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His ears prick up.
“This isn’t one,” I say, and go back inside.
Thirteen
DAY THREE OF THEtrial brings with it my first surprise from Kevin Ahearn.
You know what lawyers hate more than surprises in court?
Nothing.
The witness, on my list, is named Nick Morelli. He once dated Laurel Gates even though he’s a little older. He’s local. No college. Fishing guide. Lot of that going on out here, along with potato farming, if you’re not in the business of being rich. Morelli makes his living now doing charters. One-boat guy, inherited from his father, who’s beat it down to Florida by now, along with Morelli’s mother. The boat’s docked over at one of the commercial piers in Montauk.
I interviewed him during pretrial. So did Jimmy. A little rough around the edges. But no red flags to speak of. No alarms sounding. He doesn’t want to be a part of the trial, but I make it clear he doesn’t have a choice. He pushes back a little but finally lets it go.
I see him for what Ahearn wants him to be, someone testifying to the character and all-around goodness of the dead girl. He’s the first witness on Ahearn’s list like that, won’t be the last. Ahearn is doing what I would have done, painting a picture of Laurel Gates, all the life she had ahead of her, how popular she was. Her dreams. All that.
Right now he is taking Nick Morelli through their friendship, and their brief dating life.
I’m taking notes to keep myself busy, not sure if I even want to cross.
Now Ahearn is asking Nick Morelli when the last time was that he saw Laurel Gates.
I want to raise my hand, like I’m the smartest girl in class. I know the answer to this one, because Nick Morelli told me when I interviewed him. It was a few weeks before she died that they saw each other last, outside a place called the Stephen Talkhouse in Amagansett. Maybe a mile from my house. Bar with music. One of the few places like it for kids west of Montauk, where the real summer party scene is. The Talkhouse is so packed on summer weekends it’s as if fire codes have never been invented.
I drive past there sometimes on a Saturday night and think the line outside might actually be stretching all the way to my house.
“Did you get the chance to speak to her that night?” Ahearn says to Morelli. But turning to look at me as he does.
“I was going to,” Morelli says, “but she was across the street, in the parking lot next to the barbershop, while I was waiting for my Uber to show up. And she was making out with some old dude.”
Wait for it.
“And you’re sure it was Laurel Gates?” Ahearn says.
“I am,” Morelli says. He shrugs. “I used to make out with her over there myself before we broke up.”
I have to let it play out. It would be like trying to stop the waves at this point.
Even people in outer space know where this is going.
“And do you happen to know who this old dude was?” Ahearn asks.
Shit, shit,shit.
“Now I do.”
“And do you see him in this courtroom, Nick?”
Ahearn knows exactly what he’s doing. It is a couple of minutes before five o’clock. He knows the same thing that I do, that Judge Jackson Prentice III adjourns at five each day even if one of us is in mid-sentence.
Morelli points directly at Rob Jacobson. “He’s sitting right there.”
“Let the record show,” Kevin Ahearn says, “that the witness is pointing at the defendant.”
Then Morelli adds one more thing: “Laurel’s dad thought I was too old for her. Funny, right?”
Ahearn nods, then says, “No further questions at this time.”
