The Wrong Man (19 page)

“Judge, as far as I am aware, no, he can’t recall, but my expert is prepared to testify that—”

“No,” said the judge, shaking his head. “No. I’m striking your affirmative defense of not guilty by reason of insanity. The prosecution’s motion is granted.”

I paused for a moment, as if absorbing this expected development. The judge would have been correct to bar the insanity defense on either of the grounds Wendy asserted.

But I had a plan B, and it was time to assert it. “Judge, the problem the prosecution has with my client is the same one I have. He’s unresponsive. He can’t talk to me. He can’t help me. He is totally unable to assist me in my defense. And you don’t have to take my word for it. The prosecution is basically making my case for me. Tom Stoller is not fit to stand trial.”

“Wait a second,” Wendy protested.

“Hold on, Counsel,” said the judge. “Mr. Kolarich, you’re talking about
fitness
now? Your client has had two fitness hearings provided at state expense. He’s been declared fit twice.”

“He won’t—he can’t talk to me, Judge. How is that assisting me in my defense? That’s the very definition of being unfit to stand trial. The prosecution agrees with me. You have no party standing before you that
doesn’t
think he’s unfit—”

“Counsel, your client won’t talk to the state’s expert. That doesn’t make him unfit. You seem to have had the ability to gain some knowledge
from him, not that you volunteered that information to the court. We are not holding a third fitness hearing, and that’s that.”

“Your Honor—”

“We’re done, Counsel. We are done.”

“Then I move for a continuance,” I said, panic rising within me. I’d expected to win on plan B. This was plan C. “You’ve stricken our affirmative defense only eight days before trial. We need time to reassemble and put on a defense.”

The judge didn’t appear moved. “You’ve had months to prepare, Counsel.”

“To prepare an
insanity
defense, Judge. Not a defense of reasonable doubt. I’ll need a minimum of ninety days—”

“Mr. Kolarich, you knew the risks. You knew the defendant wasn’t cooperating, and you knew your client couldn’t remember the events of the crime. And you knew Ms. Kotowski would file this motion. You didn’t just fall out of a tree.”

“No,” I said. “No, Judge. It’s the
prosecution
that waited far too long to make this motion. They could have made this motion months ago. They waited until—”

“They were trying to get your client to cooperate, Mr. Kolarich. And he wouldn’t. That’s not the state’s fault. Now, I’ve made my ruling and I will not entertain further argument on it.”

“I understand your ruling on the state’s motion. I’m moving for additional time to prepare in light of that motion. You can’t possibly expect me to be ready on a reasonable-doubt defense in eight days.”

“Counsel,” he said, wagging a finger, “I told you—”

“This is a total ambush, Your Honor. A total am—”

“Counsel, you do
not
interrupt the court. You do
not
.”

I had violated the first rule of Judge Nash’s courtroom. And everyone knows that once you get on his bad side, if you don’t make amends, it only gets worse.

“Your motion is denied. We start the trial December first, as planned. The clerk will call the next—”

“Judge, you can’t do this. If you’ll—”

“Mr. Kolarich, that’s twice you’ve interrupted me. Another word and you’ll join your client in lockup.” The judge paused, as if to dare me to do
it. I held my stare on him but didn’t say a word. He couldn’t hold me in contempt for staring.

“The clerk… will call… the next case,” he said.

Deep down in the soul of a defense attorney, the thought that visits him in the dead of night is not that he’ll lose a case, or even that an innocent person will go to prison on his watch. What haunts him more than anything is the fear that he’ll make a mistake, a gross miscalculation that will single-handedly be responsible for the loss of his client’s freedom.

That it will be his fault.

I didn’t care much for the insanity defense in this case. In all likelihood, I wasn’t even going to use it. But at this moment I realized, more than ever, that I was counting on it to give me either a win on Tom’s fitness to stand trial or a continuance, either of which would buy me more time, that Judge Nash would give that to me as a consolation prize after striking the defense. And I’d been wrong. The judge had made a mistake here, in my opinion, but when could you ever be sure a judge would rule correctly?

I looked over at my client. Tom was still staring at the floor, seemingly oblivious to what was taking place, his nervous tics in full swing. He caught my eye for one moment before the guard led him out of the courtroom.

“What does this mean?” Aunt Deidre grabbed me by the arms as the court took up the next case.

“We’ll figure this out,” I assured her, moving her toward the exit. “We’ll figure something out.”

Never had I delivered words with such certainty that I didn’t feel. I had outsmarted myself, failing to account for the unpredictability of a judge, and it wouldn’t be me who would feel the weight of that miscalculation.

Peter Ramini kept his head down as he navigated the restaurant on the west side. Could be that he’d know some of the regulars, and he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He stayed along the bar, avoiding the diners. The smell of espresso hit his nose and caused him physical pain. It had been more than four years now since his diagnosis, and caffeine was absolutely forbidden. He’d tried the decaf espressos and it was like muddy water. It was worse than forbearance.

He managed to avoid any hellos and made his way back to the kitchen. Inside, Donnie was stirring a pot of tomato sauce and chatting up the staff. Jesus, if this guy wasn’t eating, he was cooking.

Donnie caught Ramini’s eye and met him in the corner. It was private enough, and this conversation wasn’t going to take long.

“Always with your hands in your pockets,” said Donnie, sizing Ramini up. “You’re among friends, Petey.”

Ramini frowned. “Anyway,” he said.

“Anyway, I talked to Paulie, like we said.” Notwithstanding the clanking of pots and pans and the shouts among the chefs, Donnie knew the rule. You could never be too careful. He leaned into Ramini as best he could with his girth.

“Take out the lawyer,” he whispered. “And his lady friend. And don’t come back with more problems.” Donnie cupped his hands over Ramini’s cheeks. “His words, not mine, Petey.”

Ramini nodded. His stomach did a flip. But it was the right call. There was nothing more to discuss. He left the restaurant the same way he came.

Randall Manning was seated in the same conference room where his lawyer Bruce McCabe met with Jason Kolarich last week. Manning was dressed in a charcoal suit and a bright yellow tie. He checked his watch. It was almost nine in the morning. He had many things to do in the city today.

Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. He used to love that weekend, the food, the football, most of all the family time. But that was over now. Things were different. Now he dreaded the day.

Jason Kolarich walked into the office a few minutes after nine. He was big. Well over six feet and stocky. An athlete, presumably. And more than that. Edgy. Like he almost didn’t belong in a suit. Like you wouldn’t want to face him in a dark alley, much less a courtroom.

They shook hands. A good, strong grip. Solid on eye contact. But he revealed very little in his face. Certainly no hint of warmth. He probably intimidated a lot of people. But not Manning. That switch had already been flipped. Nothing, at this point, could scare him.

As Kolarich took his seat, he pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket. “This is a subpoena for you to testify in court,” he said. “I haven’t decided if I’m going to serve it yet.”

Manning didn’t respond. But it was a nice opening move by Kolarich. Reminding everyone of his leverage. Play nice, or I haul you into court. This Kolarich could be a problem.

“It’s your dime,” said Manning. He looked over at Bruce McCabe, who had a pen poised over a lined yellow notepad.

“You married, Mr. Manning?”

“I’m a widower, Mr. Kolarich. As are you.”

In his peripheral vision, Manning detected a frown from Bruce McCabe. Manning knew better. It was pure ego, a power game, letting Kolarich know that they were looking at him, just as he was at them. Manning knew better. But he couldn’t help himself.

Kolarich, however, revealed nothing. “Glo-Max fertilizer,” he said. “Did Global Harvest sell Glo-Max 2. 0 fertilizer to a company called Summerset Farms?”

“We did, I believe.”

“Summerset Farms is wholly owned by Global Harvest, isn’t that true?”

“Yes, we purchased the controlling stock.”

“You purchased
all
the stock,” said Kolarich.

Manning paused for a moment, as if in thought. “That could be true.”

Kolarich didn’t quibble with the equivocation. Probably because he already knew the answer. And they weren’t in court. Not yet.

“You recall being sued by a company called LabelTek Industries?”

“Yes, I do,” said Manning.

“Do you recall that you were served with written interrogatories by LabelTek’s lawyers?”

Manning opened a hand.

“Written questions,” said Kolarich. “You signed the affidavit answering them.”

“If you say so.”

“One of the questions LabelTek asked was who bought Glo-Max 2. 0 from you. And your answer didn’t include Summerset Farms. I’m wondering why.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Bruce McCabe. “You can’t expect Mr. Manning to remember that kind of detail.”

A brief smile came to Manning. “I don’t remember that.”

“Well coached,” said Kolarich to McCabe. Then, to Manning, he said, “Did you know that Mr. McCabe here is outside counsel to Summerset Farms?”

Manning looked at McCabe. “I may have known that.”

Kolarich sat back in his chair. “Your company owns over twenty-five
companies in this state and around the country. Do I have that about right?”

“You do.”

“And of all those companies, Bruce McCabe has been outside counsel only to Global Harvest and Summerset Farms. Is that your understanding?”

So Kolarich had been doing his homework on GHI and its subsidiaries. “Yes,” he said.

“No,” said Kolarich. “There’s one other company. SK Tool and Supply.”

“My client is not required to be an expert on the companies I represent,” McCabe objected.

Kolarich never took his eyes off Manning. He had an imposing stare. He probably got a lot of people to talk just by glaring at them.

“Global Harvest purchased the stock of Summerset Farms in June 2009,” said Kolarich.

Manning nodded. “That sounds about right.”

“And it purchased SK Tool and Supply that very same month. Does that sound about right?”

Manning glanced over at McCabe. “Something like that, yes.”

“Two companies within a month.”

“Yes, Mr. Kolarich.”

“No other companies within eighteen months on either side.”

“Is there a point here, Counsel?” asked McCabe.

“You settled the LabelTek litigation for four million dollars plus attorneys’ fees,” said Kolarich. “You gave them more than they wanted. And you did it only days after LabelTek sent subpoenas to Summerset Farms about its contracts with Global Harvest.”

Manning looked at his lawyer. “Did I even know this?” he asked. Of course he did, but now was the time to play the corporate CEO who doesn’t bother with the details.

“No, you didn’t,” said McCabe. “I’m not sure
I
even knew it.”

McCabe, of course, knew it as well. Manning could still recall McCabe’s breathless phone call when he got wind of the Summerset Farms subpoenas.

“Then why’d you lay down in the lawsuit? The case was in its infancy, and you gave them everything they wanted and more.
You’ve done very well in life, Mr. Manning, and I assume you’ve become quite a skilled negotiator. What kind of negotiation ends up with you giving your opponent in litigation one hundred percent of what they wanted plus more?” Kolarich shook his head. “Something was troubling you. Was it the subpoena that LabelTek issued to the state Department of Agriculture? Was that it?”

“That’s ridiculous. This is ridiculous.”

“Why didn’t you want anyone looking at your sales records with Summerset Farms?”

“That’s simply not the case,” said Manning.

Kolarich sighed. “Then I suppose you won’t mind turning them over to me.”

Kolarich slid the envelope across the table to Manning.

“The subpoena includes records. Prove it to me, Mr. Manning. Right now. And I’ll go away.”

Manning stared at the envelope. Kolarich was bluffing, he thought. But it was a pretty damn good bluff. “If it’s really so important to you, Mr. Kolarich, I suppose I could arrange—”

“No,” said Kolarich. “Do it right now. Pick up the phone and make the call. Have them faxed here. I’ll wait.”

“This is completely ridiculous. This courtesy we’ve extended you is over.” Bruce McCabe stood up. “This is a ridiculous wild-goose chase. Mr. Manning has been more than generous with his time.”

“He has. He has.” Kolarich nodded to Manning. “Just make the call, Mr. Manning.”

“It’s time for you to leave,” said McCabe.

Kolarich kept his eyes on Manning but waved at McCabe. “Sit down, Bruce. Don’t get your shorts in a knot. I’m almost done.”

McCabe looked at his client. Manning nodded at him. McCabe took his seat, emasculated.

“You know someone named Lorenzo Fowler?” Kolarich asked.

Manning didn’t. “No, sir.”

“What about someone who goes by Gin Rummy?”

Manning chuckled. “Can’t say I do.”

“Paul Capparelli?”

Manning went cold. “Paul… Cap—the mobster?”

“The very one. You know him, Mr. Manning?”

“Of course not.” Manning shuffled in his chair, uncrossing one leg and crossing the other. It was a nonverbal tell, he realized, that he was becoming anxious. A mistake on his part.

It wasn’t hard to see where this was headed. Kolarich seemed to know that there was more to the murder of that paralegal, Kathy whatever, than met the eye. Somehow—God knows how—he’d found out about the LabelTek lawsuit, and the subpoenas would have been public records in the court file. Now Kolarich was looking squarely at Manning, wondering whether he’d hired someone to silence that paralegal. And he even knew about
Paul Capparelli
?