Play Dead (16 page)

I
F YOU WANT
to live thirty stories above New Jersey, the place to do it is in Fort Lee at Sunset Towers. It sits on the edge of the Hudson River and offers its upscale tenants spectacular views of the New York skyline. Its lobby and basement areas include a grocery store, cleaners, and drugstore, making running errands an easy jog. The place is so classy that the doorman is called a concierge.

I’ve come here to see Donna Banks, widow of Anthony Banks, the second lieutenant who, the records show, died in the same helicopter crash as Archie Durelle. I called yesterday and explained who I was, though I did not say why I wanted to talk to her about her husband. She agreed to see me this morning, though she did not seem pleased about it.

I left Kevin the job of trying to reach Cynthia Carelli, the widow of Mike Carelli, the chopper pilot listed as killed in the same crash as Durelle and Banks. She lives in Seattle, a rather long trip to make in person, considering the small likelihood that he has anything to do with our case.

I stop at the “concierge” and tell him that I am here to see Ms. Banks. He nods, picks up the phone, and dials her number. There must be hundreds of apartments in this building, and his not having to look up the number is impressive.

He receives confirmation that I am expected and sends me up to her twenty-third-floor apartment. The high-speed elevator has me there within seconds, and Donna Banks answers the door within a few moments of my ringing the bell. She is an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, but dressed and carrying a handbag as if ready to go out. Not a good sign if I’m hoping to have a long interview.

“Ms. Banks, thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Come in, but I don’t have a lot of time. I’m quite busy,” she says.

I nod agreeably as I enter. “We could do this some other time, when you’re not as rushed.”

“I’m afraid I always seem to be rushed.”

“What is it you do?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

I shrug. “I mean your work—what it is that keeps you so busy?”

She seems taken aback by the question. “Volunteer work… and I have many friends… You said you needed to talk about Anthony.”

I sit down without being offered the opportunity and take a glance around the apartment. It is expensively furnished, and neat to the point that it doesn’t even looked lived in. “Are you married, Ms. Banks?”

“No. I’m sorry, but I really am in a hurry, Mr. Carpenter. Can we chitchat a little less and get to why you’re here?”

“Sure. How much did the Army share with you about the circumstances of your husband’s death?”

“They said he was on a helicopter that went down in enemy territory. They weren’t sure at the time if hostile fire was involved.”

“And did they ever become sure?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t pursue it.”

“Does the name Archie Durelle mean anything to you?”

“No.” Her answer was instantaneous; she’s not exactly racking her brain to remember.

“Antwan Cooper?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had any reason to question the Army’s account of the helicopter crash?”

“No. The circumstances are not important. Anthony was important, and his death was important. Whether they were shot down or had a mechanical failure doesn’t change anything.”

I ask a few more questions and get similarly unresponsive answers. When she takes out her car keys and stands up, it’s rather clear that her volunteer work and friends can’t wait another minute. I thank her for her time and leave.

There is nothing about this woman that I trust. She was completely uncomfortable talking to me, yet if that came from an ongoing grief over her husband’s death, she hid it really well. There I was, asking what should have seemed like out-of-the-blue questions about the event that turned her into a widow, yet she showed no curiosity about where I was coming from. All she cared about was when I would leave.

I don’t believe she was rushed, and I test that by waiting at the elevator for five minutes. Even though she had her handbag and car keys in hand, there’s no sign of her.

I go down and get my car out of the underground parking garage. I wait another half hour, positioned to see the garage exit and the front door of the building. It’s my version of a stakeout, without the doughnuts.

She doesn’t show up, which comes as no surprise to me. I head back to the office, calling Sam Willis on my cell phone as I drive. I tell him that I have another job for him.

“Great!” he says, making no effort to conceal his delight. He’s probably hoping it results in another high-speed highway shooting.

“The woman’s name is Donna Banks. She lives in apartment twenty-three-G in Sunset Towers in Fort Lee. I don’t have the exact address, but you can get it.”

“Pretty swanky apartment,” he says.

“Right. I want you to find out the source of that swank.”

“What does that mean?”

“I want to know how she can afford it. She doesn’t work, and she’s the widow of a soldier. Maybe her name is Banks because her family owns a bunch of them, but I want to know for sure.”

“Got it.”

“No problem?” I ask. I’m always amazed at Sam’s ability to access any information he needs.

“Not so far. Anything else?”

“Yes. I left her apartment at ten thirty-five this morning. I want to know if she called anyone shortly after I left, and if so, who.”

“Gotcha. Which do you want me to get on first? Although neither will take very long.”

“I guess her source of income.”

“Then say it, Andy.”

“Say what?”

“Come on, play the game. You’re asking me to find out where she gets her cash. So say it.”

“Sam…”

“Say it.”

“Okay. Show me the money.”

“Thatta boy. I’ll get right on it.”

I hang up and call the office, to make sure Kevin is around. I want to tell him about Donna Banks and my distrust of her. He’ll think my suspicions are unfounded and vague, which they are, but he’ll trust my instincts.

Kevin is there, and he tells me that his conversation with Cynthia Carelli yielded little. She has remarried and was reticent to discuss her previous husband with a stranger over the phone. Kevin did get her to say that she had no reason to question anything the Army told her about the crash, and he came down on the side of believing her. If we’re going to pursue that further, it will have to be in Seattle.

I don’t get a chance to tell Kevin much about Donna Banks, because we receive a phone call from Daniel Hawpe, the head prosecutor of Somerset County, and therefore Janine Coletti’s boss. He would very much like to meet with me as soon as possible at his office. He has cleared his schedule for the day, so whenever I arrive will be fine.

It is an unusual development on a number of levels. Just the fact that Hawpe, rather than Coletti, made the call is a surprise, but the entire tone is strange. Prosecutors as a rule spend every free minute they have complaining that they never have a free minute. They wear their overwork as a badge of honor, and for someone on Hawpe’s level to clear an afternoon’s schedule for a defense attorney might well get him drummed out of the prosecutors’ union.

Kevin is busy working on some pretrial motions, so I decide to drive down there myself. I arrive at about three o’clock, and Hawpe’s assistant just about lights up when she sees me. “Mr. Hawpe said to bring you right in,” she says. “Can I get you something to drink?”

I’m starting to let this feeling of power go to my head; I almost demand a pipe and slippers. But instead I let myself be led into Hawpe’s office.

There are basically three types of prosecutors. The first group consists of those who love their work, feel that they are contributing to society, and are likely to do this for the rest of their working life.

Then there is the group that sees it as a launching point to the other side, the defense side, where there is more money to be made. Having spent time as a prosecutor gives a defense attorney some additional credibility. It’s like hiring an ex-IRS agent to represent you in an audit. You feel that you’re better off having someone who’s been on the “inside.”

The third group, and the one to which Daniel Hawpe belongs, consists of people who view the prosecutor’s office as a stepping-stone to higher and greater political office. Hawpe is maybe thirty-five, tall, and good-looking and might as well be wearing a sign on his forehead that says, “One day you will be calling me Governor Hawpe.”

But for now he starts off by telling me to call him “Daniel,” and I, ever gracious, give him permission to use “Andy.”

“Andy, I’ve been following your career; you’ve won some great cases. I told Janine Coletti you were going to be a handful at the hearing.”

“Is she joining us for this meeting?” I ask.

“She’s been reassigned. I’m going to handle this from now on.”

This is a surprise, and probably unfair to her. She did a decent, albeit unspectacular, job. “She’s a good attorney,” I say.

He nods vigorously. “Damn good. Damn good. This is no reflection on her; we’re just going to take this case in a new direction.”

“Which direction might that be?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“It’s time to wrap this up, Andy. We don’t need another trial, even though I think we’d win it. And Evans certainly doesn’t need it. It’s time to plead it out.”

I’m not surprised that he’s making the offer, though the speed with which he’s making it is quite unusual. We only got the new trial yesterday. By doing it in this manner, he’s looking more than a little anxious, and thereby hurting his negotiating position. He must know that but clearly isn’t bothered by it.

“What’s your offer?” I ask.

“Time served plus ten. He’ll be up for parole in five, and we won’t oppose it as long as he’s a good boy in prison.”

It’s a shocking offer. In the original trial, the prosecution went for life without the possibility of parole and got it. Now we’ve got some new forensic evidence and a dog that didn’t die, and Richard can be out in five years. It’s generous to the point of nonsensical, and if we accept it, it will be an embarrassment for his office.

“I’ll convey it to my client,” I say. “But he’s already been in prison too long.”

He shrugs. “Just let me know.”

My hunch is that the decision to make this offer was not his, and that he’d be happy if we turned it down. “I’ll get back to you within a few days.”

“Going up against you in court might be fun,” he says.

I nod. “A real hoot.”

I
DON’T WITHHOLD
information like this from a client one second more than necessary, which is why I have called this early morning meeting with Richard, Karen, and Kevin at the prison.

“The prosecutor has made an offer, which I will tell you now,” I say to Richard. “But I don’t want you to make a decision about it until I’ve described the entire situation.”

He nods. “Fair enough.”

“The offer is time served plus ten, with an agreement going in that you’ll be paroled in five.”

Richard nods thoughtfully, not saying anything. Karen says, “Oh, man…” Their outward reactions couldn’t be more different, but I have no idea what each is thinking.

I proceed to lay out everything that I know about the case. He’s already heard a lot of it, but I add my discussion with Petrone and with Antwan Cooper’s family, what we learned from the Army files, and my recent visit with Donna Banks. I leave nothing out and, for the moment, do not give my subjective interpretations about it. There will be time for that later.

“I’m not sure what all this means,” Richard says, a confusion that I unfortunately share.

“There is one consistent thread that runs through it,” I say. “A lot of people, including some in the government, are concerned about what we are doing. Whether it’s trying to kill your lawyer, tapping his phone, or offering an overly generous plea bargain, I think there exists a great desire on the part of a wide variety of people that this not go to trial.”

“You think the plea bargain offer is overly generous?” he asks.

I nod. “I do, but that doesn’t mean you should accept it. It’s just very unusual for an offer like that to be made in these circumstances, and my guess—and it’s only a guess—is that pressure from very high up was brought to bear on the prosecutor.”

“Don’t take it, Richard,” Karen says. “Andy’s gonna win this thing.”

Richard smiles at his sister’s confidence. He turns and, for the first time, asks me, “Would you really win this thing?”

“I think we’d have a decent chance. There’s also a significant chance that we’d lose. Overall, fifty-fifty.”

He turns to Kevin. “Is that how you feel?”

Kevin nods. “It is.”

“I’m going to be very up front with all of you,” Richard says. “I decided the other night, the night before we got the new trial, that I couldn’t spend my life in prison. If we lose this, I’m going to take my own life.”

Karen starts to cry softly, and Richard kisses her on the head.

“I’m sorry, honey, but it’s just not a way to live, and the unfairness and waste just becomes too much to bear. Having all this happen—finally having a reason to hope—somehow, it’s made that very clear to me.” He turns back to Kevin and me. “So what we’re talking about here is not five years versus life in prison. It’s five years versus
my
life.”

He says all this clearly and almost dispassionately, not looking to make an impact and not looking for sympathy. I think, in his situation, I’d feel the same way.

Richard continues: “The reason to accept the deal, even though it would include the horror of five more years in this place, is therefore pretty obvious. The reasons to turn it down are a little more complicated.”

He goes on: “There’s Stacy. Somebody killed her, and if I take the plea bargain, we’ll never find out who, and that person will never be punished.”

“We might never find out who anyway.”

He nods. “I know. That’s why it’s complicated. And then there’s the other reason.”

I can’t help but smile. “Reggie,” I say.

He nods. “Reggie. He’s not likely to live five more years. Not by a typical golden retriever’s life expectancy.”

“That’s true,” I say.

“He’s the one who has given me this chance. I know it sounds stupid…”

“It’s very stupid,” I say.

“But you understand it.”

I smile again. “I do.”

Richard pauses a moment and then looks at Karen, Kevin, and me in turn before speaking.

“Let’s kick their ass.”

Ass-kicking in the justice system is done a little differently from ass-kicking in, say, the National Football League. They use bone-crushing blocks and devastating tackles while we use meticulously prepared briefs and probing questions. They need shoulder pads and helmets to protect themselves from harm; when we see danger coming we just stand up and object.

Kevin and I head back to the office to discuss exactly how we plan to kick the prosecution’s ass. They are going to come in far more prepared than they were at the hearing. They’ll have better answers for our forensics expert, and probably a bunch of canine lifeguards who’ll swear that Reggie could have made that swim in his sleep.

We’ve been looking at three main areas: the customs operation in Newark, the Army connection from seven years ago, and the government’s obvious, though surreptitious, interest in what we’re doing. All three are still viable things for us to investigate, but I’ve been making the mistake of thinking they must be interrelated.

It would all tie together nicely if these Army guys had a scam to smuggle things, maybe arms or drugs, through customs and had to get Richard out of the way to accomplish it. The government could be onto them and be watching me out of worry that I might do something in the course of the trial to imperil their investigation.

Unfortunately, it falls apart because of the passage of time. If they were smuggling arms all these years, there would by now be a bazooka in every household in America. And if the government has been watching all of it without acting, then they aren’t asleep at the switch—they’re comatose.

Edna buzzes in to tell me that Sam Willis is waiting to see me and says it’s important. I tell her to send him right in, and he comes through the door about an eighth of a second later.

“Donna Banks is getting the money from Switzerland,” he says. “The first business day of every month, a wire transfer from the Bank of Switzerland. The account is owned by Carlyle Trading.”

“How much?” I ask.

“Twenty-two thousand five, every month.”

With that kind of income, she can spend a lot of time seeing friends and doing volunteer work. “Can we find out who Carlyle Trading is?”

“I’m trying, but it’s nobody. It’s a dummy corporation; the bank wouldn’t even know who’s behind it.”

“How long has she been getting the money?”

He smiles. “That’s the best part. It started three months after her husband kicked off.
If
he kicked off.”

This is exhilarating news, even though we don’t yet know what it means. I believe it somehow ties into our case, but of course, I could be totally wrong. Donna Banks could be getting the money from some Swiss sugar daddy that she started sleeping with right after her husband died.

But that’s not what my gut is telling me.

“What about the phone calls?” I ask. “Did she make any after I left her apartment?”

He nods. “She made four in the forty-five minutes after you left. All to the same number. The first three were only a few seconds long; my guess is, she got a machine and hung up. The fourth one lasted seven minutes.”

“Who were they made to?”

Sam takes out a piece of notepaper and looks at it. “It’s a company based in Montclair, New Jersey, Interpublic Trading. The only name I could find associated with it is a guy named Yasir Hamadi. I’ve got the phone number and address.”

I dial the number that Sam gives me, and after four rings a machine picks up. It’s a woman’s voice, telling me that I’ve reached Interpublic Trading and suggesting that I leave a message. I leave my name and number and ask that Mr. Hamadi call me back on a personal matter.

Kevin and I spend the rest of the afternoon in pretrial preparation. In one sense it’s easier to prepare for a retrial than a normal trial, since we know what the previous prosecution witnesses will testify to. They’ll come up with a few new witnesses, mainly to counter us, but by and large we know their case. Additionally, everyone who has testified is now on the record, and if we catch them in an inconsistency, they can’t back off it.

I’m about to leave for home when Karen Evans calls and asks if she can “buy me dinner.” I had already planned a perfect evening; I was going to stop at Taco Bell, buy a couple of Crunchwraps, and eat them at home while watching the Mets game. But she seems to need to talk, so I agree to give it all up and have dinner with her.

We go to a restaurant in Paterson called the Bonfire, a place I’ve been going to since I was a kid. It’s changed its decor and menu a number of times over the years, but the memories of going there with my parents have remained intact and unchanged.

Karen doesn’t shake easily, but she’s been rattled by Richard’s revelation that he is contemplating, actually planning, to take his own life should he lose the retrial. “It makes me afraid that I talked him into going ahead with the trial,” she says.

I shake my head. “You didn’t talk him into anything. He knows exactly what he wants and what he’s willing to tolerate.”

“You know, these past five years, I’ve had hope, and now more than ever. But if we lose and he does what he says, then I won’t have that anymore.
He
won’t have it anymore.”

“I don’t think either of us can understand what it’s like to be locked in a cage,” I say. “And to be innocent at the same time… It must be beyond horrifying. To this day, Willie Miller won’t talk about it.”

She nods. “I know, but that same innocence is like a lifeline for Richard; it’s all he has. And if he pleads guilty and takes the five years, he gives that up.”

Karen’s bubbly, irrepressible way has a tendency to make people like me underestimate her intelligence and maturity. She’s tough and smart—easily smart enough to be scared of what could happen to her brother.

I manage to turn the conversation to less stressful matters, and she reveals in answer to my question that she has a boyfriend, a third-year law student at Columbia Law. He thinks that their relationship is more serious than she does.

“He’s a nice guy,” she says. “But there are a lot of nice guys in the world. I want what you and Laurie have.”

“Then you should date guys who live thousands of miles away.”

She shakes her head. “You know what I mean. You guys are connected; I can see that. Hey, anybody can see that. You could live on different planets, and you’d still be connected. That’s what I’m looking for.”

I know what she means, though I sure as hell didn’t know it at her age.

We’ve just gotten the check when my cell phone rings. It’s Keith Franklin, his voice barely above a whisper. “Mr. Carpenter, I found something.”

“Where are you?”

“Down at the port.”

“What did you find?”

He doesn’t want to talk on the phone, and I tell him I’ll be right down there. I hang up and describe the call to Karen. “I want to go with you,” she says.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on, I’ll be like your sidekick.”

“Karen…,” I say in a tone not nearly stern enough to carry the day.

“Here’s the deal: If you don’t let me go with you, I’ll grab on to your ankle and won’t let go, and I’ll start screaming as loud as I can.” She says all this with a smile on her face, but she’s probably serious.

I have never been particularly successful at dealing with strong-willed people, or even moderately willed people, but I have reason to be hesitant to let her go. Last time I met with Franklin at night, Petrone had Windshield Man following me, and something similar or worse could happen this time.

I finally agree to let her come, but I take pains to look behind us as we drive, in case there’s somebody following us. I even make a few quick, unnecessary turns as a way to detect unusual activity by any cars behind us. The problem is that my level of competence at tail detection is such that the entire Rose Bowl Parade could be lined up behind me and I wouldn’t know it. I just have to trust that Marcus is the grand marshal.

Franklin is waiting for us in the parking lot in front of the main building. He gets right to the point. “I think I figured it out,” he says, and leads us through a side entrance, down a darkened corridor and into a warehouse. There is a security guard at the entrance, but he just waves us in once Franklin identifies himself.

“There was a slowdown at the pier today, almost a work stoppage. So that’s why some of these things are still here.” He points to some huge crates and boxes. “Otherwise they would have been shipped out already.”

I’m confused, which doesn’t exactly qualify as a news event. “Shipped out? These things are leaving the country?”

He nods. “Right. Everything passes through here, but there is obviously less attention paid to what goes out.”

He stands up on one of the crates and then climbs up toward another, which is farther back. He uses a small flashlight to help him on the trek. “Come on up here,” he says. He’s already pretty far off the ground, and what he is standing on seems rather precarious.

I turn to Karen. “You wait down here so that when I fall, you can call an ambulance.”

I climb up after Franklin, though it takes me twice as long as it took him. He uses the flashlight to light my way, and when I get up there, he points it at a crate that has been partially opened.