Alibi

by Sydney Bauer

  And Katz took a breath.

  “Mr. Westinghouse,” he said at last, finally winning his own witness over and now wary of alienating the jury by browbeating this obviously sincere and genuine young man. “I understand how difficult this is, to be in the same room as your former best friend and admit to the world what you know to be true. But a life has been lost, Mr. Westinghouse—two lives, in fact—and your testimony to the police, and here today, does you proud.

  “I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor,” he said, returning to his chair, a sigh of relief barely concealed under the release of a long, slow breath.

  “Your witness, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Stein at last, glancing at his watch as if to check whether this testimony might drag them over lunch.

  “Yes, Your Honor, and I promise to be brief,” said David, reading the judge’s mind.

  David got to his feet and approached the witness calmly, slowly, like a friend wandering over for a chat.

  “Mr. Westinghouse,” said David at last, “I too understand how difficult this is for you, as my client has described your friendship in much the same way as you have here this morning—firm, unconditional, strong.”

  And Westinghouse stole a quick glance at James just as David had intended.

  “Besides his parents, who I believe also include you and Mr. Simpson as family, would you agree that no one else in this room, or even beyond, knows James as well as you?”

  “Ah . . . no I suppose not,” said Heath, now obviously finding it difficult not to meet his close friend’s eye. “We are pretty tight.” And David noted he said “are,” not “were.”

  “And so, given you know James so well, given you have spent thousands of hours in his company, shared his confidences and allowed him to share yours, do you believe, with all the information available to you and all your knowledge of James as a person, that he is guilty of murdering his girlfriend?”

  And that was it, one simple question, one almighty risk, upon which Westinghouse’s entire testimony would rest.

  David waited, his pale green eyes meeting the wide blue orbs of the young man before him. And in that second he saw the fear abate and an almost grateful expression move across his face as if someone had finally asked him the question he had been dying to answer for months.

  “No, sir, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Heath with intent. “No, sir, I do not.”

  85

  Moments later, after Stein called for an early lunch, Roger Katz stormed from the courtroom determined to catch his pathetic, ball-less excuse for a witness before he scampered from the building in shame. But he was not hiding! On the contrary he stood at the end of the corridor tall and satisfied—and conversing with Simpson no less—while the members of the press, who were under strict instructions not to harass the witnesses within the Superior Court building, fluttered like fascinated finches around them.

  And so Katz, his teeth now set in a taut, tense grin, made his way toward them—carefully carving a swath between the obviously fixated flock.

  “A moment,” said Katz, steering the two young men to the private enclave by the water cooler. And then, once he was sure he was beyond earshot, he began on his fierce and merciless tirade.

  “You fucking prick,” he said at last. “What the hell do you think you are playing at?”

  “I told the truth, Mr. Katz,” said Westinghouse.

  “You fucked me over and pissed on your own fucking future like an ignorant, egotistical fool.”

  “Mr. Katz,” said Heath after a pause, “I appreciate your constant concern for my future, but I think I got it covered.”

  And an exasperated Katz turned to Simpson who, he noticed, could barely conceal a smile on his smug, self-satisfied face.

  “Mr. Simpson,” Katz began, his flush, shiny face now mere inches from H. Edgar’s cool and even-pallored features. “A word of warning. You follow your retarded puppet’s lead and I swear to God, I will make sure that you never work in this city again.”

  “I’m not working now, Mr. Katz,” he said.

  “You know what the fuck I mean,” countered the now furious ADA. “I know what you are doing,” he said after a breath. “You are attempting to cover your own pathetic piss-weak asses so that you can preserve your blessed blue-blood reputations. You think that by sitting on the fence you avoid offending everyone who is anyone and can never be blamed for backing the wrong goddamned horse.

  “But don’t you see gentlemen—that is a mantra spoken by cowards, not to mention the fact that, by drawing arms against me, you make a dedicated enemy for life.”

  And then they said nothing, Katz’s eyes now fixed solely on Simpson, willing him to commit to the testimony they had planned and challenging him to suggest he would do otherwise.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Katz,” said Simpson at last, using his hand to shift the ADA slightly to his left so that he might pull a paper cup from the dispenser and pour himself a long drink. “Despite your suspicions we are not out to betray you. In fact, I am fully aware that it was us who ratted out James in the first place,” he said, and Katz noticed Westinghouse flinch.

  “I am not going to get up and call myself a liar, Mr. Katz,” Simpson went on. “For that would be tantamount to stupidity. And so I will give you what you want in regards to the additional incriminating evidence, and then the rest will be up to you.”

  Katz could not help but smile.

  “That is all I ask,” said a now placated Katz, offering his hand to Simpson who chose to bring his cup to his mouth and down its entire icy contents before offering his hand in return.

  “Then we are on the same page,” said Katz as Simpson tossed the paper cup into the small white bin behind him.

  “It would appear so,” said Simpson in reply. “And now, if you would forgive us, Mr. Katz, Mr. Westinghouse and I are going to get some lunch—and I suggest you do the same. For the hour is almost gone, and there is no doubt that we face a long and laborious afternoon ahead.”

  If Westinghouse was the embodiment of beauty, then Simpson was the epitome of earnestness. David noted he had changed into a conservative but expensive suit, the color a dark chocolate, the shirt a sparkling white, the tie a subtle beige with tiny flecks of gold. The young man had the ability, David noted, to tone down his arrogance when required, at least at face value, so that if he sat as he did now, still, silent, upright, he looked almost like a serious Richie Cunningham of Happy Days fame—all focused and humble and ready to serve.

  “Don’t worry,” whispered Sara as Judge Stein entered the room. “There is nothing we can do now. James has made our decision for us.”

  “We have agreed to do business with the devil, Sara,” David said, looking into her pale blue eyes.

  “No,” she said. “He has agreed to do business with us.”

  Half an hour later, the Kat had settled into a nice easy rhythm, his questions clear and precise. Unlike Westinghouse, Simpson appeared at ease on the stand, his lack of hesitation suggesting honesty and certainty, his directness confirming his confidence in every response.

  And so after almost an hour of re-covering the “friendship” issues, of revisiting Matheson’s lies about Rousseau and of asking Simpson to reiterate the defendant’s much talked about confession, the ADA finally got to the much anticipated subject of those all-important shoes.

  “You are aware, are you not, Mr. Simpson, as a distinguished student of the law, that the police sometimes hold certain details from the public in an effort to identify a suspect.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that in this case it was the removal of Miss Nagoshi’s shoes.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it was James Matheson, the defendant, who told you of this detail during that all telling night of truths.”

  “Yes.”

  “. . . when he said it was he who took them, as some sickening memento of his brutal and infamous deed.”

  “Well, not quite, Mr. Katz,” said Simpson. “James t
old us about the shoes but I believe his words were more to the effect that they were taken by the killer, and there was no mention of the words memento or infamous.”

  “Forgive me for not being plain, Mr. Simpson,” said Katz, his left eye twitching with the slightest indication of irritation. “What I meant to say was that Mr. Matheson knew about the shoes when nobody else did.”

  “Well,” pondered Simpson. “The police knew about them, as did certain members of the FBI, and yourself, and I am assuming perhaps some others in the district attorney’s office. And I believe the Nagoshis were also made aware of their absence, which I suppose means this so-called secret was not so tightly held after all.”

  The courtroom offered the slightest of chuckles in response.

  Katz paused, and David sensed the ADA knew this was perhaps just the beginning of the young man’s disobedience. Westinghouse’s testimony had no doubt been unsettling enough for the overconfident Katz, but now, to have his number one witness diverting from the script as well . . .

  And so David was not surprised when the Kat changed tack, but did become concerned when the new line of questioning became disjointed in its lack of continuity. At first it appeared as if the rattled ADA had lost track—stepping backward instead of forward, his previous strict adhesion to chronology abandoned for an oddly timed stroll down memory lane.

  “Did Mr. Matheson ever talk to you and Mr. Westinghouse about his time in Sydney?” asked Katz.

  “Yes, sir. He certainly enjoyed it. He got a good education, spent time with his mother, got a chance to enjoy the fine Australian weather, made lots of friends.”

  “Such as?”

  “I believe his two best friends were named Lawson Flinn and Sterling Buntine. Both boarders from the country—one from a place called Gundagai in southwestern New South Wales, and the other from the genuine Outback in the Mid Northern Territory.”

  “And to the best of your knowledge, Mr. Simpson, is Mr. Matheson still in contact with these two young men?”

  “I believe not, Mr. Katz.”

  “And why is that, Mr. Simpson?”

  “Because, according to James, they had a falling out, an extremely unfortunate argument that has lasted all this time.”

  “And are you aware what this argument was over, Mr. Simpson?”

  “Yes, sir,” said H. Edgar, stealing the slightest of glances at David. “I believe it was over a girl.”

  The court erupted in confusion as all present, including the now salivating press and the ever-interested jury sat up, at attention, waiting to hear more. David went to object on the basis of relevancy, but had read Simpson’s glance as a direction to remain silent, and was praying his instincts were right.

  “Did Mr. Matheson ever tell you the nature of this altercation, Mr. Simpson?”

  “Yes, he confided in us some time ago. I believe the circumstances surrounding the cessation of their friendship were upsetting for James, and as his two best friends, he chose to share the information with myself and Mr. Westinghouse some time earlier this year.”

  The Kat said nothing, his silence obviously an indication that he was giving his witness the floor and so Simpson took it slowly, carefully relaying the story as it was told to him.

  He began by explaining that in their final year of school, Lawson Flinn was dating a young woman of some note. Her name, according to Simpson, was Alison Saunders—the daughter of a British diplomat who attended a private girls’ school not far from the one attended by Matheson and his friends.

  “Long story short, Mr. Katz, the girl fell for James. According to James it was just one of those things. But the matter ended in a physical confrontation, which I believe took place late one evening beside the school’s Olympic-sized swimming pool.”

  Simpson went on to explain how the fight—witnessed by the third friend, Buntine—resulted in the smaller Flinn losing his footing on the slippery wet tiles and falling, his head hitting the sharp corner of the pool’s wet lip, his neck bending backward as he fell into the water

  “According to James, Lawson Flinn lost consciousness and James and Mr. Buntine made haste to pull him out.”

  “And so the boy did not drown,” offered Katz.

  “No,” countered Simpson. “But he did sustain some significant injuries, resulting in his losing the use of his legs.”

  “Mr. Flinn is now a paraplegic?” asked Katz in feigned incredulity.

  “Yes,” said Simpson. “A sad but true example of how life can turn on a knife’s edge.”

  The crowd was silent, the implications of this new testimony creating a dark shadow over the room. Stein looked at David, almost willing him to object, but a million things were going through David’s mind and he needed a moment to consider them. He wondered why James and his mother had not told him of Flinn’s disability, and the reason for it. And he was concerned that his client did not feel comfortable enough to tell him either—that his tendency to see David in some “super lawyer” light had resulted in him feeling ashamed to share details that Katz was now determined to use against him. But more importantly, at least for now, David sensed he finally understood what Simpson had meant about the new evidence being “diffused” and thus sat still, silent, knowing that his time would come.

  “Your Honor,” said a now straight-backed Katz, approaching the bench with vigor. “I would like to submit a patient report from St. Vincent’s Hospital in Darlinghurst, Sydney, dated on the night of the aforementioned altercation, as further evidence to the severity of Mr. Flinn’s injuries.

  “The report clearly outlines the specifics of what was no doubt a violent and vicious attack—a broken rib, a bruised cheek, a grazed hip and of course the spinal injury that has rendered Mr. Flinn immobile.

  “At the time Mr. Buntine gave a statement to the Rose Bay Police outlining the details of the heated attack, including Mr. Matheson’s disinclination to walk away when it was obvious Mr. Flinn was defeated.

  “The district attorney’s office did make contact with Mr. Flinn some weeks ago, Your Honor, and unfortunately, although understandably, he said he was too distressed to speak of the incident in this courtroom today.”

  And then Katz took a pause, allowing this all to sink in, before turning to the judge and taking a breath and voicing what he so desperately needed to say.

  “Your Honor, Mr. Matheson’s clear propensity for violence as illustrated in his aggressive attack on his ex-best friend,” he said, lifting his hand to tick off his points, “his bloody and brutal temper as demonstrated in the slaughter of his so-called love, Jessica Nagoshi, and his fierce and sadistic attack on Miss Nagoshi’s brother at the recent Deane Halloween Ball, not only indicate this young man has a vicious streak, but also that he has the audacity to hide it under the guise of being the all-American hero.

  “But I am glad to say, that thanks to decent young men like Mr. Simpson here, his true nature has finally been revealed.

  “Mr. Simpson,” Katz said at last, no doubt wondering why an objection to his previous soliloquy had not been forthcoming. “I am sure if Mr. Flinn were here, he would thank you for telling his story in his stead.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Katz, but to be honest, my representation feels somewhat inappropriate. I am sure Mr. Flinn would have done a much finer job of expressing his own sentiments before the court.” Simpson flicked his eyes at David.

  “No, Mr. Simpson,” bowed Katz. “You do yourself a disservice. There is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Flinn appreciates your honesty, and your determination to speak up on his behalf.”

  86

  “To whom it may concern,” David began, the room still reeling in shock.

  Moments earlier, as Katz had taken his seat, obviously satisfied with his final result, and completely oblivious to Simpson’s careful tweaking of his previously rehearsed testimony, all eyes had moved to David, as the room waited anxiously on his highly anticipated cross. Ever since Joe Mannix had taken the stand days ago, accusing the two boys of being th
e ultimate egotistical traitors, the press had marked this point—the moment where Matheson’s lawyer would question the boys’ motives and “finish them off” with accusations of avarice and superiority and greed—as a definite highlight of this already front-page-grabbing trial.

  But when David announced he had no questions for the witness, their disappointment was soon replaced by a new level of curiosity as he requested he might read from a statement that he promised would finally put any questions about his client’s character to rest.

  “My name is Lawson Flinn,” he read, as all eyes around him grew wide and inquiring as if the young Australian were reading from the document himself, “and I make this statement of my own free will in front of my attorney, Rebecca Morgan, and my witness and friend, Mr. Sterling Buntine.

  “It has come to my attention that my friend James Matheson has been charged with a crime of violence and, as is so common in my profession of law, I have been called upon to give a statement regarding Mr. Matheson’s character or lack thereof.

  “First and foremost I wish to stress,” read David, his voice slow and deliberate, his tone strong but not aggressive, “that Mr. Matheson is my friend. I met him when we first attended high school in Sydney, both entering at the seventh grade.

  “My first memories of him were of his enthusiasm to please, his genuine manner, his concern for the well-being of others and his immediate popularity amongst the boys and teachers alike.

  “James and I, along with Mr. Buntine, all three of us from different walks of life, became immediate comrades. We were inseparable from age twelve, supporting each other in class, enjoying leisure activities on weekends and often cheering one another on the football field or tennis court or swimming pool when the opportunity arose.

  “There was no doubt, to either Mr. Buntine or myself, or others who came to know James during that time, that he was, and no doubt still is, an extraordinary human being. His academic prowess, sporting talents, and social graces won him many admirers. His generosity of spirit, hospitable temperament, upbeat personality and good sense of humor made him one of the most popular boys in school, and in mine and Mr. Buntine’s case, an honored and valued friend.