That relief is short-lived, as Dylan reveals that the State of New Jersey is charging Laurie with murder in the first degree. When it comes to burns, first degree is not that big a deal. Among murder charges, it's real bad. Simply put, if Laurie is convicted, she will never experience another day of freedom.
It would shake up anyone, but when called upon to give her plea, Laurie says, "Absolutely not guilty, Your Honor." She says it with conviction and power and confidence. It's another reminder that she is one tough lady.
The judge then brings up the matter of bail, which Dylan vigorously opposes. "The defendant is financially self-sufficient, and as a former police officer, is familiar with types and means of flight. Additionally, and even more significantly, the brutal nature of the crime is such that freeing the defendant would represent a serious risk to the community. Setting bail in this circumstance would be a substantial departure from precedent, and the facts simply do not support such a finding."
"Mr. Carpenter?"
I stand. "Thank you, Your Honor. Laurie Collins was a decorated police officer who left the department voluntarily when she felt that it was not adhering to sufficiently high moral and ethical standards. She has since distinguished herself as a self-employed private investigator, and I can personally vouch for her continued impeccable ethics and actions.
"Her entire life to this point has been dedicated to serving this community. She has never been charged with jaywalking, no less a major felony. Simply because she is the latest unwilling contestant in Mr. Campbell's prosecutorial game show,
Suspect for a Day
, that is no reason to deprive her of her liberty."
Dylan is back on his feet. "I object to these personal attacks, Your Honor."
"Sustained. Let's tone it down a bit, Mr. Carpenter," the judge says.
"Sorry, Your Honor. But to call Laurie Collins a flight risk is particularly absurd. People with her courage and character don't run from unfounded charges such as these; they stay and fight them."
The judge does not look convinced. "Bail in these situations is very unusual, Mr. Carpenter."
I'm afraid I'm losing her. Kevin nods slightly in my direction; we have an alternative plan if things look like they're going badly, which they do.
"Your Honor," I say, "we would propose a significant bail and house arrest. Ms. Collins could be electronically monitored if necessary. And if you feel that is insufficient, a police guard could be posted outside the house, which if you so ordered, the defense would pay for."
The judge seems intrigued by this, and I can see her tentatively pulling back from the brink of ruling against us. "Mr. Campbell," she says, "what's your response to that? It would seem to eliminate both the risk of flight and any danger to the community."
It is no surprise that Dylan disagrees completely. "Your Honor, we are talking about a vicious and premeditated crime against a police officer. House arrest is simply not a substitute for prison. This is what prisons are for."
I stand again. "Your Honor, I arrived in court a few minutes after Mr. Campbell today. Was there a trial and conviction that I missed? Prisons are for criminals. Mr. Campbell still must prove Laurie Collins is a criminal, and he will not come close."
The judge nods and makes her ruling. "Bail will be set at five hundred thousand dollars. The accused will be subject to house arrest and electronically monitored. If the state wants to post a guard outside the house, it will be at their own expense."
I lean over to Laurie and whisper. "You okay if it's my house?"
She smiles slightly. "Only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays."
I fight the urge to return the smile, then ask the judge to allow her house arrest to take place at my house, explaining that it will considerably increase her ability to aid in her own defense, and that as a law enforcement officer and investigator, that help is particularly valuable. The judge agrees, and Dylan doesn't bother to fight it.
"You can arrange bail with the court clerk," the judge says, and then adjourns the hearing.
I immediately walk toward the clerk, passing right by Dylan as I do. "Dylan," I say, "you're an expert on this stuff. You think they want cash or a check?"
He doesn't answer, so I guess I'll just have to ask the clerk.
LAURIE ISN'T RELEASED
FROM THE JAIL UNTIL
three hours after the hearing. They blame processing delays, and I'm just about ready to burn the place down when I finally see her. A guard is assigned to drive her to my house so he can make sure that she is within the house when he fastens her electronic ankle bracelet.
Kevin wants to come over with the discovery material he got from Dylan's office, but I tell him that we'll start in the morning. Today was a very intense day for all of us, and we could use a breather before jumping into this. Once it starts, there won't be anything else going on in our world.
I ask Kevin to start the process of transferring the office to the house; I want the phones switched over and all the files moved. Even Edna should be alerted to change her late morning destination, mainly because if we didn't tell her, she might continue in the other office for months before noticing we were gone.
Laurie and I have a quiet, early dinner. She's a tough woman, but I can tell that she's shaken by the experience. I can see her gathering her strength, girding for the ordeal that is to follow.
We are in bed by ten, and I hold her until she falls asleep. I confess that I would be willing to do more than hold her, but my sense is that it is a sign of insensitivity to attempt to make love to somebody on the same night they have been charged with a decapitation-murder. I fall asleep moments after Laurie does; today was an exhausting day for both of us.
We're still sleeping at eight o'clock the next morning when the doorbell rings and I stagger down to answer it. It is then that I see one of those sights that make you rub your eyes and wonder if you're seeing a mirage, or perhaps still dreaming.
Edna.
Up and awake and raring to go to work, at eight o'clock in the morning. Edna! The mind boggles.
"We've got work to do, Andy," she says, then brushes past me and enters the house. I can see that out on the street the press has already started to assemble; I would be surprised if they're not a constant presence, which is fine with me. Laurie will be inside anyway, and in a case like this manipulation of the press is a necessary part of a defense attorney's job. Having them on hand will make it more convenient.
Edna immediately starts to set up a makeshift office in my den. She pauses only to go to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Edna making coffee! With my camera upstairs, I'm missing out on a once-in-a-lifetime shot.
Edna tries to explain to me her level of outrage that Laurie has been placed in this situation. She makes me swear that we will all do whatever is necessary to exonerate her, an easy promise for me to make. Laurie comes downstairs, wearing pants to cover her ankle bracelet. Edna rushes to hug her, offering kind words and renewing her vow to do everything she can. I am actually touched by Edna's response to this crisis, and I can tell that Laurie is as well.
Kevin shows up a few minutes later and informs us that the movers will have the office files and equipment here by eleven o'clock. He has the discovery files with him, and we set up in the den to start going through them.
Laurie volunteers to make breakfast for us, and when I mention that there's really nothing in the house to make it out of, she casually says she'll go to the market. Before I can respond, she realizes that she misspoke, that she must remain in the house at all times. It's a small thing, but a sobering reminder of her situation.
Edna goes to the market, and I can hear her loudly berating the media "leeches" as she leaves. I make a note to explain to her the importance of maintaining good press relations, but it is pretty far down on my list of notes.
Based on my skimming the morning paper and watching some TV news coverage, the press is giving us the upper hand in yesterday's hearing. There is substantial mention of the ridicule I subjected Dylan to, and while I would ordinarily not view this as a positive, in this case I feel otherwise. Dylan will not willingly give an inch anyway, and I think that getting him angry might cause him to make a mistake. I also think it might make him come across as overly aggressive, never a good thing for a prosecutor.
Kevin and I start to plow through the discovery material, though in this case a plow would be substantial overkill. The file is very skimpy, confirming my belief that extracting material from an uncooperative Dylan is going to be a constant fight. Of course, to let anything slip by us is to invite a disaster in court.
Basically, the case against Laurie as outlined in the material has two powerful linchpins. First is her presence at what has now been identified as the murder scene behind Hinchcliffe Stadium, and what the police see as her attempt to retrieve the evidence. Obviously, the most incriminating part of that evidence is her bloody clothing, and I have no doubt that DNA will reveal it to be Alex Dorsey's blood on both that clothing and the knife.
The second very damaging piece of evidence has been found as the result of a search warrant, executed on Laurie's house. In her garage was an empty can with the residue of a fluid that appeared to be gasoline, and which when tested was the exact same mixture as that used to set Dorsey's body on fire. Laurie is stunned when she hears this, and swears that she has never seen that can in her life.
The remainder of the file consists of witness statements. It's very early in the process, but the police are already making headway in this regard. Oscar and others in his neighborhood claim that Laurie was there frequently, apparently following Oscar. There is also a witness who puts Laurie in the area of the warehouse the day of the murder.
A major piece missing from the discovery documents is any reference to the victim's actions, record, and history. Dorsey must have a file the size of South Dakota, but despite our request, nothing has been included. Only by getting those records will we know why they don't want us to have them.
"Pancakes?" It's Laurie, standing at the door, the smell of her prepared breakfast wafting into the room.
A prime factor that the NFL uses for talent evaluation is the player's speed in the forty-yard dash. If instead they measured the time from den to kitchen, Kevin would be All-Pro and a future Hall of Famer.
Edna and I eat one pancake each, and Laurie has two, so including Kevin we eat a total of sixteen. When we're done, we go back into the den, and we plot our initial moves. Kevin will work on getting access to Dorsey's police records, initially by renewing our request for voluntary discovery. We expect Dylan to again reject it, so Kevin will simultaneously prepare a motion to convince the court to compel him to comply.
The other assignment I give Kevin is to find an investigator to work with us on this case. I'm afraid that Laurie will feel as if she is being replaced, and might get frustrated and upset. I'm wrong again, and she jumps in with ideas for people that we might hire.
When Kevin leaves, Laurie leads me into the bedroom, out of earshot of Edna. Once we're there, she says, "Andy, we need to talk about money."
"What about it?" I ask.
"I've got twelve thousand dollars in the bank," she says.
"That's all? I've got twenty-two million."
"Andy, I've always been self-sufficient. It's how I've defined myself. But right now I can't come close to paying for my own defense, and I don't know what to do about it."
"There's nothing for you to do. I'll pay for it, but first I'll negotiate with myself to cut my hourly rate."
"This case will cost a fortune."
"Then we're really lucky, because I happen to have a fortune," I say. "Look, we bring different things to our relationship, to our friendship. One of the things I bring is money. It's never been that important to either of us, but right now we need it, and there it is. If we spend every penny of it, that's fine."
"Andy--" she starts, but I cut her off.
"I know how you feel, Laurie, but every minute we spend thinking about this is a minute we're not thinking about what's really important. And that is winning this case."
"So this is something I'm going to have to deal with?" she asks.
I nod, and even though she still seems uncertain about her ability to do that, she hugs me. "I love you," she says.
"I love you too." As I said, it's not a response we consider automatic, and there's no obligation to say it, but sometimes it feels right.
I head back into the den, and by that time Edna has worked out phone arrangements. The phone company will be there within the hour to install our office line separate from my home line. Laurie wants to take personal calls on her cell phone, so as not to interfere with our activities. Edna is by now already on another project, though I have no idea what she could be working on. It's possible that some body-snatching work-pod took over Edna's body while she slept last night. Not wanting to disrupt whatever the Edna-pod is doing, and even though I'm still picking pieces of pancake out of my teeth, I go to lunch.
This lunch is with FBI Special Agent Robert Hastings. Pete Stanton, who set it up, told me that Hastings's friends call him Robbie, but that since I'm a defense attorney, I should call him Special Agent Hastings. Pete knows him from a few cases where their paths intersected, and he describes him as a stand-up guy.
The stand-up guy is already sitting at a table when I get there. At least I think he's sitting. Right now he's about half a foot taller than I am when I'm standing. I had asked Pete how I'd recognize him, and he described Hastings as dressing conservatively and balding slightly. Apparently, Pete considered these more distinctive features than the fact that Hastings is in the neighborhood of six foot nine, three hundred pounds.
Hastings is looking at his watch when I arrive. The lunch was called for noon, and a quick check of my own watch shows it to be one minute after.
I reach the table and introduce myself, and then say, "I'm not late, am I?" I say this with the full knowledge that I'm not.
"Yeah, you are," he says.
"Didn't we say twelve o'clock?" I ask.
A slight nod of his massive head. "Yeah."
I decide not to pursue the time issue any further, and I quietly let him take the lead in the conversation. It turns out that conversation-leading is not a specialty of his.
After about five silent and excruciatingly uncomfortable minutes, he says, "Pete tells me you're a pain in the ass."
I smile. "I've been called worse."
"Yeah," he says. "I'm sure."
Hastings goes on to tell me that Pete also said that even though I'm a little runt, there's not a lunch check ever made that's too heavy for me to pick up. He picked this really expensive restaurant to test out that theory.
He's in the middle of ordering enough food to feed the Green Bay Packers when it hits me. "Hey, you're not Dead End Hastings, are you?"
It turns out that he is, in fact, Dead End Hastings, who spent two years playing for the Denver Broncos and who was so named because when running backs came into his area, they were entering a dead end with no way out. An untimely knee injury cut a very promising career short.
The transformation is immediate. He goes from quiet and surly to affable and gregarious. Fortunately, his mouth is large enough that simultaneous talking and eating presents no difficulty for him at all. He regales me with stories of his playing days and is impressed with my knowledge of rather arcane pieces of football trivia. I always knew that all those Sunday afternoons in front of the television set would turn out to be worthwhile.
We're having dessert when I bring up the reason I wanted to have this lunch in the first place. "I need to know everything there is to know about Alex Dorsey. I'm representing the person accused in his murder."
His nod confirms my expectation that Pete had alerted him to at least this general subject matter. "And why exactly did you come to me?" he asks.
"Because I know the Bureau conducted an investigation that somehow involved Dorsey and that it got him at least temporarily off the hook when Internal Affairs was coming after him. That's all part of the public record."
I'm stretching the truth some: FBI involvement with Dorsey was never publicly confirmed. Hastings doesn't seem to care one way or the other. "It's not my case," he says, "so all I can do is tell you whose case it is."
"That's a start," I say.
"Darrin Hobbs. He's number two man in the eastern region, heading for number one."
"Thanks," I say. "Any chance you can set up a meeting for me with him?"
He shrugs. "I can tell him you want to talk to him. I wouldn't count on it, though. He's a busy guy."
"I understand," I say. "By the way, you said 'is.'"
"What's that?"
"You said it
is
his case. I thought the federal investigation involving Dorsey ended a long time ago. Did you just make a bad choice of words?"
He looks across the table at me with a stare that makes me glad I was never an offensive lineman. "I'm even better at choosing words than I am at eating." That is a significant statement, because based on the size of the check when I get it, Winston Churchill wasn't better at choosing words than Hastings is at eating.
Driving home, I try to focus on that which makes this case unique. In most cases, my view is that my client is wrongly accused and that the real criminal is out there. While that is certainly true here as well, the twist is that Laurie's arrest is not just the result of police error. Stynes's involvement makes it crystal clear that she was set up from the very beginning. It is likely, but not absolutely definite, that the person behind the setup and the murderer are one and the same.
I find it very helpful to sit down with Kevin to just bounce ideas off each other. He has a sharp mind, and while he's emotionally involved in this case, he's far more dispassionate than I am.
We have one of those talks this afternoon, though it's a little hard to hear because Edna is typing like a maniac in the background. Kevin points out that my instinct about Stynes not being disappointed when I turned down his case was right on target. He wasn't in my office for the purpose of hiring an attorney; he was there to plant information in my head. He was betting that my belief in his guilt would cause me to defend Garcia.