Again he stares at me, the same way he stared at me that first day in the kennel.
I pet him a final time. “All right. Don’t mention this publicly, but we’re gonna win.”
* * * * *
“WHAT HAPPENS TODAY affects only the timing, not the ultimate result.”
I say this as Kevin and I are meeting in a court anteroom with Richard and Karen. In fifteen minutes Judge Gordon is going to announce his ruling, and I’m trying to cushion them against the psychological devastation of a loss.
“We are going to find out the truth, and we’ll prove your innocence in court. If Judge Gordon rules against us, it will only delay our victory, not prevent it.”
Richard is in the process of establishing himself as unique among all the people I have ever defended. To this point he has not once asked me if I think we are going to win or lose. Usually defendants bombard me with the question, as if asking it repeatedly is going to unearth some secret truth that I am otherwise sworn to defend. Richard either senses that I have no idea what is going to happen, or thinks I have an idea and doesn’t want to hear what it is.
At nine o’clock sharp we enter the courtroom, which is packed to capacity and has all the energy of a major trial verdict moment. I have been to some huge prizefights, including the first Tyson-Holyfield, and the electricity that courses through a courtroom at moments like these is similar to the feeling at those venues, albeit on a much smaller scale. One side is going to lose, and one will win, and nothing will be the same afterward.
Karen takes her seat directly behind us as Janine Coletti and the rest of her team occupy their places at the prosecution table. Coletti nods at me and smiles and doesn’t appear at all nervous, which has the effect of making me nervous.
The five minutes that pass until the bailiff announces Judge Gordon’s entry feel like five hours. Mercifully, he gets right down to it. “I’m going to make a very brief statement, and post the entire decision on the court Web site,” he says.
Kevin looks over at me, a worried expression on his face. I know what he’s thinking. The overwhelming percentage of people in the room want Richard to get a new trial. If Judge Gordon is going to deliver bad news, he might want to do it quickly and let the Web site do the rest.
This is the way nervous, worried lawyers think.
The judge then goes into all that led to his decision. It goes on for three or four minutes, leading me to start calculating whether my bad-news theory might be wrong.
It’s an art form to give a lengthy preamble to a decision, listing the facts used to make the judgment, without giving away what the final decision will be. Judge Gordon has mastered it, and it takes me by surprise when he pauses and says, “Therefore…”
He pauses after the word, a delay that serves as a silent drumroll. I can feel Richard tense up next to me, and I can only imagine Karen behind me. She must have exploded by now.
Judge Gordon continues, “… it is the decision of this court that the defense has met its burden, and a new trial is hereby granted in the case of
There is not an explosion of noise in the courtroom; it is more the sound of a hundred people exhaling at once. Richard lowers his head into his hands and keeps it there until Karen vaults out of her seat and starts pounding him on the back and shoulders in triumph.
He turns and hugs her and then does the same to Kevin and me. Judge Gordon is considerate enough to let this emotional scene play out for a brief while before gaveling order into the courtroom.
The judge has set a trial date for six weeks from today. It’s rushed, but Richard has already told me that he doesn’t want to wait a moment longer than necessary.
I pursue the matter of bail, but it is almost never granted in first-degree murder trials, and Judge Gordon does not make an exception here. Richard is disappointed, but I’ve prepared him for it.
The proceedings end, and the bailiffs come over to take Richard away. “You did great,” he says to me.
“It’s only the beginning, Richard. I know you know that, but I’ve got to say it anyway. The case starts now.”
He smiles and nods, having expected me to temper his enthusiasm. “Give Reggie a hug for me,” he says.
“That I can do.”
Kevin and I head back to the office, rejuvenated by our triumph and by the certainty that we will now get our day in court. We both know that it will be like starting a six-week marathon; a murder trial takes total concentration and an incredible intensity.
Unfortunately, as soon as we start our meeting we have to face the fact that Judge Gordon’s decision does nothing toward helping us understand what the hell is going on here. If we’re going to tell a jury that Stacy was murdered and Richard was set up by some evil third party, we had better be prepared to credibly advance a theory of why it happened and who that third party might be.
The only two areas that seem to hold potential answers right now are the customs operations at the Port of Newark and the Army connection to Archie Durelle. There is little I can do about the customs area other than hope that Keith Franklin comes up with something, so I decide to focus on the Army and Durelle.
I make a couple of calls to set up meetings for tomorrow and then head for home. I give Tara and Reggie some celebratory biscuits, and then we go out for a long walk.
After I take them home I head for Charlie’s to watch some baseball and drink some beer with Pete and Vince. “Congratulations,” Pete says in a surprising burst of humanity.
“You gonna win?” Vince asks.
“Is this off the record?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I shrug. “I hope so.”
He frowns his disdain. “You sure I can’t use that? Because that’s the kind of quote that sells newspapers.”
I update Pete on what we learned about the chopper crash, and I give him the names of Mike Carelli, Dr. Gary Winston, and Anthony Banks, the other people on the flight, just in case he has anything on them. He says that certainly nothing comes to mind, but that he’ll check.
“I called a friend in the State Police to see if I could find out any progress they’re making on the highway shooting,” Pete says.
“Thanks.” I had asked him to do that; even though the shooters were dead, a full investigation would certainly take place. “You find out anything?”
He nods. “The case was turned over to the FBI.”
This is a stunning development. “FBI? Are you sure?”
“Am I
His sarcasm doesn’t make a dent on me; I’m too focused on this news. “What the hell could the FBI have to do with an attempted murder on a New Jersey highway?”
“That, counselor, is something you might want to figure out.”
* * * * *
IF YOU WANT to live thirty stories above New Jersey, the place to do it is in Fort Lee at Sunset Towers. It sits on the edge of the Hudson River and offers its upscale tenants spectacular views of the New York skyline. Its lobby and basement areas include a grocery store, cleaners, and drugstore, making running errands an easy jog. The place is so classy that the doorman is called a concierge.
I’ve come here to see Donna Banks, widow of Anthony Banks, the second lieutenant who, the records show, died in the same helicopter crash as Archie Durelle. I called yesterday and explained who I was, though I did not say why I wanted to talk to her about her husband. She agreed to see me this morning, though she did not seem
