D
ONALD
P
RESCOTT SPENDS
all day, every day, looking at fibers. He does this for the New Jersey State Police, and if you possess both a desire to be a cop and a self-preservation instinct, it’s a good job to have. There is even less chance that Prescott will get shot at than the guy who draws the chalk outlines around bodies.
Tucker has called Prescott to testify to his analysis of the fibers on the scarf used to strangle Linda Padilla, which was found with her severed hands in the trunk of Daniel’s car. The police have even located a sales receipt from a store which shows that Daniel bought that exact scarf, or one just like it.
Tucker holds up the scarf, which has been submitted into evidence. “Are these fibers distinctive?” Tucker asks.
“I’m not sure how you define ‘distinctive,’” Prescott answers. “But they’re not very common. The scarf is expensive, and as you can see, the color is rather unique.”
Tucker looks really interested, as if he’s hanging on every word Prescott says. The uninformed, a group that no doubt includes the jury, might not realize that they’ve rehearsed this testimony at least three times.
“Did you have occasion to examine any clothing belonging to the defendant?“ Tucker asks.
“Yes. I was sent the clothing he was wearing the night of the murder.”
“Did it contain any fibers?” Tucker asks.
Prescott smiles slightly at the imprecise question. “Many. Fibers are everywhere, on virtually everything. If you’re asking if fibers consistent with the scarf were on his clothing, the answer is yes.”
Tucker smiles. “Thank you, that’s exactly what I was asking. Were there many such fibers consistent with the scarf or just a few?”
“Many,” Prescott says. “He had recently handled that scarf, or a garment just like it. But most likely that one.”
“Why do you say that?” Tucker asks.
“Because the fibers on his clothing had blood on them. Linda Padilla’s blood.”
Tucker turns the witness over to me, and every head in the courtroom swivels toward me, challenging me to deal with this disaster.
“Detective Prescott, was my client standing, sitting, or lying down when he touched this scarf?”
“I have no way of knowing that,” he answers truthfully.
“Was he conscious or unconscious?”
“Again, I can’t really answer that.”
I nod. “Could Ms. Padilla have already been dead when he touched it?”
“I suppose it’s possible. It’s not within the scope of my examination,” he concedes.
“Does the scope of your examination allow you to tell whether anyone else besides my client and the victim touched the scarf on the day of the murder?”
“No, it does not,” he answers.
“So if I can present a hypothetical, based on the scope of your examination and your testimony here today, it’s possible that Mr. Cummings was lying down, unconscious, with Ms. Padilla already dead, when a third party rubbed the scarf on him?”
Prescott’s expression is pained; he knows that Tucker will have him for lunch if he agrees to this. “I have seen nothing to substantiate that. Absolutely nothing.”
“Do you have anything that would eliminate it as a possibility?”
“Logic,” he says, a comeback so good I would like to wrap the scarf around his neck.
“Detective Prescott, I based the hypothetical on your testimony. Would you like to go back over that testimony so you can adjust your answers? Or were you testifying accurately and truthfully the first time?”
He looks at me with undisguised disdain, but when he speaks, his voice is quiet and controlled. “Scientifically, the hypothetical you present is possible. Not in any way likely, but possible.”
“Thank you,” I say with a small sigh, conveying to the jury that it took a lot of effort, but the truth finally came out. “Detective Prescott,” I say, “are you familiar with the name Dominic Petrone?”
The mere mention of Petrone’s name sends a shock wave through the gallery, and that jolt sends Tucker leaping out of his chair. “Objection, Your Honor! This is cross- examination, and the subject of Mr. Petrone never came up in direct.”
Tucker is right, of course, and Calvin sustains the objection. It’s just as well, since I really didn’t have a question to ask about Petrone. I simply wanted to introduce his name as a way to shake things up. Judging by the buzz in the gallery and the suddenly alert faces on the jury, I seem to have accomplished that quite well.
I let Prescott off the stand, and Calvin adjourns court for the day in deference to a juror’s doctor appointment. I briefly have a flash of hope that the doctor will determine the juror cannot continue in his role, thereby forcing a mistrial. Unfortunately, there are six alternate jurors waiting to take his place. If I’m going to get help from the world of medicine, it’s going to take something on the order of bubonic plague.
Because of the early adjournment, we’re able to move our team evening meeting to late afternoon. It’s short and uneventful, and the progress report is especially brief, mainly because we’re not making any. We’re taking Tucker’s roundhouse punches and responding with light jabs, not a recipe for judicial success.
Kevin leaves at about seven o’clock, and Laurie and I decide to go to Charlie’s for dinner. Before we leave, I take Tara for a walk, since she hasn’t been out for quite a while.
We’re about a block from the house when Tara pulls me over toward the grass next to the curb, where a car is parked. It’s dark out, so I can’t see what it is she’s moving toward.
I lean down to get a closer look when suddenly the rear passenger door to the car opens. Something gets out of the car, either an enormous man or an average-sized gorilla, and grabs my arm. Almost simultaneous with that, Tara snarls and lunges for the gorilla’s leg.
Gorilla yells in pain and pulls his leg away from Tara. As he does so, a blur flashes across my eyes, and the next thing I know Gorilla is thrown—actually, it’s more like launched—over the car, bouncing off the trunk and landing with a thud on the ground.
I’m still frozen in the same spot, displaying my characteristic inability to react physically to an emergency. My eyes are functioning, though, and in another brief instant they are watching Marcus as he holds a gun on Gorilla, who is trying to shake the cobwebs from his head. The gun is dark, shiny, and rock-hard, just like Marcus, and it looks as if he has merely grown an extension on his hand, in the shape of a gun.
The driver of the car gets out, also holding a gun, which he points in the direction of Marcus, Tara, and me. Gorilla, less groggy now, takes out his own gun and joins the pointing club. Tara and I are the only ones without guns, though her teeth are bared and seem just as threatening as their weapons.
The driver speaks first, in a surprisingly calm voice. “There’s two of us, friend.” He’s talking to Marcus, and the implication is that there are two of them in the fight, but only Marcus on the other side. It’s demeaning to me, though true enough.
“Yuh,” says Marcus, seemingly unperturbed by the imbalance.
“So drop the gun, friend,” says Driver.
“Nuh,” says Marcus.
“He bit my fucking leg,” says Gorilla, misstating Tara’s gender but making his point.
“Nobody has to get hurt,” Driver says. “Mr. Petrone just wants to talk to the lawyer.”
He means me, so I force my mouth to speak. “In my country, we have friendlier ways to arrange conversations.”
Driver smiles. “He thought you might not respond to an invitation. Hey, if he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. We would have driven by, and you’d be lying on the cement, with your brains all over the grass.”
I look at Marcus and he nods slightly, which I take as a sign that he agrees with Driver. “Where is he?” I ask.
“Get in and find out.”
Marcus nods again. “Okay,” I say. “But Marcus and his gun go with us.” I turn to Marcus. “If you’re willing.” He grunts, but his head moves slightly up and down in midgrunt, so I take that as a yes.
I tell them to wait for me, and I walk Tara home. When I enter the house, Laurie sees the look on my face. “What’s the matter?” she asks.
I quickly relate what’s happened, and she asks a bunch of questions. I notice that the one question she doesn’t ask is the one I’ve had in my mind all along, which is, “What the hell was Marcus doing there?”
“You don’t seem surprised that Marcus was there,” I say.
She doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve had him watching out for you. You’ve been annoying some dangerous people.”
“You should have told me,” I say.
“Then you would have stopped it, and Marcus wouldn’t have been there to save your ass tonight,” she responds.
Laurie isn’t happy that I’m going to meet Petrone, and less happy when I refuse her request to go along. “This is real man’s work,” I joke as I walk out the door. She doesn’t think it’s that funny, and neither do I.
The truth is, I’m scared shitless.
T
HERE
’
S
NOT TOO MUCH
chitchat in the car on the way to Dominic Petrone’s. In fact, the only thing that is said is when I apologize for being late. I explain without much subtlety that, while I was at home, “I called my friend Pete Stanton of the Paterson police and told him where I was going. Just in case we have an accident.”
No one seems impressed by this maneuver, or if they are, they neglect to mention it. Marcus and Gorilla share the backseat, and I’m in the front with Driver. All the guns have been put away, which has a calming effect on everybody but me. I’m a nervous wreck.
Intellectually, I know there’s not much to worry about, at least for tonight, but the prospect of being summoned by Petrone is more than a little intimidating. My fear is that he’s going to make me an offer I can’t refuse, and I’m going to refuse it.
Driver drives us to a quiet West Paterson neighborhood, known by everyone, even me, to be the area in which the biggies in the mob reside. Rumor has it that there hasn’t been a robbery in this neighborhood since Calvin Coolidge was president.
Petrone’s house, at least from the outside, is modest. It’s a traditional colonial, two stories, and the property is both well kept and well defended. An ornate but imposing iron fence surrounds the grounds, and we drive up to a gate with three security men, all about the size of Gorilla.
They wave us in, not taking their eyes off Marcus as we go by. We enter the house through the front door, and I am immediately struck by the fact that the inside seems like a normal home. Two teenagers are playing video games in the den as we pass by, I can hear the Knicks game on a television coming from the upstairs, and the kitchen has some dirty plates in the sink. Maybe Clemenza has made some pasta sauce.
We are brought to an office in the back of the house and led in to see Dominic Petrone. I’ve met him at a couple of local charity dinners; Petrone is very willing to be seen in public. He’s like any other successful businessman, except for the part where he has button men on the street.
Petrone is sitting behind his desk watching the Knicks. He smiles when we come in and then makes brief eye contact with Driver, who picks up the remote control and shuts off the game. It’s impressive, but although I could afford it, I wouldn’t want someone to operate my remote control for me. A real man does his own clicking.
Gorilla takes a seat on one side of the room, and Marcus sits on the other. Petrone stands up and greets me with a smile. “Andy, good to see you,” he says. “Thanks for coming by.”
“Thanks, Dominic,” I say. “I was in the neighborhood, so I figured maybe I’ll stop in and see my friend Dominic Petrone.”
He nods. “Glad you did. Glad you did. Have a seat.”
He motions me to a chair in front of his desk and walks back behind that desk and sits back down. “So I was watching the news, and all they’re talking about is how you mentioned my name in court today.”
“Think of it as free publicity.”
“Or I can think of it as very annoying.”
“Or here’s a third possibility,” I offer. “You can think of it as me defending my client.”
He considers this for a while, and the silence in the room is stifling. Finally, he says, “I don’t like too many people in this world. Maybe ten, outside of my family. Most people, I don’t care about them one way or the other.”
He pauses, and I can’t think of anything to say, so I don’t.
He continues. “But on that short list of people that I like, right near the top, was Linda Padilla. I would never have hurt her, ever. And I don’t want it suggested in public that I would.”
The arrogance of the man is mind-boggling. He actually seems to think that I will stop mentioning him in court simply because he’s announced that he finds it annoying. It is the insufferable attitude of a man who considers himself all-powerful. On the other hand, he could have me killed simply by making some more eye contact with Driver.
I decide to surprise him with my vast knowledge. “Are you saying you didn’t hire Tommy Lassiter?”
A flicker of surprise flashes across Petrone’s face, and I sense a slight reaction from Driver behind me. “Impressive,” says Dominic.
“Stop. You’ll make me blush. Did you hire him?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he is?” I ask.
“You become less impressive as you go along. If I knew where he was, we would be speaking of him in the past tense.”
“Do you know why he would have killed Linda Padilla?”
Dominic nods. “For money. Or to get back at me. Or both.”
“Why would Lassiter want to get back at you?”
“Suffice it to say we are not the best of friends. The ‘why’ is none of your business. And I am getting tired of your questions.”
“One more. Why would he kill the others as well?”
“Mr. Carpenter, I brought you here to tell you that I had nothing to do with these murders and that I insist you stop implying that I did. Once you do, I will help you in your efforts.”
This is a surprise, and too tempting to let go unexplained. “How will you do that?”
“That remains to be seen. I have the ability to influence events, which is all I will say about it.”
If he’s not going to be specific, I won’t either. “I can’t promise anything. My client’s life is at stake.”
He nods. “As is your own.” And just in case that was too subtle, he points to Marcus. “Even a man as imposing as this cannot protect you forever.”
Dominic leaves the room, effectively ending the meeting. Driver and Gorilla drive Marcus and me back to my house, leaving us without so much as a word about what a fun evening they had.
I see Laurie looking out at us through the front window. I immediately decide I would rather be in there with her than out here on the street with Marcus. But this guy may have saved my life, so I feel like I owe him something.
“Thanks,” I say to Marcus. “I really appreciate what you did tonight.”
He shrugs. “Yunh.”
“You want to come in? Have a drink or something?”
“Nunh,” he says, and walks away. I walk toward my house and Laurie, thinking that “nunh” is the most beautiful word in the English language.