I’d reviewed a copy of that tape, typically grainy footage with a real-time clock running in the corner of the screen. The camera was positioned in the store’s back corner, providing an overview of the entire shop, including the front register, and continuing to a small area outside the store. At the time of 8:34 P.M., a beat-up Chevy sedan pulled up next to the convenience store, parking mostly out of the camera’s sightline but, alas, the rear end of the car was in full view—including the rear license plate, which confirmed it was Sammy’s beat-up Chevy. The car remained there until 9:08 P.M., at which time it drove away, out of the camera’s view. The time frame matched up perfectly with someone who drove to Perlini’s apartment, got in and killed him, and left. The only silver lining was that the camera could not, at any point in time, show the front of the car, or who got in or out—but Jesus, it wasn’t exactly a quantum leap here.

Once the police visited his house to inquire, Sammy didn’t exactly acquit himself well. He was asking for a lawyer before he had the door open. Then he changed his mind, at the police station, and unleashed a tirade against Griffin Perlini before they even mentioned why they were questioning him. He never outright confessed but that’s like saying Custer never outright surrendered.

I reviewed the list I had made:

1. Neighbor witness—saw man in brown jacket, green cap fleeing

2. Married couple—ID’d Cutler running from apartment building

3. Security video—Cutler’s car parked down street

4. Police interview—Cutler brought up Perlini’s name spontaneously

The case against Sammy looked pretty solid. Eyes at the scene, his car on camera at the scene, and a statement tantamount to a confession. But what was missing from all of this was what, in my opinion, was the most obvious element of the defense.

Sammy had pleaded a straight not-guilty. What he should have pleaded was a diminished-capacity defense, probably temporary insanity. He should admit he killed Griffin Perlini and tell the jury why—because Griffin Perlini was a child sex offender who had preyed on Sammy’s sister, Audrey. No jury would convict Sammy on those facts. Hadn’t his public defender explained that to him?

Sammy walked in, deputy escort in tow, and remained silent until the guard had locked him to the table and left the room. He had darker circles under his eyes than yesterday, and those eyes fixed on me with none of the curiosity and tolerance from our first meeting. He nodded without enthusiasm at the case file in front of me as he reached for his cigarettes. “So you know everything?”

You never know everything from a cold file. “They have you at his apartment building at the time of the murder,” I said. “You got any valid reason to have been in that neighborhood?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“You own a thirty-eight special?”

“Nope.”

The cops didn’t recover the gun, which was something, at least. Nor did they recover the brown bomber jacket or green stocking cap from Sammy’s place. Obviously the theory would be that Sammy tossed the gun and clothes, but at least plausible deniability was an option.

“Anyone ever borrow your car?”

Sammy stared at me with a sour expression. “Yeah, there’s this guy who goes around killing child molesters who wanted to borrow my car that night. You think that might be important? Should I have mentioned that before?”

He was in a real mood. What did he think, I wouldn’t ask him any questions? But I played along. “This vigilante, did he own a brown jacket and green stocking cap?”

He didn’t seem to like my return volley. He was pissed off about something. Maybe it was my questions, which reminded him of how tight the state’s case was. Maybe it was the fact that he was looking at life in the pen. It felt like something more personal.

“Sammy, your public defender ever mention a diminished-capacity defense?”

He blew out smoke with disgust. “What’s that? You mean the insanity shit?”

That’s what I meant. Temporary insanity, irresistible impulse—the idea that Sammy was so overcome with rage after seeing his sister’s killer that he lost all ability to act with reason.

“Yeah, he mentioned it, and I said no.” Sammy leaned forward, banging his manacles on the table, eyeing me. “I’m not saying I was nuts. I may not have a fancy law degree, but I ain’t nuts.”

Okay, so it was directed at me. But I didn’t have time for it. Sammy needed to see the big picture here. I silently cursed his public defender for not helping him do so. Diminished capacity was the obvious play here.

I said it quietly, trying to defuse the hostility. “Listen, Sam—all you’d be saying is that your act was legally justified. You get to tell the jury why you killed that piece of shit. And the jury would go along with that, Sam. If you say you didn’t do it, then everything that Griffin Perlini did in his past, to Audrey, to others—none of that is relevant. It’s not relevant because you’re saying you didn’t kill him. My guess is the judge wouldn’t even let the jury hear about all the sex crimes Perlini committed. So you go to trial on this murder beef, and you and I know what Griffin Perlini did—we know all the shit he’s done—but the jury has no idea. You get me?”

“Yeah,” he said evenly. “Even without a college degree, I get you.”

I sighed. My take was that Sammy had thought about things last night, how things had turned out for the two of us, and he was figuring that he’d drawn the short straw. “Listen, your best defense is to say, yes, you killed him, but here’s why—because that scumbag killed your sister. I think the jury would walk you, Sam. That’s more important than some damn principle. You get your life back. Let’s tell the jury what he did to your sister.”

By now, Sammy had broken eye contact. He was being stubborn but, I thought, also had trouble, to this day, thinking about what happened to his sister. I was hoping my plea had sunk into his logic. “And how do we prove what he did to my sister?” he asked me.

Well, now, he had a point. The police couldn’t stick anything against Griffin Perlini back then. They had a pedophile with a history, they had photographs of Audrey—and many other girls—found all over his coach house, but they never found Audrey’s body and couldn’t get a confession out of him. That was the extent of my knowledge of the case, from the perspective of a seven-year-old boy. The cops couldn’t prove their case. But now I’d have to revisit all of this. I would have to find a way to prove that Griffin Perlini killed Audrey Cutler.

“Maybe—maybe look at other people he hurt,” said Sammy. “Other families had a beef with this guy, right? Audrey wasn’t the only one.”

It was an obvious thought, a good one. But Sammy didn’t seem to be rushing forth to proclaim his innocence, so I doubted that pointing the finger at another father or brother or victim of Griffin Perlini’s crimes would ultimately get me anywhere.

“I’ll do that,” I promised. “But I need more than a month to prepare, Sam. I need six months, minimum.”

Sammy shook his head. “No. No more time. I want out of here.”

“If you make me go to trial in four weeks, you’ll never get out of here.”

“I said no.”

I sat back in my chair. I understood that he’d want out of this place, but trading a couple months for a lifetime in the pen was an easy call. What was the problem here?

“Let me do this the right way, Sam. The jury will see a child killer. They’ll see the anguished brother. We’ll have a fighting chance.”

Sammy remained motionless, but I could sense violence welling up within him. His hands were balled in fists, his arms and shoulders trembling. A shade of crimson colored his rugged face. I didn’t blame the guy, but I didn’t see what the problem was. I was right, and we both knew it.