Alibi (22 page)

And so the timing could not have been better. In fact, timing was the
key,
and it was on this point that Peter had taken a considered gamble by proposing something he was yet to discuss with his father. He suggested that to hesitate was a mistake, that they must announce this foray into the automobile industry
now
. The Guangdong plant had already produced twenty-five vibrantly colored prototypes of the Nagoshi “Dream” CC250—the company’s first compact car—which would be shipped to motor shows all over the world as a public relations pre-runner to the automobile being released on the open market early next year.

“We must not allow this announcement to be foreshadowed,” he had said, knowing his father would pick up on Peter’s reference to the impending news of the arrest of his sister’s suspected killer. “We must lead with this positive and allow other similarly fortunate announcements to provide closure on previous matters and consolidation of our new direction, progress and profit for the near future and beyond.”

And his father, who had perhaps been somewhat taken aback by his son’s daring at putting this suggestion to the board before discussing it with him first, had nodded in agreement, proving to Peter that his calculated risk was not so precarious after all.

Solidarity Global were a non-issue. He had spoken to Mr. Kwon that very afternoon, who had assured him the only contact the international do-gooders had made in the past week was a ludicrous but informative phone call from the pathetic American boy named Jones. According to Mr. Kwon, Jones said that SG’s extensive study on Nagoshi Inc.’s Chinese operations would soon be released on their website—and the report would clear Nagoshi Inc. of any impropriety, describing their Chinese operation to be both “efficient and fair.” But this boy, the same youth Peter knew had used his sister to try to undermine Nagoshi Inc.’s progress, claimed he did not accept the report’s findings and was set on unveiling the company’s injustices to the world. Jones said he knew the study was compiled under contrived circumstances and that he would make it his life’s mission to prove it.
Good luck to him,
thought Peter.
Let him try.

Jessica was a fool, for she had opened the gates to this disaster, not realizing the consequences of her actions. Somehow the Jones boy had hoodwinked her with his rhetoric on the downtrodden unskilled and she had boasted of her father’s dedication to just and reasonable management. She wanted to use Nagoshi Inc. as the prototype for honorable employment and in doing so had intruded into Peter’s initiatives without asking his permission, and discovered what she was not meant to find. Her false face did not fool him. She was a Nagoshi in name but not in soul. She was making many mistakes, mostly due to her willingness to be seduced by the self-servedness of Western society and for this she, and her illegitimate unborn child, had paid the ultimate price. It was true that news of the child had unnerved him at first, but fate had its own path, and the demise of the bastard child was unavoidable once the course to eliminate its mother was set.

“Well done, Sara,” said Nora Kelly, their Irish-born, fifty-something office assistant who was dedicated, hardworking and blessed with a sharp Gaelic wit that served to soften her prim façade with just the right amount of humor and heart. “It’s a glowingly justifiable report,” she added, looking over Sara’s shoulder at the article on page five of this morning’s
Tribune
. “To think, your first pro bono civil suit for this firm and you managed to settle for . . .”

“One point five million dollars,” said Arthur from behind his antique mahogany desk. “Amazing, dear girl. Just amazing.”

“It all happened so quickly,” said a smiling Sara, now dropping the newspaper on the coffee table to pace around the office. Her adrenaline was pumping, the feeling of legal victory still fresh in her veins. “We didn’t think Mr. Finch would settle but the man was apparently terrified of having to face his day in court. The one point five was really just a throwaway figure. I never dreamed he would accept.”

Sara was referring to a man named Freddy Finch, the sleazy proprietor of a Mattapan restaurant and bar known as Tequila Mockingbird. Sara had represented a waitress named Aresha Sanchez and some of her fellow workers in a sexual harassment suit against Finch—who surprised them all by accepting the one point five million dollar proposal.

“Of course the jerk accepted,” said David. “Even an idiot like Finch is smart enough to avoid facing Sara Davis in court. Am I right, Nora?”

“For once, lad,” smiled the witty Irishwoman, who enjoyed nothing more than a verbal spar with the younger of her two “bosses.” “You are 100 percent correct.”

“So what next?” asked Arthur, getting them back on track. This regular Friday morning meeting was a forum to summarize cases active and pending, giving them a chance to bounce ideas off one another.

“Next we oversee the distribution of the money,” said Sara, now stopping in front of Arthur’s desk, “the bulk of which will go to Aresha with the remainder to be divided among the other staff who had agreed to partake in the joint action.” Sara was on a roll and it felt good.

“I do, however, have a list of potential clients’ names sitting in a wad of message slips on my desk. I am afraid this morning’s story has opened the floodgates to all and sundry who have a gripe against their boss. The problem will be sorting the wheat from the chaff. And Arthur . . .” she said before hesitating.

“What is it, Sara?” asked her casually dressed superior, who preferred open-necked shirts and khakis over the usual lawyer garb of dark gray suit and complementary tie.

“Well, I know you have been kind enough to . . . ah, give me a lot of leeway when it comes to pro bono causes. But I also know this is a business and I want to make sure I contribute financially.”

“Sara,” said Arthur, removing his wire-rimmed glasses to rub the red groove on the bridge of his nose, “the publicity you have given this firm this morning is worth its weight in gold—and I hope you know me well enough by now to understand my view of ‘business’ may not be the same as a lot of other attorneys’ in this commercial driven metropolis. Besides,” grinned Arthur, craning his neck to look at David who was sitting on the couch across the other side of the room, “David is the designated company cash cow. In fact, I am sure he is on the brink of signing his first multimillion-dollar client as we speak.”

Sara turned to face David, but she saw that he wasn’t listening. He had pulled the cover section off the coffee table and was now absorbed by a story on the
Tribune
’s front page.

“Perhaps if we offer him a bale of hay with his morning coffee we might get his attention,” said Nora.

“What?” said David, looking up at the three faces now focused on him. “Sorry, I was just . . .”

“What is it?” asked Sara, now moving behind him to study what looked to be a major piece taking up most of the coveted page one.

“It’s the Nagoshis. According to Marc’s story, Nagoshi Inc. is about to announce a major foray into the automobile production business with their manufacturing plant based in China.” He looked up at Sara, and she recalled their earlier discussion about Tony Bishop and his suspicions regarding the Nagoshi son. “Rigotti’s report also says an arrest in the Jessica Nagoshi murder case is imminent. He even quotes a source at the DA’s office who predicts they’ll have a suspect in hand before the week is out.”

“James Matheson,” said Sara.

“Who?” asked Arthur, now obviously confused, and David took a moment to summarize what he knew about the case for Arthur and the equally as discreet Ms. Kelly.

“Dear Lord,” said Nora. “Is that distasteful Mr. Katz trying to bully yet another young innocent?” This was not the first time they had been aware of the Kat’s disregard for the truth in favor of a conviction and all the political kudos that went with it.

“Probably,” said David. “But I’m not sure how he’s going to pull it off. The last time I spoke to Joe he was on his way to Deane to question Matheson’s friends. Maybe the kid’s alibi didn’t hold up after all.”

“Whatever the case,” said Arthur, and in that moment Sara knew her wise and caring boss had seen it too—the spark in David’s eye, his need to right the wrongs, his determination to defend those being railroaded by a system set on finding someone to blame, “I understand you took a liking to the boy, David, but at this point at least, it is no concern of ours.”

David nodded.

“But all this talk of Deane did remind me of one other matter,” Arthur continued. “I expect to see you all at the President’s Halloween Ball tomorrow night.” The Deane School of Law function was a social must for the city’s leading legal fraternity. “If I am going to suffer the evening trapped in a monkey suit and swapping anecdotes with a bunch of socially aware blue-chip barristers, then I expect you all to do the same.”

David looked up at Sara again and she sensed that going to this ball—a “chore” he would have done anything to get out of a few weeks ago—was now something he felt compelled to do.

“We’ll be there, Arthur,” she said, just as Nora nodded her confirmation before leaving the room to take a call from her desk immediately outside Arthur’s office. “In fact, Jake is going too. His new bosses at Credit Suisse want to introduce him around. My little brother is being ‘networked.’ ” She smiled. “Wonders will never cease.”

“Good for him,” said Arthur. “And good for me because I will probably stay no more than an hour before leaving you lot to fly our flag. I don’t think I . . .”

“Sara,” interrupted Nora, now standing at Arthur’s door. “It’s for you.”

“Thanks, Nora, but if it’s another disgruntled worker, tell them I will sort through my messages and call them back when I have had a chance to . . .”

“No, my dear. It’s far more serious than that, I’m afraid. This young man says he is about to be arrested for murder—and he needs to talk to you
now.
”

The Deane University School of Law library was an institution in itself. Founded in the late 1800s, it had opened its door with an impressive 1000 volumes, expanding its catalogue over two centuries to now boast a collection of 1.5 million books and manuscripts, 500,000 volume-equivalents on microform, and an impressive multimillion-dollar art collection to boot. It provided a warm, historically rich but ordered atmosphere in which to learn—and a ten-million-dollar-plus annual budget to maintain its status as one of the most up-to-date and respected places for academic legal research on the planet.

It also boasted a staff of over 100 personnel, all of whom James Matheson could have sworn were right this moment either peering at him, gossiping about him, or shaking their heads behind tall, book-laden petitions as they contemplated the walking, talking disappointment, tragedy,
murder suspect
, that was former “it” kid James Matheson. The grapevine had done its work. Everybody who was anybody, and even those who weren’t, had heard the latest—that Matheson had been questioned by Boston homicide detectives in relation to the murder of corporate heir Jessica Nagoshi. They had also heard that barely hours ago the same said detectives met with Matheson’s two best friends—peers they had no doubt would defend the popular Matheson to the death, unless (perhaps) it was in their best interest to do otherwise.

That was the thing about the law,
thought James as he turned off his cell and took a seat at a poorly lit cubicle behind a shelving unit at the back of the main library hall.
It was impartial and just, to the point of being heartless and mercenary.

It had been her idea to keep it quiet. She had told him her father, while rational and fair, would have frowned upon any distraction from her studies and her obligations as “Nagoshi chief executive in training.” Her father, she had said, was a generous and understanding man, but he was also set on assuring his two children maintain focus on their destinies. He had had a plan for her and it was, at least according to Jessica, “good and true.” But there were times when James wondered if such plans were not simply guises of control—and if Jessica, so completely unaware of the mesmerizing effect she had on people, would fall victim to such subtle domination without even realizing she was slipping into a trap. At the very least last night’s drinking fest with his two best friends had been cathartic, but he could still feel the weight of the blame about him, and knew there were many hurdles to jump before people would see him again as the man he was destined to be.

“James.”

He heard the voice before he saw her. Despite the fact she was two feet away and must have squeezed between two book docking trays to approach him from the narrow corner aisle. It was Jessica’s friend Meredith Wentworth, the one who was with her at the Lincoln that night.

“Meredith,” he said, managing a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. I was absorbed in . . . ah . . .” He looked at the text in front of him, having no idea what it was about.

“Alternative Dispute Resolution,” she read from the spine, coming to his rescue. “Enough to put anyone to sleep.”

“I guess,” he said, after which there was a long and awkward pause.

“Ah, listen, James,” Meredith went on, hugging her own heavy texts to her chest, “I was just wondering if you . . . I mean, I didn’t know if you were . . .”

“What is it, Meredith?” said James, bracing himself for someone to finally ask him the question he knew everyone was bursting to ask.

“I was wondering if you were going to the Halloween Ball tomorrow night,” she said at last. “And if you were, if you could maybe use some company, that is if you were planning to go, of course, and if you haven’t already asked somebody else, and wouldn’t mind if I . . .”

“Meredith,” he said, realizing what this kind young girl was doing and feeling more grateful than ever. She was making a statement. As one of Jess’s best friends. She wanted the world to know that James Matheson was innocent and that her closest friend, now cold in her grave, would have wanted her to stand by him, no matter what.