Alibi (63 page)

“I’m sorry, Professor, I do not follow.”

“They have found a way out, David. There is no doubt about that. These boys have come up with a solution and it is sitting before me as I speak.”

“Me?”

“Of course. Why do you think they submitted this assignment and added a note instructing me to contact you at my earliest opportunity.”

“And the note?” asked David, who was yet to see Simpson’s handwritten adjunct to the controversial report.

“It requests you meet him tomorrow—seven a.m., before court begins and Westinghouse is called to the stand.”

“Where?” asked David.

“The Somerset Club, a private room no less.”

David nodded. “Will Westinghouse be there?” he asked, perhaps sensing he might have a chance of winning over the less manipulative of the two. Heffer looked at him as if the question was beneath him.

“I guess not,” added David. And they sat there for a while in silence.

“I don’t trust him, Professor,” said David at last. “How do we know that this meeting is not just another layer of their incessant deception?”

“You don’t,” replied the straightforward professor. “And forgive me for being blunt, David, but you have no other choice.”

“They still have the money, Professor. That alone proves the motive of greed.”

But Heffer shook his head before pulling a small piece of paper from one of his many pockets. “Not anymore. For this was attached to their assignment—a check for one million made out to Deane.”

“A donation?”

“Yes. Very philanthropic of them, wasn’t it?” replied Heffer.

“Jesus,” said David, taking the check from Heffer’s substantial hand—a bank check from the Grand Cayman Island Caribbean Trust and Banking Corporation no less.

“And the other million?” asked David.

“Gone to an international charitable organization, I believe. Like I said, David,” said Heffer, shaking his head. “This was never about the money.”

“So I meet him,” said David.

“Yes.”

“And negotiate with the devil.”

“Yes. I have followed your career, David, and at the risk of sounding sycophantic, you are the ultimate entrepreneur. This boy is smart, but his ego will be his downfall.”

David nodded, as the professor got up to leave.

“Professor,” said David at last, having one more question to ask before he escorted this honest, genuine man toward the back of his office. “Is Simpson sleeping with a staff member at Deane?” He didn’t mean to be blunt, but given the nature of their conversation, he felt it only fair to be straight.

“I have heard as much,” said Heffer, perhaps just a touch surprised that David had heard it too. “And according to faculty gossip, it is a professor no less.”

David looked at him, willing him to say it.

“Her name is Maggie Grosvenor and she has a PhD in criminal law. Sort of ironic, don’t you think?”

But David heard nothing after the name Maggie—their only hope for survival now was fading before him, faster than he could blink.

As David approached the Somerset Club at 42 Beacon, the morning still dark, the air cool and fresh, he remembered an old and much told anecdote about the level of exclusivity at this historic establishment. From what he could recall it dated back to an event in the 1940s when a fire broke out, spreading to all three of the Club’s impeccably decorated floors. The firemen apparently ran straight through the front doors, only to be told by some legendary majordomo that, as they were not members, they would have to go round back and enter via the servants’ quarters—which they did, and continued to battle the fire while those in the dining rooms sat completely unperturbed.

But David’s early entry was much less troublesome. In fact, he barely got the chance to utter his name before a faultlessly dressed concierge escorted him silently to a private dining room on the third floor. Although he had heard much about this elite Boston establishment, David had never been inside. The décor was rich and ornate but still subtle in a comfortable way that spoke of years of affluence and breeding. The heavy drapes, leather lounges, dark wood chairs, lush tapestries and richly colored European rugs were all accented by the effective but restrained lighting of crystal chandeliers, which hung from ornate ceiling roses, bordered by elaborate cornices that stamped the room with authenticity.

The room was empty—at least from what he could see. There was a large table set for two with silverware neatly arranged next to thick white napkins and china cups for tea. The fire in the corner was warm and inviting, burning beneath a white marble mantle that held two matching antique urns displaying some sort of colorful bird on lean leafy branches.

“Mr. Cavanaugh,” said a voice, and David turned to see Simpson—who had been seated behind him the entire time—rising slowly from his plush, burgundy chair. The boy extended his arm in greeting, his ginger hair parted neatly down the side and shining almost golden in the glint of the elaborate glass lights above.

“Welcome to the Somerset,” he said as if he owned the place—his blue button-down, subtle tie and beige cashmere V-neck fitting the casual young affluent to a “
T
.”

“Please,” he said. “Take a seat, I took the liberty of ordering you some poached eggs and bacon with the Somerset’s delectable potato on the side. Some tea?” he asked, taking a seat at one side of the long cherrywood table.

“No,” said David. “Coffee, black. That is, if they serve it here.”

“Of course,” said Simpson. “I expected as much so I asked William to bring a special pot of their pure Brazilian. It is nothing short of sublime.”

David took a seat, feeling like he was in some strange time warp where his previous reality had ceased to exist. This was the other Boston, the historic, prosperous, upper-class world of the city’s first families—where privilege and superiority seemed to come with genes on some very well-to-do strands of DNA.

He went to open his mouth, feeling the need to control this meeting from the outset, only to be interrupted by a gray-haired William who glided in, presented the coffee and poured its aromatic contents into David’s china cup before turning to leave, having not made one single sound in the process.

“All right,” said David at last, staring directly at the blue-eyed young man. “Your time is up, Simpson, in less than two hours your buddy Westinghouse takes the stand, and if you have something you want to tell me before I tear him to shreds on cross, I suggest you explain yourself now.”

Simpson smiled. “I can see why James chose you, Mr. Cavanaugh—I mean David. Can I call you David?”

“Can I call you Homer?”

“Best not,” he said.

“Likewise.”

“What I mean to say is,” said Simpson, shifting slightly on his emerald green silk embroidered chair, “I appreciate your straightforwardness.”

“And I’m sick of your bullshit,” countered David. “I read your assignment, Simpson, and it reeks of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.”

“We saw to that.”

“Oh, I know you covered your asses,” said David. “But I also know I am a fucking determined lawyer and if anyone can find a crack to have you indicted, it will be me.”

“I believe the Somerset discourages swearing, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

“Well then you will no doubt enjoy cussing your ass off when you are sipping tea in your two by four at Massachusetts Correctional.”

“All right.” Simpson smiled, lifting his small, smooth hands to give David a short round of applause. “Fair enough. Let’s get down to business shall we, before our eggs arrive.”

David nodded, grabbing his teacup like a coffee mug and downing it in one, long, strong-scented gulp.

“James is innocent,” said Simpson. David was slightly taken aback from his frankness from the get-go. “We understand that. We concocted this highly ambitious, and might I add, singularly brilliant plan, simply because we wanted to explore the possibilities of testing the boundaries of justice. Which we did, quite successfully, would you not agree?”

David went to answer but Simpson held up his hand.

“We did not, however, foresee the problem relating to our good friend’s alibi. We took him at his word—a word backed by our own personal observation of Miss Rousseau’s obvious intentions on that night at the Lincoln. She had the hots for him, Mr. Cavanaugh, and who were we to think he would be fool enough to decline?

“That being said, our friend’s lack of honesty created a fissure in our otherwise flawless plan, a gap which has unfortunately grown beyond repair.”

Simpson picked up his own teacup as he said this, as if examining it for cracks.

“And with all this exceptional planning,” said David, “did you ever once consider the repercussions on your friend?”

“Of course, which is why we built the confidentiality agreements into the terms of our testimony. James was supposed to hand himself in within a specified time but failed to do so. Which I suppose is understandable, given he knew his alibi would not hold.”

“You’re suggesting James was in on this from the very beginning?” asked David, watching Simpson closely. He could see this question was a difficult one, and that Simpson was thinking carefully before offering a reply.

“I am suggesting,” Simpson began, “that James may have misread my intent, and in the process dug himself a hole from which there appears no escape. You have to understand, Mr. Cavanaugh, that myself and Heath and James, we are different to most others at Deane. Indeed we are different to most others at any of this nation’s fine educational institutions, set apart by our superior intellect and circumstances.

“We did not ask to be born into advantage, Mr. Cavanaugh, it was simply a matter of luck. But we are, at the very least, three of the few who
use
such good fortune to improve ourselves and push at the boundaries the less progressive set upon us. It is our duty, and to fail to do so would do our fortuity a gross misservice.”

David shook his head. This kid was something else. “Tell me, Simpson, do you actually believe the crap that comes out of your mouth? Are you that conceited that you truly see yourself as some sort of demigod, delivered like a deity to us less fortunate individuals so that you might rewrite the ground rules of justice and . . .”

“Lord no,” said Simpson. “In all honesty I could not give a crap about the masses, Mr. Cavanaugh. What they learn from my example, what they perceive from my feathering my own nest is left entirely up to them.”

“Then you admit this is all about you.”

“Of course, and to a lesser degree Westinghouse and Matheson. I am not a complete narcissist, Mr. Cavanaugh, more an individual willing to share with a select few who are worthy, which James is of course, a fact I am sure you already know.”

Seconds later William was back delivering their steaming hot breakfasts, the aroma of eggs with Parmesan and perfectly grilled bacon strong and inviting in the cozy, softly lit room about them—a warmth so at odds with the nature of their discussion. But as William made his silent retreat, neither of them moved to consider their meal, both waiting for the other to make the first move and broker the deal they had come here to make.

“I have a proposal for you, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Simpson at last. “An offer that will be withdrawn unless you agree to it forthwith.

“I am not stupid, Mr. Cavanaugh. I know our situation is precarious and Westinghouse and I are locked in a room to which you hold the key. But my advantage lies in the fact that I hold a second key to your release—or more specifically your client’s, who let us be honest, is the most desperate prisoner of all.”

“What do you want, Simpson?” said David at last.

“Two things. First I want you to pull back, to moderate your cross of Westinghouse. I want you to follow the line he takes and in return you may ask the question you have always wanted to ask.”

“So now you are dictating my questions?”

“Only because I can assure you of their answers.”

David said nothing, finally understanding what the young man was proposing.

“Secondly and most importantly,” Simpson went on, “I want you to abandon your cross of me altogether.”

“What?”
said David, incredulous. “I’m sorry, Simpson, but there is no way I am going to sit back and . . .”

“Actually, it is not up to you, Mr. Cavanaugh, it is up to your client.”

“You are not the prosecutor, Simpson, and this is no plea bargain.”

“No, but you will put it to him nonetheless, for if you don’t, and he finds out about this little tête-à-tête, which I can assure you he will, he will never forgive you. One thing I know about you, Mr. Cavanaugh, is that you do not lie—an admirable quality, no doubt, and in this instance one that will work to all our benefits.”

“And what about Katz?” asked David after a pause. “Are you suggesting he knows nothing of this?”

Simpson just glared at him. “I shan’t go into details, Mr. Cavanaugh, for to do so would insult your intelligence, and specifics are always dangerous in a scenario such as this. But I do promise you, that in salvaging our reputations, you shall create an opening for yourselves—a window of opportunity that is otherwise unattainable.”

“What makes you think I need your help?” asked David.

“The fact that you told the entire world you know the identity of the killer and cannot deliver on your promise.”

“You have no idea if I . . .”

“
Oh yes, I do
,” said Simpson, leaning into the table now, a fresh look of determination in his eye. “I didn’t kill her, Mr. Cavanaugh. I had no regard for her whatsoever. She wasn’t even a blip on my radar apart from the fact that her father is a man of great influence and success.

“You think these,” he said, now holding up his hands, their meager size shedding monstrous shadows across the white linen tablecloth before them, “you think my small stature and my questionable sexuality are enough to proffer a presentable Plan B? Come now, Mr. Cavanaugh,” he said, bringing both of his hands down with enough force for the china to chink in a tingle of protest. “Your little
spy
was as discreet as an elephant in a phone booth. Mr. Jones lives in his own little comic book world where the hero wins and his offsider gets to bask in his glory. Pathetic really, and you should be ashamed of yourself for enlisting him.”