The 3rd Victim

by Sydney Bauer

  ‘What do you know about him, sir,’ David attempted.

  ‘Ah, but I asked you first, Mr Cavanaugh.’

  David nodded. The man was sharp. ‘I know he is incredibly successful, I believe he has created a business centred on self-interest, I think he is smart, calculating …’

  ‘A rather harsh assessment, Mr Cavanaugh.’

  ‘I didn't come here to waste your time, sir,’ he said.

  Baker nodded before shifting in his chair and leaning swiftly forward across his desk toward David. ‘Tell me, Mr Cavanaugh, what did you expect to gain from this meeting?’

  David knew he had to play his cards confidently, so he proceeded to lean forward himself. ‘I was hoping we could compare notes, Judge, on what we both know about Mr Hunt and the workings of his company. As you are probably aware, my client's husband was killed in a car accident late last year – moments south of Baltimore, on his way to Washington DC.’

  Baker's expression remained neutral, but his left eyebrow rose just a little. ‘Go on, Mr Cavanaugh,’ he said.

  ‘We believe he was coming to meet with you, sir, to ask for your help in deciding how to expose Mr Hunt and what Mr Walker believed to be some questionable business practices.’

  ‘The wife tell you this?’

  David nodded. ‘She knew her husband was concerned about it. He was a decent man, what Hunt was doing went against the grain.’

  Baker went to smile, but then seemed to think better of it. ‘You think Hunt was insider trading?’

  David had to admire the man's ability to cut to the chase. ‘We think that that is a possibility, Judge.’

  Judge Baker nodded before relaxing back in his seat. ‘What has all this got to do with your client, Mr Cavanaugh?’

  David considered his answer, reminding himself that he had come to DC to get information from Baker, not so that Baker could get information from him. ‘To be honest, at this point we are not completely sure.’

  ‘Which is why you caught the shuttle to DC,’ said Baker.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You're mere weeks from trial and you're gallivanting up and down the east coast clutching at straws such as this?’ Baker considered him. ‘You must be desperate, Mr Cavanaugh.’

  ‘I wouldn't say that, sir.’

  ‘Stupid then.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’ David was not sure he'd heard Baker correctly.

  ‘This is not a remake of Wall Street, Mr Cavanaugh – Oliver Stone did that already and believe me, the sequel was crap. Do you know how hard it is to lodge an investigation against a man such as Hunt? I dare say your client's husband understood the difficulties in doing so which was possibly why he was on his way to see me and not the director of the SEC.’

  ‘You're saying you wouldn't have helped him?’

  ‘Of course I wouldn't have helped him. Why should I? I am not some legal eagle for hire, Mr Cavanaugh. I might even go as far as to say that your man, this Walker, was either an idealist or a fool or perhaps even both. So he suspected his boss was insider trading, well, let me tell you, son, every subordinate in every bullish trading house across this country suspects their boss is insider trading and most of them are probably right. Despite what the experts have been trying to tell us since the crash of 2008, we are still a capitalist economy, Mr Cavanaugh. We are all about profit and loss and deficit and gain and hopefully more of the latter. If my years on the bench have taught me anything, Mr Cavanaugh, it is that our entire financial system relies on an equal balance of the good and the evil. If Daniel Hunt is guilty of what Mr Walker suspected, then he is just one of many driving our economy to some sort of recovery. Like it or not, men like Hunt are necessary for the survival of said economy, not the politicians who postulate over bailouts and banking reform and the foes of CEOs who lined their pockets with gold. This is not Moscow, Mr Cavanaugh, this is Washington DC. You show me a man who doesn't acknowledge the necessity of entrepreneurs like Hunt and I'll show you a liar, and lies are necessary in the scheme of things, of course – which is why I shall deny everything I have just said to you if I am held to it.’

  Baker took a rare breath and the silence settled around them, a peace interrupted only by the distant noises beyond this bunker Baker had created for himself – his workplace, his empire, his home.

  ‘Listen to me, Mr Cavanaugh,’ said Baker then, his voice softening just a little. ‘You came here for my help and so I will do my best to give it to you considering the mess you appear to be in. If your reputation did not precede you I would have assumed that you were a sap of an attorney with a client who, by the sounds of it, doesn't have a snowflake's chance in hell of ever seeing freedom again. But I have heard otherwise, and I do suspect that you are a lot smarter than you have appeared to be, so my advice to you is that you use that savvy brain of yours and go about doing what you were engaged to do in the first place.’

  ‘My client is innocent, Judge,’ said David, determined to state his case.

  ‘Well good for her, but you and I have been around long enough to know that that is not the issue here – and if you have made it so, then you are sorely remiss.’

  David went to argue but Baker held up his hand. ‘It's all right. I understand you don't like what you are hearing, Mr Cavanaugh, but if you know what is good for you, and for your client, you will not only listen to me but follow my advice. Negotiate a plea and give your client something to look forward to, even if it is ten years in the future.’

  ‘That's not what I do, Judge Baker.’

  ‘Oh I see,’ replied Baker sarcastically. ‘So what is it you do do then? Waste your precious trial preparation time by playing slave to idealistic notions that will not only land your client in jail for life but leave you regretting the way you handled things for the rest of your goddamned career?’ Baker shook his head. ‘At least your client will be able to launch an appeal on the grounds of incompetent counsel the moment she is convicted. And she will be convicted, Mr Cavanaugh, believe you me.’

  David could not think of a word to describe the mix of feelings that engulfed him then. What started out as resentment and frustration and outright rage at the cynical law-maker's opinions soon morphed into a sense of futility and sorrow and grief that a man who had obviously once been great had allowed himself to sink into a pit of unabashed immorality and self-importance. But then a new sensation came over him – a need to show him, and all the others like him, that he was wrong.

  ‘How old is he?’ asked David then, pointing at the photograph on Baker's desk. The shot was of a one or two-year-old boy. He had blonde hair framing an angelic face and a smile that lit up the otherwise shadowy office.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Baker.

  ‘Your grandson, how old is he?’

  Baker hesitated, his cheeks reddening ever so slightly. ‘Edward is seventeen months.’

  David nodded. ‘He's named for you.’

  Baker nodded.

  ‘Then it's a pity you leave him no ideals to look up to.’

  Baker's complexion blanched but it was David's turn to hold up his hand and silence the great man before him.

  ‘You think this makes up for your cynical view of our system of justice?’ David gestured at the space around him. ‘The antique desk, the celebrity photo gallery, and the oversized books that sit gathering dust on your shelves? This is bullshit, Judge Baker. You're just a caricature in a scornful little play. You think your attitudes make you a realist, someone who can see the world as it really is, but what they actually do is make a mockery of everything you are supposed to represent by pissing on that flag you've got hanging like a prop in the corner.’ David gestured toward the American flag near the far window. He knew he was getting worked up, but at this point he didn't give a damn.

  ‘You went to a lot of trouble to predict my client's future, Judge Baker, so let me return the favour and predict the future of that kid who's smiling up at you in that photograph. One day, when he's old enough, he's gonna look on up and reali
se that he doesn't want any part of his grandfather's contemptuous view of the world. And when that happens, he's not going to feel bitter or resentful or even attempt to set you straight, because by that time he'll know that you're beyond help, and that the only emotion he is capable of feeling toward you and your narrow-minded cynicism is pity.’

  Baker said nothing, his eyes now flicking toward the child in the photograph before refocusing on David once again. He swallowed, curled his hands into fists and then, like a bullet from a gun, shot to his feet and placed those fists on the desk before him. He shifted his weight forward, his bulk now arching across the table, to tower over a still-seated David in a no-holds-barred attempt at physical intimidation.

  ‘You are a major disappointment, Mr Cavanaugh,’ he said, the mildness of such a criticism almost ridiculous given the large man's threatening stance.

  David saw it then, an inner rage sparked by the nerve David had hit when he mentioned perhaps the only thing that could move this man – his grandson.

  David got to his feet. ‘Not as big a disappointment as you have been, sir.’

  ‘Get out!’ yelled Baker, the floodgates now open. ‘Get out of my home and never attempt to contact me again.’

  And so David met Baker's eye one last time before he shook his head, picked up his briefcase and made his way toward the door. He left Baker's home understanding that he was leaving with nothing but the knowledge that if his daughter had been old enough, this morning at least, she would have been proud of him.

  51

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Ted Baker's words echoed in his ears. ‘Cavanaugh was here,’ he'd said. Baker was calm, which was a good thing, but there was still a tinge of panic to his tone. The fact that he was calling while Cavanaugh was still walking down his front steps spoke reams about the depth of Baker's concerns, which on the surface were legitimate, given all the judge had to lose.

  Baker had to be reminded who he was talking to, and to a certain extent reassured that nothing led back to him. ‘You said it yourself – Cavanaugh is digging in the wrong backyard.’

  ‘I don't give a fuck,’ Baker countered. ‘The fact that he is digging at all is unsatisfactory.’

  ‘Did you pretend to help him?’

  ‘I gave him my honest opinion.’

  ‘That his case is screwed?’

  ‘In no uncertain terms.’

  ‘It's true.’

  ‘Then why didn't he believe me?’

  ‘Because he's a fool who has no idea that he has been played like a fiddle from the outset.’

  ‘He's not afraid, and we all know that a man without fear makes for the most unpredictable of adversaries.’

  ‘Then maybe we need to scare him a little.’

  ‘That's your decision, not mine.’

  He laughed. ‘What's wrong, Judge, you worried about getting your hands dirty? Do you regret our doing business?’

  A pause. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ said Baker after a short silence, ‘that you owe me. My performance in front of Cavanaugh was nothing short of exemplary. Further, I told him to negotiate a plea – to barter his client's life away and get the hell out.’

  So that was it. ‘Our business was concluded months ago.’

  ‘It was, but Cavanaugh's interest changes things. How do you plan to deal with it?’

  ‘I have a plan.’

  ‘Then you need to move on it – quickly – and you need to compensate me for my protection.’

  ‘You're suggesting that my dealing with Cavanaugh involves my making some sort of profit.’

  ‘All of your dealings make you a profit, my friend.’

  And he did not bother to dispute it. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said after a time.

  ‘All right,’ agreed Baker. ‘But if I were you, I would not underestimate him.’

  ‘It's the fact that I don't which is going to make this so enjoyable,’ he said. ‘Have you seen his wife?’

  ‘I am ending this call,’ said Baker, which he did, promptly, the beeps of his hang-up sounding like a time bomb counting down to zero.

  ‘Tick, tock,’ he said to himself then. ‘Time to call Davenport. Time to move.’

  52

  New York, NY

  Sara did not expect to find herself at Wholefoods in Uptown Manhattan's Columbus Circle late on a Thursday evening and yet – here she was. Tomorrow was the beginning of the Easter vacation so the city was in a state of flummox with visitors flocking in and locals getting the hell out and others stocking up for an extra long weekend with friends and family.

  Lauren was in the trolley, Sara trying to negotiate the busy aisles of the organic produce haven in the upmarket Time Warner Centre on the south-western corner of Central Park. It was almost seven and Lauren was grumpy. She'd been great all day, during the drive down, throughout the check-in to their overpriced uptown hotel, and even during the two hours they spent sitting in the car across the road from Markus Dudek's Upper West Side apartment building.

  The surveillance had gotten Sara nowhere. The building had a doorman and a parking garage that was manned by a security officer wearing a uniform with a matching navy blue hat. The closest Sara came to even glimpsing a Dudek was when the garage gates opened and a chauffeur-driven Mercedes carrying a blonde woman who looked a little like the Keelie Dudek Sara had seen in recent New York Times social pages exited and turned right. Sara took a punt and followed the car she believed might be carrying Markus Dudek's young wife, but lost sight of the black sedan the moment it entered another secured parking facility under the Time Warner building. Sara then parked three blocks west and, with her increasingly restless daughter on her hip, made her way back to the shopping complex hoping to sight the woman at one of the Centre's upmarket fashion boutiques. But forty minutes of ‘shopping’ turned up nothing, and left both her and Lauren frustrated, irritable, tired.

  ‘Its okay, honey,’ said Sara as she rounded the bakery section and looked at her watch. ‘At least we've found ourselves in a building that has a supermarket, right? Which means we can eat, and get stuff for Daddy to have later.’

  ‘Daddy,’ said Lauren.

  ‘He should be on his way, sweetie.’

  ‘Happy Daddy,’ she said.

  ‘Sure, honey,’ said Sara, now sighing at the checkout queue before her. ‘He'll be happy to see you,’ she said, recalling the last conversation she had had with David sometime earlier in the day, the one in which he'd described his catastrophic conversation with Ted Baker before explaining his flight to New York had been cancelled and that he couldn't get a flight out of DC until 8 pm. The one in which he told her he'd spoken to his Newark-based mom who felt terrible about having the stomach flu but would probably be well enough to mind Lauren tomorrow. The one in which he had suggested Sara find an uptown hotel room big enough to sleep the three of them – a request she knew she had failed at, given that the $500-a-night room she had come up with was little bigger than a closet.

  So now all she could do was make sure that she and her family had the necessary food and personal items to see them through to the following morning, when, with a bit of luck, Patty would be well enough to take care of Lauren so that she and David could attempt to get as close to Markus Dudek as possible. How they were going to manage that she had no clue, but there was no point in being negative, she told herself as she moved a little further up the queue. Everything would appear a little brighter tomorrow, after they'd eaten, and slept, and …

  ‘Dora!’ exclaimed Lauren with a fresh spark of energy.

  ‘I'm sorry, honey,’ said Sara, hoping this would not become an issue, ‘but we left your Dora doll at home. I brought Diego though – and your picture books so …’

  ‘Dora here,’ Lauren persisted, and Sara looked behind her to see an attractive woman talking on a cell phone, her blonde-haired daughter, who must have been roughly the same age as Lauren, cradling a Dora the Explorer doll protectively in her arms.


  No, she thought, it couldn't be … But the woman certainly looked like the one she'd seen in pictures that accompanied stories about Markus Dudek and his privileged multi-millionaire life. If this was Keelie Dudek, then this was also an opportunity not to be wasted, she thought. Now if I can only strike up a conversation, if I can only …

  ‘My Dora,’ said the child, clutching the doll to her chest. The child was dressed in a leotard and ballet flats, perhaps having just finished a weekly dance class somewhere close by – which might have been where Keelie Dudek, if it indeed was Keelie Dudek, was collecting her from.

  The woman hung up her phone. ‘Anastasia,’ she said, ‘don't be rude.’ The woman looked up at Sara. ‘I'm sorry, she tends to be territorial.’

  ‘That's okay,’ smiled Sara. ‘I know how precious a Dora doll can be.’

  ‘My Dora,’ repeated Anastasia.

  ‘We get it,’ the woman said, rolling her eyes. ‘My husband assures me she needs broad parameters to flourish, I say she needs her ass kicked.’ The woman smiled again – her expression was warm and welcoming, and for a second Sara felt a twinge of guilt at her having to fake her way through.

  ‘You guys locals?’ asked Sara as the queue progressed a little further. She knew she had a small window to strike up a rapport, so she had to work fast.

  ‘We live a few blocks from here. Mind you, I was born and bred in Queens, which to me is the real New York.’

  Sara smiled. ‘We're from Boston,’ she said. ‘Here for the weekend. It's been a long day and my daughter is starving so I thought we'd stock up before she had a total meltdown.’

  The woman smiled. ‘We're gonna sit in the café to eat,’ she said, pointing at the tubs of Wholefood's organic soups in her trolley. ‘My nannies are waiting there with my son and baby daughter if you'd like to join us for a bite. Our girls can share the Dora,’ she added.