She’s got a point. “Fifteen minutes?” I ask.
She nods. “Fifteen minutes.”
Except for the agonizing times I’ve felt waiting as verdicts were about to be delivered, these are the longest fifteen minutes I’ve ever spent in my life. I strain to hear any noises coming from downstairs, but it seems, as they used to say in Westerns, to be “quiet out there, too quiet.”
At the moment the fifteen minutes are up, I pick up the phone and call 911, reporting that two men have broken into my house. I then call Pete Stanton at home, and he agrees to come over. I think he gets some kind of perverse kick out of Marcus and doesn’t want to miss out on what is going to be an entertaining evening.
Laurie and I go downstairs. I don’t know about her, but I’m cringing at what I think I am about to see. The trio is not in the living room or den, and we find them in the kitchen. Ugly and his pal are sitting with Marcus at the kitchen table, drinking diet sodas. They look unhappy but are no longer tied together with the hose and look none the worse for wear. Marcus looks impassive, which is not exactly a stunning piece of news.
Five police cars pull up less than two minutes later. The process takes only a short time; I explain that these two guys tried to break in and that my bodyguard caught them and held them here so that they could be turned over to law enforcement.
Pete Stanton arrives just as the cops and their captives are leaving, and I let him listen with Laurie and me to the mysteries of the agonizing fifteen minutes, as told by Marcus Clark.
It takes almost an hour and a half for us to understand his cryptic grunts, but basically, the pair admitted to him that they were sent by Quintana and this time were told to “kick the shit out of the lawyer.” They also revealed that it was money that Quintana believes Kenny took from Preston that night, a total of four hundred thousand dollars. The night Preston died was drug receipt payment night, but Preston was killed before he could make that payment. My two visitors were supposed to find out with certainty whether I know where that money is.
Pete points out the obvious. “Quintana’s going to keep coming at you.”
“Why can’t you arrest him once these guys tell you what they told Marcus?”
Pete shakes his head like I just don’t get it. “They won’t talk to us. We’re not allowed to be as persuasive as Marcus. They go down for breaking and entering, then maybe serve a little time, maybe not. There’s no way they rat out Quintana.”
“Which means Quintana remains a big problem,” I say.
“I could kill him,” says Marcus.
Pete jumps up as if somebody shoved a hot poker up his ass. “I’m outta here,” he says, and walks out the door. He’s a friend, but he’s also a cop. He has no love for Quintana, but he’s not going to sit and listen while somebody plots his murder.
Once Pete leaves, Laurie says, “Don’t kill him, Marcus. That’s not going to solve anything.”
I’m torn here. I’m not usually one to countenance murder-after all, I’m an officer of the court-but in this case I’d be tempted to make an exception. To say the least, if I heard that Quintana died, it wouldn’t prompt me to sadly shake my head and say, “Boy, that really puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”
“You need to protect Andy full-time,” Laurie continues.
I turn to Marcus and nod. “I want you on that wall. I need you on that wall.” Either he recognizes the line from A Few Good Men or he doesn’t; with Marcus it’s hard to tell. He grunts a couple of times and leaves.
“That is one scary guy,” I say after I’m sure that he can’t hear me.
“Just be glad he’s your scary guy,” Laurie points out.
It’s now two-thirty in the morning, so Laurie and I get back into bed. I take some time to think about the case. I find I’m starting to believe my own PR now, considering it more and more possible that Preston actually was the victim of a drug killing. The money was certainly substantial enough that people from that underworld might kill for it, and I’m certain, too, that members of Quintana’s gang would have been aware of it.
I’ve been thinking all along that it wasn’t a drug hit because Quintana, Moreno, or even Petrone wouldn’t have bothered to frame Kenny. They’ve got the people and the experience to have murdered anonymously, without real fear of it being traced back to them. Therefore, there would be no reason to frame anyone.
But what if it was one of Quintana’s men who did the killing so as to get the money? He might well have framed Kenny, not to throw the police off his trail, but rather to make sure Quintana did not catch on. Quintana’s justice would be far more swift and deadly than the police.
There is also the chance that Kenny found out about the money and went for it, but this seems far less likely. Sam has checked and found no evidence that Kenny had anything but a rosy financial picture, and he’s been paying his substantial legal bills on time.
I always want to believe that a client is innocent, but there’s believing and really believing. For the first time, I’m starting to really believe, and it’s a nice feeling. It doesn’t quite make up for my knowledge that a murderous maniac in command of an entire gang of other murderous maniacs is trying to kill me, but it’s a nice feeling.
* * * * *
DYLAN’S FIRST witness is Patrolman Jared Clayton, the officer that found Kenny’s abandoned car. I would have expected Dylan to build his case more methodically, to perhaps put on team officials of the Jets to talk about Preston not showing up that day and how uncharacteristic that was. As I reflect on it, I realize that Dylan’s strategy is a good one: He doesn’t want to give me a chance to cross-examine based on Preston’s character. As far as Dylan is concerned, this is a physical evidence case, and he’s going to focus on that as much as possible.
Patrolman Clayton testifies that the car was abandoned maybe ten feet into the woods off the road but that he was able to see it.
“What made you approach?” Dylan asks.
“Well, I thought maybe somebody was in it, in some kind of distress or something. It wasn’t really a normal way to leave a car. Then, when I got close, I saw the license plate.”
“It was an unusual plate?”
Clayton nods. “It said ‘GIANTS25.’”
“Why was that particularly interesting?”
Clayton looks sheepish, a look he can pull off, since he can’t be more than twenty-three years old. “There had been a report that a football player was missing and… well, I’m not really a football fan, so I didn’t realize he played for the Jets.” Most of the female jurors smile their understanding.
“What did you do when you reached the car?” asks Dylan.
“I looked inside and determined there was no one in the car. Then I opened the door and saw what looked to me like bloodstains on the passenger seat and passenger side dashboard. Then I immediately closed the door, called in for a detective team and forensics, and secured the area.”
Dylan introduces evidence proving that the car in question is Kenny’s. Having done that, he could let the witness off the stand, but Clayton is an appealing witness, so he keeps him up there for another ten minutes before turning him over to me. Clayton hasn’t done us much damage-that will come later from the lab results-but my strategy is to make points with every prosecution witness, no matter what they testify to. It reduces the chances of a “steamroller effect,” in which the jury starts to view the prosecution as an unstoppable force.
“Patrolman Clayton,” I begin, “were you on a special assignment on that day? Or just on your regular patrol?”