Alibi (44 page)

Moments later they were on their feet, the beginnings of a strategy in place. David knew that investigating Simpson and Nagoshi was not going to be easy—and his first priority was buying the team some time. While they did not want to see their client incarcerated any longer than necessary, they were more afraid of the consequences of going to trial without the evidence to back up their claims—claims that could ultimately identify the real killer and set their client free. Earlier in the week Katz had filed a motion for a speedy trial—no doubt motivated by the fear that DA Scaturro might return from leave and crash his perfect party for one. And while David had not disputed the motion at first, he was now determined to slow things down by filing a counter motion before the day was out.

“I need to see Stein,” he said. “I want to voice my objections personally. That way, at the very least, I can gauge his views on timing and maybe get a feel for his preference for this year or the next.”

Sara was off to see James. They had yet to discuss Westinghouse’s “loaded” recording with their client and, as hard as it would be, she also needed to tell him about their latest suspicions regarding Peter Nagoshi and his friend, H. Edgar Simpson.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” she said. “No matter how low those boys stoop, James seems reluctant to see them for the traitors that they are.”

“I know,” said David. “But somehow we have to make him see just how much is at stake.”

“Frank,” said Joe at last. “Grab your jacket. You, me and young Mr. Jones here are heading out to Deane. Sawyer is gonna help us recover some evidence.”

Sawyer, who had only just been summoned from his “holding cell” in the kitchen, looked more confused than ever. “
What
evidence? I thought this was about China? Why would I need to go to Deane?”

“We’ll explain on the way,” said Mannix, throwing the kid his sweater.

“It’s all right, Sawyer,” said Sara, slinging her handbag over her shoulder. “Just go with Joe. This is important.”

“I . . . okay,” said Sawyer, throwing on his oversized cable knit.

“Call me,” said David, as Mannix went to retrieve his keys from a side table just inside the living room door.

“Same,” said Joe in return.

“And Joe,” said David, as they reached the front door, ready to brace themselves against the wind, to head down three different roads, having no idea where they would take them, “I just wanted to say . . .”

“No need,” said Joe, pulling the door open to face a rush of leaves that swirled around their feet before sucking up toward their faces in a whirlwind of late morning chill. “Besides, since when did I require gratitude for an opportunity to kick the Kat?”

He was sitting in a closet. Well, not so much a closet as a maintenance room—a filthy four-by-four dust bucket that moaned with the cranks of an ancient heating system, which, having now examined its disgusting buildup dust and grime, H. Edgar decided was probably feeding the privileged students of Deane a decent dose of bacteria along with its decidedly dank hot air.

He was losing Westinghouse. He could sense it. His friend had avoided him all day, skipping lectures and failing to show at the university café for lunch. He was feeling shaky and needed a moment to think, away from the suspicious glances and poorly concealed whispers of his fellow students—and worse still—Deane’s esteemed academia.

It was Katz who had convinced him to take a different tack. He had suggested that it was Simpson’s good fortune that a man such as himself was leading the prosecution, because he was the best and could guarantee a conviction. He alluded to the fact that any lesser prosecutor might not have the balls to see this one through—to take on a rich kid like James, wealthy and connected, and nail his blue-blooded ass to the wall. And H. Edgar knew what he was saying, that a win for James would be social and career suicide for him and Westinghouse, as James would be seen as the innocent victor and he and Westinghouse as the two greedy bastards who sold their friend out for a measly mill apiece.

But while Katz was busy trying to keep H. Edgar on board he had not realized his argument was, in effect, doing the exact opposite. For H. Edgar was the prototype of wealthy, intellectually gifted, young America and any attack on James’ “kind” was also an attack on his own. Worse still, H. Edgar knew he could not do this alone. What if Westinghouse decided to spill the beans? He certainly appeared to be reconsidering his role in all of this, and there was no doubt in H. Edgar’s mind that his usually pliable friend was slowly drifting back into the camp that wanted to establish James’ innocence.

And so . . . what to do? How was he to salvage his reputation, regain Westinghouse’s trust, and reestablish their superiority in the process?

He needed to re-form the three, reunite them in a single cause, and place them ahead of Katz and every other fucking inferior who wrongly believed they could stamp out the power of the invincible young elite.

Think,
he told himself as he took a short sharp breath, swearing he could feel the dirty particles of dust scratching at his trachea as they surged downward to swarm in his lungs like a pack of hungry bees.

And then it came to him, crisp and sweet and clear as a sunny winter’s day. For if there was one fact H. Edgar knew to be true, if there was one cliché that superseded its delegation to formula, it was the adage that “Every man had his price”—or in this case,
“every woman.”

Yes,
he said to himself, the idea was utter brilliance. Simpson’s train had sped out of control, no doubt about it, but all he had to do now was pull the lever into reverse and send it right back to the beginning, exactly where he intended it to be.

Sara almost did not recognize him when he walked into the room. The right-hand side of his face looked like it had disappeared in a shadow, like he had painted it a dark shade of purple almost directly down the middle. His right cheek stuck out in a puckered stretch of flesh, his weeping pale green eye barely visible in a gully between the cheek and a protruding forehead. His brow was distorted at a misshapen angle that curved downward like a “V” as if pointing at the destruction below.

“
Oh, my God
,” said Sara, rising from her gray vinyl chair to help him to his seat. “James, I . . . What the hell happened?”

James attempted a smile, which, considering the distension on the right-hand side of his face, looked more like a scowl than a shot at bravado.

“I had a run-in with Danny’s dad.” His words were almost lost in their effort to negotiate the puffiness on the right side of his lips.

“I don’t understand,” said Sara, pulling out his seat and pouring him a glass of lukewarm water from the jug on the small metal table between them.

“Danny’s old man objected to a little phonetics lesson I stupidly undertook in some misguided attempt to make a friend,” he said. “Danny’s dad is called The Drill. He didn’t know that ‘p’ and ‘h’ put together make the sound of the letter ‘f,’ ” he said, his teeth now slipping off his fat lower lip. “And I didn’t know that Ivy League law student and big illiterate delinquent put together would make, well . . . this,” he said, gesturing at his face.

“Oh, James, I am so sorry,” she said, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Yes. He gave me some aspirin. They said they were going to admit me to the infirmary. But I have to wait until a bed is cleared so . . .”

“Well, we’ll report it,” she said, scrambling for some piece of action that might make this situation “better.” “This Drill will be reprimanded. If necessary we’ll try to get you moved.”

But James said nothing.

It was cold. The large rectangular whitewashed cinder blocks that made up the walls in the tiny visiting room made Sara feel like she was in an igloo—trapped in a blizzard a million miles from nowhere, where logic went out the window and reason came in the form of powerful uneducated criminals with names like “The Drill.”

“Sara,” James began. And then, within seconds, Sara felt his hand grow cold and wet with chill. “I need you to get me out of here,” he said as he relaxed his grip. His one “good” eye seemed to be rolling into the back of his head. “Please . . . I am begging you. I cannot do this, Sara, I . . . .”

His body began to slouch as his head rolled to the right, the swelling seemingly forcing it down toward the table.

“James!”
yelled Sara, getting to her feet.

And then James Matheson fainted, his body slipping off the chair like a dead man released from the confines of a noose.

David found him in the cafeteria.

He was sitting with his back to the main entranceway, his long spine aligned with the back of the tall wooden chair upon which he sat, his long arms, elbows at right angles, negotiating the mountain of lunch before him.

“Mr. Cavanaugh,” he said, and David wondered how the hell Judge Isaac Stein knew someone was approaching him from behind, or more to the point, how he knew it was him.

“Judge,” said David, taking a breath.

Somehow, on the way to Government Center, David had convinced himself not to go in all guns blazing. He knew he had to fight tooth and nail for an extended preparation period and he also knew he could not tell the judge why. But more importantly he knew that Stein was not the type of man to be influenced by the raw, sentimental arguments of attorneys overcome with emotion. He demanded calm and logic, backed by a sound legal argument.

“Do you mind?” said David, gesturing at the seat across from the Superior Court stalwart.

“Be my guest,” said Stein, pointing his fork at the chair.

“That looks very . . . ah . . . green,” said David, nodding at the huge bowl of “leaves” before the obviously unenthusiastic judge.

“A garden salad,” said Stein. “Which I suppose is an accurate description, given it undoubtedly came from a garden and there are no clauses in the legal definition of salad to preclude the insertion of weeds.

“My wife has me on a diet, Counselor,” said the tall, thin Stein. “Not for the usual reasons, of course, but for my cholesterol—300 milligrams per deciliter of blood, at least 60 milligrams over what is apparently considered acceptable.”

David nodded. “What about the pie?” he asked, as Stein pushed the greens aside and replaced them with a dessert, which he dragged into place with a fresh sense of satisfaction.

“Lemon meringue,” said Stein, scooping a large fluff of white from the top of the cloudlike flan. “It’s made from lemons, and lemons are grown in . . .”

“Gardens,” finished David.

“My argument exactly,” said the judge before lifting his gaze from his plate to look David squarely in the eye. “What is this about, Counselor?” he asked after a pause.

“The ADA’s motion, Judge.”

“Which one, Mr. Cavanaugh? I believe the industrious Mr. Katz has filed several over the past two days. Sometimes, in the dark of night, I have this image of all these hardworking little elves working around the clock at the DA’s office, preparing motions, issuing notices . . .”

“With Roger cracking the whip,” added David sarcastically.

To which the judge just smiled.

“I need some time, Judge, to see this one through. It’s already November and with this new, second charge . . .”

“The death of the child requires no further investigation, David. Sadly this is more a matter of legal semantics than anything else. Personhood, viability . . . the poor child is famous before he was even born, and his name, or lack thereof, will go down in history as precedent one way or the other.”

“It’s not just the feticide, Judge. You know the ADA has a personal agenda with this one, with Scaturro on leave and elections due next year.”

“Ah . . . now there you go again,” interrupted Stein, “always seeking an opinion from a man whose job depends on neutrality.”

“He is railroading us, Judge, he wants to use this trial to launch his campaign for DA. This is not about the truth, it is about winning at all costs.”