David Ellis - The Hidden Man

That’s what I meant. Temporary insanity, irresistible impulse-the idea that Sammy was so overcome with rage after seeing his sister’s killer that he lost all ability to act with reason.

“Yeah, he mentioned it, and I said no.” Sammy leaned forward, banging his manacles on the table, eyeing me. “I’m not saying I was nuts. I may not have a fancy law degree, but I ain’t nuts.”

Okay, so it was directed at me. But I didn’t have time for it. Sammy needed to see the big picture here. I silently cursed his public defender for not helping him do so. Diminished capacity was the obvious play here.

I said it quietly, trying to defuse the hostility. “Listen, Sam-all you’d be saying is that your act was legally justified. You get to tell the jury why you killed that piece of shit. And the jury would go along with that, Sam. If you say you didn’t do it, then everything that Griffin Perlini did in his past, to Audrey, to others-none of that is relevant. It’s not relevant because you’re saying you didn’t kill him. My guess is the judge wouldn’t even let the jury hear about all the sex crimes Perlini committed. So you go to trial on this murder beef, and you and I know what Griffin Perlini did-we know all the shit he’s done-but the jury has no idea. You get me?”

“Yeah,” he said evenly. “Even without a college degree, I get you.”

I sighed. My take was that Sammy had thought about things last night, how things had turned out for the two of us, and he was figuring that he’d drawn the short straw. “Listen, your best defense is to say, yes, you killed him, but here’s why-because that scumbag killed your sister. I think the jury would walk you, Sam. That’s more important than some damn principle. You get your life back. Let’s tell the jury what he did to your sister.”

By now, Sammy had broken eye contact. He was being stubborn but, I thought, also had trouble, to this day, thinking about what happened to his sister. I was hoping my plea had sunk into his logic. “And how do we prove what he did to my sister?” he asked me.

Well, now, he had a point. The police couldn’t stick anything against Griffin Perlini back then. They had a pedophile with a history, they had photographs of Audrey-and many other girls-found all over his coach house, but they never found Audrey’s body and couldn’t get a confession out of him. That was the extent of my knowledge of the case, from the perspective of a seven-year-old boy. The cops couldn’t prove their case. But now I’d have to revisit all of this. I would have to find a way to prove that Griffin Perlini killed Audrey Cutler.

“Maybe-maybe look at other people he hurt,” said Sammy. “Other families had a beef with this guy, right? Audrey wasn’t the only one.”

It was an obvious thought, a good one. But Sammy didn’t seem to be rushing forth to proclaim his innocence, so I doubted that pointing the finger at another father or brother or victim of Griffin Perlini’s crimes would ultimately get me anywhere.

“I’ll do that,” I promised. “But I need more than a month to prepare, Sam. I need six months, minimum.”

Sammy shook his head. “No. No more time. I want out of here.”

“If you make me go to trial in four weeks, you’ll never get out of here.”

“I said no.”

I sat back in my chair. I understood that he’d want out of this place, but trading a couple months for a lifetime in the pen was an easy call. What was the problem here?

“Let me do this the right way, Sam. The jury will see a child killer. They’ll see the anguished brother. We’ll have a fighting chance.”

Sammy remained motionless, but I could sense violence welling up within him. His hands were balled in fists, his arms and shoulders trembling. A shade of crimson colored his rugged face. I didn’t blame the guy, but I didn’t see what the problem was. I was right, and we both knew it.

I decided to change topics. “Tell me about Smith. What’s his story?”

It took him some time to decompress. His only bodily movement was a faint shrug of his shoulders. “Guy says he represents some interested parties or shit.”

“Other victims? Their families?”

“You’re the guy went to college.”

“Shit, Sammy, what the fuck do I know about this guy? I don’t even know his real name.”

Sammy took out some frustration on his cigarette, stubbing it into oblivion. “Guy says people wanna help me. They got money. They can get me some fancy lawyers to spring me. I say, you gonna get me a fancy law yer, I want Kolarich. He says he can get me someone better. I say it’s gotta be someone I-”

He stopped there, emotion choking his throat. Someone I trust , he was going to say. Sammy probably hadn’t received sparkling representation in his previous forays into the criminal justice process. He was counting on an old friend.

“You should’ve called me day one, Sammy. I don’t care about money.”

“Well, you’re here now, and you’re gettin’ your money, so win this fuckin’ case. I’ve been sitting in here for a year and I ain’t waitin’ more than four weeks, and I sure as shit ain’t gonna say I was crazy. This guy Smith, he’ll give you what you want. So win this case, all right, varsity athlete?”

With that, Sammy pushed himself out of his chair, though he couldn’t move from his position with the manacles. He nodded to the guard, who walked to the glass room and opened the door. “You owe me, Koke,” he said. The guard unlocked him from the table and led him out.

“I know,” I answered, after he’d left the room.

YEAH, that Sammy’s one piece a work.”

Patrick Oleari, the public defender assigned to Sammy Cutler, parked himself in a chair in the diner located in the criminal courthouse basement. All around us, defense lawyers and prosecutors negotiated plea deals and traded war stories over weak coffee and crappy deli sandwiches. I’d caught up with Oleari after court, just after four. He’d been in a hearing all day and was having a very late lunch, the life of a trial lawyer. Oleari had been out of law school for five years, compared to my nine, but he had plenty of experience as one of the state-provided defense attorneys to the lowest of the low.

I remember being this guy, though as a prosecutor, not a PD, grinding through the intermediate levels of the county attorney’s office-traffic, juvie, misdemeanors, the three-days-on, three-days-off of felony review-waiting for the Show, the felony courtroom. It was a noble endeavor, to be sure, putting away the bad guys, but in truth it felt more like selfish fulfillment. I was like most of them; I would never be a “lifer.” I wasn’t a true believer, but I relished the sport of the thing and dreamed of a payoff in the private sector one day.

“Anyway.” Oleari wiped at his mouth. “They have eyes on Cutler leaving the house. They have a store vid of his car parked outside the vic’s apartment building. And Sammy didn’t exactly distinguish himself in the interview.” Oleari shook his head. “I mean, this thing has ‘diminished capacity’ written all over it. But try telling him that.”

I did. Apparently Oleari had struck out on that score, too.

“Did Sammy tell you he killed Perlini?” I asked.

Oleari made a face. “No, but the evidence did.”

Right. I said, “I have to get Perlini’s past in front of the jury. If they know who they’re dealing with, they’ll acquit anyone the prosecution puts in front of them.”

“I know it. I know it.” Oleari gave up on his soggy roast beef sandwich and wiped his hands with a napkin. “Judge already ruled on that, y’know.”

I didn’t know. I didn’t have the entire file yet.