Alibi

by Sydney Bauer

  He was at the northern end of the harbor, his gloved hands clasping the chained balustrades before him, the city lights behind him hitting the squat intermittent supports that cast long thick shadows into the black water beyond. Arthur was right. This was all his fault. His inability to “take a hit” and his egocentric decision to play their cards out of order had backfired with catastrophic results.

  Joe’s testimony was a disaster. David had used his cross to try and reinforce Joe’s suspicions that Simpson and Westinghouse’s real motives were less than honorable, but the fact that Joe had admitted, in open court, that the police had no other suspects had basically painted David and his colleagues as a team of desperate storytellers. Liars representing the liar—it certainly seemed to fit.

  And then the day had gone from bad to worse as Katz followed Joe’s testimony with a similarly “in the dark” McKay. The ADA had started with the compliments, touched on James’ Nikes once again and then built up to Frank’s insightful connection between James’ kayaking skills and the nature of the blows to Jessica Nagoshi’s forehead. At one point he even had Frank stand and demonstrate a kayaker’s motion—one, two, one, two—a theatrical performance that had the jury mesmerized and Frank turning a burgeoning shade of red.

  Tomorrow the Kat would call Sawyer, and while David took comfort in the kid’s loyalty and ability to think on his feet, he feared Jones was no match for the cunning ADA who would be determined to “own” this witness after today’s double dose of obstinacy.

  He looked up and was surprised to see stars. They were poking out in between the fast moving clouds. Gazing up like this to the night sky and beyond had always made him feel insignificant, overwhelmed. Which is exactly the way he felt tonight—small, powerless . . . lost.

  He felt him before he saw him—or sensed his shadow approaching, slowly but directly, like a visitor on an unavoidable mission. The man stood beside him, leaving a good two feet between them. He had his hands in the pockets of his dark cashmere coat, his woolen scarf swallowing his neck, his back straight, his head erect.

  “Is it him?” he asked at last.

  And David turned to look at him.

  “Is it my son, Mr. Cavanaugh? Is he the one you referred to in your opening statement this morning?”

  “Mr. Nagoshi,” said David, unsure as to how he should proceed. “I am sorry for your loss, but you have to understand, I am not at liberty to . . . You shouldn’t be here. You should go home.”

  David turned to face the water once more, John Nagoshi’s eyes never having left the harbor before him.

  “He did not kill her, Mr. Cavanaugh, and before you protest, I must assure you I have proof. I love my children, Mr. Cavanaugh, but I have never been blind to their shortcomings. Peter is many things, many things of which I am not proud, but he is not a killer, Mr. Cavanaugh, this at least I know.”

  And then the multinational CEO retrieved his gloved hand from his pocket and held the thick envelope to his side, offering it to David.

  “Take it.”

  “Mr. Nagoshi . . . I . . .”

  “Take it,” he said and David lifted his hand from the balustrade to take the envelope from the determined man beside him.

  “The material inside contains transcripts of a series of telephone calls that took place in the early hours of Saturday, September 12—and I can provide you with the original recordings, authenticated by an independent technician, if you so desire.”

  “I read your original interview with the detectives, Mr. Nagoshi,” said David, guessing this was some sort of attempt to convince David of the younger Nagoshi’s innocence. “I know you told them you had been on the phone during the course of that night, but failed to hear anything untoward.”

  “I was asleep, Mr. Cavanaugh. My son made those calls—to China. You see, a man died at our plant, an electrical accident, and Peter was determined to keep it quiet, especially considering the humanitarian group known as Solidarity Global had become interested in our facility.”

  “You knew about that?” said David, incredulous.

  “I know more than you think, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

  “You wired your own son’s phone?”

  “No, but I had my suspicions about China for some time—the unusually high productivity, the low amount allocated to salary.”

  “You had listening devices installed at the other end—in Guangdong?”

  And Nagoshi nodded.

  “Then,” said David, turning to him at once, “why didn’t you shut him down? Why didn’t you pull him off and make him accountable? From what I hear your factory runs like some sort of concentration camp and . . .”

  “I was going to,” said Nagoshi who, David guessed, had dwelled on his own failure to intervene. “But then Jessica . . .” Nagoshi paused, his chest rising as he took a long, slow breath. “Peter is my son, Mr. Cavanaugh. He is young and inexperienced. I suppose I hoped, in the light of Jessica’s death, he might reassess his approach to life as a whole. But I am afraid his sister’s ‘removal’ only fed his ambitions, and I was remiss for not acting sooner.”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Nagoshi,” said David at last, taking a step closer to the tired-looking man. “But I am afraid if you allowed him to get away with organizing the death of one of his workers, then culpability rests just as much with you as it does with your son.”

  Nagoshi turned to him then, a fresh look of surprise on his face. “Mr. Lim’s death was an accident, Mr. Cavanaugh. I have made discreet investigations. There was a fault in the generator. His death was a tragedy but unavoidable. I have proof of this also, if you need it.”

  David took a second to take this in before going on. “And this?” he said, holding up the envelope in his right hand. “What will this tell me about your son, Mr. Nagoshi?”

  “That at the time of Mr. Lim’s unfortunate accident my son was more concerned with hiding the incident from myself and the humanitarians than offering solace to the poor man’s family. That he is greedy and naive. That he has lost his way. That he cares nothing for anything but money and power and self-advancement, but that he did not murder his sister.” Nagoshi took another breath, this time releasing it with a shudder.

  “It will also tell you that I failed him, Mr. Cavanaugh—that I too spent many years trying to build one empire while selfishly neglecting the other.”

  David nodded, placing the envelope in his pocket.

  “If this plays out,” said David at last, feeling some need to help this poor man who, he now realized, had lost two children and a potential grandson on the night of Jessica’s death, “and if you assure me you plan to deal with this correctly, then I don’t see any need to speak of this beyond this evening.”

  “You will do this for me?” asked Nagoshi, finally turning to meet David’s eye.

  “If you give me your word that your son will be made answerable for his mistakes, and that the people in China will be compensated. In fact, Mr. Lim’s brother is here, in Boston. Perhaps you could make a personal assurance to him that his brother’s death was accidental and that he and his coworkers will be remunerated and treated like human beings instead of animals.”

  Nagoshi, whose eyes barely gave away his surprise at the current location of the younger Mr. Lim, nodded and lifted his head. “So you did believe it was Peter who killed her. You brought Mr. Lim here to testify. And if that is the case, this does not end well for you. With my son’s innocence confirmed, your client is doomed.”

  David went to say something, but Nagoshi held up his hand, signaling he needed to go on. “Mr. Katz’s intentions are not pure, Mr. Cavanaugh. But for want of a better explanation I am afraid that I must reserve from offering you good fortune. For if Mr. Matheson did what he is accused of doing, then I pray he is held accountable.”

  “And if I told you there was somebody else? Someone I favored over Peter from the very beginning?”

  “Then . . .” began Nagoshi, his eyes now wide, like two dark mirrors reflecting the swirling
snowflakes between them. “Then, I offer you my hand, sir,” he said removing his glove to extend his arm toward David. “And I ask you—no I beg you to resolve this travesty, and give my daughter and her child the peace they finally deserve.”

  David was back at the apartment within minutes, anxious to tell Sara what he had learned. He put the key in his door and swung it open to see her pacing the living room in sweatpants and an old college T-shirt, a carton of Chinese takeout in her hand.

  “Thank goodness you’re back,” she said, placing the noodles on the coffee table before walking across the room to wrap her arms around him. “I was beginning to worry, it’s looking pretty nasty out there and . . .” She kissed him before looking up at him with a smile. “David we have news.”

  “We? Um . . . me, too,” he said, taking off his coat and scarf and hanging them on the stand beside the door before looking around the room to see who the “we” might refer to. “But judging by the smile, something tells me you want to go first.”

  “If she is first then I am second,” yelled a voice from the kitchen, and David looked up to see Sawyer approaching with two steaming cartons in his hand.

  “Jesus, kid,” said David, taking the stir-fry with noodles. “You shouldn’t be here. Not the night before your testimony. If Katz knew you were hanging out with us, he . . .”

  “He’d what?” smiled Sawyer, and David, despite himself, found their good mood contagious. “Force me to slick my hair back in a replica of his own?” Sawyer ran his hand through his unruly mop. “Not a chance.”

  “All right,” said David at last, pointing toward the sofa. “Spill it, both of you.”

  Sara began with her news of James’ two Australian friends—Lawson Flinn and Sterling Buntine. “Long story short, they can’t make it,” she said. “I know this is disappointing but according to Diane, Flinn managed to track down Buntine and has arranged for him to fly into Adelaide tomorrow—or today, being Tuesday, Australian time—so that they might give their statements, in front of a lawyer, together.

  “Then, both statements will be faxed to the Mathesons’ home office by tomorrow morning our time. According to Diane they are going to be glowing, and in the very least we will have them in hand, ready to be entered into evidence next week.”

  “It’s not perfect but it’s better than nothing,” said David.

  “If they are as good as Diane predicts,” added Sara, “they are as close to perfect as we are going to get.”

  David grabbed his girlfriend in a hug. “Sara Davis, you have made my day.”

  “No I haven’t,” she said, discarding her chopsticks for a spoon to scoop some stir-fry from David’s carton. “I am afraid that honor goes to young Sawyer here.”

  “Okay, kid,” said David, jumping to his feet to double back into the kitchen, before grabbing three waters from the fridge and tossing them over the breakfast bar and into the living room. “Spill it,” he said as he made his way back into the room.

  “Well, I know my latest assignment was kinda tricky.”

  “Assignment,” thought David. This kid is something else.

  “Sawyer, when we asked you to find out what you could about H. Edgar Simpson’s sex life we didn’t expect you to actually come up with anything. According to James, Simpson is unbreakable on that front, he has never heard H. Edgar, or more to the point any other student at Deane, talk about his friend’s sexual exploits. The kid is a eunuch, or the only young man I know who seems to have spent his entire time at college without making out with someone—male or female.”

  “Making out?” smiled Sawyer. “You hear that on Happy Days reruns?”

  “Originals, actually,” David said, and he couldn’t help but laugh. “Cut the lip, kid, and tell us what you know.”

  “James is right, Simpson isn’t banging any of his fellow students at college, and you were right too when you said any such a relationship would be beneath him.”

  David looked at Sara.

  “Simpson is having sex all right, and rumor has it the action is pretty hot. He is banging a member of the faculty, David, and while no one seems to know who it is, the rumors favor two options—Stephen Miller or Martin Meisenbach.”

  “And are these teachers outwardly, um . . .”

  “Gay? No one is outwardly gay at Deane, David.”

  “I guess not.” David nodded. “You think you can find out more?”

  Sawyer shook his mop with a smile. “Sure. Not a problem, my friend. Just leave it with me.”

  76

  David glanced sideways at James with an encouraging nod. Sawyer’s testimony was going just as planned. He had advised Sawyer to keep his answers short and direct and avoid getting into a rally with the experienced ADA. He told him to set himself one goal, to tell the truth about Jessica’s love for James and her obvious happiness during the time they were together. He would admit to following the secretive Jessica out of “concern,” but to have had any fears allayed when he saw Jessica and James together—content, in love. In fact, after the ADA played the aquarium security tape showing the obviously besotted James and Jessica together, David was considering that there may be no need to cross-examine Sawyer at all. If anything, the Kat was making their case for them—leaving every juror doubting that his young client could ever lift a finger against the girl he so obviously adored.

  And so, as Katz appeared to be heading back to his seat, David began to rise to inform the judge that he had no questions for the witness. Until Katz turned, his right hand lifted above his head in a gesture that said “Just one more question for this witness, Your Honor,” and sent the entire morning to hell.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones,” began Katz, moving back toward the witness once again. “Just one more thing.”

  “Sure,” said Sawyer.

  “What exactly were your feelings for Jessica Nagoshi?”

  The question took Sawyer by surprise. David sensed he was trying to look at him but the ADA was now blocking their line of vision.

  “Come now, Mr. Jones, it is an easy question and there really is no need to seek guidance from defense counsel. Which is exactly what you have been doing, Mr. Jones. Is it not?”

  Sawyer said nothing, so Katz pushed on.

  “Where were you last night, Mr. Jones?”

  “Last night? I, um . . .”

  “Come now, you have been forthright in your answers so far, Mr. Jones. Once again, the question is a simple one. Where were you last night?”

  “At my attorney’s house,” said Sawyer, and David felt himself cringe as Sara shook her head ever so slightly beside him.

  “Ah, I see,” said Katz. “Why do you need an attorney, Mr. Jones?”

  “I don’t. I mean, she is more like a friend than . . .”

  “A friend, of course. And is your friend here today, to give you moral support in your testimony?”

  “Um, yes. I mean, no. She is here but not because I need her support.”

  “Forgive me. You are right, Mr. Jones. I believe your attorney is here because she has another client involved in this case. Is that correct?” Sawyer said nothing.

  “Mr. Jones?”

  “Yes,” said Sawyer at last, the word bursting from his lips as if Katz had prized it out personally. “My attorney, Miss Sara Davis, she represents the defendant.”

  And there it was, Katz’s cat in the hat. And in that moment David knew Sara was ruing herself for not dropping Sawyer as her client in the first place—and David was doing the same for using this poor kid as some sort of junior deputy in disguise.

  The courtroom was abuzz and Stein had to call for order. David was wanting to object but knew any word of protest would be met with animosity from the obviously furious judge who could smell the insinuation of “witness tampering” a mile away.

  “Mr. Cavanaugh,” yelled the judge, forcing all in the room to silence. “Is this true?”

  “Your Honor,” began David, rising to his feet. “Mr. Jones is represented by my co-counsel
and it is also true that he was at her apartment for a brief period last night. But I can assure you, she did nothing more than encourage the witness to tell the truth.”

  “Permission to treat this witness as hostile, Your Honor,” chimed in Katz.

  “Permission granted,” said Stein, glaring at David before adding, “Keep your seat, Mr. Cavanaugh. We shall have words about this later.”

  “Mr. Jones,” Katz wasted no time as a defeated David took his seat. “Let’s backtrack a little, shall we, to the question you failed to answer a moment ago, regarding your feelings for Jessica Nagoshi?”

  “Ah,” said Sawyer, now starting to sweat. “I liked her.”

  “You liked her. In what way? As a colleague? As someone with similar humanitarian interests? As a friend? As a member of the opposite sex?”

  “No. I mean, yes. She . . .”

  “Confusing, isn’t it, Mr. Jones? Girls are like that.”

  “I’m not confused,” began Sawyer. “It is just that . . .”

  “She was a beautiful girl who showed an interest in you, Sawyer. And as such, considering your . . . um . . . unusual persona, it would be only natural for you to grasp on that attention and perhaps misconstrue her friendship for . . .”

  “No. We were friends.”

  “So you didn’t love her?”

  There was silence. David closed his eyes knowing that beyond everything else, Sawyer would never be able to lie about this one simple truth. He loved her all right. Probably more than he had ever loved anyone in his whole entire life.

  “No,” he said at last. “I mean yes. I did love her. How could I not?”

  “And yet here you are telling us all, thanks to your attorney’s hearty encouragement, that the defendant, the young man charged with murdering your one true love, was nothing but the perfect gentleman in her presence. Look out, Mr. Jones, jealousy is a motive too, you know. Before you know it your own lawyers could be pointing the finger at you.”