Alibi (53 page)

“What a buffoon!” She grinned. “Katz had this guy pegged for a strike from the get-go, but he is so bloody sure of himself that he failed to see it.”

“See what?” asked Arthur.

“The obvious dummy,” said Phyll, rolling her eyes in mock frustration. “Davenport works for Apex Electronics. In fact, he got a promotion a few months ago and is now head of their Electrical Engineering and Computer Science Division. Apex are on the verge of signing a major new client, to supply them with state of the art computer parts and technology for a new generation of notebooks and PCs.”

“Nagoshi Inc.!” guessed Arthur.

“In one,” said Phyll. “In fact, according to my research, this deal will make Nagoshi their second biggest contractor.”

Sara smiled. “How the hell do you know this stuff, Phyll?”

“It’s what I do, kid.” Phyll rubbed her long acrylic fingernails on her hot pink blouse in a gesture of self-praise. “It’s what I do.”

Seconds later the judge called a young man named Josh Bergin. Bergin was twenty-one and listed his profession as “professional student.” He was a somewhat scruffy but good-looking kid, with long light brown hair and an earring in his right lobe. He was tall, with a three-day growth and piercing pale blue eyes, and could well have passed as a member of some Seattle based grunge band from the ’90s.

“Welcome, Mr. Bergin,” said Katz. “Thank you for your time here today. I see you list your occupation as ‘professional student.’ Well, I am sure you are a young man with an insatiable quest for knowledge, so tell us, where do you do most of your studying?”

The question, aimed at discovering which so-called educational institution would welcome such a young man as Bergin, was dripping with the insinuation that Bergin spent more time trolling live music venues than hitting the books, and Sara guessed Bergin sensed this too.

“The Hark,” he said. “And Starbucks, when I need a double espresso as a pre-finals pick-me-up.”

Bergin smiled, the courtroom shared a chuckle, and Sara, who realized the young man’s answer had gone completely over the ADA’s head, looked at Phyll before breaking into a wide grin herself.

“And you are studying . . . ?”

“At the moment I am doing an extra course in positive psychology. It is aimed at teaching people how to be happy.”

This was an oversimplification and Sara knew it. She had read about this course, it was actually one of the most sought after degrees in the country. It looked at the benefits of positive thinking and the power of optimism in the workplace.

“Working for you, is it, Mr. Bergin?”

“I’m doing okay.” The young man smiled, and Sara could not help but smile with him.

“Tell me, Mr. Bergin . . .” Katz glanced at his Rolex before moving on. “Do you have a problem with the concept of another student being capable of murder?”

“No.”

“Have you read about this case, heard the news reports?”

“Some.”

“Do you think, that despite what you may have read or heard, that you could still make an unbiased assessment of the case based on the information presented at trial?”

“Sure,” said Bergin, flicking the hair from his brow.

“Thank you, Mr. Bergin. I have no problem with this juror, Your Honor,” said Katz, before turning his back on Bergin and swaggering back to his desk.

“Ms. Davis?” said Stein.

“One moment, Your Honor.” Sara turned to Phyll. “The Hark,” she said in a whisper. “Bergin is studying law—at Harvard no less!”

She was right. “The Hark” was the colloquial name for Harkness Common, the prestigious law school’s café cum socializing and study area where students would hang out, hook up or find a quiet corner to read.

“I read about the positive psychology class in the
Tribune
,” she went on. “It’s now the most popular course at Harvard. Law students can take it as an extra subject. Apparently employers see it as a plus—the power of positive thought and all that.”

“Right,” said Phyll. “And Bergin may live in a rented apartment in Somerville, but his parents own a three-story brown-stone on Beacon Hill.”

“And I suppose that paint-stained shirt is designer too?” asked Arthur.

“It’s Ralph Lauren’s ‘Rugby’ line,” said Phyll. “Ralph swapped his polo player for a skull and crossbones insignia and
voila
! A whole new market.”

Sara squeezed Phyll’s arm in gratitude before turning back to Stein. “We have no objection to this juror, Your Honor,” she said. And with that, Josh Bergin was promptly confirmed as juror number twelve.

Moments later, Stein called for an end to the day’s proceedings, reaffirming that the four alternates would be selected and sworn in tomorrow—Friday—after which they, and the official twelve, would be asked to return to court first thing Monday for trial instructions and opening statements.

As the room began to clear, Sara took James’ hand and looked at his now healing face to say the one thing she had been desperately wanting to say for months. With David on his way back from the ME’s office, and Bergin secured as their one glimmer of hope among a team of Commonwealth clones, she felt a welcome surge of optimism that all was not lost after all.

“This has been a good day, James,” she said, squeezing his hand, which, she was pleased to see, had finally stopped shaking. “The bruising patterns,” she began, having filled James in on David’s discovery during luncheon recess. “And now juror number twelve.”

“He is one in a dozen, Sara,” said an obviously still terrified James, glancing at the security guards approaching from behind, and clasping her hand even tighter as if begging her not to let go.

“One. Yes,” said Sara, now feeling an all-encompassing need to hold him tight and protect him from the world, as she had her own little brother for so many years.

“I don’t like those odds, Sara,” said James. “In fact, they scare the hell out of me.”

“I know,” she said, pulling him in close. “But you are a student of the law, James, and as such have to remember one all-important thing. This isn’t about odds, it’s about reasonable doubt. And as that is the case, James, one is all we need.”

“Thanks, Mick,” said Sara, grabbing a fresh apple, carrot and wheatgrass juice from Myrtle’s cheery proprietor.

“My pleasure,” said Mick, handing David a more conservative orange and pineapple. “When this is all over I’m holding a little shindig here for you all—a victory celebration after hours. No alcohol, of course, given my license doesn’t allow it, at least none that isn’t approved by the law abiding Lieutenant Mannix.” He grinned.

“Thanks for the encouragement, Mick,” said a grateful David.

“Pleasure,” said Mick. “And the juice is on the house.”

They left Myrtle’s and headed outside, planning to drink their juices slowly as they walked home to shower and change and head to the office for a long weekend of pre-trial preparation. David was just about to run through his ideas for his opening statement, a speech he would base on James’ good character, when Sara’s cell rang, prompting her to hand David her juice and retrieve her phone from her sweatshirt pocket.

“Hello,” she said, and David waited as she walked silently beside him, obviously listening intently to the early morning caller on the other end of the line.

“The important thing is that they are off the ground by the end of the week,” she said. “We figure Katz’s witnesses will take at least four days and if that’s the case we . . .”

“Friday, that’s right. But the flight from Australia is close to a day and we want to avoid them being jetlagged.

“But surely, if it’s a respected law firm they will understand if Flinn has to delay his start. It would only be a matter of days after all. What about Buntine?

“He would have to get to Perth then, or Darwin. Does Qantas even fly out of Darwin for the US?

“Okay, I understand the problems. But what are you suggesting, Diane?

“Yes. If it comes down to it, but it would be much better for us—for James—if they were here in person.

“Okay. It’s cutting it fine but . . . Diane, do you think it would be better if we spoke to these boys direct, or at the very least to Flinn, who is contactable at this point.

“Yes, I know you know these boys. But keep us posted.”

And then Sara hung up before turning to David to say: “We have a problem.”

Two hours later they were back in the office and Sara was repeating their “problem” to Arthur and Nora.

“As we know, James had two best friends in Sydney—Lawson Flinn and Sterling Buntine. According to Diane they were inseparable at school—same classes, same sporting teams, same leisure activities and so forth.

“Lawson is in his second to final year of law at Adelaide University. He moved there from Sydney to be close to his fi ancé who is the daughter of the premier of South Australia. According to Diane he has just accepted a summer internship at some seriously impressive law firm and starts this week, making it hard for him to get away.”

Arthur shook his head and Sara stole a glance at David. This was unsettling news and they knew it, and unfortunately it only got worse.

“Buntine has been a little harder to track down. He was a boarder at high school, his family being wealthy landowners from the Northern Territory.”

“Now that is the real Outback,” said Nora.

“Exactly,” said Sara, “which also means that, according to Diane, he has been extremely difficult to find. Apparently he has been jackarooing in the Kimberleys.”

“But that’s mid-north Western Australia,” said Arthur. “Literally the middle of nowhere. How are we supposed to locate this boy? And more to the point, why didn’t Diane Matheson flag these problems sooner.”

David and Sara had asked themselves the very same question.

“She’s stressed, Arthur,” said Sara. “In all fairness to her she has lined up, organized and paid for the passage of three of James’ school and sports teachers, including the principal of his highly regarded senior school. They arrive on Tuesday in more than enough time to give testimony.”

Arthur nodded, before saying what David knew he was about to say. “But the friends are the key. You stressed this yourselves.”

For some reason they felt like two admonished schoolchil dren. The trial started in less than forty-eight hours and two of their key character witnesses had gone AWOL.

“Minding” Diane Matheson had been Sara’s job, but David knew he should have been riding his client’s mother too. It was too big a detail to miss, and a slip they could live to regret.

“If worse comes to worse, Diane said Flinn had promised to write a statement to be read in court. He is a lawyer so he knows what he is doing. He also said that if Buntine was unable to make it in time, he would organize for his statement to be taken in Western Australia. Apparently Flinn has contacted the Port Hedland Police in an attempt to track his friend down so . . .”

They sat there in silence, taking it all in.

“Who else have we got?” asked Arthur at last.

“One teacher, one swim coach and the principal from Sydney,” David began. “The Reverend Luke Mitchell from Brookline who christened James and has watched him grow from a boy to a man, Jessica’s best friend Meredith Wentworth and . . .”

“Still no one from the Deane faculty,” finished Arthur.

There was no avoiding it. The lack of character witnesses from Deane was a major hole in their case. David had no doubt that Dean Johns and his blessed board had made it quite clear to the university as a whole that James was not to be supported. But even so, they had hoped someone would come forward on his behalf.

The problem was, David knew, that this was not so much a case of academic or administrative bullying; the cruel fact was that most of James’ tutors and coaches, and even his fellow students at Deane, had a valid reason for refusing to testify on their client’s behalf—they thought he was guilty, and that was the biggest blow of all.

Just then there was a rap on the door, and an energetic Sawyer came bounding into the room, almost knocking over an umbrella stand and tripping on a box of case files in the process.

“Whoops,” he said, all arms and legs as he regained his balance and looked up at them all. “I thought this was meant to be a good day,” he said, reading the despair clearly written on their faces.

“Well, time for a pick-me-up, folks,” he grinned, as he flopped onto the office sofa next to Sara. “And as I am feeling particularly generous today, my good news will be delivered in twos.”

“All right, kid,” said David at last, rising from his chair to move to Arthur’s beer fridge in the far corner of the room. David opened the door and grabbed a close-to-freezing Coke before tossing it across the room to Sawyer. “Don’t keep us waiting. What have you got?”

Sawyer popped the Coke and took a long, slow drink. He wiped brown fizz from his top lip with the back of his hand, and offered a beaming smile before going on.