I do know one thing… I’m glad I’m not there to hear the conversation in the Pollard house tonight.
* * * * *
TONIGHT’S MEETING is to make the most important decision a defense attorney has to make in every triaclass="underline" whether or not to let the defendant testify in his own defense. Usually, that important decision is a no-brainer, and my clients would have to walk over my dead body to reach the witness stand. Of course, most of them would prefer it that way.
This case is different, mainly because Kenny is the only person who can testify to a crucial fact: the subject of the “team meeting” the high school kids held in that restaurant those many years ago. Only three people are left alive who were there and know about the pact to share their NFL riches with each other. One is Kenny, one is Pollard, and the other is Devan Bryant, who is currently serving in the United States Army, stationed fifty miles outside of Kabul, Afghanistan. Bryant is unavailable to us, and Pollard seems likely not to aid in his own demise, so that leaves only Kenny.
Kenny wants to testify, which is typical of most defendants. In his view he will tell his story, and everyone will then believe him, and he can go home. This fantasy is greater in celebrities than mere mortals; they are used to their fans hanging on their every word. The problem is, Dylan is not a fan.
Laurie and Kevin are divided on the issue. Laurie thinks that Kenny should testify, that without the story of that pact the players took, there is not a strong enough basis for anyone to accept the serial killing connection. She doesn’t think the statistical-probability evidence, while unequivocal, got through to the jury.
Kevin, with proper lawyer’s caution, is opposed to Kenny testifying. He has seen too many people, many innocent, self-destruct under a wilting cross-examination. Dylan is good. Kevin knows it and doesn’t want to take the chance.
This is a decision I always make myself, with equal amounts logic and gut instinct. Both are telling me that Kenny should not go near that stand, that the benefits of the “pact” story and Kenny’s appealing demeanor will be outweighed by the negative of cross-examination. I don’t want to give Dylan a chance to take Kenny through the facts of this case, most of which are incriminating. And I sure don’t want Kenny up there talking about how he held off the police at gunpoint while Troy Preston’s body was stuffed in his bedroom closet.
Kevin leaves, and I start thinking about my closing statement. Like my opening statement, I don’t write it out, rarely even take notes, because I want it to be as spontaneous as possible. But there are points I want to be sure I cover, so I start mentally ticking them off.
Laurie comes into the den and asks if I want something to eat. I don’t, and I’m about to tell her so when the phone rings. She picks it up. “Hello.”
She listens for a few seconds and then says a tentative “Hi.” Since the initial “Hello” should have covered the greeting part of her conversation, and since I can hear a tension in her voice, I immediately know that this is a charged phone call.
The rest of the call is peppered with clever Laurie-phrases like “I see,” “I will,” and “Of course.” Laurie sneaks glances over at me to see if I’m paying attention to her, so I try to pretend that I’m not, though of course she knows I am.
She throws in a final “I will,” and then hangs up. She looks over at me, and I say, “Wrong number?”
She smiles slightly, as if caught, and says, “That was Sandy. They’re pressuring him to pressure me for an answer.”
“You said ‘I will’ twice. Was that as in ‘I will move back to Findlay,’ or as in ‘I will never leave the love of my life, Andy Carpenter’?” I’m trying to make my tone sound flip, which is tough considering I’m so nervous I can’t unclench my teeth.
“It was as in ‘I will have an answer by next week,’” she says.
“You don’t know what you’re going to do yet?” I ask.
“Andy, you will know the moment I do.” She comes over and sits next to me, putting her hand on my knee. “And I’m sorry to put you through this… it’s just very hard for me. I’m finding this so terribly difficult.”
“Join the club,” I say.
Laurie leaves me to work on my closing statement, not the easiest thing to do under these circumstances. Tara lays her head on my knee, in the same place where Laurie’s hand had just been. “You’re going to stay with me, right?” I say to her. “I’m prepared to guarantee you biscuits for life if you do.”
She snuggles against me. Just what I like, a woman who can be bought.
* * * * *
THE MOMENT COURT is called to order, I announce that we are resting our case. Harrison asks Dylan if he would like to adjourn until after lunch to prepare his closing argument, but Dylan’s preference is not to wait. He clearly had correctly predicted I would not let Kenny take the stand, and is fully prepared.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dylan begins, “when I stood before you at the start of this trial, I told you that Mr. Carpenter would invent theories and attempt to confuse you with irrelevancies. I told you that you should keep your eyes on the evidence and not let his sleight of hand fool you. But I’ve got to be honest, I had no idea how far he would go with it.
“Think about it. None of it had anything to do with the facts. Those facts haven’t changed, haven’t even been challenged. Kenny Schilling was seen leaving the bar with Troy Preston shortly before he was killed. Mr. Preston’s blood was found in Schilling’s abandoned car. His body was found in a closet in Schilling’s house.
“But we hear that Mr. Schilling was somehow framed; that he’s innocent, pure as the driven snow. So how did this innocent man act when the police arrived? He shot at them and barricaded himself in his house.” Dylan shakes his head sadly. “Amazing.
“Now, Mr. Carpenter is a very clever lawyer, but when confronted with these facts, he acted like a man in a trap. First he tried to get out of that trap by claiming a Mexican drug gang did it, though he neglects to say why. Then, when he realized that exit was closed off, he tried to escape the trap by completely reversing direction, claiming it was part of a serial killing and the trainer did it.” Dylan chuckles slightly to himself and shakes his head at the absurdity of it.
“I don’t know how those poor young men died, but I do know the police in each case did not consider them murders… not even suspicious. And I also know that those deaths bear no resemblance whatsoever to the kind of death Troy Preston suffered: dumped in a closet and shot in the chest.
“I also don’t know what drives a man like Bobby Pollard to fake such a serious injury. And I don’t know how cell phones work, or what keeps airplanes in the air, or how we landed a man on the moon. And all of those things that I don’t know have nothing to do with this case.
“I do know that Troy Preston is dead,” he says, and points to Kenny, “and that this man killed him. And I am confident that you know it as well and that you will find him guilty as charged.”
Dylan has outdone himself; I have never heard him better. I feel a momentary panic that, while I’ve been focused so much on the deaths of all those football players, the jury might well see them as irrelevant.
I stand and walk slowly toward the jury. “On a December weekend almost eight years ago eleven teenagers were brought together. They came from Iowa, and Wisconsin, and Alabama, and Texas, and California, and Pennsylvania, and Nebraska, and Ohio, and North Carolina, and two from right here in New Jersey.
“Except for the two men from New Jersey, Kenny Schilling and Bobby Pollard, they were all meeting for the first time. So they spent the weekend together, and they talked. In fact, one of their talks was so secret that they asked the only adult in the room to leave so he wouldn’t hear them.