Ali had a strategy. I don't.
Ali had the masses chanting "Ali bomaye! Ali bomaye!," which when translated means "Ali, kill him! Ali, kill him!" I have the press, writing columns and going on TV, essentially saying, "Carpenter, you're a moron! Carpenter, you're a moron!," which when translated means "Carpenter, you're a moron! Carpenter, you're a moron!"
Dylan's first punch/witness of the day is a neighbor of Oscar Garcia, who recounts having seen Laurie hanging out near Oscar's apartment on a number of occasions. I make the point that "apartment hanging" is not a felony, but it remains an effective small piece of Dylan's puzzle.
Next up is Laurie's ex-partner on the force, Detective Stan Naughton. He looks like he would rather be anywhere else than here and occasionally looks over at Laurie, his eyes apologizing for what his mouth is saying.
Naughton recounts the story of Oscar providing drugs to the daughter of Laurie's friend and how Laurie was determined to nail Oscar for it. It provides motive with a capital "M," at least concerning the initial framing of Oscar for the Dorsey killing.
With Naughton obviously friendly to the defense, it's simply my job on cross-examination to lead him where he already wants to go. I take my time doing so, prompting him to talk about Laurie's exemplary record on the force, his feeling that she is a levelheaded, decent human being who abhors violence and who never came anywhere close to committing police brutality.
Kevin shows up, motion in hand, and I tell Hatchet that we have an important matter to bring up before the court. We file the motion, providing Dylan with a copy, and Hatchet schedules argument for nine A.M. tomorrow.
Kevin and I are going to be up late tonight going over our position on the motion. We will have to convince Hatchet that the Cahill/Stynes involvement in the case is relevant and presents a credible alternative to Laurie's guilt. At the same time, we also have to make him believe that there is at least a reasonable chance that the FBI files contain information that could be exculpatory to Laurie.
I arrive home before Kevin, and Edna hands me the mail that has built up over the last three days. It's mostly solicitations for charitable contributions, and I have a quick pang of guilt that I have been neglecting my philanthropic blundering during the trial.
There is also an envelope from Stephen Cates, the opposing lawyer in the Willie Miller civil lawsuit. It's surprisingly thick, and when I open it, I see why. It is a one-page letter attached to a long legal document. The letter informs me that they have agreed to our demands and that when Willie signs the attached settlement agreement, they will forward a check in the amount of eleven million seven hundred thousand dollars.
I'm thrilled for Willie, but I'm so obsessed with the trial that my first reaction is to view this as a distraction. Nevertheless, it wouldn't be fair to Willie not to tell him about it immediately, so I ask Edna to call him and have him come over.
Willie arrives so quickly that I think he must have been waiting on the front lawn for Edna to call. With him, as always, is Cash, who is probably delighted at the prospect of digging up another head.
"What's up?" Willie asks.
"We received an official response from the other side."
"We did?" he asks nervously. "You got any beer?"
"You want a beer before you hear their answer?"
"Every time I've ever gotten good news in my whole life I've had a beer in my hand. Every single time."
"Really?" I ask. "What about the time the jury found you not guilty and you got off death row?"
That time had slipped his mind. "Okay, forget the beer. What did they say?"
I hold up the settlement agreement. "That if you sign this paper, they'll give you a check for over eleven million dollars."
Willie looks at me, not speaking, for about twenty seconds. Then he leans over, picks up Cash and holds him right up to his face, and says, "Did I tell you? Did I tell you?"
And then he starts to cry. Not huge sobs, but serious sniffles and definite tears. Cash seems far less upset, no doubt recognizing that he has gone from roaming the streets eating garbage to a future filled with designer biscuits.
Willie turns back to me, apparently wanting to explain his reaction. "This doesn't make up for what I went through, you know? But it's pretty damn good."
I had long ago told Willie I would handle his case for ten percent, which is far lower than customary. Even at that, I've just earned more on this one case than I've made in the totality of my legal career.
I laugh at the realization and turn to Kevin. "Do you realize that we just made over a million dollars in commission?"
"What do you mean 'we'?"
"You're in for half," I say.
Ever honest, Kevin says, "Andy, you pay me a hundred and fifty an hour."
I shake my head. "Not on this case. On this case you get half a million. You can buy those triple-load washers and dryers you've had your eye on." I turn to Edna. "And you get two hundred."
"Dollars?" she asks.
"Thousand," I say.
Laurie comes into the room, and I give her the rest, which she can put toward her legal fees. Within a few moments we're all laughing, out of control, a brief but welcome respite from the ongoing pressure we've been under for months.
Edna calls cousin Fred, making appointments for him to talk to both Willie and herself about investing their windfalls. Kevin and I adjourn to the den to plan for tomorrow's hearing. Based on what we come up with, I probably should have saved Kevin's half million to offer to Hatchet.
We're joined in court by Darrin Hobbs, Cindy Spodek, and Edward Peterson, the U.S. attorney representing the FBI's position. Hobbs, certainly still angry about my supposed threat to do exactly what I've now done in bringing him to court, ignores me. Spodek does the same, no doubt taking the lead from her boss.
Hatchet calls on me first, admonishing me to be brief, since he's already read our motion papers. I recount what I know about Dorsey's involvement with organized crime, and the FBI's intervention with Internal Affairs on his behalf. I then talk about Cahill/Stynes, starting with his visit to my office, his "admission" about the bloody clothes behind the stadium, right up to his murder of Barry Leiter.
I think my story is intriguing, if not compelling, but rather weak regarding relevance to the FBI files. It is difficult to conceal what is the essential truth: We have no idea what is in those files, and our seeking them is nothing more than a fishing expedition.
Dylan is quick to see it for what it is. "Your Honor, this is a fishing expedition," he says. "The defense counsel is telling an uncorroborated story to help the defense. Even if the court were to take it at face value, which I am certainly not suggesting, the link to this FBI investigation is just not there."
Hatchet then turns to Peterson, the government lawyer, who presents a stipulation from Special Agent Hobbs that there is nothing in the files regarding Dorsey that would be helpful to either side in this case and that there is no mention at all of Cahill/Stynes. Peterson takes great pains to point out that Hobbs is a highly decorated military officer, who has earned similar praise in his career with the Bureau. There should be no reason, according to Peterson, to question his word.
Peterson doesn't stop there. "The details in the file are of little consequence to the government," he says. "Its insignificant revelations would have no impact on this case, but the act of releasing it could have widespread ramifications on other cases. By their very nature, these investigations must be cloaked in secrecy; many who cooperate do so with that secrecy as a condition. If that trust is violated, the inhibiting effect on future investigations could be devastating."
Hatchet, bless his heart, seems unmoved. "We are not talking about publishing this in the New York Times," he says, "we are talking about my looking at the material in camera to determine probative value to this case."
"Respectfully, Your Honor," Peterson counters, "Agent Hobbs has stipulated that there is none."
"And he may be correct. But he's a war hero, not a judge. Which balances things out quite well, since I'm a judge and not a war hero. I assume you brought the file with you?"
Peterson nods. "As you ordered, Your Honor."
"Good. Turn it over and I'll review it."
Peterson just nods in resignation, and Hobbs turns and walks out, with Spodek behind him. It's a victory for us, but whether it will turn out to be a meaningful one will depend on what Hatchet finds in the file.
DYLAN HAS SOME FINISHING TOUCHES TO COVER before he rests his case. These take the form of fact witnesses, basically noncontroversial, who will provide information to round out and support the prosecution's theories.
First up is the 911 operator who received the anonymous tip alerting the police to Oscar Garcia's guilt, information that proved erroneous.
The tape is played in court, though I've of course heard it many times. It's a female voice, masked somewhat by some computer or electronic technique. Dylan's theory is that the caller was Laurie, and he buttresses his contention by pointing out that the caller referred to Oscar as a "perpetrator." It's a term, in Dylan's view, that a cop or ex-cop like Laurie would be likely to use.
I have an expert prepared to testify that, computer enhancement techniques being as advanced as they are, the original voice could be female, male, or a quacking duck. There's no sense questioning the prosecution's witness about it at this point, so I let her off the stand with no cross-examination.