The ticket was written at nine thirty-seven, as noted by Patrolman Harris on his ticket. This fits in quite well with the estimated time of death, which was around ten o’clock, a connection that Richard makes sure the jury understands.
When he turns him over to me after about an hour of tedium, there’s really nothing about what he said for me to question. So I decide to question him about what he didn’t say.
“Patrolman Harris, where was Steven Timmerman while you were writing the ticket?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are most people who park in that space usually in the restaurant, since that’s the only place open on that street at night?” I ask.
“I would assume so.”
“So you didn’t see Steven Timmerman, before or after writing the ticket?”
“No.”
“Did you see his father, Walter Timmerman?”
“No.”
“Mr. Wallace showed a map, pointing out where the car was parked and where the body was found. Are you familiar with that area? Have you ever driven or walked by there?”
“Yes. Many times.”
“The body was found behind a convenience store. If I asked you to drive to that store tonight, could you find it?”
“Of course,” he says.
“Where would you park?”
I can see his mind racing as he contemplates the mistake that many witnesses make. He has said nothing wrong, but he believes that his next truthful answer will hurt the prosecution’s side, so he tries to think of a way out. Of course, he should not be trying to manipulate matters, he should just tell the truth.
Which ultimately he does. “I would park in front of the convenience store.”
“Not at Mario’s restaurant, two blocks away?” I ask.
“No.”
“Let me present you with a hypothetical. Suppose you were going to murder someone who was in your car, and you were planning to commit the murder behind the convenience store. Obviously you wouldn’t want to be seen with that person, since that would make you a likely suspect after the body was found. Would that make you more or less likely to part two blocks away and walk with him?”
“I would park near the convenience store,” he says.
“Thank you. Me too.”
Next up is a clerk from the phone company named Nina Alvarez, who testifies about the phone call from Walter Timmerman to Steven on the night of the murder. Steven had also told me about the call, but we could not find it in Walter’s records. The explanation for that, as Ms. Alvarez quickly points out, is that it was not made from Timmerman’s private cell phone, but rather from his business cell phone, listed under the account of Timco.
Through Richard’s lens, Alvarez’s testimony comes off as damning. The implication is that whatever was said between the two men, it resulted in a confrontation and murder two hours later. Richard’s contention is that it was the trigger that ultimately resulted in Walter Timmerman’s death.
In my cross-examination I ask Alvarez, “Do you know what Walter and Steven Timmerman talked about that night?”
“No, sir,” she says.
“Could it have been about the Mets game the night before?”
“I can’t say.”
“Do you know that they talked at all?”
“I know that the call was answered and lasted twenty-four seconds.”
“Could a friend of Steven’s, or maybe a housekeeper, have answered the phone and taken a message?”
She nods. “It’s possible, sir.”
“Could the answering machine have answered, and Walter left a message?”
“It’s possible, sir.”
I hate to end the cross-examination, because I like being called “sir.” It doesn’t happen that often. But other than asking Ms. Alvarez her favorite color, there’s nothing more for me to get from her, so I let her off the stand.
When court finally adjourns, I check my cell phone and listen to a message from Agent Corvallis agreeing to participate in my plan as it relates to Charles Robinson, and telling me that I should call him.
I call him immediately, and he says that I need to give them twenty-four hours’ notice before any meeting, so as to give them time to set things up. We also talk about possible locations for the meeting, and how I should position things with Robinson.
Corvallis, now that he is on board, comes off as helpful and smart, qualities I am going to need to call on before this is over.
CHARLES ROBINSON TAKES MY CALL, but he doesn’t seem his old jovial self. “You decide to give up the dog? Because otherwise you’re going to jail,” is the first thing out of his mouth.
“The dog is what I wanted to talk to you about,” I say.
“So talk.”
“I think we should meet in person.”
“Why? You can say what you’ve got to say now.”
“What I’ve got to say concerns not only the dog, but also Walter Timmerman, and synthetic DNA.”
There is silence for a few moments from Robinson. If the first words out of his mouth aren’t What the hell are you talking about? then I’ll have final confirmation that I’m right.
Those are not his first words. His actual first words are, “You think you can keep screwing around with me?” I can see him snarling through the phone.
“I think we can help each other,” I say. “I think we can help each other a lot.”
“You don’t know what you’re messing with,” he says.
“If you don’t meet with me, I’ll be messing with the FBI by this time tomorrow.”