“I was in the neighborhood.”
He grins. “Yeah, right.” Then his voice gets lower, and the wariness returns to his eyes. “Andy, I’ve got something. Something that could get me out of here.”
I try to seem eager to hear what he has to say, but in reality I dread it. I can’t stand to shoot this man down again. “What is it?”
“I know why those women were killed.”
If you had given me a thousand guesses, I never could have predicted that was what he would have said. “What?”
“Andy, I can’t scream it out, you know? I know about the murders, and I want you to use the information to get me released. I tell them all about it, and I get paroled. They make deals like that all the time.”
“Did you know I’m representing the accused?”
The shock is evident on his face; he had no idea. “Oh, my God!” he enthuses. “This is great! This is unbelievable!”
I’m not quite ready to join in the euphoria. “What is it you know, Randy?”
Again he looks around warily, more understandable in light of what we are talking about. “It’s all about the rich one. The others were window dressing.”
“You mean-”
He interrupts me, shaking his head. “No, not here. But I won’t let you down, Andy. Just set this up, please. Give me ten minutes in a room with the DA, and your client is in the clear.”
“They’re going to want a preview before they meet.”
He shakes his head firmly. “Andy, I can’t now. Okay? I’ve heard things . . . please trust me, and please get this done. I swear on my daughter’s life . . . this is real.”
I’m not going to get any more; he’s calling the shots. And I do trust that he believes what he is saying, though I have strong doubts that he can deliver what he hopes. “Okay. I’ll get right on it.”
His relief is so powerful it seems to be seeping through the glass. “Thank you,” he says, and walks off. He looks around, seems to pause for a moment, and then hurries out of the room.
By the time I reach my car, I’ve decided what to do with Randy’s request. The DA’s office is the obvious place to go, but I’m not about to trust Tucker with it. There is too much chance he would bury the information, even if it turns out that the information does not deserve to be buried.
Instead, I call Richard Wallace. Richard originally prosecuted Randy’s case, but that is not why I choose him. Richard has always demonstrated total integrity. It’s a cliché, but in his case true: He is more interested in justice than victory.
I’m lucky enough to get Richard on the phone. I tell him I need to see him about something important, but I don’t overplay it. My belief is that this will turn out to be unsubstantiated jailhouse chatter and ultimately not amount to anything. He agrees to see me right away, and I ask that we meet at a nearby coffee shop. I don’t want to run into Tucker.
Richard is already at a table waiting for me when I arrive. We exchange small talk, after which I lay out what Randy told me at the prison.
“This should go to Tucker,” he says.
“I can’t, Richard, he’d never follow up. It would be detrimental to both my clients.”
Richard nods; he knows I’m right, and he’s trying to find another way. “I assume everything you’ve just said to me is unofficial? Off the record?”
I don’t know what he’s getting at, but he’s nodding his head, prompting me, so I nod right back. “Right,” I say, going along. “Totally unofficial and way off the record.”
“Suppose you officially come to me and tell me Clemens has something important to say, that it could involve the perpetrators of some serious crimes. But you don’t mention which crimes, or any other clients of yours that might be involved.”
I immediately see where he’s going with this. “Then you would have no reason to talk to Tucker. It’s the kind of thing you could and should handle on your own.”
He nods. “At least until I hear what Clemens has to say.”
I lean forward. “Richard, there’s something I want to officially talk to you about.” Feeling a little silly, I lay out the new version, and he agrees to arrange for Randy to tell his story. We schedule it for Monday morning, and Richard promises to set it up with the prison authorities.
Just before he gets up to leave, he says, “You know, the evidence was there, and I believe he was guilty, but the Clemens conviction never felt completely right. You know?”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
• • • • •
JUDGE CALVIN NEWHOUSE is assigned to preside over New Jersey v. Daniel Cummings. A wealthy New Englander by birth and a graduate of Harvard Law, Calvin understands the law inside and out. He’s also quite sophisticated; this is a guy who knows flinty wine when he tastes it. Yet he has always tried to portray himself as a crusty, seat-of-the-pants judge with a disdain for legal procedure but a reverence for “good old country common sense.” He’s even incorporated a trace of a southern accent, which makes him sound like a cross between William Buckley and Willie Nelson.
Calvin’s reputation is as a prosecution judge, which doesn’t exactly put him in select company. I’ve tried one case before him, which I won when he agreed to my motion for an order to dismiss. I found him to be highly intelligent and reasonably evenhanded, so all in all I’m not unhappy with the selection. It could be better, but it could be a hell of a lot worse.
One major plus is that Calvin is unlikely to be swayed by the media coverage and public pressure surrounding the case. He’s sixty-four years old, due to retire anyway, and fiercely proud of his independence. He won’t fold before Tucker, but neither will he do us any great favors.
The hearing today is mostly a formality; a get-acquainted session with the judge, during which he will set the trial date and hear a few ordinary motions. Despite that fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen this many members of the press in one place. Clearly, there is nothing else going on in the world.
Vince has gone to Daniel’s house to get him a suit to wear, and when I see him in the suit, I’m glad there’s no jury present. If Calvin were inclined to grant bail, which he won’t be, the value of the suit would cover it. When there is a jury, I will not have Daniel looking so regal. He should look like a man of the people, a little tattered, with no sense of fashion. It’ll be easy to pull off; I’ll just send Vince to my closet instead.
Tucker has three lawyers from his office with him, all of whom I know to be quite competent. As a group they represent considerable overkill for the task at hand, unless Tucker is planning to use them to haul in the boxes of convincing evidence.
Tucker suggests a trial date in the prescribed two months and is shocked when I agree. I would much prefer a longer period of time, but Daniel has insisted we move forward quickly. He seems to have the notion that the trial will result in his being let out of prison, a concept not currently supported by any facts that I am aware of.
Calvin asks us whether discovery is proceeding smoothly, which to a degree it is. Boxes are arriving at my office every day, and they don’t even yet include the DNA tests, which will take a few more weeks. I’m not waiting for them with bated breath; I have no doubt the blood and hair on the scarves found in Daniel’s house will match those of the victims. My task is to convince the jury that Daniel did not put them there.
“Your Honor,” I say, “discovery has to this point been limited to the documents and reports relating to Mr. Cummings as a suspect. They indicate he wasn’t viewed this way until late in the investigation. I would request that the defense be given all reports from the investigation, whether or not they relate to him as a suspect.”
Tucker confers briefly with one of his colleagues, then stands. “Your Honor, the rules of discovery are very clear on this point, and they do not support the defense’s request. All relevant discovery is being turned over. Defense is on a fishing expedition.”