by Sydney Bauer
‘A little difficult considering I haven't examined him,’ warned Barbara.
‘I understand,’ replied David. ‘But anything you can tell us would help at this stage.’
The attractive Japanese-American nodded, before picking up her folder and turning to the job at hand. ‘Sienna Walker was born Sienna Elizabeth Harrington. She grew up in the town of Guildford, Surrey, which is southwest of London.’
‘Surrey,’ said Joe. ‘Isn't that the county for the UK's rich and famous?’
‘It's the wealthiest county in the UK,’ said Barbara. ‘As for famous, I think that title belongs to Hertfordshire – that's where the Beckhams built their mini-palace after all.’
‘Beckingham Palace,’ said Frank, and the entire group turned to look at him. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Kay reads the tabloids.’
Barbara smiled before consulting her notes once again. ‘Sienna's parents were individually successful and both had diverse talents – left brain, right brain stuff, which makes Sienna a very interesting genetic mix.’
‘In what way?’ asked Arthur.
‘Sienna's father was Edward Harrington, a respected lawyer who specialised in international criminology. He had his own incredibly successful London-based practice, but in his later life was approached to be a special adviser to first Prime Minister John Major and then Prime Minister Tony Blair on matters of international law and security.’
‘But weren't Major and Blair from opposite parties?’ asked Sara. ‘I mean, usually new administrations bring in their own people.’
Barbara nodded. ‘Sara's right, and Sienna's low-key reference to her father's professional history intrigued me as well. So I did some independent research and discovered Edward Harrington was quite an extraordinary man. From what I can gather he knew more about the legalities of dealing with the factions of the vastly diversified global criminal syndicates than anyone in the UK, and thus was highly sought after until he died of a heart attack in 2003.’
‘So the dad was left brain,’ said Joe. ‘What about the mom?’
Barbara took a sip of her beer and used the back of her hand to push her wire-rimmed glasses back up her petite turned-up nose. ‘Equally as amazing. While Sienna's father was certainly a man of some influence, her mother had built up her own reputation as an expert in her own field of influence – that being the arts.’
‘So Sienna Walker followed in her mother's footsteps,’ said Frank, ‘working at the gallery.’
‘Yes,’ replied Barbara. ‘But her mother's specialty was music.’ She referred to her notes once again. ‘Alison Granby Harrington was classified as a musical genius at a very early age. She was a celebrated violinist and attended the Royal College of Music in London's fashionable South Kensington – a college that is highly regarded as one of the best music schools in Europe.’ Barbara ran her finger down the page in front of her. ‘She was a huge supporter of the arts in all forms, eventually being named Chairwoman of the Arts Council of Great Britain at the age of forty-one.’
‘You've done your homework,’ said Arthur.
‘Yes,’ replied Barbara. ‘And admittedly a lot of this may seem unnecessary to your defence, but from a professional point of view this information, this kind of background, certainly helps me when it comes to building a psychological profile of your client.’
Barbara looked up from her notes and saw uncertainty on most of the faces around her. ‘Okay, indulge me for a minute,’ she said, placing her folder on the table. ‘Her father was obviously smart and blessed with an incredible talent for diplomacy and her mother was a musical whiz. Sienna was an only child, and she admits to being indulged in the sense that her parents spent a lot of time teaching, talking, including her in their discussions, their thought processes, their view on the universe as a whole. But then Sienna's world falls apart – her mother dies in a horse-riding accident when Sienna is only eleven. Her father is devastated. He throws himself into his work. Sienna is sent to boarding school, and while admittedly it was one of the best in the UK, it was still the first time in her life that she was isolated, which meant there were two ways she could have gone at this point – rebellion or excellence – and Sienna being who she is, she automatically followed the path of …’
‘Excellence,’ said David.
Barbara nodded.
David was beginning to see how this might help them – or at the very least explain why his client was who she was. Sienna could well have fallen into a heap when she was eleven, but she hadn't – on the contrary, she had excelled. David suspected Barbara was trying to explain to them why depression was simply not in their client's make-up – and, if the Kat did decide to push the depression envelope, why it would be an argument that could well benefit them in court.
‘So where did she go from boarding school?’ asked Frank.
‘Well,’ said Barbara, who had obviously committed this information to memory, ‘from the Roedean School in Brighton she was accepted into Oxford to study the history of art and architecture, where she graduated with honours.’
‘That's some familial resumé,’ said Joe.
Barbara agreed. ‘Her lineage is certainly impressive, especially when you consider the talents of her maternal grandfather – the artist Alistair Granby, who was, by the way, a descendant of British gentry.’ But then the psychologist began to frown.
‘What is it?’ asked Sara.
Barbara shook her head. ‘I suppose he is the one chink in her genetic armour – the grandfather with some grand British title who shunned his peerage, began painting, and then went AWOL at the peak of what was reportedly an incredibly successful career. He was by all reports antisocial, violent, misogynistic, cruel.’
David felt a flash of concern slip quickly up his spine. ‘Wait a minute, are you suggesting the prosecution could use a genetic link like this one to solidify their argument for Sienna's state of mind?’ he asked. It sounded like a strategy from way out of left field, but they were talking about Roger Katz here and David knew the man made an art out of picking at the details until he drew blood.
‘I'm saying it's possible,’ admitted Barbara, ‘that Roger Katz could enlist the services of his own psychologist to link the grandfather's aggression to his granddaughter. Don't forget, if Katz puts your Dr Davenport on the stand as you suspect he will, and if the doctor gives evidence relating to your client's self-administration of those sedatives, well … in this scenario his psych expert could well have the easiest job in the courtroom – all he has to do is provide a genetic link for your client's actions and …’
‘You're talking about some form of genetic mental illness – bipolar or the like.’
Barbara nodded. ‘It's possible,’ she said.
Sara looked at David. ‘I know we suspect Katz has no intention of playing the depression card but if he could link such a condition to genetic aggression – I wouldn't put it past him, David.’
They all knew what Sara was saying. Ever since she had had her impromptu meeting with Hunt they understood just how high the cards were stacked against them. If Davenport was subpoenaed as a witness for the prosecution, if he could prove Sienna's motivation for taking her daughter's life was her own guilt, then Katz could go to town on the psychological angle without the concession of a lesser charge and sentence. Post-partum depression was one thing, but murder-suicide, motivated by Sienna's guilt at having had an affair which in turn triggered her husband's suicide, was another altogether. The DA could claim Sienna took out such guilt on her daughter, and then opted for the coward's way out of attempting to end her own life as well. The whole thing reeked of premeditation, and that meant it had ‘murder one’ written all over it. Hell, if they were almost anywhere else but Massachusetts, their client would be headed for the electric chair.
‘I'm sorry,’ said Barbara then. ‘If it's any compensation, I'll do everything I can to offer a strong counterargument on the stand.’
‘But you think it might not be enough,’ said David.
But David did not hear her, for all he heard was the ticking of that internal clock that felt like it was accelerating toward their day in court. Tick … tick … tick.
*
It was past midnight when they finally called it a night, David walking out under the clear night sky, spring having slipped through winter's fingers, the air crisp but not biting, cool but not cold.
‘You're lucky to have her,’ said Joe of Barbara Wong-McGregor.
‘Don't I know it,’ replied David as he watched Joe extend his arm toward his Nissan, the somewhat worse-for-wear vehicle blinking to life at the command of the keys in Joe's left hand.
‘Did you ask your client about that injury? The one that might have seen her use the DSMO?’
David turned to look at his detective friend. ‘Yes, sorry, I forgot to tell you. She said she'd been in good health – no sprains or strains, certainly no need for analgesics or anti-inflammatories. But she's taken the odd migraine tablet, so I thought maybe there were some medications that …?’ He stopped to turn toward his detective friend, noting the look of confusion on his face. ‘Is this significant, Joe?’ he asked. ‘The dimethyl sulfoxide in her blood, I mean. Because I don't see how it can be, given it's not a drug used to treat depression or …’
But Joe's head was downcast, his feet shuffling on the pavement.
‘Joe?’
Joe finally lifted his chin. ‘One of the reasons Frank and I set out to find this Esther Wallace was because we wanted some more background on Sienna's medical situation. We thought this Wallace – being a nurse and all – might remember any additional treatments or prescriptions issued to your client. But as you know, Wallace has gone AWOL. We checked the flights from Logan, both international and domestic, and they were a no-go. We got a warrant to search her house … the woman appears to have disappeared into thin air, which either means absolutely nothing or … something significant – I'm just not sure which.’
David stopped under a street light. ‘You think this Esther Wallace knows something about Sienna being prescribed the DSMO?’
‘Or not.’
‘But she was just Davenport's assistant. She didn't have the authority to prescribe medication so …’
‘True, but she was a nurse and that's what interests me. Nurses are more hands-on than most surgical receptionists – the dimwit Davenport has working for him now being a case in point.’
David nodded. While he had admired Madonna Carrera's ingenuity, he sensed she was not exactly Mensa material. ‘You think Davenport employed this girl on purpose?’
But Joe shrugged, noncommittal, then said: ‘Nurses take blood.’
‘They do,’ replied David.
‘So maybe this Wallace was involved with taking your client's.’
‘So we're back at the dimethyl sulfoxide.’
Joe nodded. ‘The DMSO has more than one use, David.’
David stepped sideways, moving out of the glare. ‘What else does it do?’
‘It's used in cryopreservation.’ Joe put his hands in his pockets, his shadow tight and constricted behind him.
‘Cryopreservation,’ repeated David.
A memory came back to him from a case several years ago. Something about a court order to freeze a perp's blood for international transportation so that it could be linked to evidence at a Boston crime scene. ‘If you freeze normal blood the water in it crystallises, damaging the cells,’ he said, pulling the detail from the recesses of his brain. ‘So the water is replaced by a cryopreservative, which has to be washed out of the blood before it is used again.’
Joe nodded. ‘That's the gist of it. So following that chain of thought you could ask … what if the washing process wasn't as efficient as it should have been? What if your client's blood had been frozen and then washed but the traces of DMSO were still intact? It would explain the forensic results but leave us with the question as to how the preservative got there in the first place, given she wasn't taking the DMSO for medical reasons, or at least, that's what she told you.’
David could not explain the sensation that came to him then, but it was something like a physical cog finally locking into place, like a wheel that had been grinding metal against metal had finally sunken into a groove.
‘Jesus, Joe, her blood may have been preserved. Hunt and Davenport … they could have taken her blood months ago and frozen it – kept it in storage until the time was right, until they needed to pour it all over that crime scene in order to nail this murder on my client.’
Joe shrugged. ‘It's a crazy hypothesis, David.’
‘Maybe so, but it explains a lot, don't you think? You've met Hunt. You know what a conceited prick the man is. He thinks he's invincible.’
‘Conceited doesn't spell murder, David.’
‘Maybe not, but the cryopreservatives might.’
Joe conceded with the slightest of nods. ‘The DMSO points the arrow back at Davenport.’
‘You think he's the easier target?’
‘I think it doesn't matter what I think,’ replied Joe. ‘I think you're running out of time. I think, if we're right, these assholes are already ten steps ahead of us and we don't have a hope in hell of catching up to them unless we play this hard and fast.’
‘I said that a month ago, Joe, but it's difficult to move when every avenue you take leads you to a dead end.’
But Joe was shaking his head. ‘Maybe they aren't dead ends, just made to look that way.’
David's brow furrowed. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
‘I'm thinking we need to split our priorities,’ said Joe. ‘You work on the insider trading thing, this Dudek and the Senator down in DC, and me and Frank, we try to find this Wallace and …’ Joe hesitated, on the precipice of taking that leap.
David waited for him to continue, not wanting to push his detective friend any further than he already had.
‘Frank and I are going to Baltimore,’ he said, his feet now well and truly off the ground.
David exhaled. ‘The truck driver.’
‘De Lorenzo.’
‘His statement said Walker veered over to his side of the road.’
‘My guess is he's right.’
‘But you're more interested in the why than the what.’
Joe shrugged. ‘I'm not sure how much the driver can help us with that, David, but I think it's worth a shot.’
David nodded – in relief, appreciation, hope – before the pair fell silent once again.
‘There's one condition,’ said Joe. ‘I want you to arrange a meeting between me and your client – but it has to be alone, David, just the two of us, one on one.’
David took a breath. This was highly unusual, the lead investigator for the prosecution wanting time alone with the defendant. Any criminal defence attorney would call this certifiable suicide, but David wasn't just any criminal defence attorney, and Joe was – well … Joe.
‘I'll set it up,’ said David.
‘I'll wait for your call,’ replied Joe as he nodded at his attorney friend and turned to make his way toward his car.
‘Joe,’ David called after him. He wanted to find a way to say thank you, but he didn't know where to start.
But Joe did not answer, simply kept on walking, his shadow stretching like a trail behind him, until he moved into the darkness and was swallowed by the night once more.
46
Madonna Carerra's underarms were sweating. They were all hot and tingly, and it took all her strength not to lift her elbow and sniff herself in front of the impeccably dressed couple before her.
She could not stop thinking of last night's phone call. She had a sense it was going to be bad news as soon as she heard those little beeps. She'd almost hung up. It was instinctual. Her mom had always told her to hang up on the international beeps because it would only be Uncle Amos and he was a lyi
ng son-of-a-bitch who was just after her mother to wire him some more goddamned money. But she was at work when the call came so she knew it couldn't have been Uncle Amos, a fact confirmed when she realised the caller was female, her toffy voice echoing from what sounded like a million miles away.
The Titanic thing didn't happen. Esther Wallace was alive and well. The good news was that she said she wasn't coming back to steal Madonna's job out from under her, but the bad was that she'd made a request.
Madonna had made a serious mistake and it took that old spinster to point it out. How the hell was she supposed to know that emailing such a report was part of her job description? Dr Davenport hadn't mentioned it – at least Madonna didn't remember him doing so. But then again, the doctor had listed a number of things she was meant to do when he first employed her, and Madonna recalled not understanding a couple of them, but nodding as if she did and hoping he wouldn't notice. And he hadn't as far as she could tell – noticed, that was. But that old up-herself cow Wallace said she'd got a call on her cell from some angry clerk at some bank that stored embryos and sperm and eggs and other things called gametes and that the clerk said he was missing some very important report that was meant to have been filed like – three months ago, not long after Madonna started.
Madonna wanted to tell Wallace to go jump – preferably off the side of that cruise ship without a life-jacket – but then Wallace said she'd be happy to help Madonna out by disseminating the information that needed to be sent to the bank if Madonna would just forward her Dr Davenport's patient file. She said she could put an old date on the info to make it look like it was sent ages ago so that Madonna would not get into trouble. Trust the old biddy to be nice and challenge Madonna's determined desire to despise her!
But then Madonna explained that Dick – she called him Dick – was super careful when it came to assuring his patients' confidentialness and that she wasn't sure if forwarding the latest patient list – which itemised names and addresses and phone numbers and treatment info and everything – was appropriate. But then Wallace said that it was because it was secret shit that Madonna could find herself in the crapper. She said that if the bank didn't get the info they needed, they might contact the patients directly and then they'd wonder why Dr Davenport had given out their details to some bank dude – details about their ‘fertility status’, which some of these rich, important clients guarded within an inch of their lives given it basically revealed the fact that their spunk didn't cut the mustard. And an angry executive with dud spunk was not someone Madonna wanted to face off against, and Dr Davenport already had the shits with her, so …
