It’s a question I haven’t thought about, which doesn’t say much about my abilities as an attorney. I think about it now and decide that I don’t have to share the information now, and perhaps never. Even if we were to determine that Kenny was involved, even if he’s a serial killer, we would not legally have to divulge the information. We would actually be prohibited from revealing it, the only exception being if we were aware of another murder that was going to be committed.
I get into bed and think about the situation some more. I don’t want to discuss this with Kenny yet; I want to have more information first so I can better judge his response. On some level I can see the possibility that he had an argument with Preston and killed him, but I simply cannot see him as responsible for multiple deaths. Of course, I’ve been wrong before.
The window drapes are open, and my mind flashes to Michael Corleone in the bedroom of his Vegas compound, realizing just in time that the drapes being open means he should hit the ground before the bullets come flying.
I get up and close the drapes, cowardly doing it from the side of the window so as not to expose myself should Bruno Tattaglia want to take a shot at me. As I do, I get a look out into the darkness, and I can only hope and assume that Marcus is there.
They never mentioned anything about this crap in law school.
I wake up at six in the morning and call Vince Sanders. I’ve made a deal with him to make him my initial media contact, and I’m honoring that now. I had come to the conclusion that he sent me on what was basically a wild-goose chase to Wisconsin to check out Matt Lane’s hunting accident, but now I’m not so sure.
Vince grunts angrily at my waking him up, so I tell him that he can go back to sleep and I’ll give the story to someone else. That tends to increase his alertness, so I suggest he meet me at a coffee shop on the corner of Broadway and Thirty-second Street in an hour.
I take Tara for a walk that ends up at the coffee shop, and we sit at our regular outdoor table. I get her a bagel and a dish of water, and she’s already polished it off by the time Vince arrives, ten minutes late.
“This better be good,” he says.
“It is,” I say, launching quickly into what I wanted to tell him, since I’m in danger of being late for court. “My house was broken into by two of Quintana’s thugs. They were going to kick the shit out of me.”
“But they didn’t?” he asks.
“Marcus.”
He nods. Enough said.
“Quintana is trying to keep his name out of the trial, but he’s also after four hundred thousand that Preston was supposed to give him the night he was killed. He assumes Kenny has it and somehow further assumes that I can get it.”
“Four hundred thousand?” Vince repeats, obviously impressed. “These guys who tried to break in… why would they tell you this?”
“Marcus.”
He nods. Enough said.
“But they won’t tell it to the police… so I’m telling it to you. You can break the story tomorrow morning, and then I go national with it.”
“I’m happy to do it,” he says, “but won’t that just piss Quintana off even more?”
“Maybe, but he’s coming after me to keep me quiet. Once I go completely public, he’s got nothing to be gained anymore by shutting me up. Besides, if he’s got any smarts at all, once I do this he’d know that he’d be the first one the cops would go after if anything happened to me. I’m going to shine as much light on him as possible.”
“And it helps your client in the process,” he says.
“Yes. It does.”
Vince thinks about this awhile and then seems to smile in satisfaction at what I’ve just told him. “Works for me,” he says. “I’ll even buy the bagels.”
“Good. I was just going to order Tara another one.”
I get to court with only ten minutes to spare, and I’m barely settled in when Dylan calls Teri Pollard, Bobby’s wife, to the stand. It’s a smart move. He wants someone to testify that Kenny left with Preston to take him home, but he doesn’t want to call one of the football players who were there that night. They are celebrities, and Dylan doesn’t want that celebrity factor to play in Kenny’s favor.
Teri is clearly not happy to be doing Dylan’s dirty work, but she’s obligated to tell the truth. That truth includes describing to the jury the details of the night at the Crows Nest and the fact that Kenny and Preston left on the early side.
“Did anyone else go with them?” Dylan asks.
“No,” Teri says, but then throws in, “unless they met someone outside.”
Dylan won’t let her get away with that. “But you did not see them meet anyone? And you’re not aware of any expectation they had of meeting anyone?”
“No” is her grudging response.
I attempt to get Teri to provide support for Kenny’s general character and goodness, but Dylan objects, since I’m only allowed to cross-examine on areas he covered in direct. That’s okay; Dylan’s objecting makes it look like he’s hiding something.
“Was that night the first time you had been with Kenny and Preston at the same time?” I ask.
“No. Bobby… my husband… and I have been out with them together maybe five or six times.” She points toward Bobby, sitting in the gallery aisle in his wheelchair. “But we spend time with Kenny very frequently.”
“Ever see them argue?” I ask.
“No.”
“Ever see them threaten each other?”
“No.”
“You never thought Mr. Preston might be in any danger by going with Mr. Schilling?”
“No, of course not.” Then staring right at Dylan, she says, “Kenny’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.”
Way to go, girl.
Next up in Dylan’s parade is the county medical examiner, Dr. Ronald Kotsay. Dr. Kotsay was brought in about six months ago to replace a man who held the position for thirty-eight years, and he’s had a rough go of it. Dr. Kotsay made the mistake of quickly trying to modernize procedures, which did not go over very well with the staff or DA’s office. Simply put, everybody was just used to his predecessor, and Dr. Kotsay’s “sweep out the old” approach faced a lot of resistance. Things have calmed down since, and most people have come to realize what an outstanding medical examiner he is.
“Dr. Kotsay, you were called to the defendant’s house in Upper Saddle River, were you not?” Dylan asks.
“I was.”
“And you examined Mr. Preston’s body at the scene?”
Kotsay confirms that and goes on to say that he found the body in the closet where I had seen it.
“Were there any other wounds on the body, other than the fatal bullet wound?” Dylan asks.
“Yes, there were some cuts and abrasions on the wrists. I believe they were the result of a restraint of some sorts, probably metal.”
“Handcuffs?”
“It’s possible, but likely something with a rougher edge. It’s impossible to be sure.”
Dylan goes over the autopsy, which reports the less-than-shocking news that the corpse with a bullet hole in its chest died of a bullet hole in the chest. “Did you run toxicological tests on Mr. Preston?”
Dr. Kotsay confirms that he did and that Preston’s blood tested positive for Rohypnol. Under questioning he goes on to explain the properties of the drug.
There is little I can do with Dr. Kotsay, since everything he has said is one hundred percent accurate. “Dr. Kotsay, would the amount of Rohypnol in Mr. Preston’s system have rendered him unconscious?”
“No, I certainly would not think so.”
“Is it an amount one might take recreationally?”
“Yes.”
“What effect would the drug have?”
“Depending on the person’s tolerance of course, it most likely would make him mellow, serene, perhaps tired.”