David Rosenfelt - Play Dead

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IT SEEMS THAT you can never get a good coma going when you need one.

My strong preference would be to remain in an unconscious state while a jury is deliberating. In fact, I’d like to be wheeled into the courtroom that way and not woken up until the very moment that the clerk is starting to read the verdict.

That way I would be able to avoid the anxiety, the doubt, and the second-guessing that I inflict on myself. I wouldn’t have to go through my ridiculous preverdict superstitions, and my friends wouldn’t have to deal with me at my most obnoxious.

This is not a fun time.

Making matters worse is Karen Evans’s understandable desire to hang out with me while we wait. She knows I’ll hear things first, so this is where she wants to be. This gives me the unwanted burden of having to be reasonably pleasant at a time when I am always impossibly cranky.

Karen also assumes I know more about this process than she does, but she’s wrong about that. I have no idea what is going on in that jury room, or what decision they might reach. The entire thing is impossible to predict and, more significantly, completely out of my control. That is what makes it so maddening.

Kevin and I have tried, with little success, to divert ourselves with our investigation of Stacy’s background, though it is too late for anything that could come of it to help in this trial. The reason it hasn’t been that diverting is because we no longer know what the hell to investigate. By now Stacy, Durelle, Franklin, and Hamadi are all dead, which leaves us with precious few suspects.

In fact, the only suspects left from the dwindling pool are Anthony Banks; Mike Carelli, the Special Services chopper pilot; and Captain Gary Winston, the surgeon who went down with the others. We have never been able to locate any of them, and we certainly don’t seem to be ready to start now.

Banks and Carelli are the most likely candidates for bad guy, since Hamadi’s car was shown to have been blown up by a grenade launcher. Since surgeons are not usually trained in grenade launching, Dr. Winston is probably off the hook.

Sam Willis had a brainstorm yesterday to go to Hamadi’s funeral and surreptitiously take pictures of all in attendance. Since Kevin and I had seen photographs of Banks, Carelli, and Winston in their army files, he thinks maybe we’d see one of them at the funeral.

The suggestion made very little sense to me, since if these guys are actually alive and in hiding all these years, the idea they would come out to attend the funeral of a man they killed doesn’t add up. But Sam wanted to do it, probably so he could get to use a tricky hidden camera gizmo he recently bought, so I let him.

Sam has gone through all the pictures and printed them out off his computer. Digital cameras are amazing; I just wish I didn’t find them so bewildering. When I want to take pictures, I buy one of those disposable cameras, take the shots, and then leave them undeveloped in the camera for years.

I call Sam and tell him he should bring the pictures over now. Karen and Kevin are both here, and I figure it will be good for Karen to think we’re doing something proactive, even though we’re not.

Sam brings in his computer and shows the pictures to us in something called PowerPoint on the wall. It’s as if he were making a presentation to a board meeting. But he’s enjoying the literal spotlight, so I pretend to be paying attention.

There are more than seventy-five pictures, documenting in excruciating detail the perhaps hundred and fifty attendees at the funeral. Most of the photos have five or more people in them, so obviously, many people are seen much more than once.

By the thirtieth picture, I haven’t seen anyone that looks remotely familiar, and I’m so bored I would rather be at the ballet. Kevin’s face tells me he’s as miserable as I am, but I don’t speed Sam up, because Karen is so into this. She keeps saying things like “Wait… hold on… that person looks like… can we focus in on him…?” but ultimately she doesn’t recognize anyone, either.

Just as Sam is gathering up his material to leave, the phone rings. A ringing phone while waiting for a verdict is equivalent to a drumroll and ominous music at any other time. Everybody stares at it for a moment, but I’m the only one with the courage to answer it.

“Mr. Carpenter?”

“Yes?”

“This is Ms. Battaglia, the court clerk. The jury has informed us that they have a verdict. Judge Gordon has convened a court session to hear it at three o’clock.”

I hang up the phone and turn to Kevin and Karen. “We have a verdict.”

“Finally!” Karen says, with obvious relief.

That one word completely sums up the difference between me and that strange group of people called “optimists.” Karen is glad that there’s a verdict; she sees a positive result as now a few hours away. I have no idea what the result is, but the fact that there is one is enough to make me physically ill.

Kevin is in another class altogether; he’s always physically ill.

We hit a lot of traffic and don’t get to the court until a quarter of three. The media is out in force to see the result of what has become a very public legal battle.

The public is kept behind police barricades, and as nervous as I am, I still reflect on what could possibly bring someone here to stand in the street. It’s not as if they’ll get special insight into the case; they’d be able to hear the verdict just as quickly on television. And they’re clearly not here out of an intellectual interest in the workings of the justice system; the most intelligent question I hear is, “Hey, Andy! You gonna win?”

We’re in our seats at five to three, and Richard is brought in moments later. Daniel Hawpe looks over at me, smiles, and mouths, “Good luck.” He has the calm manner of a lawyer who doesn’t have a client with his life on the line.

Richard seems under control, though I can’t imagine the stress he must be feeling. He just looks at me and offers a weak smile. “One way or the other,” he says.

I nod. “One way or the other.”

Karen gets out of her seat in the front row and hugs Richard from behind. She’s not supposed to do that, but the guards who would ordinarily prevent her understand that these are extraordinary circumstances.

Kevin looks pained and miserable. I have seen him in stressful situations like this, and they tend to increase his hypochondria fivefold. Right now I’m afraid he’s going to have urology issues under the defense table.

Judge Gordon takes his seat at the bench and asks that the jury be brought in. It takes either ten seconds or ten minutes for them to do so; time doesn’t seem to have structure or meaning at moments like this.

For some reason it always bothers me to know that the jury’s decision has already been made, even though we’re first finding out about it now. It’s like watching a football game on tape and not knowing the final score; it doesn’t help to root, because the boat has already sailed.

This verdict has already sailed.

Judge Gordon asks the foreman if a verdict has in fact been reached, and he confirms that it has. He hands the verdict slip to the clerk, who hands it to Gordon.

Gordon reads it, and his face remains as unrevealing as those of the jury members. He hands it back to the clerk and asks Richard to stand. Richard, Kevin, and I all do so, and out of the corner of my eye I see Karen rise in her seat, a gesture of total solidarity. If I’m ever in a foxhole, I want her with me.

I put my arm on Richard’s right shoulder, as much to support myself as him. He grabs my arm and holds it, and we brace ourselves. Here it comes…

The clerk starts to read at the pace of what feels like one word every three hours. “In the matter of the State of New Jersey versus Richard Evans, we the jury find the defendant, Richard Evans… guilty of murder in the first degree.”