Alibi

by Sydney Bauer

  “Shut up, Westinghouse,” interrupted H. Edgar. “Katz is on his way over. Just do up your jacket, focus on standing straight and let me do the talking.”

  “I hate to admit it,” said Arthur, now fidgeting with the bow tie around his crisp collared shirt, “but this isn’t too bad. If they had mentioned the Australian beer on the invitation I might have been more enthusiastic from the outset.”

  “If they had mentioned Katz was gonna be treating this shindig like his own personal push for DA party, I would have gone to Melbourne for the original,” said a smiling David who, in the very least, had calmed down enough to see the humor in the blatant campaign of self-promotion Katz was currently conducting from one end of the room to the other.

  “Hey,” said Jake, obviously following David’s line of vision. “That’s them—with the ADA,” he said.

  “That’s who?” asked Sara, accepting champagne from Nora who had taken two cold glasses from a passing waiter.

  “James Matheson’s two creepy friends.”

  “Katz and Matheson’s friends?” said David. “I wonder why he . . . ?”

  “David,” said a voice from behind.

  “Tony,” said David, turning to shake the hand of his fellow Boston College grad. “You know Arthur, Nora, Sara, and this is Sara’s brother Jake Davis.” There were handshakes all around.

  “If your eyes were daggers, the Kat would have just lost one of his nine lives,” said Tony Bishop, patting his friend on the back, and David was happy to see his friend was looking a lot more like himself than he had a few weeks ago.

  “Have you been watching him?” grinned Tony. “He’s been working the room like a teenage boy at a supermodel convention.”

  “Yeah,” said David, with a furrow in his brow.

  “Who are the kids?” asked Bishop.

  “Law students,” replied David.

  “Then why is he wasting his time with—?”

  “The Kat never wastes his time,” interrupted David.

  “Yeah, well,” said Bishop, accepting a beer from yet another passing waiter. “Ten bucks says the Ivy League twosome are about to be dumped for the much bigger fish that just swam in the doorway.”

  The group all turned toward the back of the room.

  “The attorney general has arrived, ladies and gentlemen and . . . Jesus, watch him go,” said Tony just as Roger Katz swung about as if a sixth sense had him “smell out” a bigger opportunity some fifty yards south. “You gotta hand it to him. The guy is slick. He couldn’t have made that maneuver faster if he had been driving at NASCAR.

  “Looks like he and Sweeney are tight too,” he said, as Katz reached the AG in record time and shook his hand with fervor—Katz leaning in to whisper something into Sweeney’s ear and prompting both of them to nod in agreement.

  “He’s up to something,” said David, now watching the AG introduce the Kat to a series of VIPs from the AG’s office beside him.

  “Who gives a . . . ,” said Tony, taking a long drink of his beer. “As long as it has nothing to do with you. Right, my friend?” Bishop smiled. But David was focused on Katz and his overzealous mingling with the AG’s entourage.

  “David?” said Sara, her brow now also showing the slightest trace of concern.

  “Ah, yeah. Sorry,” said David, turning to face the group again.

  “Is anything . . . ?” she began.

  “No.” He smiled, putting his arm around her shoulder. “What do you say to another champagne? Mrs. Kelly?” he asked, including Nora.

  “Don’t mind if I do. Thank you, lad,” said Nora.

  “Come on, Bishop,” he said, grabbing Tony by the arm. “You can accompany me to the bar.”

  39

  “Jesus,” said Joe Mannix, pounding his fist on the steering wheel as he hit yet another red light. “This traffic sucks.”

  “Take it easy, boss,” said McKay. “As my wife always says: ‘With time and patience, the mulberry leaf becomes satin.’ ”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” asked an obviously frustrated Mannix as he took a left off 128 into Worcester.

  “No idea,” said Frank. “Just sounded like the right thing to say at a time like this.”

  “Skivvies and satin, McKay. I’m beginning to worry about you.”

  “No need, Chief,” said Frank who, Joe noticed, had started his own beat of nervous tapping on the car door armrest. “Besides, we’re almost there. If the Wentworth girl’s mother is right, they should be only a few minutes ahead of us, and our uniform backup is about the same behind us.”

  Joe said nothing, taking another sharp corner on Oakland along the main stretch leading to Deane’s historic front gates. The traffic started to slow, as some of the later limousine arrivals reduced their speed to enter the grounds of the historic university.

  “We’re about to cause a shit storm in a teacup, Frank,” said Mannix at last.

  “Yeah,” said McKay, his left leg now joining in the rhythmic routine with his tapping right hand. “That we are, Chief. The ADA sure as hell won’t be happy. But somehow, I ain’t got a problem with that.”

  “Me neither, Frank,” said Mannix, turning to his friend. “Me neither.”

  “That’s him there,” said Tony Bishop, now standing with David behind a vine-covered trellis just left of the crowded bar. The announcement had been made that dinner was about to be served so the obviously thirsty guests were now “stocking up” before taking their seats at the extravagantly adorned tables.

  “Where?” asked David, straining to pick out Peter Nagoshi from a crowded group of multinational businessmen and attorneys.

  “There, behind my boss, Gareth Coolidge.”

  Luckily David knew Coolidge by sight and could just make out the dark-haired young man behind him. Bishop turned to David then, a look of earnestness on his face.

  “Look, David,” began Tony. “I was kinda tired the last time we talked, jumped to some wrong conclusions. I heard on the grapevine that an arrest in the Nagoshi case is imminent and that the perp isn’t Peter Nagoshi. He’s a hard one to read, DC, and I just got it wrong.”

  “Maybe not,” said David, his eyes still fixed on the young Japanese businessman.

  “What do you mean?” asked Tony.

  David turned his attention back to his friend, a new sense of urgency in his voice.

  “Look Tony, you know that when we talk like this I know that you . . .”

  “Of course,” said Tony, his own voice now low and curious.

  “Then what would you say if I told you we might have come across some new information that supports your original assessment of the Nagoshi son? Would it shock you to know you may have been closer than you think with your reservations about Peter Nagoshi and his handling of Nagoshi Inc.’s operations in China?”

  “Well, probably not but . . . Jesus, DC, I am the Nagoshis’ lawyer so maybe you shouldn’t be . . .”

  “No, Tony. You can’t have it both ways. You are the one who came to me with this in the first place. You are the one who suggested the son would do anything to guarantee his own future—and now Sara has a client who backs up your suspicions with bona fide proof.”

  “Shit,” said Tony. “But this can’t be right. This whole bloody room is talking about this so-called imminent arrest. Some are saying the guy is already in custody, which would explain why the Kat is so goddamned cocky this evening.”

  “Since when has Katz allowed the truth to get in the way of his own personal advancement?” David stopped then, taking a breath before going on. “I got a bad feeling about this one, Tony. I think some poor innocent college kid is about to get a taste of the Kat’s version of justice while your client is adding another executive title to his high-powered last name.”

  “Shit,” repeated Tony.

  “Oh no,” said David, just as his friend turned toward him, no doubt reading the new expression of surprise on his face.

  “What is it now?” asked Tony, following David�
��s train of vision back toward the main entrance of the hall.

  “He’s here,” said David, now talking over the echoing beep of a sound system microphone, which had apparently been switched on somewhere in the main presentation area in the center of the room.

  “What? Who’s here?” said Tony, raising his voice over the din.

  “The sacrificial lamb. His name is James Matheson and my guess is he is about to be thrown to the lions.”

  But there was no time to act. Dean Johns was now standing at the main podium under an elevated latticed gazebo painted in the freshest white and draped with thick green vines carrying heavy bunches of blood red Montepulciano grapes in the center of the hall.

  The dean proceeded to officially welcome one and all to this “fine Halloween extravaganza” before making some joke about the clever function organizers who had managed to “pull off a sophisticated All Hallow’s Eve without a single pumpkin in sight.”

  “We thought it best to give the blessed orange fruit a rest,” said Johns, standing broad and tall and resplendent. “And yes, ladies and gentlemen, you heard me correctly. I have not had too much vino—at least not yet. The pumpkin is a fruit and not a vegetable and I promise you that is the last lesson this aged academic will bore you with this evening.

  “I also promise there will be no more speeches until you good people in this fine Great Hall are fed! So without further ado, ladies and gentleman, I welcome you to your tables.”

  And within seconds a series of bright red pin spots appeared to explode from the ceiling, casting perfectly centered, soft pink spotlights on the hundred circular tables below.

  And seconds after that, Heath Westinghouse looked to the back of the hall to see one of his two best friends proceed toward the middle of the room.

  And seconds after that Roger Katz saw him too.

  “H. Edgar,” said Westinghouse, his face now lit up in the widest of smiles. “You are a legend.”

  “What?” said Simpson. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s James,” said Westinghouse, pointing toward his friend. “He’s here already. He must have been questioned and released. Barbara must have given them his goddamned alibi and now he is home sweet home and we have a tidy 700 K to celebrate with. You did it, man. I swear to God you are one brilliant son of a bitch.”

  But Simpson obviously wasn’t listening, for all he could manage was, “Fuck.”

  “Hey, you two, where’s our champagne?” asked Sara, as she and Arthur and Nora were taking their seats at a crimson lit table to the right of the main gazebo.

  “Ah . . .” said David, and he could see she read the anxiety in his and Tony’s expressions. “Sorry, Sara, but . . . where’s Jake?”

  “He’s sitting with his colleagues at the Credit Suisse table,” said a now obviously confused Sara as she pointed toward the back of the hall. “But why do you . . . ?”

  “Matheson’s here,” he said.

  “What? But the rumors,” she began. “Why on earth would he expose himself to . . . ?”

  “He has to be crazy,” said Tony. “Or stupid.”

  “Or out to prove a point,” finished David. “Whatever the case, Katz is on the warpath and if Jake is a friend, he’ll get him out of here now.”

  “David,” said Sara, her expression now pure frustration, “if the kid is innocent, I feel for him. But he’s not your client.”

  “I know,” said David, looking her directly in the eye. “But think about it, Sara, it was your client who brought up the China thing—and Tony here is the Nagoshis’ lawyer, and he believes that . . .”

  David stopped then, not wanting to jeopardize Tony’s legal obligation to attorney-client privilege any more than he had to. But a reluctant Tony finally gave a nod, and Sara looked back toward David in surprise.

  “The only evidence Sawyer Jones provided against Matheson was that he was dating the girl,” David went on. “He followed them everywhere, Sara, and never once saw a single ounce of animosity between them.

  “But do you think Katz will even consider the Chinese angle if it means pissing off the Nagoshis? Do you think a privileged kid like Matheson has any chance of a fair trial with the entire city gunning for payback? Are you willing to sit by and let Katz destroy yet another innocent life just because he is . . .”

  “No,” she interrupted then, looking to Arthur and Nora who had been close enough to hear their exchange. “Go,” she said after a beat.

  “Move quickly, lad,” said Nora.

  “Get Jake to pull him out the back way,” said Arthur.

  “And David,” said Sara, taking his hand. “You go with them. James Matheson idolizes you, and something tells me he’s going to need . . .”

  But it was too late. The group looked up to see Roger Katz striding toward James Matheson like a torpedo locked on a target. And worse still, the other now-seated guests at Katz’s table, including AG Sweeney and the Nagoshis, were following the ADA with their eyes.

  David saw Peter Nagoshi’s smooth, unlined face contract in an expression of pure anger. And then he saw him shove back his chair, rise to his feet and turn from the table to take long swift strides after the ADA, with speed and determination, toward the back of the room.

  “What is it?” said Dean Johns who had no sooner left the podium before being summoned by one of the function organizers to meet the two Boston detectives at the top of the Great Hall entranceway.

  “We are here to make an arrest, Dean,” said Mannix. “And as much as we hate to spoil your little shindig, I am afraid we have a warrant and are ready to move in.”

  “What?” said an obviously horrified Johns. “Lieutenant Mannix, I appreciate you have a job to do, but surely this can be orchestrated without upsetting our guests. You have no idea how many high-powered . . .”

  “High power this,” said Frank, waving the warrant in front of the dean’s now red face. “I’m sorry, Dean, but I really don’t think you want to go down in history as the first Law School Chief to be arrested for obstruction of justice.”

  “Well, no, but . . .” said the Dean. “I still think there is a way to do this without . . .”

  But Johns was cut short. For the next thing they knew the bloodcurdling scream of a young girl rang out through the high-ceilinged edifice like a siren preceding an almighty catastrophe.

  “What the hell was that?” asked McKay.

  “The party’s started without us, Frank,” said Joe, breaking into a run.

  “Radio for the uniforms to get in here. I need backup now.”

  Minutes earlier, just as Mannix and McKay were “negotiating” with Dean Johns at the top of the Great Hall stairs, Roger Katz was undertaking some rather frantic negotiations of his own, trying to talk James Matheson into accompanying him out of the hall for a private and extremely urgent conversation.

  “What?” said James, his eyes now darting back and forward across the pink-hued audience around him. “With all due respect, Mr. Katz,” he said, lowering his voice, “we were invited to this function, and we just want to sit down and eat our dinner and . . .”

  “This is ridiculous,” said an obviously angry Meredith Wentworth turning to the ADA in disgust. “You have no right to accost us like this. James hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  But then Katz felt an almighty force from behind. As if a strong invisible wind with smooth, weightless hands had lifted him up and to the side, removing him from the huddle and clearing its path so that it might confront its target with potent precision.

  Peter Nagoshi did not hesitate. He swung about in what Katz could only describe as a circular whooshing motion, lifting both of his arms high and wide until they cut sharply down—one connecting with James Matheson’s left cheek, the other slicing into his right shoulder, sending him spiraling down toward the Great Hall floor.

  For once in his life Katz was completely unsure as to how to react. One part of his brain told him to restrain Nagoshi, another suggested he should join in the fray to sho
w the corporate son exactly whose side he was on, and a third, perhaps that portion that represented his true self, urged him to take one gigantic step backward so as not to get injured, so as to protect his perfect face and so as to avoid the embarrassment of getting his ass kicked by a twenty-something kid.

  In the end he took option three, which was just as well because tonight was his night and by hell or high water those lucky stars of his were determined to shine for as long as they were needed—for in that second, just as the girl screamed and the police entered the Great Hall at the top of the main entryway, James Matheson got to his feet and smashed Peter Nagoshi square between the eyes. It was a powerful punch, with a clear intent to do major damage, and it was thrown with such anger, such force that Katz almost tumbled in the fallout.

  And there he saw it, the boy’s green eyes alive with the purest of rage, his hands clenched, his chest heaving, his inner beast exposed with such terrifying intensity that those at the tables around him stood and ran and cowered at the sight of the black-suited, bloodied-cheeked maniac before them. Katz saw in James Matheson a potential killer, and the rest of the one thousand strong crowd, well, they saw it too.

  “James,” said Jake Davis, reaching him first, pulling Matheson who was now advancing on a collapsed, semiconscious Peter Nagoshi once again, back and to the side. “Enough,” he said, perhaps trying to get the boy to refocus.

  David set himself in the center of the fray, acting as a physical barrier between Matheson and Nagoshi, and as it turned out, a mere foot away from ADA Katz who, David could have sworn, swallowed a smile before setting an expression of outrage and authority on his chameleon-like face.

  “Cavanaugh!” declared Katz, now pushing back his dinner suit sleeves as if he were the man ready to control this unholy calamity. “Move back. This has nothing to do with you.”