acting like he’s hoping for a positive report on “parent-teacher night.”
De Luca turns to me. “Mr. Carpenter?”
“We’re ready as well, Your Honor,” I lie. “The sooner the better.”
I can see a flash of surprise in Dylan’s face, which quickly turns into a confident smile.
In any event, Judge De Luca is not smiling. “Have you had settlement discussions?”
“We’ve talked,” Dylan says. “I was waiting to hear whether the defense wanted to proceed to trial.”
“Well, now you’ve heard,” I say. “Your Honor, an innocent man is sitting in prison, waiting for his vindication. The sooner the truth comes out in this case, the better.”
“It sounds like you’re playing to the jury, Mr. Carpenter, but I don’t see one here.”
I smile. “I’m practicing, Your Honor.”
“Do it on your own time.”
“Yes, Your Honor. But there is no chance that we will accept any arrangement that leaves Mr. Galloway incarcerated. We would, however, support a motion by Mr. Campbell to dismiss the charges, provided it were accompanied with a gracious apology.”
De Luca pushes and prods a bit more, but even he can see there is no room for compromise here. Dylan has no intention of making a deal, and with his evidence, he shouldn’t. I won’t make a deal because there’s no way I’m going to allow a client to plead guilty when I don’t believe it to be the case. Noah would have to find another lawyer for that, and right now he doesn’t want to.
Dylan must be surprised that I’ve exercised our right to a speedy trial. It’s counterintuitive; the defense usually seeks as many delays as possible. But Noah’s deal with me is that we move quickly, due to a probably misguided belief that it would be easier on Becky. What would actually be best for Becky is for Noah to be acquitted.
De Luca asks if there’s anything else to discuss, and I refer to the brief that we have submitted requesting a change of venue. Hike wrote it, and it was a solid presentation that should prevail on the merits, but in the real world doesn’t have a chance. Dylan has submitted an opposing brief, no doubt written by one of his devoted minions.
“I’ve read the briefs,” De Luca says. “I’ll issue a ruling shortly.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. We believe it effectively points out the dangers inherent in conducting the trial in this jurisdiction.” I believe what I am saying; this was a heinous crime, one of the most notorious in local history. The press coverage was overwhelming then, and shows signs of being so now. There is no doubt in my mind that it would be easier to impanel an unbiased jury, if there is such a thing, elsewhere.
Dylan quickly and confidently sums up his opposition. My goal in the trial will be to wipe that confident look off his face, and I’ll goad him to do so. Dylan has a thin skin, and is prone to mistakes when angry. As Laurie would be the first to say, I can irritate anyone.
But Dylan is going to emerge from today’s hearing a winner, and De Luca revealingly says, “Perhaps I have more faith in our judicial system than you do, Mr. Carpenter.”
“With respect, Your Honor, a change of venue is not a violation of that system.” I’m going down in flames, and annoyed by it.
De Luca is dismissive. “As I said, I will issue a ruling shortly. But I would suggest you not purchase plane tickets just yet. Now, is there anything else?”
I object to the state’s decision to charge Noah with four counts of murder. Technically, if Noah was acquitted, they could come back and charge him with the other twenty-two deaths, without violating his double-jeopardy rights. It’s a chickenshit thing for Dylan to do, but I don’t have a legal leg to stand on, and De Luca points that out.
When Hike and I leave the courtroom, we opt to walk right out the front door, into the waiting questions of the press that are camped out there. Our client is accused of being a mass murderer, a killer who burned twenty-six victims to death. People like that, even people alleged to be like that, are not usually favorites of the general public. The same general public from which we will choose our jury. The same general public we therefore need to suck up to.
I mouth platitudes about how anxious we are to get to trial and clear Noah’s good name, and how confident we are that justice will prevail.
“No chance of a plea bargain, Andy?” The questioner is Dina Janikowski, a reporter who works for Vince at the
I look shocked, as if it was absurd to consider such a thing. “Would you admit to killing twenty-six people if you had nothing to do with it?”
She smiles, knowing better than to get drawn into this kind of back-and-forth. “No one has accused me, Andy.”
“Then you’re very, very lucky. Because innocent people can be victimized by overzealous prosecutors. The fact that Noah Galloway is sitting in jail is proof positive of that.”
It’s a parting shot at Dylan that will anger him when he sees it on the news. There’s even a chance he’ll take me off his Christmas card list.
Sam Willis is getting frustrated.
When I give him an assignment to research something on the computer, he takes definite pride in giving me a complete, accurate report on a timely basis.
He couldn’t do that, at least not to his satisfaction, when it came to learning who was killed in the fire. The information was vague, and three people are still unidentified. Sam also had trouble identifying surviving family members for some of the victims.
The problem is that the only information you can get from the Internet is information that has been entered into it. While that encompasses almost everything in recorded history, there are exceptions, and Sam has just hit on another one.
Sam comes to the office to report on the phone that Marcus took from the dead body in the motel. “It’s registered to Buster Douglas,” he says.
“The fighter that beat Mike Tyson?” I ask.
“No, this guy couldn’t beat Mike Tyson. He couldn’t beat you.”
“Because he’s dead?”
Sam shakes his head. “No, because he doesn’t exist, never did. Fake address, fake driver’s license number, fake Social Security number, fake everything.”
“Not a major surprise,” I say. “Do we know who he called, and who called him?”
“Partially. He only made seventeen calls in the last month. Six were to a landline number in Missoula, Montana, and the other eleven were to a New York City cell number. He only received four calls in that time, all from the same New York number as the one he called.”
“Why did you say ‘partially’?”
“The number in Montana is to a Doris Camby; I’ve got the address. But the New York number is registered to Trevor Berbick.”
“That’s another guy that fought Tyson,” I say.
Sam nods. “And he doesn’t exist either. And both Berbick and Douglas paid their phone bills in cash, so there’s no way to trace them back.”
What Sam is saying is disappointing, but not necessarily without promise. “You up for some more work?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“Good. Then check out this Doris Camby; find out what she does, and whether she has any family. If she has any close male relatives, maybe a husband or son, try and find out where they are.”
“I’m on it. Anything else?”
“Check out her phone bill; see who she’s called. But most importantly, check out the phone bill listed in Berbick’s name; let’s find out who he called. If he’s using a fake name, then he’s likely somebody we’ll be interested in.”
“If I find out where he lives, you want me and Marcus to pay him a visit?”
“That’s about as bad an idea as any I’ve ever heard,” I say.
