“I didn't see him, Pete. The son of a bitch was wearing a ski mask.”
“There's nothing you can give me? A distinctive voice, maybe?”
I search my recollection, but come up with almost nothing. “He's got big feet.”
“Well now we're getting somewhere.”
I'm really annoyed. “Look, my house has been broken into, I've been threatened, and now I've been beaten up in my office. Any chance you're seeing a pattern, Sherlock?”
“Andy, I see this every day. It happens all the time, and you defend most of the scumbags who do it.”
I shake my head. “This is not supposed to happen to me. I'm a lawyer, for Christ's sake. When I piss people off they're supposed to stand up and object.”
Pete asks me if I see anything missing in the office, or if there seems to be anything that the intruder had gone through.
There is no evidence of that, and I tell him so.
“Hmmmm,” he hmmms.
“What are you hmmming about?”
“Obviously, the intruder was here just to do what he did, beat and threaten you.”
“That makes me feel much better.”
“What time did you get in?”
“Early. Eight-thirty.”
“Are you always the first one in?”
“No. When I'm due in court I sometimes don't come in until the afternoon.”
“Somebody's been watching and following you, Andy. Any idea who it could be?”
“No.”
“Maybe another pimp looking to take over your stable?”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Believe me, right now it's a lot better looking than your face.”
Pete asks me a lot more questions, and I answer them as best I can. Well, maybe not quite that completely, since I neglect to mention the parts about my father and the money and the picture. My shrink and I are going to have a lot to talk about.
Pete heads back to the office, promising to put his best people on the case. He also makes a reference to our next meeting, which is when he will be testifying as a key witness in the Miller case. It'll be my job to attack Pete in cross-examination, which won't be easy.
As Pete's leaving, Laurie arrives. She hasn't heard about the attack, and the first thing she sees is my battered face.
“Oh, my God. What happened?”
“Sort of a pretrial conference,” I say. Hey, I used to sleep with her. I've got to act brave.
She touches my arm, and I can't help it, I wince in pain. “No touching. Please, no touching.”
She's okay with that. I knew she would be.
I call Nicole and tell her what happened, since I'm afraid she'll hear it through the media. She's concerned and upset, though less so than when the house was broken into. I renew my suggestion that she move out until the danger has passed, and again she refuses.
Kevin shows up soon after and shows a hell of a lot more sympathy than Laurie had. We soon get back into the details of the case, and I almost forget the pain I'm in. Almost, but not quite.
The jury consultant shows up for our meeting. Her name is Marjorie Klayman and to my chagrin I take an immediate liking to her. My father brought me up to believe in the old school of trial lawyering, and jury consultancy is part of the new school. Marjorie is in her thirties, unpretentious in looks, dress, and attitude, and totally self-confident in her ability to help me pick a jury.
She explains what she calls the “science” of the process, which consists of conducting polls among sample jury pools, probing with sophisticated questions about attitude and lifestyle. The responses are then correlated with those people's attitudes toward information about the specific case. I'm not knocked out by what she has to say, but then again how many times can I be knocked out in one day? I hire her on the spot, and give her one week to get back to me. This is generous; jury selection begins in ten days.
I ask Laurie to join me for the Victor Markham deposition, and we head over to the office of one Bradley Anderson, Victor's lawyer. I bring Laurie with me because she's smart, and in this case two heads are better than one, especially since one has just recently been punched in.
Bradley Anderson is one of the few attorneys I've ever met for whom the moniker “Esquire” fits. His office is spacious and ornately furnished in an elegant prewar building in Ridge-wood. The conference room would seem more appropriate for a state dinner than for a criminal law deposition, but that is what we're here to conduct.
There is a fruit plate set out for us to sample, along with cheese and crackers, except they are so thin and delicate that they're probably called something a lot classier than “crackers.” There is also a silver coffee urn with cups smaller than your average test tube.
Victor feigns graciousness when we arrive, even expressing sympathy for my bruises. It is as if he has absolutely nothing better to do than have a little chat with us over coffee. Bradley is distant but polite, though my impression is that he feels like he's soiling himself by talking to us. Bradley explains that he does not usually do criminal law, but Victor is a dear friend, so if we can move this along …
Once the stenographer is ready, I ask Victor some preliminary questions about his business and family. Actually, I beat these questions to death with boring minutiae, and I can feel Laurie staring daggers at me, wondering what the hell I am doing.
What I am doing is trying to annoy Victor Markham, to get him out of his glossy little shell and dig under his skin. I accomplish this when I ask him for perhaps the fifth time about his son, Edward's, grades at Fairleigh Dickinson. Victor snarls his response and Bradley threatens to terminate the deposition. I threaten to bring Victor in front of Hatchet for unresponsive-ness. Now that I've achieved the warm tone I've been looking for, it's time to get to the matter at hand.
The goal of a deposition, at least one of an adversarial witness, is not necessarily to accumulate information, and certainly not to trip him up. Rather it is to get the witness under oath, and thereby lock him or her into answers. Those answers then serve as a basis for cross-examination, and the witness cannot come up with a new story when painted into a corner.
“How well did you know Denise McGregor?”
“I didn't know her very well,” Victor says. “But Edward hoped to marry her.”
“Were they engaged?”
“No, I don't believe so.”
“You don't know for sure whether your own son was engaged?”
“He was not engaged.” He's annoyed, snapping out his words.
“Do you know what story Denise was working on when she died?”
“Of course not.”
The questioning moves to the night of the murder. “Why did Edward call you from the bar?”