He walks over and wraps his arms around my shoulder. I probably dislike shoulder wrapping even more than hugging. “Now look, we're all family here. I'm on your side. But Andrew, your father didn't earn the two million dollars delivering newspapers. If he had he wouldn't have kept it a secret and left it untouched all these years. You've got to face that fact.”
Philip is right about that much, of course, and after he leaves I try to bury that truth in a mountain of paperwork. I don't succeed. So I try and get some sleep, since tomorrow is my first session with Hatchet in his ballpark, and I had better be ready, because he and Wallace certainly will be. But I don't succeed at that either; I can't stop thinking about my father never touching that money.
I can clearly remember back to a time when I was eleven. My bedroom was right off the kitchen, but it was past midnight and my parents believed I was asleep. I wasn't, and the strange tones in their voices, particularly my father's, kept me awake with my ear to the wall.
They were discussing my request, made earlier that day, to go to overnight camp in the upcoming summer. It did not seem an unreasonable request, my two best friends had gone there the year before, and they were returning. But camp cost over two thousand dollars, plus all the equipment and clothing, and it was this financial commitment that my parents were discussing.
“You've got to tell him, Nelson,” my mother said. “He's a mature young man, he'll understand.”
“I know he will,” my father replied. “But I'm just not ready to give up on managing this.”
My mother pointed out that they simply did not have the money now, and that in any event summer camp was an extravagance, not a necessity. Better to save the money for college, which she said was just around the corner.
My father was adamant. His voice cracking, he talked about wanting me to have this experience, wanting me to have every experience he was never able to have. He would somehow figure out a way to make it work.
The next morning, to my undying shame, I did not withdraw my request. I had the time of my life at camp that summer, and I know now that my father, so desperate for me to go that he was in terrible pain, had millions of dollars that he refused to touch.
Money that he did not make delivering newspapers.
HATCHET'S GAVELPOUNDS THE CASE OF NEWJersey v. William Miller to order. Present for the prosecution are Richard Wallace and an assortment of Assistant DAs. At the defense table are myself, Kevin Randall, and Willie Miller.
This is the first time I have ever seen Willie outside of prison. He's wearing prison clothing and has his hands cuffed behind him, but I can still tell that he's enjoying this tiny taste of almost real life. I will get him normal clothing to wear when there is a jury present; prison clothing makes him look like he belongs there.
For some reason they have chosen to put us in courtroom three, which is the most modern and by far the least impressive of the six courtrooms in the building. It is as if the designer was taken to a typical Holiday Inn room and was told, “Give me this.”
There is not much room for the public and press, which may be the intent behind choosing it. Hatchet likes a calm and controlled courtroom; if he could I think he would conduct the trial in a plastic bubble. Personally, I like commotion and disorganization. In this case especially, I want the jurors on their toes and willing to think outside their box.
What I do like about the room is that since it is fairly small, the lawyers are close to both the judge and jury. There is a good chance for interaction, for the little asides that can have a disproportionately large effect. Playing to the jury is going to be difficult with the vigilant Hatchet in charge, but I'm still going to try.
Hatchet gets the names of the attorneys on the record, and then says, “Before we go through these motions, is there anything we need to discuss?”
“Your Honor,” I say, “I would request that my client's handcuffs be removed whenever he is in the courtroom. It is unnecessary, uncomfortable, and prejudicial to the jury.”
Hatchet looks around. “Do you see a jury here, Mr. Carpenter?”
“No, Your Honor. But I expect there will be.”
“Motion denied.” Not a great start.
I persist. “Your Honor, could we at least have his hands cuffed in front of him? I am advised that it would greatly lessen the discomfort, while not providing too serious a physical danger to the members of the court.”
“Mr. Wallace?” Hatchet inquires.
“No objection, Your Honor.”
“Very well. Guard, please adjust the handcuffs so that they are in the front.”
The guard comes over and does just that. When he is finished, Willie leans over and whispers to me. “Thanks, man. You're better than the last lawyer already.”
I just nod as Hatchet shuffles through some papers. “We'll start with the change of venue motion. Mr. Carpenter, I've read your brief. Do you have anything to add to it?”
I stand up. “Yes, Your Honor. We believe that the prosecution, in speaking out to the press about their view of the new trial as the result of an inconsequential technicality, has prejudiced the jury pool, and-”
Hatchet interrupts me. “That's all in your brief. I asked if you had anything more to add.”
“I'm sorry, Your Honor. The brief adequately represents our position, though perhaps understates the passion with which we hold it.”
“I'm suitably impressed,” says Hatchet. “Mr. Wallace?”
“Our response papers are complete, Your Honor.” Wallace is the type who would go up to high school teachers and thank them for a fair and well-thought-out final exam. “We believe that cases with far greater public awareness have managed to empanel impartial juries without much difficulty.”
“I am inclined to agree with that,” Hatchet says.
“Your Honor,” I jump in, trying to stem the tide. “Our papers demonstrate media coverage both inside and outside this community in great detail. We feel-”
He interrupts me. “ ‘Great detail’ is an understatement. I would appreciate it if you would be more concise in the future. But look at the bright side, Mr. Carpenter. Every motion I deny gives you a future grounds for appeal.”
“We would rather get a not guilty verdict in the first place, Your Honor.”
“Then present your best case. What's next?”
“The matter of Robert Hinton, Mr. Miller's so-called counsel in the first trial,” I say.
Hatchet nods and takes off his glasses. He's heard all about this, so he looks at Wallace.
“This can't be true, can it?”
Wallace replies, “I'm afraid our information shows that it is, Your Honor. We cannot find Mr. Hinton, but there is no record that he was ever a member of the bar.”
“How could that happen?”
“We're still looking into it. But it appears that Mr. Miller hired Mr. Hinton independent of the court, and that his credentials were not examined.”
Hatchet turns to me. “Is this consistent with your understanding of the facts?”
I take a quick look at Willie before I answer. “Yes, Your Honor, but our major concern is not with my client's representation, or lack of it, in the first trial, as terrible as it was. That verdict has already been set aside.”
Hatchet seems surprised to hear this. “Then exactly what is your concern?”
Here goes. “Your Honor, we believe this is evidence that a conspiracy existed at the time of the murder, and continues to this day, so as to protect certain powerful interests. We would request substantial leeway to deal with this matter at trial.”
“Do you have any other evidence of this conspiracy?” Hatchet is obviously skeptical, as I knew he would be.
“We are developing it, Your Honor.”
Wallace chimes in. “Your Honor, granting the defense's request would be providing them a license to conduct a time-consuming fishing expedition. The state would suggest that when and if the information is developed that it be presented to the court for admissibility.”