I’ve decided to break our defense case into two parts. The first will deal with showing the jury who Kenny Schilling is and how unlikely it is that he would suddenly turn killer. The second phase will be devoted to presenting the jury with other alternatives, other possible killers, and to show them the dangerous world in which Troy Preston lived. Neither of the two parts is likely to carry the day; the overwhelming physical evidence, plus Kenny’s behavior during the siege at his house, are still looking impregnable. We are in very deep trouble.
Just before the session begins, I call Sam Willis and ask him to add Bobby Pollard to the list of people he is investigating. I tell him not to bother checking whether Kenny had the geographic proximity to have caused the accident, since Bobby has already said that he did. Rather, I want Sam to check into the accident itself, to learn whether the Spanish police considered it a possible attempted murder.
I spend the day parading a group mostly consisting of professional football players in front of the starstruck jury. Each witness talks of his admiration for Kenny and the total absurdity that anyone could believe Kenny could take another life.
I would be bored to death if Dylan did not look so uncomfortable. He’s afraid that the jury will buy into what these people are saying just because of who they are, and he spends little time cross-examining so that they’ll leave more quickly. Dylan does get each to say that he has no actual knowledge as to the circumstances of Preston’s death and cannot provide Kenny with any kind of alibi.
I call off our meeting tonight; I’m well prepared for tomorrow’s witnesses, and I’m better off spending the time trying to extricate myself from my well-deserved depression. It’s not one of our regular sleepover nights, but I ask Laurie to stay, and she does. I barbecue, and in deference to my fragile mental state, she doesn’t even insist on fish.
We’re just sitting down to eat when Pete Stanton, with characteristic perfect timing, shows up. We invite him to join us, since I always make extra, and he does. At least he didn’t bring his extended family with him.
Once Pete is finished inhaling his food, he gets around to telling us why he came by. Quintana was released from custody this morning, and the police have heard from informants that he’s going to come after me. Pete wants to make sure that I’m well protected, and Laurie tells him that Marcus and Willie are on the case.
“But you’re sure it was Quintana that had Adam killed?” I ask.
Pete nods. “It was Quintana, unless you’ve got some other homicidal maniacs after you. With your mouth it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“So the investigation is closed?”
He shakes his head. “Unsolved murders are never closed. But this one ain’t getting solved, if that’s what you mean.”
I know exactly what he means, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life fearing for my life. I’m forming the germ of an idea on how to deal with the situation, but I’m not ready to verbalize it yet, and certainly not to Pete.
“When can I get Adam’s notes?”
“There weren’t any.”
“Come on, Pete, of course there were. He took notes on everything.” Pete’s shaking his head, so I ask, “Did you check his hotel room? And his car?”
“What kind of a moron do you think I am?” he asks. “I’m telling you, there were no notes, zero.”
Laurie jumps in. “He had them, Pete. Legal pads… lots of them. I watched him take them.”
Laurie and I look at each other, each knowing what the other is thinking. If whoever killed Adam took his notes, then it may not have been Quintana’s people at all. They would have no use for them. And if it was somebody else, and they wanted those notes, then it’s just possible that I wasn’t the target after all.
The murderer may have killed exactly whom he intended to kill. Adam may have come upon something that caused his death, something that he never got a chance to tell me.
We tell our suspicions to Pete, who cautions us against jumping to quick conclusions. Adam could have done something else with the notes. He could have shipped them back to LA or left them in some storage place we don’t know about.
I don’t buy it and I tell him so, which causes him concern that we are going to view Quintana as less of a danger. “He’s coming after you, Andy. We know that, whether he killed Adam or not.”
“Pete, do you know that Quintana is a murderer? I mean, know it for a fact?”
“Of course.”
I press him. “I don’t mean know it like you ‘knew’ he killed Adam. I mean absolutely know it beyond any doubt.”
He nods. “I know it beyond any doubt. And I’m not talking about the people he’s destroyed by selling his drugs. I’m talking about murder. I would flick the switch on him tonight if I could.”
Pete thinks I’m asking the questions in order to confirm that Quintana is a danger to me, but I’m not.
I have no intention of telling him why I’m asking.
* * * * *
I CALL A SEVEN A.M. meeting at my office with Kevin, Laurie, and Sam Willis. Laurie and I lay out our developing theory about Adam’s murder, and Kevin’s excitement is obvious. Not only does he agree with our reasoning, but he makes the point that if someone killed Adam because of what he learned about the deaths of the athletes, then Kenny is innocent. He’s been in jail and is thus the one person with an ironclad alibi for Adam’s murder.
I ask Sam if it’s possible to go on my computer, the one Adam was using, and retrace where he had been on it.
“I can’t do it in depth, but I know someone who can. I’ll bring him in right away.”
“What about the phone records?” I ask. “If he made calls those last couple of days, can you find out who he called?”
He nods. “That’s easy. And once I’m in there, I can also lower your phone bill if you want.”
We agree to meet right after court at my house to get an update on Sam and Laurie’s progress. Kevin and I head for court; we’ve got a case to put on and a client to defend. A client who just might well be innocent.
Just before court starts, I go out to the side of the building where I won’t be overheard. I call Vince Sanders on my cell phone and tell him I have a big favor to ask.
“What else is new?” he asks sarcastically.
“I want you to set up a meeting for me tomorrow night with Dominic Petrone.” Vince knows Petrone fairly well, as he knows pretty much everyone in America, and he has served as an intermediary between myself and the mob boss before.
“You mind telling me why? ’Cause he’s gonna want to know.”
“Just tell him it’s about Quintana. That’s all I can tell you right now.”
“I’ll get back to you.” A click indicates the call is over; Vince never says goodbye.
My first witness today is Donald Richards, a private investigator whose main client is the National Football League. Walter Simmons had put me in touch with him. I take Richards through the way he works for the NFL, leading him into a discussion of the great lengths they go to in protecting the integrity of their game.
“What kinds of things does the NFL worry about?” I ask.
“Gambling is number one. Drugs are a close second.”
He describes the drug testing program, which is not as rigorous as it could be, but substantially more intrusive than those for the other major sports. The NFL, he explains, has comparatively good relations with the players’ union, and therefore the players will submit to testing that the baseball players, for example, will not.