Play Dead

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.