she says, “It sounds like WITSEC, Andy. I don’t know how else these things could have been fabricated so completely.”
“But their lawyer denied it in court, even though she didn’t have to answer at all. She could have appealed the court’s order to death.”
“Who was the attorney?”
“Alice Massengale.”
“It was Alice?” she asks, her surprise evident. “Then you’ve got a problem.”
“Why? You know her?”
“I do. I worked with her a few times when I was based down there. There is no way she would knowingly lie in court. Absolutely no way.”
For all Cindy’s certainty, she is making an educated guess about Massengale’s veracity. I’m inclined to go along with it because Cindy is a very good judge of people, and because it seems more likely that a good attorney would not intentionally and directly lie to a judge.
I head home and call Laurie before going to bed-or, more accurately,
She also doesn’t believe that Massengale would lie to the judge, both because it seems unlikely on its face and because she trusts Cindy’s judgment. Nevertheless, for now I’m going to operate on the assumption that Stacy was in WITSEC; I just wish I could get it in front of the jury.
Laurie gives me a brief pep talk in honor of our starting the defense case tomorrow. She knows I’m not content with what we’ve got, and she wants to make sure that my concern doesn’t impede my effectiveness. It won’t, but I appreciate her effort.
Just before we’re getting off the phone, I say, “How was your day?”
She laughs a short laugh and says, “It was fine, Andy. My day was fine.”
“What was that laugh for? You don’t think I care how your day was?”
“Andy, go to sleep. My day was fine, but you’re in the middle of a trial. It’s your days that are important right now.”
After we hang up, I use up my yearly fifteen minutes of introspection to examine my feelings about Laurie’s day. I love her deeply, and if something extraordinary happened today, or if she needed me for something, I would be very interested and unquestionably there for her.
But the truth is, if she had an ordinary day as chief of police in Findlay, Wisconsin, then I pretty much don’t give a shit about it.
I’m not sure what that says about me, but it can’t be good. Next year at introspection time, I’ll try and figure it out.
* * * * *
“WE’VE GOT TWO matches,” are the first words Pete Stanton says when I answer my cell phone.
He’s reached me less than five minutes before my going into court for the morning session, and he’s talking about the results from running the fingerprints through the national registry.
I’m actually a little nervous at finally finding out Stacy Harriman’s real identity. Based on my inability to correctly predict anything about this case, I’m afraid it’s going to be Margaret Thatcher or Paris Hilton. “Who was she?” I ask.
“Her name was Diana Carmichael, thirty-four years old when she died.”
“Why were her prints in the system?”
“She was in the Army,” he says, providing me a bit of a jolt in the process. I don’t yet know how that piece of information fits, but I’d bet anything that it does.
“Pete, I’m late to get into court, so…”
“Okay, but I said we’ve got two matches. There’s also one from one of the other prints, and you’ll like this one even more.”
“Tell me.”
“Anthony Banks.”
Lieutenant Anthony Banks. Deceased husband of Donna Banks, wealthy volunteer worker living in Sunset Towers in Fort Lee, and the recipient of the mysterious twenty-two thousand a month from Yasir Hamadi.
Lieutenant Anthony Banks, who, long after his death, seems to have managed to rummage through Stacy Harriman’s things in the cabin, leaving his fingerprints in the process. Just as Archie Durelle, the man he died with, showed up to shoot at me on the highway.
We’ve got ourselves a group of dead guys who really get around.
“I’m going to have Kevin call you and get the details, okay, Pete?”
He’s fine with that and also tells me he’s making progress on checking into whether the type and amount of cargo coming through Franklin’s customs office has significantly changed since his death.
“We’re going to be meeting at my house tonight. Why don’t you stop by?” I say.
“You mean that? So I’m on the team now?” he asks, sarcasm starting to return.
“Well, not the first team. But a damned good backup.”
“Is that right? Well, how about if you kiss my-”
“Thanks, Pete. Gotta go,” I say, and hang up, temporarily depriving him of the last word. As soon as I’m off, I bring Kevin up to date. I want him to call Pete and then take the information and see what Captain Reid at Fort Monmouth can add to it.
I reach the defense table moments before the judge enters, and Richard seems a little agitated at my uncharacteristically late arrival.
“Something wrong?” he whispers.
“Do you know the name Diana Carmichael?”
He thinks for a moment. “No. Should I?”
“You were engaged to her.”
It is an unfair thing to do to him, since I don’t have time to explain it fully right now. During the morning break I’ll do so.
It’s a strange feeling to be opening the defense case in front of the jury while the real action is going on outside, between Kevin, Pete, and Captain Reid. But that’s what I have to do, and I start by calling Dr. Ruff, Reggie’s veterinarian.
Kevin has had a chance to prep her on her testimony, and she’s more decisive than during the hearing. She presents a compelling case that the Reggie she recently examined is, in fact, the dog that Richard owned and took on his boat those years ago.
Hawpe makes little effort to challenge her, and he concludes by stipulating that she is correct, that Reggie survived.
Next up for our side is Dr. Harold Simmons, a blood spatter expert. The fact that there is so much blood getting spattered in this country that we need experts on it is a rather negative commentary on our society, but Dr. Simmons is very good at what he does.
Dr. Simmons’s contention is that the blood spatter on the boat was of a type and in a location so as to render it very likely that it was deliberately placed there. I ask very general questions and let him run with them, and he does so quite well.
Hawpe has some success in his cross-examination, focusing on the fact that it was raining that night and everything was wet. It could have washed away some of the blood and altered the spatter of what remained. Dr. Simmons gives ground very grudgingly, but Hawpe makes some points.
During the lunch break, I return a message from Kevin, telling me what he’s learned. Diana Carmichael was in fact in the Army, stationed in Afghanistan and working for what was called the Afghani/American Provisional Authority. It was the operation hastily set up immediately after the fall of the Taliban to provide much-needed money for reconstruction.
A theory is forming in my mind, but I don’t have the time right now to analyze it in depth. Hawpe has responded to my announced plan to call Jeffrey Blalock to the stand by asking Judge Gordon to refuse to allow his
