Move to Strike (7 page)

‘Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Lieutenant,' she said, her long slender finger waving in a gesture that reeked of superiority. ‘Satisfying the media is
key
to any major prosecution – especially one involving a fellow media identity.'

Carmichael sat back in her seat then, a satisfied smile on her high-cheekboned face, and in that moment, Joe actually missed the previous asshole who used to pontificate from the seat which the incredibly stunning blonde now occupied before him. At least he could tell The Kat to go fuck himself when he treated Joe and his fellow cops like inferior subordinates. This one was going to be harder to tackle.

‘So tell me, Lieutenant,' Carmichael went on unfazed. ‘What have you got?'

And so Joe and Frank spent the next half-hour summarising their findings – findings that were yet to be backed up by the solid technical evidence reports soon to be provided by their experienced forensic analysts. Basically, they explained that no matter which way you looked at it, Doctor Jeffrey Logan was not good for the kill. His son, however, was another matter altogether.

‘Long story short, we think the dad is covering for the kid,' said Joe. ‘The
BPA alone points singularly at the boy,' he said, referring to the bloodstain pattern analysis carried out at the scene and currently being confirmed by Boston PD's respected Crime Lab Unit technicians. ‘And there was a burn from the blast on the right shoulder of his T-shirt, and chances are, despite the fact the .460 Weatherby blows the powder out and forward with a hell of a force, that we'll find trace powder residue on the shirt as well.'

‘The thing is, Miss Carmichael,' said Frank. ‘Under normal circumstances we would have arrested the kid last night. But when his father confessed, we knew we didn't have a leg to stand on until the crime lab stuff came in.'

‘Which is when exactly?' said the obviously displeased ADA.

‘Mid-week at best,' said Joe.

‘
After the arraignment?
' said Carmichael, now removing her glasses and shaking her head. And in that moment Joe was sure the spectacles were just a prop, a theatrical accessory she used to give herself an air of authority in court.

‘It's not good enough,' she said. ‘This arraignment will be viewed, recorded, picked to pieces by every major media outlet in the country. You cannot expect me to go in there and argue for this man's incarceration if we know he is as innocent as a . . .'

‘You don't have any choice,' interrupted Joe. ‘You have to play this one straight – and then, when the evidence comes in, we can arrest the son and hand him over to the juvenile court.'

‘The juvenile court?' she said, incredulous.

‘The boy is only thirteen.'

‘Shit,' she said, making no attempt to hide her disappointment. Massachusetts was one of the few states in the US which had passed a law stating that a person as young as fourteen charged with murder would be tried as an adult in the Superior Court. Such a person, if found guilty of first-degree murder, could be sentenced to life without parole in state prison; if found guilty of second-degree murder, they could be sentenced to life with parole eligibility after a lengthy fifteen years.

‘When is he fourteen?' she asked.

‘That's a moot point, Ms Carmichael, and you know it,' said Joe. The woman was really starting to piss him off. ‘Thirteen is thirteen, no matter how you look at it.'

‘And how is Cavanaugh going to approach this?' she asked, obviously knowing that Joe and David were friends. ‘In fact, come to think of it, how did a lawyer of Cavanaugh's calibre become involved in the first place?'

She knew the answer; this was just another dig at Joe.

‘From what I am told,' Carmichael went on, ‘Doctor Logan asked for a public defender, which, under the circumstances might have worked better for us considering . . .'

‘Doctor Logan asked for a lawyer and we got him one,' said Joe, refusing to explain further simply because he was not answerable to the twenty-nine-year-old upstart before him. ‘And considering the doctor confessed, my guess is Cavanaugh will play Monday's arraignment as straight as he can – stress that this was an accident, argue for bail.'

‘Jesus,' said Carmichael. ‘What is this – a fucking kangaroo court where everyone avoids the truth?'

‘No, ma'am,' said Frank. ‘It's called due process, it's part of the fifth and fourteenth amendments. It's about safeguarding the rights of every individual – even those have the guts to lie to protect their kids.'

‘You actually
admire
this man, Detective McKay?' asked Carmichael, incredulous, her big blue eyes now narrowing in contempt.

‘I got two teenage kids, Ms Carmichael,' replied Frank, with determination. ‘Let's just say, I can see where he is coming from.'

‘Christ,' said Carmichael. ‘Well, cue the fucking violins.'

They were silent then, Joe deciding there was no point in arguing further.
This one was dangerous
, he told himself.
Dangerous and smart and ambitious to boot
.

‘Is that it?' asked Joe at last.

‘Apparently so,' said Carmichael. ‘At least as far as you two are concerned.'

‘I'm sorry, Miss Carmichael,' began Joe, not sure what the ADA was insinuating. ‘But . . .'

‘Just tell me the minute the crime lab stuff is in,' she interrupted, now rising from her chair and moving around the desk to dismiss them. She headed straight for the entrance of her brand new office, strutting across the room like a Goddamned diva. And then she stumbled into one of Katz's hastily packed boxes, tripping herself up so that she had to grab at a side table to regain her balance.

‘
Shit
,' she said, as she regathered her composure and stood beside the door.

‘Better watch your step, Miss Carmichael,' said Joe, as he and Frank turned to leave. ‘As the Chinese say, you keep looking at the mountains you're gonna fall into the molehills.'

‘I've never taken a fall in my life, Lieutenant,' she countered.

‘Well then, maybe you're due, Miss Carmichael, maybe you're due.'

‘A
re you sure you're okay?' asked David for the umpteenth time. They had just entered one of their favourite eateries, a popular breakfast and lunch café at the northern end of the harbour known as Myrtle McGee's.

‘I'm fine,' Sara said. ‘It was just a little slip, David,' she added, referring to her ‘slide' down the wide stone front stairs of Suffolk County Jail barely half an hour earlier. They had been harassed by a barrage of media the moment they left the building, and Sara had been caught in the crossfire.

‘What's up, lass?' asked a concerned-looking Mick McGee, hurrying around his counter to meet them at the door. Mick was Myrtle's proprietor, a large, red-faced Irishman with a number two crew cut revealing a shock of bright orange spikes. He was also a good friend – and as such, now obviously concerned about the lack of colour in Sara's pasty complexion.

‘Nothing!' she said, managing a smile in protest as Mick and David helped her to a corner booth. ‘I'm fine. It was my fault. I caught my heel in a crack and . . .'

‘Don't listen to her, Mick,' said David. ‘The press holed us up on the front steps of County, practically barrelled her down the stairs.'

Mick shook his head. ‘Barbarians,' he said, never one to hold back on an opinion. ‘Not to worry,' he said, helping Sara into her seat. ‘I'll get you a . . .'

‘Coffee, strong, black,' interrupted Sara.

‘Juice, combo, orange,' countered Mick. ‘You need a little sugar is all – and I'll add some wheat grass for protein.'

‘Thanks, Mick,' said Sara, knowing there was no point in arguing, as Mick rushed back to his lime green counter and set about ‘fixing things' the only way he knew how.

‘Not another word,' said Sara, as David reached across the table to take her hand. ‘It was just a fall, David. If I thought it was anything more I'd be at the doctor's in a shot. You
know
that.' She smiled. ‘Besides, you keep sweeping me off my feet like you did on the front steps of County and people are going to assume we are trying out for the lead roles in the next live action version of
Cinderella
.'

‘You and Cinderella,' he said, squeezing her hand with a smile.

‘Hey, stop complaining. I could have had a Snow White fetish and then I'd be demanding seven little people come share our cosy two-bedder.'

‘This your way of telling me you're carrying septuplets?' asked David with a smile.

‘Over my dead body,' she laughed.

Half an hour, two roasted chicken sandwiches, one coffee and an extra large juice later, David and Sara were back to discussing their case. They didn't have much time. They had promised their client that they would look in on his two children later in the afternoon and had called ahead to Logan's business partner, Katherine de Castro, to make sure she would be at home. She was, and she would be, she had assured them with enthusiasm, and they set up the visit for three.

‘I know he has hired us to represent him,' Sara began, referring to their client, ‘but in all honesty, part of me thinks we should be talking to the ADA. Logan didn't kill her and I am not sure what it says about us – basically sharing in his lie and endorsing his confession by representing him in court.'

‘I know,' said David. ‘But we have no other option. Carmichael will be going through the motions just like us – charging Jeffrey with involuntary manslaughter, and then waiting for the forensics to come in so that she can arrest J.T. and hand him over to juvie.'

‘She isn't going to like that,' said Sara.

‘She won't have any choice.'

‘And you?' asked Sara after a pause. ‘Is that going to be enough for you?'

David knew this discussion was coming – and he loved her for bringing it up.

‘I'm not sure,' he replied. ‘It's just that this whole case comes with so many questions it is hard to know where I should stand. Stephanie was so generous, so selfless, so full of ideas and opinions and dreams. And for her life to end the way it did – at the hand of her only son . . . part of me needs to know what went down, Sara, and not just for Stephanie, but for me.'

Sara nodded. ‘It's like you knew her at “A”, and she ended up at “C” and “B” is . . .'

‘A sixteen-year mystery I owe it to her to understand.'

‘Stephanie didn't ask you to do this, David.'

‘She didn't have to.'

The look of understanding on Sara's face said it all.

‘So we start by supporting the lie, and after that, well . . . we see what we can do about unveiling the truth.'

‘Something like that.'

‘It's not like we haven't come at things backwards before,' she said, reaching across the table to kiss him.

‘Really?' he said, managing a smile at last. ‘And I thought all our cases were a piece of cake.'

‘That's because you work with me,' she said.

C
aroline Croft stretched back in her red leather ergonomic chair and took in a long, cool breath. Her perfectly coiffed blonde hair was freshly combed and cut in the standard newscaster's style, her arched stockinged feet now crossed and resting on the glass-topped office desk before her. Her husband, Bernard Jefferson, the executive producer of their high-rated
Newsline
program was now watching and listening anxiously from across the room. He had a bet with her that she wouldn't be able to pull this off, knowing the thrill of competition would make her all the more determined.

‘I
want
this, Allen,' she said into the phone, her smooth ‘anchorwoman' voice now tinged with the slightest hint of frustration. ‘Boston is my city. Stephanie was my
friend
. I've known the family for years, even attended Chelsea's high school graduation.'

‘The daughter is sixteen, Caroline,' said the network CEO who was now on speaker. ‘She won't graduate high school until . . .'

‘Well, I went to something with square hats, Allen – and what the fuck does it matter? May I remind you
Newsline
is the number one current affairs magazine program in the country. We make
60 Minutes
look like two and half hours of total indigestible crap and you know it.'

Bernard was cringing by this stage, obviously concerned his fearless
wife with the big TV profile and the even bigger balls had overstepped her mark. Allen Greenburg was one of the most powerful media execs in the country, and Jefferson obviously doubted even Greenburg's mother had the guts to speak to him like this.

‘Bob Prescott wants it to go to his news teams,' said Greenburg, referring to his President of News. ‘He says he can stretch any interview over days – chop it up for a late night bulletin, leave the softer stuff for the morning programs, milk the exclusive for maximum return.'

‘Bullshit,' Caroline said. ‘Prescott is an idiot and you know it. He wouldn't know a decent story if he fell over it, which isn't such a stretch given the last time he attended an industry awards ceremony the man drank three bottles of red and had to send his deputy up to accept the award – for the network's exclusive on the latest treatments for alcohol abuse, no less.'

When Greenburg fell silent, Caroline knew she had hit a nerve and took it as her cue to move in for the kill.

‘Have you spoken to de Castro?' she asked, her dislike for Logan's ‘partner' barely disguised in the sharpness of her tone.

The silence continued – and Caroline's instincts told her Greenburg knew something he was not sharing.

‘Come on, Allen, we all bat for the same team. If Katherine needs our help in making sure any interview is treated with respect and sensitivity . . .'