Alibi (56 page)

“Yes, but . . .”

“Yes or no, Lieutenant?”

“Yes.”

“He said he was having sex with another college student.”

“Yes.”

“A French exchange student by the name of Barbara Rousseau.”

“Yes.”

“But you spoke to Miss Rousseau and she assured you that this was not the case.”

“Yes,” conceded Joe at last. “But after Mr. Matheson was arrested he made every effort to explain such misgivings. The young man lied about sleeping with an attractive fellow student, to two male friends no less. I am afraid we have all been guilty of such falsehoods, Mr. Katz. At least, I know when I was a young man . . .”

“Lieutenant Mannix, we appreciate your offer to share your no doubt thrilling tales regarding your past sexual conquests, or lack thereof, but in the interest of this court, I would ask you to stick to the questions.”

Joe nodded. Katz was not giving him an inch.

“Did you have any explanation for the defendant’s repeated lies, Lieutenant?”

It was a good question, because the obvious answer was that the defendant was trying to hide something.

“Well,” Joe began, choosing his words carefully, “following his arrest Mr. Matheson explained that his falsehoods were founded in a desire to honor his girlfriend’s wishes to keep their relationship secret.”

“But there you go,” said Katz interrupting, raising his right hand to scratch his head as if unable to solve the puzzle before him. “You see, this is what I don’t understand,” he said, looking up at Joe as if he might be able to shed some light on this frustrating conundrum. “When Mr. Matheson told these lies, when he stared you and your partner in the eye and told untruth after untruth, Miss Nagoshi was dead, was she not?”

“Well, yes, but . . .”

“So, you can see my problem, Lieutenant. I find it difficult to conceive why Mr. Matheson was so concerned about her wishes, so desperate to protect her from scrutiny, when she was no longer alive to protect. Having said that, Lieutenant, I do see the irony—the fact that the defendant has a propensity for keeping secrets—that he expressed a desire to protect the ideals of a life that he so heartlessly extinguished in one of the most brutal executions this state has ever seen.”

“Objection!”
screamed David. “Your Honor, the ADA is engaging in blatant grandstanding. Mr. Katz is taking advantage of the court’s license by attempting to weave his own agendas into the testimony of the witness, leaving the jury with the impression that the lieutenant has similar views in regard to my client’s motives.”

“He’s right, Mr. Katz. The objection is sustained,” said an obviously annoyed Stein. “You know better than that, Mr. Katz, and if I catch you at it again I shall hold you in contempt. The jury will disregard the ADA’s last comments,” said Stein turning briefly to the twelve. “And you shall watch your step, Mr. Katz.”

Katz, having made his point, straightened his tie and, wearing a fresh expression of humility, went on to ask about the physical evidence in the case. He asked about James’ Nike shoes, forcing Joe to concede that the partial print in the greenhouse was also a Nike, but did not push too far considering the shoe was a popular one and the FBI had failed to find any evidence of “greenhouse mud and/or residue” on the pair confiscated from James’ apartment.

He skirted over the other physical evidence collected but only long enough to establish that while the police did not have evidence linking the defendant to the murder, they had not linked anyone else to the crime scene either. Finally, he reached the point he was so obviously impatient to get to—the one piece of evidence the defense would find it almost impossible to refute: the fact that James’ friends had given statements regarding a confession and the knowledge of those all-important shoes.

He lumbered on about the confession for over an hour, making continual references to Jessica’s missing shoes—“the highly confidential piece of evidence” known only to the police and the District Attorney’s office. He harped on about how difficult it must have been for Simpson and Westinghouse to speak out against their closest friend, and touched repeatedly on their honesty and their strength of character in forgoing their instincts of loyalty to do what they knew to be right.

By the end of Katz’s soliloquy, during which Mannix hardly got a word in edgewise despite David’s repeated objections that the ADA failed to allow the witness to answer the question, Katz had created an almost saintlike aura around the two boys named Simpson and Westinghouse. In short, he had done an exemplary job of paving the way for his two young “super witnesses” to take the stand in the coming days.

And so, after seventy long minutes of having to swallow Katz’s interminable flattery of the two assholes known as Simpson and Westinghouse, Joe had had enough.

“So, Lieutenant, allow me to clarify,” said Katz for the umpteenth time. “Messrs Simpson and Westinghouse appeared genuine in their efforts. They . . .”

“Absolutely,” interrupted Joe. “The minute the reward was mentioned their eyes lit up like Christmas trees. Two million bucks is a lot of cash,” he said. “But I got the feeling that for these trust fund babies the thrill was more in the chase.”

The crowd gasped. It was the first time the two boys had been described as anything but heroes, and it was the first time, in a very long time, that the press had seen a witness for the prosecution turn the tables on the confident ADA and slap him squarely in the face.

“The thing is,” Joe went on before Katz had a chance to recover, “if I were a cynic, I might take the leap and consider these boys had their eye on the prize from the very beginning. I might even suggest they manipulated Mr. Nagoshi’s grief for their own benefit—some sort of power thing, being able to control a room of experienced legal and criminal authorities and earn some extra cash in the process.

“But of course, we are not cynics, Mr. Katz, which is probably a very good thing, because if we were, we would have to admit to being had—by a pair of twenty-two-year-old college kids, no less.”

The room erupted, David looked at Joe with a nod and Stein picked up his gavel and thumped it on the desk before him once, twice, three times.

“Your Honor,” Katz cried above the hubbub, his voice a shaky, high-pitched staccato. “I request you demand this witness refrain from this scandalous conjecture. And I ask that his comments be struck from the record.”

“Hold on, Mr. Katz,” said Stein, glaring out at the crowd as if daring them to give him a run for his money in the volume stakes. “Might I remind you that you cannot object to your own witness and as Mr. Cavanaugh is still firmly in his seat I suggest you accept the lieutenant’s testimony and move on. After all, Mr. Katz, you were the one who rightly described Lieutenant Mannix as an experienced, exemplary officer, and as such, I believe his observations should be heard.

“Having said that, Lieutenant,” said Stein, now turning to Joe, “I might suggest you think carefully before you offer any further comments on the two boys in question. They are . . .”

“I know what they are, Judge.” Mannix went to say “who” but “what” came out instead.

Joe looked back to the ADA, unable to suppress a smile. He was challenging him and Katz knew it. Joe was daring him to throw another punch, and warning him of the potential repercussions all at the very same time.

“Lieutenant,” Katz gathered himself before moving on, a new fire of intensity in his narrow brown eyes. “As your grasp of the players in this case seems so insightful, I feel I would be remiss in my duty if I failed to ask you one final question—or rather a series in the same vein.”

Joe nodded, his eyes never leaving the ADA’s before him.

“Do you have any other bona fide suspects?”

Joe was completely taken aback. This was the last question he expected the Kat to ask. The ADA had spent the last few months telling Joe there were no other suspects—and here he was, opening the door for Joe to suggest otherwise.

Joe stole a quick glance at David, seeing the panic, the fear, the regret in his eyes and in that moment he guessed what had gone down at this morning’s opening—David had let the cat out of the bag, and now the Kat was determined to shove it back in.

“No,” answered Joe at last, because it was the only thing he could say.

“Did you ever, in the course of the investigation, consider another individual as the perpetrator of this heinous crime?”

Joe was caught. A “yes” would be giving away their game, but a “no” would be a blatant lie, and considering he was under oath, this alternative was unthinkable.

“We always consider a number of possibilities, Mr. Katz. That is our job.”

Katz shook his head, as if signaling to the jury that he knew the lieutenant was avoiding the question.

“Fair enough, Lieutenant, I realize the police came under a considerable amount of criticism for taking so long to solve this case so in all fairness to you I shall rephrase the question. Do you have any genuine proof that someone other than the defendant killed Jessica Nagoshi?”

Joe hesitated. “No,” he said at last.

“So, as far as the police are concerned the only viable suspect for the murder of Jessica Nagoshi is James Matheson.”

“Well . . . yes.”

“The defendant.”

“Yes.”

And Katz took a breath. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said with a smile. “We have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor.”

It was after eight. The sun had set almost four hours ago. The snow had slowed to a steady drift but the wind was still strong—enough to force a temperature barely in the positives down to a biting three below. David closed his eyes, allowing the cold crystals of frost to fall against his face. They were there and then they weren’t, attempting to land where they intended only to be swept up and taken on another journey by the determined offshore breeze.

He was at the northern end of the harbor, his gloved hands clasping the chained balustrades before him, the city lights behind him hitting the squat intermittent supports that cast long thick shadows into the black water beyond. Arthur was right. This was all his fault. His inability to “take a hit” and his egocentric decision to play their cards out of order had backfired with catastrophic results.

Joe’s testimony was a disaster. David had used his cross to try and reinforce Joe’s suspicions that Simpson and Westinghouse’s real motives were less than honorable, but the fact that Joe had admitted, in open court, that the police had no other suspects had basically painted David and his colleagues as a team of desperate storytellers. Liars representing the liar—it certainly seemed to fit.

And then the day had gone from bad to worse as Katz followed Joe’s testimony with a similarly “in the dark” McKay. The ADA had started with the compliments, touched on James’ Nikes once again and then built up to Frank’s insightful connection between James’ kayaking skills and the nature of the blows to Jessica Nagoshi’s forehead. At one point he even had Frank stand and demonstrate a kayaker’s motion—one, two, one, two—a theatrical performance that had the jury mesmerized and Frank turning a burgeoning shade of red.

Tomorrow the Kat would call Sawyer, and while David took comfort in the kid’s loyalty and ability to think on his feet, he feared Jones was no match for the cunning ADA who would be determined to “own” this witness after today’s double dose of obstinacy.

He looked up and was surprised to see stars. They were poking out in between the fast moving clouds. Gazing up like this to the night sky and beyond had always made him feel insignificant, overwhelmed. Which is exactly the way he felt tonight—small, powerless . . . lost.

He felt him before he saw him—or sensed his shadow approaching, slowly but directly, like a visitor on an unavoidable mission. The man stood beside him, leaving a good two feet between them. He had his hands in the pockets of his dark cashmere coat, his woolen scarf swallowing his neck, his back straight, his head erect.

“Is it him?” he asked at last.

And David turned to look at him.

“Is it my son, Mr. Cavanaugh? Is he the one you referred to in your opening statement this morning?”

“Mr. Nagoshi,” said David, unsure as to how he should proceed. “I am sorry for your loss, but you have to understand, I am not at liberty to . . . You shouldn’t be here. You should go home.”

David turned to face the water once more, John Nagoshi’s eyes never having left the harbor before him.

“He did not kill her, Mr. Cavanaugh, and before you protest, I must assure you I have proof. I love my children, Mr. Cavanaugh, but I have never been blind to their shortcomings. Peter is many things, many things of which I am not proud, but he is not a killer, Mr. Cavanaugh, this at least I know.”

And then the multinational CEO retrieved his gloved hand from his pocket and held the thick envelope to his side, offering it to David.

“Take it.”

“Mr. Nagoshi . . . I . . .”

“Take it,”
he said and David lifted his hand from the balustrade to take the envelope from the determined man beside him.

“The material inside contains transcripts of a series of telephone calls that took place in the early hours of Saturday, September 12—and I can provide you with the original recordings, authenticated by an independent technician, if you so desire.”

“I read your original interview with the detectives, Mr. Nagoshi,” said David, guessing this was some sort of attempt to convince David of the younger Nagoshi’s innocence. “I know you told them
you
had been on the phone during the course of that night, but failed to hear anything untoward.”

“I was asleep, Mr. Cavanaugh. My son made those calls—to China. You see, a man died at our plant, an electrical accident, and Peter was determined to keep it quiet, especially considering the humanitarian group known as Solidarity Global had become interested in our facility.”