“I don’t see why not. Cops don’t have that much of a case. They got the will for motivation, that’s the biggie. And the fact that he was seen with his uncle. For one thing, that was much earlier in the afternoon. For another thing, the witness is totally unreliable.
“And then there’s the cause of death. I’d hate to be in the prosecutor’s shoes trying to argue that one. He waits until he falls asleep and then douses him with gasoline and sets him on fire? In a subway station no less?” Steve shook his head. “No, what they got so far won’t do it. It’s not enough that he was seen with his uncle. They need someone who saw him set the body on fire. Or at least someone saw him buy the gasoline. Have they got anything like that?”
Taylor shook his head. “Not so far. If they do, they’re not letting it out.”
The phone rang. Tracy Garvin reached out, picked it up. “Steve Winslow’s office … Uh huh. Just a minute.” She handed the phone to Mark Taylor. “It’s for you.”
Taylor took the phone, said, “Mark Taylor here.” He listened for a couple of minutes, punctuating the conversation with dull, toneless ‘uh huhs,’ and hung up the phone with a look on his face that would have done credit to a mortician.
“Well?” Steve said.
Taylor took a breath. “Look, Steve,” he said. “Are you committed to defend this kid no matter what?”
“I already told you that.”
“Well then you just got a major kick in the balls. The cops got a search warrant for Jeremy Dawson’s school locker. You know what they turned up? Twenty-eight vials of crack, some drug paraphernalia and a thirty-two-caliber automatic.”
“What!?” Steve said.
“That’s right. He’s heavy into drugs, and I do mean heavy. Now I don’t know if he was really playin’ with the big boys, or if the gun was just for show, but in any event he had it.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” Taylor said. “And you don’t know the half of it. They just got the report back from the medical examiner. He determined the cause of death.”
“So?” Steve said. “The cause of death was burning and/or asphyxiation, right?”
“The cause of death,” Mark Taylor said dryly, “was a thirty-two-caliber bullet fired directly into the back of the head.”
23
Jeremy Dawson looked like a sulky kid.
“You left a few things out, Jeremy.”
Jeremy said nothing, kept his head down.
“You didn’t tell me you dealt crack. You didn’t tell me you had a gun.”
Jeremy shifted slightly, continued to look at the floor.
“You don’t seem surprised I know all this. Did the cops talk to you?”
No response.
“I asked you a question. The cops talk to you?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you tell ‘em?”
Jeremy raised his eyes then, defiantly. “Just what you told me. I got nothin’ to say, talk to my lawyer.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah, that’s all.”
“But they didn’t let up. They kept after you. They kept asking you questions. They show you vials of crack?”
“Yeah.”
“They show you a gun?”
“Yeah.”
“They ask you where you got them?”
No response.
“Hey, kid, wake up. This is not high-school time. I’m not a teacher askin’ you why you were late for class. This is a murder here. If they nail you for it, it’s gonna be a little worse than bein’ kept after school. So quit sulking, grow up and answer some questions. Did they ask you where you got them?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you tell them?”
“See my lawyer.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t answer any questions, you didn’t try to explain anything?”
“Hell, no.”
Steve Winslow was sure he hadn’t. Some kids’ reaction would be to try to lie their way out of it. Jeremy’s would be to pull himself into his shell and sulk.
“O.K., fine,” Steve said. “You did good. I didn’t want you to talk, and you didn’t talk. The problem is, now you got in the habit. And I need you to talk to me. So let’s shift gears here, get yourself into your talking mode, ’cause you got things to say.”
Jeremy looked at him, hostile, defiant. Steve Winslow wanted very much to walk out. He fought the urge.
“O.K. Now, where did you get the gun?”
“Shit.”
“Hey, I’m your lawyer. You can tell me anything. If I’m going to help you, you have to tell me things. The prosecutor’s gonna throw the evidence at you, and I gotta fight it. I can’t do that unless I know what’s up. Now where did you get the gun?”
Jeremy snuffled. “Connection.”
“What?”
“My connection. For crack.”
“Who’s that?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Black guy from Harlem.”
“He gave it to you?”
“Sold it to me.”
“What’s his name?”
“Dunno.”
“You’re dealing with the guy, you don’t know his name?”
“Calls himself the Main Man. It’s not his name though.”
“No shit. So he sold you the gun?”
“Yeah.”
“For how much?”
“Seventy-five.”
“Seventy-five bucks?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you need a gun?”
No answer.
“Damn it, these are the questions that count. Why’d you need a gun?”
“He said I might need it.”
“Your connection?”
“Yeah.”
“It was his idea?”
“Partly.”
“What do you mean, partly?”
“Well, I mentioned I might want to have one.”
“Oh, did you?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I dunno.”
“And he thought you might need one?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would he think that?”
“I dunno.”
Steve looked at him a moment. “I do. You want to be a big man, you’re trying to impress the guy, act tough. You tell him you need a gun.”
Jeremy said nothing.
“Anyway, he got you one.”
“Yeah.”
“This drug dealer-the Main Man-how old is he?”
“I dunno. Fifteen, sixteen.”
Steve shook his head. “Jesus Christ.” He took a breath. “So tell me about the gun.”
“What about it?”
“You ever fire it?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“You ever fire the fucking gun?”
“Hey man, easy. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is, you’re up for murder. You may not understand these questions, but you don’t have to. You’re a stupid kid who don’t know shit. I’m the lawyer who’s gotta get you out of here. You want me to do that job, then do me a favor. Stop thinking. Don’t think at all. You know why? You’re not good at it. It just gets in the way. So stop trying to figure out why I’m asking the questions, and just answer the fucking things.”
Jeremy’s face reddened. “Hey, fuck you.”
Steve smiled. “Son of a bitch, I got a rise out of you. Good. Now, while I have your full attention-did you ever fire the gun?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“When I got it.”
“When was that?”
“I dunno. A month ago.”
“Why’d you fire the gun?”
“I wanted to.”
Steve raised his hand. “Hey, kid, I don’t care how much crack you do, you can’t be that dumb. Why’d you fire the gun is a question asking for an explanation. What’d you fire it at, did you fire it at a person? If so, did you hit him, kill him? Where and when did this happen? Shit, Jeremy, just for fun, try to answer my questions like a human being. Now tell me about firing the gun.”
“I was just practicing.”
“Where?”
“Junkyard.”
“Where?”
“Queens.”
“When?”
“Right after I got it.”
“Why’d you do it?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Just to test it out.”
“How many times you fire it?”
“Once.”
“Why only once?”
“It was cold. It stung my hand.”
“Were you wearing gloves?”
“Yeah. And it was awkward with the gloves.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“What?”
“That you were wearing gloves. If you didn’t fire it again, there won’t be powder marks on your hands.”