“We’d like to speak to some friends of Elizabeth Barlow,” I say.
“She’s dead,” says Renee.
“Yes, we’re aware of that,” I say. I’m also aware that there are students behind us, drawing closer so as to hear our conversation.
“So why do you want to talk to her friends?”
“Because we’re lawyers involved in the case and because Dean Oliva has given us permission to do so.” I point to the phone on her desk. “You might want to call him to confirm that.”
She looks at the phone as if considering the possibility, then shrugs. “Pretty much everyone here was Liz’s friend, so talk all you want.”
That’s as close as we’re going to get to a ringing endorsement from the resident adviser, so we turn toward the assembled students, who have no doubt heard the entire exchange.
We walk up to a young woman standing off to the side and seeming less interested in us than the others. Calvin starts out as our spokesman, probably as a result of my less-than-inspiring success with the resident adviser.
“Hi,” Calvin says, turning on the charm. “My name is Calvin Marshall, and my double-legged friend is Andy Carpenter. What’s your name?”
“Emily Harrington.”
“Emily, can we talk to you about Elizabeth Barlow?”
Emily eyes us warily. “Are you on Davidson’s side?”
“We’re just here to gather information… try and get to the truth,” is Calvin’s evasive reply.
She’s having none of it. “But you’re on Davidson’s side?”
Calvin nods. “We’re representing him, yes.”
Emily casts a glance at the other students, hanging on every word. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
This starts something of a trend, as every other student in the place also refuses to answer any of our questions. Most of them seem less conflicted about it than Emily, but clearly, no one is going to do anything to help the person they believe killed their friend Elizabeth Barlow.
Calvin and I head to our car, in the parking lot just outside the main gate. “Didn’t Jeremy have any friends here?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I guess we should find that out.”
As we approach our car, we see that three young men, probably students, are sitting on the hood. They are all rather large, at least compared to Calvin and me, and they watch us as we near. My guess is that they didn’t choose our car at random.
We reach the car, and I decide to try the conciliatory approach. I generally find that this fits in neatly with my basic cowardice. “Hey, guys, you mind getting off the car? We’ve got to be going.”
One of them, wearing a Wisconsin football jersey, smiles an annoying, smug smile. “Is that right?” he asks.
I think the question was probably rhetorical, but I answer it anyway. “Yes, that’s right.” I figure a snappy comeback like that is likely to cow them into departing.
“You in a hurry to get back to Davidson? Maybe help him get out so he can kill a few more girls?”
My patience is wearing a tad thin. “Time to go, boys,” I say.
He smiles again, still reclining comfortably on the hood. “Is that right?”
“YOU’D BETTER GODDAMN BELIEVE THAT’S RIGHT!” screams Calvin, exploding in anger. He holds up his fist. “You want some of this, you little shit?”
The three of them sit up straight, as stunned as I am by the explosive outburst from this short, old, one-legged lunatic. My concern is that their surprise will not prevent them from realizing the obvious, that unless Calvin has a bazooka in his jacket, they can handle us with absolutely no problem.
I decide to intervene, albeit verbally. “Guys, you don’t want to deal with him. And even if you’re able to, it’s just going to get you thrown into jail and out of school. I’m a lawyer, and I’ll see to it. Now, please get off the car.”
They look at me, then at the still-fuming Calvin, and apparently decide that it makes more sense to deal with me. Pretending to maintain their dignity, they slowly but surely get off the car. The leader says to me, “We don’t want to see you around here again.”
“Good for you,” I say as I hold open Calvin’s door for him. I want to make sure he is in the car, so he can’t change his mind and kill these three guys that combined aren’t as old as he is and outweigh him by about four hundred and fifty pounds.
As we pull away, I look at Calvin, who offers a small smile. “Boy, that was a close one,” he says.
• • • • •
JUST THE NAME “preliminary hearing” says all you need to know about our chance for success. By definition, “preliminary” means there’s something else to follow, something bigger and more important. It’s like a preliminary boxing match: You know that the main event is coming up a little later. In this case the main event will be Jeremy’s trial for murder.
In theory we are trying to defeat the prosecution in this hearing, to sway the judge into the belief that there is not enough evidence to hold Jeremy over for trial. In real life this never happens; the prosecution meets their burden of probable cause every single time.
This is not to say that the exercise doesn’t hold its rewards for our side. Lester will not call all of his witnesses, nor will he present all of his evidence, but it will still be helpful to assess the witnesses that do come in. We will also get to question them under oath, which gives us the ability to use this testimony to impeach them at trial.
A major negative in the process, and the reason Lester is going this route rather than a grand jury indictment, is that the unchallenged prosecution case will get into the media, and their victory will assume an importance in the eyes of the public that it does not deserve. If we were involved in an obscure, run-of-the-mill case in an inner city somewhere, this would not be a problem, since the media coverage would not be there. And the reason the media would not be there is that it seems they’ve all decided to come to Findlay.
Waiting for Calvin and me on the courthouse steps when we arrive is a ridiculously large group of media types, including a number from the national cable networks. I should have expected this, since the original arrest caused them to cover Laurie’s press conference.
I am at a loss to explain why the national media cover certain crime stories and not others. Thousands of murders are committed every year, and thousands of people disappear, so why did the media choose to saturate America with Elizabeth Smart, Jon Benét Ramsey, and Laci Peterson?
Maybe they’re latching onto this one because pretty young coeds have been murdered, or maybe it’s because there’s apparently a religious aspect to it. All I know is that I’ve had enough media attention on my recent cases, and I don’t relish it on this one.
The problem is really one of timing and focus. Preparing a murder trial requires a full-time commitment, mentally and even physically, and any energy devoted to spinning the media is inevitably a distraction. However, the media will be fed, and will fill their airtime with information, accurate or not, and I can’t cede that territory to the prosecution. In other words, if the media are going to broadcast bullshit to potential jurors, I want it to be our bullshit.
I stop to answer some questions, mostly to get the point across about how the preliminary hearing process disproportionately favors the prosecution and that viewers should not attach any importance to it. The media people, of course, do not want a lecture on our legal system, they want juicy details about the case. This exchange, therefore, is not at all satisfying to either side.
As it’s wrapping up, a reporter from MSNBC who I know from my panelist days, which seem like a hundred years ago, throws me a softball. “So, Andy, how do you see the case shaping up?”
“Well, the prosecution has more resources and obviously has the home field advantage, so it won’t be easy. The only thing we have going for us is an innocent client.”
“Any chance of a plea bargain?”
“Zero.” I say this even though I have no idea if it’s true. New facts can come out, trials can go south in a hurry, and our determination to fight to the end can change to a desperate attempt to avert the death penalty.
When we’re out of earshot of the media, Calvin whispers to me, “I never thought I’d say this to anyone, but it’s possible you’re even more full of shit than I am.”
“Calvin, no one is more full of shit than you are.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel good,” he says.