by Sydney Bauer
‘Chelsea,’ said Croft. ‘We want to thank you for being here tonight, for we understand how hard this past week has been for you.’
Chelsea nodded.
‘Your father has explained to us the depth of abuse both you and your brother suffered at the hands of your late mother and I think I can say, on behalf of all of us watching tonight, we want to acknowledge your bravery, your stoicism and your determination to go on.’
And then they were up again – the audience members rising to their feet, the applause loud and full and heartfelt.
Croft proceeded to ask the now shell-shocked Chelsea a number of questions, not so much about Stephanie Tyler and her apparent rule of tyranny, but more about Chelsea’s role in the family as a whole, and in particular, her desire to break free from a household grounded in condescension, vindictiveness and fear.
‘It is awful,’ she said, and David knew the girl was telling the truth. ‘For right is always wrong no matter how hard you try.’
‘So you lived in fear?’ asked Croft. And David saw Chelsea’s shoulders tense.
‘I do.’
‘Knowing that to defy your abuser would result in further admonishment.’
‘Yes.’
‘And what was it like for you – being not only a beautiful, intelligent young woman in the prime of her youth, but also the older of two siblings, unable to protect your little brother from . . .’
‘J.T. protects me as much as I do him,’ she interrupted, as if needing to make the point, and David could see Caroline Croft’s brow furrow ever so slightly, no doubt at the girl’s determination to speak in the present tense. ‘We look out for each other. We always have and we always will.’
‘So I suppose what you are saying is that you understand your brother’s actions? That you relate to them – applaud them even?’
Chelsea looked at her, before her eyes tracked sideways to her father beside her. And in that moment a horrified David realised he was right about what was happening, and he guessed Chelsea had realised it too.
‘I love my brother,’ she said, her eyes now darting around the studio as if scanning for a route to escape.
‘And you have always survived together as a team?’
‘Yes.’
‘And isn’t it true that J.T. rarely acted without your advice, especially when it came to matters regarding your mother?’
‘Not just my mother but . . .’
‘Chelsea,’ Croft said then, now perched so far on the end of her chair that she was practically obscuring Jeffrey Logan from the audience’s view, ‘did your brother tell you what he intended to do on the evening of Friday, the eleventh of May?’
The audience gasped, as Jeffrey Logan did a perfect double take – from Croft to his daughter – as if the concept was way beyond his comprehension.
‘Did you speak of it together? Plan it even?’
But Chelsea said nothing, just scanned the studio once again, her hands twisting in her lap, the bright lavender lights now causing her eyes to water.
‘Do you know how much you and your brother stand to inherit following your mother’s death, Chelsea – an inheritance that would have fallen directly to you if your father had been removed from your mother’s will, or worse still, found guilty of a serious crime such as homicide?’
Still Chelsea said nothing, her eyes now welling with tears – and David realised that the young girl was not so much looking for something but rather for someone. She was trying to find him, he was sure of it.
‘And further to that, were you aware,’ Croft persisted, ‘that someone in your house emailed your mother’s life insurance company mere days before her death to ask that they increase her potential benefit to a figure running into the tens of millions – an email, I might add, that has been traced directly back to your own PC?
‘And that someone purporting to be your mother, left a message for her lawyers to remove your father from her will barely hours before her death – leaving you and your brother as her sole beneficiaries, or rather, considering your brother is now incarcerated, yourself alone as the sole recipient of her massive fortune as the owner of Rockwell Wines?’
The audience cried out in unison.
‘I don’t believe this,’ said Joe.
‘We have to get her out of there,’ said David.
‘No!’ yelled Logan, now on his feet, turning to his daughter. ‘Chelsea, tell me this isn’t true?’ And David realised that one question alone had officially hammered the nail into the doctor’s sixteen-year-old daughter’s coffin. ‘You didn’t have to do this – I should have . . . I was going to . . .’
But it was too late. For in that moment Amanda Carmichael pushed past David, Joe and Frank, before barking ‘Follow me’ to O’Donnell and his fellow uniforms and striding onto the studio floor.
O’Donnell shook his head in apology at Mannix before following the ADA to the centre of the room, dragging his feet and squinting his eyes and looking for all the world like an embarrassed child as he reluctantly returned Carmichael’s nod and opened his mouth to say, ‘Chelsea Logan, you are under arrest for the murder of Stephanie Tyler. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at the time of interrogation and at court.’
Then the audience took in an almighty gasp of breath, and at least one distressed spectator yelled, ‘Oh my God!’, just as David whispered in Joe’s ear. Joe passed David’s instruction onto Frank, before following David and running towards the stage.
Then . . . everything went black, as Frank McKay pulled every light in the house . . . and David took a slight comfort in knowing that, whatever else, Amanda Carmichael’s catastrophic finale was now swallowed in the darkness it deserved.
‘What the hell?’ yelled Croft.
‘Shut it down!’ yelled de Castro, who David spotted demanding a camera go to black before barking at her producer to: ‘Throw to a break – now!’
David jumped over a stack of cables to run onto the stage before grabbing Jeffrey Logan by the shirt and shoving him out of the way so that he might form a human barrier between Chelsea Logan and a now furious Amanda Carmichael.
‘My name is David Cavanaugh and I represent Chelsea Logan,’ he yelled through gritted teeth, as if the proclamation needed clarifying, setting down in stone. ‘My client will not be answering any questions until she has had an opportunity to speak with counsel.’
‘I won’t allow it,’ said Logan, pushing his way into the huddle. ‘I don’t want you representing her – or my son, for that matter. My children are minors, and I have legal responsibility for them. And they . . .’
‘. . . are about to be tried in a fucking adult court for a crime that they did not commit, you two-faced son-of-a-bitch.’
David could not help himself; it was all welling up inside him. He wanted to grab Logan, punch him, nail him to the ground so that he would never get up. But in the end he decided the only way to catch this maniacal mastermind was to show him that two could play at his game of veiled threats and psychological manipulation – and so he moved within inches of Jeffrey Logan’s face, before shifting towards his ear.
‘You’re a murdering bastard, Logan, a sick and twisted psychopath who uses his own helpless children as bait. You believed you are in control, and I’ll grant you, so far you have done a pretty good job of convincing the world of your sainthood. But your luck turned, my friend, the moment I walked into your kitchen and saw what you had done.
‘So guess what, Jeffrey?’ David said then, grabbing the man’s tie and pulling him that much closer. ‘The clock is ticking – tick, tock, tick, tock, second by second – so make sure you are keeping track. For I will work day and night to bring you down, my friend. And I will not rest until you are punished for what you have done. For then, and only then, will Stephanie be at peace, and your children be set free from the true tyran
t they have the misfortune to call their father.’
David felt the slightest tap on his shoulder and, thinking it was Joe, shrugged it off before releasing Logan’s tie and turning to face his detective friend once again. But in that second David felt like he had been catapulted into some perverse alternative reality, as his other best friend, Tony Bishop, his bloodshot eyes red under dark and heavy lids, handed him a piece of paper before taking a breath to say, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What’s this?’ asked David.
‘A 209A,’ said Bishop.
‘Logan has taken a restraining order out against me?’
‘He’s taken legal action to prevent you from going near his kids.’
‘The order is for the kids?’
Tony nodded.
‘So I can’t represent them? I can’t fucking stand up for them when they face the trial of their lives?’
‘No,’ said Tony, his right eye flinching as he spoke. ‘I’m sorry, DC.’
But David did not hear him as the images all came at once – Tony’s embarrassment, Chelsea’s tears, Carmichael’s smirk, Joe’s look of outrage, and above all else, the look of pure victory that glowed like a beacon on Jeffrey Logan’s face.
PART TWO
43
Ten weeks later
‘Oh my God,’ said Sara as she grasped David’s hand and squeezed. She was lying on her back, her neck craned to the right, the reflection of the monitor’s light turning her pale blue eyes green.
‘It is so beautiful. David – look,’ she said, pointing to the image of their unborn child on the screen before them.
‘It’s . . . wow. It’s unbelievable,’ said David, his smile so wide it hurt. ‘Is that . . . Doctor?’ he said turning to Sara’s OB/GYN, a pretty brown-eyed woman by the name of Michelle Taylor. ‘Is the baby actually opening and shutting its eyes?’
‘Yes,’ replied Taylor. ‘In fact it’s probably been doing so for some time. The baby’s eyelids started to separate about a month or so ago and by now it is responding well to light. If you put a torch on Sara’s belly it might even move towards it – if it had the space, that is.’
‘Wow,’ said David again, unable to stop himself. And Taylor smiled.
‘Your baby is now about nineteen inches long which is normal for thirty-seven weeks or so. It probably weighs about six pounds and it is more than likely amusing itself by practising breathing movements with its lungs, as it prepares itself for life outside the womb. Oh, and he or she can recognise your voices well by now – sort of like you do when you hear things under water.’
‘Amazing,’ said Sara.
‘It’s just incredible,’ David confirmed.
‘The good news is that he or she looks to be in perfect health. The baby is already making its way into the anterior position which will see it move down with its face towards your spine – and that fares well for a safe, natural delivery somewhere in the next three weeks. But don’t worry if you feel some tingles down your lower abdomen or legs in the next couple of weeks. Junior here is running out of space,’ she said, as she lifted the ultrasound camera from Sara’s stomach. ‘And with less room to move, he or she might be pressing on some nerves when it goes to play football in such a confined space.’
She moved to her desk to get a digital camera before taking a picture of Sara and David with the ultrasound image in the background. ‘Your first family photo.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll email it to you in the next few days.’
David returned her smile. ‘You mentioned football, Doctor Taylor. Can we take that as some sort of hint?’
David and Sara had decided against finding out the sex of their baby, but they knew Doctor Taylor was fully aware of whether the miracle they had just witnessed was actually a boy or a girl.
‘I’ll have you know my daughter Lulu scored three goals at her soccer match on Saturday.’ She smiled, switching off the monitor. ‘And back in college,’ she added, ‘I played a mean game of touch.’
‘So it is a girl,’ said David.
‘Or a boy,’ teased Taylor. ‘In which case I’d sign him up for ballet classes within the week.’
They laughed. This felt good. So good. It had been almost two and a half months since that horrible night at CBC’s studios, and despite David’s continued resentment – his anger at being banned from trying to help the two Logan kids – moments like this, with Sara and his unborn child, gave him a temporary respite from the frustration that still boiled silently inside him. He had tried to let it go, largely for Sara’s sake, for they had talked out their concerns and decided that no matter what, having people like Jeffrey Logan in your life was not healthy for any relationship. But the aggravation still raged and there was many a moment when he found himself wondering how the hell he could reverse that ridiculous restraining order and rescue Stephanie’s kids for good.
The 209A was a joke. In Massachusetts, restraining orders were called 209As or ‘Abuse Prevention Orders’, and the fact that Logan was able to secure one – or in effect two – against David and Sara, was nothing short of preposterous. Logan had claimed, before a Civil Court judge, that David, motivated by his past friendship with Stephanie, had abused his role as J.T.’s attorney to browbeat the boy by calling him a ‘no-good killer’ and trying to convince the kid that he would never win in court and so he might as well plead guilty.
Logan further claimed that Sara, at David’s request, attended Logan’s home without his permission so that she might harass Chelsea Logan and convince her to give evidence against her brother. And the judge, who requested proof of Logan’s claims and was subsequently given such evidence in the form of a statement taken from J.T. Logan under his father’s guiding eye, found he had no choice but to grant such a request – a request then extended to include Chelsea Logan who, Jeffrey Logan argued, ‘was in just as big a threat from David Cavanaugh and his co-counsel’s bullying tactics as his fourteen-year-old son’.
And so David had had no choice but to sit back and watch the whole bloody mess play out daily like a soap opera in the tabloids and news shows. Until everything seemed to go quiet – including any news on J.T.’s and Chelsea’s defence, and who Logan might have chosen to represent them.
‘A penny for . . .’ said Sara after they left Doctor Taylor’s rooms, the spring in her step almost contagious, the pure happiness in her eyes bright enough to light up a city.
‘Sorry,’ David said, pulling her close. It was Monday morning and they were on their way back to the office, photographic stills of their baby clasped firmly in Sara’s hand. As much as David hated to admit it he was actually glad to be out of the confines of the OB/GYN’s offices. That emerald green light coming from the ultrasound machine had unnerved him a little – reminded him of another, less happy jade-hued room, where the occupants were shrouded in despair rather than hope.
‘I was just wondering what Nora is going to say when we show her the photos,’ he lied. ‘Something like: “Lucky it looks like its mother”, or “Little Nora is coming along just fine”.’
‘You’re still convinced it’s a boy, aren’t you?’ Sara smiled.
For some reason David had developed a habit of calling their unborn child Harry – a habit Sara would feign distaste at despite the fact that, David was sure, she found it strangely endearing.
‘Does that mean the name Harry is growing on you?’ He smiled.
‘Absolutely not. Every time I picture a “Harry” I imagine a kid with glasses and a fire bolt engraved on his forehead. Not that the Potter kid isn’t cool, but I don’t particularly want to rear a wizard hell bent on saving the world. I mean, I already married one of those.’
David smiled, while inside he felt more frustrated than ever.
Fifteen minutes later they were back in the office, Nora immediately commandeering their photos before explaining that any group discussion on the images of ‘little Nora’ would have to wait – as they had an unexpected visitor who was currently in with Arthur and awaiting their return.<
br />
‘Hey,’ said David, walking across Arthur’s office to shake Joe Mannix’s hand. ‘Since when do we rate a Monday morning visit from the head of BPD Homicide?’ he asked, even then, at that early stage, praying it was some positive news on the Logan children’s case.
‘First things first,’ said Joe, lifting his hand in greeting to Sara. ‘Arthur here tells me you have some hot-off-the-press photographs of young Joseph.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ smiled Sara. ‘My poor child has more names than an Arabian prince or princess. And I am afraid you have to wait in line for an exclusive look at the shots, Joe. Nora has first dibs so . . .’
‘Fair enough,’ said Joe, before meeting David’s eye. ‘We have to talk,’ he said, shifting his gaze to Arthur who Joe had obviously already filled in. And Arthur responded by moving around his antique cherrywood desk, to join Sara, David and Joe on the office sofa.
‘Joe here has some news on the Logan case,’ said Arthur, as David’s eyes instinctively flicked to Sara to try to gauge her reaction to such news – news that threatened to jerk them back into the world controlled by Doctor Jeffrey Logan. ‘And I think we should hear him out.’
And so, as Nora made some fresh coffees, Joe began at the beginning – or, more to the point, the middle, which is where they had left off.
‘Early this morning I got a call from Gerald Garretson from Garretson Specialty Rifles in Bangor, Maine. If you remember, I originally spoke to his son, and it seems that young Calvin was, well . . . not completely honest when it came to the transaction and delivery of the Mark V concerned.’
‘What?’ asked David. ‘But the paperwork clearly listed Stephanie as the purchaser, and Calvin Garretson even identified her as the person who picked it up.’
