Laurie, Vince, and I hang out in the waiting area while Cummings is booked, even though I’ll be the only one allowed in to meet with him. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Vince this upset, and I can tell Laurie is noticing this as well.
Except for the time spent waiting for a deliberating jury to return a verdict, these might be the most anxious moments a lawyer can have. The authorities feel they have the evidence to convict the accused, yet as his lawyer, I have absolutely no idea what that evidence is, or even what the facts of the case are.
This situation is even more troubling than most. With all the media attention, the district attorney and police would be particularly loath to make a mistake. They have been under tremendous pressure, but it would increase tenfold if they arrested a suspect and then released him.
They also must know that if they have the wrong man, then the world will realize it as soon as another murder is committed. They would not risk looking so foolish unless they were positive they were right.
I’m not at all sure I even want to take on this case. Cummings might well be guilty, and I don’t really have any compelling need for a serial killer as a client. Besides, I wasn’t even that crazy about him when I thought he was just a law-abiding, pompous reporter.
I decide to broach this with Vince, who is the reason I’m in this mess in the first place. “You know, Cummings might want to pick his own attorney” is the wimpy way I go about it.
Vince shakes his head. “No way. You’re the best. He knows that; I told him that.”
“Vince, I agreed to represent you and the newspaper. I didn’t know I-”
Vince interrupts me, a flash of panic in his eyes. “You’ve got to do it, Andy. You’re the only lawyer I trust to handle this.”
Just then an officer comes out and tells me that I can see Cummings. I nod, but first I want to finish this with Vince.
“Vince, it doesn’t matter who you trust. You’re not the client. And there are plenty of good lawyers. All I’m saying is-”
“No, it’s got to be you.” Vince doesn’t seem to be willing to let me finish a sentence, so I just let the officer lead me off to see Cummings.
I’ve never physically been with someone when they are being processed after entering custody, but in addition to fingerprinting, photographing, emptying of pockets, and the like, the arresting authorities must go over the accused with a confidence-remover.
All but the most seasoned criminals come out of these sessions looking simultaneously depressed and distraught, and Cummings is no exception. Gone, at least for the moment, are the cockiness and air of superiority that I experienced in the past. There is not yet even room for outrage; the fear and humiliation are too dominating. It may be an indictment of myself to say so, but I like him better this way.
“Have you said anything to them since your arrest?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “You told me not to.”
I nod. “Good. That becomes a rule from this day forward. Now, tell me what you know about why you were arrested.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea. One minute I was working with them, telling them what the killer was telling me, and the next thing I know they’re saying I’m the killer. It’s insane; they must be under so much pressure to make an arrest that they just picked the closest person.”
“I’m not going to lie to you, Daniel.” My mind registers that I’ve started thinking of him as “Daniel,” rather than “Cummings,” because I need to get personally close to my clients. Then my mind registers that I am thinking of him as a client, which means I must at least be considering taking on the case. Sometimes my mind has a mind of its own.
I continue. “That same pressure you’re talking about would make them extra careful about charging someone unless they’re sure.”
His mind doesn’t seem to fully register this. “So what are you saying?”
“That they must have some evidence, evidence that they consider substantial, tying you to this. You need to think about what that could be.”
He nods and takes some time to think. “I guess only that I knew information . . . like where the bodies were, how they were murdered, things that only the killer could have known.” He throws up his hands in a gesture of frustration. “But that’s because the killer was telling me everything!”
“And why did he pick you?”
“I don’t know,” he says with some frustration. “I already told you that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you told me before. The world has changed now; you have to look at everything from an entirely different perspective. There’s-”
He interrupts me. “But you don’t understand-”
I return the favor, interrupting him. “It’s you that has to understand . . . so listen carefully. There is a reason you’re here. For us to prevail, we have to find out what the reason is, then shoot it down. And your recollections, your perceptions, can be our most valuable tools. So I know this is hard, but you don’t have the luxury of worrying, or feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve got to help yourself, by helping me.”
There is no chance that little speech will get through to him, at least not yet, since the shock of his arrest is too fresh. But if I harp on it enough, it will eventually have an effect.
For now I’ll give him a specific assignment. “You know as much about these murders as the police do. So what I want you to do is piece together where you were when each one was committed. I want to know where you were, what you were doing, and if anyone saw you do it. If we can prove you didn’t do any one of the four, their case falls apart.”
Daniel nods, but it’s not hopeful, and I’ve got a feeling he’s going to report that he was home in bed, alone, at the time of the murders. Or that aliens abducted him and sprayed him with antimemory juice.
The door opens and Millen and another cop in plain clothes come into the room. Millen speaks to me. “We would like to question your client, if that’s okay with you.”
“It’s not.”
“Maybe he would like to present his side of the story,” he says.
“Maybe you should have given him that opportunity before you arrested him.”
Millen just nods and the two of them leave. He doesn’t seem terribly disappointed; he knew I’d never let Daniel speak to him. As a thorough cop, he had to go through the motions.
The guard comes to take Daniel back to his holding cell, and when I leave, there are two messages waiting for me at the desk. One is a notification from the district attorney’s office that the arraignment is scheduled for tomorrow, which is Friday. They are moving quickly and don’t even want to wait until Monday, another sign of confidence. They think their case is strong enough already and have no doubt the grand jury will indict based on it.
The other message is from Laurie, reporting that she and Vince will be at Charlie’s, waiting for me. I head over there, though in truth I would prefer to go home and think things through.
Laurie and Vince are sitting at our regular corner table when I arrive, but it would not take Sherlock Holmes to look at this scene and know there is something amiss. First of all, there is a full plate of french fries on the table, and Vince is paying no attention to them. I can’t overemphasize the inconceivability of such an event. Secondly, the television facing their table is tuned to the local news, while every other one in the entire bar has ESPN.