by Sydney Bauer
“Think about it, James,” she began. “Why did H. Edgar turn you in in the first place? And you need to look beyond the motive of greed.”
“It was all a game. He thought Barbara would come through with an alibi.”
“Did he?” she interrupted. “Then why didn’t he recant his testimony after you were arrested?” Sara took a breath, now looking her client directly in the eye. “We believe H. Edgar had another motive for lying about your confession, James. The reward money, the ‘game’ as you call it, definitely appealed to his sense of superiority, and certainly helped get Westinghouse on board. But we have further evidence, we have proof, that H. Edgar has provided the ADA with fresh, far-reaching evidence against you, and is intent on revealing it at trial. He is not your friend, James. In fact, he is . . .”
“No,” said James, interrupting her. “H. Edgar is a mercenary bastard, but I can’t believe he would go as far as you suggest.”
“He sold you out, James, and convinced your other best friend to do the same.”
“Heath wouldn’t do this either. Unless, perhaps . . . H. Edgar convinced him that I . . .”
“That you killed her? Which is probably what he did.”
Sara took his shaking hand in hers. She wanted to comfort him, to stress that he was not alone. But selfishly, the twitching was also upsetting her, as it emphasized James’ frailty, weakness, vulnerability.
“I am sorry, James, but we believe H. Edgar manipulated Westinghouse for his own personal gain and, perhaps more to the point, to divert the blame away from himself.”
James shifted in his narrow hospital bed, wincing as he lifted his shoulders up off the hard rectangular pillows that were propped behind him like two thick tablets of rock.
“But why would he want to hurt Jess? He didn’t even know her. H. Edgar never does anything without intent. He is the most focused person I know.”
Sara knew she had to tell him about David’s theory.
“We think he was in love with you, James.”
“What?” said James, lurching forward, the two pillows now falling to the floor with a thud. The nurse in the corner looked around, but Sara signaled that all was okay and quickly returned the heavy, blood-stained blocks to their place behind James’ back.
“Did you ever get the sense that he . . . ?” she began.
“No!” said James, and Sara could see that James was wrongly taking this “theory” as some form of assault on his own sexuality. “H. Edgar is straight. Whenever Heath and I were talking about girls he would . . .”
“Join in?”
“Yes.”
“But have you ever seen him with a girl, James? Has he ever had a girlfriend, or even a one-night stand for that matter?”
“I . . . He must have . . . I don’t know. I guess we just assumed he liked to keep those things to himself. H. Edgar is one arrogant son of a bitch, Sara, and Heath and I always figured he saw most of the girls at Deane as somewhat below him.”
“The girls at Deane are some of the prettiest, wealthiest, most connected and intelligent young women in the country,” countered Sara.
“Well, sure but . . .”
“So H. Edgar was holding out for a Kennedy princess with a Nobel Prize? I don’t think so, James.” Sara didn’t want to be blunt, but she also knew she had to push the point. Simpson’s sexuality was key to their argument, and if by any chance Joe managed to place him in that greenhouse, it gave them motive to Joe’s opportunity, the means being a long thick garden hoe and a pair of strong young hands driven by resentment, jealousy and rage.
James shook his head.
“Look,” said Sara at last. “I know this is a shock, and if you tell me there is no way on God’s earth that he is gay, then I will trust your judgment. But if there is any chance James, any small doubt in your mind then . . .”
They were interrupted by a guard at the end of the long narrow room, entering with Diane Matheson who nodded her thanks and began to walk down the side wall toward them.
“James?” said Sara at once, determined to finish this conversation before Diane reached them.
“Look, I . . . I never really thought about it.”
“Think, James. Open your mind and at least consider the possibility. Could H. Edgar be gay, James? Is it at all possible?”
“I . . . Yes. Yes, it is possible,” he said at last.
And Sara breathed a sigh of relief.
Diane Matheson was a mess—a green-eyed, designer-clad, beautiful mess.
Sara had dragged her from the jail at midday, telling her James needed to get some sleep before he was released from the prison infirmary and sent back into the general population.
They had found a quiet riverside café not far from North Station, which overlooked the Charles across Bunker Hill Bridge and beyond. The morning drizzle had finally passed, the sun was now warming the icy ground and making the puddles shimmer.
“He’s going to be all right, Diane,” she said after their sandwiches had arrived. “He’s a strong boy with plenty of good people to support him.”
“Not in there he isn’t,” countered Diane, and Sara nodded, knowing there was no point in trying to hide the truth.
“I know this is hard, but as I explained, it looks like we are headed for an early trial and . . .”
“So they can’t kill him,” she said.
“No,” Sara said, knowing this was the one lie she had to tell. “So that we can get him home, to you and Jed, as quickly as possible.” She took a sip of her ice water before going on.
“We need your help, both yours and Jed’s, to come up with a list of character witnesses who can tell the court the truth about your son. We need teachers and coaches and family and friends, elders and peers who can paint the real picture, and prove to the jury that there is no way on earth that your son is capable of the charge they have made against him.”
“Charges,” bit Diane, not so much in anger but out of frustration and grief and fear.
“Charges,” confirmed Sara, realizing this woman was too astute for sugarcoated platitudes. Sara reached across the table then, taking Diane’s hand. “We have to focus here, Diane—on the trial, the witnesses. It’s okay to be worried—hell, it’s downright necessary. But you have to find a way to use that energy to help us get this done. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Diane, swallowing hard. She then proceeded to pick up her black Prada bag and unlock its clasp before reaching inside to retrieve a piece of pale blue notepaper.
“The list,” she said, unfolding the sheet of stationery. “Many of them are in Sydney but they will come if you need them. They are teachers and principals and coaches and the like. Family doctors and local priests and councilmen and more. The list contains forty names, but I can add to it if necessary.”
Sara smiled, taking the page from Diane’s slender hand. “That’s terrific, Diane,” she said. “And if it’s okay with you, we’ll take some time going through them, one by one.”
Diane nodded—a short, sharp, definite sign of agreement.
“Considering the nature of the charges,” Sara went on, “we’re going to need to focus on James’ peers. I need young men and women, just like his current friends. Kids who studied with him, spent their weekends with him, partied with him and most importantly dated him. These are the witnesses who will make the biggest impression given they mirror the characters in our scenario here, his fellow law students, his friends, his . . .
“Girlfriends like Jessica Nagoshi,” said Diane as if needing to say the name herself.
“Yes,” said Sara with a nod.
And Diane managed a nod in return, but this time slower, less enthusiastic, as if the very mention of Jessica’s name had drained what little hope she held for the future of her only child.
“Is that okay, Diane?” asked Sara with a smile, squeezing Diane’s hand in encouragement, needing to keep her on track.
“Yes,” Diane managed, taking a breath before releasing it
slowly with just the slightest of shudders. “I am sorry, Sara. I’m fine, really.” She smiled, squeezing Sara’s hand in return. “Let’s get to it.”
64
David was furious! Livid! This was the last thing he needed. Jed Matheson’s call had come out of the blue, an unexpected knock that, truth be told, David should have anticipated the moment his client was arrested.
They were going to expel him. Deane University was abandoning their star pupil and the minute the news hit the press, David knew every potential juror in the state would be given one more reason to nail his innocent client to the wall.
“This is outrageous,” said David, perched on the edge of a purple upholstered chair in Dean Johns’ similarly hued office. “You have no grounds to expel my client. James Matheson is an excellent student and accomplished athlete who has been a credit to your university and all the principles it claims to uphold.”
“But that is exactly my point, Mr. Cavanaugh. Has been. Past tense. I am afraid the controversy now surrounding Mr. Matheson is . . .”
“None of his own doing,” countered David. “James is innocent, Dean. If you wish to expel anyone perhaps you should be looking a little closer at his two so-called friends—H. Edgar Simpson and Heath Westinghouse who . . .”
“Whose father is a respected member of our board of trustees,” said the Dean, his honesty taking David aback.
“So you admit this decision has been influenced by the board?”
“I admit no such thing, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Johns. “I was simply making an observation regarding the relationship between one of our better students and a respected member of our board.”
Johns was quick, thought David, and why shouldn’t he be? He had practiced law in some of the country’s finest establishments before turning his hand to academia several years ago.
“Come off it, Dean,” said David. “You and your precious board are trying to protect the university’s reputation and all the kudos and financial benefits that go with it. But you represent a school of law in the state of Massachusetts, and I am afraid that means that as well as teaching the law you have to abide by it.”
“He is late with a payment.”
“What?”
“A fee installment, Mr. Cavanaugh. I am afraid James’ swim fees were due last week and as the payment deadline has expired we . . .”
“Swim fees, for Christ’s sake? How much are they, Dean?” asked a now exasperated David pulling his wallet from his top shirt pocket. “Tell me the figure and I’ll hand it over to you right here, right now.”
“I am afraid it is too late for that, Mr. Cavanaugh. I have checked with our lawyers and this is all aboveboard.”
“And let me guess, your lawyers just happen to be . . .”
“Westinghouse, Lloyd and Greene. A matter of coincidence—nothing more. Besides, according to the district attorney’s office, Mr. Matheson will be incarcerated at least until the end of the year, which means I am afraid he will miss numerous compulsory classes and exams that are necessary for him to pass the bar. Our places are limited, Mr. Cavanaugh, we have hundreds of inquiries every day and . . .”
“What?” said David at last, missing everything the dean had said after “district attorney’s office” and “incarcerated at least until the end of the year.” “You spoke to ADA Katz?”
“Briefly,” said Johns. “But I can assure you that the decision is ours entirely.”
“When did he call you?” asked David, hoping the dean would give away the fact that it was Katz who had called him.
“This morning,” said the Dean. “But this is all beside the point. As I explained we . . .”
“Bullshit,” said David at last, finally rising from his chair. “Katz started talking consequences for the university and you made the decision to pull the pin on my client within minutes of hanging up the phone.
“You screwed him, Dean—you and your goddamned board. You have abandoned one of your own, the very law grad you and your fellow academics should be proud to list as a future alumnus. You have shattered his family and participated in a charade that will no doubt contribute to the burgeoning lies being peddled by an ambitious ADA.
“When I was a kid, I actually dreamed of being able to afford attending a law school like Deane and now my former aspirations have exploded, in one almighty surge of disgust.”
David looked at the now rising dean and saw the slightest trace of remorse on his round, flushed face.
“I am sorry, Mr. Cavanaugh. It is just that . . . the board they . . .”
“Are a greedy bunch of snobs who are so intent on preserving this university’s blue-blood earning potential that they are willing to sacrifice one of their own.” David took a deep breath, determined to say one last thing before he left this lavender lair that now reeked of the sickly scent of betrayal.
“I will win this thing, Dean, and when I do, I will make sure James Matheson gets his chance to graduate law at an institution with far worthier principles than your own. But if I fail, if by any small possibility I do not do the job he deserves, you and your blessed board can rest assured that his blood will fall decidedly on your hands.”
The traffic was thick, dense, sluggish. It had taken him mere minutes to race back to his car, loop onto the Worcester Turn-pike and relish a relatively smooth ride before hitting Hunting-ton and the early evening traffic. It was Friday, and the roads were clogged with workers desperate to either head in or out of one of the world’s most compact cities as the sun finally gave way to a determined twilight, the air cool, the taillights blinding.
It took him almost forty minutes to make it to Government Center, where he parked illegally without bothering to lock his Land Cruiser. He ran down City Hall Plaza past Scollay Square and into Sudbury Street—negotiating the various construction site blockades and dodging the “face-down” pedestrians heading for the various T stations at Government Center, Park Street and Downtown Crossing. Finally, he turned into the narrow Bulfinch Place where he entered the first building on the block. He picked up his pace and ran through the lobby, calling for the elevator while watching the lethargic light dial mark its slow descent to the ground floor.
He moved in the second the doors opened, forgoing the usual decorum of allowing the existing passengers to exit first. And then he counted the seconds until the elevator rose one floor, two, three, four, realizing that his anger, if anything, had not subsided but multiplied over the past hour—reason now completely forgotten, retribution his only goal.
“Where is he?” he asked as he entered the main reception of the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office.
“I am sorry, sir,” said the counter clerk, looking up from her desk. “It’s after seven, our offices are closed and . . .”
“Never mind,” said David, ignoring the girl’s protests as he bounded down the hallway past various empty laminate desks and dark, windowless offices.
The place looked deserted, which David knew was rare for the DA’s office even at this late hour on a Friday evening. But then he heard them, the congregation down the corridor. Friday night drinks or the like—Katz no doubt lording it over his troops like some godforsaken aristocrat rewarding his slaves with the pleasure of his company, dishing out the advice with no end of references to his stellar expertise.
He reached the end of the gray carpeted passageway, Katz’s secretary still glued to her desk—too low on the ladder to warrant an invite, but high enough to require that she stay late to take her more superior colleagues’ messages.
“Is Katz in there?” asked David, the girl’s wide eyes telling him she knew exactly who he was.
“I . . . This is a private function and . . .”
“Is he in there?” David repeated, and in that second he could have sworn the young girl gave the very slightest of smiles.
“Sure,” she said, lowering her voice. “In fact, he is entertaining the attorney general.”
And then the girl did something completely
unexpected. She stood from her chair, negotiating her rather substantial bulk back from behind her desk, and gestured toward the closed conference room door, beyond which David could hear the civil joviality of Friday night backslapping playing out like some sycophantic lovefest.
“Stuff it,” she said at last, standing back to let him pass. “My boss is an asshole, Mr. Cavanaugh, in case you haven’t already noticed. You’re the last person he’d be expecting to be seeing this evening so . . . let’s shake this party up a little, shall we?” She pointed to the door. “Be my guest.”
65
“Shit,” said Joe, crouching low to look over the bald technician’s shoulder.
The light in the laboratory was low and had an eerie green tinge to it. The room buzzed with the dull hum of high-tech machinery, the requisite cool temperature adding to the feeling of sterility and detachment. Joe considered the two images before him, his heart sinking at what he saw. The print on the left looked nothing like the one on the right. It was not a match. H. Edgar Simpson was not in the Nagoshis’ greenhouse—or if he was, he left no evidence to prove it.
“As you can see,” said the technician, who Susan had introduced as an Agent Wicks, “the print on the left, the one from the greenhouse, has a number of large loops and whorls.
“You have to realize we only get ‘accidentals’ like this—meaning a clean print showing the complete loops and the whorls—about five percent of the time so at least we had something reasonable to work with.
“As for the one on the right—from the drinking glass you supplied—well, admittedly it’s not as clear, but Blind Freddy could tell you this one comes from a completely different individual. The ridges arch and curve differently, the loops exit to the left, whereas in the first print they exit to the right.
