Alibi (47 page)

James shifted in his narrow hospital bed, wincing as he lifted his shoulders up off the hard rectangular pillows that were propped behind him like two thick tablets of rock.

“But why would he want to hurt Jess? He didn’t even know her. H. Edgar never does anything without intent. He is the most focused person I know.”

Sara knew she had to tell him about David’s theory.

“We think he was in love with you, James.”

“What?”
said James, lurching forward, the two pillows now falling to the floor with a thud. The nurse in the corner looked around, but Sara signaled that all was okay and quickly returned the heavy, blood-stained blocks to their place behind James’ back.

“Did you ever get the sense that he . . . ?” she began.

“No!” said James, and Sara could see that James was wrongly taking this “theory” as some form of assault on his own sexuality. “H. Edgar is straight. Whenever Heath and I were talking about girls he would . . .”

“Join in?”

“Yes.”

“But have you ever
seen
him with a girl, James? Has he ever had a girlfriend, or even a one-night stand for that matter?”

“I . . . He must have . . . I don’t know. I guess we just assumed he liked to keep those things to himself. H. Edgar is one arrogant son of a bitch, Sara, and Heath and I always figured he saw most of the girls at Deane as somewhat below him.”

“The girls at Deane are some of the prettiest, wealthiest, most connected and intelligent young women in the country,” countered Sara.

“Well, sure but . . .”

“So H. Edgar was holding out for a Kennedy princess with a Nobel Prize? I don’t think so, James.” Sara didn’t want to be blunt, but she also knew she had to push the point. Simpson’s sexuality was key to their argument, and if by any chance Joe managed to place him in that greenhouse, it gave them motive to Joe’s opportunity, the means being a long thick garden hoe and a pair of strong young hands driven by resentment, jealousy and rage.

James shook his head.

“Look,” said Sara at last. “I know this is a shock, and if you tell me there is no way on God’s earth that he is gay, then I will trust your judgment. But if there is
any
chance James, any small doubt in your mind then . . .”

They were interrupted by a guard at the end of the long narrow room, entering with Diane Matheson who nodded her thanks and began to walk down the side wall toward them.

“James?” said Sara at once, determined to finish this conversation before Diane reached them.

“Look, I . . . I never really thought about it.”

“
Think
, James. Open your mind and at least consider the possibility. Could H. Edgar be gay, James? Is it at all possible?”

“I . . . Yes. Yes, it is possible,” he said at last.

And Sara breathed a sigh of relief.

Diane Matheson was a mess—a green-eyed, designer-clad, beautiful mess.

Sara had dragged her from the jail at midday, telling her James needed to get some sleep before he was released from the prison infirmary and sent back into the general population.

They had found a quiet riverside café not far from North Station, which overlooked the Charles across Bunker Hill Bridge and beyond. The morning drizzle had finally passed, the sun was now warming the icy ground and making the puddles shimmer.

“He’s going to be all right, Diane,” she said after their sandwiches had arrived. “He’s a strong boy with plenty of good people to support him.”

“Not in there he isn’t,” countered Diane, and Sara nodded, knowing there was no point in trying to hide the truth.

“I know this is hard, but as I explained, it looks like we are headed for an early trial and . . .”

“So they can’t kill him,” she said.

“No,” Sara said, knowing this was the one lie she had to tell. “So that we can get him home, to you and Jed, as quickly as possible.” She took a sip of her ice water before going on.

“We need your help, both yours and Jed’s, to come up with a list of character witnesses who can tell the court the truth about your son. We need teachers and coaches and family and friends, elders and peers who can paint the real picture, and prove to the jury that there is no way on earth that your son is capable of the charge they have made against him.”

“Charg
es
,” bit Diane, not so much in anger but out of frustration and grief and fear.

“Charges,” confirmed Sara, realizing this woman was too astute for sugarcoated platitudes. Sara reached across the table then, taking Diane’s hand. “We have to focus here, Diane—on the trial, the witnesses. It’s okay to be worried—hell, it’s downright necessary. But you have to find a way to use that energy to help us get this done. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Diane, swallowing hard. She then proceeded to pick up her black Prada bag and unlock its clasp before reaching inside to retrieve a piece of pale blue notepaper.

“The list,” she said, unfolding the sheet of stationery. “Many of them are in Sydney but they will come if you need them. They are teachers and principals and coaches and the like. Family doctors and local priests and councilmen and more. The list contains forty names, but I can add to it if necessary.”

Sara smiled, taking the page from Diane’s slender hand. “That’s terrific, Diane,” she said. “And if it’s okay with you, we’ll take some time going through them, one by one.”

Diane nodded—a short, sharp, definite sign of agreement.

“Considering the nature of the charges,” Sara went on, “we’re going to need to focus on James’ peers. I need young men and women, just like his current friends. Kids who studied with him, spent their weekends with him, partied with him and most importantly dated him. These are the witnesses who will make the biggest impression given they mirror the characters in our scenario here, his fellow law students, his friends, his . . .

“Girlfriends like Jessica Nagoshi,” said Diane as if needing to say the name herself.

“Yes,” said Sara with a nod.

And Diane managed a nod in return, but this time slower, less enthusiastic, as if the very mention of Jessica’s name had drained what little hope she held for the future of her only child.

“Is that okay, Diane?” asked Sara with a smile, squeezing Diane’s hand in encouragement, needing to keep her on track.

“Yes,” Diane managed, taking a breath before releasing it slowly with just the slightest of shudders. “I am sorry, Sara. I’m fine, really.” She smiled, squeezing Sara’s hand in return. “Let’s get to it.”

David was furious! Livid! This was the last thing he needed. Jed Matheson’s call had come out of the blue, an unexpected knock that, truth be told, David should have anticipated the moment his client was arrested.

They were going to expel him. Deane University was abandoning their star pupil and the minute the news hit the press, David knew every potential juror in the state would be given one more reason to nail his innocent client to the wall.

“This is outrageous,” said David, perched on the edge of a purple upholstered chair in Dean Johns’ similarly hued office. “You have no grounds to expel my client. James Matheson is an excellent student and accomplished athlete who has been a credit to your university and all the principles it claims to uphold.”

“But that is exactly my point, Mr. Cavanaugh.
Has been
. Past tense. I am afraid the controversy now surrounding Mr. Matheson is . . .”

“None of his own doing,” countered David. “James is innocent, Dean. If you wish to expel anyone perhaps you should be looking a little closer at his two so-called friends—H. Edgar Simpson and Heath Westinghouse who . . .”

“Whose father is a respected member of our board of trustees,” said the Dean, his honesty taking David aback.

“So you admit this decision has been influenced by the board?”

“I admit no such thing, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Johns. “I was simply making an observation regarding the relationship between one of our better students and a respected member of our board.”

Johns was quick,
thought David, and why shouldn’t he be? He had practiced law in some of the country’s finest establishments before turning his hand to academia several years ago.

“Come off it, Dean,” said David. “You and your precious board are trying to protect the university’s reputation and all the kudos and financial benefits that go with it. But you represent a school of law in the state of Massachusetts, and I am afraid that means that as well as teaching the law you have to abide by it.”

“He is late with a payment.”

“
A fee installment, Mr. Cavanaugh. I am afraid James’ swim fees were due last week and as the payment deadline has expired we . . .”

“Swim fees, for Christ’s sake? How much are they, Dean?” asked a now exasperated David pulling his wallet from his top shirt pocket. “Tell me the figure and I’ll hand it over to you right here, right now.”

“I am afraid it is too late for that, Mr. Cavanaugh. I have checked with our lawyers and this is all aboveboard.”

“And let me guess, your lawyers just happen to be . . .”

“Westinghouse, Lloyd and Greene. A matter of coincidence—nothing more. Besides, according to the district attorney’s office, Mr. Matheson will be incarcerated at least until the end of the year, which means I am afraid he will miss numerous compulsory classes and exams that are necessary for him to pass the bar. Our places are limited, Mr. Cavanaugh, we have hundreds of inquiries every day and . . .”

“What?”
said David at last, missing everything the dean had said after “district attorney’s office” and “incarcerated at least until the end of the year.” “You spoke to ADA Katz?”

“Briefly,” said Johns. “But I can assure you that the decision is ours entirely.”

“When did he call you?” asked David, hoping the dean would give away the fact that it was Katz who had called
him
.

“This morning,” said the Dean. “But this is all beside the point. As I explained we . . .”

“Bullshit,”
said David at last, finally rising from his chair. “Katz started talking consequences for the university and you made the decision to pull the pin on my client within minutes of hanging up the phone.

“You screwed him, Dean—you and your goddamned board. You have abandoned one of your own, the very law grad you and your fellow academics should be proud to list as a future alumnus. You have shattered his family and participated in a charade that will no doubt contribute to the burgeoning lies being peddled by an ambitious ADA.

“When I was a kid, I actually dreamed of being able to afford attending a law school like Deane and now my former aspirations have exploded, in one almighty surge of disgust.”

David looked at the now rising dean and saw the slightest trace of remorse on his round, flushed face.

“I am sorry, Mr. Cavanaugh. It is just that . . . the board they . . .”

“Are a greedy bunch of snobs who are so intent on preserving this university’s blue-blood earning potential that they are willing to sacrifice one of their own.” David took a deep breath, determined to say one last thing before he left this lavender lair that now reeked of the sickly scent of betrayal.

“I will win this thing, Dean, and when I do, I will make sure James Matheson gets his chance to graduate law at an institution with far worthier principles than your own. But if I fail, if by any small possibility I do not do the job he deserves, you and your blessed board can rest assured that his blood will fall decidedly on your hands.”

The traffic was thick, dense, sluggish. It had taken him mere minutes to race back to his car, loop onto the Worcester Turn-pike and relish a relatively smooth ride before hitting Hunting-ton and the early evening traffic. It was Friday, and the roads were clogged with workers desperate to either head in or out of one of the world’s most compact cities as the sun finally gave way to a determined twilight, the air cool, the taillights blinding.