Bury the Lead - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,59
a satisfactory explanation.
“Mr. Winslow,” I begin, “why is it that sometimes I can receive a clear cell phone call, but at other times I have no service in the same location?”
“There could be a number of factors. Weather . . . heavy usage periods . . . they would be the most likely reasons.”
“So weather and heavy usage can impact service?”
He nods. “Definitely.”
That gives me a little progress in casting doubt on the science, but it’s a small victory.
“Now, you told Mr. Zachry that the cell tower has a radius of about four miles.”
“Right,” he says in answer to a question I didn’t ask.
“So if the tower were in the middle of Times Square, it would route calls to my cell phone if I were on the corner of Madison and Eighty-fifth, three miles away?”
He shakes his head. “No, in Manhattan the towers would have a much smaller radius.”
I look surprised, though I’m not. “Really? Is it a different type of tower?”
“No, but—”
I interrupt. “Then why is the range different?”
“Because of the many tall buildings. We refer to it as the terrain.”
“So terrain can make a difference also? Just like weather and heavy usage and who knows what else?”
Tucker objects to my characterization, and Calvin sustains. I withdraw the question and move on. “Mr. Winslow, assuming perfect weather, normal usage, and average terrain, the radius is four miles. Correct?”
“Approximately.”
I smile at the increasing inexactness of this science. “Yes, approximately four miles. Right?”
“Yes.”
“So it covers a total diameter of eight miles? In such a perfect world?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Mr. Zachry read Mr. Cummings’s statement from that night into the record, where he said he drove fifteen minutes after getting the call. Did you hear that?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anywhere in that statement that he drove fast, or even in a straight line?”
Tucker objects. “Your Honor, this is not within the witness’s area of expertise.”
I shake my head. “I am simply asking his recollections based on what he heard Mr. Zachry read. I can give him a copy of the statement, and then his recollections will be perfect.”
Calvin overrules Tucker, and Winslow answers. “I didn’t hear him read that he drove fast or in a straight line, no.”
“Do you ever drive in North Jersey, Mr. Winslow?”
“Yes. Every day.”
“Do you find that the speed with which you drive depends on things like weather and heavy usage and terrain?”
The jury and gallery laugh and Winslow can’t suppress a smile. “I do,” he says.
“Traffic is an inexact science, isn’t it, Mr. Winslow?”
Tucker objects and I withdraw the question. I let Winslow off the stand and sit down next to Daniel, who, despite my admonitions, looks positively euphoric.
• • • • •
LESS THAN THREE HOURS after court is adjourned, my shuttle flight is landing at Logan Airport in Boston. I haven’t been here in almost twenty years, but the drive into the city brings home the memories as if they were yesterday.
As a teenager, I was a huge Larry Bird fan, which caused me some uncomfortable moments living in the New York area. But I took the abuse from my friends, and while Bird was in the league I was a traitor to my beloved Knicks. I was, heaven help me, a Celtics fan.
My father handled the situation well, and didn’t do what other Knicks-loving fathers would do. He didn’t beat, starve, or humiliate me, though in retrospect I deserved it all. Instead, he tolerated my treasonous impulses, in fact did more than that. He would take me up to Boston to watch play-off games in Boston Garden. Fortunately for me, the Knicks were terrible in those years and never made it to the play-offs themselves.
Boston Garden was an amazing place, a true shrine to basketball as it should be played, and attending a game there was unlike attending a sports event any place else in the world. The Celtics were blessed with talent, smarts, and a relentless will to win, a team worthy of their home, and I’m glad to have witnessed them in action. But today Larry Bird is retired, the old Boston Garden is no more, and I am securely back in the Knicks fold.
I arrive at Carmine’s, a small downtown restaurant, at seven-thirty, and Cindy is already there, waiting for me at the bar. She is a very attractive brunet, looking even better than the last time I saw her, which was almost six months ago. The guy on the next stool over is futilely attempting to hit on her, and if you gave him