meeting to my house, since I can more easily get in and out without having to deal with the press. They are there in force, but I come in the back way and then hold a thirty-second press conference on the porch.
“As you know, Judge Harrison has issued a gag order,” I say. “Gagged people by definition have no comment.”
Not being gagged themselves, reporters continue to bombard me with questions, but I briefly and disingenuously profess frustration at not being able to answer, and head back inside. Before long Kevin, Laurie, Sam, and Willie have made it through and join me in the den.
Willie calls me aside and tells me that Marcus has set things up as scheduled, and it gives me a pit in my stomach the size of Norway. To put it out of my mind and focus on the matter at hand takes a mental discipline that I’m not sure I have.
I can feel the different dynamic in this meeting compared to our previous ones. Until now we’ve been floundering, unsure where to go and how to get there. Now we have a viable plan, and our task is simply to execute it.
Kevin and I go over the meetings we need to have tomorrow with our witnesses, and Sam reassures me that he has recruited a friend highly competent and capable of setting our trap for Pollard.
To that end I call the Pollards, and Teri answers. I ask her to have Bobby pick up the other line. Laurie, Kevin, and Sam sit silently in the room as I wait, knowing that this conversation must go well for us to have a chance.
Bobby picks up, and I tell him that he is to testify Wednesday, though I’m not sure at what time. I’ll want him at the courthouse at nine A.M.
“No problem,” he says. “How come the trial was delayed?”
“The judge won’t let us talk about it, but it’s nothing for you to be concerned about,” I lie. “Your testimony will go forward as scheduled.”
“It’s nothing bad for Kenny?” Teri asks.
“Definitely not. It could even turn out to be good.”
“Great,” she says.
I take a deep breath; here comes the hard part. “Teri, with the way the media are all over everything that happens, this trial is as much about public relations as anything else. Maybe more.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she says. “The things they say about Kenny, it makes my blood boil.”
“Me too,” I say. “That’s why I want you in a TV studio on Wednesday doing interviews when Bobby finishes testifying. The other side is going to have people out there saying Bobby is wrong; we need you saying he’s right.”
“Whatever you need, but I was hoping to be there to support Bobby.”
I hate manipulating her, but I have no choice. I can’t have her at the courthouse, able to tell Bobby about the witnesses preceding his own testimony. “I’m sure Bobby wants you where you can most help Kenny. Isn’t that right, Bobby?”
“Absolutely,” he says, and she agrees.
“Bobby, do you need me to send someone to pick you up, or can you make it to court by yourself? I can get you through the back entrance, so you won’t have to go through any of the crowds.”
“I can drive,” he says, and the trap is set.
* * * * *
HINCHLIFFE STADIUM is an impressive relic, a former minor-league football and baseball stadium that sits overlooking the Passaic Falls. If I remember my Paterson history correctly, these falls, third largest in the country, were discovered by either Alexander Hamilton or George Hamilton.
The stadium now goes unused and is often rumored to be coming down. The old boy is about to have some excitement tonight. I’m standing near what used to be home plate, holding a briefcase and waiting. Within twenty minutes the shit might well be hitting the fan.
I thought I had planned for all eventualities, yet I now realize I should have planned for the fact that there would be no lights here. Fortunately, it is a clear night, and there is a substantial amount of moonlight. Visibility will not be a big problem. But what else have I forgotten?
I look at my watch and see that it’s ten P.M. I know what is happening at this moment. Marcus is picking up Quintana at a designated meeting place. He will determine to his satisfaction that Quintana is not armed, and they will start driving here to see me. Quintana does not know where I am, and he has promised to come alone.
Willie Miller is nearby in his own car. He is watching to see if any of Quintana’s men follow Marcus’s car. If they do not, all is fine. If they do, then Quintana is breaking our pact and planning to kill me.
In my briefcase is four hundred thousand dollars in cash. It is much lighter and takes up much less space than I expected. But it is a great deal of money, and it represents an amount I am willing to put at risk to ease my conscience and not feel like a murderer.
The message was sent to Quintana that I wanted to see him personally, and I would be willing to provide the four hundred thousand he lost the night Troy Preston was killed. If he comes alone and promises not to come after me anymore, he can have the money and our relationship comes to a less-than-poignant end. If he tries to take the money and still attempts to kill me, then when I have him killed, I will consider it self-defense.
My cell phone rings, and in the empty stadium it sounds like about two million decibels. I answer with “Yes?” and hear Willie’s voice on the other end. “They’re being followed,” he says.
“Are you sure?” I ask, though I know the answer.
“I’m sure,” Willie says.
I hang up the phone and call a number Petrone had given me. His designated person answers it, and I say, “Hinchliffe Stadium.”
His answer is a simple “We’ll be there.”
The next twenty-five minutes are the longest I have ever spent. Finally, I hear Marcus and Quintana coming from under the stands, walking toward me.
Quintana is tall and fairly well built, though standing next to Marcus, he looks like a toothpick seedling. He has a sneer on his face, probably perpetually, and it tells me that he believes he is in control. He’s not.
