"The bitch in the blue dress." There is no question he is talking about Laurie.
"Watch your mouth when you're talking about her," I say. It is a silly, unnecessary, but involuntary act of verbal chivalry.
We reach the defense table and sit down. "You mean you know her?" he asks.
"I do."
"Well, let me tell you something, man. You know that list you wanted from me, of my enemies? People who would frame me? Well, she's number one, right on top."
"You're dreaming, Oscar."
"Yeah, well, she's been following me, watching me all the time. Like I can't get rid of her. And a friend of mine said she was hanging near my apartment the other day when I was out."
I trust Oscar about as far as I can throw Mount Rushmore, but I instinctively know that he is telling the truth about this. He has no real reason to lie, and it fits in with Laurie's cryptic comment about having knowledge of Oscar's criminal progress since she left the force.
I don't have time to reflect on the possible implications of Oscar's comment, because I find myself staring at the sweaty hand of Dylan Campbell, who, for the benefit of the assembled media, has come over to wish me luck.
I wouldn't describe today's event as a media circus; there is much more press here than usual, but the crush is far from overwhelming. The reason for whatever news-worthiness the hearing has rests in the victim's being a cop, however discredited, and the brutal nature of the crime.
The judge, Susan Timmerman, enters, and the bailiff calls the proceedings to order. Judge Timmerman will be handling only this hearing; the case hasn't yet been assigned. It's unfortunate, because she is a fair judge who doesn't show any bias toward the prosecution, and we have gotten along fairly well in the past.
The charges contained in the case of New Jersey v. Oscar Garcia are read, and counsel are identified. Oscar is asked how he pleads and he performs his part correctly, saying, "Not guilty," with conviction and a trace of indignation. In Oscar's case, a trace is all the indignation one can stomach.
The not guilty plea creates the need for trial, and that is what the court must consider next. Timmerman does not have all the judges' schedules, and doesn't know who the judge will be anyway, but she can at least tentatively set a date. We agree on July 14, about four months from now, and Judge Timmerman asks if there is anything else she must consider.
I jump up. "Discovery, Your Honor."
"What about it?" she asks.
"I've discovered that opposing counsel doesn't seem to believe in it. I've requested reports that have not been turned over."
Dylan looks mortally wounded. "Your Honor," he complains, "the request was made just yesterday."
I'm having none of this. "I'm sorry, Your Honor, but we are talking about the copying of reports. That takes minutes, not days. I would be happy to walk with Mr. Campbell to his office and do it myself. Secondly, the timing of the request is not important; it's not even necessary at all. The prosecution should be aware of their discovery obligations with or without a specific request. Documents should be copied and turned over as they are received, without editing."
The judge nods and issues the order. "The state will turn over copies of whatever reports it has in its possession by close of business today."
She slams her gavel, effectively adjourning the proceedings. The courtroom empties quickly, and with the press having dispersed, Dylan forgets to exchange parting pleasantries.
I arrange to meet with Oscar later to discuss the case in detail for the first time. I'm particularly interested in his whereabouts on the night of the murder. I'm hoping he was having dinner with the secretary of state or being interviewed by Ted Koppel on Nightline.
Laurie is waiting for me in the back of the courtroom, and Oscar doesn't take his eyes off her the entire time he is being led off. Those eyes are not ogling; they are hating and fearing.
Once Oscar is out of sight, I go back and meet Laurie.
"You pissed Dylan off," she points out.
I nod. "Had to happen sooner or later."
"This is sooner. Listen, Andy, I want to work on this case."
This surprises me. "You don't have to do that. I know how you feel about Oscar."
"That doesn't matter. I'm a professional and I have to act like it," she says.
I find myself thinking, "I'm not so sure this is a great idea." I find myself saying, "Great."
"We starting right now?" she asks.
"Nope. Tomorrow." I look at my watch. "I'm due back in high school in twenty minutes."
Paterson Eastside is the high school from which I graduated. The school's claim to fame is that it was the subject and setting of the movie Lean on Me, starring Morgan Freeman. It told the story of the then principal, Joe Clark, and his heavy-handed method of getting the chaotic inner-city school under control.
My high school career could best be described as undistinguished, at least in the things important to me: girls and sports. My sports mediocrity was the more painful of the two, because at least with girls I had the good sense to give up trying early on. In sports I had perseverance, a trait that is not all it's cracked up to be.
Eastside's football field, adjacent to the school, was actually placed on an old cemetery, after the graves had allegedly been moved. Thus the school had two nicknames, the Ghosts and the Undertakers. It was on that field that I suffered my greatest indignity. As I sat on the bench, the starters were out on the field making awful play after awful play. The coach turned to me and said, "Can you imagine how bad you are if you're playing behind them?"
But I've returned to Eastside today in triumph. I'm endowing the school with a yearly scholarship, given in the name of my father. An assembly has been called to commemorate the occasion, and the principal tells me that my recent media exposure has actually created some student interest in the event.
My speech is a combination of self-deprecating humor and sincere exhortation to the students to make their lives productive. I don't build myself up too much, because even though I'm a pretty good lawyer, the truth is that the only reason I'm standing here today is that my father died and left me a truckload of money.
When I mention my father's nonfinancial influence on me, I get a little choked up. It's been happening a lot lately. I've noticed that as I get older, I get more and more, sentimental. I also notice some other things as I age, like a couple of hairs growing on each of my ears. Now that I think about it, there could be a cause-and-effect relationship at work here. Maybe I should fund some medical research into studying the effect of ear hair on human emotional response.
The question-and-answer session afterward is surprisingly lively. Most of the students want to know about the Willie Miller case, though their interest seems centered on what it was like to visit Willie on death row.
The Garcia case is of less interest. Some of them know Oscar or know of him from the neighborhood, and to know Oscar is to be unconcerned about his fate.
But a decent round of applause sends me off, and I head down to the jail to meet with my client. He's agitated and somewhat scared; for some reason his appearance in court this morning provided a sense of reality to his situation that the arrest and incarceration did not.
Oscar is not the type you make small talk with, so I ask him if he has any questions about, what took place in court today.
"That guy Campbell, he seemed out to get me."
It wasn't a question, but it's close enough. "He wants to send you to prison for the rest of your life."
"Son of a bitch …"
"You've obviously met him before," I say. "Now, tell me everything you did the night of the murder, minute by minute, as best as you can remember. Don't leave out a thing, no matter how small or unimportant it might seem."
The sullen Oscar becomes even more so. "I hung out," he mutters.
"That's not quite the detail I need."
"Hey, what do you want me to say, man?" he asks, clearly annoyed with my persistence.
"I want you to tell me where you were that night. Because if you don't cooperate with me, I can tell you where you're going to spend every night for the rest of your life."