Bury the Lead - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,67
them that I was going to be making news, not simply rehashing my view that my client is innocent.
Laurie accompanies me into the city, and we park at a lot near Penn Plaza. The attendant comes over and says, “Forty-one dollars.” I assume he’s making me an offer for the car, but it turns out that’s the flat rate to park for the evening. New York parking lots are a better investment than coffee.
We leave the lot and start walking toward the CNN offices. It’s a typical early evening in Manhattan, with wall-to-wall people on the streets. I’m about half a block from the building when I look slightly toward the right and see something that jolts me.
Tommy Lassiter.
He’s staring at me, smiling, and then suddenly he’s not there, having melted into the crowds.
“Jesus . . . ,” I say, and take a few steps toward where he was standing. A few steps is all I can take because of the masses of people.
“What’s the matter?” Laurie asks.
“I’d swear I just saw Tommy Lassiter.”
“Where?”
I point in the direction, but of course he’s nowhere to be seen. “He just looked at me and smiled and then disappeared.”
“Are you sure it was him?” she asks.
I was sure in the moment, but I’ve never been one to recognize faces, and I’ve never seen Lassiter in person. “I think so. Especially because of the way he looked at me. Like he was taunting me.”
“You’re under a lot of stress, Andy. It may not have been him. What would he have to gain from following you?”
“Maybe to stop my going public with his name. To scare me off. Which would not be that tough to do.”
She shakes her head. “He’s got more effective ways to scare you than smiling.”
She’s right about that, so I try to forget the encounter and we go into the building. About an hour goes by before they are ready for me, and I’m brought into the studio, hooked up with a microphone through my shirt, and we’re ready to go.
The interviewer is Aaron Brown, an intelligent, soft-spoken man who seems to have thrived in cable news despite those qualities. I’ve chosen him because I want my news to be taken seriously, not dismissed as the sensational ramblings of a desperate defense attorney. Even though that’s what it is.
Two minutes into the interview, he comes straight to the point. “I understand that you have something new to reveal tonight.”
I nod. “Yes. I know the identity of the real killer of Linda Padilla, as well as the others.”
He takes this revelation in stride. “And who might that be?”
I reach under the table and get the picture of Lassiter that Pete provided me. I hold it up for the camera. “His name is Tommy Lassiter. He’s a contract killer, a hit man. A very successful one.”
“What do you base this accusation on?”
“A number of sources, some of whom I cannot mention tonight. But one of those sources was Randy Clemens, a former client of mine who was recently killed in prison.” I go on to detail the conversation I had with Randy prior to his death, and the details of that death.
Brown asks me why I am going public with this news, rather than bringing it before the judge and jury.
“Because the people that have confirmed this information to me are afraid to testify. Without any direct evidence, none of this would be admissible. But that is why I am here, to reveal Lassiter’s identity and show his photograph, in the hope that others with information will come forward.”
The interview continues for another ten minutes, and by the time I get outside, other members of the media have created a mob scene in front of the studio. I hold an impromptu press conference, during which I make my pitch again. In answer to a question, I deny that one of my reasons for going public is to have the accusation reach the unsequestered jury. I deny this even though it’s true.
As Laurie and I leave the studio, I’m feeling pretty good about the session and what it accomplished. We walk down Seventh Avenue and then turn onto Thirty-fourth Street toward the parking lot. The streets are far less crowded than they were before, since rush hour is essentially over, but I find myself still looking around warily for another sighting of Tommy Lassiter.
A few steps after making the turn, I hear a slight popping sound and feel an impact in my chest. I