I get up really early in the morning to take Tara for a long walk. She attacks the route eagerly-tail-wagging and nose-sniffing every step of the way. We’ve gone this way a thousand times, yet each time she takes fresh delight in the sights and smells. Tara is not a “been there, done that” type of dog, and it’s a trait I admire and envy.
As I get dressed to go to the office, I catch up on what the media are saying about the Schilling case. There are reports that Schilling and Preston were out together the night Preston disappeared and that witnesses claim the last time Preston was seen was when Schilling gave him a ride home.
The striking part of the media coverage is not the information that is revealed, but the overwhelming nature of the effort to reveal it. I have 240 channels on my cable system, and it seems as if 230 of them are all over this case. One of the cable networks has already given a name to it, and their reports are emblazoned with the words “Murder in the Backfield” scrawled across the screen. They seem unconcerned with the fact that the victim was a wide receiver.
As has become standard operating procedure, guilt seems to be widely assumed, especially in light of the way Schilling was taken into custody. His were not the actions of the innocent, and if we ever go to trial, that is going to be a major hill to climb. The fact that a national television audience watched as he fended off police with a gun only makes the hill that much steeper.
Kevin and I don’t have much to talk about, and we just compare notes on what we’ve learned from the media. I’ve got a ten o’clock appointment at the jail to meet with Schilling, and Kevin plans to use the time to learn what the prosecution is planning in terms of arraignment. Kevin knows my feelings about defending guilty clients, feelings that he shares, and he’s relieved when I tell him that I’ve made no decision on whether to take on Schilling as a client.
We both leave at nine-forty-five, which is when Edna is arriving. I’ve always felt that a secretary should arrive very early and have the office up and running by the time everyone else arrives. Unfortunately, Edna has always felt pretty much the opposite, so basically, she comes in whenever she wants. Though she is one of the financial beneficiaries of the commission from the Willie Miller case, I can honestly say that the money hasn’t changed her. She’s worked for me for five years and is just as unproductive today as before she was rich.
I briefly tell her what is going on; she’s heard absolutely nothing about Schilling or the murder. Never let it be said that Edna has her finger anywhere near the public pulse.
Schilling is being held at County Jail, which is why an entire media city has set itself up outside. Having become all too familiar with this process, I’ve learned about a back entrance which allows me to avoid the crush, and I make use of it this time.
Guarding the door is Luther Hendricks, a court security officer who carries a calendar with him so he can count the days until retirement. “You sure stepped in shit this time,” he says as he lets me in. I know he’s talking about this case, so I don’t even bother to check my shoes.
Nothing moves quickly within a prison bureaucracy, and the high-profile nature of this case doesn’t change that. It takes forty-five minutes for me to be brought back to the room where I will see Kenny Schilling and then another twenty minutes waiting for him to arrive.
He’s brought in cuffed and dressed in prison drab. I had thought he looked bad huddled in the corner of his living room yesterday, but compared to this, he actually appeared triumphant. It looks as if fear and despair are waging a pitched battle to take over his face. The process of losing one’s freedom, even overnight, can be devastating and humiliating. For somebody like Kenny, it’s often much worse, because he’s fallen from such a high perch.
“How are you doing, Kenny?” is my clever opening. “Are they treating you okay?”
“They ain’t beating me, if that’s what you mean. They tried to talk to me, but I said no.”
“Good.”
“They took some blood out of my arm. They said they had the right. And I didn’t care, because all they’re gonna find is blood. I don’t take no drugs or anything.”
They actually don’t have that right, unless they had probable cause to believe that drug usage had something to do with the murder. I have heard nothing about any suspicions that drugs were involved in this case, but then again, I know almost nothing about this case. “You’re sure you’ve never taken any kind of drugs?” I ask.
He shakes his head firmly. “No way; I just told you that.” Then, “Man, you gotta get me out of here. I got money… whatever it takes. I just can’t stay in here.”
I explain that we won’t know the likelihood of bail until the district attorney files charges, but that those charges are likely to be severe, and bail will be very difficult. I’m not sure he really hears me or understands what I’m saying; he needs to cling to a hope that this is all going to blow over and he’ll be back signing autographs instead of giving fingerprints.
I ask him to tell me everything he knows about the night that Preston disappeared. “I didn’t kill him,” he says. “I swear to God.”
I nod. “Good. That covers what you didn’t do. Now let’s focus on what you did do. How well did you know him?”
He shrugs. “Pretty well. I mean, we weren’t best friends or anything-he played for the Jets. But in the off-season a lot of guys hung out…”
“So you hung out with him that night?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not just him… a whole bunch of people. We went to the Crows Nest. No big deal. We probably did that three or four times a week.”
“How many people were there that night? With you and Troy.”
“Maybe fifteen.”
I take him through the events of the night, which mainly consisted of drinking beer, talking football, and occasionally leering at women. I never realized how much I had in common with star football players. “How long did you stay there?” I ask.
“I was real tired, so we left about twelve-thirty.”
“We?”
He nods. “I gave Troy a ride home.”
This is not good and confirms the media reports. The last time the victim was seen, it was by fifteen people, who watched him leave with my client. “Was that an unusual thing for you to do?”
He shakes his head. “No, he lived about two blocks from me. And I don’t drink that much, so he’d leave his car at the bar, and I guess he’d pick it up in the morning.”
“So he lived in Upper Saddle River?” I ask.
Kenny shakes his head and explains that Preston lived in an apartment in East Rutherford. Kenny did as well; he and his wife had only recently purchased the house in Upper Saddle River and hadn’t fully moved in yet. This explains the boxes spread around the house.
Kenny claims to have spent the fateful night in his East Rutherford apartment, alone. “I dropped Troy off and went home. That’s the last time I saw him.”
“Why did the police come to your house in Upper Saddle River?” I’ll learn all this in discovery, but it’s helpful to hear my client’s version first.
“The next morning my car was gone. I parked it on the street, and I figured it was stolen. Which it was. I reported it to the police. I hadn’t even heard about Troy being missing yet. Then yesterday I got a rental car and went up to the new house. I was unpacking boxes when I saw some blood on the floor. Then I found his body in that closet. I was about to call the cops, but before I could, they showed up at my door with guns. I freaked and wouldn’t let them in.”