Alibi (31 page)

“Well, no, but . . .” said the Dean. “I still think there is a way to do this without . . .”

But Johns was cut short. For the next thing they knew the bloodcurdling scream of a young girl rang out through the high-ceilinged edifice like a siren preceding an almighty catastrophe.

“What the hell was that?” asked McKay.

“The party’s started without us, Frank,” said Joe, breaking into a run.

“Radio for the uniforms to get in here. I need backup now.”

Minutes earlier, just as Mannix and McKay were “negotiating” with Dean Johns at the top of the Great Hall stairs, Roger Katz was undertaking some rather frantic negotiations of his own, trying to talk James Matheson into accompanying him out of the hall for a private and extremely urgent conversation.

“What?” said James, his eyes now darting back and forward across the pink-hued audience around him. “With all due respect, Mr. Katz,” he said, lowering his voice, “we were invited to this function, and we just want to sit down and eat our dinner and . . .”

“This is ridiculous,” said an obviously angry Meredith Wentworth turning to the ADA in disgust. “You have no right to accost us like this. James hasn’t done anything wrong.”

But then Katz felt an almighty force from behind. As if a strong invisible wind with smooth, weightless hands had lifted him up and to the side, removing him from the huddle and clearing its path so that it might confront its target with potent precision.

Peter Nagoshi did not hesitate. He swung about in what Katz could only describe as a circular whooshing motion, lifting both of his arms high and wide until they cut sharply down—one connecting with James Matheson’s left cheek, the other slicing into his right shoulder, sending him spiraling down toward the Great Hall floor.

For once in his life Katz was completely unsure as to how to react. One part of his brain told him to restrain Nagoshi, another suggested he should join in the fray to show the corporate son exactly whose side he was on, and a third, perhaps that portion that represented his true self, urged him to take one gigantic step backward so as not to get injured, so as to protect his perfect face and so as to avoid the embarrassment of getting his ass kicked by a twenty-something kid.

In the end he took option three, which was just as well because tonight was his night and by hell or high water those lucky stars of his were determined to shine for as long as they were needed—for in that second, just as the girl screamed and the police entered the Great Hall at the top of the main entryway, James Matheson got to his feet and smashed Peter Nagoshi square between the eyes. It was a powerful punch, with a clear intent to do major damage, and it was thrown with such anger, such force that Katz almost tumbled in the fallout.

And there he saw it, the boy’s green eyes alive with the purest of rage, his hands clenched, his chest heaving, his inner beast exposed with such terrifying intensity that those at the tables around him stood and ran and cowered at the sight of the black-suited, bloodied-cheeked maniac before them. Katz saw in James Matheson a potential killer, and the rest of the one thousand strong crowd, well, they saw it too.

“James,” said Jake Davis, reaching him first, pulling Matheson who was now advancing on a collapsed, semiconscious Peter Nagoshi once again, back and to the side. “Enough,” he said, perhaps trying to get the boy to refocus.

David set himself in the center of the fray, acting as a physical barrier between Matheson and Nagoshi, and as it turned out, a mere foot away from ADA Katz who, David could have sworn, swallowed a smile before setting an expression of outrage and authority on his chameleon-like face.

“Cavanaugh!”
declared Katz, now pushing back his dinner suit sleeves as if he were the man ready to control this unholy calamity. “Move back. This has nothing to do with you.”

“Fuck off, Roger,” said David, just as a further commotion broke out from behind in the form of four uniformed police officers who were now pulling the boy David assumed was Heath Westinghouse away from Matheson so that Frank McKay might cuff him from behind.

“Leave him alone,” yelled Westinghouse. David also saw the look of pure disgust on Joe’s face as his detective friend entered the huddle and moved to stand directly in front of Matheson.

“What the hell did you expect?” said Joe through gritted teeth to the tall athletic kid. “What is it they say, Westinghouse?” asked Joe of the boy. “Be careful what you wish for?” He then shook his head, before turning his attention back to the bloody-faced Matheson.

“James Matheson, you are under arrest for the murder of Jessica Nagoshi. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”

Joe said this while facing Matheson but also managed a quick sideways glance to his right, catching David’s eye and nodding ever so slightly before continuing with the job he obviously knew he had to do. “You have the right to have an attorney present now and during any future questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you free of charge.”

David looked at Matheson. He was obviously in a daze. But then, just as Frank McKay pulled on his cuffs, just as the police officers started to move back to allow passage of their latest Mirandized perp, Matheson looked up, his now glistening eyes meeting David’s with a desperate plea for help.

“Please,”
he mouthed almost imperceptibly.

And that one simple word said everything, prompting David to nod at Matheson before moving forward to say, “My name is David Cavanaugh and I represent Mr. Matheson. He has no comment to make until he has consulted with his attorney.”

He then took two swift steps forward to lean into Matheson and reinforce his directive by whispering, “Don’t say anything. I’ll meet you at headquarters.”

And with that Mannix nodded and McKay took the lead in ushering the newly arrested suspect back out the Great Hall entrance. David stood there, stock-still, watching them go as if caught in a time warp where his ominous predictions had finally come true.

And then she was in front of him, taking his hand, looking deep into his eyes before asking the question he knew she had to ask. “Are you sure about this?” asked Sara, to which he replied a straightforward “Yes.” And then he squeezed her hand before moving back to his table. He retrieved his jacket and nodded at his boss. He grabbed Jake’s elbow in thanks and looked at Tony Bishop who just stood there and shook his head in a gesture of inevitable fatality. Seconds later, he was moving again, walking, striding, then running toward the back of the room, like a man on an impossible mission, about to attempt the rescue from hell.

“Spill it,” said David, barging into Mannix’s office at the Roxbury headquarters of the Boston PD.

“Listen, David. The kid is still in processing, we haven’t even sat down with him yet.”

“Which you wouldn’t do until I was in the room in any case,” said David.

Joe just looked at him and David took a breath.

“Look, Joe, I am not here to bust your balls, but at the very least my client deserves to know how this came down. He wasn’t even given the chance to confer with you guys before you marched in guns blazing and arrested him in front of his entire academic and professional fraternity. You think the kid has any kind of future after tonight’s mini-spectacular? Guilty or not, Matheson’s name is now dirt in this city, thanks to a massive overreaction from the ADA and the police who were obviously doing his bidding.”

Joe said nothing, but David, who knew he had pushed too far, could see the anger rising in his friend’s face. Joe pushed past him to the door, yanking it from its resting place and slamming it so hard that the reverberation of the frosted glass echoed through the low-ceilinged Homicide Unit like a train through a tunnel.

“Where the hell do you get off?” asked Joe, now moving back toward his desk to meet David eye to eye. “You’re a friend, David, and I know it’s your job to act in the best interests of your client so I can forgive your frustration at how tonight went down. But if you ever accuse me of doing Katz’s bidding again I swear I will kick your ass out of here so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

David started to say something but Mannix wasn’t finished. “You’re a good guy, David, but one day you’re gonna have to realize that things don’t always play out the way you want them to. Katz is a prick, granted. In fact, this case is surrounded by pricks all with their own fucking agendas. But don’t you see, I have no agenda bar finding the perp who strangled that young pregnant girl.”

David nodded at his friend before leaning back to rest on the edge of his desk. “I’m sorry,” he said after a time.

Now Joe nodded.

“I need to know what you have against him,” said David after a pause. “And I want your take on it.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, David. I’ll tell you the facts, but that’s where I stop. I’ve been trying to get a take on this pit of shit for close to two months and all I’ve come away with is the stench of lies and self-interest.”

Joe stopped then, moving to the back of his office where he sat on the edge of his small two-seater sofa, his expression one of pure fatigue.

“All I will say is that you have your work cut out for you. In fact, you are the only friend Matheson has right now. His enemies are influential and powerful and determined to make an example of him. Did he do it? That’s for you and Katz to argue, and for a jury of twelve to decide. As for me, I’m done.”

They said nothing then, their eyes downcast, two men understanding nothing and everything, exhausted by a system that sucked people in and spat them out of a machine driven by politics as much as justice.

“You’re not, Joe,” said David at last.

“I’m not what,” said Joe, looking up.

“Done. You’re not done—and you know it.”

Joe said nothing, his bloodshot eyes now blinking in a gesture of recognition.

“I hate you, Cavanaugh,” he said after a pause.

“I know.”

It was 1:45 a.m. James Matheson had just finished giving a detailed statement to Mannix and McKay, in which they covered the major issues of the investigation. First up, and most important, he admitted to, and showed remorse for, lying about his relationship with Jessica Nagoshi—but he vowed he was innocent of her murder.

He told them he had seen her that night at the Lincoln but had left the Club shortly after his friends and gone home alone. He denied actually lying about partaking in a sexual rendezvous with Barbara Rousseau, but did agree he “falsely alluded to the possibility of sexual activity with her,” and “made no attempt to dispel his friends’ assumptions otherwise,” largely to “satisfy their curiosity” and deflect them from discovering the “true nature of his growing relationship with Jessica.”

He explained it was Jessica’s idea to keep their connection quiet, that her father “discouraged extracurricular affiliations.” He expressed regret for the untruths he had communicated in a desire to respect Jessica’s privacy. He confirmed he did own a pair of Nikes, size 11, but once again was aware of numerous other students at Deane who owned the same style of shoe. He denied ever being in the Nagoshi greenhouse, explaining Jessica thought a visit to her home would be unwise.