Who Let the Dog Out? (22 page)

I nod. “Right. But what I’m wondering is what the hell made Brantley so important? Why did his arrival on the scene cause this commotion? Why was he significant enough to warrant killing him, Caruso, Downey, and setting Tommy up? And I haven’t even mentioned Brantley’s boss, Professor Horowitz. Tommy is sure he’s dead as well.”

“He was a threat to them, a competitor. When there is that much money at stake, competition isn’t welcomed.”

“What kind of competition could he have been? He was a novice, with no money, and one pathetic connection to a nobody like Gerald Downey. They could have told Downey to tell him to get lost, or even threaten him if he didn’t.”

“But they treated him seriously,” she says. “Beyond seriously.”

I nod. “That’s for sure. I also can’t figure out why Brantley got into it. As far as I can tell, his life wasn’t about going for the money, or doing anything criminal, or dangerous. So somebody mentions diamond smuggling to him and he jumps in with both feet. It makes no sense to me.”

“Maybe he never had a chance at this kind of money,” she says. “And unfortunately, the only one left alive who would be able to explain it is Divac, and he’s sitting in a jail cell. So he’s not going to be talking to anyone, unless he pleads. And they wouldn’t let him plead to anything but life, so he has no incentive.”

“But I don’t think it ends with him,” I say. “The customs agent, Hernandez, was very anxious to get information from me. At this stage, Divac is in the U.S. prosecutor’s hands, and the agents should be moving on. They either don’t have a strong case against Divac, or it goes deeper than him.”

“What exactly was Divac doing?”

“You mean allegedly doing?”

She smiles. “Yes, I mean allegedly.” As an ex-cop, Laurie is quicker than I am to assign guilt.

“Well, as I understand it from Hernandez, the illegal diamonds come in without certification or identification as legit. Divac, who dealt in legal diamonds as well, was able to provide all of that, which made them infinitely more valuable. So Divac was buying illegal diamonds at a reduced price, and then marking them up after he certified them.”

“And the people he paid in the first place?”

“They apparently use the money to buy weapons, for whatever part of the world they happen to be fighting in. That reminds me…,” I start to say.

“What?”

“When Cindy first called me, to ask me to deal with the customs guys, she told me lives were at stake.”

“Weapons have a tendency to kill people.”

I nod. “But my sense was that the people were not in some far-off war zone. My sense was that it was closer to home.”

“You could ask her.”

“I will. But I want to wait until I know exactly what questions to ask, and until I have something to trade.”

“And until then?”

“Until then I defend Tommy. I try to get the judge to admit my evidence, and then I try to get the jury to buy it.”

“What are your chances?” she asks.

“Pretty good on the first part. Pretty bad on the second.”

Dylan went nuts when he saw our witness list. That’s actually a supposition of mine, since I wasn’t actually there when he saw the list. We had sent it to his office as part of the normal course of business. But it makes me feel better to imagine him upset, so that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

My speculation is given substantial credibility by the motion he has filed in response. It’s peppered with words like “fishing expedition” and “irrelevant,” with a few “mockery”s thrown in. It borders on the legal equivalent of a meltdown.

Hike writes a brief in response to Dylan’s, and we submit it to the court. Judge Klingman then calls a special session out of the presence of the jury, so that we can fight it out.

I’m feeling pretty good about our chances, and very good about the opportunity to rub Dylan’s nose in his mistake. Putting a damper on my enthusiasm is the knowledge that if we lose, so does Tommy. At this point he is likely going down even if we can present our full case; if we can’t he’s going down very, very hard.

Judge Klingman is walking toward his seat on the bench, and we rise on command of the bailiff. As we do so, Tommy whispers to me, “This is important, huh?”

“This is important,” I say.

“I’ve read the briefs,” Judge Klingman says. “Let’s hear some oral arguments. Let me rephrase that: Let’s hear some brief oral arguments. Mr. Campbell?”

“Your Honor, the witness list that the defense has offered would be a source of amusement if this were not such a serious matter. It quite literally could be a list for another case entirely, filed in this matter by mistake. I daresay it would be just as appropriate, or more correctly inappropriate, for any case on Your Honor’s docket.”

He blathers on about this for a few more minutes, and after the fourth repetition of the same thing, Judge Klingman stops him and says, “Mr. Carpenter?”

“Your Honor, I’m frankly puzzled” is how I start. I almost never use the word “frankly.” When a politician uses it, it signals two things: that he’s definitely lying, and that he’s admitted he’s not frank in his other statements.

But it seems appropriate here, because everybody knows that I’m lying, that I’m not really puzzled. I continue, “As we pointed out in our brief, our intention is to educate the jury as to Mr. Downey’s associations and relationships. We are simply continuing the process that Mr. Campbell saw fit to begin. He seems to be saying it is proper for the prosecution, but not for the defense. I don’t understand that. Frankly, I don’t.”

Dylan jumps in. “I did not begin the process of calling irrelevant witnesses. Ms. Streiter had evidence that was germane to this case.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “I would invite the court to review the transcript in the unlikely event that I am remembering this incorrectly. Mr. Campbell had Ms. Streiter here to testify about a visitor, Mr. Infante, to Mr. Downey’s house. I then questioned her about other visitors.”

“Which was itself improper,” Dylan says.

“I don’t recall you objecting,” Judge Klingman points out.

“It was insignificant testimony; I didn’t want to waste the court’s time.” He didn’t use the word “frankly” in that sentence, but it would have fit perfectly. And the other interesting thing about “frankly” is that it can go almost anywhere. He could have said, “Frankly, it was insignificant testimony.” Or, “It was frankly insignificant testimony.” Or, “I frankly didn’t want to waste the court’s time.”

“And I for one appreciate that,” I say. “Though I was somewhat surprised when Mr. Campbell used a considerable amount of the court’s time later that afternoon, when he questioned Ms. Pyles about Mr. Downey’s charitable work. It seemed to have nothing to do with the case itself; Ms. Pyles admitted as much when I asked her.”

“That was in response to the defense’s questioning of Ms. Streiter.”

Time to move in for the kill. “So you’re saying I opened the door? That’s your position? Your Honor, it was Mr. Campbell who opened the door; he blew a hole in it. When we arrived the door had been entirely removed, and hot air was blowing in.”

Dylan is getting angrier by the moment, but keeping himself under control. “Your Honor, the bottom line is that the defense is trying to litigate another matter entirely. We are here to determine the guilt or innocence of this defendant for this crime, and Mr. Carpenter is trying to deflect the attention of the court to something completely different and unrelated.”

My turn. “Your Honor, since we’re now talking about ‘bottom lines,’ here’s how I see it. Mr. Campbell questioned Ms. Streiter about Mr. Downey’s visitors, so we did the same. Then he brought in a witness not related to this case. We could do the same, but we’re respecting the court, and our view is they are related to this case. But at its core we are mirroring Mr. Campbell’s actions. Yet instead of being flattered, he’s upset. As I may have mentioned before, I’m frankly puzzled.”

Judge Klingman says, “Yes, I believe you may have mentioned that. Mr. Carpenter, I am going to allow the contested testimony, within reason. If it becomes redundant, or goes too far afield, I’m going to rein you in. Mr. Campbell, I don’t find any question at all that you in fact opened the door for this testimony. See you tomorrow, gentlemen.”

Alek was not going to meet them at some cave or campsite. That was once his life, and it molded him into the man he had become. But that was well behind him; he had earned his money, he was earning it still, and he had come to require more creature comfort. He made no apologies for it; in fact, Alek never remembered apologizing for anything in his entire life.

Not that this meeting was being held in lavish surroundings. The diner in Caribou, Maine, was not exactly a five-star restaurant, though their coffee tasted better. But this was the best that could be arranged under the circumstances, so it would have to do.

There were three of them, all males, and Alek didn’t ask their names, nor did they offer them. Their names were unimportant, as were they. Alek knew that they might as well have been called Pawn I, Pawn II, and Pawn III, because that’s what they were.

Three doomed pawns.

They were on a mission that would end in their deaths. They were fine with that; it would further their cause in a way that nothing else had. The Boston Marathon bombers had tried to punish America for what they saw as its frequent illegal occupation of their Middle Eastern lands. This would make the point far more clearly and forcefully; the tables would be turned and Americans would finally know what it was like to be victims of ruthless occupiers.

But Alek had even less interest in their cause than their names. He briefly flirted with the idea of not providing the arms at all, of reneging on their deal once he had his money, and leaving them to wait at their campsites until they gave up and went home. But he rejected that idea, because to fail to deliver would impact his future business. More importantly, he rejected it because those who were financing these people were serious and dangerous people. No need to make more enemies than necessary.

Alek drank coffee while they drank tea. It seemed a delicate drink for soon-to-be murderers and suicide victims, but to each his last taste. “Describe your mission,” he instructed them.

“Why do you need to know this?” Pawn I asked, warily.

The truth was that Alek did not need to know it; he didn’t even much care what their mission was. Ordinarily he wouldn’t even have asked the question, but this was not an ordinary situation.

The Americans did not get overly upset by arms trading in general, so long as those arms were to be used in places where there were no Americans, and little American interest. But this was very different; these were to be used against Americans, on American soil.

The U.S. government would come after all involved, and though Alek was confident he could avoid scrutiny and any negative consequences, he still wanted to know what he was dealing with. He also considered the possibility of getting back some of his merchandise. After this was over, these saps would be dead, but at least some of the arms themselves would live on.

“It is always a part of my contract,” Alek lied. “I have no interest in interfering, but I must know what is going to take place.”

“We are going to capture an American town. It is a small island, but attached to the mainland by a small bridge,” Pawn I said. “It will be easy to defend, and easy to destroy.”

Pawn II said, with considerably more passion, “They will learn what it is like to have a deadly aggressor on their soil. As we have learned it from them so many times.”

Alek didn’t even know what country Pawn II was from, and it was of little concern to him. Politics, even geopolitics, interested him only in its ability to provide profit.

But he already knew where the “invasion” was to take place, since that was where the arms were to be delivered. “Ashby,” he said.

Pawn I nodded. “Correct.”

“And what are your plans once you come ashore?”

“To take complete control.”

“And when they come after you?” Alek asked.

“Then we will die defending our territory, as will the people of Ashby.”

Pawn III smiled, and spoke in a voice distinctly American. “Or maybe no one will care, and we’ll live happily ever after in Ashby.”

Alek had suspected that there were Americans involved in the operation; they were prized recruits for zealots like this. “Okay,” he said, “once I receive the money, I will get word to you to move in. You know where the boats are going to be?”

Pawn I nodded. “We do. Our main concern is timing.”

“It will be soon,” Alek said, and smiled. “Very soon.”

Laurie and I share many attitudes, viewpoints, and preferences. I’m not talking about run-of-the-mill issues like human values, dignity, and the desire to make the world a better place. That’s really her thing.

I’m talking about real-life stuff that people deal with every day, like what kind of movies to watch. Those are the kinds of things on which real relationships succeed or fail.

She and I are on the same page when it comes to movies; in fact, we’re on the same two pages. Not only do we like the same films, but we like to see them over and over.

At any one time, our television guide offers close to 12 million movies, or at least it seems that way. We haven’t seen about 11,997,000 of them, yet as we scroll through, we always settle on one of a handful that we’ve seen repeatedly and love.

I’m not necessarily talking about particular types of films; they could be dramas or comedies, high quality or low. But for some reason we find them comfortable; when we see they’re on, we can pick them up at any point and just relax and enjoy.

I’ve just finished spending four hours going over the case files, and when I go up to bed, Laurie is watching one of those movies. It’s called
The Freshman,
and stars Marlon Brando and Matthew Broderick. It’s a comedy in which the teenage Broderick’s life gets comically turned upside down when he meets Brando, reprising his Mafia chieftain role from
The Godfather.

When I come in, Laurie is sitting up in bed, eating popcorn. “You okay with watching for a while?” she asks, knowing I have to be up early in the morning.