Sudden Death (20 page)

Petrone is a rather charming man, early sixties, salt-and-pepper hair, with a dignified manner that one would expect of a successful head of a large business. He’s a typical CEO of a company where the “E” stands for “executions.” He greets me graciously, as he might an old but not terribly close friend, and suggests I sit down. I find it a smart thing to do what Petrone suggests, so I take a seat opposite him.

The table is set for dinner for one, and in fact Petrone is already eating his bruschetta appetizer. I’ve got a hunch I’m not invited for dinner. “What can I do for you?” he asks.

“I may be able to give you Cesar Quintana,” I say.

“Give him to me for what purpose?”

“That’s up to you,” I say. “Whatever you decide, all that I care about is that he no longer wants to kill me.”

“You say you ‘may’ be able to give him to me?”

I nod. “I’m pretty sure I can, but I haven’t decided yet if I want to. I won’t know that until I’m in the moment.”

I proceed to tell him my plan, the bottom line being that I will place a call to him if I’m going to give him Quintana. If I do, he’ll have to be ready to move immediately, though I’m not yet telling him where this will take place.

He nods, as if it all makes perfect sense, though I’m sure he considers this the most ridiculous plan he’s ever heard. It’s also got to be, from his perspective, almost too good to be true. “Is there something else you want from me, something you haven’t yet mentioned?”

“Just one thing,” I say. “Can you cash a check?”

T
ODAY MIGHT BE
the weirdest midtrial Sunday I’ve ever spent. I have witnesses scheduled for tomorrow, but they’re part of a strategy that I’ve decided to abandon, so there’s no reason for me to call them.

All I can do is wait to see if Sam can come up with enough information to make my new strategy viable, and if he does, I’ll have to figure out how to convince Judge Harrison to let me use it.

The first thing I do is call Willie Miller and tell him that Petrone has agreed to my terms and that he should tell Marcus to move forward on our plan. I haven’t brought Laurie into this operation because it’s both dangerous and illegal. She would try to stop me, or perhaps get involved herself, and neither of those options is acceptable to me.

With that call accomplished, I have to fill the rest of the day. I would take Tara out for a long walk, to clear my head and enjoy the autumn air, except for the fact that a Mexican drug lord is sworn to kill me. I’m trying to deal with that, but for now the idea of bullets flying through that autumn air puts a damper on things.

With no other viable alternatives, I am forced to sit with Tara and watch NFL football all day. I have seen less football so far this season than in any other in recent memory, and I can’t make up for that in one day, but I’m going to try.

The Giants game is particularly interesting to me. On the field their running game looks as if it’s mired in quicksand, and on the sidelines I catch occasional glimpses of Bobby Pollard, taping ankles and generally performing his job as trainer. If I do my job right, both the on- and off-field situations are about to change dramatically.

Laurie plays her “little woman” role perfectly, bringing Tara and me whatever chips, beer, biscuits, and water we might need. I haven’t thought about Laurie leaving in a while, and when I do, it is with increasing confidence that she won’t. How could she give up this much fun?

Sam and Kevin come over at seven. Sam has tracked down some of Pollard’s medical records and vows he will get the rest. The fact that some of it originated in Europe makes things a little more complicated, but Sam has total confidence.

Kevin and I kick around our legal strategy to introduce this new slant on matters. The decision will completely rest with Judge Harrison, and Dylan will be crazed by the prospect of it. We agree that we will ask for a meeting in chambers before the start of court tomorrow, and we’ll take our best shot.

I wake up early and call Rita Gordon, the court clerk, and tell her of our desire to hold the meeting in the judge’s chambers, thereby delaying the start of court. I tell Rita that it is an urgent matter, because I want the judge to fully expect to be dealing with a very important issue.

Kevin and I arrive before Dylan, and we informally chat with the judge for the five minutes until he does. We are prohibited from talking about the case, and because of the occupation of the defendant, we can’t even do what would come naturally and talk about football.

When Dylan does arrive, I get right to it. “Judge Harrison,” I say, “there has been a very significant new development which causes us to ask for a continuance.”

Continuances are not something Judge Harrison willingly dispenses, and he peers down his glasses at me. “I would suggest you’ll have to be slightly more specific than that” is his understatement.

I want to dole out as little information as possible, but I’m fully aware that I’m going to have to be forthcoming. I tell him about the high school all-American weekend and the fact that the majority of the young men on the offensive team have died.

His interest is obviously piqued. “They were murdered?”

“The police in those jurisdictions did not think so, but I believe that since there was no way they could have been aware of the connections, they came to the wrong conclusion.”

“Why couldn’t they have made the connections? You did.”

I nod. “That’s because we were looking for it, and we were still lucky to find it. The police in these areas couldn’t have known where to look. These young men for the most part did not know each other, and the all-American team for this magazine was obscure. Besides, many publications pick all-American teams; there would have been no reason to focus on this one.”

“And your client has an alibi for these other deaths?” he asks.

“At this point he does not, Your Honor. In fact, he was geographically close enough to each one to have committed them.”

Judge Harrison interrupts. “Let me see if I understand this. You are abandoning your view that the murder in this case was drug-related, and you have developed a new strategy, which is to tell the jury that while your client is on trial for one murder, he may well be a serial killer?”

I’m nervous as hell, but I can’t help smiling at how he puts it. “You find that unconventional, Your Honor?”

“That’s not quite the word I would use.”

“Your Honor, in the interests of justice, I want the jury to see the entire truth. I believe that this truth will also enable me to create a reasonable doubt as to my client’s guilt.”

Harrison turns to Dylan, who seems stunned by the direction this session has taken. “Mr. Campbell?”

Dylan is in a quandary. On the one hand, he would be thrilled to see the specter of Quintana and drugs out of the picture; on the other hand, he totally doesn’t trust me. This seems perfect for him, but he’s smart enough to know that if I want something, he shouldn’t.

Conflicted as he is, he decides on the one surefire approach: No matter what I want to do, he doesn’t want to give me the time to do it. “Your Honor, Mr. Carpenter is entitled to present whatever defense he wishes, but I see no reason for the trial to be delayed so that he can go on a fishing expedition to support a new strategy. Having said that, I assume his new witnesses would not be on the current witness list. Therefore, the state would reserve the right to request our own continuance, should we need time to prepare for our cross-examinations.”

Harrison turns to me. “How long a continuance are you requesting?”

Earlier in this session I used the words “in the interests of justice” because Judge Harrison is obliged to rule according to those interests, even if those rulings aren’t necessarily based on accepted court procedure. In a death penalty case the “interests of justice” principle becomes even more crucial. “To properly further the interests of justice, Your Honor, I would request one week.”

Dylan almost chokes. “Your Honor, we have a jury out there, and—”

Harrison cuts him off. “The trial is continued for two days. Court will resume at nine o’clock on Wednesday.”

I’m a little disappointed in the ruling; I was hoping for three days. But it should be enough time if we don’t waste any of it. I ask Judge Harrison to seal this proceeding for the time being, and for him to order that neither Dylan nor I reveal the substance of it, at least for now. Dylan argues, but I throw in another “interests of justice” argument, and Harrison agrees.

I head to a meeting in my office to finalize our plans, and if the radio news reports I hear on the way are a true indication, the media are going crazy over the just announced continuance. All that Judge Harrison has revealed is that it was requested by the defense, and as I near my office, I can see the media hordes outside waiting for me.

I call ahead and switch the meeting to my house, since I can more easily get in and out without having to deal with the press. They are there in force, but I come in the back way and then hold a thirty-second press conference on the porch.

“As you know, Judge Harrison has issued a gag order,” I say. “Gagged people by definition have no comment.”

Not being gagged themselves, reporters continue to bombard me with questions, but I briefly and disingenuously profess frustration at not being able to answer, and head back inside. Before long Kevin, Laurie, Sam, and Willie have made it through and join me in the den.

Willie calls me aside and tells me that Marcus has set things up as scheduled, and it gives me a pit in my stomach the size of Norway. To put it out of my mind and focus on the matter at hand takes a mental discipline that I’m not sure I have.

I can feel the different dynamic in this meeting compared to our previous ones. Until now we’ve been floundering, unsure where to go and how to get there. Now we have a viable plan, and our task is simply to execute it.

Kevin and I go over the meetings we need to have tomorrow with our witnesses, and Sam reassures me that he has recruited a friend highly competent and capable of setting our trap for Pollard.

To that end I call the Pollards, and Teri answers. I ask her to have Bobby pick up the other line. Laurie, Kevin, and Sam sit silently in the room as I wait, knowing that this conversation must go well for us to have a chance.

Bobby picks up, and I tell him that he is to testify Wednesday, though I’m not sure at what time. I’ll want him at the courthouse at nine
A.M
.

“No problem,” he says. “How come the trial was delayed?”

“The judge won’t let us talk about it, but it’s nothing for you to be concerned about,” I lie. “Your testimony will go forward as scheduled.”

“It’s nothing bad for Kenny?” Teri asks.

“Definitely not. It could even turn out to be good.”

“Great,” she says.

I take a deep breath; here comes the hard part. “Teri, with the way the media are all over everything that happens, this trial is as much about public relations as anything else. Maybe more.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she says. “The things they say about Kenny, it makes my blood boil.”

“Me too,” I say. “That’s why I want you in a TV studio on Wednesday doing interviews when Bobby finishes testifying. The other side is going to have people out there saying Bobby is wrong; we need you saying he’s right.”

“Whatever you need, but I was hoping to be there to support Bobby.”

I hate manipulating her, but I have no choice. I can’t have her at the courthouse, able to tell Bobby about the witnesses preceding his own testimony. “I’m sure Bobby wants you where you can most help Kenny. Isn’t that right, Bobby?”

“Absolutely,” he says, and she agrees.

“Bobby, do you need me to send someone to pick you up, or can you make it to court by yourself? I can get you through the back entrance, so you won’t have to go through any of the crowds.”

“I can drive,” he says, and the trap is set.

H
INCHLIFFE
S
TADIUM
is an impressive relic, a former minor-league football and baseball stadium that sits overlooking the Passaic Falls. If I remember my Paterson history correctly, these falls, third largest in the country, were discovered by either Alexander Hamilton or George Hamilton.

The stadium now goes unused and is often rumored to be coming down. The old boy is about to have some excitement tonight. I’m standing near what used to be home plate, holding a briefcase and waiting. Within twenty minutes the shit might well be hitting the fan.

I thought I had planned for all eventualities, yet I now realize I should have planned for the fact that there would be no lights here. Fortunately, it is a clear night, and there is a substantial amount of moonlight. Visibility will not be a big problem. But what else have I forgotten?

I look at my watch and see that it’s ten
P.M
. I know what is happening at this moment. Marcus is picking up Quintana at a designated meeting place. He will determine to his satisfaction that Quintana is not armed, and they will start driving here to see me. Quintana does not know where I am, and he has promised to come alone.

Willie Miller is nearby in his own car. He is watching to see if any of Quintana’s men follow Marcus’s car. If they do not, all is fine. If they do, then Quintana is breaking our pact and planning to kill me.

In my briefcase is four hundred thousand dollars in cash. It is much lighter and takes up much less space than I expected. But it is a great deal of money, and it represents an amount I am willing to put at risk to ease my conscience and not feel like a murderer.

The message was sent to Quintana that I wanted to see him personally, and I would be willing to provide the four hundred thousand he lost the night Troy Preston was killed. If he comes alone and promises not to come after me anymore, he can have the money and our relationship comes to a less-than-poignant end. If he tries to take the money and still attempts to kill me, then when I have him killed, I will consider it self-defense.

My cell phone rings, and in the empty stadium it sounds like about two million decibels. I answer with “Yes?” and hear Willie’s voice on the other end. “They’re being followed,” he says.

“Are you sure?” I ask, though I know the answer.

“I’m sure,” Willie says.

I hang up the phone and call a number Petrone had given me. His designated person answers it, and I say, “Hinchliffe Stadium.”

His answer is a simple “We’ll be there.”

The next twenty-five minutes are the longest I have ever spent. Finally, I hear Marcus and Quintana coming from under the stands, walking toward me.

Quintana is tall and fairly well built, though standing next to Marcus, he looks like a toothpick seedling. He has a sneer on his face, probably perpetually, and it tells me that he believes he is in control. He’s not.

The first thing Quintana says is, “Show me the money.” Despite the seriousness of the moment, it strikes me as funny, as if Quintana is playing the movie version of the song-talking that Sam Willis does.

I’m tempted to respond, “I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse,” but instead, I open the briefcase and show it to him.

“Did you come alone?” I ask.

“Yeah.” This guy is not much of a conversationalist.

“So you’ll take this money and we’re even?” I ask. “You won’t come after me anymore?”

“That’s what I said.”

I know he’s lying, but I hand him the briefcase. He puts it under his arm and yells out something in Spanish, to the men he knows are outside the stadium. I am not supposed to know that those men are there and that their function will be to come in and kill Marcus and me. Marcus just watches all this impassively, betraying almost no interest at all.

Suddenly, there is the sound of gunfire, the noise rattling the old stadium. Quintana reacts with surprise and concern, looking around to see what could be happening.

“You lied to me,” I say, my voice cracking slightly with nervousness. “Your men followed you so that you could have me killed. I called for some support, which was purely an act of self-defense. I’m sorry it worked out this way, but you left me no choice.”

Off to our left, Petrone’s men are entering the stadium. Quintana displays amazing quickness for a man his size, and I display amazing stupidity for a man any size. He grabs me before I can get out of the way and holds me in front of him so that my body is between him and the advancing gunmen.

I’m gripped by panic; I can’t imagine Petrone’s men backing off simply because their bullets will have to pass through my body to get to Quintana. I have no doubt that Petrone has warned them that Quintana is not to escape alive, and even less doubt that they would not be willing to go back and say, “Sorry, Godfather, but we didn’t kill him. The lawyer was in the way.”

Suddenly, a sequoia tree in the form of Marcus’s forearm lands on Quintana’s head. He goes down as if shot, and I get a quick and nauseating glimpse of the crushed side of his head and face.

Marcus picks up the briefcase and hands it to me. “Let’s go,” he says, and we walk past Petrone’s men and out of the stadium, leaving them to attend to Quintana. Based on how he looked, and how hard Marcus hit him, they will not need their guns.

All they’ll need is a shovel.