Presumption of Guilt (6 page)

As she stared at Jonah’s picture, it struck Dani again how unfathomable it would be to be separated from her son. He was ten in the picture. His dark-brown hair, its curls covering his ears, glowed from the bright sun, and his smile spread from cheek to cheek. They were at the beach in Montauk when the picture was taken, a favorite destination of Jonah’s. During her brief visits with Molly, there had been no discussion of her daughter. Dani had wanted it that way; she wanted to take her measure of Molly, the prisoner, before being softened by thoughts of Molly, the mother, deprived of her daughter. Yet, despite her wish to keep that picture at a distance, it kept pushing its way into her thoughts.

A tap on her door erased the image. Dani glanced up and saw Melanie in the doorway, with Tommy a step behind. Although over the years casual Friday had turned into sloppy every day for the office, unless a court visit was on tap, Melanie always showed up for work looking like she’d stepped out of a Saks Fifth Avenue catalog. Today was no exception. Dani waved them both in.

“Did you learn anything helpful?” Melanie asked as she sat down.

“Not really. The guard took her away before we could get into it.”

“But you think she’s innocent?”

If Dani was a bleeding heart, and she had to admit she was, the only bigger softy in the office was Melanie.

“I still don’t know. I don’t think Molly knows either, although she insists she didn’t have it in her.”

Tommy stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles. “You two would believe Jack the Ripper was innocent if he had a baby tucked under one arm.”

Dani smiled. The three made a perfect team, each challenging the other. Whenever she had a choice, she picked Melanie and Tommy to work with. Dani filled them in on what she knew, then turned to Tommy. “I’d like you to check out the jail angle.”

Tommy shrugged. “I’ll do it, but the state checked into that business and found nothing wrong.”

“It probably has nothing to do with the murders, but we shouldn’t ignore the letters Donna received.”

After her colleagues left, Dani picked up the phone to call Molly’s trial lawyer. As with every appeal she handled, the real investigation began with the search through the first attorney’s records. But with a client whose memory of the night was erased by drugs, she didn’t hold out hope that she’d get much help there. Bruce was right. Without DNA evidence, proving Molly’s innocence would be an uphill battle—and a steep uphill at that. Dani had a sinking feeling that the only way she’d convince a court of Molly’s innocence would be to find the real murderer.

C
HAPTER

10

F
rank Reynolds pushed his way through the crowd lined up at the barbeque pit and stepped behind Alan Bryson, whose plate was extended to receive the bloodred burger he’d requested. Bryson, still trim from years of daily jogs despite his love of red meat, turned around when Frank tapped his shoulder, then smiled.

“Frank, you’re here. I’ve been wondering what happened to you.”

“We need to talk,” Frank said, his voice barely above a whisper.

A cloud passed over Bryson’s face, then as quickly passed. “Later. This is a time for fun, Frank. Our friends are here, the music is blaring—I don’t know how these young people stand it so loud—and everyone’s enjoying themselves.” He nodded across the lawn. “Look over there. We got a clown this year for the little ones. They’re eating it up.” Now the judge lowered his voice. “Whatever’s on your mind, stow it. Put on a smile and start pumping some flesh.”

Frank nodded, then walked away, irritated that he’d been brushed off so casually. He looked around and silently calculated the number of guests at the annual Harvest Festival, sponsored by the county Republican Party and timed to remind their constituents who to vote for in the upcoming elections. It was a good turnout this year. At least three hundred people, maybe more. A bounce house was set up at one end of the field, part of a county park that bordered the Hudson River, and children were lined up to get inside. At another corner, a volunteer ran relay races for the older children. On an adjoining field, a softball game was in progress.

“Hi, Dad.”

Frank turned around and saw Finn. He gave him a hug, then asked, “Where’s Kim and the kids?”

Finn shrugged. “Off somewhere. Graham’s probably doing the races and Sophie went looking for her friends.”

“And Kim?”

“Stayed home.”

Frank raised his eyebrows but knew enough not to press his son.

“It’s been a little strained lately between us.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Nothing to worry about; it’ll pass.”

Frank held his tongue. He’d never liked Kim. Sure, she was pretty, and had a body to go with it. But that was it. It was bad enough she had no brains, but she had no heart either. Cold as ice. The only good thing she’d done in Frank’s view was produce Graham. And it’d be a miracle if she didn’t mess him up good with her coddling.

“Mom here?”

“She’s helping at the food table.”

“I’m gonna go say hello. See you later.”

Frank headed over to a group seated at one of the picnic tables—a few lawyers, an accountant, and a couple of local merchants. All big donors to his campaign in the past. He wasn’t up for election this year but it didn’t matter. Running for office never stopped. As soon as one election was over, he was out hustling money for the next. Only now, his head wasn’t into glad-handing some big wheels. The call last night still had him rattled. He needed to tell the judge about it.

“Frank, how are you doing?” Jim Thornton boomed, turning heads all across the lawn.

Frank slid into an empty seat at the picnic table and forced a big smile. “Just fine, thanks. And how are you all doing?”

The men around the table nodded and offered murmured “goods” and “fines.”

“You’re one lucky bunch,” one of the men said to him. “I don’t remember one time when it’s rained on your barbeque. And I’ve come to every one for at least a decade.”

“The luck of the righteous,” Frank said. “And you know, we do right by you folks.”

“Oh, we know,” said another. “And we remember come election time.”

“I appreciate hearing that. I appreciate even more when I hear from your checkbooks,” Frank said, his smile widening.

“Oh, you don’t let us forget that.” The men at the table laughed.

The conversation soon turned to talk of the upcoming World Series. Frank couldn’t care less who won. Why was it that every time a group of men got together they talked of sports? He’d never shared that interest. Maybe it was growing up in the country, far enough away from New York City or any other place big enough to have a team. Maybe because, from as far back as he could remember, he’d always preferred academic pursuits to physical games.

Now half the folks in Hudson County had come up from the city. First, they bought vacation homes and just came north on weekends. Then, taken with the beauty of the countryside, the abundance of outdoor activities, the peaceful, laid-back lifestyle, they began moving up to live year round. Housing prices skyrocketed, and before the locals knew what had happened, their children couldn’t afford to live there after they moved out of their parents’ homes. And even people who’d lived in their homes for generations had trouble paying the property taxes that escalated right along with the increased value of their houses. Still, the newcomers brought wealth with them, and money paid for campaigns.

As the men heatedly argued over their favorite players, Frank could only think about the phone call he’d received. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead, and he hoped the men at the table attributed it to the warmth of the day. He didn’t want to appear nervous in front of them. The chief executive of the county should be confident and in control at all times.

Only he wasn’t. Not today. He waited a bit, then stood up to leave.

“Heading off to fleece more pockets?” Jim Thornton thundered, and the men laughed again, but good-naturedly.

“Exactly. I don’t want my constituents to think you fellas have a monopoly on that privilege.”

With the band having finally taken a break, their noise was replaced by the sounds of children laughing and the cheers of three-legged race spectators.

Frank wandered over to the food tables. He was starting to get hungry. The smell of greasy hamburgers always got his juices flowing. He grabbed a bun, plopped a burger on top, then filled the rest of his plate with a corn on the cob and homemade salads made by loyal volunteers. He sauntered over to a large barrel and pulled out a cold beer, then looked for a familiar face to sit down with. As he scanned the picnic tables, he saw Bryson again, sitting with a group of men and women, all listening raptly to him. He began to walk toward him, then stopped. The last thing he needed was to antagonize Bryson.

How did I get involved in this mess? I didn’t start it. It shouldn’t be on my shoulders.
Frank felt a tide of anger, tried to push it away, but couldn’t. With tray in hand, he strode over to Bryson’s table and stood over him.

“We need to talk now.”

Bryson looked up and smiled blandly at him. “I told you, no shop talk today, Frank. Come by and see me on Monday.”

“Sorry, it has to be today.”

The judge’s smile dimmed. With a sigh, he slowly arose, like a king leaving his throne, and signaled for Frank to follow him. Once they were alone, he turned to face him. That smile was a distant memory now. “Don’t you ever contradict me in public again. You hear me? Never!”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“No buts. I don’t care what this is about. Come by and see me on Monday and we’ll talk. Need I remind you? You’re in office because I put you there. And I can just as easily get you removed.”

As Bryson turned his back to leave, Frank whispered, “An investigator is coming to my office on Monday morning to talk about the jail.”

Bryson swung around to face him. “Who? And why?”

“His name is Tom Noorland. And he’s asking because of Molly Singer.”

“Damn.” Bryson was silent for a moment. “The state already cleared us. He’s just on a fishing expedition. It’s your job to make sure he doesn’t catch anything.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then we’re going to have more problems than the jail.”

With that, Bryson returned to the picnic tables, leaving Frank just as worried as before.

C
HAPTER

11

“H
e’ll be with you soon, Mr. Noorland.”

It was twenty minutes past the time set for Tommy’s appointment with Frank Reynolds, and all he’d seen were the gray walls of the waiting room. He’d arrived on time for their ten o’clock meeting. The secretary sitting at the desk just outside Reynolds’s door, like a soldier guarding the castle, said he was running late. Running late, my ass, Tommy thought. He could see the buttons on the phone sitting on the secretary’s desk. Not one was lit up. A million to one against anyone walking out of Reynolds’s office when the door finally opened. He knew the strategy. Keep an enemy waiting long enough to get fidgety and it throws them off their game. Only it didn’t work with him. Ten years with the FBI had familiarized him with every type of deception, every kind of game playing.

It made him question, though, why Reynolds treated him like an enemy.

Tommy reread the report of the state’s investigation into the cost overruns on the county jail. He’d gotten a copy easily enough. As a public document, it was subject to the freedom of information laws. Which didn’t mean government agencies didn’t usually drag their heels complying with those requests. It often took two weeks or more to find such documents, but Tommy had former law-enforcement buddies throughout the country. One phone call, and the next day the report sat on his desk. As far as Tommy could judge, the report raised no red flags.

Another ten minutes later, the door to Reynolds’s office opened. Sure enough, the man standing in the doorway had been alone in there. He looked about Tommy’s height, six feet even, but weighed at least thirty pounds more. He was dressed in a rumpled suit, and through his open jacket Tommy could see his stomach hanging over his belt. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Noorland. Why don’t you come in now?”

Tommy held out his hand to shake Reynolds’s. “Thanks for seeing me on short notice. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

He entered the office and sat down on a wood chair opposite a plain walnut-veneer desk. Government offices all looked the same. No frills, even for the guy at the top.

“So,” Reynolds said as he took his own seat, “you said you had some questions about the building of the jail. I’m afraid I won’t be of much help to you. I wasn’t county executive when that came about.”

Tommy pretended to look through some papers on his lap, then pulled out one and placed it on top. “I see. That was before Hudson County had a county executive, right?”

“Yes, the county was governed by its legislators. And although I was a county legislator then, I wasn’t the chairman. I was just one of forty-eight.”

“Well then, this shouldn’t take long. Just a few questions if you don’t mind. Maybe you could fill me in on the decision to build a new jail to begin with.”

“I’ll be happy to. But first, I’m wondering what this has to do with Molly Singer. Didn’t you say your office represented her?”

Tommy saw Reynolds’s fingers tapping on the desk.
He’s hiding something. Something about Molly.
“Probably nothing. I’m just following the orders of my boss to check out the jail.”

“But why?”

“Molly’s sister got some anonymous letters. Whoever wrote them said her parents’ murders had to do with the jail somehow.”

Reynolds’s face blanched, the tapping of his fingers stopped, and he sat up straighter. “That’s preposterous. How could that be?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

Tommy could hear the soft clicking of the clock on Reynolds’s desk. Finally, Reynolds stood up. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any information that would be helpful to you. I’ve a busy schedule.”