by Sydney Bauer
“What do you want, Simpson?” said David at last.
“Two things. First I want you to pull back, to moderate your cross of Westinghouse. I want you to follow the line he takes and in return you may ask the question you have always wanted to ask.”
“So now you are dictating my questions?”
“Only because I can assure you of their answers.”
David said nothing, finally understanding what the young man was proposing.
“Secondly and most importantly,” Simpson went on, “I want you to abandon your cross of me altogether.”
“What?” said David, incredulous. “I’m sorry, Simpson, but there is no way I am going to sit back and . . .”
“Actually, it is not up to you, Mr. Cavanaugh, it is up to your client.”
“You are not the prosecutor, Simpson, and this is no plea bargain.”
“No, but you will put it to him nonetheless, for if you don’t, and he finds out about this little tête-à-tête, which I can assure you he will, he will never forgive you. One thing I know about you, Mr. Cavanaugh, is that you do not lie—an admirable quality, no doubt, and in this instance one that will work to all our benefits.”
“And what about Katz?” asked David after a pause. “Are you suggesting he knows nothing of this?”
Simpson just glared at him. “I shan’t go into details, Mr. Cavanaugh, for to do so would insult your intelligence, and specifics are always dangerous in a scenario such as this. But I do promise you, that in salvaging our reputations, you shall create an opening for yourselves—a window of opportunity that is otherwise unattainable.”
“What makes you think I need your help?” asked David.
“The fact that you told the entire world you know the identity of the killer and cannot deliver on your promise.”
“You have no idea if I . . .”
“Oh yes, I do,” said Simpson, leaning into the table now, a fresh look of determination in his eye. “I didn’t kill her, Mr. Cavanaugh. I had no regard for her whatsoever. She wasn’t even a blip on my radar apart from the fact that her father is a man of great influence and success.
“You think these,” he said, now holding up his hands, their meager size shedding monstrous shadows across the white linen tablecloth before them, “you think my small stature and my questionable sexuality are enough to proffer a presentable Plan B? Come now, Mr. Cavanaugh,” he said, bringing both of his hands down with enough force for the china to chink in a tingle of protest. “Your little spy was as discreet as an elephant in a phone booth. Mr. Jones lives in his own little comic book world where the hero wins and his offsider gets to bask in his glory. Pathetic really, and you should be ashamed of yourself for enlisting him.”
And sadly, he was right.
“Don’t you see, Mr. Cavanaugh? In all your earnest determination to find the true killer, you have wasted nothing but precious time. Your job is to prove James’ innocence not to identify the real offender—which, despite their connection are actually two different things. The girl is dead, as is the child in her belly, and finding the culprit will not bring them back.”
And sadly, he was right again.
“I am not totally callous, Mr. Cavanaugh,” Simpson went on at last. “I do have affection for James and would like to see him freed. The fact that I want to see to my own interests first does not discount my regard for him as a comrade, an equal even,” he added.
David said nothing, just sat there staring at this fresh-faced young man with the Mensa brain and the empty heart.
“You know, Simpson,” he said at last. “If you had the morality to balance your fucking intellect, you could really be something.”
“A slap wrapped up in a compliment,” responded Simpson. “But as I am feeling particularly generous this morning, I shall simply offer a humble thank-you.”
“I can destroy you if I choose to, Simpson.”
“Yes,” said Simpson, perhaps the slightest trace of fear in his otherwise confident tone. “But at what price, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
And then—there was a pause.
“Will you promise that neither you nor Westinghouse will lie on the stand?” asked David at last.
“To do so would jeopardize our careers, would it not?”
“And that whatever so-called new evidence you have concocted against my client will be diffused?”
Simpson smiled, leaving David to wonder why his latest question had not taken him by surprise.
“The new evidence has been taken care of. Or rather, destroying it is now well within your grasp,” he said, holding up his hand as if to indicate he had no intention of elaborating further. “And so, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
David looked at him then, realizing that this young man’s entire life—his career, his reputation, his all-important social standing in a world where character was king—was in his hands solely and completely. Simpson’s entire future balanced on what he was about to say.
“I’ll talk to James,” he said at last.
Simpson let out a poorly concealed sigh, reaching across the table to shake David’s hand.
“And given I know he will agree, I will promise you, Mr. Cavanaugh, that your client will soon be set free.”
84
Sawyer Jones woke to a very selfish feeling. The snow outside appeared to have abated somewhat, its thick pellets having shrunk to soft crystals that floated down on the picturesque public gardens like butterflies. It was a magical sight, the beauty of which Sawyer missed entirely thanks to his realization that he would give anything not to be where he was right now—knowing that he should be there in court, with Sara and David, as Westinghouse and Simpson finally took the stand.
He had just spent his third night at the Regency Plaza—on the couch no less—fearing the somber Mr. Lim was not yet well enough to be left alone. It was not as if the Chinese factory worker was outwardly upset, in fact, it was quite the opposite. Lim’s lack of emotion was decidedly unsettling, leaving Sawyer with no idea as to how to comfort this man in his obvious hour of need. He had tried to coax him out—despite the weather—but to no avail. The man could speak English, Sawyer had at least established this much, but how much he actually grasped was still a complete and utter mystery.
John Nagoshi had been the epitome of graciousness. He had come last night, expressing his condolences and bearing gifts and a quite substantial check of compensation for the entire Lim family. He had made promises regarding the Guangdong plant, which Sawyer was sure would be forthcoming, and all in all was the picture of remorse and humility.
But Mr. Lim remained speechless throughout the entire encounter, an embarrassed Sawyer’s only relief coming in the form of the Chinese man’s eventual willingness to shake John Nagoshi’s hand at the end of their extremely uncomfortable meeting. Nagoshi had then turned to Sawyer and taken his hand as well, a strong, determined pump that seemed to speak of the man’s appreciation of Sawyer’s efforts on his behalf.
“You have spoken well for my people in Guangdong,” Nagoshi had said just before he left. “And you were a good friend to my daughter. You are an honorable man, Mr. Jones, and I shall be forever in your debt.”
Sawyer believed it was the first time anyone had called him a “man,” and he had to admit it felt good. But the feeling did not last, given the sting of her memory and his inability to forget that he should have found some way to protect her.
Sawyer rubbed his eyes and found his glasses on a side table and rose from the chintz-covered sofa to head toward the bathroom, praying Mr. Lim might be in better spirits today. But he had a feeling, deep in the pit of his now nauseated stomach, that Mr. Lim would never recover from the passing of a brother he so obviously adored, just as part of Sawyer would always wonder what might have been, as he grieved for the loss of his first true love.
“Are you sure about this?” asked David at last. He had raced to the Superior Court building from the Somerset, linking up with Sara and Arthur and briefing them on the way. They the
n proceeded to wait for James at the prisoner delivery dock, spiriting him away to a private conference room mere minutes before the day’s session was due to begin.
“Yes,” said James, with not the slightest trace of hesitation.
“I cannot promise you Simpson is not . . .”
“Do it,” said James again, his green eyes unwavering.
“You trust him?” asked Sara. “After all he has done to you?”
“I trust Westinghouse,” he said. “And I know Simpson will be looking out for his own interests. We are just fortunate that now they happen to be parallel with our own.”
“It’s a risk,” said Arthur.
“But as both H. Edgar and Peter Nagoshi have been ruled out as suspects, we have no choice but to act now,” countered James. “If we can end this thing before David has to follow through on his promise to reveal the identity of Jessica’s killer then . . .”
He was right. And David felt a fresh sense of relief that his client seemed to have risen from the previous day’s malaise with a new sense of focus.
“David?” said James, as if willing him to agree. And in that moment David knew, that despite the fact that this was James’ call, deserved or not, his client had such respect for his attorney that he was leaving the final decision to him.
“Okay,” said David at last, just as the clock hit nine. “Let’s do this.”
Roger Katz looked at the young man before him and immediately suppressed a smile. He wanted to appear dedicated and focused on this all-important day, and did not need the jury glimpsing his resplendent but justifiable glee.
Westinghouse was the picture of all-American perfection. His fair hair neat without looking over-styled, his physique toned beneath his impeccably fitted suit, his wide blue eyes speaking of sincerity and his slightly nervous demeanor suggesting a selfless determination to do his duty despite any obvious distress to himself.
Katz glanced toward the defense desk to see Cavanaugh and the old man in a tight huddle of desperation, the girl Davis now with her back to him as she whispered sweet but empty words of consolation in the young defendant’s ear. Katz then moved his head to the right where he gave nods of acknowledgment to the more important members of the press, before doing a full 180 toward the jury whose eyes were fixed on the Apple Pie Adonis before them.
“Mr. Katz,” said Stein with a boom, having obviously reached the end of the few minutes he requested to read the morning’s notes. “I believe that Miss Rousseau is still beyond our shores.”
“I am afraid so, Your Honor. But if this respite in the storm keeps up, and the airport reopens, we may have her here by tomorrow, if not definitely by early next week.”
“I understand,” said Stein, who seemed in better spirits today. “The court is grateful for your being here with us this morning, Mr. Westinghouse,” said Stein, turning to the witness.
“My pleasure, Your Honor,” said Heath, with a smile that lit up the entire room.
Katz began quietly, working up a conversational banter with the movie star witness before him. He asked about his impeccable student record, close ties to his family, dedication to sporting excellence and finally his high regard for his friends.
“I am an only child, Mr. Katz, and as such, friends have always been incredibly important to me. I am lucky to have many friends—from high school, from Deane and from other connections, who are all very much a part of my life.”
“And if it is possible to distinguish, Mr. Westinghouse,” Katz went on, “could you provide this court with the names of your closest friends?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Westinghouse without hesitation. “H. Edgar Simpson and James Matheson are my best friends without question, Mr. Katz. We were thrown together by chance when we decided to study law at Deane, but our friendship goes beyond the similarity of our circumstances and rests more in our ability to get on. In other words, Mr. Katz, we just clicked. You know how it goes,” he finished, sharing an understanding smile with the jury.
Katz spent the next few minutes asking Westinghouse to elaborate on their “friendship,” detailing their similar sensibilities and goals.
“And given such closeness, Mr. Westinghouse, would it be fair to say that Mr. Matheson’s failure to tell you about his relationship with Miss Nagoshi came as quite a shock?”
“Yes,” said Heath, as Katz mentally prepared his next question, “. . . and no,” finished the witness, causing the ADA the slightest tingle of concern.
“What I mean to say is,” Westinghouse went on, “I believe James hid his relationship with Jessica at her bequest. So while his secrecy surprised me, I have come to understand its motivation.”
And Katz hesitated—just a second.
“You are an extremely forgiving young man, Mr. Westinghouse,” he said at last, deciding to use this slight bump in the road to build up his witness’s character in the eyes of the jury. “And it is a pity your friend did not return your tolerance with the appropriate reciprocation of honesty.”
“Objection!” yelled David.
“Withdrawn,” said Katz, now obviously anxious to move on. “Mr. Westinghouse, on the night of Friday, September 11, you and Mr. Simpson attended the Lincoln Club with Mr. Matheson, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And during your stay, you noted a Miss Barbara Rousseau who made certain advances toward the defendant?” prompted Katz.
“Well, I suppose you could say she made her intentions known.”
“She came on to him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see,” said Katz, giving the jury the slightest of smiles. “And did you see Mr. Matheson leave with Miss Rousseau?”
“No, sir. He left with us but then returned, and I assumed it was to make a connection with Miss Rousseau.”
“But you did not see them leave together,” stressed Katz.
“No,” repeated Westinghouse. “But I didn’t see him leave with Miss Nagoshi either, so I suppose his whereabouts beyond my leaving could not be verified one way or the other.”
Katz looked up at the witness, now sure that something was amiss. He started toward him with the slightest look of displeasure in his eyes. He was not too sure what was going on, but feared that Westinghouse, the obviously weaker of his two shining stars, was slowly losing his nerve. His plan was to block his view of the defendant and force the young man to focus on him and him alone. And then he would have no choice but to move back on track, exactly where he belonged.
“And the following morning, did not Mr. Matheson tell you he returned to the club and later had sexual intercourse with Miss Rousseau?” Katz asked, sensing he needed to cut to the chase.
“No,” said Heath.
And Katz was aghast.
“At least not in so many words. We riled him about it, and he sort of suggested he responded to her advances. But he never actually said he slept with Barbara. It was just an assumption we made.”
“An assumption he did not bother to deny?”
“No, sir, and perhaps if you saw Miss Rousseau you might understand why.” And the jury laughed—at Katz’s expense no less!
“Mr. Westinghouse,” Katz continued, determined to make up some ground. “We certainly appreciate your loyalty to your friend, but I would not feel distress at his lack of honesty if I were you. Mr. Matheson lied to the police, which suggests you and Mr. Simpson were not the only victims of his contrived duplicity.”
“Objection,” yelled David. “Is that a question, Your Honor?”
“It is not, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Stein before turning to Katz who was now positioned immediately in front of the witness. “This is not some political rally, Mr. Katz. We are not here to give speeches. Objection sustained.”
And Katz nodded before gathering his thoughts and moving on. His next few questions led directly up to the night of the all-important “confession,” which he approached with the utmost of care. He knew that Westinghouse and Simpson’s statements were extremely speci
fic in the description of Matheson’s admissions, and there was no way he would allow this fair-weather witness to suggest they were open to “interpretation.”
“And so, Mr. Westinghouse, on this occasion, in a corner of the Deane University bar known as The Fringe, Mr. Matheson admitted to killing his girlfriend?”
“Yes,” said Westinghouse after a beat, and Katz would have called for a high five if it would not have been extremely inappropriate.
“And specifically, he said . . .”
“That he was responsible for her death, that one moment he was holding her in his arms and that in the next she was gone, and there was nothing he could do to bring her back.”
“And I believe in your statement you described his mood as intense, direct—to the point where you believed Mr. Matheson needed to cleanse his soul of the terrible crime he had committed.”
“Yes, Mr. Katz,” responded Westinghouse instantly. “And I also described him as drunk, emotional and wracked with an inconsolable grief.”
Katz went to open his mouth, but Westinghouse was determined to go on.
“Which is why we hesitated before going to the police. We were terrified of misrepresenting his intent and needed some time to decide upon our course of action.”
But Katz had had enough. “But you did go to the police, didn’t you, Mr. Westinghouse?”
“Yes.”
“And you did decide to turn him in.”
Westinghouse hesitated. “Yes.”
“You made the decision after some serious consideration and did your duty despite your most earnest attempts to give your friend the ultimate benefit of the doubt.”
Silence.
“Isn’t that right, Mr. Westinghouse?” asked Katz, pressing the point, now less than a foot from the young man before him.
“Yes, Mr. Katz. That is correct.”
