I drive out to Philip's estate in Alpine. He has eleven acres of prime real estate in the most expensive area of New Jersey, all magnificently landscaped and including a huge swimming pool, tennis court, putting green, and, believe it or not, a helicopter pad.
There is also an extraordinary three-bedroom guest house, about a hundred yards from the main one, that would qualify as a dream house to most families. Philip calls this “Nicole's place,” since he built it shortly before she was born, in the hope that she would someday move in.
In fact, back when Nicole and I were about to be married, Philip mounted a campaign to get us to live in this guest house. He correctly pointed out that it was considerably nicer than anything we could afford to buy, and promised that it was separate enough that we would have our privacy. After all, he reasoned, he was in Washington most of the time anyway.
My father cautioned me against accepting the offer, but I was smart enough on my own to turn it down. If we had moved into the guest house, Philip's dominance over us would have been total.
The party tonight is outdoors under the stars, in the area between the guest house and the pool. It is part of a concerted effort by Philip to actively help others in his party. Philip has used his prominent position as head of the crime subcommittee to get himself talked about as a possible vice presidential candidate in the next election, and he earns political markers by raising money for his colleagues.
I arrive, the only male in the entire place, including the staff, not in a tuxedo. Nicole comes over to me, not seeming to notice the fact that I'm underdressed, since I'm sure she is used to it. She takes my arm and leads me to hobnob with the rich, semifamous, and powerful.
We hobnob for about an hour, each minute more excruciatingly boring than the one before it. Finally, I can't stand it anymore, so I tell Nicole that I really need to get home and get some sleep. She seems disappointed, but understands. It hits me that she actually enjoys being here; this is where she is in her element. It's a scary thought.
THE EYEWITNESS, CATHY PEARL, HAS BEEN A single mother since she was eighteen, supporting her daughter by working until one A.M. each night in a run-down diner. That daughter, as Wallace lets her proudly reveal, has just won a scholarship to Cornell University. Cathy is the type of person that juries believe, and very definitely not the type of person they like to see dismantled on the stand.
Wallace takes her through her history, right up to the frightening moment when she saw Willie Miller standing over the bloody body of Denise McGregor.
“How did you happen to be in that alley that night, Ms. Pearl?”
“The diner I work at is on the next block. I cut through the alley on my way home from work. It saves about ten minutes, and at one o'clock in the morning, every minute counts.” Everybody, jury included, chuckles at this comment. Everybody except me.
“Please describe what you saw.”
She proceeds to describe the scene in graphic, stark terms. She saw Willie standing over the body, and he saw her as well, but instead of attacking her he ran off. She thanks God for that every day, and she especially thanks God that she was able to pick him out of a lineup the next day.
Cathy is a very credible witness, and based on the jury's reaction to her I don't know whether to cross-examine her or ask for her autograph.
“Ms. Pearl,” I begin, “was it unusual for you to cut through this particular alley?”
“No, I do it every night.”
“Every night? At the same time?”
“Yes. I got off at one o'clock, and I sure didn't hang around. At one sharp, I was out of there. Every night.”
“So anybody watching your pattern over some time would have known you were going to be there?”
“Why would somebody want to do that? I don't think anybody was watching me.”
“I understand that. But if somebody were watching you, even if you were unaware of it, they would know that you go by there every night just after one o'clock?”
She looks at Wallace for help, but there is none forthcoming.
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Thank you. Now, you testified that you didn't actually see the defendant stabbing Denise McGregor, you just saw him standing over her body. Is that correct?”
Cathy nods a little too hard, pleased that this is something she can agree with. “Right. He was just sort of standing there, looking at me. Not moving much.”
“I would think something like that must have been very scary, particularly at that time of night.”
Another vigorous nod. “Yes, it was.”
“Did you run away?”
“Well, no … not right then … at first I didn't know it was a body he was standing over. It was dark.”
“Dark?”
She quickly tries to correct what she realizes was a bad move. “Not so dark that I couldn't see.”
I nod. “I understand. It was the kind of dark where you could see a face but not a body. That kind of dark.”
“Well …”
“And then the defendant looked at you. Is that right?”
“Right. And he looked weird. Out of it.”
“Maybe drunk?”
“Right. Yes.”
“And what was he doing with the knife?”
“I didn't see a knife,” she says.
I look at the jurors, to confirm that they find this as confusing as I do. They don't, but they will.
“Help me out here. In the kind of dark where one can see faces but not bodies, do knives show up?”
Wallace stands. “Objection, Your Honor. This is badgering.”
“Sustained. Rephrase the question.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” I turn back to Cathy. “So you didn't see a knife?”
“I've said that all along. I didn't see a knife. I'm not saying it wasn't there, I just didn't see it.”
“No doubt he had run three blocks, placed it in the trash with his fingerprints and blood still on it, and returned in time to be there for your one o'clock walk.”
This was aimed at Wallace, but Cathy feels the need to defend herself.
“I know what I saw.” She points to Willie. “I saw him.”
I shake my head sadly. “No, Ms. Pearl, I'm afraid you have no idea what you saw.”
“Objection.”
“Sustained. Watch it, Mr. Carpenter.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say, “I will.” So I rephrase: “Now, Ms. Pearl, since it was light enough to see the defendant's face, and since he looked right at you, is it fair to say he could see your face?”
“Sure … I guess.”
“But he didn't try to hurt you? To do to you what you believe he did to Denise McGregor?”
“No, he just ran away.”
“Yet he should have realized that you could identify him, isn't that right?”
“I guess …”
“He would have known you could someday be an eyewitness, just like you are now?”
“I suppose so.”
“Maybe he had nothing to hide,” I say. “No further questions.”
Wallace gets up to rehabilitate her. “Ms. Pearl, when was the next time you saw the defendant after that night?”
“The next morning, at the police station. He was in the lineup. I picked him out right away.”
“With other men?”
Cathy nods. “A bunch of them.”
“And you had no doubt he was the man you saw in the alley the previous night?”
“No doubt. He was the one. I was positive then, and I'm just as positive now.”
Cathy leaves the stand. I definitely did not do enough to damage her. She seemed credible and has no reason to lie. If I were on the jury, I would believe her. And if I believed her, I would vote to convict Willie Miller of murder in the first degree.
I barely have time to reflect on how depressing the situation is when it gets considerably worse. Wallace tells Hatchet, “Your Honor, the state calls Randy Sacich.”