Текст книги "The Hidden Man"

Автор книги: David Ellis

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

62

SAMMY WALKED THROUGH the corridor tentatively, a coat thrown over his wrists to hide the handcuffs, people watching him carefully as he passed. He was a celebrity. His story had been splashed everywhere. He was unaccustomed to such notoriety and had responded with silence, refusing requests for interviews and making no comment whatsoever. Still, someone had leaked today’s visit and the media had swarmed outside the hospital today. St. Agnes had made special arrangements for his arrival, escorting him from the Department of Corrections van to a private doctor’s elevator bank to the sixth floor.

Sammy, the two armed deputies, and I stopped outside the room. The deputies uncuffed him, per an earlier agreement reached between the Department of Corrections and me. Sammy looked back at me, as if seeking advice.

“She’s your sister, Sammy,” I said.

He nodded and looked at the door. “Come with me, Koke?”

I followed him into the room as he came upon her. He stood, motionless, for what felt like a lifetime. He didn’t speak, either. What he was seeing was a very, very sick woman who didn’t have long to live. Dialysis was keeping her alive but not for long.

But he was also seeing his sister, for the first time in twenty-eight years.

He pulled up a chair and sat, his trembling hands in his lap. “Hi,” he said awkwardly, unsure of himself. Then he leaned closer to her ear. “Hi, Patricia.”

I winced. Sammy was calling his sister by the name she’d known almost her entire life, the one given to her by the Butchers. If she survived the kidney transplant, she’d have plenty of time to learn the story. For now, she was Patricia.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” he said. “This probably doesn’t make sense to you, but I’ve missed you. I’ve thought about you—”

It came at once, the emotion, closing off his throat. His chest spasmed. Tears began to streak down his face. He touched her hand and then took it in his, stroking it. “You’re gonna be—you’re gonna be okay now,” he whispered. “You’re gonna be okay now.”

“TIME SERVED,” I said. “First of all, he didn’t do it. Second of all, let’s let this poor guy be with his sister.”

Judge Kathleen Poker, sitting in her high-backed leather chair in chambers, was receptive to my plea, particularly in light of recent media interest in the case. Sammy was being bathed in a sympathetic light, and no one was feeling sorry for a child predator who had killed four children and molested countless others. That had been another benefit of the media intensity over the last week and a half—the state police had expedited the DNA testing and confirmed that Griffin Perlini had raped each of the four girls found buried behind Hardigan Elementary School.

I had a child killer for a victim and an aggrieved man recently reunited with his abducted sister for a defendant.

The judge made a steeple with her hands, touching them to her lips. “Yes, I notice there was no diminished-capacity defense. Your client maintains he didn’t do it?”

“Yes, Your Honor. In fact, we think we know who did. We named him on the witness list. Archie Novotny. His daughter was molested by Griffin Perlini. He has the same jacket, and the same green stocking cap, that witnesses confirmed the killer was wearing. And he has no alibi for that night.”

The judge’s eyes shifted to Lester Mapp, the prosecutor. “Judge, look. We don’t want to bury this guy. We don’t—we don’t need that. But we can’t give this guy a pass, either.”

“And what about this Novotny person?” the judge asked.

Mapp let out a sigh. “We haven’t been able to speak with him yet, Judge. He won’t talk to us.”

The judge looked at the prosecutor with curiosity. “That’s called obstruction, isn’t it?”

“Not if you’re taking Five,” I interjected.

“Ah.” The judge nodded. “He’s invoked his rights.”

“Yeah, that should play out well at trial,” I noted.

“We think we’ll be giving him immunity, Judge.” Lester Mapp was generally displeased with the state of affairs and, of late, no doubt, with his assignment to this case in the first place.

“He thinks,” I said. “He thinks he’ll give Novotny immunity. He says he thinks because he’s not sure that Novotny didn’t commit this crime, and he wants to be careful what he wishes for.”

“I understand, I understand.” The judge raised a hand. “Mr. Mapp, where is the state on a plea?”

“We offered ten, Judge.”

She thought about that. “Mr. Kolarich, can I assume you’ll be asking for an instruction on involuntary?”

“I certainly will, Judge.” When a defendant is charged with a crime like first-degree murder, a defendant can ask that the jury be instructed on a lesser-included offense, which here would include involuntary manslaughter. It’s up to the judge, but if the court believes that the evidence warrants a finding on a lesser-included offense, she can give that option to the jury.

The nice thing about involuntary manslaughter is that the judge can impose a sentence down to probation. Everyone in the room knew what she was doing. She was telling Lester Mapp that she could drop the sentence well below the ten years he was seeking.

“Give us a minute, Counsel,” the judge said to me. It was common for judges to conduct pretrials with each lawyer separately, provided all sides agreed to such ex parte communications.

I went into the courtroom and sat. In the last couple of weeks, I had slowly recovered sleep. I hadn’t done any legal work except for Sammy. I’d spent a lot of time with my brother, whose newly buffered bank account, courtesy of Raymond “Smith” Hertzberg, had given him the freedom to decide to return to school for a master’s degree.

Sammy was going under tomorrow for the kidney transplant. He’d left me with the same instructions as he had earlier. He could take a twelve-year sentence, he’d prefer eight. So I was going a little off the reservation here, but I didn’t see what interest of justice was served by putting Sammy Cutler behind bars for several years. The way I saw it, Griffin Perlini probably would have returned to his old ways had Sammy not performed a community service by shooting him.

About twenty minutes later, Lester Mapp passed the torch to me. He sat in the courtroom as I returned to the judge’s chambers.

“Involuntary and four years,” said the judge. “Your client already has one in. He’s looking at about another year.”

Half of which would be spent at a halfway house on his way out of the system. God bless the severely overcrowded state prison system.

“I have authority for three,” I said, taking my best shot.

“No, four’s the best you’re going to do.” She threw up her hands. “Four it is, Mr. Kolarich. Take it or leave it.”

I thought about Sammy’s willingness to take twelve. I thought about our scapegoat, Archie Novotny. I thought about all the ways this could go south. I was relatively sure that I didn’t want the prosecution to take a long, hard look at Novotny.

“We’ll take four,” I said.

63

I THOUGHT WE TALKED about eight,” Sammy said from his hospital bed.

“We did. But you have remarkably able counsel. I got you four.” I pointed to the door. “I can go back and offer to double it, if you’d like.”

Sammy smiled and laughed. “No, four sounds pretty good.”

Sammy was in pre-op, getting ready for tomorrow’s transplant surgery.

“Hey, just to ask,” he said. “You think we would’ve won the case?”

I made a face. “I would’ve used Archie Novotny to make sure the jury knew that the dead guy was a child molester. It was possible, right there, that they’d acquit. But other than that, I don’t know, Sammy. They had a strong case.” I paused, then added, “I don’t think Archie Novotny would’ve held up under scrutiny.”

Sammy didn’t look at me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he was pretty clever, but maybe too clever by half. It was nice of him to leave the closet by his front door open when I came to visit, and even nicer of him to have that bomber jacket and green stocking cap prominently displayed for me.”

Sammy didn’t answer.

“Nicer still,” I added, “that the murder happened on a Thursday night, when Archie would normally have a guitar lesson which he conspicuously missed. I mean, he even went so far as to write a note on his check to the guitar instructor, in case anyone might forget that he missed his lesson on that fateful night.”

Sammy shook his head, fighting a smile. A shade of rose colored his cheeks.

“Let me guess,” I continued. “If we went to trial, Archie would have pleaded the Fifth, leaving me to shit all over him in front of the jury and getting us a long way toward reasonable doubt. And if the prosecutor gave him immunity, Novotny would have grudgingly admitted that he missed his guitar lesson that night but he’d say he didn’t remember where he was that night. He’d deny murdering Perlini, but it wouldn’t have been a convincing denial. Right so far?”

Sammy brought a hand to his flushed face.

“And say the shit really hit the fan. Say the prosecutors decided to charge him with murder. I’d imagine that Archie had an out. One that he could say he ‘forgot,’ given that it was over a year ago—but push comes to shove, Archie had an alibi. Didn’t he?”

Sammy paused, then spoke through his hand. “He went to the emergency room that night, complaining of chest pains.”

“Ah, I like that,” I said. “Nothing the prosecutors would ever think to look for. But he could always play that card. The hospital would have documented a check-in time, all sorts of testing, and a check-out time. An iron-clad alibi, in his back pocket, if he needed it.”

“Archie’s a good guy,” Sammy said. “Perlini really fucked with his family’s life.”

“So the deal was, you’d kill Perlini, and Novotny would play the alternate suspect.”

That was the reason, all along, that Sammy hadn’t wanted to plead temporary insanity or a similar defense. He didn’t want to admit to killing Perlini because he knew he could point to Archie. It had been Sammy, after all, who had referred me to other victims of Perlini as possible suspects. Novotny’s daughter was a documented victim, one of the two who had sent Perlini to prison for molestation.

“Smart,” I said, “but maybe too smart. Conspiracy to commit, Sammy. You guys could’ve both gone down for that. You knew that, right? That’s one of the reasons you wanted to cut a deal. You decided, end of the day, you didn’t want to risk Archie.”

He nodded. “That was part of it, yeah. But like I told you—when you told me Perlini didn’t kill Audrey, I felt like maybe I should pay a price.”

Sammy, I decided, had paid plenty. Maybe the sentence he’d serve would be slightly out of proportion to the crime he’d committed, but all things considered, I didn’t think the world was terribly out of balance as a result.

I looked around the room. “You ready for tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “It feels good, y’know? I’m helping her. I get to do something positive. A guy like me, I don’t get to do a whole lot of good.”

“Call it a second chance, then.” I patted his arm. “I’ll be here when you wake up,” I promised. “And when Audrey wakes up.”

“Yeah.” He lit up at the mention of her name. “She don’t even know me, Koke. She’s got a whole family now.”

Such as it was. She’d only be seeing the man she thought of as her grandfather, Carlo, during visiting hours at Marymount Penitentiary. Carlo hadn’t been formally sentenced, but I was pretty sure his term would be tantamount to life for a seventy-three-year-old man. Her “mother,” Marisa Butcher, had received a complete pass from law enforcement, who’d never be able to prove that a mildly retarded woman was behind a plot to kidnap Audrey. In fact, I don’t believe she played any role in it whatsoever, and I’d found her to be a sweet, gentle woman. She’d been on quite the roller coaster recently, losing her father to prison but gaining a kidney donor for her desperate “daughter.”

Tommy, Audrey’s “uncle,” was a different story. Regardless of what he knew about Audrey twenty-eight years ago—he claimed total ignorance, naturally—it was pretty obvious that he was clued into the truth recently, given his role in Sammy’s murder trial. Prosecutors were taking a hard look at him for perjury from his testimony at Sammy’s hearing. Given his obvious self-interest in the outcome of Sammy’s case, it seemed like one whale of a coincidence that he happened by the Liberty Apartments on the night of Griffin Perlini’s murder and spotted a black man fleeing the scene, particularly when he clearly was not at Downey’s Pub drinking liquor that night, as he’d said. I figured the odds were good that he’d take a fall on that one. Which meant that Tommy’s brother, Jake, who had provided corroboration for Tommy, might get hit with an obstruction charge himself.

So all was not warm and fuzzy in the Butcher household. Audrey, if she awoke tomorrow with a new, healthy kidney, would find herself down a grandfather and possibly two uncles, and with a hell of a revelation about her entire family.

But she’d have Sammy.

“Audrey knows you,” I told him. “And she will know you.” I put on my coat and walked to the door.

“Hey.”

I turned back around.

“I’m not the only one who got a second chance.”

It was true. Not many people can say they dodged a bullet and mean it, literally. Guns misfire. It happens. Should I accept that as an element of some grand plan, an act of divine intervention? I couldn’t just turn off a lifetime of cynicism, nor could I accept that compromise—my life for Talia’s and Emily’s.

THE AIR OUTSIDE had grown chilly. I lifted my chin to the November sky, letting the wind curl inside my jacket. This is it, I thought. Life 2.0. As bizarre and sometimes terrifying as October had been, it was better than the four months preceding it. I’d been pulled out of my funk—against my will, but pulled out no less. I’d probably look back on that span of time and summarize it as grief bookended by twin traumas, though the second one had a pretty happy ending, all things considered.

But that meant that the worst of that grief—not the dull ache but the pulse-pounding, nightmare-inducing, breath-whisking horror—was over. And this was the truth: I was more frightened now than I’d ever been during the four months after my family died; more scared than I was at any time while Sammy, Pete, and even I faced life-threatening challenges. I knew how to mourn; that, in many ways, was easy. But this part—moving on, starting fresh, the beginning of the rest of my life—this, I didn’t know how to do. This didn’t make sense. Put a smile on my face, earn a living, have some laughs with Shauna and Pete, smell the occasional flower—and pretend that all of it means something?

Pretend. That, I realized, I could do. Hide behind a confident swagger, a screw-it-all attitude, the occasional sarcastic zinger. Hide behind that facade while I wait for the road to materialize before me.

Because I wanted to see that road. I wanted to go on. I wanted it to get better. I wanted to have a reason.

“I’ll try,” I said. “That’s all I can promise.” I pulled up my collar and started for my car.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, I am indebted to others in the writing of this novel: Dan Col lins, for his patient explanations when it comes to matters regarding law enforcement; Dr. Ronald Wright, to whom I always turn for help on forensic sciences; Jim Jann, for brainstorming on plot and tweaks on characters and atmosphere.

Larry Kirshbaum and Susanna Einstein, my brilliant agents, helped mold the initial plot into something much more meaningful. You guys are the best. Rachel Holtzman—my eternal gratitude for all of your macro– and micro-comments that added so much depth to the novel; best of luck in future endeavors.

Michael Barson, Summer Smith—everyone at Putnam who tries to make me look good. Not a small chore. My thanks to you as always.

Thank you to Ivan Held, Neil Nyren, and Leslie Gelbman for your enthusiasm and support. I greatly value your trust and encouragement. I realize how lucky I am.

And to Susan, my best friend, the love of my life, my oxygen. You make it all worthwhile.