I follow her inside, closing the door behind me. The interior of the house is even nicer than I expected. I’m not a good judge of the value of paintings and furnishings, but it’s a safe bet that none of what is here has ever been in a flea market.
She leads me through the house, toward the back, then ushers me into a large den, which seems to function as a private office. “He’ll be down in a moment,” she says, then turns and leaves.
Her prediction is accurate, as Hamadi soon enters the room, closing the door behind him. He is about forty, at least six feet and in excellent shape, with a demeanor that can best be described as polished. He fits in this house.
“Mr. Carpenter, I did not expect to see you here.”
“I tried calling you at your office.”
“As do many people. But few come unannounced to my home”-he holds up the note that I wrote-“with so cryptic a message.”
“I hoped it would get you to see me, and in fact, it did.”
He nods and says, “State your business.”
“I’m a criminal defense attorney representing a client in an upcoming trial, and Donna Banks has emerged during my investigation as a person of some interest. In checking into her background, I’ve learned that she receives a very substantial monthly stipend from you.” I say this even though I don’t know this to be true; all I know is that she receives money from a company in Switzerland called Carlyle Trading, and that she called Hamadi after I left her apartment.
My hunch pays off. “And you are wondering why?” he asks.
“Correct.”
“Ms. Banks is an old, very close friend of mine. She was in dire financial straits when her husband passed away. As you can see, I have been blessed with considerable success. So I have made her life easier without causing any hardship to my own.”
“That’s quite generous of you,” I say.
“I am a strong believer in friendship.”
“Does your wife share that belief?”
He smiles patronizingly. “Jeannette is not my wife; she is an employee of my company. She’s here to deliver some documents for my signature.”
He’s lying. She may not be his wife, but she’s a hell of a lot more than an employee. Employees don’t get their mail delivered at their boss’s house.
“So you have no desire to keep your relationship with Ms. Banks secret?”
“There is no relationship, not the way you envision it. But if you feel the need to go on television and tell your suspicions to the world, that is your prerogative.”
“Did you know Donna Banks’s husband?”
He shakes his head. “I did not. I believe he was killed while in the service. Very tragic.”
“What kind of business are you in?” I ask.
“Is that important to your investigation as well?”
“I like to collect information and figure out how it can be helpful later. Is yours a secret business?”
He smiles, though without much amusement. “I am what could best be described as a facilitator. If your business needs something that is difficult to find, perhaps produced in an obscure part of the world, I find it for you and arrange for you to receive it. For that my company receives a fee. Or I purchase it and resell it to you.”
“What kinds of things?”
He shrugs. “Could be anything. An unusual fabric, metal alloy, high-speed computer chips, whatever is needed.”
“And it all passes through U.S. Customs?”
“Everything that enters this country passes through U.S. Customs.”
I ask a few more questions, and he deflects them with ease. If he’s worried that I’m uncovering some significant secret, he’s hiding it well. Ever agreeable, he tells me that if I think of any more questions, I should call him at the office.
I head back to the city, having learned very little. Hamadi is either a very accomplished liar and villain, or a rich guy taking care of a woman with whom he had an affair. I’m suspicious, especially since his work involves U.S. Customs, but I have nothing concrete on which to base those suspicions.
I call Sam and tell him that I want him to learn everything he can about Interpublic Trading, Hamadi’s business. I want to know who he does business with and just how lucrative that business is. He promises to get right on it.
Before heading home I stop off at the hospital to see Karen again. She’s not in her room, having gone next door and made friends with her neighbor. If she stays in here much longer, she’s going to organize a block party.
The doctors have told Karen that they want her to stay three more days for observation, but she has negotiated that down to two. I’m going to have to make arrangements to protect her, and since Marcus is already covering my ass, I’ll need to recruit someone else.
“Do you like all dogs?” I ask. “Or just Reggie?”
“Are you kidding? I love them all.”
I’m thinking Willie Miller would be a perfect choice to watch out for her, and since he spends his time at the foundation, maybe she can help out down there.
“I’d really like that,” she says when I broach the idea. “Taking care of dogs, finding them homes-I can definitely get into that.”
“But you’ll need to listen to Willie and do whatever he says. It will be his responsibility to make sure that you’re safe.”
“Is he cool?” she asks.
“He’s even cooler than me,” I say.
“Andy, nobody’s cooler than you.”
Aw, shucks.
* * * * *
THE WEEKS LEADING up to a trial are unlike any others.
For one thing, they are much, much faster. A pretrial month feels like about two days. The preparation is so intense that every moment is precious, and those moments just seem to fly by.
The intensity during this period is also without parallel, at least in my life. Every witness, every word that is spoken, will have the potential to change the outcome, and the lawyers must be completely ready to deal with every eventuality. It is the pressure that comes from the need to cover absolutely every base that is so exhausting.
The period leading up to New Jersey v. Richard Evans has gone even faster than most. A lot of that has to do with the lack of progress we have been making; it has been frustrating and has created a feeling, of if not desperation, then of very significant concern.
Kevin and I have looked at our mission as twofold. First there is the need to mount an effective defense for Richard, to punch holes in the prosecution’s case and thereby create a reasonable doubt. Just as important is our goal of coming up with a possible villain, someone we can point to and say or imply, “He did it, not Richard.” Juries, like movie audiences, like to have a story reach a resolution. They want to blame someone for the crime, and the easiest place to lay that blame is on the defendant. If they can’t do that, then they at least want to be given a theory of who the bad guy really is.
It is in this second area that we have the most problems. Hamadi has so far been a dead end; Sam’s report is that he has substantial, apparently legitimate business relationships with at least six other companies. We have also been unable to learn any more about Archie Durelle or the significance of his apparently faked death on that helicopter.
Equally puzzling is the government’s role in all this. They tried to tap my phone, and the FBI mysteriously took over and put a lid on the investigation of the highway shooting. Perhaps it has to do with Franklin and his job with the Customs Service, but we haven’t made the connection with any certainty whatsoever. And juries like certainty.
To complete the circle to nowhere, Pete Stanton has reported no progress on the investigation into Karen’s shooting and Franklin’s death. There are no leads at all, leading Pete to believe that they were professional hits.