Alibi (42 page)

David gave the slightest of nods.

“Fuck,” said Joe.

“I know,” said David.

“Homer is a homo,” said Frank, looking up at his boss. “Now
that
I can see.”

The rap on the door was hard and fast, the sharp successive knocks acting like little punctuation marks to Frank’s final comment.

“Marie?” asked Frank.

“No. She has her key,” said Joe, wondering who the hell it might be. He moved down the corridor toward the door, David and Frank standing from their seats and following him out into the green carpeted hallway out of some instinctive back up reaction.

Joe looked through the peephole and released the tension in his shoulders. He opened the door quickly to stare at the unlikely pair before him.

“Sara,” he said in surprise. “David didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“That’s because he didn’t know,” she replied.

“Lieutenant,” said Sawyer, to which Joe responded
“Jones,”
more in recognition than in welcome.

“Sara,” said David, now moving down the hallway. “What’s wrong. Are you . . . ?”

“David, I want you to meet Sawyer Jones,” she said, moving aside so that the two might shake hands.

“Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Sawyer, taking David’s hand, and Mannix noticed the kid squeezed so hard that the blood drained completely from David’s fingers.

“What’s going on here?” asked David, releasing his hand and shaking it slightly before looking at Sara.

“Can we come in?” she asked, holding up her hand as if to say she would explain things in a moment. “We don’t have much time.”

“Sure,” said Joe, reading the urgency in her voice as he stepped back to allow them into the hall. “Come on into the kitchen. I was just about to make some fresh coffee.”

“I’m sorry, Joe,” said Sara, grabbing his arm. “There’s no time. Sawyer has to make a phone call and we need you and Frank,” she said, nodding at McKay, “listening in as witnesses.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, this time looking toward a now obviously confused David. “I was going to call ahead but I left my cell in the apartment and there was no time. About an hour and a half ago a Mr. Kwon Si, foreman of the Nagoshis’ automobile plant in China, contacted Sawyer regarding his situation at the Guangdong factory.” The three men said nothing so Sara went on.

“We believe—I mean, Sawyer and I think that Mr. Kwon wants to discuss the working conditions of his employees and more specifically . . . the recent death of Mr. Lim.”

“Shit,” said Frank, making the connection.

“Hold on,” said David, determined to catch up. “Lim—isn’t he the man who . . .”

“That’s right,” she said. “Mr. Lim died in a factory accident the day after he called Sawyer and asked for Solidarity Global’s help. He was the same man who spoke to Jessica Nagoshi the morning before she died.”

“You think this Kwon is going to rat on the Nagoshi kid?” said Joe at last, cutting to the chase. “You think he’ll link Peter Nagoshi to this Lim’s death, and to . . .”

“Yes, Lieutenant, I do,” said Jones looking at Sara, and in that moment Joe got a sense that the kid drew a great deal of strength from her support. “I have spoken with the downtrodden many times, Lieutenant, and have become pretty good at gauging when they have had enough—when they
need
to tell the truth.

“Mr. Kwon knows more than he was able to say in our brief conversation this morning. But I believe—no, I
know,
that I can get him to tell me everything he knows, about Peter Nagoshi, about Mr. Lim, and perhaps even about Jess.”

No one said anything for several long moments.

“What time did you say you’d call?” asked Joe at last.

“Eight a.m. our time,” answered Sawyer.

Joe looked at his watch. It was 7:56 a.m.

“Come with me,” he said, grabbing Jones by the arm and pulling him inside. “Frank, call George in audio and get him to open a record on my home line.” Frank nodded.

“We have three minutes, kid, so for once in your life I need you to sit down, shut up and listen. If what you say is true, my guess is we may only have one shot at this. Understand?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” said Jones, and once again Joe got the sense this bravado was for Sara’s benefit. “You can trust me, Lieutenant. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

Heath Westinghouse hung up his cell. It had been a stupid idea.

What was I thinking?
he said to himself as he drained his extra strong espresso in the corner of the Law School common room, a cranny he now seemed to be coveting, a good thirty feet from the center of the room where he and his two best friends used to hold court.
Did I honestly think that I could just call James at his new residence and shoot the breeze about—oh, I don’t know—how I ratted him out to the cops and fucked his life over?

But that’s what he had done—well, actually he was guilty on both counts, fucking his friend over and then being stupid enough call Suffolk County Jail and ask to speak to James like he was still living a few miles east. His question had been met with a sigh by some bored telephone operator before she offered a response that went something like: “
I am sorry, sir, we do not permit detainees to leave their cells and just wander over to the phone willy-nilly,”
which had been followed by some spiel about visiting hours, a derogatory laugh and the long slow beep of a hang-up. It was a jail not a fucking resort. What a bloody idiot.

The truth was, his latest conversation with H. Edgar had made him sick to his stomach. So much so that he made up some bullshit about having a private meeting with Professor Novak so as to avoid going to a Corporate Finance tutorial with him this morning. First up, he had no idea that H. Edgar was gonna pull that “new evidence” stunt to the ADA yesterday and he was seriously pissed that his friend had not given him a heads-up in advance. Heath had no idea what H. Edgar was talking about, and now that Katz had told Simpson he wasn’t to speak of it, H. Edgar had yet another excuse to keep Heath in the dark. Finally, and worst of all, H. Edgar had sat here, across from him, mere moments ago and uttered the unimaginable—that
James had done it
! That he had killed Jessica Nagoshi. That he had fooled them all along. That he had
used
them in some pathetic attempt to try to get himself off. And that Heath had better wise up and accept the fact their best friend was a fucking Menendez brother in disguise.

But no matter which way Heath looked at it, it just didn’t make sense. Why the hell would James ask them to turn him in if he was guilty? He wouldn’t, of course. So now Heath was thinking that maybe something else had been going down from the beginning, and maybe, just maybe, James wasn’t the only one being played in this confusing little game of “piggy in the middle.” Heath shook his head, trying to clear the fog. Lately, with James out of the picture, he had got the feeling the whole university had started to look at him differently. And the view they were consuming wasn’t exactly one you’d run on the cover of a
Forbes
500 issue. And so maybe it was time he started looking after his own backyard, and after James’ as well, considering he was in no position to tend it himself.

If the mountain can’t come to Mohammad, then Mohammad needs to get his fucking shoes on,
he said to himself then. The operator at County lockup had told him visiting hours were Sundays at two—and so, this coming weekend, he would go and see James and find out the truth for himself.

It was cold out. David knew this because as he sat in Joe’s now crowded living room, the Jones kid directly across from him in front of the north-facing window, he could see the slightest trace of icicles forming at the corners of the glass outside, framing Sawyer’s head like some sort of crystal blue halo.

“Don’t be nervous,” said David, at last feeling the need to say something after Sara had left the room to get Sawyer a coffee, and Joe and Frank had formed a last minute cop-to-cop huddle in the corner of the room. “You’re a smart kid, Sawyer, and Mr. Kwon obviously trusts you.”

It was a lame attempt at reassurance, but the best he could come up with.

“Sara told me you only represent people who you think are innocent,” said Sawyer, the statement catching David by surprise.

“Ah, yeah,” said David, not knowing what else to say.

“How do you know?” asked Sawyer, his eyes now wide and inquiring, the blue light behind him now bouncing off his shiny young face.

“Well,” said David, looking directly into his big brown eyes, “I guess I trust my instincts. I weigh up what my client tells me against the prosecution’s evidence and, in the end, I go with my gut.”

“Doesn’t sound like legal logic to me,” said Sawyer, his face now relaxing into a smile.

“Me neither,” said David, smiling in return.

David knew how Sara felt about this kid, and despite Mannix’s reservations, was relieved to find himself thinking that perhaps Sara might have been right after all. Maybe Jones really was genuine in his attempt to help others, and the overconfident façade described by Joe was just that—an identity he had given himself to prevent being singled out for less appealing reasons.

David guessed that young Sawyer Jones had known he was different pretty much since he was able to communicate. And he had more than likely chosen his own “arrogant crusader” persona so as not to be labeled with some less socially acceptable moniker like “intellectual freak” or “annoying geek.” He had also noticed the way he looked at Sara, and guessed that the last time Sawyer got close to having a girlfriend was when he held hands with his cousin in his backyard sandpit.

“It’s time,” said Mannix, appearing above Sawyer with the telephone. “Just do exactly as we discussed. Keep it slow and easy. You’ll be on speaker so if Frank or I think of anything else you should ask, we’ll write the question on this pad.” Joe signaled at the notebook beside the phone.

“Remember, you are under a legal obligation to tell Mr. Kwon the conversation is being taped, but you must stress the recording will not leave the possession of the Boston PD. In other words, you have to make sure he knows the Nagoshis will never learn of this conversation and our only aim is to protect him and his workers—and to find out who was responsible for Mr. Lim’s death.” Joe took a breath, perhaps wondering if Jones was up to this. “You got it, kid?”

“Yeah,” said Jones, now glancing up at Sara who had returned from the kitchen to place an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “I got it.”

And then Sara took a seat next to David as Sawyer dialed the number and Joe and Frank hovered above him. They heard the line ring and a man pick up and Sawyer take a long, deep breath . . . to begin.

“Mr. Kwon,” he said.

“Yes,” said the clipped, accented tone in reply.

“Thank you for agreeing to take my call. I understand how difficult this is for you, but I can assure you, I only want to help you, Mr. Kwon, you and your employees.”

Kwon said nothing so Sawyer took a breath.

“Mr. Kwon, I need to tell you something before we begin and I need you to know that what I am about to explain has been organized in your best interests—for your protection.”

“I do not understand,” said Kwon, and Sawyer could already hear the hesitancy in the Chinese manager’s voice. Sawyer knew he needed to keep him on the line, not just for the police but because this man had come to him for help. If he lost him now, after months of trying to emancipate the Nagoshi workers in Guangdong, he would never be able to forgive himself.

“The police are here, Mr. Kwon, the Boston police. I am afraid they fear that what has been occurring at your plant—and perhaps even the circumstances around Mr. Lim’s death—may also be related to the death of Mr. Nagoshi’s daughter.” Sawyer could almost feel Kwon recoil, so he pushed on, trying to keep the connection alive.

“Please, Mr. Kwon, you have to understand, if two lives have been lost, if this is the way Peter Nagoshi operates, then this is just the beginning. You owe it to your workers, to yourself and your family, Mr. Kwon, to be honest, to clear your conscience, to tell the truth as you know it. We will make sure you are safe, for as it stands, if what you began to tell me this morning is true, you have little choice.”