“Which is towards Lancaster and Center City,” Kevin says.
If Stacy Martin is correct, then Jeremy did not drive back to Findlay.
If Stacy Martin is correct, Jeremy Davidson lied to his lawyer.
Me.
Kevin and I go back to Jeremy’s house to look around there again. I had always been vaguely troubled by the fact that the bodies had been buried out behind the house, with the only access road to that area being in the front. Yet Jeremy, who claimed to have been home, never heard a thing.
My point of view on this was that the bodies may well have been put there the next day, when Jeremy might not have been home. Jeremy’s apparent lie about where he went after leaving the bar raises two more possibilities: Jeremy did not hear anything because he wasn’t at home that night, or Jeremy was the one doing the burying.
Richard Davidson is home when we get there, and I ask to look around inside, while Kevin does so outside. Davidson seems surprised by the sudden request, especially since I’ve been there before. “Anything new?” he probes.
“Nothing much… just going over things again. Where is Jeremy’s bedroom?”
“In the guesthouse, second floor. But you can’t go in there now… it’s not stable.”
The Davidsons haven’t started rebuilding the damaged guesthouse from the firebombing, so I walk outside of where Jeremy’s window was. I can clearly see Kevin, perhaps seventy-five yards away, standing near the area where the bodies were buried. This makes it even less likely that Jeremy was home and didn’t notice anything going on.
Kevin and I leave without sharing our concerns with Richard, and we head down to the jail to meet with Jeremy. He is brought into the meeting room, and a guard remains posted outside.
“What’s going on?” Jeremy asks, hopeful as always.
This is no time for small talk. “You didn’t drive home from the bar that night. You drove to Center City.” I don’t know if that last part is true, but since it’s a worst case, I say it as if I know for sure, to see how he will react.
I can see a flash of panic in his eyes. “What are you talking about? I told you, I-”
“This isn’t a debate, Jeremy. I know where you went. What I want you to tell me is why you went there and why you lied about it.”
He seems about to argue that point again and then sits back, as if defeated. I am going to hate what he has to say.
“I did go to Center City. I wanted to talk to Liz again.”
“What did you do when you got there?”
“I parked about six blocks from her house, because I figured if I just drove up, her mother would call the police and throw me out. I walked the rest of the way.”
“Did anybody see you?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. People don’t stay up real late in that town. Liz used to tell me that the last show at the movie theater was at seven o’clock at night, and-”
I’m not really in the mood to hear about movie night in Center City, so I cut him off. “How did you know where her house was?” I ask, since Mrs. Barlow told me she never met him.
“Liz took me there once… she just wanted to show me where she lived. I actually had to crouch down in the car so her mother wouldn’t be able to see me as we drove by.”
“What did you do when you got to her house?”
“Her car wasn’t there, so I waited. I hid behind some bushes,” he says with apparent embarrassment.
“How long did you wait?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Probably a few hours. Hey, I know it sounds stupid, but the longer she wasn’t there, the more upset I got. That’s why I figured she was with her ex-boyfriend, and he probably wasn’t ‘ex’ anymore.”
This is a disaster. Not only will Lester be able to show that Jeremy’s statement to the police contained a very significant, material lie, but the truth is very incriminating. The defendant hid in the bushes waiting for the murder victim, growing more and more upset, jealous and angry over her betraying him with another man. The only way this statement could be worse is if he said he stopped to pick up a machete on the way to her house.
I make eye contact with Kevin, and his look confirms that he thinks this is just as bad as I do. Since eye contact has never been my specialty, Jeremy notices it. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied, but I was scared, and I figured it would look bad if I told the police where I really was.”
I give my standard stern lecture to Jeremy about the devastating consequences of lying to one’s attorney, but it’s a halfhearted speech. I will never fully trust him again and will always be worried that there’s another freight train coming around the next bend. His lie doesn’t make him a murderer, but it certainly makes it more likely he will be convicted as one.
But what are we worried about? We’re in great shape. After all, in less than two months we’ve already discovered that there is probably somebody in Center City named Eddie.
We’re the kind of lawyers you’d mortgage the farm for.
• • • • •
IRONICALLY, THE MOST fertile ground for our investigation might well be Calvin’s death. I doubt very much that it was accidental, because I simply don’t believe in those kinds of coincidences. If Calvin was murdered, it was almost certainly in the pursuit of exculpatory information for Jeremy; if that information did not exist, then Calvin would not have been a threat.
In any event, the hearing that Judge Morrison convenes is crucially important to our case, and when he calls on me to speak, I tell him so.
I basically repeat what is in the brief that Kevin wrote and submitted. I end with, “In conclusion, the defense believes that the death of Calvin Marshall might well be relevant to the matter before this court, but it is only through discovery that we can test our theory.”
Judge Morrison peers down at Lester. “Mr. Chapman?”
“Your Honor, the statute could not be more clear on this matter. The defense is entitled to all investigative work done on this case relating to the murders for which the defendant is to be tried. They do not have license to receive police documents for anything else that they believe might somehow be relevant. Where would that end? Would they be entitled to examine every crime committed in this county in the hope that it would somehow tie in to their case? At this point in time, pending further investigation, I simply do not see the relevance.”
Morrison turns to me, and I stand up again. “Your Honor, there has not been a murder prior to this case in Findlay in eight years. In those same eight years, only four murders have been reported in the entire county. Yet the lawyer for this defendant dies under suspicious circumstances while pursuing evidence in this very case. This is not a fishing expedition, and if Mr. Chapman cannot see the possible relevance, he is the Stevie Wonder of prosecutors.”
Lester jumps to his feet. “Your Honor, I resent the personal attack in that comparison.”
“Think how Stevie would feel,” I say.
Morrison comes down hard on both of us, but I bear the brunt of it. When he’s finished, he turns back to Lester.
“Mr. Chapman, have you reviewed the police reports in question?”
“Yes, Your Honor, in order to prepare for this hearing.”
“Is the investigation into Mr. Marshall’s death concluded?”
Lester shakes his head. “Certainly not, Your Honor. It’s barely begun.”
“So it’s not definitive in its conclusions?” the judge asks.
“For the most part, no.”
“I will look at the reports in camera. If I consider them relevant to this case, I will turn them over to the defense.”