Alibi (65 page)

“But you did not see them leave together,” stressed Katz.

“No,” repeated Westinghouse. “But I didn’t see him leave with Miss Nagoshi either, so I suppose his whereabouts beyond my leaving could not be verified one way or the other.”

Katz looked up at the witness, now sure that something was amiss. He started toward him with the slightest look of displeasure in his eyes. He was not too sure what was going on, but feared that Westinghouse, the obviously weaker of his two shining stars, was slowly losing his nerve. His plan was to block his view of the defendant and force the young man to focus on him and him alone. And then he would have no choice but to move back on track, exactly where he belonged.

“And the following morning, did not Mr. Matheson tell you he returned to the club and later had sexual intercourse with Miss Rousseau?” Katz asked, sensing he needed to cut to the chase.

“No,” said Heath.

And Katz was aghast.

“At least not in so many words. We riled him about it, and he sort of suggested he responded to her advances. But he never actually said he slept with Barbara. It was just an assumption we made.”

“An assumption he did not bother to deny?”

“No, sir, and perhaps if you saw Miss Rousseau you might understand why.” And the jury laughed—at Katz’s expense no less!

“Mr. Westinghouse,” Katz continued, determined to make up some ground. “We certainly appreciate your loyalty to your friend, but I would not feel distress at his lack of honesty if I were you. Mr. Matheson lied to the police, which suggests you and Mr. Simpson were not the only victims of his contrived duplicity.”

“Objection,” yelled David. “Is that a question, Your Honor?”

“It is not, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Stein before turning to Katz who was now positioned immediately in front of the witness. “This is not some political rally, Mr. Katz. We are not here to give speeches. Objection sustained.”

And Katz nodded before gathering his thoughts and moving on. His next few questions led directly up to the night of the all-important “confession,” which he approached with the utmost of care. He knew that Westinghouse and Simpson’s statements were extremely specific in the description of Matheson’s admissions, and there was no way he would allow this fair-weather witness to suggest they were open to “interpretation.”

“And so, Mr. Westinghouse, on this occasion, in a corner of the Deane University bar known as The Fringe, Mr. Matheson admitted to killing his girlfriend?”

“Yes,” said Westinghouse after a beat, and Katz would have called for a high five if it would not have been extremely inappropriate.

“And specifically, he said . . .”

“That he was responsible for her death, that one moment he was holding her in his arms and that in the next she was gone, and there was nothing he could do to bring her back.”

“And I believe in your statement you described his mood as intense, direct—to the point where you believed Mr. Matheson needed to cleanse his soul of the terrible crime he had committed.”

“Yes, Mr. Katz,” responded Westinghouse instantly. “And I also described him as drunk, emotional and wracked with an inconsolable grief.”

Katz went to open his mouth, but Westinghouse was determined to go on.

“Which is why we hesitated before going to the police. We were terrified of misrepresenting his intent and needed some time to decide upon our course of action.”

But Katz had had enough. “But you
did
go to the police, didn’t you, Mr. Westinghouse?”

“Yes.”

“And you
did
decide to turn him in.”

Westinghouse hesitated. “Yes.”

“You made the decision after some serious consideration and did your duty despite your most earnest attempts to give your friend the ultimate benefit of the doubt.”

Silence.

“Isn’t that right, Mr. Westinghouse?” asked Katz, pressing the point, now less than a foot from the young man before him.

“Yes, Mr. Katz. That is correct.”

And Katz took a breath.

“Mr. Westinghouse,” he said at last, finally winning his own witness over and now wary of alienating the jury by browbeating this obviously sincere and genuine young man. “I understand how difficult this is, to be in the same room as your former best friend and admit to the world what you know to be true. But a life has been lost, Mr. Westinghouse—two lives, in fact—and your testimony to the police, and here today, does you proud.

“I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor,” he said, returning to his chair, a sigh of relief barely concealed under the release of a long, slow breath.

“Your witness, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Stein at last, glancing at his watch as if to check whether this testimony might drag them over lunch.

“Yes, Your Honor, and I promise to be brief,” said David, reading the judge’s mind.

David got to his feet and approached the witness calmly, slowly, like a friend wandering over for a chat.

“Mr. Westinghouse,” said David at last, “I too understand how difficult this is for you, as my client has described your friendship in much the same way as you have here this morning—firm, unconditional, strong.”

And Westinghouse stole a quick glance at James just as David had intended.

“Besides his parents, who I believe also include you and Mr. Simpson as family, would you agree that no one else in this room, or even beyond, knows James as well as you?”

“Ah . . . no I suppose not,” said Heath, now obviously finding it difficult not to meet his close friend’s eye. “We are pretty tight.” And David noted he said “
are
,” not “
were
.”

“And so, given you know James so well, given you have spent thousands of hours in his company, shared his confidences and allowed him to share yours, do you believe, with all the information available to you and all your knowledge of James as a person, that he is guilty of murdering his girlfriend?”

And that was it, one simple question, one almighty risk, upon which Westinghouse’s entire testimony would rest.

David waited, his pale green eyes meeting the wide blue orbs of the young man before him. And in that second he saw the fear abate and an almost grateful expression move across his face as if someone had finally asked him the question he had been dying to answer for months.

“No, sir, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Heath with intent. “No, sir, I do not.”

Moments later, after Stein called for an early lunch, Roger Katz stormed from the courtroom determined to catch his pathetic, ball-less excuse for a witness before he scampered from the building in shame. But he was not hiding! On the contrary he stood at the end of the corridor tall and satisfied—and conversing with Simpson no less—while the members of the press, who were under strict instructions not to harass the witnesses within the Superior Court building, fluttered like fascinated finches around them.

And so Katz, his teeth now set in a taut, tense grin, made his way toward them—carefully carving a swath between the obviously fixated flock.

“A moment,” said Katz, steering the two young men to the private enclave by the water cooler. And then, once he was sure he was beyond earshot, he began on his fierce and merciless tirade.

“You fucking prick,” he said at last. “What the hell do you think you are playing at?”

“I told the truth, Mr. Katz,” said Westinghouse.

“You fucked me over and pissed on your own fucking future like an ignorant, egotistical fool.”

“Mr. Katz,” said Heath after a pause, “I appreciate your constant concern for my future, but I think I got it covered.”

And an exasperated Katz turned to Simpson who, he noticed, could barely conceal a smile on his smug, self-satisfied face.

“Mr. Simpson,” Katz began, his flush, shiny face now mere inches from H. Edgar’s cool and even-pallored features. “A word of warning. You follow your retarded puppet’s lead and I swear to God, I will make sure that you never work in this city again.”

“I’m not working now, Mr. Katz,” he said.

“You know what the fuck I mean,” countered the now furious ADA. “I know what you are doing,” he said after a breath. “You are attempting to cover your own pathetic piss-weak asses so that you can preserve your blessed blue-blood reputations. You think that by sitting on the fence you avoid offending everyone who is anyone and can never be blamed for backing the wrong goddamned horse.

“But don’t you see gentlemen—that is a mantra spoken by cowards, not to mention the fact that, by drawing arms against me, you make a dedicated enemy for life.”

And then they said nothing, Katz’s eyes now fixed solely on Simpson, willing him to commit to the testimony they had planned and challenging him to suggest he would do otherwise.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Katz,” said Simpson at last, using his hand to shift the ADA slightly to his left so that he might pull a paper cup from the dispenser and pour himself a long drink. “Despite your suspicions we are not out to betray you. In fact, I am fully aware that it was us who ratted out James in the first place,” he said, and Katz noticed Westinghouse flinch.

“I am not going to get up and call myself a liar, Mr. Katz,” Simpson went on. “For that would be tantamount to stupidity. And so I will give you what you want in regards to the additional incriminating evidence, and then the rest will be up to you.”

Katz could not help but smile.

“That is all I ask,” said a now placated Katz, offering his hand to Simpson who chose to bring his cup to his mouth and down its entire icy contents before offering his hand in return.

“Then we are on the same page,” said Katz as Simpson tossed the paper cup into the small white bin behind him.

“It would appear so,” said Simpson in reply. “And now, if you would forgive us, Mr. Katz, Mr. Westinghouse and I are going to get some lunch—and I suggest you do the same. For the hour is almost gone, and there is no doubt that we face a long and laborious afternoon ahead.”

If Westinghouse was the embodiment of beauty, then Simpson was the epitome of earnestness. David noted he had changed into a conservative but expensive suit, the color a dark chocolate, the shirt a sparkling white, the tie a subtle beige with tiny flecks of gold. The young man had the ability, David noted, to tone down his arrogance when required, at least at face value, so that if he sat as he did now, still, silent, upright, he looked almost like a serious Richie Cunningham of
Happy Days
fame—all focused and humble and ready to serve.

“Don’t worry,” whispered Sara as Judge Stein entered the room. “There is nothing we can do now. James has made our decision for us.”

“We have agreed to do business with the devil, Sara,” David said, looking into her pale blue eyes.

“No,” she said. “He has agreed to do business with us.”

Half an hour later, the Kat had settled into a nice easy rhythm, his questions clear and precise. Unlike Westinghouse, Simpson appeared at ease on the stand, his lack of hesitation suggesting honesty and certainty, his directness confirming his confidence in every response.