“I don’t know.”
“Maybe he suddenly came into money? Perhaps for performing a service?”
“If he did, I’m not aware of it.”
“Maybe he just needed a vacation; conscience clearing can be exhausting.”
Mulcahy just smiles, as if these barbs are to be expected from a defense attorney who doesn’t have the evidence on his side. He’s an experienced, excellent witness because of his confidence and lack of fear; the jury thinks that means he’s telling the truth and hiding nothing.
I let him off the stand, having accomplished as much as I could, which is not nearly enough.
“Mr. Mandlebaum, I think you’ll be more comfortable in this chair.”
That’s what I hear Laurie say as I walk into the house. What I see is Laurie, Sam, Tara, Bailey, and five very old people, four of them men.
“Andy, I’ve got some people I want you to meet,” Sam says. “This is Morris Fishman, Leon Goldberg, Stanley Rubinstein, Hilda Mandlebaum, and her husband Eli.”
“Nice to meet you all,” I say. “You’re Sam’s students?”
They all nod their confirmation of my question.
“At what school might that be?” I ask.
“The YMHA in Wayne.”
He’s talking about the Jewish version of the YMCA, meaning it’s the Young Men’s Hebrew Association. Except they aren’t “young” and Hilda isn’t one of the “men.” Perhaps it should just be called the HA.
I ask Sam if I could talk to him in the kitchen before we get started. Once we’re in there, I ask, “Does their age have anything to do with why you wanted to make the meeting early?”
He shrugs. “They’re sharper earlier in the day,” he says. “They usually have dinner around fourish, and then to bed by eight.”
“I’m not sure this is going to work, Sam.”
“They’re up at five in the morning, Andy, so we’ll have a full day. And you should see them on a computer; they’re as good as any students I’ve ever had.”
“How many classes have you taught?” I ask.
“This is my first.”
“Sam…”
“It will be fine; trust me.”
I actually do trust Sam, especially when it’s in the area of computers, so we go back into the other room. Morris Fishman is in the process of telling Laurie she looks just like Esther Fleischmann, his high school sweetheart who cheated on him in 1947 when he went to Rutgers and she stayed home.
“Morris,” Laurie says, “you deserved better.”
Eli Mandlebaum is petting Tara, and Leon is petting Bailey, and they seem quite content about it. Based on their relative sizes, Leon could be Bailey’s jockey. Tara has always been an equal opportunity petting receiver; she is unconcerned about race, religion, sex, or age. Clearly she’s teaching Bailey her open-mindedness.
Sam turns the meeting over to me. I can tell I need to get it over with quickly; it’s getting close to six-thirty, and I think Hilda is starting to nod off.
I explain where we are on the case, as it relates to the cell phone records. “We have all these people that were called. They live in different places and have quite different occupations. The only common thread that we know about is that they were all called at some point by the owner of that particular cell phone.”
“So you want to find out if there are any other connections?” Stanley asks.
“Exactly. We need to dig as deeply as we can into each of their lives, and find out if they are connected in any other way. No matter how insignificant the link might be, I want to know about it.”
“How do we do it?” Leon asks.
“I have no idea,” I say. “Sam is in charge of that. He’ll instruct you on what to do. Right, Sam?”
“No problem.”
“I’m also going to be getting a list of missing persons from around the time of the fire. We’re going to need to track them down as well.”
“We’re on it,” Sam says, and then turns to his team. “We start bright and early at six? The computer room at the Y?”
Everyone nods their agreement, and Hilda says that she and Eli will pick up bagels and lox on the way in. With that, Sam leads the “over the hill gang” out the door.
When they leave, Laurie says, “I hope I’m just like them if I get to be their age. And I hope we’re just like Hilda and Eli.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you see them holding hands? Hilda told me they’ve been married sixty-one years. And they’re still holding hands.”
I hadn’t seen them holding hands, but I don’t say that. The truth is, I see the possibility of turning this situation to my own sexual advantage. The trick is to appear sensitive. “I’ll hold your hand as long as you let me,” I say, and take her hand.
“You think you’re going to use Hilda and Eli’s love for each other to get me into bed?” she says.
“It was worth a shot,” I say.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” she says. “There’s a definite chance you’re going to get lucky tonight, but you need to understand that it has nothing whatsoever to do with the Mandlebaums. You got that?”
“Yes, ma’am. The Mandlebaums are a nonfactor.”
“Okay, let’s go,” she says, and starts leading me up the steps to the bedroom.
“I just hope that I don’t scream out Hilda’s name,” I say.
Today’s testimony is going to be both dry and terribly damaging.
The witness is Special Agent William Rouse, the assistant head of the FBI crime lab located in Baltimore. He supervised the bureau’s testing on the metal can found three blocks from the scene.
It’s a large can, standard make, capable of holding almost four gallons, and Dylan proudly holds it up before introducing it as evidence and showing it to the witness. I’ve seen pictures of it from the discovery, and learned that it’s available at Home Depot and pretty much everywhere else.
“Is this the can you were given to test?” Dylan asks.
Rouse nods. “It is.”
“What types of tests did you run?”
“Fingerprint analysis, blood typing, and DNA.”
“Were you able to get satisfactory results in all three areas?”
“We managed to retrieve DNA and blood type results. There were no fingerprints.”
“These tests that you conducted, were the same ones done by the local police at the time the can was found?”
“Yes, I was subsequently shown those reports after we conducted our tests.”
“Were your results consistent with theirs?” Dylan asks.
“Identical.”
Dylan takes him through the results, which are of course a match for Noah’s DNA and blood type. Rouse says that there is a one in four billion chance that the DNA results are inaccurate. Based on the media reports I read before coming to court this morning, that matches our chances of getting an acquittal.
Dylan then addresses the question that the jurors must certainly be wondering. “If the police had these DNA results six years ago, why wasn’t an arrest made back then?”
“Because Mr. Galloway’s DNA was not in the database at the time. Recently he attempted to gain clearance because of a federal job he was taking, and a DNA sample was required. That’s the reason we got a hit when we ran it this time, acting on Mr. Butler’s information.”
“Your witness,” Dylan says to me, in a tone that doesn’t seem to contain much worry.
I start by opening a package under the defense table, and I take out a can that is identical to the one that Rouse tested. “Is this the can you were given to test?” I ask, mimicking Dylan’s question.
Rouse looks confused, and points to the previously introduced can, now resting on a side table. “No, that one is.”
“How do you know that?” I ask. “Don’t they look identical?”
“I assumed Mr. Campbell was showing me the correct can.”
I nod as if this makes perfect sense. “So you said you were certain that was the can, even though it just looked like it, because you just believed whatever Mr. Campbell said?”