Alibi (66 page)

And so after almost an hour of re-covering the “friendship” issues, of revisiting Matheson’s lies about Rousseau and of asking Simpson to reiterate the defendant’s much talked about confession, the ADA finally got to the much anticipated subject of those all-important shoes.

“You are aware, are you not, Mr. Simpson, as a distinguished student of the law, that the police sometimes hold certain details from the public in an effort to identify a suspect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that in this case it was the removal of Miss Nagoshi’s shoes.”

“Yes.”

“And it was James Matheson, the defendant, who told you of this detail during that all telling night of truths.”

“Yes.”

“. . . when he said it was he who took them, as some sickening memento of his brutal and infamous deed.”

“Well, not quite, Mr. Katz,” said Simpson. “James told us about the shoes but I believe his words were more to the effect that they were taken by the
killer
, and there was no mention of the words memento or infamous.”

“Forgive me for not being plain, Mr. Simpson,” said Katz, his left eye twitching with the slightest indication of irritation. “What I meant to say was that Mr. Matheson knew about the shoes when nobody else did.”

“Well,” pondered Simpson. “The police knew about them, as did certain members of the FBI, and yourself, and I am assuming perhaps some others in the district attorney’s office. And I believe the Nagoshis were also made aware of their absence, which I suppose means this so-called secret was not so tightly held after all.”

The courtroom offered the slightest of chuckles in response.

Katz paused, and David sensed the ADA knew this was perhaps just the beginning of the young man’s disobedience. Westinghouse’s testimony had no doubt been unsettling enough for the overconfident Katz, but now, to have his number one witness diverting from the script as well . . .

And so David was not surprised when the Kat changed tack, but did become concerned when the new line of questioning became disjointed in its lack of continuity. At first it appeared as if the rattled ADA had lost track—stepping backward instead of forward, his previous strict adhesion to chronology abandoned for an oddly timed stroll down memory lane.

“Did Mr. Matheson ever talk to you and Mr. Westinghouse about his time in Sydney?” asked Katz.

“Yes, sir. He certainly enjoyed it. He got a good education, spent time with his mother, got a chance to enjoy the fine Australian weather, made lots of friends.”

“Such as?”

“I believe his two best friends were named Lawson Flinn and Sterling Buntine. Both boarders from the country—one from a place called Gundagai in southwestern New South Wales, and the other from the genuine Outback in the Mid Northern Territory.”

“And to the best of your knowledge, Mr. Simpson, is Mr. Matheson still in contact with these two young men?”

“I believe not, Mr. Katz.”

“And why is that, Mr. Simpson?”

“Because, according to James, they had a falling out, an extremely unfortunate argument that has lasted all this time.”

“And are you aware what this argument was over, Mr. Simpson?”

“Yes, sir,” said H. Edgar, stealing the slightest of glances at David. “I believe it was over a girl.”

The court erupted in confusion as all present, including the now salivating press and the ever-interested jury sat up, at attention, waiting to hear more. David went to object on the basis of relevancy, but had read Simpson’s glance as a direction to remain silent, and was praying his instincts were right.

“Did Mr. Matheson ever tell you the nature of this altercation, Mr. Simpson?”

“Yes, he confided in us some time ago. I believe the circumstances surrounding the cessation of their friendship were upsetting for James, and as his two best friends, he chose to share the information with myself and Mr. Westinghouse some time earlier this year.”

The Kat said nothing, his silence obviously an indication that he was giving his witness the floor and so Simpson took it slowly, carefully relaying the story as it was told to him.

He began by explaining that in their final year of school, Lawson Flinn was dating a young woman of some note. Her name, according to Simpson, was Alison Saunders—the daughter of a British diplomat who attended a private girls’ school not far from the one attended by Matheson and his friends.

“Long story short, Mr. Katz, the girl fell for James. According to James it was just one of those things. But the matter ended in a physical confrontation, which I believe took place late one evening beside the school’s Olympic-sized swimming pool.”

Simpson went on to explain how the fight—witnessed by the third friend, Buntine—resulted in the smaller Flinn losing his footing on the slippery wet tiles and falling, his head hitting the sharp corner of the pool’s wet lip, his neck bending backward as he fell into the water

“According to James, Lawson Flinn lost consciousness and James and Mr. Buntine made haste to pull him out.”

“And so the boy did not drown,” offered Katz.

“No,” countered Simpson. “But he did sustain some significant injuries, resulting in his losing the use of his legs.”

“Mr. Flinn is now a paraplegic?” asked Katz in feigned incredulity.

“Yes,” said Simpson. “A sad but true example of how life can turn on a knife’s edge.”

The crowd was silent, the implications of this new testimony creating a dark shadow over the room. Stein looked at David, almost willing him to object, but a million things were going through David’s mind and he needed a moment to consider them. He wondered why James and his mother had not told him of Flinn’s disability, and the reason for it. And he was concerned that his client did not feel comfortable enough to tell him either—that his tendency to see David in some “super lawyer” light had resulted in him feeling ashamed to share details that Katz was now determined to use against him. But more importantly, at least for now, David sensed he finally understood what Simpson had meant about the new evidence being “diffused” and thus sat still, silent, knowing that his time would come.

“Your Honor,” said a now straight-backed Katz, approaching the bench with vigor. “I would like to submit a patient report from St. Vincent’s Hospital in Darlinghurst, Sydney, dated on the night of the aforementioned altercation, as further evidence to the severity of Mr. Flinn’s injuries.

“The report clearly outlines the specifics of what was no doubt a violent and vicious attack—a broken rib, a bruised cheek, a grazed hip and of course the spinal injury that has rendered Mr. Flinn immobile.

“At the time Mr. Buntine gave a statement to the Rose Bay Police outlining the details of the heated attack, including Mr. Matheson’s disinclination to walk away when it was obvious Mr. Flinn was defeated.

“The district attorney’s office did make contact with Mr. Flinn some weeks ago, Your Honor, and unfortunately, although understandably, he said he was too distressed to speak of the incident in this courtroom today.”

And then Katz took a pause, allowing this all to sink in, before turning to the judge and taking a breath and voicing what he so desperately needed to say.

“Your Honor, Mr. Matheson’s clear propensity for violence as illustrated in his aggressive attack on his ex-best friend,” he said, lifting his hand to tick off his points, “his bloody and brutal temper as demonstrated in the slaughter of his so-called love, Jessica Nagoshi, and his fierce and sadistic attack on Miss Nagoshi’s brother at the recent Deane Halloween Ball, not only indicate this young man has a vicious streak, but also that he has the audacity to hide it under the guise of being the all-American hero.

“But I am glad to say, that thanks to decent young men like Mr. Simpson here, his true nature has finally been revealed.

“Mr. Simpson,” Katz said at last, no doubt wondering why an objection to his previous soliloquy had not been forthcoming. “I am sure if Mr. Flinn were here, he would thank you for telling his story in his stead.”

“Thank you, Mr. Katz, but to be honest, my representation feels somewhat inappropriate. I am sure Mr. Flinn would have done a much finer job of expressing his own sentiments before the court.” Simpson flicked his eyes at David.

“No, Mr. Simpson,” bowed Katz. “You do yourself a disservice. There is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Flinn appreciates your honesty, and your determination to speak up on his behalf.”

“To whom it may concern,”
David began, the room still reeling in shock.

Moments earlier, as Katz had taken his seat, obviously satisfied with his final result, and completely oblivious to Simpson’s careful tweaking of his previously rehearsed testimony, all eyes had moved to David, as the room waited anxiously on his highly anticipated cross. Ever since Joe Mannix had taken the stand days ago, accusing the two boys of being the ultimate egotistical traitors, the press had marked this point—the moment where Matheson’s lawyer would question the boys’ motives and “finish them off” with accusations of avarice and superiority and greed—as a definite highlight of this already front-page-grabbing trial.

But when David announced he had no questions for the witness, their disappointment was soon replaced by a new level of curiosity as he requested he might read from a statement that he promised would finally put any questions about his client’s character to rest.

“My name is Lawson Flinn,”
he read, as all eyes around him grew wide and inquiring as if the young Australian were reading from the document himself,
“and I make this statement of my own free will in front of my attorney, Rebecca Morgan, and my witness and friend, Mr. Sterling Buntine.

“First and foremost I wish to stress,”
read David, his voice slow and deliberate, his tone strong but not aggressive,
“that Mr. Matheson is my friend. I met him when we first attended high school in Sydney, both entering at the seventh grade.

David paused there, his eyes lifting slightly toward his client, who was now openly starting to cry.

That night, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all, tired beyond all comprehension and still confused as to how all this had come to pass, David sought out his best friend—Homicide Lieutenant Joe Mannix.

Joe was on the phone when David slumped into the chair across from his birch laminate desk, Frank McKay having shaken his hand with a nod before heading off for the night. And when Joe glanced up, he finished his conversation with haste before returning the handpiece to its cradle and looking across at his obviously exhausted friend.

“I thought you would be celebrating,” said Joe at last.

David shrugged. “I wanted to make sure you were okay with this,” he said.

“With what?”

“With my not going after him, with my letting him off the hook when it came to the reward.”

Joe said nothing.

“They donated it to charity,” explained David.

Joe nodded. “What’s an odd mill or two when your reputation is at stake?

“You shouldn’t beat yourself up,” said Joe after a pause. “You were hired to defend your client and that is exactly what you are doing.”

“Then why do I feel like crap?”

“Because you are an idealistic son of a bitch and none of this sits right with your high and mighty goddamned conscience.”