On the way to the door I see Laurie at a table at the other end of the diner. She is with three women, all maybe ten or fifteen years her senior, and they are roaring with laughter.
I briefly debate whether to go over there, but Laurie sees us and stands up. “Andy… over here.”
I go over, but Calvin chooses to wait out front. By the time I get to the table, the laughter has pretty much subsided. Laurie does the introductions. “Andy Carpenter, this is my Aunt Linda and my Aunt Shirley and my cousin Andrea. My family.”
The way she says “my family” drives home more clearly than ever why Laurie needed to come back to Findlay. The job opportunity was important, as were the old friends, but this cemented the deal. Her family is here.
We banter for a few minutes, and they all tell me how much they’ve heard about me from Laurie. And how wonderful it is to have Laurie home.
And that’s where Laurie is.
Home.
• • • • •
JUDGE MORRISON has scheduled a nine A.M. meeting in his chambers, the invited guests being defense and prosecution counsel. He wants to go over the ground rules for the upcoming preliminary hearing. It’s a typical move for a judge who does not like surprises in his courtroom, which is just the way Calvin described him.
The judge asks me to arrive fifteen minutes before the meeting is to start, never a good sign. I get the same feeling I have every time a judge summons me without opposing counsel; it’s as if I’m being called to the principal’s office. Actually, it’s worse: The principal’s power never extended to declaring me “in contempt of homeroom” and sending me to jail.
I call Calvin and suggest he arrive for this advance meeting with me.
“Did he say he wanted me to be there early?” Calvin asks.
“No, but he didn’t say he didn’t either.”
“Then I’d rather have my eyebrows plucked,” he says.
There’s a definite possibility I’m going to have to teach Calvin the subservience etiquette involved with his being my second-in-command, but this is not the time. So I head down to the court, and the clerk takes me directly into Judge Morrison’s chambers.
“Mr. Carpenter, thanks for coming in early.”
“My pleasure, Judge.”
“I had a conversation yesterday with a mutual friend of ours,” he says.
Uh-oh, I think, and gird for the worst.
“Judge Henderson,” he says, and I realize that even though I thought I had girded for the worst, I hadn’t. This is the worst, and I stand here ungirded. He is referring to Judge Henry “Hatchet” Henderson of Passaic County, New Jersey, who I have appeared before on numerous occasions. We have had our share of run-ins; he’s not fond of some of my more unconventional trial techniques. “He and I have met at a number of legal conferences,” the judge continues. “Good man.”
I nod. “Very good man. Outstanding man.”
Judge Morrison starts looking through some papers on his desk. “Let’s see… ah, here it is,” he says as he finds the paper. “He said you were a fine attorney.”
“He did? Well, he’s a fine judge. Very fine,” I say.
“And he also said you were”-he starts to read from his paper-“a disrespectful wiseass who considers proper court procedure something to trample on and make fun of.”
“Maybe ‘fine’ was too strong. He’s a decent judge. Somewhat decent.”
Judge Morrison takes off his glasses and stares at me. “I trust I will not have a similar problem with you?”
I nod. “I don’t anticipate any problems at all.”
He nods. “Excellent.”
He calls in Calvin and Lester, both of whom reveal their dislike for each other in their body language. Calvin introduces me to Lester. “Lester’s the DA,” he says, then smiles slightly and adds, “He ran unopposed… and still almost lost.”
The court stenographer comes in as well, since this little chat will be on the record. In a case of this importance it’s prudent to do it that way, and Judge Morrison strikes me as the prudent type.
Judge Morrison opens the proceedings by formally accepting me to practice in the state of Wisconsin. I thank him, telling him that it is my honor to do so. I smile when I’m finished, showing him that I’m on my best behavior. He doesn’t smile back.
The judge lays out the parameters of the preliminary hearing, which are pretty much the same as in New Jersey. The prosecutor will present some witnesses, though certainly not his whole case. He doesn’t have to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt in the hearing, simply probable cause that Jeremy should be tried for the murder. It’s a low burden, and one Lester will have no trouble meeting.
“How long will you need?” the judge asks. He seems very concerned with time; his docket must be filled with upcoming jaywalking trials.
“Less than a day,” Lester says. “We’ll be calling only two or three witnesses.”
I tell the judge that we will likely not be calling any witnesses of our own, though we reserve the right to change that according to circumstances. Our advantage in the hearing is that Lester will have to reveal some of his cards, while we do not. That would be a more significant help if we had any cards not to reveal, but at this point we don’t.
Judge Morrison goes over a few more points, mostly housekeeping in nature, and closes with, “Anything either of you want to bring up?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say. “To date we have received less than one hundred pages of discovery. No witness reports, no forensics… only some basic police reports.”
Lester jumps in. “The materials are being prepared even as we speak, Your Honor.”
I shake my head. “The defense was entitled to them even before ‘we speak.’ Your Honor, Mr. Chapman has had access to all this information and we have not. That is a distinct disadvantage for us and prevents us from being adequately prepared for the preliminary hearing. Therefore, we request a continuance, the length of which to depend on how much longer the prosecution continues its improper delaying tactics.”
Lester shakes his head in annoyance. “Your Honor, these things-”
Judge Morrison cuts him off. “Mr. Chapman, where are these reports?”
“In my office, Your Honor.”
“Then make certain that copies of them are in their office by three o’clock today.” He points to Calvin and me. “If they are not, I will be obliged to grant a continuance, and that is something I do not want to do.”
Lester is smart enough to know when to keep quiet, and the meeting concludes with his promise to comply with the court’s directive.
Calvin and I drive over to the school that Jeremy and Elizabeth Barlow attended until her murder. It’s the Findlay campus of the University of Wisconsin, located about seven miles northwest of Findlay itself.
I visited a friend at the main University of Wisconsin campus back when I was in college, but this has a decidedly different feel. This is a cozy, rather sleepy campus, the main feature of which is a central mall where the students can congregate and freeze to death in the winter. There’s certainly none of the Big Ten environment here; the closest this place will come to the Rose Bowl is the rounded greenhouse next to the botany building.
Jeremy had not lived on campus, though Elizabeth had. Jeremy has said that it was a bone of contention between Elizabeth and her mother, but that Elizabeth’s desire to experience life away from home prevailed. The deciding factor was the amount of snow that they get here in the winter, and the long drive through that snow that Elizabeth would have to make to get to class.
Calvin, who seems to know everyone in Wisconsin, called ahead to a friend, the dean of something, and we have been given permission to talk to students on campus, providing we do so with courtesy and discretion. Courtesy and discretion are not traits for which I have ever been known, and I expect Calvin is not particularly well trained in them either, but we’ll do our best.
Our first stop is Silver Hall, the dormitory in which Elizabeth resided. It’s a girls’ dorm, but you could never tell that from the people in the lobby. There are as many boys as girls there, and both sexes stare at Calvin and me as if prehistoric creatures have arrived.