He’s still looking at the map. “Wait a minute . . . on second thought it looks like it’s around the corner . . . or whistling down the river.”
Our destination turns out to be nowhere near the river. It’s a culinary institute in lower Westchester, and we are two of about eighty people there to taste wine for charity. We’re divided into groups of twenty and put into what seem like typical classrooms. The only difference is that on tables in front of each chair are five glasses of wine.
“This is gonna be great,” Sam says.
“Yeah. Yippie,” I say, not quite sharing his enthusiasm.
Sam lifts up one glass in a toast. “Come on, Andy, cheer up. We’re gonna rock it tonight. We’re gonna jazz it up and have us a ball.”
“Do me one favor, will you, Sam? Just don’t tell me you feel pretty, oh so pretty.”
The “class” begins, and I am immediately transformed to another planet, a place where people spin wine around in their glass, analyze it as if it’s a top-secret formula, and use words like “flinty,” “oaky,” and “brassy” to describe the taste. Not having previously chewed on flint, oak, or brass, I have no idea what those things taste like, which puts me at a considerable disadvantage. I’m not even sure what they mean when they say a wine is dry; I spilled some and had to mop it up with my napkin just like I would something wet.
My sense is that this particular charity’s goal is not to educate me, but rather to get me so sloshed that I won’t realize how big a check I’m writing when they make their pitch at the end. I fool them by taking little tastes, mainly because I know that I’m going to have to drive Sam home, as he is downing flinty drinks with his left hand and dry, oaky ones with his right.
I write my check and we head out toward the cars. Our walk takes a little longer than it should, since we are stopped by about a dozen reporters, as well as three or four cameramen with television lights.
“Hey, Andy,” one of them calls out, “have you heard what they’re saying about Cummings?”
Nothing good can come from that question, and I cringe in anticipation. I could fake it and give a “no comment,” but I want to know what has happened, and when I find out, I might well have a comment.
“No, I haven’t. I’ve been inside, toasting to charity.”
Another reporter jumps in. “They’re not talking on the record, but they’re saying he also murdered his wife.”
“I assume the ‘they’ you’re talking about is the prosecution. Unlike Tucker Zachry, we intend to prove our case in a courtroom. Thanks for coming, people. I recommend the wine, although it’s a little oaky.”
I start walking toward the car. Behind me, with the cameras off, I hear the incorrigible Sam explaining my cranky mood in terms that only Officer Krupke could understand. “He’s very upset. He never had the love that every child oughta get.”
I lead Sam to the car, and I get in the driver’s seat. Sam looks at me with genuine concern. “Is your boy innocent?” he asks.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
Sam can read me, and he knows I have some very real doubts about that innocence. “I thought you always had to believe in your clients.”
“Belief is an evolving concept.”
“But you’re sure you want to represent him?” he asks.
“I’m sure,” I say without conviction.
Sam shakes his head disapprovingly. “I don’t think you should.”
Just what I need, more advice. “And why is that exactly?”
“A boy like that, he’d kill your brother. Forget that boy and find another. One of your own kind. Stick to your own kind.”
• • • • •
THE INITIAL EVIDENCE against Daniel Cummings arrives in three boxes at ten o’clock on Monday morning. Its promptness is a further demonstration that Tucker is going to play this strictly by the book. He has no intention of being nailed on any kind of technicality involving procedure; his case must be too good for that.
What is here represents only a small piece of what will eventually be the prosecution’s case. The investigation is ongoing and in fact just beginning, but this is daunting enough.
The first set of documents is technical in nature. I am nontechnical in nature, so it takes me a while to understand them. Basically, what they say is that technology exists that can tell in fairly precise terms the location of a cell phone when it receives a call. They’ve employed this technology in this case, and the results run counter to Daniel’s story. According to the reports, Daniel was already in or near the park that night when he received the call, which was made from a nearby pay telephone. Daniel had said it took him fifteen minutes to get to the park after receiving the call. Even worse, Daniel’s fingerprints were found on that pay phone, leaving the clear impression that he made the call to himself so as to fabricate a story.
With this information on hand, the police then executed search warrants on Daniel’s house and car while he was in the hospital. Hidden in the car’s trunk were Linda Padilla’s clothes, including a scarf, which the police believe was used to strangle her. And wrapped in that scarf were her severed hands.
It goes downhill from there. Three other scarves, bloody but mercifully without severed hands, were found hidden in Daniel’s closet at home. Tests are being done to confirm that they are from the previous three victims. I would say it’s a pretty safe bet that they are.
When Kevin, Laurie, and I finish going through the documents, it’s so quiet in the office you can hear a severed hand drop. It’s Laurie who finally breaks the silence. “This is bad,” she says, vastly understating the case.
Kevin doesn’t respond, which means he agrees. It’s up to me, as the lead defense attorney, to give the upbeat analysis. “This is just their side of it” is the best I can manage.
“Do we have a side?” Kevin asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “But we’re gonna get one.”
Their faces do not show great enthusiasm, more like total dread. “Look,” I say, “if you guys want to back out of this, I’ll understand.”
“But you’re staying in?” Laurie asks.
I nod. It’s not a vigorous or enthusiastic nod; it’s more just having my neck go limp and letting my head roll around on top of it. But it conveys the message: I’m staying on the case, and I’m doing it for Vince.
“We’ve had cases that looked bad before,” Kevin reasons. “I’m in.”
We both look to Laurie; she is aware that hers is one of the cases that looked particularly grim before we turned it around. Countering that is what I know to be her absolute horror at the prospect of helping a serial killer. “Okay,” she says. “Me too.”
I’m very glad to have them aboard. “Then let’s kick this around,” I say.
We discuss the case for the better part of two hours, at the end of which I verbalize my evolving strategy, pitifully obvious though it might be. “Either Daniel is guilty, or someone is trying to make him look guilty. It doesn’t do us any good to assume the former, so let’s go with the idea of an unknown bad guy. We have to find out who it is and why he’s chosen Daniel as his target.”
Kevin does not seem convinced about any of this, a sign of his intelligence. “My problem,” he says, “is that we seem to be talking about a killer who randomly picks and murders victims and cuts off their hands. In other words, a real weirdo.”
I know where he’s going; it’s bothered me as well. “Yet that’s not the type of person to concoct an elaborate frame-up,” I say.
Laurie nods her agreement. “Unless the murders weren’t random.”
The problem with that is that the victims were in no way similar; there is a young nurse, a street hooker, a grandmother, and a gubernatorial candidate. It seems hard to believe there is a connection between them, but that’s one of the things we have to look for.