“I screamed. I begged him to stop, but it was like he couldn't even hear me. I thought he was going to kill me.”
“What happened next?” asks Wallace.
“His friends came out and pulled him off of me.”
“Was that easy for them to do?”
“No, it took four people. He was completely out of control. Kicking and screaming profanities.”
“Did you speak to any of them afterward?”
She nods. “Yes, they said he had done this before, that he had a drinking problem he couldn't control.”
Wallace draws out of her the fact that she was treated at a hospital for her injuries, and produces the emergency room record to substantiate her account. He then turns her over to me to cross-examine. I have no idea what the hell to ask her.
“Ms. Martez, did you report this alleged incident to the police?” I ask.
“No, I was not a citizen then, and—”
“You were here illegally?”
“Yes, but now I am an American. I became a citizen two years ago,” she says proudly. Great, next I'll get her to show the flag she's knitted to hang over the courthouse.
She tells the court that she was afraid to report the incident, because she did not want to risk deportation. And she didn't see any coverage of the first trial, because she was in another city living with her sister. It was only when she saw the current media blitz that she recognized Willie and came forward, which she considered her duty as a citizen of America, the country she loves, the land of the free and the home of the brave.
I end my cross, before I do any more damage to my client's case. I do this even though I would very much like to kill my client for not telling me anything about this.
Kevin, Laurie, and I arrange to meet with Willie in an anteroom after the court session, and we sit there talking, waiting for his arrival. Kevin is distraught that he blew it by not following up on Martez's name, but I don't blame him. I blame myself.
“I didn't lay a glove on her.”
“How could you?” Kevin asks.
I ignore that; it doesn't fit in with my self-flagellation. “I'm a lawyer defending somebody on trial for his life. I'm supposed to be prepared.”
Laurie tries to change the subject to the defense's case, which is coming up rapidly. She asks who my first witnesses are going to be.
“Witnesses?” I ask. “You mean I'm supposed to have witnesses that can help my client?”
“Andy—”
I cut her off. “I must have been out the day they went over that in law school. Because I don't have a goddamn thing, and—”
I could go on like this for hours, but I'm interrupted by Willie being led into the room. Thank goodness, the one person I'd rather beat up than myself.
Willie, in an uncharacteristically contrite manner, tells us that the story Diana Martez told is true. He had a drinking problem for over three years, but he became sober at least six months before Denise McGregor was killed.
“You told us you never had a problem with alcohol before,” I say.
“I was embarrassed, okay?”
This man who has been on death row for murder for most of the past decade was embarrassed to reveal that he had a drinking problem, which he subsequently conquered. The mind boggles.
“Are there any more little incidents out there like this that you're too embarrassed to talk about? Were you involved with the Kennedy assassination? Or maybe the Lindbergh kidnapping?”
“Come on, man. There's nothing else.”
“How did you become sober?”
“I joined a program. It wasn't easy, man, but I did it,” he says with some restored pride. He gives us the name of someone in management at the program, and then we let the guard take him away.
Before he leaves, he says, “I'm sorry if I screwed things up.”
My anger has been defused, and I tell him that it's okay, that we'll deal with it, even though we won't.
Laurie, Kevin, and I go back to my office for our evening meeting. I tell Laurie I want her to keep after Betty Anthony. I still have this notion that the answer to everything lies in that photograph, and the answer to that photograph lies with Betty Anthony.
We kick around our plans for the defense's case, and when we're done Kevin is the first to leave. Laurie lingers behind, and we get to talking. I ask her a question that I shouldn't, but which I am psychologically unable to avoid asking.
“How are things with what's-his-name?”
“You mean Bobby Radburn?”
I nod. “That's him. The guy who couldn't throw a baseball through a pane of glass.”
“He's a creep,” she says. “It's a common ailment among men.”
I should be glad to hear this, and I am, but I also feel bad that she has obviously been hurt and disappointed.
“Listen, Laurie … there's something I need to tell you.” I say this without having a clear idea what it is that I need to tell her.
“Don't.” She lets me off the hook.
Before I can get back on the hook, there is a knock on the door. Since this is the same office I was nearly killed in by an intruder, I call out to find out who it is. The response is from Nicole and her father, who had dinner nearby and stopped by to see if I was in the office so he could say hello. I would almost prefer it had been the intruder again.
Nicole and Philip are very friendly, and greet Laurie warmly. Nicole marvels at how many hours we are putting in on the case, but I respond that we unfortunately seem to be running in place and not getting anywhere.
Philip says, “It may not be your fault. Your client just might be guilty this time.”
“That makes me feel much better,” I say.
Nicole and Philip wait while Laurie and I discuss a few more aspects of the case, including the photograph. I tell Laurie that I am prepared when court reconvenes on Monday to go to Hatchet for permission to depose both Markham and Brownfield about it. It will be a fishing expedition, but I think there's a good chance he'll let me do it.
Laurie, obviously uncomfortable with this little family reunion, says her goodbyes. I drive Nicole home, knowing that I'm with the wrong woman. Someday that piece of information may not stay buried, and it might even come out of my mouth.
S
ATURDAY
IS MY DAY OF REST DURING A
trial. I try and wipe the case from my mind, at least for most of the day, and do something relaxing. There is time to intensify the preparation on Sunday, and I find that if I take Saturday off, or mostly off, I am to a degree rejuvenated.
Today is a particularly perfect Saturday, since the relaxation God has sent me a Knicks playoff game on television. The Knicks are playing the Pacers in the Garden, with the best of seven series tied at two games apiece. I don't bet on Knicks playoff games, because I don't need a rooting interest, and because I could never bet against the Knicks anyway.
Tara and I sit on the couch, potato chips, peanuts, pretzels, soda, water, and dog biscuits all within arm's and paw's reach. At least I start the game on the couch; by late in the first quarter I am pacing the room and screaming at the television. Tara is calmer and more restrained, only barking when the refs make a particularly bad call.
The Knicks go up by eleven but, as is their tendency, seem to lose their concentration and let Indiana back into the game. With three seconds to go and the Knicks down by two, Latrell Sprewell elevates eight feet in the air off the dribble and nails a three. Jalen Rose then draws rim from halfcourt on a desperation shot at the buzzer. The Knicks have won, and I have gone almost three hours without once thinking about real life.
I'm trying to decide who to bet on in the upcoming Lakers-Blazers game when Nicole comes into the room. I have to do a double take to believe what I see; she is carrying a picnic basket.
“Let's go,” she says.
“Where are we going?”
“To Harper's Point.”
“Are you serious?”
She nods. “Absolutely. You were just going to watch another game anyway, so you don't have to work. And this will give us a chance to be alone and get away from this case. That's something we haven't done in a long time, Andy.”
Guilt rears its ugly head and I agree. I don't bring Tara with me, since I have read reports of rattlesnakes in the area, and I don't want a curious Tara going where she shouldn't and getting bit.
Harper's Point is about twenty minutes west of here, in a small range of mountains. Nicole and I have been here frequently in happier times, and it is an extraordinarily beautiful place. There is a small waterfall and a rapidly running stream, as well as a number of lushly landscaped areas cleared out perfectly for picnics.
When we reach the area, we head for our favorite place. We sit on some rocks, right alongside a stream, with a view of the waterfall. I have forgotten how peaceful it can be here.
“We have a lot of memories here,” Nicole says.
“We sure do. I think I reached my sexual peak on these rocks.”
She laughs. “And it's been downhill ever since.”
I try to deny it, but she's probably right. We lie back, taking in the sun and the incredibly soothing sound of the waterfall. What Nicole doesn't know is that I am lying here trying to decide if this is the moment to tell her that we do not have a future together. I don't want to have that conversation before I am really sure, because once we have it there will be no turning back.
suddenly, despite having decided that this is not the right time, my mouth starts to speak. “Nicole, we need to talk.”
She tenses up. “Don't, Andy. No one ever says ‘we need to talk’ when they're going to talk about something good.”
I can't pull back now. “Nicole … everybody always says marriages don't work because people grow in different directions. But I don't think that's the case at all.”
She is now just waiting to see what I'm getting at, though I think she already knows.
I continue. “I think we were always very different. Sure we've grown, but I think those same differences have always been there. I think that as we get older we notice them more. We're less willing to paper over them.”
“What are you saying, Andy?”
I pause for a moment, because I'm having trouble breathing. I remember there being more air at Harper's Point. “I'm saying that it's over, Nicole.”
Nicole starts to unpack the lunch, as if behaving normally will negate the conversation. “Andy, don't do this. Please. You're making a mistake.”
I feel terribly sorry for her, and for me, but I wouldn't be doing anybody a favor by backing off now.
“No. I'm not.”
She's still emptying the picnic basket, and she drops a fork on the ground.
I lean over to pick it up, and as I do I hear a strange sound. For a moment, I think that Nicole must have dropped something else, and it is the sound of that other item hitting the ground. I look around, but there is nothing there.
I sit back up and notice that Nicole has a strange look on her face. And then I see an expanding dark red spot on her shoulder, coming from what looks like an open wound.
“Nicole?”
“Andy, I …”
It is not until she falls forward into my lap that I truly register what has happened. Nicole has been shot. My mind goes from wild panic to crystal clear focus in an instant, and I realize that I don't know where the shooter is, and that he certainly can shoot again.
I pull Nicole down behind the rocks, hoping that they will shield us, but I can't be sure of that, since I don't know where the assailant is shooting from. I take a look at Nicole and her eyes are rolling back in her head, as if she is losing consciousness. I have no first-aid experience whatsoever, but I have this vague feeling she could be going into shock, and I know that I have to get her help quickly. The question is how.
I peer out from behind the rock and another shot rings out, ricocheting inches from my head. It is clear that we cannot make it to the car, and just as clear that we can't stay here and hope to survive. It flashes through my mind that this is the time in the old Westerns that the hero turns to someone and says, “Cover me.”
I position Nicole so that she is anchored securely and protected by the rocks. I then move along the rocks, keeping them between me and the shooter. When I think I am out of his possible line of fire, I get into the stream. I know from past experience that the water must be very cold, but I don't even feel it.
I let myself be carried along by the current, which is very difficult as the water becomes more turbulent as it goes downstream. About a hundred and fifty yards away, I grab on to a branch and pull myself up to the bank.
I work my way inland, planning to go up the hill and come down behind the gunman. I'm going to have to surprise and disarm him. This is not exactly my specialty, but I have a curious lack of fear. Maybe I'm too scared to be afraid.
As I head to where I estimate him to be, I hear a car engine start. I move quickly toward the sound, and I reach a clearing just as the car is pulling away. It is a late-model BMW, and I am able to see the license plate, CRS-432. It etches itself indelibly in my mind.
I rush back down to the stream where Nicole is still lying. I pick her motionless body up and put it over my shoulder, carrying her to the car. I lie her down in the back seat and quickly apply a cloth to her shoulder, though the bleeding has for the most part stopped. I don't want to let myself think about the possible implications of that, and I speed to a nearby hospital, calling them from my cell phone so they will be prepared for our arrival.
We arrive at the hospital in five minutes that seem like five hours. They are indeed waiting for us, and perform with incredible efficiency from the moment we arrive. The paramedics immediately have Nicole on a stretcher and bring her inside, with one of them having the consideration to tell me that yes, she is still alive.
I am led to a waiting room, where I spend the next two hours totally in the dark about Nicole's condition. I call Philip and leave word in his office as to where I am and what has happened. They tell me he is in Washington, but they reach him and he is going to fly back immediately.
Finally, a young woman comes out and introduces herself as Dr. Summers. She wastes no time.
“Your wife is going to pull through. The bullet did not strike any vital organs.”
It takes a moment for these words to register, so that I can then ask other questions. Dr. Summers tells me that Nicole has lost a significant amount of blood, and they are in the process of finishing a transfusion. Her collarbone is shattered, but it will heal over time.
“When can I see her?”
“I would say in about an hour.”
I thank her and sit back down. The police arrive, and I tell a detective what I know. The only thing I leave out is the most significant fact, the license plate number. Right now I'm not trusting anyone, and I'm going to play my cards close to the vest.
Moments after the police leave, Laurie arrives, though I have no idea how she has heard about what happened. She sees me, comes over and hugs me.
“Andy, God, I'm sorry. How is she?”
I tell her what the doctor has told me, and Laurie asks if I have any idea who was behind this.
“No,” I say, “but I know who they were after. Me.”
Suddenly, the pent-up anger and frustration overwhelms me, and I punch a hole in the wall. Well, a dent in the wall.
“Goddammit! Nicole told me to drop it, and somebody fired a bullet into her body when I wouldn't.”
Laurie puts her hand on my shoulder, but there is no consoling me. This is the closest I have ever come to being out of control, and I have to fight to keep what little composure I have left.
“Andy …”
“Laurie, just before this happened, I told Nicole that things were not going to work out for us. That my heart wasn't in it anymore.”
“Oh, God …”
“And now, because of me … she's lying in there with somebody else's blood being pumped into her to keep her alive.”
Laurie stays with me until the doctors say that I can see Nicole. Before she leaves, I remember to tell her the license plate number of the car that I saw on the scene, and she promises to check it out.
When I walk into Nicole's room, I am jolted by the sight of her. She lies, pale and weak, connected to machines by tubes. Her eyes are open, but she seems groggy.
I try to be upbeat. “Nicole, how are you feeling?”
She looks in my direction, and I watch as her eyes try to focus. She finally realizes that it is me, and she starts to cry softly.
“Andy … oh, Andy.”
I move toward her and hold her, trying my best not to interfere with any of the tubes.
“Calm down … take it easy, now. You need your rest. The doctor said you're going to be fine, as long as you take it easy.”
“It hurts so much, Andy.”
“I know. I know it does.”
“Where's my father?”
“He'll be here soon. He was in Washington, but he's on the shuttle. He's very worried about you.”
She nods softly, obviously very tired.
“Nicole, I'm sorry. You have no idea
how
sorry. You don't belong in this … you don't deserve this.” But she is already asleep, and she can't hear me. We haven't been able to hear each other for a very, very long time.
Philip arrives about an hour later and completely takes over. He arranges for Nicole to be transferred to a more prestigious hospital near his home, and is already having his personal physician consult with the doctors who have taken care of Nicole.
Philip has very little to say to me, and I can't say that I blame him. He's warned me that something terrible could happen if I didn't back off, and he's been proven right.