Who Let the Dog Out? (21 page)

If anything, that will cut in our favor. We haven’t denied that they knew each other, and Tommy’s fingerprints in the house demonstrate that he had been there. Streiter will be providing us with the chance to again mention that the prints could have been left at another time, not necessarily when the murder took place.

She’ll also say some other stuff that will work in Dylan’s favor, but nothing we can’t handle.

As I go over the documents relating to her testimony, I find my mind wandering. This is not exactly a rare event; the difference is that this time it’s wandering in a direction that will actually be helpful.

I check the witness list that Dylan submitted at the beginning of the trial. Some of them are not going to be called, or at least Dylan isn’t planning to call them. I’m hoping to change his mind.

My plan is forming. Helen Streiter doesn’t know it, but she’s going to start the ball rolling toward convincing Judge Klingman to admit all the testimony I want.

Maybe.

If all goes well.

I hope.

The FBI was called in to execute the arrest of Gino Parelli. It was therefore their call where to do so, and they opted for his home, rather than Port Newark, where he worked. Part of this was in deference to their sister agency. To do so in public, at the pier, might have resulted in unnecessary publicity and embarrassment for the customs people, as it was one of their own who had turned bad.

The agents had no reason to expect any trouble. The reports were that Parelli had spent a normal day at work, and did not seem stressed or anxious. No one detected any unusual behavior, and there was no reason to believe that he was in any way aware that he was about to go down.

The negative, of course, was that Parelli’s wife was likely present. There was no way to know for sure, and no way around it if she was. The arrest was not about to be delayed to protect her sensibilities.

The Parellis lived in a modest home in Lyndhurst, New Jersey. They were on a cul-de-sac, which in and of itself carried both positives and negatives. Being very quiet and barely trafficked, the agents’ arrival would certainly be noticed. But the position of the house on the end of the street would make escape even more impossible than it would otherwise have been.

None of the agents were particularly worried. They approached their job with care and precision, and prepared for all eventualities. But it was likely to be a routine arrest; Parelli would go quietly.

The agents arrived in force, ten of them in four cars. Two of them went to the front door, two went to each side of the house, and two went to the back. The remaining two agents stood in front, behind the two at the door, providing backup.

It was Special Agent Otis Masters who rang the bell three times, getting no response each time. Through the door he could hear sound coming from what appeared to be a television. He recognized it as one of the cooking shows his wife watched on a regular basis, even though she couldn’t so much as successfully boil an egg.

They were armed with a search warrant, so had no concerns about entering the house. Masters and his partner thought it would be unnecessary and overly dramatic to break down the door, so instead Masters picked the lock, a process that took all of five seconds.

Masters then turned the knob and was the first to enter, which meant he was the first to see the blood.

There actually wasn’t that much of it; Mr. and Mrs. Parelli each had neat little bullet holes in the center of their foreheads. They had seen the shooter, but were in no condition to reveal his identity. That, they would take to their graves.

The agents sprung into action, professionally locking down the house and the surrounding area. A full-scale search was conducted, but the killer had long since departed.

For the FBI, the evening had not gone as planned.

Hike tells me about the deaths of Gino Parelli and his wife. I didn’t listen to the radio on the way to court; I was too intent on going over my approach for the cross-examination of Helen Streiter. If I play it right, she is going to open the door for me to get all the testimony I want admitted.

I would be lying if I said that I am crushed to hear the news. I certainly did not want Parelli dead, nor do I think that was a fair punishment for his crimes. But he knowingly dealt with very dangerous people, and committed illegal acts alongside them. He either knew the risks, or should have. The greater tragedy was that his wife had to suffer the same fate.

I imagine the deaths are being greeted with considerable consternation in the Customs Bureau and FBI. The only people who would have known the arrest was taking place were the people in those agencies, and there must be a real worry that there is an informant among them.

I feel relieved that I had not mentioned Parelli’s name to anyone other than Laurie and Sam. Sam may have included Hilda and Eli Mandlebaum in the secret, since they retrieved online information about him. But the chance that they are criminal informants is about as likely as the chance that I am secretly a waitress at Hooters. The leak did not come from the Carpenter camp.

I hadn’t gotten a chance to tell Hike my plan for getting the diamond smuggling testimony admitted. I do so now, and when I finish, he says, “Interesting. I give it maybe a twenty percent chance.”

Coming from Hike, that is a slam dunk, so I’m feeling pretty good about it.

In any event, I have to put all of it out of my mind now, because Dylan starts the session by calling Helen Streiter. The last time I saw her she was in a housedress and barefoot; this time she is dressed much more presentably, in a skirt and blouse, with a jacket. I have no doubt that Dylan told her exactly what to wear; I wouldn’t be surprised if he bought the outfit for her. He should have told her to wear less makeup: she’s piled it on way too thick.

Dylan begins by having her identify her connection to Downey; she was his landlady. He lived in the building that her late husband had bought before they were married, and was one of three buildings left to her in his will.

“How well did you know Mr. Downey?” he asks.

“I knew him; I talked to him some. He paid his rent on time.”

It’s a beautiful tribute to the departed Gerry Downey; by now I doubt there’s a dry eye in the courtroom.

Dylan asks if she has ever seen Tommy Infante before today, and she says yes, that she had seen him visit Downey on at least three occasions. It’s what I was hoping she’d say, and what I knew she’d say.

Under Dylan’s questioning, she goes on to describe an argument she heard the two men having, a few weeks before the murder. She couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying, but they were both very angry, and she thinks it was about money.

Everything goes smoothly; she has clearly been rehearsed. It’s all as it was in the discovery documents, and as I hoped and expected. Her key comment, the one that will allow me to ask the questions I’m going to ask, was in saying that she saw Tommy visit Downey on a number of occasions.

What I am going to need to do in the defense case is introduce the fact that Downey associated with dangerous and unsavory people. It is, in a way, negative character testimony. But I can’t introduce it without legal provocation; Klingman would never see it as relevant and allow it. The only way I can do it is as rebuttal testimony, which means I need Dylan’s help. And Helen Streiter’s.

My first question is, “Ms. Streiter, you said that you heard Mr. Downey and Mr. Infante arguing. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And that they were very angry?”

“Yes.”

“How long was it until the police came?” It’s the same question I asked the bartender after Tommy threatened Downey in the bar, and I get the same answer.

“They didn’t come.”

“You didn’t call them?” I ask, feigning surprise.

“Why would I call them?” she asks.

“So you, and your other neighbors, weren’t afraid it would become violent?”

“I didn’t call them,” she says, not answering the question, which is fine with me.

“Where were you when you heard the argument?”

“Sitting on my front porch; it was warm out.”

“You sit there a lot?” I ask.

“I guess so; when it’s warm.”

“So you can see people coming and going to Mr. Downey’s house?”

“That’s not why I sat there.”

“I understand that,” I say. “You sat there because it is warm in the spring and summer. Is Mr. Infante the only visitor you ever saw Mr. Downey have?”

“No, there were quite a few.”

I then proceed to take Streiter through a list of the people she mentioned in her interview with the police. It is not exactly a Who’s Who of Academia and Philanthropy, and in each case I introduce evidence describing some of the transgressions of the visitors, two of whom are in jail.

I am able to do this because Dylan introduced the subject of visitors that Streiter saw come to the house. It doesn’t give me the okay to bring in other unsavory characters, like the diamond smugglers, because Dylan didn’t go there.

I’ve led the horse’s ass to water; all I can do now is wait to see if he drinks.

Dylan doesn’t have to rehabilitate Gerald Downey’s character. Downey is the victim here; it doesn’t matter to the law if he was a Boy Scout or not. The state of New Jersey frowns on murder, even when the person murdered has not surrounded himself with choir boys.

My hope is that Dylan’s pride and competitiveness will come into play. He is probably irritated with himself for calling Helen Streiter; she was not necessary to his case, and her testimony about Tommy visiting Downey opened the door for me to bring in the other people who visited as well.

Now, because of that slight mistake, he may feel the need to compensate for it, to mitigate or remove the damage. If he does, then the door he will open will be as wide as the Lincoln Tunnel.

A promising sign is that Dylan asked for an early lunch break, so he could line up his witnesses. If he were just going to wrap up the case with the forensic stuff, I wouldn’t think he’d have to scramble like this.

When court reconvenes, Dylan calls Sue Pyles, the director of a facility in downtown Paterson called It Feels Like Home. It’s a place where kids go after school and on weekends. They have a basketball court, books, pool, table tennis, and various other activities designed to keep kids off the street.

I’m familiar with the place, and Laurie and I have taught some literacy programs there, as well as donating money. Sue is a terrific, dedicated lady, has been doing this for thirty years, and is no doubt responsible for improving the life of many hundreds of kids.

At Dylan’s prodding, Sue talks about Gerald Downey, starting from the time he was a teenager and a regular at the facility.

“Did he return there as an adult?” he asks.

“Oh, yes. Many times. He would play basketball and Ping-Pong with the kids. They saw him as their friend, and he was. Gerald was very helpful to us; he really cared about the young people.”

She cites some examples of good work that Downey had done at the center, and specific examples of him helping certain kids. I have to admit I’m impressed and surprised. I never met Downey, but what I knew of him did not include this kind of positive assessment.

In Dylan’s typical style, he keeps Sue on the stand too long, going over the same ground at least three times. By the time it’s my turn, it’s hard to believe that anyone is still awake, which is okay, since I have no intention of doing anything dramatic.

“Ms. Pyles, do you have any information that directly relates to this case?”

“Not really; just what I’ve read.”

“Do you consider yourself very well informed on what Gerald Downey’s life was like when he was not at your center?”

“I wouldn’t say so, no.”

“So it’s fair to say that you are here to testify to what you consider Gerald Downey’s good character?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“You’ve described his interactions with other people, also not related to this case, as an example of that good character?”

“I have.”

“Thank you for coming here, and thank you for the great work that you do,” I say. “No further questions.”

I steal a quick look at Dylan, who is looking straight ahead, an impassive look on his face. He’s a smart guy; he has to know what just happened.

If Vegas were handicapping this trial, he’d still be a big favorite. But Dylan and I both know that the odds just got a bit shorter.

When trying a murder case, it’s easy to get lost in the weeds. A lawyer in a case like this must have a complete command of the facts, down to the smallest minutiae. Not to know a fact, or not be able to recall it immediately, could mean a key moment is lost, and a trial can accurately be described as a series of key moments.

But that kind of mind-set tends to obscure the big picture, and yet the real answers are almost always found there. At various points in any trial, I try to sit down for an hour or so, clear my mind, and focus on the larger issues.

I usually do this with someone, since talking out loud and having an interplay help to crystallize the issues. My choices are always Laurie or Hike, which is the definition of a no-brainer. Laurie is smart and a pleasure to be with; Hike is smart and absolute torture to be with.

Hmmm … what to do … what to do …

Tonight I choose Laurie, which if my count is correct, is the 144th consecutive time I’ve done so. She pours us both a glass of wine, and we sit in the den, with a U2 CD on in the background.

“Here’s something I don’t understand” is how I start. “Our theory is that Eric Brantley went overseas, was introduced in some fashion to diamond smugglers, and decided to get into it himself. Right so far?”

“Right so far,” she says.

“So they give him the name of Gerald Downey, who was involved in the process, but clearly not a key player. At best he was a low-level soldier, elevated slightly because he knew Parelli, and was therefore able to help get the stuff past customs.”

“And Downey introduced Brantley to at least some of the members of the conspiracy,” she says.