Paulsen leaves Laurie, Kevin, and me to ponder what all this means. In the brief time that I’ve been Richard’s lawyer, I’ve been shot at by two hoods, one of whom was supposed to be dead, and had my phone tapped by a government agency.
“And I don’t have a clue what the hell it’s all about.”
“It’s all about somebody wanting Richard Evans to stay in jail,” Laurie says.
I nod. “Or not wanting the case opened up. Kevin, as part of the brief you should include the attempt on my life, and the phone tap. Request that Richard be moved to a secure area of the prison, in solitary if necessary.”
“You think he’s in danger?” Kevin asks.
“If he’s dead there’s no case to open up,” Laurie points out.
“On the other hand, then there would be no reason to kill his lawyers,” I say.
I’m a glass-half-full kind of guy.
* * * * *
THERE IS NOT a very high standard for getting a hearing.
That’s the good news. The bad news is, the standard for prevailing in the hearing, for being granted a new trial, is quite high. The defense needs to show that the new evidence would do more than just create reasonable doubt; it must show that an injustice is likely being committed by keeping the accused incarcerated.
Kevin’s brief is terrific, which is no surprise, since he is probably the best I have ever seen at preparing them. The question we face is whether we should submit it now, since a hearing is likely to be held quickly if granted. By submitting the brief we are saying that we are ready to proceed, when in reality we are not.
Arguing for haste are the ominous things that have been happening to me, and the very real chance that Richard could be in jeopardy in prison. Without submitting the briefs, we have no chance to get him isolated, and therefore no way to get him out of grave danger.
After weighing all the factors, we send Kevin down to submit it while I meet with Sam Willis in his office, which is just down the hall from mine, to get a report on his computer investigation of the victim, Stacy Harriman.
I’m pleasantly surprised that he comes in all business, with no song or movie talking. He has her credit history, educational background, employment history, former addresses, birth certificate-the entire picture.
“Nothing unusual, Andy. Never in a lot of debt, never a late payment, straight B average in school, paid her taxes. If she lived, she would have had a house on Normal Lane and 2.2 children.”
“Ever do any government work?” I ask.
“Not unless you consider teaching third grade to be government work.”
He takes me through some more of her history, which further confirms my feeling that this is about Richard. Stacy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Thanks, Sam, you did a great job.”
“It’s nothing, Andy.”
“No, really. You’re terrific at it, you’re fast, and you do it right the first time. And I just want you to know how much I appreciate it. You’re a valuable member of the team.”
“Andy… you had me at ‘Hello.’”
Sam leaves, and I use this alone time to figure out what it is I know, or at least what I believe. It promises to be a short session.
I would bet that Roy Chaney was worried when I showed up. Couple that with the fact that some branch of the government was eavesdropping on me, probably operating without court authority, and it’s a decent bet that whatever it is has to do with Richard’s job with U.S. Customs.
Complicating matters is the incident on the highway. It’s clearly not the government’s style to send shooters after me like that. It’s certainly not a random shooting or a coincidence, but it’s just as certainly beyond my capacity to figure it out at this moment.
One question that will ultimately have to be answered is the one Richard raised. Why, if the bad guys wanted to get him out of the way, did they go to the trouble of killing Stacy and faking his suicide? Why not just kill him?
The only answer I can come up with is that by making the murder-suicide look to be about a personal, domestic problem, it would take the focus off Richard’s work. If he were simply murdered, the police would start searching for motive, and they might look toward his job. That would likely have been dangerous for the real killers. If it’s a suicide, there are no killers to look for, no further reasons to investigate.
When I get back to my office, I am treated, if that’s the right word, to an amazing sight. A three-way conversation is taking place between Karen Evans, Edna, and Marcus Clark. Kevin is sitting off to the side, openmouthed at what he is seeing and hearing.
Karen’s genuine enthusiasm for anything and everything has actually bridged the gap between Edna and Marcus. These are two people with absolutely nothing in common and nothing to say to each other, yet Karen has gotten them connected.
As Edna has her pencil at the ready, Karen asks Marcus, “What’s a three-letter word for ‘foreign machine gun’?”
Edna says, “Second letter is a ‘Z.’”
Marcus thinks for a moment. “Uzi.” For Marcus this is the equivalent of a Shakespearean soliloquy.
Karen practically leaps out of her chair in delight. “That’s right! That’s right!” Then she turns to Edna. “It fits, right?”
Edna smiles and writes it down. “Perfect.”
Karen turns to slap Marcus five, but he clearly isn’t familiar with the concept, and she hits him in the shoulder. He doesn’t seem to mind at all.
I can’t overstate what an immense diplomatic and personal accomplishment this is for Karen. Were I president, I would immediately appoint her secretary of state. It makes Jimmy Carter’s achievement at Camp David seem insignificant. Compared to Edna and Marcus, Arafat and Begin were blood brothers.
It’s a mesmerizing sight, and it’s with the greatest reluctance that I pull Kevin away. I’ve arranged for another interview with Richard to discuss his former job in more detail, to try to learn what it might have to do with the murder.
The unfortunate result of my departure will be that Marcus will follow close behind in his bodyguard role, thus breaking up this threesome. I’m not sure that even Karen’s wizardry can ever re-create it.
The drive out to the prison is becoming an all too familiar one, and it’s not something I enjoy. The place always looks the same, the guards always act the same, and the depressing nature of the surroundings always makes me feel the same.
But Richard looks more upbeat each time I see him. It’s understandable; he has spent five years being ignored, a ward of the system, whom nobody cared about, other than his sister. Now there is activity, his lawyers are frequently coming to talk about his case, and just that alone brightens his day.
I tell him my feeling that Roy Chaney was hiding something, but he cannot be helpful in that regard, because he never even met Chaney. He certainly hasn’t kept up with developments at the Customs Service; there would have been no reason to. Moreover, 9/11-inspired protective measures have had an evolving impact on how the customs people do their jobs, and Richard would have no way to be familiar with many of these new procedures.
Kevin asks, “Do you know anyone who still works there that we could talk to?”
Richard thinks for a moment and then nods. “You could try Keith Franklin.”
“Who is he?” I ask.
“He works down at the pier, same level as I was. I’m pretty sure he’s still there.”
“You haven’t kept in contact with him?”
Richard shakes his head. “Not for a few years. We were good friends; he and his girlfriend went out with Stacy and me a lot. But…”
“He dropped you when this all went down?” I ask.
He shrugs. “He was supportive during the trial, and then visited me on and off for a short time after that, but then he stopped coming. I can’t say as I blame him.”