Matter of Trust (46 page)

‘He validated Marshall's claims?' David could not believe it.

‘By entering a subtle argument against them.' Sara nodded. ‘It was at the time when he was sure Chris was going to plea. A statement on Lorraine Stankovic's death was part of the plea arrangement. Of course Fisk was extremely diplomatic in his wording, but the very fact that it was filed made it . . .'

‘. . . admissible at trial,' finished David.

‘I'm afraid so,' she said. ‘I'm so sorry.' She took his hand and squeezed it, leading him toward the adjoining garden where they sat on a bench next to a small water feature. ‘It's not the end of the world,' she said then, trying to lift his spirits. ‘The initial charges against Chris were dropped after all.'

David didn't know how to feel – disappointed by this court decision, buoyed by their manipulation of Will Cusack, or terrified that they would run out of time before they had a chance to prove their client's innocence. But he knew that they were drowning – three inexperienced rookies battling a prosecution backed by numbers and experience and clout. Suddenly it felt like it could all be over before they even got a chance to begin, that they were just going through the motions.

‘Oh, for goodness sake.'

The voice was as crisp and clear as always, but he assumed his overcrowded brain was playing tricks on him – because the owner of that voice was—

‘We come all the way from Boston thinking you're flat to the boards and here you are enjoying a sweet afternoon rendezvous with your incredibly patient better half.'

‘
Nora
,' David said, squinting against the sun to make her out. He jumped from the bench and embraced his tweed-suited secretary with all the strength he could muster. ‘My God, you have no idea how good it is to see you.'

‘Likewise, dear boy,' she said, returning the hug. ‘Dare I say, I have missed you too – as strange as that may seem.'

‘Now don't go all soft on us,' said a second familiar voice from behind.

David turned to see his boss Arthur Wright now hobbling on his walking stick toward him.

‘When Sara said you could use our help, I didn't expect we'd have to hug our way through an episode of
Doctor Phil
before we got down to business. That judge was an ass by the way. Wouldn't happen in Boston, David – at least not with the judges I drink with.'

‘Arthur,' said David, taking his good friend's hand and pulling him close. ‘You were in the hearing with Sara.'

‘Yes – not that she needed us. She did a fine job, it's just that the judge was an—'

‘. . . ass,' finished David with a smile.

‘A complete incompetent,' said Nora.

David turned to Sara once again. ‘You did this for me.'

‘I asked them here for us, David – and more importantly, for Chris.'

‘You should have asked for help sooner,' said Arthur. ‘I knew you were recovering, and Nora was flat out minding the office.'

‘This
is
the office,' said Nora, gesturing at the three people around her.

And David smiled in gratitude.

‘I got Arthur and Nora some long-term accommodation at a serviced apartment in East Orange,' said Sara. ‘And I spoke to McNally's commercial real estate friend – he's given us an additional room next door to our current temporary office for a quarter on top.'

David took her in his arms and squeezed her tight. ‘I don't deserve you,' he said.

‘You're right,' she smiled. ‘But I'm okay with your continuing to work on it.' She nodded toward Arthur and Nora once again. ‘We're all starving. I hope you don't mind but I called your mom earlier and asked if she'd mind if we all rocked up for a late lunch. That way we can check on Lauren and bring Nora and Arthur up to speed on everything that's gone down so far.'

‘Good idea,' said David, just as he noticed her brow begin to furrow.

‘What is it?' he asked.

‘Nothing that can't wait until lunch. It's something Chris told me this morning, but like I said, first things first.' Her smile returned. ‘I'm dying to hear how you and McNally got on at Saint Stephen's.' She looked around. ‘Which reminds me, where is he? I told your mom it was lunch for five.'

‘Detective McNally, I presume,' said Nora – pointing toward a red-faced man jogging up the hill toward them.

‘In one,' said David. ‘You'll like him, Nora – he puts up with more shit from me than even Joe does.'

‘Another fool in the mix,' smiled the auburn-haired elderly secretary. ‘Well – he'll be among friends then, and as far as I am concerned, the more the merrier.'

The following Monday

I
n the County of Essex in the State of New Jersey, prospective jurors were chosen from a source list derived from a compilation of four separate lists of the county's registered voters, licensed drivers, filers of state income tax returns and filers of homestead rebate applications. In the case of a serious and high-profile criminal proceeding such as the Kincaid matter, a larger than usual pool was called upon – the prospective jurors first having to answer a lengthy questionnaire sent to their homes by the Court's Jury Division, and then attend the Essex County Superior Court to take part in the process known as ‘voir dire'.

Voir dire is the French translation of the Latin term
verum dicere
, meaning an ‘oath to tell the truth' and, as such, the process is often referred to as ‘a trial within a trial'. While David and his team were more than familiar with the nuances of selecting a jury, they weren't used to the New Jersey variation of it – where the defence and prosecution were asked to pre-submit their questions to prospective jurors for the trial judge's approval, rather than having the more flexible option of firing off their queries in court.

‘This is fucked,' said David's jury selection expert, another willing recruit
from Boston by the name of Phyllis Vecchio. David knew Phyll was booked solid, but had taken a chance that she might be able to squeeze him in between the constant flow of Superior Court cases she was offered up north. And luckily for David, Phyll was not just a jury selection wizard but also a very good friend – and the moment he'd described their situation, she had dropped everything to catch the next Acela Express to Jersey.

‘It's the way it works here, Phyll,' he whispered for the umpteenth time in the ear of his ‘call-it-like-she-saw-it' friend. ‘I know it sucks, but there is one upside of trying this case here – we get twenty preemptory charges compared to Marshall's twelve.'

‘Maybe so, but how the fuck are we going to know who to strike if that know-it-all up there won't let us ask questions as they come to me?' she asked, gesturing at Judge Reginald Jones with a wave of her fuchsia-pink painted fingernails. ‘Wait,' she went on, the colourful bangles on her right arm now jingling as she swept her arm across the pool of prospective jurors behind them. ‘I take that back. I want to strike
all
the fuckers. It looks like an audition for
Fame
back there. They don't bring in some fresh white bodies soon my friend, you are fucked – and your client is doubly fucked which means you are triply fucked in any case, so . . .'

Phyllis Vecchio was larger than life – big, colourful, outspoken, tactless, politically incorrect, intelligent and one of the kindest people David knew. Her mouth might be in the sewer, but her mind was as sharp as a tack, and when it came down to it, there was no-one David would have preferred sitting next to him as they attempted to whittle down the current group of a hundred to twelve jurors and two alternates.

‘This is Essex County, New Jersey, Phyll, with a population that is forty-two per cent black and eighteen per cent Latino. These are the people who voted for Chris.'

‘That was before they heard that he fucked his poor lover senseless before chucking her battered body in the river. What we need, David, is rich white men like your client. We need jurors who will
sympathise
– not ones who will take one look at your guy and decide he's some rich white big shot who couldn't resist dipping his wick into his old girlfriend one day and posing with his wife and kids for the cover of
American Family Monthly
the next. The majority of the cattle call behind me are women of minority races whose husbands earn less than your client spends on
business suits per annum. They're gonna wanna kick Kincaid's lying, cheating, lily-white ass from here to hell and back – and unless you do something to cut them off at the pass, they have every chance of doing so.'

‘Why don't you tell me what you really think, Phyll?' said a defeated David.

‘Don't be silly. I just did.'

 

The courtroom was stifling and David was tired. When the judge finally broke for lunch, he immediately offered to grab two sandwiches from the court cafeteria while Phyll continued to wade through the prospective jurors' details.

The rest of the team was busy with their own tasks. Sara was doing grunt work, such as re-interviewing witnesses they had decided to call for the defence, like Marilyn's building super Paul Sacramoni, organising for a high-tech digital recording company to work on enhancing the Airport Hilton security footage of the young man David was sure was Will Cusack, and trying to track down the man Will had spoken to – the guest in room 603 – through Hilton General Manager, Jacqueline Trudeau.

Arthur and Nora were back at the office. Nora was sorting out the paperwork they had compiled so far and checking on the condition of the incarcerated thug named Davian – Sara's news of Chris's altercation being yet another blow to their case – while Arthur was working on other aspects of the trial such as the cross-examination of Marshall's witnesses who sat on a list that was both long and comprehensive.

McNally was doing what he did best, investigating – Will Cusack. David's ‘lost ring' strategy had confirmed that Cusack was somehow involved in Marilyn Maloney's murder – for a call to Father Patrick, on the afternoon of their visit, revealed that Cusack had taken the risk and gone straight from the quadrangle to the school's lost property department where he asked if anyone had handed in a lost class ring. No-one had, which meant the boy must still be in a controlled state of panic.

David knew that Chris was anxious, not just about the trial, but the state of his family. Rebecca had told him she was concerned about Connor – who had turned into a virtual recluse and was spending most of his time holed up in his room. The news had made Chris reiterate his instruction that under no circumstances were they to approach his son.

‘I don't want to lead Connor, or Jack Delgado for that matter, down a road where they feel any way responsible for what is happening to me – and you start mentioning Will, and that is exactly what will happen,' Chris had argued. ‘Will is Connor's friend and Connor has welcomed him into our home. The kid feels responsible for everything that goes on around him, DC, but I won't let him bear the blame for this.'

Despite David's protests, Chris hadn't wavered. David figured he would try again tomorrow, and the next day, in the hope his client would eventually give him the nod.

As for Mike, David had gone back to Saint Stephen's on the night of Arthur and Nora's arrival and found his old friend more distressed than ever. In all the years David had known the seemingly indestructible Michael Murphy, he had never seen such despair and confusion in his weary blue eyes.

The pair had sat side by side in the pews they had frequented so many times before, and David had told Mike that he didn't blame him for thinking the worst about Chris. But the look on Mike's face – the look of pure regret – told David that no matter how many times he professed his understanding at Mike's assumptions, Mike would never forgive himself.

And so in the end David had said the only thing he could think to say, ‘You'll put in a good word for us then?' he'd asked, pointing toward the heavens above.

‘I am not sure my requests count for anything,' Mike had answered. ‘But maybe, if sheer volume is a factor.' He'd managed a smile.

‘You'll be there for him – in court, I mean?'

‘Not just for him, David, but for you, and for me.'

David had nodded.

Now, with less than a week to trial, all they could do was dig as deeply as possible in an effort to unearth something,
anything
, that would connect Will Cusack to Marilyn's murder. And if worse came to worst, David knew there was one more route left open to him. It had been suggested by the well-meaning Arthur who, in his wise, kind way, had pointed out that as hard as it may be, David's first priority was to his client, even above and beyond the victim who, tragically but realistically, would not be around to feel the pain that this last option would bring.

‘C
onnor?'

His mother was at his bedroom door, a look of concern on her pale, narrow face. When he was little, she'd walk in without a second's hesitation, but since the child made way for the man, she'd taken to hovering as if afraid any closer contact might wreck the fragile bond between them. His mother had spent her life apologising for who she was, and deep down, he both loved and hated her for it.

‘Are you okay?' she asked. He realised she had probably been standing in the doorway for some time, watching him sitting straight-backed and blank-faced on his perfectly made bed.

‘Yes,' he said, not moving an inch.

And then she did something she hadn't done for years, she walked into the room uninvited and sat next to him on the bed.

‘I've always loved this room,' she said, ‘the way it captures the last of the evening sun. When you were a boy, I used to sit here and watch you play on the floor in front of me, grateful this room allowed me to stretch the day that few moments longer.'