Dead Center (7 page)

• • • • •

C
ALVIN WANTS TO
use my house as our base of operations. It’s fine with me, since this way I’ll spend more time with Tara, but I had just assumed we’d use his office. “Why?” I ask him.

“Because you’ve got a refrigerator, and I’ll shame you into keeping it stocked with beer.”

“What kind do you like?”

“The kind that says ‘beer’ on the label.”

I go out to fulfill Calvin’s request, a rather easy task in this area. In addition to the national beers, there is an entire wall of beers I’ve never heard of, which are brewed locally. I let the clerk advise me on three of the best, and I buy enough to stock the entire upper shelf of the refrigerator.

A few minutes after I get home, Calvin arrives. He opens the refrigerator and nods approvingly at my efforts. He takes a beer out, opens it, and then finds a comfortable spot on the couch in the den on which to enjoy it. “Okay, let’s talk about our case,” he says.

“First we need to talk about your fee,” I say.

He holds up the bottle. “I’m drinking it.”

“Richard Davidson wants to mortgage his farm,” I say.

He laughs. “Yeah, right.” Then, “I thought you were already rich.”

“I am.”

He smiles and holds up the bottle again, showing it to me. “Me too. So let’s talk about the case.”

Since we’re only starting to receive discovery material, we don’t have many facts to go on, yet some potential investigative tracks are quite clear. First of all, we need to look into the lives of the victims, Elizabeth Barlow and Sheryl Hendricks. They were murdered by someone, that much we know, and we have to operate on the assumption that the killer is not our client. Therefore, by knowing who these young women were, and who they knew, we could hit upon the real killer. Or at least some potential killers that we can point to.

At this point we can’t even be sure that Elizabeth, Jeremy’s girlfriend, was the primary, intended victim. The prevailing view is that she was, and that Sheryl was an unfortunate bystander, caught in the carnage. That view is held because Jeremy is the presumed killer, but if he is not, then it could be that Elizabeth was the person in the wrong place at the wrong time. Working against this hypothesis, but not destroying it, is that the bodies turned up on the Davidson property.

We also need to learn much more about the Centurion religion and its possible role in this case. These people appear to be at the very least zealous, and possibly fanatical, in their beliefs. Such strongly held passions can often fit neatly into murder cases, and we must find out if they do in this case as well. Unfortunately, the very eccentricities that have sealed them in their own world will make penetrating that world very, very difficult.

The two most logical places to start are the university that Jeremy and the victims attended, and their hometown, Center City. Calvin volunteers to check out the school, leaving me with Center City. Of the two, it would have been my second choice, but I don’t argue the point.

I tell Calvin that I’m annoyed with the lack of speed at which the prosecutor is providing us discovery material.

“I told you,” he says, “Lester is an asshole.”

We talk for a while longer, mostly to divvy up the assignments so we don’t duplicate each other’s work. We have little manpower and less time, so it’s important we operate efficiently.

Once we convince ourselves we have our act together, Calvin suggests we go over to the diner to get something to eat. Just before we leave, we get a phone call from the court clerk, informing us that Judge Morrison has scheduled a nine o’clock hearing tomorrow to discuss pretrial matters. It will be conducted informally, in his chambers.

On the way to the diner Calvin says, “Since we’re buddies now, you want to tell me how Laurie fits into all this?”

I nod. “Back in New Jersey we were a couple. We talked about getting married, but then she moved back here.”

“And now?”

“And now I don’t have the slightest idea where it’s going.”

“You can do a hell of a lot worse,” he says. “Hell, I’ve spent my whole life doing a hell of a lot worse.”

“You ever been married?” I ask.

He nods. “Three times. Each one a bigger disaster than the one before it.” Then, “How do you want to handle things with Laurie when it comes to the case?”

I shrug. “She’s a cop. She’s the investigating officer… the arresting officer. That’s how she deals with us; that’s how we deal with her.”

“That’ll work for you?” he asks, his skepticism evident.

I nod. “So far, so good.”

As we walk, I keep having to force myself to slow down. Missing a leg, Calvin can’t walk as fast as I can, and I apologize for my pace.

“You need to get the small-town shuffle down,” he says. “You walk like a big-city guy.”

“How do big-city guys walk?”

“Fast and stupid. Like they’re in this big hurry to get somewhere, but when they get there, they’ll just stand around with their thumb up their ass, wondering what to do next.”

“So big-city people are stupid?” I ask.

“No, they just look stupid to small-town people. And you don’t want to look stupid to these particular small-town people, because they’re going to be on the jury.”

Once we’re seated in a booth at the diner, the waitress comes over with two menus. I wave the menus off. “That’s okay,” I say. “We’ll have two specials and two soda pops.”

She nods and leaves, and I say to Calvin, “See? I’ve even got the lingo down. I used to watch
The Andy Griffith Show,
so I know more about places like this than you think.”

He nods. “Let me ask you this. Do you want us to starve?”

The waitress brings the sodas, and Calvin asks her, “Donna, tell Gomer Pyle here what the special is today.”

“Scrapple potpie.”

“On second thought,” I say, “we’ll look at the menus.”

She nods and goes to get them, winking at Calvin as she does.

Calvin’s point about my not knowing the local ways and customs, while humorous in nature, is actually an important one. I am out of my element here, yet these are the people that I am going to have to convince that Jeremy is innocent.

I let Calvin order for me; I can’t hear what he says, but I know he orders two of them, so I assume we’re having the same thing.

Once the waitress has taken the order, I ask, “What do you think about a change of venue?”

When a murder like this takes place in a small town, there is a strong possibility that the people in that town will be very aware of the case and very predisposed against the accused. The firebombing makes my concern about this even more acute. We need to determine whether it is possible for Jeremy to get a fair trial in Findlay, and if not, we’ve got to move to have the trial somewhere else. It’s one of the first decisions we have to make.

Calvin nods. “Been thinkin’ about that; I think we should try the sucker right here.”

“You think the locals are on Jeremy’s side?”

He shrugs. “Maybe half and half. But all we need is one.”

He is advancing a theory that most defense attorneys agree with: A hung jury is good for the defense, and it only takes one vote for acquittal to hang a jury. It’s not a theory I subscribe to; I prefer to go after outright victories.

“I prefer twelve,” I say.

“And I preferred Raquel Welch, but I married Celia Bagwell.”

Our food arrives; it looks like it’s some kind of sausage. Back home I would order tinted broken glass before I would order sausage, but I figure, when in Findlay, do as the Findlayans do. So I take a bite, albeit with my eyes closed, and it tastes okay. Maybe a little better than okay.

“Andy, I heard you were in town.” The voice comes from the back of the room, and it causes me to open my eyes. When I do, I see Sandy Walsh, a prominent local businessman who I met last year when I was in Findlay. He is a really terrific guy who made the suggestion to Laurie that she move back here, so I would like to rip his eyes out of their sockets and put them in the scrapple potpie.

“Sandy, how are you?” I say, shaking his offered hand. He says hello to Calvin as well; they obviously know each other.

I invite Sandy to sit down, and unfortunately, he does, launching into a few minutes of how much the town loves having Laurie back. I’m about to commence strangling him when he switches and refers to the Davidson case. “So you guys are representing him together, huh?” he asks.

“We are,” I confirm. “Let me ask you a question. If we polled the people in this room about whether or not they believe he’s guilty, what do you think they would say?”

“Tough question,” he says, and then thinks for about thirty seconds, confirming what a tough question it is. “There’s a lot of angry people, more than I would have thought. Everybody’s always liked Jeremy and his family, but most people think if somebody’s arrested, he’s probably guilty. And with all the evidence they supposedly have…”

I attempt to make eye contact with Calvin, but I’ve never been that good an eye-contacter, and no connection is made.

Sandy continues: “But on the other hand, I think most people would want to believe he’s innocent.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

Sandy thinks for a few more moments and then says, “Because these murders… things like that don’t happen around here. And now that it has… well… people would want to deny it, blame it on the outside world. But if the killer was from our town and just a boy… well, then somehow we’re all to blame. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but I think that’s how a lot of people will feel. On some level I think it’s how I feel.”

It’s a thoughtful point of view, and helpful because I hadn’t expected it. Obviously, Calvin finds it moving, because he gets up to go to the bathroom. Since Sandy’s on a roll, I decide to try him on something else. “We’re going to want to talk to the families of the victims and some other people in Center City. Any suggestions how we go about that?”

“Boy, that’s a tough one,” he says. “Those people really keep to themselves and talk to outsiders as little as possible.”

“What about if we go through Clayton Wallace?” I ask.

“He’s the Keeper, right? That’s what they call their leader.”

I nod. “So I’m told.”

“Yeah, I guess you should go through him. But you’ll probably wind up with Stephen Drummond.”

“Who’s he?” I ask.

“Sort of like the town’s general counsel. Handles all their legal affairs, which basically means doing whatever he can to keep the outside world outside.”

I thank him, and after offering to help in whatever way he can, he goes back to join his friends for dinner. Calvin comes back a few moments later.

“Where’s your friend?” asks Calvin in a tone that indicates he’s not a big fan of Sandy.

“You don’t like him?” I ask.

“Not particularly.”

“Why not?”

“He’s part of a group, mostly guys, who sort of make the decisions for the town. Kind of like influential citizens that the mayor basically listens to because he wants to stay the mayor.”

I nod my understanding. “He’s the guy who got Laurie the job back here.”

“My point exactly. He butts in where he shouldn’t, and because of him you’re not in a fancy New York restaurant eating pheasant and pâté and caviar and shit. Instead you’re sitting here sucking up a face full of sausage.”

We finish our meal, and I pay the check, eight dollars and ninety-five cents. At this rate the twenty-five-hundred-dollar retainer will go a lot further than I thought.

On the way to the door I see Laurie at a table at the other end of the diner. She is with three women, all maybe ten or fifteen years her senior, and they are roaring with laughter.

I briefly debate whether to go over there, but Laurie sees us and stands up. “Andy… over here.”

I go over, but Calvin chooses to wait out front. By the time I get to the table, the laughter has pretty much subsided. Laurie does the introductions. “Andy Carpenter, this is my Aunt Linda and my Aunt Shirley and my cousin Andrea. My family.”

The way she says “my family” drives home more clearly than ever why Laurie needed to come back to Findlay. The job opportunity was important, as were the old friends, but this cemented the deal. Her family is here.

We banter for a few minutes, and they all tell me how much they’ve heard about me from Laurie. And how wonderful it is to have Laurie home.

And that’s where Laurie is.

Home.

• • • • •

J
UDGE MORRISON
has scheduled a nine
A.M
. meeting in his chambers, the invited guests being defense and prosecution counsel. He wants to go over the ground rules for the upcoming preliminary hearing. It’s a typical move for a judge who does not like surprises in his courtroom, which is just the way Calvin described him.

The judge asks me to arrive fifteen minutes before the meeting is to start, never a good sign. I get the same feeling I have every time a judge summons me without opposing counsel; it’s as if I’m being called to the principal’s office. Actually, it’s worse: The principal’s power never extended to declaring me “in contempt of homeroom” and sending me to jail.

I call Calvin and suggest he arrive for this advance meeting with me.

“Did he say he wanted me to be there early?” Calvin asks.

“No, but he didn’t say he didn’t either.”

“Then I’d rather have my eyebrows plucked,” he says.

There’s a definite possibility I’m going to have to teach Calvin the subservience etiquette involved with his being my second-in-command, but this is not the time. So I head down to the court, and the clerk takes me directly into Judge Morrison’s chambers.

“Mr. Carpenter, thanks for coming in early.”

“My pleasure, Judge.”

“I had a conversation yesterday with a mutual friend of ours,” he says.

Uh-oh, I think, and gird for the worst.

“Judge Henderson,” he says, and I realize that even though I thought I had girded for the worst, I hadn’t.
This
is the worst, and I stand here ungirded. He is referring to Judge Henry “Hatchet” Henderson of Passaic County, New Jersey, who I have appeared before on numerous occasions. We have had our share of run-ins; he’s not fond of some of my more unconventional trial techniques. “He and I have met at a number of legal conferences,” the judge continues. “Good man.”

I nod. “Very good man. Outstanding man.”

Judge Morrison starts looking through some papers on his desk. “Let’s see… ah, here it is,” he says as he finds the paper. “He said you were a fine attorney.”

“He did? Well, he’s a fine judge. Very fine,” I say.

“And he also said you were”—he starts to read from his paper—“a disrespectful wiseass who considers proper court procedure something to trample on and make fun of.”

“Maybe ‘fine’ was too strong. He’s a decent judge. Somewhat decent.”

Judge Morrison takes off his glasses and stares at me. “I trust I will not have a similar problem with you?”

I nod. “I don’t anticipate any problems at all.”

He nods. “Excellent.”

He calls in Calvin and Lester, both of whom reveal their dislike for each other in their body language. Calvin introduces me to Lester. “Lester’s the DA,” he says, then smiles slightly and adds, “He ran unopposed… and still almost lost.”

The court stenographer comes in as well, since this little chat will be on the record. In a case of this importance it’s prudent to do it that way, and Judge Morrison strikes me as the prudent type.

Judge Morrison opens the proceedings by formally accepting me to practice in the state of Wisconsin. I thank him, telling him that it is my honor to do so. I smile when I’m finished, showing him that I’m on my best behavior. He doesn’t smile back.

The judge lays out the parameters of the preliminary hearing, which are pretty much the same as in New Jersey. The prosecutor will present some witnesses, though certainly not his whole case. He doesn’t have to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt in the hearing, simply probable cause that Jeremy should be tried for the murder. It’s a low burden, and one Lester will have no trouble meeting.

“How long will you need?” the judge asks. He seems very concerned with time; his docket must be filled with upcoming jaywalking trials.

“Less than a day,” Lester says. “We’ll be calling only two or three witnesses.”

I tell the judge that we will likely not be calling any witnesses of our own, though we reserve the right to change that according to circumstances. Our advantage in the hearing is that Lester will have to reveal some of his cards, while we do not. That would be a more significant help if we had any cards not to reveal, but at this point we don’t.

Judge Morrison goes over a few more points, mostly housekeeping in nature, and closes with, “Anything either of you want to bring up?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I say. “To date we have received less than one hundred pages of discovery. No witness reports, no forensics… only some basic police reports.”

Lester jumps in. “The materials are being prepared even as we speak, Your Honor.”

I shake my head. “The defense was entitled to them even before ‘we speak.’ Your Honor, Mr. Chapman has had access to all this information and we have not. That is a distinct disadvantage for us and prevents us from being adequately prepared for the preliminary hearing. Therefore, we request a continuance, the length of which to depend on how much longer the prosecution continues its improper delaying tactics.”

Lester shakes his head in annoyance. “Your Honor, these things—”

Judge Morrison cuts him off. “Mr. Chapman, where are these reports?”

“In my office, Your Honor.”

“Then make certain that copies of them are in their office by three o’clock today.” He points to Calvin and me. “If they are not, I will be obliged to grant a continuance, and that is something I do not want to do.”

Lester is smart enough to know when to keep quiet, and the meeting concludes with his promise to comply with the court’s directive.

Calvin and I drive over to the school that Jeremy and Elizabeth Barlow attended until her murder. It’s the Findlay campus of the University of Wisconsin, located about seven miles northwest of Findlay itself.

I visited a friend at the main University of Wisconsin campus back when I was in college, but this has a decidedly different feel. This is a cozy, rather sleepy campus, the main feature of which is a central mall where the students can congregate and freeze to death in the winter. There’s certainly none of the Big Ten environment here; the closest this place will come to the Rose Bowl is the rounded greenhouse next to the botany building.

Jeremy had not lived on campus, though Elizabeth had. Jeremy has said that it was a bone of contention between Elizabeth and her mother, but that Elizabeth’s desire to experience life away from home prevailed. The deciding factor was the amount of snow that they get here in the winter, and the long drive through that snow that Elizabeth would have to make to get to class.

Calvin, who seems to know everyone in Wisconsin, called ahead to a friend, the dean of something, and we have been given permission to talk to students on campus, providing we do so with courtesy and discretion. Courtesy and discretion are not traits for which I have ever been known, and I expect Calvin is not particularly well trained in them either, but we’ll do our best.

Our first stop is Silver Hall, the dormitory in which Elizabeth resided. It’s a girls’ dorm, but you could never tell that from the people in the lobby. There are as many boys as girls there, and both sexes stare at Calvin and me as if prehistoric creatures have arrived.

We go to the desk in front and speak to a young woman whose sign identifies her as Renee Carney, Resident Adviser. She can’t be more than twenty-one herself and is dressed in a “Rage Against the Machine” sweatshirt. I think that if she were my adviser, I would take her advice under advisement.

“We’d like to speak to some friends of Elizabeth Barlow,” I say.

“She’s dead,” says Renee.

“Yes, we’re aware of that,” I say. I’m also aware that there are students behind us, drawing closer so as to hear our conversation.

“So why do you want to talk to her friends?”

“Because we’re lawyers involved in the case and because Dean Oliva has given us permission to do so.” I point to the phone on her desk. “You might want to call him to confirm that.”

She looks at the phone as if considering the possibility, then shrugs. “Pretty much everyone here was Liz’s friend, so talk all you want.”

That’s as close as we’re going to get to a ringing endorsement from the resident adviser, so we turn toward the assembled students, who have no doubt heard the entire exchange.

We walk up to a young woman standing off to the side and seeming less interested in us than the others. Calvin starts out as our spokesman, probably as a result of my less-than-inspiring success with the resident adviser.

“Hi,” Calvin says, turning on the charm. “My name is Calvin Marshall, and my double-legged friend is Andy Carpenter. What’s your name?”

“Emily Harrington.”

“Emily, can we talk to you about Elizabeth Barlow?”

Emily eyes us warily. “Are you on Davidson’s side?”

“We’re just here to gather information… try and get to the truth,” is Calvin’s evasive reply.

She’s having none of it. “But you’re on Davidson’s side?”

Calvin nods. “We’re representing him, yes.”

Emily casts a glance at the other students, hanging on every word. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

This starts something of a trend, as every other student in the place also refuses to answer any of our questions. Most of them seem less conflicted about it than Emily, but clearly, no one is going to do anything to help the person they believe killed their friend Elizabeth Barlow.

Calvin and I head to our car, in the parking lot just outside the main gate. “Didn’t Jeremy have any friends here?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I guess we should find that out.”

As we approach our car, we see that three young men, probably students, are sitting on the hood. They are all rather large, at least compared to Calvin and me, and they watch us as we near. My guess is that they didn’t choose our car at random.

We reach the car, and I decide to try the conciliatory approach. I generally find that this fits in neatly with my basic cowardice. “Hey, guys, you mind getting off the car? We’ve got to be going.”

One of them, wearing a Wisconsin football jersey, smiles an annoying, smug smile. “Is that right?” he asks.

I think the question was probably rhetorical, but I answer it anyway. “Yes, that’s right.” I figure a snappy comeback like that is likely to cow them into departing.

“You in a hurry to get back to Davidson? Maybe help him get out so he can kill a few more girls?”

My patience is wearing a tad thin. “Time to go, boys,” I say.

He smiles again, still reclining comfortably on the hood. “Is that right?”

“YOU’D BETTER GODDAMN BELIEVE THAT’S RIGHT!” screams Calvin, exploding in anger. He holds up his fist. “You want some of this, you little shit?”

The three of them sit up straight, as stunned as I am by the explosive outburst from this short, old, one-legged lunatic. My concern is that their surprise will not prevent them from realizing the obvious, that unless Calvin has a bazooka in his jacket, they can handle us with absolutely no problem.

I decide to intervene, albeit verbally. “Guys, you don’t want to deal with him. And even if you’re able to, it’s just going to get you thrown into jail and out of school. I’m a lawyer, and I’ll see to it. Now, please get off the car.”

They look at me, then at the still-fuming Calvin, and apparently decide that it makes more sense to deal with me. Pretending to maintain their dignity, they slowly but surely get off the car. The leader says to me, “We don’t want to see you around here again.”

“Good for you,” I say as I hold open Calvin’s door for him. I want to make sure he is in the car, so he can’t change his mind and kill these three guys that combined aren’t as old as he is and outweigh him by about four hundred and fifty pounds.

As we pull away, I look at Calvin, who offers a small smile. “Boy, that was a close one,” he says.