Alibi

by Sydney Bauer

  “All right, gentlemen,” said Stein, his arms now raised in mock surrender, signaling he had had enough. “Let’s get a few things straight, shall we?” The judge took a breath, and exhaled with a sigh before moving on. “Firstly, if either of you ever use my courtroom, or my chambers for that matter, as a boxing ring again, I shall send you both to the county lockup. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” said Katz, as David nodded.

  “And Mr. Katz, you hijack my courtroom again with the high jinks just demonstrated and I will demand another prosecutor be assigned to the case.”

  “I apologize, Judge,” said Katz. “But my interests were only ever grounded in a desire to . . .”

  “Secondly, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Stein, obviously now deciding it was time to do some interrupting of his own. “I agree with your argument that viability is the major issue here. Thirteen weeks is early, Mr. Katz,” he said, turning to the ADA. “You are entering uncharted territory here and, worse still, inviting a frenetic free-for-all for anyone with any sort of opinion on the issue of fetal personhood.

  “I . . . ,” Katz began.

  “Shut up, Mr. Katz. I have not finished.”

  “That being said,” the judge went on, “despite my feelings on the issue . . .” Stein stole a quick glance at David. “The law requires me to in the very least consider the double charge of murder, on the basis that this trial, if indeed one comes to fruition, appears before a panel of twelve unbiased jurors.”

  “Judge,” a now furious David begun.

  “No, Mr. Cavanaugh, you must allow me to finish. With this consideration, Mr. Katz,” said Stein, focusing on the ADA once again, “comes the stipulation that the jury must have the fall-back charge of involuntary manslaughter in regards to the unborn child—and the appropriate lesser penalty that accompanies it.

  “In short, it will be up to you, Mr. Katz, to convince the jury that the defendant committed two crimes, both with malice aforethought, on the night of September 11. And it will be up to you, Mr. Cavanaugh,” he said, turning back to David, “to convince the same lucky dozen that your client is guilty of nothing more than falling in love with the wrong girl.”

  “Your Honor, please,” David begged.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Cavanaugh, but that is my decision. Now get out, both of you, and leave an old man to ponder the travesty of his lot. Playing judge is one thing,” he said as he shook his head, “but playing God—well, that is entirely another.”

  43

  “Dear God,” said Sara as she perched herself on the edge of Arthur’s sofa. She, Arthur and Nora were now staring at the television at the far end of Arthur’s corner office, mesmerized by the news flash being beamed live from outside the Suffolk County Superior Court.

  “Yes, Anita,” said the attractive female reporter with the serious expression now in a live two-way with her equally as striking studio anchor. “Assistant District Attorney Roger Katz has called for a second charge—of feticide—against Deane Law student James Matheson. And while the latter half of arraignment proceedings occurred in the judge’s private chambers, it is believed the ADA will be asking for the maximum charge of murder one.

  “It is also believed the ADA will be asking for the maximum penalty of two consecutive life terms, which means if convicted, twenty-two-year-old Matheson will be spending the rest of his life in jail.” The screen split then, so that Katrina might share the limelight with the similarly grave-faced Anita.

  “So the next step will be to await the judge’s decision,” said Anita.

  “Yes, in fact,” said Katrina, flipping her shoulder-length blond locks to the side as she read from a note being handed to her from her on-site producer, “we are being told the ADA is about to exit the court building behind us here.” She gestured. “And has agreed to make a statement. He, ah . . . here he comes now.”

  Katrina turned with a flurry of similarly coiffed on-air reporters and more casually dressed journalists to shove and hustle toward the now emerging ADA. Katz advanced, chest out, head high, with an expression that spoke of the seriousness of his business, the burden of the task ahead, and yet his undeniable determination to seek justice, no matter what the cost.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his raised hands now calling for silence. “You have no doubt heard of the Commonwealth’s intention to call for the introduction of a second charge of murder in the Nagoshi case. This second charge refers to the feticide of an unborn boy whose life was extinguished the moment James Matheson brutally bludgeoned and strangled the child’s mother to death.”

  Katz paused then, allowing the din to diminish to an almost eerie calm.

  “I am pleased to say that Judge Stein has agreed with the District Attorney’s Office that two crimes were committed on the night of September 11, and moments ago formally charged the defendant with double counts of murder one.”

  The crowd let out a gasp, a mix of horror, surprise and, on the media’s part, plain old-fashioned exuberance at the promise of a guaranteed ratings and circulation bonanza for months to come.

  “The District Attorney’s Office is devoted to convicting criminals,” Katz went on when the noise subsided, “no matter what their background or circumstance, and this case is a perfect example of our determination to secure justice.

  “I can assure you that James Matheson, despite his obvious life advantages, will meet with the full force of the law and I will do everything in my power to secure both convictions and hopefully, in the process, provide the Nagoshi family with some semblance of peace. That is all. Thank you.”

  “Good Lord,” said Nora.

  “Katz is out for blood,” said Arthur.

  “Matheson’s,” added Sara. “And David’s as well.”

  John Nagoshi lifted his eyes from the television and stared across the expanse of his open-plan Wellesley living room. Peter sat stony faced on the cream-colored sofa, his cheeks still swollen, his nose covered in a bandaged splint that reached down toward his mouth, making him look somewhat like a grey-hound wearing an oversized muzzle. He adjusted his position so that he might return his father’s glance, his neck obviously still stiff and swollen from Saturday evening’s altercation. “Did he tell you of this?” he asked, his voice thick and nasally.

  “No,” said John Nagoshi. “In fact, Mr. Katz promised he would keep the pregnancy quiet until paternity was resolved.”

  “Then he is a liar.”

  “Yes.”

  They both said nothing.

  “Still, my father,” said Peter at last. “Perhaps it is for the best. No matter how he was conceived, your grandson deserves to be acknowledged, and if this secures a purposeful sentence for Matheson . . .”

  Nagoshi took a breath at Peter’s distaste at the child’s conception, his mind casting back to his son’s outburst in Katz’s conference room last week.

  “It is not the result that concerns me, segare,” said Nagoshi, knowing there was little he could do to change Peter’s disapproval of his sister’s affair. “But the motivation behind it. True peace cannot be achieved without sincerity; egotism is the primary cause of human anguish.”

  “This is not just about wa, Father,” said Peter, referring to the Japanese term for harmony. “Do not forget the examples of our Samurai forefathers. Adauchi brought them peace.”

  “No, segare,” said Nagoshi with a new passion. “Adauchi does not bring peace. Vendetta and revenge only bring sadness of heart and further retribution. A true man knows that revenge is best dealt with by forgetting it.”

  “Forgive me, Father, but they are hollow words spoken by men of little courage.”

  Nagoshi took another breath, his son’s harsh perspective sending a slip of fear and foreboding down his spine. There were times when Nagoshi looked at his son only to see a stranger, and this troubling sensation was more frequent of late.

  “Be careful, segare,” he said at last. “This is not what your sister would want.”

  “Then s
he should not have chosen the path she chose, and started this disaster in the first place.”

  “He’s here,” said Sara when she saw him open the outer office door.

  “Come on in, lad,” said Arthur.

  “I’ll get you a coffee,” said Nora.

  “David, I don’t believe this,” began Sara as David moved into Arthur’s office, throwing his briefcase on the sofa. “It is not possible. He can’t get away with it.”

  “Yes he can, Sara,” said an obviously furious David, now tugging off his overcoat and pacing the room. “In fact, he just did.”

  “I can’t believe Stein allowed it,” said Arthur.

  “Katz was very convincing,” said David, stopping short in front of Arthur’s desk. “It was my fault. I wasn’t prepared. I should have seen this coming.”

  “How?” asked Sara, now joining them to form a huddle of three. “This is totally out of left field.”

  “No,” countered David. “Joe told me Katz had been with the ME all day yesterday. I thought he was hassling Gus for paternity results, but obviously he was after an age of the fetus. I underestimated him.”

  “Well,” said Arthur, obviously trying to calm his troubled prodigy. “What’s done is done. We need to regroup, focus, fight this thing on all fronts.”

  “But that’s just it, isn’t it?” asked David, who nodded at an obviously concerned Nora as she placed his coffee on the desk before them, and joined the now tightly knit group of four. “Katz will have every associate in his office on this case and we are—well,” he said, gesturing at his three colleagues, “this is basically it. We not only have to clear James of Jessica’s murder but we also have to tackle the even more sensitive issue of feticide, an issue that will see us branded heathens by every pro-lifer in the county. And even if the jury finds James not guilty of the premeditated murder of his own son, they have the much more palatable charge of involuntary manslaughter to fall back on.

  “No, Arthur,” he said after a breath. “This is a lose/lose for us—and more importantly for James—no matter which way you come at it.”

  “David,” said Arthur, “I know it sounds impossible but giving up is not an option.”

  “Giving up?” said David then. “I’m not giving up, Arthur. In fact, if anything, I know the worse it gets the harder we have to fight. We cannot afford to lose this one, Arthur. We are that kid’s only hope and there is no way I am going to let him down.”

  Sara looked at him then, realizing just how attached to this case David was. They had been through some difficult battles before, risked their reputations, their relationship and even their lives. But she had to agree, the seeming hopelessness of this latest effort did make the thought of victory close to unfathomable—and she was terrified what she was about to say would make matters even worse.

  “David is right,” said Nora, at last getting David to take a seat. “We can do this. Call me old-fashioned but I still believe if a group of people believe in something, and work hard to . . .”

  “Thanks, Nora,” said David, taking her hand and squeezing it. “But I am afraid faith will only get us so far.”

  “Then we’ll clear the decks,” said Arthur, now moving behind his desk to sit as well, Sara perching herself on a corner. “We’ll make it our single priority. Sara can co-chair, I will work on precedent. Nora will keep track of discovery and assist us in the filing of motions. We can do this David. I am sure of it.”

  “David,” said Sara at last. “I am so sorry that I wasn’t there with you this morning.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, turning toward her, her very presence fueling him with hope. “I am sorry you had to bump the Jones kid. But in all honesty he really doesn’t need a lawyer. A shrink maybe, but not an attorney.”

  “I didn’t,” she said, looking him straight in the eye.

  “You didn’t what?” he asked, confused.

  “Bump him. In fact, I reaffirmed our representation, just a few hours ago.”

  “What?” said David, his voice rising a notch.

  “What do you mean, Sara?” asked Arthur.

  “Look,” she said. “I know this sounds crazy but I think the kid can help us. You said it yourself, David. He was the one who gave merit to your China theory.”

  “He also gave the cops their first ironclad piece of evidence that James and Jessica were a couple,” argued David.

  “Maybe,” she countered, taking a step back. “But he never suggested James was violent toward Jessica. In fact, he is a witness to their affection, not their animosity.”

  David shook his head.

  “Listen, David,” Sara went on. “By retaining Sawyer we keep him away from the ADA. Katz will have to subpoena him to appear and at the very least we can prepare him for what the Kat has in store. The kid is smart,” she added. “He can help us investigate the China angle, he can attest to Jessica’s high regard for James and James’ affection in return. He is willing to help us, David. In fact, he even suggested it.”

  David looked to Arthur before turning back to Sara once again.

  “Sara,” he said, trying to remain calm. “Did you ever think he is retaining you so that he can keep a close handle on this case? I am not suggesting he did anything wrong,” he said, reading the look of anger now rising on her face. “Just that he was in love with this girl and, given that, his views might be somewhat . . .”

  “I can read my own clients, David,” she said.

  “All right, let’s all calm down,” said Arthur at last. “Sara is right on at least one point,” he said, turning to David. “The Jones boy could be an asset. His ties to Solidarity Global will give us better access to the Nagoshis’ plant in China. And keeping him away from Katz is a priority.”

  David looked at them both. He was so tired and confused and frustrated and angry—and yet in their eyes he saw a genuine desire to help, which made him consider that perhaps it was he who was jumping to conclusions.

  “Okay,” he said at last. “But the kid can’t become a drain on our resources, Sara. I am going to need you here with me, 24/7.”

  “An offer any lass would find hard to refuse,” said Nora, and in that moment David was thankful for Mrs. Kelly and her perfectly timed considerations.

  “I’ll be here,” said Sara at last, just as the telephone rang, prompting Nora to move around Arthur’s desk and pick up the central extension. “And don’t worry, I won’t allow Sawyer to take up all my time. He’ll be an asset, David, not a problem. I promise.”

  “Excuse me, Sara,” said Nora, cupping the receiver in her hand. “It’s for you. I’ll transfer it to your office if you like?”

  “No. It’s okay,” said Sara, moving around the desk. “I’ll just take it here and be as quick as I can. Who is it Nora?” she asked, taking the handpiece.

  Nora hesitated. “I’m sorry, lass,” she said at last. “It’s Sawyer Jones and he says he needs to see you—urgently.”

  44

  “Fuck,” said Heath Westinghouse, fidgeting in his seat like a three-year-old who needed to use the little boys’ room. He had just signed off on a call from his father, the short but direct conversation making him even more agitated.

  “Calm down, Westinghouse,” said Simpson, now sitting across from his friend in a discreet corner table of the Deane Law School café.

  “How am I supposed to do that? Tomorrow, H. Edgar, they want us in front of the grand jury. Tomorrow.”

  “We promised we’d testify,” said Simpson. “It was part of the deal.”

  “Well I’m not doing it. We’ve caused enough trouble.”

  “Shut up, Westinghouse,” said Simpson, who was now aware of a small group of first years staring at them from a nearby table. “Refusing won’t do any good. The ADA will just issue a subpoena.”

  “Well, at least that way it will look like we were forced to testify against our friend.”

  “Yeah,” said H. Edgar. “They twisted our arms to the tune of two million.”

&nbs
p; “Fuck.” Westinghouse finished his double strength mega-mug of coffee in one gulp, slamming the cup on the table before lowering his voice and going on.

  “How the hell did this happen, H. Edgar? I thought you had all bases covered.”

  “I did,” said Simpson, leaning into his friend. “But there must have been a breakdown in communication—a misunderstanding.”

  “Fucking A there was a misunderstanding. I misunderstood you when you said James would walk. Now he’s rotting in some filthy prison cell with a motherfucking team of butt-humping bandits. Thanks to us, the whole country thinks he killed his girlfriend—and his kid as well.”

  H. Edgar knew this was coming, but was getting slightly agitated by his friend’s heightened state of anxiety. He needed to appease him, calm him down, if they were to get through this, reputations intact.

  “All right, Westinghouse, you want a pound of my flesh, fine. But let me remind you that we are in this together and experience should tell you I am your only lifeline out of this mess.”

  Westinghouse shook his head, his face still flush with frustration.

  “I have no idea why James didn’t play to the script,” H. Edgar went on. “Maybe he got cold feet, maybe he couldn’t bring himself to hand himself in, maybe he tried to stop us but couldn’t contact us in time. Who the fuck knows? The point is, what’s done is done. James is where he is, and we have to look after ourselves.”

  “Are you suggesting we rat him out?”

  “Fuck, Heath, wake up to yourself. We already ratted him out,” said Simpson. “This was a three-way deal and he is the one who failed to deliver. Don’t forget, Westinghouse, James was the one who lied about Barbara in the first place.”

  “So he didn’t fuck the French girl. Who hasn’t lied about sex at one time or another?”

  “It was stupid,” said H. Edgar. “And if anyone is responsible for being in the predicament James is in, it is James. You have to stop this, Westinghouse. You start to panic and our stories fall apart, and then the cops will come after us for perverting the course of justice.”