by Sydney Bauer
“Fuck off, Roger,” said David, just as a further commotion broke out from behind in the form of four uniformed police officers who were now pulling the boy David assumed was Heath Westinghouse away from Matheson so that Frank McKay might cuff him from behind.
“Leave him alone,” yelled Westinghouse. David also saw the look of pure disgust on Joe’s face as his detective friend entered the huddle and moved to stand directly in front of Matheson.
“What the hell did you expect?” said Joe through gritted teeth to the tall athletic kid. “What is it they say, Westinghouse?” asked Joe of the boy. “Be careful what you wish for?” He then shook his head, before turning his attention back to the bloody-faced Matheson.
“James Matheson, you are under arrest for the murder of Jessica Nagoshi. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”
Joe said this while facing Matheson but also managed a quick sideways glance to his right, catching David’s eye and nodding ever so slightly before continuing with the job he obviously knew he had to do. “You have the right to have an attorney present now and during any future questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you free of charge.”
David looked at Matheson. He was obviously in a daze. But then, just as Frank McKay pulled on his cuffs, just as the police officers started to move back to allow passage of their latest Mirandized perp, Matheson looked up, his now glistening eyes meeting David’s with a desperate plea for help.
“Please,” he mouthed almost imperceptibly.
And that one simple word said everything, prompting David to nod at Matheson before moving forward to say, “My name is David Cavanaugh and I represent Mr. Matheson. He has no comment to make until he has consulted with his attorney.”
He then took two swift steps forward to lean into Matheson and reinforce his directive by whispering, “Don’t say anything. I’ll meet you at headquarters.”
And with that Mannix nodded and McKay took the lead in ushering the newly arrested suspect back out the Great Hall entrance. David stood there, stock-still, watching them go as if caught in a time warp where his ominous predictions had finally come true.
And then she was in front of him, taking his hand, looking deep into his eyes before asking the question he knew she had to ask. “Are you sure about this?” asked Sara, to which he replied a straightforward “Yes.” And then he squeezed her hand before moving back to his table. He retrieved his jacket and nodded at his boss. He grabbed Jake’s elbow in thanks and looked at Tony Bishop who just stood there and shook his head in a gesture of inevitable fatality. Seconds later, he was moving again, walking, striding, then running toward the back of the room, like a man on an impossible mission, about to attempt the rescue from hell.
40
“Spill it,” said David, barging into Mannix’s office at the Roxbury headquarters of the Boston PD.
“Listen, David. The kid is still in processing, we haven’t even sat down with him yet.”
“Which you wouldn’t do until I was in the room in any case,” said David.
Joe just looked at him and David took a breath.
“Look, Joe, I am not here to bust your balls, but at the very least my client deserves to know how this came down. He wasn’t even given the chance to confer with you guys before you marched in guns blazing and arrested him in front of his entire academic and professional fraternity. You think the kid has any kind of future after tonight’s mini-spectacular? Guilty or not, Matheson’s name is now dirt in this city, thanks to a massive overreaction from the ADA and the police who were obviously doing his bidding.”
Joe said nothing, but David, who knew he had pushed too far, could see the anger rising in his friend’s face. Joe pushed past him to the door, yanking it from its resting place and slamming it so hard that the reverberation of the frosted glass echoed through the low-ceilinged Homicide Unit like a train through a tunnel.
“Where the hell do you get off?” asked Joe, now moving back toward his desk to meet David eye to eye. “You’re a friend, David, and I know it’s your job to act in the best interests of your client so I can forgive your frustration at how tonight went down. But if you ever accuse me of doing Katz’s bidding again I swear I will kick your ass out of here so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
David started to say something but Mannix wasn’t finished. “You’re a good guy, David, but one day you’re gonna have to realize that things don’t always play out the way you want them to. Katz is a prick, granted. In fact, this case is surrounded by pricks all with their own fucking agendas. But don’t you see, I have no agenda bar finding the perp who strangled that young pregnant girl.”
David nodded at his friend before leaning back to rest on the edge of his desk. “I’m sorry,” he said after a time.
Now Joe nodded.
“I need to know what you have against him,” said David after a pause. “And I want your take on it.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No, David. I’ll tell you the facts, but that’s where I stop. I’ve been trying to get a take on this pit of shit for close to two months and all I’ve come away with is the stench of lies and self-interest.”
Joe stopped then, moving to the back of his office where he sat on the edge of his small two-seater sofa, his expression one of pure fatigue.
“All I will say is that you have your work cut out for you. In fact, you are the only friend Matheson has right now. His enemies are influential and powerful and determined to make an example of him. Did he do it? That’s for you and Katz to argue, and for a jury of twelve to decide. As for me, I’m done.”
They said nothing then, their eyes downcast, two men understanding nothing and everything, exhausted by a system that sucked people in and spat them out of a machine driven by politics as much as justice.
“You’re not, Joe,” said David at last.
“I’m not what,” said Joe, looking up.
“Done. You’re not done—and you know it.”
Joe said nothing, his bloodshot eyes now blinking in a gesture of recognition.
“I hate you, Cavanaugh,” he said after a pause.
“I know.”
It was 1:45 a.m. James Matheson had just finished giving a detailed statement to Mannix and McKay, in which they covered the major issues of the investigation. First up, and most important, he admitted to, and showed remorse for, lying about his relationship with Jessica Nagoshi—but he vowed he was innocent of her murder.
He told them he had seen her that night at the Lincoln but had left the Club shortly after his friends and gone home alone. He denied actually lying about partaking in a sexual rendezvous with Barbara Rousseau, but did agree he “falsely alluded to the possibility of sexual activity with her,” and “made no attempt to dispel his friends’ assumptions otherwise,” largely to “satisfy their curiosity” and deflect them from discovering the “true nature of his growing relationship with Jessica.”
He explained it was Jessica’s idea to keep their connection quiet, that her father “discouraged extracurricular affiliations.” He expressed regret for the untruths he had communicated in a desire to respect Jessica’s privacy. He confirmed he did own a pair of Nikes, size 11, but once again was aware of numerous other students at Deane who owned the same style of shoe. He denied ever being in the Nagoshi greenhouse, explaining Jessica thought a visit to her home would be unwise.
Finally, he denied having “confessed” to his friends Simpson and Westinghouse. He had no idea why either of them would concoct such a story, but assumed they must have misconstrued a conversation he had with them at the Deane University bar, better known as The Fringe, the night before last. They invited him to meet them and he had gotten rotten drunk, and while he was not sure exactly what he said, he believed he may have told them of his guilt at not being able to save Jessica Nagoshi’s life.
As for the shoes—he had no idea.
Bottom line, he
gave one of the most legally “perfect” post-arrest statements David had ever heard in all his years of practicing law. His answers were short and to the point, polite but direct, and devoid of the telltale hesitations that littered the depositions of liars. It was a statement that, while guided by David’s direction, gave testament to Matheson’s expansive legal knowledge and, more importantly, to his innocence.
By 2:30 a.m., David had been talking for close to an hour. And for that entire time Matheson sat still and focused, his bloodied dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, which supported his upper body as he leaned on the stainless-steel interview room table before him.
He looked disheveled, drained and yet determined to take in every word his attorney delivered—which David did calmly, slowly, realizing that while his client was doing his best to maintain some sort of control, it would not take much to push him over the edge.
“You did well, James,” he said at last, and James nodded. “Now the police will need time to compile your statement along with their other evidence, before making a full report to the ADA.”
“The man tried to force us outside,” said James. “He was rude to Meredith. He thinks he is God.”
“Among other things. But don’t worry about Katz. You leave him to me.”
As much as David wanted to protect his client, he also knew, given James’ legal nous and serious circumstances, there was no point in denying that the ADA would be able to build a very solid case against him. Katz had established probable cause for the arrest and now, David knew, would be working his ambitious butt off to secure the next step in his meticulously charted route, in the form of a grand jury indictment that would confirm his client’s route to trial.
Even circumstantial evidence like James’ ability to use a kayak oar, or his close proximity to the victim on the night of her death, was enough to take to a grand jury, which, no doubt, Katz would be doing within days. Add James’ lies, Simpson and Westinghouse’s testimonies and the denial of alibi from Barbara Rousseau, and David had no doubt the ADA would have his precious indictment before the week was out.
“There is little point in trying to reason with the ADA,” David explained. “And even if we wanted to plea, Katz would not consider it. Katz hates to plea at the best of times, especially when he is guaranteed the ring leader’s position in a high-profile case such as this. He is in this for the long haul, James, and we will be giving him hell, every step of the way.
“All you have to do is keep your head down. Show the same respect for our system of justice as you did in this interview room tonight, restrict your visitors to immediate family and whatever you do, do not, I repeat, do not have any communication with your two so-called friends.”
And there it was—the stab that cut the deepest. It was the suggestion of Westinghouse’s and Simpson’s betrayal that had obviously hurt James the most. David knew his client was clinging to the idea that his drunken ravings at the university bar had been misconstrued by his two best friends, and convincing him otherwise was going to take some doing.
“It’s not like they need the money,” said James. “I must have said something on Thursday to make them think I was somehow involved. I can remember talking about her—it was a relief, you know, to get it off my chest. But as for a confession . . . ? Why didn’t they come to me first, David? If they asked I would have told them.”
“I’m sorry, James,” said David. “But sometimes it’s better to know the truth about what your supposed buddies are capable of.”
They sat there for a moment, taking it all in, until James asked the one question David knew he could not answer.
“How did this happen?” he asked at last, his simple question bouncing hard and hollow off the cold cinderblock walls.
“There’s no one answer to that, James,” replied David. “Sometimes one wrong turn sets us on a course we never anticipated.” And that was the truth of it, David knew, the harsh, horrible truth that lives can be shattered with the blink of an eye if those are the cards that fate has dealt you.
“This is all a mistake,” said James, his eyes now glistening with tears, his swollen face making that sad but unavoidable transition from optimist to realist, boy to man. “Just a few months ago I honestly believed I was the luckiest person on earth and . . . I was. I had a real future, and I’m not just talking about the money or the career. I loved Jess, David, more than I have ever loved anyone or anything in my entire life. She was so smart, so intuitive—so different from anyone I have ever met before.”
David nodded. “I know it is hard, James, but right now I need you to think in the now rather than in the past—or in the future. I promise you I will do everything I can to help you reclaim your life. On that you have my word.”
James managed the slightest of half-smiles in gratitude.
“You need to get some rest,” said David at last. “Try to sleep. I’ll be back by nine.”
James nodded. “The detective said I could use the private holding cell.”
“Mannix is a good guy. He appreciated you being so cooperative—in processing, giving your statement, providing your DNA.” And then David saw the confusion in James’ eyes, as if a new question had just entered his obviously overcrowded brain.
“Why did they do that?” he asked. “I understand their taking my prints, but from what I’ve been told, there was no DNA left at the scene.”
David looked at him then, and realized he did not know. But then again, if she did not tell him, how could he? The police did not elaborate on why they required the DNA sample, and his friends had not given this second piece of “privileged” information as part of their traitorous testimonies.
“James,” he began, “I am so sorry.”
“What?” asked Matheson. “What is it?”
“Jessica was pregnant, James, and chances are the baby she was carrying was yours.”
“Oh God,” he said with an almighty intake of breath, holding it, and then releasing it with a long, silent shudder.
“I didn’t know,” he went on as the tears started to roll unevenly down his cheeks, traces of dark dried blood making for tiny obstacles in their rocky path toward the metallic table before him.
“She didn’t . . .” He went on as his body started to shake, his head now resting in his hands, which were clenched into tight contorted fists.
“My life is over, David,” he said, looking up at last, barely managing to speak through the sobs that wracked his entire being with grief. “They are both gone. No matter what they do to me, David, nothing could be worse than this.”
41
David, Sara and James had been at it all day, or rather James had been at it while David and Sara sat back and listened. They wanted to spend these early hours getting to know James better and so allowed their client to speak freely without interruption. James spoke of his unusual but loving upbringing, of his mom and dad’s unique relationship, his move to Australia and his return back home to Boston. He told them he had spoken to both of his parents who were now en route from overseas locations and similarly devoted to assisting his attorneys in whatever way possible. He talked of his time at Deane, about his friendship with Westinghouse and Simpson, about his studies, his sport, his career plans and finally about Jessica Nagoshi.
As far as David and Sara could tell, James and Jessica’s relationship, although grounded in lifestyles of privilege, was a basically normal one for two young lovers set on keeping their growing attraction discreet. They did typical things like walking, swimming and studying together, and venturing to standard student haunts like art galleries and museums. James told them about their rendezvous in New York early last June, and how they first made love at the Plaza which, while definitely not the usual “hookup” location for new college lovers, did not seem terribly out of the ordinary, given Jessica’s New York base and her father’s more than substantial fortune.
The defense scored an early break in the form of the morning’s news reports which, David had to a
dmit, were fairly unbiased given the spectacular nature of the arrest and the identity of the poster boy suspect. Luckily photographs were limited—thanks largely to last night’s ban on press inside the venue. In fact, the only images used were some yearbook photos and a long-lens shot of James being shepherded into an unmarked police car, parked some yards from the media who had been moved back by Mannix’s efficient uniformed backup. They were even more grateful that Joe had been able to keep the news of Jessica’s pregnancy out of these early reports, a coup Mannix managed despite what would have been some heavy-duty pressure from the ADA, who no doubt was determined to paint James as a callous, cold-blooded killer from the outset. All in all, not a bad start, but they knew this was not going to be easy, and so were determined to take it one step at a time.
Sara left on her own errand at three, after which David began by describing to James the protocol for tomorrow morning’s arraignment, stressing that, as James no doubt knew from his studies, arraignments are procedures of record rather than argument. He was just beginning to approach the subject of bail when he was interrupted by a knock on the door, marking the presence of a casually attired Mannix who poked his head around the frame to look directly at David.
“Got a minute?” he asked.
“Sure,” said David before nodding at James and following Joe to the adjoining room.
“It’s Sunday, Joe. You should be at home with Marie and the kids,” David began as he shut the interview room door behind him.
“I should also be sailing a yacht around the Caribbean, but that ain’t happening any time soon either.”
David released a small laugh as the two men turned toward the one-way mirror, watching an obviously exhausted James Matheson fidgeting in the room next door.
“Something’s up,” said Joe.
David turned to look at his detective friend.
“I just got word the Kat has been down at the ME’s office all day,” Mannix went on.
