“But you understand it.”
I smile again. “I do.”
Richard pauses a moment and then looks at Karen, Kevin, and me in turn before speaking.
“Let’s kick their ass.”
Ass-kicking in the justice system is done a little differently from ass-kicking in, say, the National Football League. They use bone-crushing blocks and devastating tackles while we use meticulously prepared briefs and probing questions. They need shoulder pads and helmets to protect themselves from harm; when we see danger coming we just stand up and object.
Kevin and I head back to the office to discuss exactly how we plan to kick the prosecution’s ass. They are going to come in far more prepared than they were at the hearing. They’ll have better answers for our forensics expert, and probably a bunch of canine lifeguards who’ll swear that Reggie could have made that swim in his sleep.
We’ve been looking at three main areas: the customs operation in Newark, the Army connection from seven years ago, and the government’s obvious, though surreptitious, interest in what we’re doing. All three are still viable things for us to investigate, but I’ve been making the mistake of thinking they must be interrelated.
It would all tie together nicely if these Army guys had a scam to smuggle things, maybe arms or drugs, through customs and had to get Richard out of the way to accomplish it. The government could be onto them and be watching me out of worry that I might do something in the course of the trial to imperil their investigation.
Unfortunately, it falls apart because of the passage of time. If they were smuggling arms all these years, there would by now be a bazooka in every household in America. And if the government has been watching all of it without acting, then they aren’t asleep at the switch-they’re comatose.
Edna buzzes in to tell me that Sam Willis is waiting to see me and says it’s important. I tell her to send him right in, and he comes through the door about an eighth of a second later.
“Donna Banks is getting the money from Switzerland,” he says. “The first business day of every month, a wire transfer from the Bank of Switzerland. The account is owned by Carlyle Trading.”
“How much?” I ask.
“Twenty-two thousand five, every month.”
With that kind of income, she can spend a lot of time seeing friends and doing volunteer work. “Can we find out who Carlyle Trading is?”
“I’m trying, but it’s nobody. It’s a dummy corporation; the bank wouldn’t even know who’s behind it.”
“How long has she been getting the money?”
He smiles. “That’s the best part. It started three months after her husband kicked off. If he kicked off.”
This is exhilarating news, even though we don’t yet know what it means. I believe it somehow ties into our case, but of course, I could be totally wrong. Donna Banks could be getting the money from some Swiss sugar daddy that she started sleeping with right after her husband died.
But that’s not what my gut is telling me.
“What about the phone calls?” I ask. “Did she make any after I left her apartment?”
He nods. “She made four in the forty-five minutes after you left. All to the same number. The first three were only a few seconds long; my guess is, she got a machine and hung up. The fourth one lasted seven minutes.”
“Who were they made to?”
Sam takes out a piece of notepaper and looks at it. “It’s a company based in Montclair, New Jersey, Interpublic Trading. The only name I could find associated with it is a guy named Yasir Hamadi. I’ve got the phone number and address.”
I dial the number that Sam gives me, and after four rings a machine picks up. It’s a woman’s voice, telling me that I’ve reached Interpublic Trading and suggesting that I leave a message. I leave my name and number and ask that Mr. Hamadi call me back on a personal matter.
Kevin and I spend the rest of the afternoon in pretrial preparation. In one sense it’s easier to prepare for a retrial than a normal trial, since we know what the previous prosecution witnesses will testify to. They’ll come up with a few new witnesses, mainly to counter us, but by and large we know their case. Additionally, everyone who has testified is now on the record, and if we catch them in an inconsistency, they can’t back off it.
I’m about to leave for home when Karen Evans calls and asks if she can “buy me dinner.” I had already planned a perfect evening; I was going to stop at Taco Bell, buy a couple of Crunchwraps, and eat them at home while watching the Mets game. But she seems to need to talk, so I agree to give it all up and have dinner with her.
We go to a restaurant in Paterson called the Bonfire, a place I’ve been going to since I was a kid. It’s changed its decor and menu a number of times over the years, but the memories of going there with my parents have remained intact and unchanged.
Karen doesn’t shake easily, but she’s been rattled by Richard’s revelation that he is contemplating, actually planning, to take his own life should he lose the retrial. “It makes me afraid that I talked him into going ahead with the trial,” she says.
I shake my head. “You didn’t talk him into anything. He knows exactly what he wants and what he’s willing to tolerate.”
“You know, these past five years, I’ve had hope, and now more than ever. But if we lose and he does what he says, then I won’t have that anymore. He won’t have it anymore.”
“I don’t think either of us can understand what it’s like to be locked in a cage,” I say. “And to be innocent at the same time… It must be beyond horrifying. To this day, Willie Miller won’t talk about it.”
She nods. “I know, but that same innocence is like a lifeline for Richard; it’s all he has. And if he pleads guilty and takes the five years, he gives that up.”
Karen’s bubbly, irrepressible way has a tendency to make people like me underestimate her intelligence and maturity. She’s tough and smart-easily smart enough to be scared of what could happen to her brother.
I manage to turn the conversation to less stressful matters, and she reveals in answer to my question that she has a boyfriend, a third-year law student at Columbia Law. He thinks that their relationship is more serious than she does.
“He’s a nice guy,” she says. “But there are a lot of nice guys in the world. I want what you and Laurie have.”
“Then you should date guys who live thousands of miles away.”
She shakes her head. “You know what I mean. You guys are connected; I can see that. Hey, anybody can see that. You could live on different planets, and you’d still be connected. That’s what I’m looking for.”
I know what she means, though I sure as hell didn’t know it at her age.
We’ve just gotten the check when my cell phone rings. It’s Keith Franklin, his voice barely above a whisper. “Mr. Carpenter, I found something.”
“Where are you?”
“Down at the port.”
“What did you find?”
He doesn’t want to talk on the phone, and I tell him I’ll be right down there. I hang up and describe the call to Karen. “I want to go with you,” she says.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Come on, I’ll be like your sidekick.”
“Karen…,” I say in a tone not nearly stern enough to carry the day.
“Here’s the deal: If you don’t let me go with you, I’ll grab on to your ankle and won’t let go, and I’ll start screaming as loud as I can.” She says all this with a smile on her face, but she’s probably serious.
I have never been particularly successful at dealing with strong-willed people, or even moderately willed people, but I have reason to be hesitant to let her go. Last time I met with Franklin at night, Petrone had Windshield Man following me, and something similar or worse could happen this time.
I finally agree to let her come, but I take pains to look behind us as we drive, in case there’s somebody following us. I even make a few quick, unnecessary turns as a way to detect unusual activity by any cars behind us. The problem is that my level of competence at tail detection is such that the entire Rose Bowl Parade could be lined up behind me and I wouldn’t know it. I just have to trust that Marcus is the grand marshal.