After we have gone through everything, I say, “A fake credit report… birth records… high school transcript… all these things-how could she have accomplished all this?”
“She couldn’t,” Blalock says. “She had to have help.”
“You mean like a friend who was good with a computer?”
Blalock smiles. “No, much more than that. Far, far more than that. It would have had to be a government agency that made these organizations do their bidding. No citizen could have pulled this off.”
I let him off, and Hawpe starts his cross-examination. He takes an interesting tactic, essentially conceding that Stacy’s identity was a fake, but instead focusing on why that might be.
“Mr. Blalock, have you come in contact with many people who have created new identities for themselves?”
“Yes, quite a few.”
“And they do so for a variety of reasons?”
“Yes.”
“Would one be to get a fresh start, perhaps after a bad marriage?” Hawpe asks.
“It could.”
“How about escaping financial problems?” Hawpe asks.
Blalock nods his agreement. “Certainly.”
“And there could be many others?”
“Absolutely.”
“Of these people who you’ve worked with that have changed their identity, have any of them been murdered?”
“No.”
Hawpe spends very little time on Blalock, perhaps in an effort to diminish his importance. His cross-examination has been well done, effectively telling the jury that just because someone is not who they seem to be, that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with their murder.
All in all, I think Blalock’s testimony went well, and I tell that to Richard when he leans over and asks me. “Where do we go next?” he whispers.
“To the jury,” I say, and then I stand and address the judge. “Your Honor, the defense rests.”
The phrase “the defense rests” is unfortunately not to be taken literally. We don’t rest at all after saying it; instead we prepare for any rebuttal witnesses the prosecution might call, and for our closing argument.
Resting is for suckers.
This time I’m going to get even less rest than usual, since at five o’clock I’ve got to place a call to Dominic Petrone, which in turn might lead me in any one of many directions, none of them restful.
I make the call, and the person who answers the phone gives me a different number to call. That call yields a third number. I assume this must have to do with some security concerns, but I’m not sure how.
I finally get through to Petrone, and he says, “I have your information.”
“Great.”
“Those companies you listed did not receive any goods coming through customs.”
This both troubles and confuses me. “I have the documentation that they did.”
“That was intentional. The documents listed shipments that never actually were delivered-that did not even exist.”
This doesn’t make sense. I expected arms, or drugs-“nothing” was not on my list of possibilities.
“Do you know why?” I ask.
“I neither know nor care.”
“But you’re sure about this?” I ask, and immediately regret the question.
“I only say things I am sure of,” he responds. “As an example of that, let me say that I do not want to hear from you again.” With that, he hangs up the phone. Just to show he can’t push me around, I hang up my dead phone as well.
So Stacy Harriman was killed because she knew that certain people were smuggling nothing into the country.
I’m glad we cleared that up.
* * * * *
I FEEL AS if we are operating in parallel universes.
There is the trial, which is nearing conclusion and can certainly go either way. If I were inclined to make predictions, which I am not, I would say we’re in some trouble.
Then there is the investigation operating outside the trial. We are making progress there, but not nearly fast enough. I am gripped by the fear that we’re going to win the eventual investigation battle but lose the immediate war. I don’t want to have to tell Richard the truth about Stacy in a visiting room at the state prison.
There is also the terrifying possibility that we can uncover the whole truth but that it will have no effect on the trial or on a subsequent appeal of another guilty verdict. No matter what happens in the world of Stacy, Hamadi, Franklin, Durelle, Banks, et al., it could be ruled irrelevant to Richard’s case. A jury or an appeals court could say that yes, she was not nearly who she claimed to be, but that doesn’t mean Richard didn’t kill her.
The other, even more frustrating situation is Reggie’s uncertain fate. It is terribly painful to think about, and it is a pain that Richard, Karen, Kevin, and I have in common.
Kevin shares my assessment that we need to take fast action. We discuss whether to turn over what we know about Stacy, Hamadi, and the others to law enforcement. At some point we will do that, but for now it simply doesn’t serve our purposes. It will take too long, and if the government’s performance on this matter to date is any indication, the actions they would take in response to our information may be somewhat less than vigorous.
The only acceptable option Kevin and I can see is to be aggressive and shake matters up. We’ve got a client to defend.
I place a call to Hamadi’s business phone number at Interpublic Trading and reach an answering service. It’s seven o’clock, and it’s logical that no one would still be there. When your company’s sole function is to arrange the importation of absolutely nothing into the country, not much overtime is required.
I tell the woman that I am trying to reach Hamadi on absolutely urgent business. Her reaction is not exactly heartening; she sounds as if she’s falling asleep as I give her the message. I ask her to tell Hamadi that “I know about Franklin and the empty crates, and the world will know about it tomorrow.”
I hang up with no confidence that the message will be conveyed tonight. I try to get Hamadi’s home number from information, but the operator says it’s unlisted.
This is obviously a job for Sam Willis, who laughs in the face of unlisted phone numbers.
I call Sam, who, for the first time in my experience, doesn’t answer his cell phone. This is so unusual that if I were a good friend I would start calling hospitals to see if he’s in a coma somewhere. Instead I leave a message that it’s urgent that he call me back.
Kevin and I start to go over the closing statement I will be giving. As with my openings, I like to plan the main notes that I am going to hit, but not write out a speech or memorize anything. I feel I connect better with the jury that way.
Less than ten minutes goes by before the phone rings. I pick it up quickly, expecting it to be Sam. It isn’t.
“Mr. Carpenter, this is Yasir Hamadi.”
“Mr. Hamadi, you’re about to be in a lot of trouble.”
“Or we can both walk away from this with our respective goals achieved.” He sounds unruffled and unworried. I, on the other hand, am very worried and thoroughly ruffled.
“Please explain that,” I say.
“As I’m sure you understand, this is coming at me quite suddenly. I will need some time to deal with it, and providing me with that time will very much be to your client’s benefit.”
“How will my client benefit?”
“I will give you information that will result in his acquittal.”
“How much time do you need?” I ask, though I can’t imagine an answer that I will be willing to go along with.
“Ninety-six hours.” I am struck not only by the absurdity of the number but also by its specificity.
“You’re wasting my time. You have ninety-six minutes to tell me what I need to know, and then, if it’s as valuable as you say, I’ll hold off on reporting what I already know.” I’m okay with making this pledge, since all I really have on him are suspicions without proof.