The Advocate's Devil Read online

  Other Books by Alan M. Dershowitz

  THE BEST DEFENSE

  REVERSAL OF FORTUNE: Inside the von Bülow Case

  TAKING LIBERTIES: A Decade of Hard Cases, Bad Laws, and Bum Raps

  CHUTZPAH

  CONTRARY TO POPULAR OPINION

  THE ABUSE EXCUSE: And Other Cop-outs, SOB Stories, and Evasions of Responsibility

  Copyright

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1994 by Alan M. Dershowitz

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: September 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2162-9

  My first novel is lovingly dedicated

  to my firstborn, Elon,

  who has inspired me,

  encouraged me,

  and improved everything

  I have written.

  Contents

  Other Books by Alan M. Dershowitz

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  PART I: Innocent until Proven Guilty

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  PART II: A Jury of His Peers

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty -three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  PART III: Better Ten Guilty Go Free…?

  Prologue

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would never have had the chutzpah to write a novel without the encouragement and help of so many family members, friends, and professional associates. Early drafts were read and critiqued—I mean really critiqued—by family members, especially Carolyn, Elon, Jamin, Tully, Marilyn, Adam, Rana, Claire, Hedgy, Dutch, Mortie, Marvin, and Julie. Later drafts were read and improved upon by Mitch Kapour, Alex McDonald, Justin, Ken and Jerry Sweeder, Jim Hamilton, Michael Schneider, Sue Levkof, Alan Stone, and Jerrold Rapaport. Much appreciation for editorial assistance by Sandy Gelles-Cole, Larry Kirshbaum, Sona Vogel, and my agent, Helen Rees, and for secretarial and proofreading assistance from Maura Kelley, who burned the midnight oil, Gayle Muello, Eileen Weisslinger, and Ruth Stefanides.

  Finally, a debt of gratitude to the several generations of Harvard Law School students with whom I have debated these ethical issues. I hope this book contributes to the continuation of that debate.

  Prologue

  NEW YORK—FRIDAY, MARCH 10

  “Terrific. Another weekend trashed.”

  Jennifer Dowling was recalling the pain of the past year as she noticed the tall, attractive man walking in her direction from Avenue of the Americas. A cold March rain drenched West Fifty-fifth Street, forming pools wherever there were faults in the sidewalk. Every weekend since New Year’s had been a weather disaster, making it unbearable for Jennifer to travel to her weekend hideaway in the Catskills. Not that she had been much in the mood for solitude during her recent legal ordeal. Now that it was finally over, she craved the healing isolation of her simple country bungalow. Yet the prospect of driving up alone along dark, icy roads late on a winter Friday night was not something she found comforting, so she had decided to remain in the city again. Nor had her mood been brightened any by the notice she had received that this was the weekend the water heater in her co-op was scheduled for maintenance—no hot water for twenty-four hours. “Make that trashed and grungy,” she complained to herself.

  The man walking toward her crossed into her path, halting her progress. She veered to the right to pass him, but he seemed to have the same idea, so they ended up in a balletlike to and fro until they both stopped. The man was so tall that Jennifer, who was five feet six, came up only to his chest.

  “Care to dance in the rain?” His smile, punctuated by blue eyes looking down at her, was magnetic.

  “This isn’t a movie; I’m drenched.”

  “Dry off with a cup of coffee, then?”

  “Are you crazy? This is New York. You’re obviously dangerous—”

  “Or deranged,” he finished for her, and they both smiled.

  The man gently took her elbow and steered her to the lobby of the skyscraper looming beside them. Oh, why not, Jennifer rationalized. It was broad daylight. What’s the worst that could happen? Jennifer allowed the man to lead her out of the rain.

  The bistro inside was crowded and noisy, but her tall companion shouldered his way to a small window table, miraculously empty. “Do you know this place?” he asked her as he gracefully shed his black leather coat.

  “I’ve never been here, though I work in the neighborhood.”

  “Let me guess, public relations?”

  Jennifer started to say yes but corrected herself. “Used to be, now it’s advertising. How did you know?”

  “It’s a gift. I’m intuitive, intelligent, and observant.”

  “And modest—a Virgo, perhaps?”

  He put one huge hand over the table, and she shook it, “I’m Joe Campbell.” He waited to see her reaction; there was none. Only her own strong handshake in response.

  “I’m Jennifer Dowling,” she said as the waiter appeared.

  “Cappuccino all right?”

  “With skim milk.”

  “Make that two,” Joe Campbell said, not taking his eyes from her face.

  Thank you, God, Jennifer said to herself. And to think she had written off this weekend.

  BOSTON—WEDNESDAY, MARCH 15

  The evening had started with drinks in the “Quiet Lounge” of the Charles, the hotel in Cambridge where Jennifer was staying. “It was fortuitous, you’re having to be in Boston.” He raised his mineral water in a toast and allowed his eyes to play over the sleek, sophisticated woman seated opposite him. “As in fortunate.”

  “A word lover, I see. Let me guess, Oxford University, Rhodes scholar. Degree in classic literature.”

  “Totally wrong. Northeastern University, chemical engineering, 1984.”

  Actually Jennifer already knew that. They had planned this date over their cup of coffee five days ago, and she had managed to collect a lot of information about him in the meantime. He was the real item, no question about it. Everything he’d told her about himself checked out—including the fact that h
e was the starting point guard for the New York Knicks. What he hadn’t told her was how famous he was. And not being a pro basketball fan, she didn’t know that the Knicks had acquired the star point guard from Golden State after losing the final game of the 1994 playoffs. He had been dubbed “the White Knight” by the fickle New York fans, who were counting on him as their last hope for an NBA championship during the Patrick Ewing era.

  A group of young men dressed in business suits wandered into the bar, and Jennifer could feel Joe recede. “Any minute those guys are going to come over here and bug us,” he said quietly. “You ready for dinner?”

  Jennifer nodded, getting up from her seat. He led them away from the group, and as they passed from the dimly lit lounge to the lobby, he bent his head and adjusted his hat lower. He was really quite shy, for all his bravado, Jennifer thought to herself.

  A nice-looking man in jeans and a sport jacket politely accosted them at the hotel door just as they were leaving. “Get the Celtics good tomorrow night, please, Joe. I’m from New York, and the Celt fans torment me.” Campbell smiled without looking up.

  The driver of the white Lexus limo had the door open before they got there, and Joe politely guided her onto the rear seat. “Nice car. Is it white because of your nickname?” She smiled coyly. To Jennifer the idea of a “White Knight” in her life made a good deal of sense.

  “Maybe, I guess, now that you mention it.”

  “Why do they call you that?”

  “Well, there’s the official and the unofficial explanation. For one thing, I was the only white starter when I played for Northeastern. And now, of course, the Knicks fans hope I can get them a championship.”

  “Is that official or not?” Her voice was teasing. Joe looked slightly edgy for a moment.

  “Official. The unofficial reason is because I was always the cleanest ballplayer on the team.”

  “What does that mean, you didn’t tell dirty jokes?”

  “I didn’t have a garbage mouth—you know, dis’ my opponent and stuff like that. It also means I didn’t use my elbows—unless absolutely necessary.”

  “And what about now? Do you roughhouse now?”

  He almost was going to answer her until he realized she was teasing again. Jennifer was smart. He liked that. “Depends on the circumstances. Seriously, it’s impossible to stay clean in the pros. Too many muscular bodies banging around in too little space.”

  The thought of Joe Campbell’s muscular torso under his suede jacket flashed pleasantly, almost electrically, through her mind.

  There was always that undefined moment when Jennifer knew it was time to take a relationship to the physical. When she was younger she wouldn’t let herself acknowledge it, though her body told her often in unmistakable ways. Now that she had turned the corner into her thirties, her mind often took over from her body. It had been a rough year for Jennifer, what with the legal mess she had just gotten through. There had not been much time for fun: not much inclination to be sexual. In the last few weeks the cloud of pain had begun to lift, and she could feel herself reawakening. Her body was telling her she was responding to Joe Campbell.

  The large limo ambled through the streets of Cambridge. “I hope Italian is okay,” he said, and before she could reply he turned away to look out the window.

  The restaurant, Stellina’s, a northern Italian gourmet eatery in Watertown, was a bit off the beaten track. At dinner Joe proved to be something of a control freak, ordering for both of them without asking, even insisting she change her mind over the choice of salad. At first this was offputting, but as the meal went on, she began to see him as refreshingly different from the usual wimps she tended to attract. And, in fact, Campbell turned out to be right about the delicious tricolore salad with sun-dried tomatoes.

  Back in the limo on their way to Cambridge, he made sure she was relaxed, offering her a cognac from the limo’s bar. There was a comfortable silence between them. Jennifer had to admit the truth to herself: she was already a little bit crazy about him.

  And this was not lost on Campbell. In fact, nothing was lost on Joe. He was one of the most instinctual ballplayers in the NBA, with a reputation for having the smartest hands in the league. He could sense from the look in an opponent’s eyes which way he was going to pass, or whether he would drive toward the hoop. Joe’s hands were always there a split second before—deflecting, poking, flicking. Offense might be a function of raw athletic talent, but defense was intuitive. You had to sense what your opponent was thinking, planning, and doing in order to beat him to the move.

  Joe Campbell was the master of instinct. Whenever Coach Riley showed the video of opposing teams’ games, he would freeze-frame the action at crucial points and ask the players to guess what came next. Campbell was rarely wrong in his predictions. He understood the flow of the game better than any player in the league.

  And Joe understood women the way he understood opposing point guards. He could tell from a glimmer, a smile, or a gesture whether his date needed coaxing—whether her “no” really meant “maybe” or her “maybe” really meant “yes”—or whether she wanted to be taken without foreplay or game playing. Had there been video replays of dates, Joe would have been just as adept at predicting the flow of the action. And he saw in Jennifer’s body language that she was heating up. For now his style of aloof gentlemanliness, punctured with playfulness, was working quite well.

  “For a tough guy, you ‘re very sweet, you know,” she whispered.

  “Don’t tell that to the Rockets.”

  The limo driver chuckled… Jennifer was put off by the intrusion and quickly recoiled, as Joe raised the glass partition.

  “You must be reading my mind.”

  Soon the driver stopped in front of the Charles Hotel, and just as Jennifer was thinking of a way to ask Joe upstairs without appearing eager, he turned to her. “Listen, I can leave you here if you want or escort you up to your room. I mean, you know, we can kick off our shoes, maybe have a drink from the minibar. I’m safe, I promise.” He flashed his famous small-town-boy smile.

  Jennifer nodded, and on some signal from Campbell, the driver jumped out and opened her door in one graceful motion. The hotel doorman took over from there, as though escorting them into the hotel were a kind of relay. There was no way anyone in Boston could possibly have known that Jennifer Dowling and Joe Campbell would wind up at the Charles Hotel in Cambridge that evening, yet five or six women appeared to be waiting for him as they stepped into the lobby. They called after him by name and tried to touch him. To Jennifer it was surprising—and a bit revolting.

  “How did they know where to find you?” she asked, keeping close by his side, though not touching him.

  “They don’t have to know. The groupies go to all the hotels when a game is in town, waiting for whoever might show. As soon as someone is spotted, the word spreads.”

  As they stepped through the crowd, a tall, raven-haired woman approached them.

  “Hey, Joe, remember me?” she said, her voice low and insinuating. The woman s breasts were spilling over the tank top of her red body suit. Jennifer was repulsed, but Campbell smiled and acknowledged the woman as she handed him a videocassette.

  “An ‘audition’ tape. I get them all the time,” he confided. “Some of the guys think they’re funny, but I find them pathetic.”

  Jennifer assessed the group of women as having a median age of twenty-five. They were beauties, dressed to kill with bodies to die for. She could not imagine what would possess any one of these handsome young women to humiliate herself this way. But who was she to Judge? she asked herself as she made her way through the hotel lobby with Joe Campbell. Maybe she was just one of them in a way. Certainly her friends and colleagues in New York would wonder what she was doing, inviting a man she hardly knew, and a jock at that, up to her hotel room.

  Campbell kept his eyes down, and Jennifer felt sorry for him. He was a very gentle man, cultured, charming, and maybe even a bit vulnerable. He
really seemed nice—the kind of man she could like, both as a friend and as a lover. She thought suddenly of her boss last year, who had not been gentle, cultured, or kind. Jennifer was glad that Joe had chosen to be with her—that she wasn’t one of those women down there.

  Now all she had to do was sweep him into her fantasy.

  Once in her hotel room, Campbell absentmindedly picked up the copy of Boston magazine that had been placed in each room, quickly flipping through the pages while looking down to the street. Somewhere below, a siren wailed. There was lots of activity on the river side of the hotel “Wonder what’s happening down there,” he said without turning his head toward her.

  Jennifer joined him at the window, pretending to share in his absorption with the scene below. “Looks like some sort of fire.”

  “Uh-huh,” Campbell responded, looking out into the night.

  “You seem to have lost your concentration,” Jennifer joked. “If you were dribbling that way, I’d be able to steal the ball from you in a minute.” She playfully flicked the magazine Campbell was holding out of his hands and onto the floor.

  Campbell quickly reached for the magazine. “I never lose my concentration in a ball game, but off the court I’m entitled to daydream.” He turned toward her, and her perfect American face became a blur, blending into the black-haired girl they’d seen downstairs, whose name, he seemed to remember, was Charlotte or maybe Cherise. They all became the same after a while. This woman offered the chance of something different. Maybe she wouldn’t disappoint him like the last one. The crack about his concentration had thrown him off. How could she tell so much about him so easily?

  “I’m sorry, “Jennifer said. “I obviously pressed a button I shouldn’t have gone near.”

  “No, no, it’s okay, sometimes I do lose my concentration in situations like this.”

  Jennifer didn’t know what to make of Joe’s comment, so she left it alone.

  Joe kicked off his loafers. Jennifer noticed that they had thick heels, so as to give him an extra inch or two of height. How odd, she thought, since he was at least six feet three in his stocking feet. He then took off his jacket and hung it meticulously on the back of a chair. He was wearing short sleeves, something her lawyer and banker friends never wore under jackets, exposing muscular upper arms. God, he was beautiful. Then she saw a bandage around his right wrist.