Sudden Death Read online

  The unconfirmed report is that Schilling brandished a gun, fired a shot (which missed), and turned his house into a fortress. Schilling has refused to talk to the cops, except to ask for me. The media are already referring to me as his attorney, a logical, though totally incorrect, assumption.

  This shows signs of being a really long day.

  Upper Saddle River is about as pretty a New York suburb as you are going to find in New Jersey. Located off Route 17, it’s an affluent, beautifully wooded community dotted with expensive but not pretentious homes. A number of wealthy athletes, especially on those teams that play in New Jersey like the Giants and Jets, have gravitated to it. As we enter its peaceful serenity, it’s easy to understand why.

  Unfortunately, that serenity disappears as we near Kenny Schilling’s house. The street looks like it is hosting a SWAT team convention, and it’s hard to believe that there could be a police car anywhere else in New Jersey. Every car seems to have gun-toting officers crouched behind it; it took less firepower to bring down Saddam Hussein. Kenny Schilling is a threat that they are taking very seriously.

  Willie and I are brought into a trailer, where State Police Captain Roger Dessens waits for us. He dispenses with the greetings and pleasantries and immediately brings me up-to-date, though his briefing includes little more than I heard in radio reports. Schilling is a suspect in Preston’s disappearance and possible murder, and his actions are certainly consistent with guilt. Innocent people don’t ordinarily barricade themselves in their homes and fire at police.

  “You ready?” Dessens asks, but doesn’t wait for a reply. He picks up the phone and dials a number. After a few moments he talks into the phone. “Okay, Kenny, Carpenter is right here with me.”

  He hands me the phone, and I cleverly say, “Hello?”

  A clearly agitated voice comes through the phone. “Carpenter?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do I know it’s you?”

  It’s a reasonable question. “Hold on,” I say, and signal to Willie to come over. I hand him the phone. “He isn’t sure it’s me.”

  Willie talks into the phone. “Hey, Schill… what’s happenin’?” He says this as if they just met at a bar and the biggest decision confronting them is whether to have Coors or a Bud.

  I can’t hear “Schill’s” view of what might be “happenin’,” but after a few moments Willie is talking again. “Yeah, it’s Andy. I’m right here with him. He’s cool. He’ll get you out of this bullshit in no time.”

  Looking out over the army of cops assembled to deal with “this bullshit,” I’ve got a feeling Willie’s assessment might be a tad on the wildly optimistic side. Willie hands the phone back to me, and Schilling tells me that he wants me to come into his house. “I need to talk to you.”

  I have absolutely no inclination to physically enter this confrontation by going into his house. “We’re talking now,” I say.

  He is insistent. “I need to talk to you in here.”

  “I understand you have some guns,” I say.

  “I got one gun” is how he corrects me. “But don’t worry, man, I ain’t gonna shoot you.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” I say, then hang up and tell Captain Dessens about Schilling’s request.

  “Good,” he says, standing up. “Let’s get this thing moving.”

  “What thing?” I ask. “You think I’m going in there? Why would I possibly go in there?”

  Dessens seems unperturbed. “You want a live client or a dead one?”

  “He’s not my client. Just now was the first time I’ve ever spoken to him. He didn’t even know it was me.”

  “On the other hand, he’s got a lot of money to pay your bills, Counselor.” He says “Counselor” with the same respect he might have said “Fuehrer.”

  Dessens is really pissing me off; I don’t need this aggravation. “On the other hand, you’re an asshole,” I say.

  “So you’re not going?” Dessens asks. The smirk on his face seems to say that he knows I’m a coward and I’m just looking for an excuse to stay out of danger. He’s both arrogant and correct.

  Willie comes over to me and talks softly. “Schill’s good people, Andy. They got the wrong guy.”

  I’m instantly sorry I didn’t leave Willie at the airport. Now if I don’t go in, I’m not just letting down a stranger accused of murder, I’m letting down a friend. “Okay,” I say to Dessens, “but while I’m out there, everybody has their guns on safety.”

  Dessens shakes his head. “Can’t do it, but I’ll have them pointed down.”

  I nod. “And I get a bulletproof vest.”

  Dessens agrees to the vest, and they have one on me in seconds. He and I work out a signal for me to come out of the house with Schilling without some trigger-happy, Jets-fan officer taking a shot at us.

  Willie offers to come in with me, but Dessens refuses. Within five minutes I’m walking across the street toward a quite beautiful ranch-style home, complete with manicured lawn and circular driveway. I can see a swimming pool behind the house to the right side, but since I didn’t bring my bathing suit, I probably won’t be able to take advantage of it. Besides, I don’t think this bulletproof vest would make a good flotation device.

  As I walk, I notice that the street has gotten totally, eerily silent. I’m sure that every eye is on me, waiting to storm the house if Schilling blows my unprotected head off. “The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife” suddenly doesn’t seem like a cliché anymore.

  Four hours ago my biggest problem was how to ask the first-class flight attendant for a vodkaless Bloody Mary without using the embarrassing term “Virgin Mary,” and now I’ve got half a million sharpshooters just waiting for me to trigger a firefight. I’m sure there are also television cameras trained on me, and I can only hope I don’t piss in my pants on national television.

  As I step onto the porch, I see that the door is partially open. I take a step inside, but I don’t see anything. Schilling’s voice tells me to “Come in and close the door behind you,” which is what I do.

  The first thing I’m struck by is how sparsely furnished the place is and how absent the touches of home. There are a number of large unopened cardboard boxes, and my sense is that Schilling must have only recently moved in. This makes sense, since I saw on ESPN a few weeks ago that the Giants just signed him to a fourteen-million, three-year deal, a reward for his taking over the starting running back job late last season.

  Schilling sits on the floor in the far corner of the room, pointing a handgun at me. He is a twenty-five-year-old African-American, six three, two hundred thirty pounds, with Ali-like charismatic good looks. Yet now he seems exhausted and defeated, as if his next move might be to turn the gun on himself. When I saw him on ESPN, he was thanking his wife, teammates, and God for helping him achieve his success, but he doesn’t look too thankful right now. “How many are out there?” he asks.

  Why? Is he so delusional as to think he can shoot his way out? “Enough to invade North Korea,” I say.

  He sags slightly, as if this is the final confirmation that his situation is hopeless. I suddenly feel a surge of pity for him, which is not the normal feeling I have for an accused killer pointing a gun at me. “What’s going on here, Kenny?”

  He makes a slight head motion toward a hallway. “Look in there. Second door on the left.”

  I head down the hall as instructed and enter what looks like a guest bedroom. There are five or six regular-size moving cartons, three of which have been opened. I’m not sure what it is I’m supposed to be looking for, so I take a few moments to look around.

  I see a stain under the door to the closet, and a feeling of dread comes over me. I reluctantly open the door and look inside. What I see is a torso, folded over with a large red stain on its back. I don’t need Al Michaels to tell me that this is Troy Preston, wide receiver for the Jets. And I don’t need anybody to tell me that he is dead.

  I walk back into the living room
, where Kenny hasn’t moved. “I didn’t do it,” he says.

  “Do you know who did?”

  He just shakes his head. “What the hell am I gonna do?”

  I sit down on the floor next to him. “Look,” I say, “I’m going to have a million questions for you, and then we’re going to have to figure out the best way to help you. But right now we have to deal with them.” I point toward the street, in case he didn’t know I was talking about the police. “This is not the way to handle it.”

  “I don’t see no other way.”

  I shake my head. “You know better than that. You asked for me… I’m a lawyer. If you were going to go down fighting, you’d have asked for a priest.”

  He wears the fear on his face like a mask. “They’ll kill me.”

  “No. You’ll be treated well. They wouldn’t try anything… there’s media all over this. We’re going to walk out together, and you’ll be taken into custody. It’ll take some time to process you into the system, and I probably won’t see you until tomorrow morning. Until then you are to talk to no one—not the police, not the guy in the next cell, no one. Do you understand?”

  He nods uncertainly. “Are you going to help me?”

  “I’m going to help you.” It’s not really a lie; I certainly haven’t decided to take this case, but for the time being I will get him through the opening phase. If I decide not to represent him, which basically means if I believe he’s guilty, I’ll help him get another attorney.

  “They won’t let me talk to my wife.”

  He seems to be trying to delay the inevitable surrender. “Where is she?” I ask.

  “In Seattle, at her mother’s. They said she’s flying back. They won’t let me talk to her.”

  “You’ll talk to her, but not right now. Now it’s time to end this.” I say it as firmly as I can, and he nods in resignation and stands up.

  I walk outside first, as previously planned, and make a motion to Dessens to indicate that Kenny is following me, without his gun. It goes smoothly and professionally, and within a few minutes Kenny has been read his rights and is on the way downtown.

  He’s scared, and he should be. No matter how this turns out, life as he knows it is over.

  I PICK UP TARA at Kevin’s house. She seems a little miffed that I had abandoned her but grudgingly accepts my peace offering of a biscuit. As a further way of getting on her good side, I tell her that I’ll recommend she be allowed to play herself in the movie.

  Kevin has followed the day’s events on television, and we make plans to meet in the office at eight A.M. I’m starting to get used to high-profile cases; they have a life of their own, and it’s vitally important to get on top of them immediately. And if one star football player goes on trial for murdering another, it’s going to make my previous cases look like tiffs in small-claims court.

  As I enter my house, I’m struck by the now familiar feeling of comfort that envelops me. Two years ago, after my father’s death, I moved back to Paterson, New Jersey, to live in the house in which I grew up. Except for rescuing and adopting Tara from the animal shelter, coming back to this house is the single best thing I’ve ever done. I’ve hardly changed the interior at all; the house was already perfectly furnished with memories and emotions that only I can see and feel.

  I’ve barely had time to put a frozen pizza in the oven when Laurie calls from Findlay. Such was the intensity of today’s events that I haven’t thought about her in hours.

  “Are you okay?” she asks. “I saw what happened on television. I’ve been trying you all day on your cell phone.”

  I left my cell phone in my suitcase, which the airline has delivered and is in the living room. “I’m fine. But we may have ourselves a client.”

  “Is it true the victim’s body was in his house?” she asks.

  “In the closet,” I confirm.

  “Sounds rather incriminating.”

  “Which is why you have to come home and uncover the kind of evidence that will let me display my courtroom brilliance.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she says. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

  I let the words roll gently over me, sort of like a verbal massage. I know she loves me, but I have an embarrassing need for reassurance. At least it would be embarrassing if I were to reveal it to her. Which I won’t. Ever.

  “Have you had fun?” I ask.

  “It’s been an amazing experience, Andy. These are people I haven’t seen or thought about in more than fifteen years. And in five minutes all the memories came back… I even recognized their mannerisms. It makes me wonder why I cut off from them… why we never stayed in touch.”

  Laurie’s father was a police officer in Findlay but decided to leave for a higher-paying job back East in Paterson, which qualified as the “big city.” He died five years ago, and I never got to meet him, but Laurie tells me he felt the move was the biggest mistake he ever made. I don’t recall her ever telling me if she shares that view.

  We talk some more about reconnecting with old friends; she knows I completely understand because of my experience in moving back to Paterson. “The Internet is the way to stay in touch,” I say. “E-mailing makes it easy, and there are no pregnant pauses in the conversation.”

  She doesn’t seem convinced, in fact seems vaguely troubled. I could ask her about this honestly and directly, but that would require too great a change in style. So instead, I change the subject. “If we take this case, we won’t be able to go away.” We had talked about a vacation.

  “That’s okay,” she says, and again I hear the tone of voice that I don’t recognize as belonging to Laurie. It’s a halfhearted statement in a mostly halfhearted conversation. I’m not sure why, and I’m certainly not sure if I want to find out.

  I get up really early in the morning to take Tara for a long walk. She attacks the route eagerly—tail-wagging and nose-sniffing every step of the way. We’ve gone this way a thousand times, yet each time she takes fresh delight in the sights and smells. Tara is not a “been there, done that” type of dog, and it’s a trait I admire and envy.

  As I get dressed to go to the office, I catch up on what the media are saying about the Schilling case. There are reports that Schilling and Preston were out together the night Preston disappeared and that witnesses claim the last time Preston was seen was when Schilling gave him a ride home.

  The striking part of the media coverage is not the information that is revealed, but the overwhelming nature of the effort to reveal it. I have 240 channels on my cable system, and it seems as if 230 of them are all over this case. One of the cable networks has already given a name to it, and their reports are emblazoned with the words “Murder in the Backfield” scrawled across the screen. They seem unconcerned with the fact that the victim was a wide receiver.

  As has become standard operating procedure, guilt seems to be widely assumed, especially in light of the way Schilling was taken into custody. His were not the actions of the innocent, and if we ever go to trial, that is going to be a major hill to climb. The fact that a national television audience watched as he fended off police with a gun only makes the hill that much steeper.

  Kevin and I don’t have much to talk about, and we just compare notes on what we’ve learned from the media. I’ve got a ten o’clock appointment at the jail to meet with Schilling, and Kevin plans to use the time to learn what the prosecution is planning in terms of arraignment. Kevin knows my feelings about defending guilty clients, feelings that he shares, and he’s relieved when I tell him that I’ve made no decision on whether to take on Schilling as a client.

  We both leave at nine-forty-five, which is when Edna is arriving. I’ve always felt that a secretary should arrive very early and have the office up and running by the time everyone else arrives. Unfortunately, Edna has always felt pretty much the opposite, so basically, she comes in whenever she wants. Though she is one of the financial beneficiaries of the commission from the Willie Miller case, I can honestly say tha
t the money hasn’t changed her. She’s worked for me for five years and is just as unproductive today as before she was rich.

  I briefly tell her what is going on; she’s heard absolutely nothing about Schilling or the murder. Never let it be said that Edna has her finger anywhere near the public pulse.

  Schilling is being held at County Jail, which is why an entire media city has set itself up outside. Having become all too familiar with this process, I’ve learned about a back entrance which allows me to avoid the crush, and I make use of it this time.

  Guarding the door is Luther Hendricks, a court security officer who carries a calendar with him so he can count the days until retirement. “You sure stepped in shit this time,” he says as he lets me in. I know he’s talking about this case, so I don’t even bother to check my shoes.

  Nothing moves quickly within a prison bureaucracy, and the high-profile nature of this case doesn’t change that. It takes forty-five minutes for me to be brought back to the room where I will see Kenny Schilling and then another twenty minutes waiting for him to arrive.

  He’s brought in cuffed and dressed in prison drab. I had thought he looked bad huddled in the corner of his living room yesterday, but compared to this, he actually appeared triumphant. It looks as if fear and despair are waging a pitched battle to take over his face. The process of losing one’s freedom, even overnight, can be devastating and humiliating. For somebody like Kenny, it’s often much worse, because he’s fallen from such a high perch.

  “How are you doing, Kenny?” is my clever opening. “Are they treating you okay?”

  “They ain’t beating me, if that’s what you mean. They tried to talk to me, but I said no.”

  “Good.”

  “They took some blood out of my arm. They said they had the right. And I didn’t care, because all they’re gonna find is blood. I don’t take no drugs or anything.”

  They actually don’t have that right, unless they had probable cause to believe that drug usage had something to do with the murder. I have heard nothing about any suspicions that drugs were involved in this case, but then again, I know almost nothing about this case. “You’re sure you’ve never taken any kind of drugs?” I ask.