“Come on, Andy. I’m ready for some real detective work.”
I nod. “Maybe you and Hike can work the streets as a team.”
“Me and Hike?” he asks, panic in his voice. “I think I’d work better alone.”
“He’s really a laugh a minute when you get to know him.”
“I know him.”
“Sam, all kidding aside, what you’re doing on the computer is really important. Believe it or not, it’s the best thing we have to go on at this point.”
He nods, resigned. “Okay, I hear you.”
Sam leaves, and Mr. Barrel of Laughs himself comes in a few minutes later. I brief him on what Sam has found out, and Hike says, “Time to start focusing on the defensive side of the ball.”
I know what he means. The investigation, the effort to find the real killer, represents the offensive side of the game plan. But we are defense lawyers, and we need to spend time refuting the prosecution’s version of events. That is the defensive side of the ball, and almost always the most important side. We don’t have to reveal the real killer, all we have to do is raise a reasonable doubt that it was Noah.
The first step in doing that is to become totally familiar with every single fact in the case. There can be no hesitation in court, no surprises. We must know everything Dylan and his witnesses are going to say and do before they say and do it. Stretching the football analogy a bit, it’s like I am the quarterback, and when I get to the line of scrimmage, I have to be completely familiar with whatever formation the defensive team presents to me.
The only way to do that is to review the discovery evidence repeatedly, until we know every nuance. By definition, there are dangers for us on every page; we must know them and counter them.
The preparation for a murder trial is intense and all-consuming, but there is no substitute for it, so Hike and I settle down for the long haul.
Fun time is over.
For Judge Walter Holland, the trial seemed surreal.
On the surface, it seemed to be business as usual. Two sets of lawyers arguing over minutiae that absolutely no one, other than themselves and the people they represent, cared about.
Both sides had positions that they repeatedly affirmed to be correct beyond question. Should their firms happen to have been employed by the other side, they would have taken equally passionate stands a hundred eighty degrees from where they were in this trial.
But for Judge Holland, things were anything but normal. He was trying to act impartial, to pepper each side with the same intensity and amount of difficult, probing questions. He was the “trier of fact,” and personal bias or other considerations could have no part of his process.
Of course, he ordinarily didn’t have to “act” impartial, since he had always been impartial. It was something he’d prided himself on, something he always took for granted. It’s not that he hadn’t had personal biases, everyone does, but until this trial he’d been able to check them at the courthouse door.
The irony was that he had no idea why he was being called on, why the marker was finally being cashed. The stakes in the trial were potentially significant, but certainly no more so than many other cases he’d presided over, and probably less than most. But he’d waited six long years for this to happen, and the hammer was being dropped for a very significant reason, even if he didn’t know what that reason was.
He could only hope that this was the last time that hammer would be dropped. For that he was relying on the honor of people with absolutely no honor at all.
It was a terrible position to be in, and it was entirely his own fault.
After the lunch break that day, one of the lawyers reported that their next witness had taken ill, and they were requesting an adjournment for the day. In the morning, if that witness was still unavailable, they would have another witness there to take his place.
Judge Holland was happy to grant the request; he would have been happy to grant a year’s adjournment. Every day in court was terribly painful for him, the culmination of six years of pain. This delay would give him time to get home and be with Alice and Benji.
Work had always consumed a great deal of his time, and more of his mind, but lately it had been even worse. Alice had been characteristically understanding, possibly because he had never confided the truth to her. Benji had been preoccupied with wondering what he would be getting for Christmas, and making out lists of possibilities.
It was on his way home that Judge Holland got the call on his cell phone. Somehow the man known as Loney only called when he was available to take it; it was as if he was watching him. Holland wouldn’t put it past him.
“Short day today, Your Honor?”
Asking questions that he already knew the answer to was one of the eight billion things about Loney that annoyed him.
“Didn’t feel very short.”
“You were hard on our side,” Loney said.
“I was hard on both sides. That’s my role.”
“Good. Because it’s very important that you completely understand your role. Right through to the end.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” Holland said. “I’m going to do this the way we agreed, and then I’m never going to hear from you again.”
“You don’t enjoy our little chats?” Loney asked, the cold amusement evident in his voice.
“I don’t.”
“That pains me,” Loney said, laughing a mocking laugh. “I cherish our time together. But you have a full life, what with Alice and Benji.”
As it always did, the mention of his family sent a chill through him. “Don’t call me again. I don’t want to hear your voice ever again.”
“You know something, Judge? Sometimes we don’t get what we want.” Then he laughed again. “Except for me. I always get what I want.”
When he clicked off the call he was still laughing.
I haven’t really been keeping Tara up to date on the case.
At least not as much as I should. After all, she’s the reason I took it on, and she has an emotional investment in it. Filling her in is the least I can do.
The truth is, I consult with Tara a great deal on all my cases. I often find it helpful to verbalize my thoughts and ideas, and she is a willing listener. She’s also discreet; when I tell her something, I can be sure she won’t go barking it around the neighborhood.
So tonight I am planning to take Tara for a walk through Eastside Park, down near the ball fields, where nobody will overhear us. It’s a setting that Tara loves; the park provides a seemingly endless supply of alluring scents.
I take out the leash, but then decide to check something in the case file, and we don’t leave right away. Tara is not pleased by the delay, and she barks at me a few times.
“Can you be a little flexible on this?” I ask her. “Don’t forget, I’m only working this case as a favor to you.”
Her look tells me she’s not impressed by my argument, and she barks a few more times. I take the leash again, and we’re off.
“Among the many things I don’t understand,” I tell her after we’re about a block away, “is why this all started up now. Why would someone wait six years to have Butler go to the Feds with his accusations? Something must have happened, it might even still be happening now, that has put someone in jeopardy.”
Tara’s not barking a word; she knows better than to interrupt my train of thought at times like this. I almost wish she would; there’s something in the back of my brain that I can’t seem to get to come to the front where I can see it.
“I’m missing something,” I say. “Actually, I’m pretty much missing everything.”
We walk for another hour, during which time I get absolutely no clarity. I would stay out longer, but Laurie is home, and it’s nearing bedtime. The outbreak of nuclear war would not be enough to get me to miss bedtime with Laurie.
Unfortunately, this particular bedtime is going to be somewhat delayed, as Pete’s car is pulling up in front of the house when I get home. Whenever I visualize Laurie and me in bed together, Pete is nowhere to be seen.
“To what do I owe this rare pleasure?” I ask. “And how long will you be staying?”
“I ran the fingerprint from the beer bottle.”
