David Rosenfelt: Play Dead

“Let’s give him a few minutes,” I say to Marcus, but he doesn’t answer, which is no great surprise. What is a surprise is that when I turn to look at Marcus, I discover that he is gone.

“Marcus?”

No answer. I’m going to take it on faith that Marcus is still here but has decided that protecting me is more easily accomplished by staying out of sight.

With nothing better to do, I look back toward the curve. At about ten after the hour I see a car up above, beginning to make its way down. It’s traveling slowly, as if the driver is unsure where he is going. That’s a good sign.

The car moves silently along until it is about halfway down the curve, wrapping around and descending toward me, though still at least two hundred yards away. Suddenly I hear a deafening noise and see a sight so amazing I have to do a double take to make sure it’s real.

The car is now completely engulfed in a ball of flames, yet it continues to roll down the curve. In the darkness it looks surreal; it’s momentarily hard to realize that someone has undoubtedly just burned to death in it.

Before I even have time to react, I feel a smashing blow in my gut, and I find myself off my feet, up in the air. In an instant I am literally flying, and I’ve flown maybe twenty yards before I realize that I have been lifted off the ground by Marcus, and that I am draped over his shoulder.

He is carrying me away from my car, probably thinking that it might be the next target. We travel like this across the field and to the pavilion, which houses the snack bar and restrooms but which is, of course, closed at this hour. Once we’re there he puts me down, and we watch the burning car complete its descent and crash into a tree.

Actually, I’m the only one watching it. Marcus has his eyes focused on the top level, since that is where the shooter must have been. What he used to shoot, I can’t even imagine.

With Hamadi dead, I also can’t imagine how the hell I’m ever going to find out the truth.

* * * * *

“THIS, AS I told you in my opening statement, is a very easy case.”

That is how Hawpe starts his talk to the jury, who are paying rapt attention. I only wish they had been in Eastside Park with me until three in the morning; then they would be as groggy and unfocused as I am.

I spent the hours after the explosion playing a balancing act with Pete Stanton and his detectives. I gave them Hamadi’s identity and told them that he was coming to give me information about a case, but I revealed little else. Not knowing whether there are any federal law enforcement agencies I can trust with this, I decide to hold back for now.

I did take the opportunity to tell Pete Stanton about the money smuggling at the port, and Chaney’s involvement in it. He’ll go to the feds, and they’ll start an investigation. Hopefully Chaney will go down, but Petrone will emerge unscathed, having been alerted by me as part of our deal. I’m not thrilled by my role in this, but it’s the best I could do.

“And that is exactly what it has proven to be,” Hawpe continues. “Richard Evans went out on a boat one night with his fiancée, and he killed her and threw her body overboard. He then tried to kill himself, an effort that was thwarted only by the Coast Guard.

“Witnesses have placed them alone on the boat together, and there has been no evidence to the contrary. The defense has suggested everything from murderous stowaways to marauding pirates but has offered not the slightest facts to back up their theories.

“We don’t know why this crime was committed. Ms. Harriman told her neighbor that she and Richard Evans were having problems in their relationship, and she feared his temper. So perhaps he just flipped out in a momentary rage, then tried to kill himself when he realized what he had done.

“Or maybe he was depressed, and planned an evening that would provide a bizarre form of escape. Or it’s possible that she told him she was leaving the relationship, and he couldn’t handle the rejection.

“I can’t stand here and tell you the answer, but I can tell you that it doesn’t matter. We do not allow cold-blooded murder, no matter what the motivation.

“Now, the defense has raised the possibility-I would even say the probability-that Stacy Harriman lied about her true identity. And I cannot tell you why she did that. But none of the possible reasons-and they are many-could possibly justify her murder.”

Hawpe walks over to the jury and stands maybe three feet from them. “If one of you took a gun out right now and shot me, thinking my name was Daniel Hawpe, you would be arrested. If later you found out that my real name was Bill Smith, or Carl Jones, it wouldn’t matter. You would be just as guilty.

“On behalf of the State of New Jersey, I want you to listen to the judge’s instructions, follow your common sense, and vote your conscience. If you do that, Richard Evans will never be in a position to murder again.”

As soon as Hawpe sits down, I am gripped by exactly the sense of fear and anxiety and dread that I face every single time I give a closing statement. This is my last chance; once I sit back down I will never have another opportunity to influence this jury.

It’s like a baseball pitcher who throws a three-and-two pitch with the bases loaded and two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series. The pitcher is in control until the moment the ball leaves his hand, and then he has no control over his fate whatsoever.

Once I finish this statement, I’m a bystander.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have been involved in a lot of trials, more than I sometimes care to remember, and I have seen many different prosecutorial approaches. A good prosecutor adjusts his case and his style to the facts he has to present, to the strength of his case.

“Mr. Hawpe is a very good prosecutor, and it is obvious that he carefully assessed his evidence before coming up with the tactic that best fit this trial. What he wound up with is the ‘well, maybe, but’ approach.

“You heard it throughout. When we proved that Reggie was alive, his response was basically, ‘Well, maybe he is alive, but…’

“When it was shown that Richard did not take Amenipam in pill form, Mr. Hawpe backed off with ‘Well, maybe he didn’t, but…’

“When it was demonstrated that Mr. Evans could not have sustained his injury in the way it was presented, Mr. Hawpe allowed that ‘Well, maybe he didn’t, but…’

“And when it was proven beyond doubt that the very identity of the murder victim was a lie and a mystery, he conceded, ‘Well, maybe it was faked, but…’

“Before a prosecutor asks you to send someone to a life in prison, he has to be certain of his facts. He should not be constantly amending them when they prove wrong. He cannot be allowed to tap dance his way to a murder conviction. Richard Evans deserves better than that.

“Stacy Harriman’s entire life was a lie, a complete fabrication, even to her own future husband. This is not something that she would have done casually. How many people do you know that have done it? She was a young, beautiful woman so afraid of where she had been that she couldn’t get herself to reveal it to the man she loved.

“She lived alone with her fear, her secret, until it killed her.

“Richard Evans has never done anything criminal-not on the boat that night, not in his life. Before this nightmare he was a dedicated public servant, a caring friend, a loving brother.

“He can be all that again, if you will let him. Thank you.”

I turn around and walk back to the defense table. I see Karen in the front row, sobbing, and Richard grabs my arm as I reach him.

“Thank you,” he says. “No matter how this turns out, thank you.”