by Sydney Bauer
And so Joe pushed past him, running toward the front entrance – and catching sight of a familiar face in the doorway of a men's room as he sped by.
‘Jesus,’ he said into the radio. ‘I think I just saw Rigotti.’
‘What's that?’ asked Frank over the hubbub.
‘Nothing. Hold tight. I'm on my way out, Frank.’
‘Did Martinelli come through?’ asked Frank. ‘Are we gonna make the collar?’
‘We're making the collar,’ said Joe.
‘Then we're not gonna be popular. Walker looks the picture of innocence.’
But then the noise drowned him out as Joe Mannix rounded the corner and saw that the circus had come to town.
14
The following morning
David had not yet told Sara about the call he'd received from Daniel Hunt the previous morning. He'd wanted to, several times, but she had been on the phone in her office all of yesterday morning and had left for her court appointment early. And then he was out all afternoon, and then home late, missing dinner after an unexpected call from an anxious young client due in court first thing today.
‘So much for last night's dinner,’ she said, reading his mind as the bread popped from the toaster and she kicked the dishwasher closed with the toe of what looked to be a brand new high-heeled shoe. They were dressed for work already, a giggling Lauren making a mess of the cereal on the highchair table top before her.
Sara grabbed a cloth from the kitchen sink before rounding the breakfast bar and joining them at their small annexe table.
‘I'm sorry about that,’ said David. ‘I was with Walter and his grandmother,’ he said, referring to his eighteen-year-old client and the woman who had raised him.
‘Is he okay?’ She looked up from the marmalade she was spreading on her toast.
‘As he can be,’ he replied before meeting her eye across the table. ‘You caught the news on the abduction murder in Back Bay, the one that stole Joe away from the Taj?’
She nodded. ‘God, David, it's awful. The little girl was only a couple of months old.’ She shook her head, her hand automatically reaching across to touch a smiling Lauren on the cheek. ‘I mean, who in the hell …?’ She picked up her coffee. ‘I missed the news last night, was there an update?’
‘They've arrested the mother.’
Sara stopped short. ‘The mother! You're kidding me?’
‘She's a friend of Daniel Hunt's,’ he added.
Her aqua eyes hit him straight on. ‘Are you serious? How do you know?’
‘He called me.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Hunt called you? Why?’
He took a breath before relaying his conversation with Daniel Hunt, following that up with a recount of his earlier discussion with Joe.
She listened intently, her only movement to sip the coffee from her oversized mug. ‘Oh god, David,’ she said again. ‘That is … unbelievable.’
He nodded as he took a mouthful of his own black brew, the room turning quiet as he waited for Sara to go on, which she usually did, the two of them used to this familiar process of bouncing off of one another.
‘Sara?’ he said when she failed to go on.
She met his eye. ‘I understand why you turned him down,’ she said. ‘It's your prerogative.’ She rose from the breakfast table.
‘My prerogative?’ This was not exactly the response he was expecting.
‘The woman killed her daughter.’ Sara rounded the breakfast bar with her plate and mug in hand.
‘You're saying she's guilty,’ he called to her as she moved out of sight. ‘And I only represent the –’
‘… innocent,’ she called back. And he had to admit it irked him the way she'd risen from her seat, heading to the kitchen as if this conversation didn't warrant any further discussion.
‘Sara,’ he said again, now standing to follow her into the kitchen, offering Lauren her sippy cup on the way. ‘Do you disagree with me?’
‘I didn't say that.’
‘She killed her daughter.’
Sara turned from the sink to look at him. ‘Maybe. And even if she did, isn't that just …’ she leant back on the bench behind her, ‘… so sad, David. I mean, in no way do I condone what she is accused of doing, but you have to wonder – what kind of emotional state would a mother have to be in to take her own child's life like that?’
‘She didn't just take her child's life, Sara.’ David was ready for an argument if she wanted one. ‘She cut her throat and then disposed of the body in order to hide her culpability. That reeks of premeditation.’
‘No it doesn't, David.’ She put a finger to her lips indicating that they needed to keep their voices down. ‘It reeks of desperation, of serious emotional illness.’
The finger annoyed him. ‘You're taking Hunt's side.’
She sighed, and that annoyed him too. ‘I'm not taking anyone's side – but I have to admit, at face value it certainly seems like he is just trying to help his friend.’
David rolled his eyes.
‘Post-partum depression is a very real, very tragic condition, David,’ Sara went on. ‘Women do things they would never consider under normal circumstances. It's hormonal, uncontrollable.’
‘Then why didn't she seek help?’
‘From the sounds of what Joe and Daniel Hunt told you about the presence of her physician, maybe she did.’
Sara turned her back on him again, this time to rinse her plate. But David had heard enough. He had expected her to support him in his decision, even share a jibe at Hunt's audacity, but the fact that she had done the exact opposite – even rubbed his decision in his face … ‘Did you tell Daniel Hunt we were looking to buy a place in the suburbs?’
Her shoulders stooped as she dropped her plate in the sink. ‘Excuse me?’ She turned to face him once again.
‘Did you fill Hunt in on our domestic situation while he was spinning you around that dance floor with his hands all over you?’
Her mouth opened as she placed her hands on her hips. ‘You cannot be serious.’
David lifted his palms as if to say, ‘Do I look like I'm joking?’
She shook her head. ‘Hunt asked me where we were living. I told him. He said that must be difficult, bringing up a small child in small quarters without a yard, and I said it was.’ Her voice raised a notch. ‘He said there were deals to be made in suburbs like Fenway and Brookline. He said he had some contacts in the real estate business that might be able to help us. I said that was very kind of him. And then he said …’ her voice rose again, ‘… that you were a real legal talent and that you could make five times the money you are making if you came to work for him. And I said I agreed you were talented, but that you loved what you did. And then he –’
‘Let me guess,’ David interrupted, the volume of his own voice now going one better. ‘He went on and on about how I was wasting my time in criminal law, and that I was a fool to stay in a place where I was paid shit to defend people who were wrongly accused of crimes they did not commit.’
‘No,’ she bit back, picking up a dish cloth to twist it in her fingers.
‘No?’ he echoed.
‘He offered a job to me.’
15
The Boston Municipal Courthouse was a tall, impressive, white stone structure situated on a triangular block on the corner of New Chardon and Merimac Streets. The building was named for Edward W. Brooke, the first African–American to be elected by popular vote to the US Senate back in 1966.
The courthouse had multiple roles, including the hearing of minor criminal matters not serious enough to warrant incarceration, the holding of probable cause hearings to decide whether or not a matter should be transferred to the more ominous Superior Court, and the settling of disputes relating to the busy Suffolk County Court Division which hears matters relating to juveniles.
In addition to all this, one of the most important responsibilities of this busy, light-soaked building was to play host to the production
mill of arraignments, whereby newly arrested individuals, appearing with their newly engaged representation, were formally charged and asked to enter a plea regarding their innocence or guilt. Arraignments were also where the first round of combat between defence counsel and the prosecution took place. The duelling between the two was often vigorous – the subject of contention: bail.
‘Your Honor.’ David got to his feet. The courtroom was packed, not because of this minor matter of assault involving David's teenage client, Walter Booth, who sat wide-eyed and terrified beside him, but because one of the arraignments coming up on the docket was the Commonwealth vs Walker.
‘The Commonwealth has no grounds for denying my client bail,’ David continued, his unresolved argument with Sara still brewing somewhere in the back of his mind. ‘Walter Booth came forward of his own reconnaissance, he admits to assaulting Mr Jackson, but only because Mr Jackson and his fellow gang members entered my client's grandmother's house with intent to rob her after threatening her with a large steel crowbar.’
‘Your Honor,’ countered Assistant District Attorney Amanda Carmichael, a tall, attractive, ambitious prosecutor who David had sparred with before. ‘Mr Jackson suffered a fractured rib and a broken nose as a result of Mr Booth's aggression. Mr Booth may not be in full-time employment but he has the financial backing of his grandmother and, in the Commonwealth's view, should be considered a flight risk.’ Carmichael was obviously playing to the full-to-capacity media gallery, even if they weren't here to see her.
‘My client is in his first year of economics at BU,’ countered David. ‘His grandmother is on social security. He works weekends at the local drug store to help pay for the groceries, he is a good kid, with a clean record and –’
‘All right,’ said the judge, a tall, thin, grey-haired man by the name of Weeks. ‘That was a good try, Ms Carmichael, but I am releasing Mr Booth into the custody of his grandmother.’ The judge turned to face David's grateful client. ‘You understand you have to stick around, young man, until this matter is heard in court exactly …’ Weeks checked his diary, ‘… two weeks from today.’
‘Yes, sir, thank you, Mr Judge, sir,’ said a nervous Walter as he snapped to his feet to reply.
Judge Weeks shuffled some papers aside before telling Walter Booth he was free to go and calling the next case on his docket.
‘I'll see you next week,’ whispered David as Walter shook his hand with vigour.
‘Thanks so much, Mr C.’
‘No problem. You go take your grandmother out for a late breakfast, Walter,’ he said, gesturing toward the old African–American woman squashed in a bench seat at the far back right-hand corner of the courtroom.
Walter nodded as David packed up his things to leave.
‘Must be hard,’ said a voice from behind.
David recognised the smug tone instantly. It was the last person he wanted to see today, or any other day for that matter. ‘What's hard, Roger?’ he answered.
‘You know. All this …’ Katz gestured at the overflowing gallery. ‘The Walker case is going to be huge, Cavanaugh, and you are not going to be part of it.’
David shoved his files into his briefcase, not even tempted to tell this asshole that he'd knocked the case back a mere twenty-four hours ago.
‘You're right,’ said David. ‘I cried over my coffee this morning as I read the details in the Tribune.’
‘Never mind – you can continue to read the dailies, which should keep you up to date with my progress. Maybe you'll even learn a thing or two, about how a delicate case such as this should be handled.’
‘Good idea, Roger,’ replied David, his mood darkening by the minute. ‘That means I'll have two things to look forward to first thing in the morning – reading your quotes in the Tribune and changing my eighteen-month-old's diapers, whichever piece of shit comes first.’ It wasn't something he'd normally say, but today, hell, he figured he was owed some respite from his usual self-restraint.
Seconds later David found himself blocked by a horde of people who had congregated at far left-hand corner of the room. He waited patiently as the voyeurs wearing raincoats and carrying still-wet umbrellas attempted to find seats, eventually coming face to face with an old friend by the name of Leo King.
‘Simba,’ whispered David. ‘What are you doing here?’
Leo ‘Simba’ King was an innocent-looking man with wide brown eyes and a clean-shaven face, his boyish appearance resulting in his namesake derived from the main character in Disney's The Lion King. King was also the FBI's highest ranking individual in the state of Massachusetts, which just went to show you could not judge a book by its cover: Special Agent in Charge King was one of the shrewdest federal investigators in the country.
‘I have to give evidence in a probable cause hearing upstairs,’ King returned, keeping his voice low. ‘Came down here to see if I could spot Mannix. Wanted to see if we could catch up.’
David nodded as he saw the back door open yet again, his mood slipping from bad to worse as he saw Daniel Hunt and his doctor friend move quickly into the room. Seconds later Hunt was followed by Joe Mannix and Frank McKay. The Walker case must be next up on the docket, he thought, which means it is definitely time for me to leave.
David tried to manoeuvre himself around King so that he could thread his way toward the door. But then to his surprise Hunt spotted him and diverted his course, heading directly toward him. Shit.
‘No hard feelings,’ said Hunt as he stopped immediately in front of David and extended his right hand. David had no option but to take it, and Hunt followed through with a nod and a pat on David's left arm before rejoining his friend and heading straight up the middle aisle.
‘Since when did you have friends in high places?’ whispered Simba with a slight smile on his face.
‘He's not my friend.’ David wriggled uncomfortably, anxious to leave.
‘Why don't you stick around?’ continued Simba. ‘Maybe you, me and Mannix can grab a coffee once the circus pulls up its tent.’
‘Thanks for the offer, Simba, but I've seen enough of Katz's performances to last me a lifetime.’
Simba smiled once again as he twisted himself sideways in an attempt to let David pass, but now the area near the door was more jammed than ever and the judge was calling for order, which meant David had to inch his way out as quietly as possible.
‘Mr Katz,’ said Judge Weeks. David looked up to see the front side door open and two large Sheriff's Department deputies move slowly into the room, the small woman between them almost swallowed by the substantialness of their girth. And despite himself David shifted right to look at her – Sara's words about the tragedy of her circumstances reverberating in his ears.
‘I believe you represent the people in the matter of the Commonwealth versus Walker?’ Weeks continued as he peered directly down at the now-standing DA.
The entire room started buzzing as necks craned and spines were lengthened to take in the accused in their midst. David decided to make the most of the disruptive scuttlebutt to make his way toward the door.
‘Yes, Your Honor,’ David heard Katz reply. ‘Mrs Walker is charged with murder in the first degree, the victim being her nine-week-old baby daughter, Eliza Jane Walker. Obviously given the serious nature of the charge, and Mrs Walker's substantial means, we ask that Your Honor refuse bail and –’
‘Hold on there a minute, Mr Katz. Mrs Walker,’ Weeks continued, now addressing the defendant, ‘have you engaged legal counsel to speak on your behalf this morning?’
The room went silent as David stopped short once again, this time to take in the empty seat next to the accused.
‘No, Your Honor,’ said Walker, who was prompted by a bailiff to get to her feet before addressing the bench.
‘Do you wish to engage a public defender?’
‘No, Your Honor.’
‘Then perhaps you have engaged counsel but he or she could not be with you this morning?’ said an obviously perplexed We
eks. ‘Might this be the case?’ Weeks's raised eyebrows suggesting he was hoping for an answer in the positive.
‘Yes and no, Your Honor.’ Sienna Walker's voice was soft but clean, crisp. ‘I believe a defence attorney has been approached on my behalf, but I am waiting for confirmation … of his commitment.’
David caught his breath as his insides began to knot.
‘Who is this attorney, Mrs Walker?’ asked Weeks, just as David knew he would.
‘I believe his name is David Cavanaugh, Your Honor.’
‘Why, he was just here!’ The judge lifted his eyes above his bifocals. ‘In fact … Mr Cavanaugh, is that you?’
Every head in the room turned toward him, including Joe's and Frank's, Joe meeting his eye with an expression that said: Jesus, what the hell?
‘Ah … yes, it's me, Your Honor,’ answered David.
‘Have you been approached by Mrs Walker?’
It was a difficult question to answer. ‘Not by Mrs Walker, Your Honor,’ he offered, not knowing what else to say.
‘What in god's name does that mean?’ asked Weeks.
‘It means I was approached by a friend of Mrs Walker, but at the time Mrs Walker had not been charged, and I told this person that I was not –’
‘Are you busy, Counsellor?’ asked Weeks.
‘I'm sorry?’
‘Your workload – are you swamped? I understand that you have the assault matter and so forth, but are there any more time-consuming Superior Court matters on your list at present?’
An increasingly frustrated David hesitated, his eyes flicking once again toward Joe. ‘Not at the moment, Judge,’ he said, resisting the urge to lie.
‘Then you are free to represent Mrs Walker.’
It was a statement, not a question. David felt his blood begin to boil.
‘Mrs Walker, are you happy to have Mr Cavanaugh as your counsel?’
‘Yes, Your Honor,’ she replied.
‘All right then.’ The judge turned back to David. ‘You have permission to get your ass back up here, Mr Cavanaugh. You have a plea to enter on your client's behalf.’
