Leader of the Pack (Andy Carpenter) (13 page)

She laughs. “You know I can’t tell you that,” she says.

“Then no more sexual favors for you.”

“How will I live?”

“It will be an empty existence; you’ll spend all your time yearning. Come on, what did he say?”

“Haven’t you seen the ruling yet?”

“Did he issue it?”

She nods. “This morning. We faxed it to your office.”

“I wasn’t there, and Edna probably didn’t check it. The fax machine is almost twenty feet from her chair. Have you got a copy?”

She opens a file, takes out a document, and hands it to me to read. It’s only one page, addressed to Dylan and me, ordering that we appear to have a preliminary discussion of the matter tomorrow morning.

“Good old Hatchet,” I say. I’m pleased by the result, but a little taken aback by the timing. It’s even faster than I expected, though I’ll certainly be prepared to make my arguments.

I thank Rita and leave. I call Edna in the office and ask if I received a fax, and she says, “I think I heard the machine, but I haven’t gotten over there yet.”

She tells me that Willie Miller was in looking for me, so I head for the building in Haledon that houses the Tara Foundation, the rescue group that I run with Willie and his wife, Sondra.

Willie has led a rather interesting life. He spent seven years in prison for a murder he didn’t commit, and I successfully represented him in a retrial. A follow-up civil suit netted him ten million dollars.

Not too long ago, while helping me on a case, he thwarted a major terrorist attack on a natural gas plant near Boston and established himself as a national hero. He even ghostwrote a successful book about the event, and at some point he intends to read it.

Yet Willie and Sondra spend their days at our foundation building, taking care of the dogs we’ve rescued, and making sure they get adopted into good homes.

Sondra is at the desk in the reception area when I arrive, and she tells me that Willie is in the back playing with the dogs. “He’s worried about you,” she says. “He wants to help.”

I head into the back, and, sure enough, Willie’s throwing tennis balls across the large play area, and the dogs are having a great time running and fetching. It looks like a great way to spend the day; instead of law school, maybe I should have gone to fetch school.

When he sees me, he comes over and gives me a fist bump. Fist-bumping is not a strength of mine; I simply cannot do it in a way that looks cool, and doesn’t hurt. Besides, the greeting world is moving too fast for me; I’ve only recently semi-mastered high-fiving, and now all of a sudden fists are the way to go.

“Tell me about these guys that are after you,” he says, obviously having heard about the incident on the highway.

I explain that I really don’t know who sent the killer, but that I assume it has something to do with my investigation in the Desimone case.

“They’re trying to scare you off?” he asks.

“I wish. I think they’re trying to kill me off.”

“I want to help,” he says. “I’ll watch out for you.”

“Marcus is on the case.”

I can see the relief on Willie’s face. He’s a black belt in karate, an immensely dangerous individual when crossed, but he knows that compared to Marcus he’s a Cub Scout. “Good,” he says. “Laurie force you into it?”

“It was her idea, but forcing wasn’t necessary.”

“So as long as your ass is covered, how else can I help?”

“There’s really nothing for you to do right now. If that changes I’ll let you know. But with the case going on, I’m going to be here even less than usual.”

“No problem. Me and Sondra got it under control.”

“Thanks, Willie. I’m sorry about this.” I’m constantly feeling guilty that I don’t contribute enough time, but Willie truly seems to have no problem with it.

“You just let me know what I can do, you hear? Tell Marcus the same thing.”

“I will.”

“I don’t want your ass getting shot up.”

“I don’t either.”

“You going to get Joey out?”

“I hope so.”

“Being inside is really bad,” he says, remembering. “Being inside for something you didn’t do is the worst.”

“You could have come to me and told me what you were doing,” Dylan says. We’re standing near the defense table in the Passaic County Courthouse, waiting for the hearing to begin.

I nodded. “And you could have turned over the documents in discovery like you were obligated to.”

“That’s all bullshit.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bailiff stand, meaning he’s about to announce Hatchet’s arrival.

“You’re about to have your chance to convince Hatchet of that.”

We head to our respective chairs, and the bailiff introduces the Honorable Judge Henry Henderson. He comes in looking like Pissed Off Judge Henry Henderson, a scowl on his face. Of course, Hatchet looking annoyed is not exactly a news event; if he smiled it would be reason to alert the media.

Vince’s story, which was picked up by other media outlets, has generated some interest. The gallery is about half full, and it seems like most of them are reporters. If anything, that has a tendency to make Hatchet more cantankerous, but that’s OK with me, because for a change I don’t expect to be the one on the receiving end.

“Counsel for Joseph Desimone has filed a brief with this court seeking a retrial for the double murder conviction of Mr. Desimone. You have read the document, Mr. Campbell?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Hatchet turns to me. “As I’m sure you are aware, most of the items you cite would not have gotten you through the door today.”

“I believe much of our new evidence is compelling, Your Honor, especially when supported by our witnesses.”

“What a surprise,” he says, drily. “Moving right along, this hearing will focus on the defense’s contention that exculpatory evidence was unlawfully withheld in discovery.”

He turns to Dylan, picking up the folder on his desk, which I assume contains the brief. “Included in this, as I am sure you have noted, is a letter from Lieutenant Chris McKenney of the Montana State Police. Said document is addressed to you, Mr. Campbell, and I’m paraphrasing accurately here, informs you that members of a Montana militia group had vowed to murder Mr. Solarno.

“Coincidentally, it is the same Mr. Solarno whom Mr. Desimone stands convicted of murdering. It also states that Lieutenant McKenney followed up the letter with a phone call, and spoke to you directly, during which time he repeated the same information.”

He puts the folder down and leans forward slightly, peering ominously at Dylan. “You have a satisfactory response to this?”

Dylan stands. “I do, Your Honor. First, I would remind the court that these events transpired more than six years ago, and I have had many cases since, quite a few of which have been before Your Honor. I—”

Hatchet interrupts. “Try and finish your speech before it becomes seven years since these events. And if you’ll recall, I didn’t ask if you had a response. I specified a ‘satisfactory’ response.”

Dylan nods. “Yes, Your Honor. But since my memory of these events is obviously not perfect, I’ve called all the files from the warehouse, and gone over them methodically. I can find no evidence that this letter was ever received by my office, and I certainly have no independent recollection of it.”

“You would acknowledge that withholding such a letter, had you received and been aware of it, would have been a serious violation of the laws of evidence?” Hatchet asks.

“Certainly, Your Honor. Had that been the case, I would be so stating it today.”

“Are you disputing that the letter was sent?” Hatchet asks.

“I have no reason to doubt the veracity of the officer; I simply have no recollection or independent evidence of ever having read the letter or spoken to him.”

Hatchet turns to me. “Mr. Carpenter?”

Hike hands me two pieces of paper. “May I approach, Your Honor?”

He allows it, and I walk forward and hand him one of the pages. The other I hand to Dylan on the way back. “Your Honor, this is a copy of Lieutenant McKenney’s contemporaneous notes, taken during and just after his conversation with Mr. Campbell. You’ll note that he writes that Mr. Campbell expressed his appreciation for the information contained in the letter.”

“That document was not in the filing, Your Honor,” Dylan says, a stricken look on his face.

“Oops,” I say. Then, “I didn’t think it was necessary to include it, Your Honor. I had assumed Mr. Campbell would belatedly acknowledge the communication.”

“And you wanted to, I believe the phrase is, sandbag him,” Hatchet points out.

“Any wounds the prosecution is suffering here are self-inflicted,” I say.

“Mr. Campbell?”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor, but I still have no independent recollection of any of this.”

I move in for the kill. “Your Honor, since the prosecutor is not even attempting to affirmatively refute this evidence, merely saying he doesn’t remember, I think our position should be accepted as the truth of the matter. Certainly it is highly unlikely that a Montana State Police officer would forge a document, as well as his notes, regarding a crime here in New Jersey that he has no other connection to.”

I continue. “I would also point out that a good deal of evidence is not included in our petition.”

“Why is that?”

“Because had we been aware of the exculpatory evidence from Montana, we would have had time to investigate and develop it, likely leading to even more compelling evidence. Mr. Campbell’s violation of the rules of discovery prevented that.”

“Your Honor—” Dylan begins, clearly angry, but Hatchet cuts him off.

“Mr. Campbell, unless you have something substantive to add beyond pleading a faulty memory and filing system, I suggest we leave it right where it is.”

It stops Dylan in his tracks; I’m not even sure Marcus can protect me from what he’s thinking.

“I’ll be issuing my ruling shortly. I trust no one is in suspense as to what that ruling will be. This hearing is adjourned.”

It’s dark when I leave my office, a sure sign that I’m working on a case. Actually, the fact that I’m in my office at all is a sure sign as well. But working past dark is not exactly my M.O.

My parking spot is in an uncovered lot at the end of the block, and I’m halfway there when a large black sedan pulls up alongside me. The rear door opens, simultaneous with my heart hitting the sidewalk. There can’t be any doubt that I’m about to die; not even Marcus will have time to intervene.

But the person in the backseat, calling me by name, is Willie Miller. “Andy, get in the car,” he says.

It’s dark in the car, and I can’t see who is with him. Certainly he’s not alone, because he’s in the back and obviously not driving. So I hesitate; I trust Willie, but he could have a gun trained on him, or something.

“Come on, Andy. It’s OK.”

I look quickly around for Marcus, but I don’t see him. I’ve got two choices; I can trust Willie and get in, or I can turn and run like a coward.

Cowardly running is by far my first choice, but I force myself to do otherwise. I don’t think there is anything anyone could do to get Willie to force me into a trap.

Once I’m in the car, I see that Willie is alone in the backseat. However, the front seat is occupied by two people, who are each so wide that at first I think it’s three of them. The driver doesn’t turn around, simply pulls back onto the road and drives off.

The person in the passenger seat turns to face me, and I recognize him as Joseph Russo. Russo and I have never met, but I’ve seen his picture in the paper quite a few times, though never on the sports page, and absolutely never in the comics.

Russo is number two to Dominic Petrone, which is to say he is a powerful figure among people who regard law enforcement as the bad guys. Petrone is in his mid-sixties, a courtly type who seems more like a CEO than a don. Russo is much younger, but is a throwback to the older, more violent school. He is also said to be Petrone’s choice to succeed him.

A lot of people would want to get on Russo’s good side, if he had one. But I am aware that he and Willie have a relationship of sorts, and Russo considers himself indebted to Willie, with good reason.

When Willie was in prison, just a few months before the retrial, Russo was there as well. It was the one conviction on Russo’s record, and he was only gone for a year.

One day three men decided to make a name for themselves, or perhaps they were being paid for their actions, but they cornered Russo in the exercise yard. They had makeshift weapons, which would have been more than enough to do the intended job of killing Russo.

The plan was a good one, but the execution of it left something to be desired. They neglected to notice that Willie was there, observing what was happening. He had never met Russo, but had an instinct that in any three-to-one fight, he belonged on the side of the one.

Russo wound up with minor injuries, while Willie put the three assailants in the hospital. Willie heard that they met with even more decisive justice from Petrone’s people shortly thereafter, but that didn’t interest him much either way.

For all of his faults, like the fact that he murders people and commits other criminal acts, Russo recognizes a debt, and he has been helpful to Willie in the past. I’m not sure why the three of us are together now, but I’m about to find out.

Willie breaks the ice. “Andy … Joseph Russo. Joe … Andy Carpenter.”

He makes no motion to shake hands, so I don’t either. Instead I just say, “Hey.” That’s how we tough guys talk.

He doesn’t return the “hey,” a slight I’m willing to overlook. Instead he says, “You’re asking questions about Carmine Desimone?”

Technically, I haven’t been asking questions about Carmine, except to our investigative team. Willie, as a member of that team, has clearly gone to Russo to get the answers.

I nod. “Yes, I’m trying to find out whether he had Nicky Fats killed, and why he doesn’t seem to be helping Joey, and why he sent someone to kill me.” I don’t know if that last part is true, but I talk as if it is.

“I don’t know about any of that,” Russo says.