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.