One Dog Night (22 page)

When I get home I call Sam and ask him if he can recruit at least five people, with significant computer skills, who can work on the case under his direction.

“What about my computer class?” he asks.

“You take a computer class?”

“I teach one. A night course. I’m sure some of my students would love to do it.”

“Can you bring them to my house tonight?” I ask. “Around eight?”

“That’s pretty late,” he says. “How about six? Does that work?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll move some stuff around.”

I wish I could move the trial around, like around to August, but that’s not going to happen. Dylan surprises me by telling the court he wants to call FBI Special Agent Neil Mulcahy. I knew Mulcahy would eventually testify, I just thought Dylan might hold him off until later.

Mulcahy is not going to have much to say, at least not on his own. He was the agent to whom Danny Butler spoke when he claimed that Noah had confessed setting the fire, and he will basically be reading the transcript of that interview.

I let Hike argue on our behalf that the testimony should not be admitted, since Butler is not here to be cross-examined. De Luca overrules our objection, as we knew he would. I consider it a bad law, but it’s not De Luca’s job to make those judgments. He has to implement the law as it is, not as he thinks it should be.

Dylan asks very few questions, just a handful to set the scene. He’s correct in that approach; Butler’s words, even when spoken by Mulcahy, are powerful and speak for themselves.

In fact, the words are much more powerful than if Butler were here. Mulcahy is an impressive guy, and as an FBI agent he commands the kind of respect that a slimeball like Butler never could. The words have more credibility coming out of Mulcahy’s mouth than they would dripping out of Butler’s.

The original version of the interview took about two hours and fifteen minutes, and that’s how long the reenactment takes. Dylan actually plays the part of Mulcahy in asking the questions, and Mulcahy plays Butler.

I watch the jury as they watch the performance, and they are paying rapt attention. I’m surprised they haven’t asked for a playbill.

We take a break before my cross begins, and I call Cindy Spodek on my cell phone. Cindy is an FBI agent, recently promoted to assistant bureau chief in Boston. She is a very good friend to Laurie and me, which I constantly take advantage of to get information when I need it.

“What do you need now?” she asks, when she gets on the line, which is not exactly warm “friend” talk.

“What I need is to find out how my friend Cindy is doing, to find out what is going on in her life, because I care deeply about her. That is my whole reason for calling. It is my whole reason for being.”

“You’re full of shit,” she says.

“What tipped you off?”

“You only call when you’re on a case. This is about Galloway.”

“Actually, now that I have you…”

I go on to request the same missing persons information that I asked Pete for, since Cindy would have much better access. It takes some cajoling, but she basically likes to be helpful, and she’s not the type to let down a friend. Those are the kind of people I can take advantage of.

“This will take a while,” she says.

“I don’t have a while; the trial is almost over.”

“Good-bye, Andy.”

I head back to court for the Mulcahy cross-examination. I have little ammunition with which to challenge him, since he really was not the witness against Noah; he was only channeling Butler. But I have to give it a shot.

“Agent Mulcahy, did Danny Butler have a criminal record?”

“He did.”

“Did he have three convictions for drug possession, and two for breaking and entering?”

“Yes.”

“Was he arrested but not convicted on three other occasions?”

“Yes.”

“Was he himself addicted to drugs?” I ask. “Enough so that he was in rehab on four separate occasions?”

“Yes.”

“Did you believe his story?”

“I did.”

“Because of his status as an upstanding citizen?”

“We take information and judge it no matter where it comes from. It’s not always upstanding citizens that have information about a crime.”

“What would Butler’s background have to have been for you to doubt what he said? Maybe time as a Taliban commander? Or a Nazi SS officer?”

Dylan objects and De Luca admonishes me to cut it out. Business as usual.

“Did you check into Butler’s background after you talked to him?”

“I did.”

“Did he graduate high school?” I ask.

“He did not.”

I introduce Butler’s high school records, which include a PSAT combined score of 614, and I point out that in those days one got 400 for signing one’s name.

“In the interview, Butler said that his conscience had been bothering him all these years, and when he saw Mr. Galloway on television as a representative of the U.S. government, it pushed him over the edge. Made sense to you?”

“I had my doubts,” Mulcahy says, surprising me. “But when I checked it all out, I was convinced.”

Mulcahy has opened a door for me, that I was planning to open myself. “Checked it out how?”

“I compared it to the evidence of the fire. Everything Butler said was accurate, and it was information that was not publicly available.”

I introduce as evidence Butler’s records from one of his drug rehabs, and refer Mulcahy to the date on the report. “Is that two weeks after he says Mr. Galloway confided in him?”

“Sixteen days, yes,” Mulcahy says.

I then get him to read a paragraph from the initial statement Butler made to the rehab facility, admitting to heavy drug usage for the two months previously. “So by his own admission, Mr. Butler was using drugs during the period that he claims Mr. Galloway confessed to him?”

“Yes, but not necessarily that day.”

“Maybe it was a drug holiday,” I say. “Or maybe it was Thanksgiving, and he was going cold turkey for the day. But in any event, his recounting of the details of the fire, how it was set, et cetera, all of that proved to be accurate?”

“Definitely.”

“Down to the last detail?”

“Yes.”

“So let’s recap. A man with five felony convictions and extraordinarily low intelligence recounted almost verbatim technical details of a conversation he had six years earlier, when he was taking so many illegal drugs that he would soon be forced into rehab? And all because he was suddenly conscience-stricken. Is that about right?”

“That’s your description,” Mulcahy says.

“Which part of it is inaccurate?” I say.

“You left out the fact that there was no other way he could have gotten the information.”

“There was no other way that you could find,” I say. “Now, you said that Butler was subsequently killed in Las Vegas, and that Mr. Galloway is said to know people there.”

“That’s correct.”

“I also know people there. Are you going to cuff me?”

Mulcahy surprises me with a smile. “I’m tempted,” he says, and the jury laughs.

“Where did he get the money to go to Vegas in the first place? Did he have a job?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he suddenly came into money? Perhaps for performing a service?”

“If he did, I’m not aware of it.”

“Maybe he just needed a vacation; conscience clearing can be exhausting.”

Mulcahy just smiles, as if these barbs are to be expected from a defense attorney who doesn’t have the evidence on his side. He’s an experienced, excellent witness because of his confidence and lack of fear; the jury thinks that means he’s telling the truth and hiding nothing.

I let him off the stand, having accomplished as much as I could, which is not nearly enough.

“Mr. Mandlebaum, I think you’ll be more comfortable in this chair.”

That’s what I hear Laurie say as I walk into the house. What I see is Laurie, Sam, Tara, Bailey, and five very old people, four of them men.

“Andy, I’ve got some people I want you to meet,” Sam says. “This is Morris Fishman, Leon Goldberg, Stanley Rubinstein, Hilda Mandlebaum, and her husband Eli.”

“Nice to meet you all,” I say. “You’re Sam’s students?”

They all nod their confirmation of my question.

“At what school might that be?” I ask.

“The YMHA in Wayne.”

He’s talking about the Jewish version of the YMCA, meaning it’s the Young Men’s Hebrew Association. Except they aren’t “young” and Hilda isn’t one of the “men.” Perhaps it should just be called the HA.

I ask Sam if I could talk to him in the kitchen before we get started. Once we’re in there, I ask, “Does their age have anything to do with why you wanted to make the meeting early?”

He shrugs. “They’re sharper earlier in the day,” he says. “They usually have dinner around fourish, and then to bed by eight.”

“I’m not sure this is going to work, Sam.”

“They’re up at five in the morning, Andy, so we’ll have a full day. And you should see them on a computer; they’re as good as any students I’ve ever had.”

“How many classes have you taught?” I ask.

“This is my first.”

“Sam…”

“It will be fine; trust me.”

I actually do trust Sam, especially when it’s in the area of computers, so we go back into the other room. Morris Fishman is in the process of telling Laurie she looks just like Esther Fleischmann, his high school sweetheart who cheated on him in 1947 when he went to Rutgers and she stayed home.

“Morris,” Laurie says, “you deserved better.”

Eli Mandlebaum is petting Tara, and Leon is petting Bailey, and they seem quite content about it. Based on their relative sizes, Leon could be Bailey’s jockey. Tara has always been an equal opportunity petting receiver; she is unconcerned about race, religion, sex, or age. Clearly she’s teaching Bailey her open-mindedness.

Sam turns the meeting over to me. I can tell I need to get it over with quickly; it’s getting close to six-thirty, and I think Hilda is starting to nod off.

I explain where we are on the case, as it relates to the cell phone records. “We have all these people that were called. They live in different places and have quite different occupations. The only common thread that we know about is that they were all called at some point by the owner of that particular cell phone.”

“So you want to find out if there are any other connections?” Stanley asks.

“Exactly. We need to dig as deeply as we can into each of their lives, and find out if they are connected in any other way. No matter how insignificant the link might be, I want to know about it.”

“How do we do it?” Leon asks.

“I have no idea,” I say. “Sam is in charge of that. He’ll instruct you on what to do. Right, Sam?”

“No problem.”

“I’m also going to be getting a list of missing persons from around the time of the fire. We’re going to need to track them down as well.”

“We’re on it,” Sam says, and then turns to his team. “We start bright and early at six? The computer room at the Y?”

Everyone nods their agreement, and Hilda says that she and Eli will pick up bagels and lox on the way in. With that, Sam leads the “over the hill gang” out the door.

When they leave, Laurie says, “I hope I’m just like them if I get to be their age. And I hope we’re just like Hilda and Eli.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you see them holding hands? Hilda told me they’ve been married sixty-one years. And they’re still holding hands.”

I hadn’t seen them holding hands, but I don’t say that. The truth is, I see the possibility of turning this situation to my own sexual advantage. The trick is to appear sensitive. “I’ll hold your hand as long as you let me,” I say, and take her hand.

“You think you’re going to use Hilda and Eli’s love for each other to get me into bed?” she says.

“It was worth a shot,” I say.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” she says. “There’s a definite chance you’re going to get lucky tonight, but you need to understand that it has nothing whatsoever to do with the Mandlebaums. You got that?”

“Yes, ma’am. The Mandlebaums are a nonfactor.”

“Okay, let’s go,” she says, and starts leading me up the steps to the bedroom.

“I just hope that I don’t scream out Hilda’s name,” I say.

Today’s testimony is going to be both dry and terribly damaging.

The witness is Special Agent William Rouse, the assistant head of the FBI crime lab located in Baltimore. He supervised the bureau’s testing on the metal can found three blocks from the scene.

It’s a large can, standard make, capable of holding almost four gallons, and Dylan proudly holds it up before introducing it as evidence and showing it to the witness. I’ve seen pictures of it from the discovery, and learned that it’s available at Home Depot and pretty much everywhere else.

“Is this the can you were given to test?” Dylan asks.

Rouse nods. “It is.”

“What types of tests did you run?”

“Fingerprint analysis, blood typing, and DNA.”

“Were you able to get satisfactory results in all three areas?”

“We managed to retrieve DNA and blood type results. There were no fingerprints.”

“These tests that you conducted, were the same ones done by the local police at the time the can was found?”

“Yes, I was subsequently shown those reports after we conducted our tests.”

“Were your results consistent with theirs?” Dylan asks.

“Identical.”

Dylan takes him through the results, which are of course a match for Noah’s DNA and blood type. Rouse says that there is a one in four billion chance that the DNA results are inaccurate. Based on the media reports I read before coming to court this morning, that matches our chances of getting an acquittal.

Dylan then addresses the question that the jurors must certainly be wondering. “If the police had these DNA results six years ago, why wasn’t an arrest made back then?”

“Because Mr. Galloway’s DNA was not in the database at the time. Recently he attempted to gain clearance because of a federal job he was taking, and a DNA sample was required. That’s the reason we got a hit when we ran it this time, acting on Mr. Butler’s information.”

“Your witness,” Dylan says to me, in a tone that doesn’t seem to contain much worry.