pleased about it.
I left Kevin the job of trying to reach Cynthia Carelli, the widow of Mike Carelli, the chopper pilot listed as killed in the same crash as Durelle and Banks. She lives in Seattle, a rather long trip to make in person, considering the small likelihood that he has anything to do with our case.
I stop at the “concierge” and tell him that I am here to see Ms. Banks. He nods, picks up the phone, and dials her number. There must be hundreds of apartments in this building, and his not having to look up the number is impressive.
He receives confirmation that I am expected and sends me up to her twenty-third-floor apartment. The high- speed elevator has me there within seconds, and Donna Banks answers the door within a few moments of my ringing the bell. She is an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, but dressed and carrying a handbag as if ready to go out. Not a good sign if I’m hoping to have a long interview.
“Ms. Banks, thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Come in, but I don’t have a lot of time. I’m quite busy,” she says.
I nod agreeably as I enter. “We could do this some other time, when you’re not as rushed.”
“I’m afraid I always seem to be rushed.”
“What is it you do?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
I shrug. “I mean your work-what it is that keeps you so busy?”
She seems taken aback by the question. “Volunteer work… and I have many friends… You said you needed to talk about Anthony.”
I sit down without being offered the opportunity and take a glance around the apartment. It is expensively furnished, and neat to the point that it doesn’t even looked lived in. “Are you married, Ms. Banks?”
“No. I’m sorry, but I really am in a hurry, Mr. Carpenter. Can we chitchat a little less and get to why you’re here?”
“Sure. How much did the Army share with you about the circumstances of your husband’s death?”
“They said he was on a helicopter that went down in enemy territory. They weren’t sure at the time if hostile fire was involved.”
“And did they ever become sure?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t pursue it.”
“Does the name Archie Durelle mean anything to you?”
“No.” Her answer was instantaneous; she’s not exactly racking her brain to remember.
“Antwan Cooper?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had any reason to question the Army’s account of the helicopter crash?”
“No. The circumstances are not important. Anthony was important, and his death was important. Whether they were shot down or had a mechanical failure doesn’t change anything.”
I ask a few more questions and get similarly unresponsive answers. When she takes out her car keys and stands up, it’s rather clear that her volunteer work and friends can’t wait another minute. I thank her for her time and leave.
There is nothing about this woman that I trust. She was completely uncomfortable talking to me, yet if that came from an ongoing grief over her husband’s death, she hid it really well. There I was, asking what should have seemed like out-of-the-blue questions about the event that turned her into a widow, yet she showed no curiosity about where I was coming from. All she cared about was when I would leave.
I don’t believe she was rushed, and I test that by waiting at the elevator for five minutes. Even though she had her handbag and car keys in hand, there’s no sign of her.
I go down and get my car out of the underground parking garage. I wait another half hour, positioned to see the garage exit and the front door of the building. It’s my version of a stakeout, without the doughnuts.
She doesn’t show up, which comes as no surprise to me. I head back to the office, calling Sam Willis on my cell phone as I drive. I tell him that I have another job for him.
“Great!” he says, making no effort to conceal his delight. He’s probably hoping it results in another high- speed highway shooting.
“The woman’s name is Donna Banks. She lives in apartment twenty-three-G in Sunset Towers in Fort Lee. I don’t have the exact address, but you can get it.”
“Pretty swanky apartment,” he says.
“Right. I want you to find out the source of that swank.”
“What does that mean?”
“I want to know how she can afford it. She doesn’t work, and she’s the widow of a soldier. Maybe her name is Banks because her family owns a bunch of them, but I want to know for sure.”
“Got it.”
“No problem?” I ask. I’m always amazed at Sam’s ability to access any information he needs.
“Not so far. Anything else?”
“Yes. I left her apartment at ten thirty-five this morning. I want to know if she called anyone shortly after I left, and if so, who.”
“Gotcha. Which do you want me to get on first? Although neither will take very long.”
“I guess her source of income.”
“Then say it, Andy.”
“Say what?”
“Come on, play the game. You’re asking me to find out where she gets her cash. So say it.”
“Sam…”
“Say it.”
“Okay. Show me the money.”
“Thatta boy. I’ll get right on it.”
I hang up and call the office, to make sure Kevin is around. I want to tell him about Donna Banks and my distrust of her. He’ll think my suspicions are unfounded and vague, which they are, but he’ll trust my instincts.
Kevin is there, and he tells me that his conversation with Cynthia Carelli yielded little. She has remarried and was reticent to discuss her previous husband with a stranger over the phone. Kevin did get her to say that she had no reason to question anything the Army told her about the crash, and he came down on the side of believing her. If we’re going to pursue that further, it will have to be in Seattle.
I don’t get a chance to tell Kevin much about Donna Banks, because we receive a phone call from Daniel Hawpe, the head prosecutor of Somerset County, and therefore Janine Coletti’s boss. He would very much like to meet with me as soon as possible at his office. He has cleared his schedule for the day, so whenever I arrive will be fine.
It is an unusual development on a number of levels. Just the fact that Hawpe, rather than Coletti, made the call is a surprise, but the entire tone is strange. Prosecutors as a rule spend every free minute they have complaining that they never have a free minute. They wear their overwork as a badge of honor, and for someone on Hawpe’s level to clear an afternoon’s schedule for a defense attorney might well get him drummed out of the prosecutors’ union.
Kevin is busy working on some pretrial motions, so I decide to drive down there myself. I arrive at about three o’clock, and Hawpe’s assistant just about lights up when she sees me. “Mr. Hawpe said to bring you right in,” she says. “Can I get you something to drink?”
I’m starting to let this feeling of power go to my head; I almost demand a pipe and slippers. But instead I let myself be led into Hawpe’s office.
There are basically three types of prosecutors. The first group consists of those who love their work, feel that they are contributing to society, and are likely to do this for the rest of their working life.
Then there is the group that sees it as a launching point to the other side, the defense side, where there is more money to be made. Having spent time as a prosecutor gives a defense attorney some additional credibility. It’s like hiring an ex-IRS agent to represent you in an audit. You feel that you’re better off having someone who’s been on the “inside.”
The third group, and the one to which Daniel Hawpe belongs, consists of people who view the prosecutor’s
