Obviously Terry hasn’t been told about the poison, and there’s no reason for me to mention it. He’s confirmed the prosecution’s theory that Barry Price was incapacitated, even if he doesn’t know why.
Any defense that Denise Price couldn’t have killed her husband because she didn’t have a knowledge of airplane mechanics is off the table. At this point it’s not a crowded table.
On the way back, Hike asks, “You gonna take the case?”
“I think so.”
“What happened to the client-has-to-be-innocent thing?”
“We don’t know that she did it.”
“You mean because she hasn’t confessed and there’s no video of her administering the poison?”
I nod. “There is that.” Then, “Are you in?” I’m asking Hike if he wants to work on the case. It will mean a big commitment from him in time and energy, to say nothing of the fact that a trial like this can be emotionally wrenching, draining everything out of a lawyer in what can ultimately be a losing cause.
On the other hand, Hike would be getting paid, which for him is a surefire antidote for wrenching and draining.
“Sure,” he says. “Regular rate?”
“Regular rate,” I confirm.
He smiles. “Let’s go get ’em.”
“Nothing that happens today will be significant.”
“Why?” Denise asks, obviously disappointed. We’re in an anteroom in the courthouse, and I am prepping her for the arraignment, set to begin in a few minutes.
“It’s all a formality. They will read the charges against you, and you should not show any expression at all when they do, just stare straight ahead. Then they’ll ask how you plead, and you should simply say, ‘Not guilty, Your Honor.’”
“Then what?”
“Then we prepare for trial.”
Like most defendants, Denise is constantly expecting someone to snap his or her fingers and realize in the moment that she is not guilty and that this is all a mistake. I’ve been trying to make her understand that it won’t happen, that it’s going to be a difficult grind, but it always takes a while to internalize it. It is going to take waking up in a jail cell, day after boring day, to get the message across.
“Denise, a few of the witnesses the prosecution spoke to mentioned that they attended a party at your house the night before Barry died. Sam was there as well.”
“Right. The parties were more Barry’s idea, and we had them periodically.”
“Who would attend?”
“There were a lot of his clients and some friends. Barry thought it was best to mix the two, that it would make the conversation more interesting to have people from different backgrounds.”
“How many people were there that night?”
“Probably fifty or so.”
“Can you write out a list of the people you remember being there?”
“I can try; I’m not sure if I can remember everybody.”
“Did you argue with Barry that night?” I ask, knowing that there have been references to that in the witness reports, and Sam had mentioned it as well.
“I argued with Barry almost every night. We usually tried not to do it in public, but that time we did.”
“Okay,” I say. “Please work on that list.”
I open the door and we enter the adjacent courtroom. It probably seats about seventy-five people, and every seat is taken. The media have adopted this as a story worthy of covering, probably because of Barry’s money and the fact that Denise is good-looking.
Denise recoils slightly when she sees all the people; this is humiliating for her. Of course, when the final resolution comes, she will either have vindication, or if not, then humiliation will be the least of her problems.
I recognize only a few people in the room. Hike is at the defense table, Thomas Bader is at the prosecution table with three assistant attorneys, and Sam is in the front row.
Judge Calvin Hurdle takes his place behind the bench. I’ve never tried a case before him, so I’ve asked around, and I’ve been told he’s a no-nonsense judge.
Of course, that really doesn’t help me much, because I haven’t exactly run into a whole bunch of nonsense judges. You don’t find too many judges who are real practical-joking cutups, putting shaving cream in lawyers’ shoes and whoopee cushions on jurors’ chairs.
Judges are a predictable group, disciplinarians who pride themselves on maintaining total control of their courtrooms. They have their humor genes surgically removed when they take the oath. It’s one of the reasons they can’t stand me.
Judge Hurdle goes through some housekeeping issues, and then the charges are read. Denise follows my instructions well and stares impassively throughout. My reason for cautioning her about this has nothing to do with the judge or any of the court members; I simply don’t want the media characterizing her in a negative way. The people who matter are not here today. They are out there in the real world, and they will be reading and hearing about the case through the media. And after they do, some of them will make their way to the jury box.
Finally it comes time to enter her plea, and Denise does so in a clear, firm voice. A trial date is set, and Judge Hurdle taps his gavel and adjourns the session. A guard comes to escort Denise out, and she looks at me pleadingly, fear evident in her eyes.
I really want to help this woman, and I really, really hope she didn’t administer a deadly poison to her husband.
I go out through the back to avoid waiting reporters. I’m not above playing them for my benefit; I’m just not in a position to do so now. At some point I will be, and then I’ll be Mr. Accessible.
Sam comes along with me, asking, “How did it go?”
“Same as always. A nonevent.”
“I just thought there was a nuance that I might have missed.”
“Nope, it was a nuance-free zone. You on the team this time?” Sam has been a valuable member of our investigative team on previous cases, mostly because of his genius on a computer. He can hack into pretty much anywhere, getting information we might otherwise never have access to.
Unfortunately, he extended his responsibilities to the noncyber world on our last case without my approval, and he almost got killed in the process. Marcus saved him, but it shook him up very badly, as it should have, and may have cured him of his desire to be involved in this stuff.
It didn’t.
“I’m in all the way, Andy. Just tell me what to do.”
“Come on back to the office; we’re going to talk about it.”
Sam had driven out to the court with Hike but for some reason doesn’t want to go back with him. I can’t imagine why.
So Sam rides with me, which means I have to spend forty-five minutes listening to what a great dog Crash is. This despite the fact that he’s still recuperating and hasn’t yet left the vet’s office.
“He’s amazing. I talk to him, and he understands what I’m saying.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know, I can tell. It’s like we have this bond.” He pauses a moment and then says momentously, “God sent this dog to me, Andy. He sent him to save my life, to prevent me from getting on that plane.”
“Why didn’t he just give you a flat tire?”
“Because this was a test, to see what I would do,” Sam says.
“I hope he doesn’t use the flat tire test on me. I don’t even know how to work the jack.”
We meet Hike, Laurie, and Marcus Clark at my office for the initial preliminary meeting we have on all cases. Everybody is by now used to having Marcus around, though it’s impossible to totally get used to having Marcus around.
Marcus is the scariest, toughest individual on the planet, and he’s particularly valuable if we need to do something that requires physical action, like, say, invading Argentina. I hope there’s no violence involved in this case, but Marcus also has terrific investigative skills. As always, he’ll work directly under Laurie, since she’s the only one who’s not scared to death of him.
Marcus almost never talks, and when he does he usually just utters barely comprehensible syllables. So it’s left to everyone to ponder what he might be thinking, a hopeless task if ever there was one.
Edna is the last one to arrive, although mentally I think she is in tournament mode. When I ask her, “How is the preparation going?” she says, “Twenty-four.”
“Twenty-four? What does that mean?” I ask.
“That’s how many letters were in your question,” she says. “Ability to count letters quickly is very helpful.”
I nod. “Okay.” And then I say, “Four,” but she doesn’t seem amused by my joke. All she does is sit at her desk, enveloped in thought, completely uninterested in our meeting or case. What’s a four-letter word for unwillingness to work, first letter is
e
?
I start the meeting by bringing everyone up-to-date on the little that has happened so far and the information in the discovery documents that we have received.
“The prosecution’s case is going to be mostly forensics,” I say. “There will also be witnesses describing the state of the Prices’ marriage, which they’ll use to provide motive.”
I’m distracted by Sam’s phone, which is sitting on the desk. His screen saver is a series of pictures of Crash, which alternate automatically in a slide show. There are at least twenty pictures of him, all lying in the same dog run.
I continue. “I can tell you that while we will of course attack the prosecution’s case, we’re going to have to do much more. We’re going to have to find the real killer, or at least point to a viable alternative.”
I talk about the request by Barry Price to hire me as his attorney just before he died, and how that is an area we have to focus on.
“Where do we start?” Sam asks.
“We follow the money.”
Mark Clemens thinks Denise is guilty. He won’t come right out and say so, but that’s certainly the impression I’ve been getting. He told me over the phone that he was really busy but he’d “clear the schedule” to see me, because “nothing is more important than finding out who did this.”
The offices of the Price Group occupy an entire floor of a building on Thirty-fourth Street near Seventh Avenue in Manhattan. “Barry wanted to keep his commute as short as possible,” Clemens explains, “which is why the office is near the Lincoln Tunnel and not Wall Street.”
“Morristown to here is not exactly a short trip either,” I point out.
Clemens smiles. “That’s probably why Barry came in so rarely.” Then, as if I might take that as criticism, he adds, “His home was fully stocked with electronics; it was the same as if he was in the office.”
Clemens seems invested in my knowing what a legendary genius Barry was. His clients relied totally on his investment acumen, which seems to be why the firm has been so successful. Without Barry present, it’s obvious Clemens is concerned that the clients might walk.
After ten minutes of listening to this praise, I feel like I’m stuck in goo. Since Clemens can’t be more than thirty-five years old and Barry is the one who placed him in this no-doubt-lucrative job, his devotion is understandable. But it doesn’t get me anywhere. Someone wasn’t quite as enamored of Barry; in fact, that person killed him.
“So Barry made the investment decisions. What was your role?”
“Mostly new business. I brought in prospective clients, and Barry made the sale.”
“How much money does the company invest?”
“Right now we have about eleven billion dollars in assets.”
That’s a lot of money; people have been murdered for less. “Any idea why Barry needed a criminal attorney?”
His tone immediately changes. “That’s ridiculous. He was the most law-abiding person I’ve ever met. If I even hinted that we do something not criminal but just bending the rules slightly, he cut me off at the knees.”
“He was looking for a criminal attorney the day he died.”
“Are you trying to smear him? Is that what the defense is going to be?”
“I choose to think of it as finding the truth and defending my client,” I say, but then decide to try another approach. “Why would he have been asking an outside accountant for help?”
Clemens’s attitude has turned frosty. “I doubt that he was. But I would have no idea; certainly it would have to be something personal. The firm is well represented.”
“Any idea who might want to kill him?”
“I believe the police have already made that decision,” he says.
“And you think they’re right?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, but I’ll tell you what I know. I know that Barry’s marriage was going to end, and I know that right now, at this moment, his wife is worth a hell of a lot of money. And I also know that Barry Price didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
The only way I’ve got a chance at helping Denise by asking this guy questions is if I do it on the witness stand.
“I’m going to need a list of your clients,” I say.
“Why?”
“That’s really not something I’m prepared to share with you.”
“It’s confidential.”
“No it isn’t,” I say. “But if it makes it easier, I can subpoena it and then talk to each of your clients individually.”
“I’ll have to consult our attorneys about this.”
“You do that. In the meantime, I’ll get the subpoena ready. Maybe we can do a two-day deposition. It’ll make us even closer.”
Kyle Austin felt a little like he was a prisoner. It was a feeling he had some experience with, since he had spent one of his twenty-seven years in an actual prison.
The entire experience had been surreal, from the first time they had approached him, then actually receiving the first half of the money, and especially this trip they had arranged for him.
As he learned what it was they wanted him to do, it became obvious why they chose him. His army training, his lack of a job, his need for money, and his somewhat violent past all made him a perfect candidate. Kyle thought it was pretty funny that all those things that had seemed so negative for so long had suddenly combined to create this great opportunity.
At their request, he had driven from his hometown of Columbus, Ohio, to a rest stop off Route 80. There he was picked up by a guy in a small bus, sort of like what he imagined a party bus those rock stars use.
The guy didn’t tell him his name, but he did explain the rules. The doors would be locked from the outside, and with the windows blackened, Kyle would not be able to see or go outside for the duration of the trip.