by Sydney Bauer
‘The newly constructed John Joseph Moakley Courthouse is a contemporary building loaded with references to Boston’s historical character, or as others have put it, her “soul”,’ said the official guide, whatever he was.
‘Situated on Fan Pier in South Boston, the Federal building overlooks the Downtown business district and the ever-changing, light-reflecting canvas that is Boston Harbour. Its water-struck brick frontage pays reverence to the buildings of the past while its cubist glass façade, which rises the full ten floors from the ground to the rotunda ceiling, symbolises a determination to seek clarity and justice in the future.’
Jesus.
‘The building serves as headquarters for the First Circuit and the US Court for the District of Massachusetts and for the US Court of Appeals. It houses twenty-seven courtrooms, forty judges’ chambers, a Circuit law library, the office of a US Congressman, extensive support facilities for the US Marshals service, and a children’s day-care centre with a view to die for!’
Cue smile.
‘It also contains several . . .’
But Maxine had had enough.
‘Mr . . . ?’
‘Bich.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Bich, Ma’am. My name is Edgar Bich.’
‘Well, Mr Bich. I am grateful for the escort but as you can appreciate I am anxious to be with my daughter who I believe is waiting for me in a private room next to courtroom number one.’ Melissa Bryant Bradshaw had been on the same flight as her mother but had opted to take the courthouse’s more discreet side entrance. ‘So, if you would not mind . . .’
‘Of course, Mrs Bryant. This way.’
And the Bich never uttered another word.
Maxine had not slept, finishing her final meeting at 3am, before catching the early flight to Logan. She would be back in DC by noon, but for now her presence was better served here in this modern, cubist, water, brick . . . whatever it was.
Her minder indicated the Judge had left his chambers and so she quickly pocketed the small bottle of Visine she had emptied in an effort to clear her bloodshot blue eyes, before slowing her step, tilting her chin slightly downwards and entering the back doors of courtroom one, supporting Melissa at the elbow.
She looked slowly about her, taking the room in, the cherry wood benches and rich green carpet, the colourful ornamental stencils and the four massive domed lights which hung centred at each corner of the double-heighted ceiling. She adjusted her simple black suit which said ‘elegance in mourning’ and slowed her definite stride, indicating a faith in the judicial system at hand.
Twenty years in politics and another twenty prior to that in the media had taught her a thing or two about image, and she knew it was still the same old story – a picture spoke a thousand words. She knew exactly how they would appear as they made their way down the aisle of the brightly lit courtroom, just before the courtroom clerk called the court to order. These two women with their perfectly proportioned faces carved from the same utopic gene pool: high foreheads, defined cheekbones, narrow noses, translucent eyes, full lips and slim jaw lines stretching down to long and elegant necks. They would appear strong but vulnerable, saddened but hopeful, shaken but resolute and above all else, Stuart Montgomery’s worst nightmare.
And that was the key, wasn’t it, the juxtaposition of their grief-stricken bond against the Professor’s unashamed arrogance? For no matter how hard the Professor tried to look modest, humble, innocent, his demeanour oozed pomposity and his three-piece suited, English-accented lawyer clinched the deal in favour of conceit.
Maxine turned her head slightly to glance at her daughter – a contrived gesture, no doubt, but she also found herself wondering exactly what was going on in her stoic offspring’s mind. She had taught Melissa so well that often she was not sure if her daughter was controlling her real emotions for the benefit of public appearances, or simply displaying her true nature of limitless resilience and strength.
She was truly remarkable, thought Maxine. So like her mother in so many ways. But there were times when she wondered if the years on the campaign trail had forced them into a relationship built on what should be rather than what was. Even now as her daughter turned her head and gave her mother a slight consolatory half smile which said to all in attendance that she was ‘Okay’, she could not help but wonder if the smile was genuine or, like her own gestures, just part of the required routine which came part and parcel with their existence in the world of public scrutiny.
They reached their seat. The White House Chief of Staff re-focused her train of thought and allowed herself one quick look behind her to make eye contact with Ramirez who sat between King and the Boston detective named Mannix.
Then her eyes drifted back towards the front of the room, stopping only briefly to look at the attractive, dark-haired woman immediately across from her, behind the defence table on her left. It was Montgomery’s wife, the humanitarian heart surgeon, and as far as she was concerned the Professor’s only asset.
There were ways around this of course, as there always were. Pluses could be turned to minuses, positives to negatives and humanitarians to whores.
‘All rise,’ said the clerk as District Court Judge Patrick Donovan entered stage left, his grey hair streaked with the ginger of his youth, his quick step belying a man of considerable girth.
The Judge took his seat and surveyed his audience. The gallery now hushed as they waited for the show to begin. He adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses on his wide red nose and glanced down at the prosecution to his right. He knew the heavies in DC would fly in a Department of Justice Trial Attorney and was amused to see it was Charles ‘Grizzly’ Adams.
Adams was the latest Washington golden boy, who hadn’t lost a case in three years. The Harvard grad was better known as ‘Grizzly’ not just because of his last name or his broad, dark appearance but because his approach to law was compared to that of a bear’s to his prey. First, he would sit back and observe the defence at work, find out as much information about their strategy as possible, refrain from objecting preferring to allow the defence to ‘dig their own holes’ and then he would charge in for the kill, tearing their case to shreds, eliminating any possibility of reasonable doubt and leaving the jury no option but to return a guilty verdict.
Donovan then glanced towards the defence table on his right to see Montgomery seated next to a tall, lean man dressed like a bell hop. If ever there was a contrast to ‘Grizzly’, Mr Howard Chilton-Smith was it. Adams ate more than him for breakfast.
Chilton-Smith had a fine reputation of his own in Washington, largely for winning his clients excessive amounts of money in civil suits. But his experience in murder trials was limited and Donovan could not help but think this trial was already stacked in favour of the prosecution. But that was not for him to ponder and he was experienced enough to know that assumptions were both misguided and dangerous. By all accounts, Montgomery was not stupid and if he chose Chilton-Smith as the man to represent him in the trial of the century then perhaps this stick-like figure had a few tricks up his perfectly tailored sleeve. Donovan hoped so, for there was nothing worse than a one-man race in a courtroom deciding the fate of a man’s life – literally.
‘Welcome to Boston, Mr Adams. I take it you are representing the people in this case?’
‘Yes, Your Honour,’ said Adams, the gravel timbre in his voice already commanding authority as he stood to address the court. ‘Professor Stuart Montgomery has been charged with the murder of United States Vice President Thomas Wills Bradshaw and the government recommends the defendant remain . . .’
‘Hold your horses, Mr Adams,’ said Donovan, raising his large calloused hand in protest. ‘First things first. The defendant has not yet had the opportunity to enter his plea. We’ll get to the question of bail in a minute.
‘Dr Montgomery,’ Donovan turned to the defence table, taking it step by step, allowing no room for discourse or error. He was aware of the need for precision,
of the mammoth weight that he carried as Judge of these proceedings, and was determined to do things by the book.
‘You have been charged with . . .’ the Judge went on, before the unthinkable happened.
‘Excuse me, Your Honour.’ It was Chilton-Smith, the pale-skinned attorney who now stood to reveal a frame so slight, Donovan believed a good breeze might blow him all the way back to England.
‘You have something to say, Mr Chilton-Smith?’ asked Donovan.
‘Yes, Your Honour. It’s Professor Montgomery, Your Honour,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said the Judge in disbelief.
‘“Professor”, not “Doctor”, Your Honour. My client is a respected member of the international medical fraternity and I would request that his correct title be used during the course of these proceedings.’
Donovan was not known for his patience and spent most of the day interrupting the lawyers who stood before him in his busy courtroom where backlogs were stacked like mountains and time was a commodity not to be squandered.
‘What did you say?’ Donovan was incredulous, he wanted to make sure Chilton-Smith had thrown down the gauntlet before he picked it up and threw it straight back at him directly across the room.
‘With all due respect, Your Honour, I strongly believe this is a point we must make from the onset. The courtroom has the deepest respect for your title as Chief Justice, I am simply asking my client be rewarded the same courtesy in return.’
‘Mr Chilton-Smith . . . It is Mr Chilton-Smith, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Your Honour, Howard Chilton-Smith Esquire actually, and for the court’s records, I represent the defendant.’
‘Right,’ said Donovan, trying to control his temper. ‘Well, Mr Howard Chilton-Smith Esquire, I know we have just met, but based on first impressions, would you say I was a patient man?’
There was no right answer to this one. Chilton-Smith was arrogant, but Donovan guessed he wasn’t stupid, he most likely knew when a lie was called for and this was one of those times.
‘Yes, Judge, certainly.’
‘Well you were wrong, Mr Chilton-Smith. I am not, and as Chief Judge of this court that is my prerogative.’
Chilton-Smith was starting to sweat, his pale skin now turning a sickly shade of grey.
‘Forgive me, Your Honour, I was simply trying to establish my client’s . . .’
‘Your client has been charged with the first degree murder of the Vice President of the United States of America, a very serious charge Mr Chilton-Smith, serious enough to carry the potential penalty of death. I therefore suggest that we attend to the matters at hand and do not waste any more time squabbling over semantics. Is that clear?’ Donovan went on, without waiting for an answer. ‘Now Mr Chilton-Smith, how does your client plead?’
‘Not guilty, Your Honour.’
Donovan turned to his client. ‘Professor Montgomery, I take it you understand the seriousness of the charges made against you.’
Montgomery rose to his feet. ‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘And that you are . . . ah . . . comfortable in your choice of representation.’ This open dig at Montgomery’s attorney may have seemed callous at face value, but Donovan wanted to get Montgomery’s affirmation as a matter of record. He had seen clever defendants deliberately choose inappropriate representation, largely as an attempt to later secure appeal on the grounds of inadequate counsel. Donovan was determined to block any covert strategies for manipulation before they had the chance of getting off the ground. This case would be a historical documentary in the making and he was the director. There was no room for any crap in his courtroom, from either side of the legal fence.
‘I am, Your Honour,’ said Montgomery, his brisk British brogue bouncing off the walls in a clarity so crisp it appeared to carry an echo.
‘All right then,’ said Donovan, pushing against the bench with his right hand and swivelling his too-stiff chair slightly back to his left, the seat giving a small squeak in protest. ‘Mr Adams, I am gathering the people oppose bail.’
‘Yes, Your Honour,’ said Adams, obviously suppressing a smile. He had barely said two words and no doubt already felt one hundred yards in front. ‘As you have correctly ascertained, the charge is an extremely serious one with widespread repercussions. Professor Montgomery is an American citizen, but he has strong ties with the international community and we feel the . . .’
‘Your Honour,’ Chilton-Smith was up again, his voice a high-pitched melody against Adam’s hard-edged tones. ‘Professor Montgomery understands the limitations imposed by bail and would be happy to surrender his passports. He . . .’
‘Passports?’ said the Judge. ‘He has more than one?’
‘Yes, Your Honour. Two in fact. He is a dual citizen of Great Britain and the US.’
‘Bail is denied,’ said Donovan, ignoring Chilton-Smith’s distant squeaks of protest. ‘I expect both parties to comply with Federal Rule of Criminal Procedure 16 and Local Rule 116 and provide written requests for all disclosure of relevant material within five days of this date. I also want both parties to make recommendations for a potential trial date before the month is out.’
Donovan now turned to the group of men and women huddled in a long, overcrowded partition to his right, trusting his chair to stretch that few inches further.
‘Ladies and gentleman of the press, I know you understand the weight of your burden in this matter and I respect your right, your duty, to report what you see and hear within these four walls. But I will not, under any circumstances, tolerate any abuse of such privilege or manipulation of proceedings in an effort to turn what is a representation of fact into the subjectivity of sensation. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Your Honour,’ obeyed the gallery, who were used to such warnings and still overjoyed at the colourful nature of this morning’s proceedings. This stuff was selling papers by the second, and it was only up from here.
‘All right then. Mr Adams, Mr Chilton-Smith, I expect a full list of discovery items made available to the court as a matter of priority. I also want a list of all pre-trial motions to be tabled by the end of the month. If necessary I will schedule a pre-trial hearing to consider such motions and I suggest you have evidence and witnesses at the ready. Let’s agree to talk again, say in two weeks’ time, to discuss your progress. Court is adjourned.’
And with that Donovan stood, and left the way he had come, his cloak blazing behind him like that of a caped crusader, mission accomplished – at least for today.
Maxine Bryant knew that now the Judge had left the room, the press’ attention would return to her and her daughter and thus took the opportunity to give Melissa a reassuring smile, whisper encouragement in her ear and support her arm as they stood to leave the courtroom. But a quick glance towards the gallery revealed the reporters were not in fact looking at them. They were looking at the olive-skinned woman now speaking with her husband’s attorney, a look of stern admonishment on her face. Karin Montgomery was obviously not happy with Mr Chilton-Smith, and she was making no attempt to hide her displeasure.
The look on the reporters’ faces said it all. Montgomery’s wife was magnetic. She had finally removed her sunglasses to reveal large brown eyes, now ablaze with a dark tenacity. The gallery was mesmerised, Maxine and her daughter completely forgotten.
‘Mother,’ said Melissa, her voice low but firm. ‘It is time to leave. What is it?’
‘I’m sorry darling, it’s . . .’ managed Maxine, still frustrated by the media’s lack of attention. ‘It’s nothing my dear,’ she said as she shifted her glance, made the perfunctory gesture of supporting her daughter at the elbow once again, and started back down the courtroom’s centre aisle. ‘It’s absolutely nothing.’
‘This is perfect,’ said the meticulously coiffed Caroline Croft, host presenter and investigative reporter from the popular prime time news magazine program Newsline. Croft was talking to her researcher, Macy Dole, a small, masculine-looking w
oman with mousy brown hair and crooked teeth.
‘The wife is giving the lawyer an earful,’ said Dole with a smile.
‘No, not that, I mean, yes that, but not just that. Look at them, Macy, look at the two women, look at the two wives.’
Dole’s eyes moved back across the room to Melissa Bryant Bradshaw. ‘You’re right, they’re chalk and cheese.’
‘Fire and ice more like it, but both incredibly beautiful,’ said Croft. ‘We could have something here, Macy, something big.’
Caroline knew her weekly program was up against it when it came to breaking news. This case would be covered minute by minute by the newspapers and the electronic bulletins, let alone the wall-to-wall coverage on CNN. A program like Newsline, which only ran once a week, needed a fresh angle and when Caroline surveyed the two women, their images immediately transformed into ratings.
‘The press is obsessed with Melissa Bradshaw – and rightly so, she is a political princess with the looks of an Ivy League super model. But the other one, Karin Montgomery, there’s something dangerous about her. Something raw. She reminds me of a Latin American Angelina Jolie. In other words, she’s ratings personified.’
‘She’s not talking, Caroline. Word has it in the gallery they couldn’t even get a “no comment” out of her.’
‘But I haven’t made the call yet, have I? I want her Macy – and I want her exclusively.’
21
Nora Kelly was a traditional woman who lived her life by a set of rigid moral codes – the main two being a general intolerance of nonsense and an unwavering loyalty to those she cared for. Her demeanour was calm and efficient, if not a little brusque, but it was rare she extended her emotional extremes to beyond content at one end of the scale and irritable at the other. In other words, Nora didn’t rattle easily, unless one of those she cherished came under attack.
