She shakes her head. “No, I actually never met Ms. Harriman.”
“I see. So you did not know what you would describe as intimate details of their marriage?”
“I did not.”
“If the deposit had been refundable and then Mr. Evans committed suicide, would he have been around to receive the refund?”
I object and Judge Gordon sustains, but Hawpe’s point had been made. A murder-suicide is an irrational act, and simply making a honeymoon reservation is no proof at all that Richard could not have done it.
We then call a series of witnesses who spent time with Richard and Stacy and who talk about how much they seemed to love each other.
Hawpe is basically dismissive of these witnesses, getting each one to admit that they have no idea what goes on behind the closed doors of anyone’s relationship other than their own.
It’s been a day of making small gains and pretending they are big, but we’re going to have to do much better. And our chance will come tomorrow, when we call Dr. King and Jeffrey Blalock.
I head home for a long night with Kevin preparing for our witnesses. Dr. King presents an interesting problem, and a role reversal of sorts. In most cases where there has been a preliminary hearing, the witnesses that testify are almost exclusively those of the prosecution, since the purpose is to establish probable cause. The defense thus has the advantage of having heard the testimony before it is given again at trial.
In this case, because the burden was on us at the hearing to bring this to a retrial, it is our witnesses, like Dr. King, who have already been on record. It’s an advantage for Hawpe, but one we have to live with.
It’s almost midnight when we’re finishing our preparations. Kevin’s getting ready to leave, and I’m reading the report Pete left with me, when I immediately see it. “Look at this,” I say.
Kevin comes over, and I hand him the papers. “It’s the list of companies bringing large amounts of goods into Franklin’s area of customs, before and after his death.”
Kevin looks at it, but nothing registers. “And?”
At the bottom of the second page is a list of companies that have had dramatically less come through customs since Franklin’s death. “If I remember correctly, a few of those names were on the list that Sam tracked down. The companies that Hamadi was dealing with.”
I check back through the files and confirm my suspicions; four of the companies are on both lists. The man whom a worried Donna Banks called after my visit seems to have been involved with Franklin in customs activity. I don’t believe in coincidences, but even if I did, this wouldn’t be one of them.
By the time Kevin and I finish thrashing this out, it’s one thirty in the morning and we’ve got a plan. At least, I’ve got a plan; Kevin cautions me against it.
The first part of the plan involves calling Vince Sanders. I want to do it now rather than the morning, because I will be heading for court early, and I want him to get on it first thing. Also, psychologically I want to get the ball rolling.
Vince groggily answers the phone with “This better be good, asshole.” Apparently he’s not so sleepy that he can’t see his caller ID.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Vince, but I need a big favor.”
He doesn’t say a word, which could mean he doesn’t want to, or else that he fell back asleep. I decide to push on. “Vince, I need to speak to Dominic Petrone.”
“Is that all?” he asks, and then speaks to an imaginary person in bed with him. “Dominic, honey, Andy Carpenter wants to talk to you. And when you’re finished, could you run over to the asshole’s house and put a bullet in his head?”
“Vince, it’s urgent, and I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that he’ll be glad you set up the meeting.”
“You want to tell me what it’s about?”
“I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“Repeat after me. If a story of any kind comes out of this, Vince is the person I will give it to, along with an exclusive interview.”
I repeat the vow, and Vince agrees to call Petrone in the morning.
Tomorrow is showing signs of being an important day.
* * * * *
DR. GERALD KING has brought his A game to court today.
In direct examination, he is even more effective than he was at the hearing. He’s a consummate witness; all a defense attorney has to do is wind him up and let him go.
I let him go over his assessment of what happened that night on the boat, and his absolute certainty that Richard did not take any pills. It’s basically the same story he told at the hearing, with more charts and even more assertiveness.
Hawpe certainly has been preparing for him for weeks, but if he makes a dent, it’s not worth calling the insurance company to repair. The best Hawpe can get from him is an admission that the prosecution’s version of events is “not impossible,” but even that draws a sharp comeback from Dr. King.
“Not impossible?” he asks. “Is that the standard the prosecution has to meet to send a man to prison?”
It’s an unprofessional comment, and Hawpe’s objection gets it stricken from the record, but the point is made, and the jury certainly heard it. By the time Dr. King gets off the stand, I think that Hawpe is ready to throw him a good-bye party.
Mercifully, a juror comes down with a stomach virus, and the afternoon session is canceled. I don’t wish anyone ill, and if I could outlaw viruses forever I would, but if someone in America had to come down with one, I’m glad it’s a juror on this case. I need the time to focus on our efforts to learn the truth about Stacy and why she was killed.
I call Vince, who tells me that he just got off the phone with Petrone’s people. Whatever they talked about, it hasn’t improved his mood any. “They want you at Spumoni’s Restaurant on Market Street at five thirty.”
“Five thirty? That’s a little early for dinner.”
“That’s because you’re not invited for dinner,” he says.
I want to make sure I have all this straight. “Who should I ask for?”
“Who are you going to see?”
“Dominic Petrone.”
“Then why don’t you start by asking for him and see how that goes? Oh, and they said you should come alone and unarmed.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That not only will you not bring a gun, you probably won’t bring any balls.”
“Thanks, Vince.”
Before he gets off the phone he makes me repeat the “I’ll give the story to Vince” pledge, which I willingly do. Vince is a major pain in the ass, but the next time he doesn’t come through for me will be the first.
I call Marcus and give him the evening off. Ever the responsible bodyguard, he presses me about why, and I’m forced to tell him. He reluctantly agrees, and I only hope he’s telling me the truth.
I show up at the restaurant at the appointed time. It has been on this downtown street for more than fifty years and is said to have extraordinary Italian food.
I just hope Clemenza left me a gun in the bathroom.
I’ve worn fairly tight jeans and a thin pullover shirt. I’m not trying to make a fashion statement; I’m just not a big fan of getting frisked by burly men, and I’m hoping this will render that unnecessary.
It doesn’t work. I’m not in the door for twenty seconds before I’ve been frisked and ushered into a back room, where Dominic Petrone sits having a drink with two other men. He moves his hand almost imperceptibly, and they get up and leave the table. Three of Petrone’s people take positions around the room, with their backs to the walls.
“Sit down, Andy,” says Petrone.
“Thanks, Dominic,” I say as I do so. “Try the veal. It’s the best in the city.” He doesn’t seem to get the
