Dog Day Afternoon, page 3
I can’t answer that. I tell him that I am going to avoid the arraignment and have him file his not-guilty plea with the court. “If that’s how you’re going to plead,” I say.
“Of course. I’m not guilty.”
“I understand. But even if you want to change your plea later on, you should plead not guilty now.”
“I won’t change it. Why no arraignment?”
“Because the press will cover it like the Super Bowl, and the less media attention the better. And while we will still file a motion for bail to be granted, I’m afraid there is absolutely no chance of it. Not for a crime of this dimension and notoriety.”
He nods. “Okay, I understand. Whatever you say.”
“In the meantime, you need to focus on every moment since you were kidnapped. Try and remember whatever you can about who took you and where you might have been. Anything, no matter how small, could be important.”
“I will. Can you find out the names of the people who were killed?”
“Yes. I’ll get them to you.”
He’s quiet for a few moments, then asks, “Why are you helping me? You know I can’t pay you much. Is it because of Marcus?”
I nod; no sense in lying to him. “It’s because of Marcus.”
“Marcus is the best person I’ve ever met. He’s changed my life, and I was no one to him. He never asked for anything in return, just that I be honest with him and be a decent person. He’s amazing.”
“That he is.”
“He also can be a scary guy.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
I leave the jail and head home; I found it interesting but not particularly revealing that Williams kept asking about the identities of the victims. Obviously if he did the killings, then he’s lying about not knowing. So he’s either trying to fool me, or he really doesn’t know. At this point I don’t have a clue which is the case.
I’m in a bad mood already, and it’s not going to get any better tonight.
I’m going to an art museum.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art is an enormous building on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.
It includes over two million square feet of indoor space and draws more than three million visitors every year. The artwork on display is no doubt of mind-boggling value; the Met is firmly entrenched in the major leagues of artland.
I just wish I didn’t find it so boring.
I confess that I don’t understand much of it; everyone else seems to see something deeper in every piece of art than I do. I like to look at a painting, or a photograph, if it’s pretty or interesting, and especially if it tells a story. I look at it and move on, but it seems like all the other people can endlessly stand and stare at it.
The last time I was dragged to a museum, I think it was the Whitney, there was an exhibit by Jasper Johns, a famous and successful artist. He had one piece that was a slice of white bread, literally a slice of actual white bread, on a canvas with a dark background. It was in a frame with a clear glass covering it. I guess that was to prevent it from getting stale, or someone buttering it.
Not surprisingly, the piece was called Bread.
People were staring at it, apparently unaware that they could get loaves of the stuff at any 7-Eleven. Plus, they could mix things up; if they wanted, they could switch to rye bread, or whole wheat, whatever they were in the mood for.
I would do better at museums if I could stand on a moving ramp and look at stuff as I go by. A fast-moving ramp. But there are no such ramps at the Met, so I can only go as fast as my legs can carry me.
I’m here as a favor to Robby Divine, who has done me many favors in the past. Robby is the richest person I know, one of the richest that anybody knows, and I’ve called on his financial expertise, as well as his relationships in that world, for guidance on cases I’ve worked on.
Robby has organized this charity event, and my role is basically to show up, spend a little time, and write a check. The perk is that I and my fellow attendees get to preview some new exhibits before the public can see them tomorrow.
Goody.
I see Robby in the enormous lobby when I walk in. He’s wearing his ever-present Chicago Cubs hat; he’s a die-hard Cubs fan who has recently been dying hard as they mostly crash and burn every year.
Robby waves and comes over to me, thanking me for coming. I hand him my check, which he puts in his pocket without glancing at it. We start to walk through the building, entering spacious art-filled room after spacious art-filled room.
“Amazing place, huh?” he asks.
“Yes, it is. You should make an offer on it. If you buy directly from the owner, you won’t have to pay a real estate agent.”
Robby doesn’t respond; for all I know he’s considering it. Then he just smiles and goes off to talk with much-richer people than me, leaving me to wander through some rooms full of paintings, understanding little.
In one room I see a woman staring at a painting of what looks to me like a carburetor, but is probably something else. She seems mesmerized by it; maybe she’s a mechanic.
There are large printed explanations about each piece and the artist, so I stop to read this one. It says that the artist “takes an avant-garde multidimensional artistic approach that operates at the intersection of abstract expressionism, post-structuralism, and quantum aesthetics.”
Got that? This is no ordinary carburetor.
I stand next to the woman, who is still staring at the carburetor.
“Really something, huh?” I say.
She nods, without taking her eyes off the painting. “Extraordinary.”
“It seems to operate at the intersection of abstract expressionism, post-structuralism, and quantum aesthetics,” I say, showing off.
She still does not look at me; she won’t take her eyes off the carburetor. “Obviously.”
“One of the most impressive carburetors I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been driving all my life.”
She doesn’t respond, and now she won’t get a chance to because a security guard comes over to me. “Mr. Carpenter?”
For a moment I think I’m going to be arrested on a charge of carburetor mocking. But he says, “There is quite a crowd waiting for you outside on the steps; it’s causing a bit of a disturbance to our guests.”
“Who is it?”
“Mostly the media, but onlookers have gathered to see what is going on. They are waiting for you to come out.”
“What are my options here?”
“You can stay and do nothing; you are a guest here. Or we can extricate you through a back exit. Or you can go out and talk to them.”
None of the three appeal to me, but I choose door number three. Obviously, that I am representing Williams is now public; how they found out I was here is a bit of a mystery, but they have their ways, and I might as well get the initial contact over with.
The guard walks me to the door, and I head outside. I stop about ten steps from the bottom, and the media waits for me there. I hold up my hands, as if I am going to conduct a mini–press conference.
“Much as I hate to be drawn away from the incredible artwork, I’ll make a statement. Nick Williams is wrongly accused; if it ever gets to trial, which I sincerely doubt, we will prove it in court. He is yet another victim in this horrible tragedy, while the real killer remains at large.
“You can follow me around all you want, but I won’t be speaking publicly about this case again until the charges are dropped, or a jury says ‘not guilty.’ Thanks for coming.”
With that I walk down the rest of the steps, and they part to let me go through. They follow me to the parking lot, yelling questions, but I don’t acknowledge them. Hopefully at some point they’ll give up.
It’s been a really fun day.
If there is one aspect of a case that I hate the most, and there are many contenders for that honor, it would be the initial reading of the discovery material.
It tells us everything about the law enforcement investigation to date, and since it has resulted in the arrest of our client, it is by definition one-sided and terrible.
The prosecution is obligated to include in the discovery anything they have come up with that is exculpatory to the defense. Good luck finding anything.
Eddie Dowd has brought the initial discovery documents to the house this morning and has had to navigate the media horde that is stationed in the street outside. Actually, there are less of them than I expected; maybe they took my vow not to comment further seriously.
Eddie declines Laurie’s offer of something to eat, instead opting for coffee. Once his cup is filled, we head into the den to learn the bad news.
“Have you looked through it yet?” I ask.
“No. I thought you’d want to share that honor. By the way, I found out who the prosecutor is that is handling the case.”
“Who?”
“Richard Wallace.”
“Richard? He’s doing it himself?”
“Yes.”
I’m not happy to hear this. Richard is head of the department, so it’s no surprise that he would assign himself. It’s basically a no-win proposition for a prosecutor: If he gets a conviction, then he’s just doing what everyone expects him to do. If he somehow loses, then the criticism will be deafening, and possibly job and career threatening.
Richard would hesitate to put that burden on anyone else, so he’s putting himself on the line. I would expect nothing less. It’s safe to say that Richard Wallace is my only friend in the prosecutor’s office and the only one there who doesn’t despise me.
Our connection is through my father, the late Nelson Carpenter, who had the top prosecution job before Richard did. My father was a mentor to Richard, who was therefore close to our family. So I got to know him more as a friend and almost a sibling than an opposing counsel.
I not only like him, but I respect him and his ability, which is why I wish he weren’t on this case. He’s probably the least likely in the department to make a key mistake, and by far the least likely to be unnerved by my unconventional and annoying style.
“Which judge has been assigned?” I ask.
“Ramirez.”
I’m okay with that. A total of zero judges in North Jersey like me and my style in court, but Nestor Ramirez tolerates me more than most.
There is a lot of discovery for this stage of a case, which reflects the intensity of the investigation, which in turn reflects the seriousness of the crime. As we go through the files, we see that a huge part of it is the forensics. There is by unfortunate definition a lot of blood evidence at a mass murder scene.
It takes Eddie and me three hours to look through it all, and I don’t think we say ten words to each other the entire time. It’s important that we digest everything; it’s an excellent feature of the justice system that the defense learns what the opposition is relying on.
It would be akin to my Giants being gifted the Dallas Cowboys’ playbook well before the game. We’d probably still lose, but we wouldn’t be surprised in the process.
So far there is not a great deal of evidence against Williams, but what is here is devastating. It mostly centers on two witnesses, the main one a lawyer named Sally Montrose. She works in the Moore Law office where the murders took place, and she was one of two survivors of the shooting.
She says that she was about to be shot herself, but as the killer was preparing to fire, he was somehow distracted. She reports that the killer called her Monty, a nickname used by everyone in the office, including Nick Williams. She also says that she recognized his voice, though in the interview she doesn’t seem quite as certain of that as of the rest of the things she relates.
Most significant, she also saw a tattoo of a hook on the killer’s left arm, which is distinctive and matches that on Williams’s left arm, and she recognized his sneakers, which have red and yellow stripes on them.
As related in the transcript, the police officer asked if she was positive it was Nick. “As sure as I can be,” she said. “There was the tattoo, the sneakers, and the way his voice sounded when he called me Monty. He also walked the way Nick walked. It was definitely him; I knew it before he said a word.”
There is also another witness, Laura Schauble, a paralegal who was with the firm for six years. She was hiding in the office adjacent to Montrose’s and heard the killer through the open door. She escaped, and Montrose thinks that the noise Schauble made in doing so might have caused the killer to be distracted and concerned, thereby saving Montrose’s life. Schauble also heard the use of the nickname Monty.
Her comments in the interview are not quite as damaging as Montrose’s, but they’re not good: “I didn’t see his face from where I was. But there was this open area on his arm between his glove and sleeve. So I saw the tattoo. But I didn’t see his other arm, so I don’t know if there was a second gun.”
“Did you hear him speak?”
“Yes. He said, ‘I’m sorry, Monty.’”
“Did you recognize his voice?”
“I don’t know for sure, but it definitely sounded like it could have been Nick.”
The rest of the incriminating evidence is circumstantial, which does not equate to insignificant. Most important is that Williams took off from work that day without notifying anyone, which was uncharacteristic. And then there is the fact that he disappeared for days after the shooting, despite that the entire world was looking for him and announcing it in the media.
There is no mention of motive, at least not yet. The prosecution doesn’t have to demonstrate motive, but they always want to. In this case it can be only one of two things: either Williams was a disgruntled, bitter employee, or he is nuts. “Nuts” opens the door to an insanity defense, so I am sure they will ultimately go with “disgruntled.”
One thing is for sure: despite the tremendous pressure to quickly solve the case, there was no rush to judgment here. The evidence they had was more than enough to justify the arrest.
Of course I will claim a rush to judgment; to do otherwise would be to violate the defense attorney’s credo. If the prosecution pondered the evidence for a decade, I would still find a way to claim that they had rushed to judgment.
Nowhere in these documents does the prosecution assert that they know where Williams was during the time between the shootings and his arrest. If they subsequently figure that out, and it disproves his contention that he was kidnapped, it would be game, set, and match.
And my client would never see the light of day again.
There are crime scenes, and then there are crime scenes.
The one at the Moore Law offices is one I am not going to forget anytime soon.
Laurie and I always visit the crime scene together on any case I am working on. It’s not a husband-and-wife togetherness thing, though I certainly recommend it to couples who want to spice up their relationship. I bring her because, as an ex-cop, she can often see things that I can’t.
At least half a dozen current cops are guarding the place, mostly to keep sightseers out. I’m sure members of the Paterson Ghouls Club would love to rummage around in here. Eddie Dowd spoke to Richard Wallace, and Richard cleared our entry; when we walk in, I’m sorry he did.
Little has been cleaned up, and our being told to put these rubber booties on our shoes is evidence that the forensics people must think more work could be done. They didn’t have to worry about me; I’m not going to be stomping around in blood.
We walk from room to room; it’s easy to tell where each of the murders was committed just from the bloodstains. One took place in the center area, three in small individual offices, and two in the larger office. There’s actually less blood than I expected, but it’s still horrifying.
We also go into the back to see where the killer apparently entered. The door is closed, so we open it and look into the back alley. The killer most likely escaped the same way he came in.
The cold-blooded nature of the shootings is obvious and chilling. This was not someone who came in with an assault rifle and started shooting indiscriminately. This was someone who hunted down his victims and killed them, one after another.
“I think this was done by a professional,” Laurie says.
“Why?”
“He was totally methodical. He went from room to room, like he was checking off boxes. He was obviously an excellent shot. And there was no anger here; if there was, he would have used more than one bullet on each person.”
“I agree. But this was not a random shooting; the killer knew the layout and knew where he was going. He also knew the nickname of one of the survivors. That implicates Williams.”
“You said the witness reported he was wearing a hood concealing his face?”
“Yes.”
“Also rare in a mass shooting, and another sign of lack of anger. In most cases the killer is not worried about getting caught in the moment; he often expects to die himself. Suicide is common.”
I nod. “And if everyone is going to be killed, who was he concealing his identity from?”
“Were there video cameras in the office?”
“No, and not in the back alley either.”
“Too bad. Does the discovery speculate as to what might have distracted the killer and prevented him from shooting the last woman?”
“Speculate is the right word. Come down here.” We walk down to Sally Montrose’s office; I know it from the layouts of the office in the discovery. Once we get there, I say, “Sally Montrose was sitting there, at her desk. Another paralegal, Laura Schauble, was next door, and that door between the two was open.
“Schauble heard what was happening and escaped. Montrose believes the killer heard her leave and went to find her. He didn’t succeed, and they further speculate that he panicked that the police would come soon, so he didn’t return to finish Montrose off.”
“Doesn’t seem consistent with how he handled everything else. This does not seem like the type of person to deviate from his plan, or to panic.”
