Alibi (72 page)

“What’s this?” said a now obviously confused James. “A sticker for good work?” he went on, his voice now showing the slightest trace of uncertainty. James pulled the Post-it from his front, and began to read the words aloud.

“Cabot 312,” he said, his face maintaining a forced smile but his voice shaking as he read the final digit “two.”

“It’s three twelve actually,” corrected David. “Cabot is the name of a dorm house at Deane—and three twelve refers to a dorm number, as in twelfth room on the third floor.”

James shrugged.

“It was Sawyer Jones’ dorm, James, and I was just wondering how it came to be stuck to the back of one of the photos on your wall, a shot of you and Simpson and Westinghouse no less.”

“David, I . . .” hesitated James. “I’m sorry, man, but you must be confused. I know how hard this has been on you and Sara. The Jones kid fooled you all. But to be honest, I am finding it hard to forgive him. He killed Jess, David. And she was . . .”

“Shut the fuck up,” said David at last, pushing James back so that he almost tripped over the long designer pool lounge.

“Jesus, David,” said a now horrified James. “What the hell is this about? I mean, I am grateful for everything you have done for me, but this is kind of out of order. I have no idea why you . . .”

“How much did he pay them?”

“What?

“How much did Simpson pay the two Australians on your behalf?”

“Seriously, David, you have lost it man.”

“Well, I am sure you would have done it yourself but that would have been difficult considering you closed your third Grand Cayman account so that the money would be deposited into the other two. Did Simpson know you were doing that, James, or was that a secret backup plan of your own, in case the cops managed to do a trace on the money and see the reward was originally meant for three?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said James, his voice now carrying a thick, hard edge.

“Are you cold, James?” asked David.

“No.”

“You’re shivering.”

“No, David. No I’m not.”

“The shoe print was too big.”

“What?”

“The impression in Jessica’s greenhouse. Sawyer had smaller than average feet. None of the shoes in his closet matched the partial print at the crime scene.”

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t . . .”

“He did go to her greenhouse at some point, James. Sawyer was her friend so in many ways he had every right to be there. She must have invited him, showed him the black orchid, must have told him how rare it was—in fact, she probably told you about it too.”

“I told you, David, I never went to her . . .”

“Mannix got the FBI to check the mineralogy on Sawyer’s shoes with the print that was left behind. They don’t match, James—in fact, a new test on the dirt under the print found small traces of chlorine, the same stuff that they put in pools. See your Nike could have been washed . . . but the stuff that was left behind . . . ?”

“What the fuck are you insinuating, David?”

“I’m not
insinuating
anything, James.”

“Jesus, this is . . .”

“When did you stash her shoes, James?” David pushed on, taking another step toward his client. “I suppose that part would have been simple given Sawyer rarely locked his door and the dorm room number would have been easy to ascertain.

“Did Jess give it to you unwittingly, James? I mean, Sawyer was her friend after all. He was the one who encouraged her to go out with you because he realized how much she liked you and . . .”

“Stop it.”

“It was a gamble, of course,” David went on, taking a step closer to the now clench-fisted James before him. “I mean, there is no way you could have known if or when they would be found. But I suppose you had a plan for that too, some sneaky scheme that would lead us to Sawyer’s room before the jury had a chance to convict.”

“Shut the hell up, David,” said James through gritted teeth. “I am warning you . . .”

“Is that a threat, James?” said David, moving forward once again. “Because I really do not think that is your style. Come on, James, you are much smarter than that. You manipulate people’s personalities so that they have no choice but to do as you wish. You appealed to Simpson’s arrogance and you preyed on Westinghouse’s loyalty and you fucked them over big time. And here was I, stupid as all hell, thinking it was the other way around.

“You killed Jessica and you had no alibi so you came up with the plan to involve your friends. They went along with it only because they thought Rousseau would give you a pass. But when she failed to come through they found themselves trapped, being portrayed as greedy traitors while you sat like the wide-eyed innocent who knew that whatever else happened, you had collateral in the form of a pair of two black shoes that sat ready to be found at the bottom of Sawyer Jones’s closet. You framed a seventeen-year-old kid who loved your girlfriend, James—and now they are both lying dead and cold in their graves.”

And then James lifted his arm, his movement so swift and slick and powerful that David barely had time to duck out of the way. But David recovered quickly, lifting his own right hand to grab James’ fist as it swung back for another go.

“There is just one thing I do not understand,” said David, catching his breath as he forced his client’s arm down and pushed James backward, staying in his personal space, goading him on, wanting him, willing him to explode with anger.

“Your hands, James, they are big and powerful. How the hell did you leave such small bruises on her neck, James? How the hell did you . . .”

And then James leapt forward, his two hands now flexed and poised as he lunged at David’s neck. It was if he wanted him to see it, as if he needed him to know just how perfect his crime had been.

David acted on instinct, lifting his own hands to his neck in a classic defensive pose. His fingers laced at the front, his thumbs wrapped around the side. And in that second he saw it, and the final piece of the jigsaw fell horrifyingly into place.

“They were
her
prints,” he said as James lowered his arms at last. “Jessica lifted her hands in defense and you wrapped your hands around hers—strangling her from the front, not the back, looking her in the eye as the life leached out of her. You killed the goddamned love of your life, James, and the life of your own baby boy in the process.”

And then James did something David did not expect. He stretched his right hand and looked down at his feet, he took a breath and shook his head, the water still dripping from the short, sharp ends of his closely cropped hair. And then he lifted his face again, his eyes now bright as his mouth broke out into a wide, perfect smile.

“You are my attorney,” he said at last. “And I am not admitting anything you say is true, but even if I did, it would be under privilege.

“And, you know as well as I do, David, that the double jeopardy clause was attached the moment my jury was sworn in. In other words, that wonderful fifth amendment addition to our blessed Constitution says I cannot be prosecuted twice for the same fucking offense. I’m free, David, thanks to you, I might add, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

David took a step back before falling into a blue-and-white striped deck chair behind him. He knew that was exactly what James was going to say—and he needed to look defeated if this was going to play out the way he intended.

“You’re right, James,” he said at last, as James perched on the end of the recliner next to him.

“I usually am,” said James. “But then again, I have to admit, you’ve done an amazing job by figuring it all out.”

“But that’s just it, James,” said David, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “I can’t figure it out. I mean, why the hell did you kill her? You loved her, for Christ’s sake.”

James hesitated, as if gauging how far he should go, but his confidence in his incredible knowledge of the law was well founded, and he saw no legal recourse to his actions so . . .

“I cheated on her and she sensed it,” he said, as plain as day. “She was like that—intuitive, perceptive. It was a mistake, David,” he said, turning to him now. “She was in New York and the summer had been long and this girl, she was beautiful and persistent. It just kind of happened.”

“So you killed her because she was jealous?”

“No. Of course not. I did love her, David. But she threw it back in my face. I returned to the Lincoln that night because I knew she suspected. We went back to her place so we could talk it out, but there was no reasoning with her.

“In the end she told me she didn’t give a crap who the hell I slept with, because she had been fucking some other guy senseless in New York. She said I was just some pathetic local diversion, some meaningless, passing fling.

“She said she wanted someone older, smarter, who knew how to fend for himself, someone who made his own way and was not dependent on his parents’ fortune—someone with determination and guts and drive.” James took a breath and David could sense his anger at the memory. Whatever else David knew about James, he sensed that above all else, this young man could not abide being made to feel the fool.

“And then she told me she was pregnant and that the child she was carrying had nothing to do with me,” said James.

There was silence, as David took it all in, the sun now hitting the water with a vengeance, burning off the steam and sending its aqua blue surface gold.

“And you took her shoes because . . . ?”

“The keepsake stuff was a load of psychological bullshit. My mom’s a psychologist, so I should know. I just figured I might need a little collateral.”

“It worked,” said David.

“I know.” James smiled.

And there they sat, the attorney and his prodigy, the big brother and his younger replica with the brilliant mind and unstoppable reserve and a shining future ahead of him—just as David had once hoped.

“Are you cold?” asked David for a third time.

“Yes,” answered James, finally admitting the truth, before rising from his seat and heading toward the pool house door.

And then David saw her, just beyond the now sliding door—the slightest glimpse of a beautiful, long-legged blond girl wearing nothing but a man’s sweater and pair of fresh white underwear.

“Say hello to David, Barbara,” called out James, stepping slightly aside.

“Hello, David,” she said, walking toward him, her French accent strong.

And in that moment David realized that, in the end, he had pulled her in too.

“I know what you are thinking.” James smiled, now reaching his large hand behind the girl’s neck to pull her close. “And I believe H. Edgar did make Barbara an offer on my behalf, but she was generous enough to provide her services gratis,” he said, referring to the girl’s obvious decision not to accept cash in return for the recount of her “no alibi” statement.

“I really did not think she would be so generous—I mean, obviously, if I had, I would have saved myself all the trouble and got her to give me that goddamned alibi in the first place. But I guess she knows a good thing when she sees it, David, because now we are together.” And then that hand reached a little farther, his fingers widening as he drew her in for a kiss.

“Your luck will run out eventually, James,” said David then.

“Somehow I don’t think so,” replied James as he moved inside and began to slide the door back into its catches. “But whatever the case, I want to say none of this would have been possible if not for you so . . . Merry Christmas, man, and thanks again for everything.”

The traffic was light until he reached the shopping strips around Copley, with hoards of animated people buying last-minute gifts and stocking up with bagloads of food before the holidays. Downtown was worse, with the malls and department stores now teeming with bodies, the fine weather dragging people from their homes, the promise of a blue-skied Christmas a welcome respite after weeks of being forced indoors.

And in that moment David felt the all-encompassing wave of envy, that he was not one of them, walking, shopping, laughing, with nothing to worry about except what to buy the kids and how long to cook the Christmas turkey. He wanted to ring Sara and tell her to meet him out front with their bags now—so that he could hit the accelerator and head south, and forget about it all, and lead some semblance of a normal holiday with the person he loved most in the world.

But he couldn’t do that, and he knew why. This was his fault. If he had not been blinded by James’ seeming idealism, and his own determination to see his client as a younger version of himself, this might never have happened. It was true these “kids” were masters, for they had effectively fooled David and his team, Joe and Frank and even the savvy ADA with their barrage of lies and deception.

James and Simpson, and to a lesser extent Westinghouse and Rousseau, had driven this thing from the outset—with no regard for people like Jessica and her child or Sawyer and Mr. Lim who they had destroyed in their wake.

And so he would do what he needed to do—walk that fine line between what was “right” and what was not, and in the end pray that justice had not betrayed him, just taken another track where the final destination was exactly where it was meant to be all along.