by Sydney Bauer
Sara was nervous. She was waiting for David who had gone upstairs with Karin to retrieve Montgomery from his holding cell. As she stood just inside the main glass doors of SCJ, for some reason the prison guard’s banter made her recall some history class trivia about the battle of Breed’s Hill where the first blood of the American Revolution was spilt.
Who was it? she tried to remember in an attempt to distract herself. Some General . . . General Putnam, that was it! . . . Who ordered his troops not to fire on the British until they could see the whites of their eyes.
Well I can see the whites of their eyes, she said to herself. And it’s scaring the hell out of me.
Sara looked out beyond the front glass doors – the sun now banished behind thick, dark rain clouds – to see what looked like the setting for another battle, a full blown media war, as journalists and their ever-determined crews grappled for position to hear, film and photograph David Cavanaugh as he gave his first statement regarding his new client and that incriminating letter. She noticed the reporters and camera people were joined by the ever-present protestors, dubbed by the media as ‘Bradshaw’s Apostles’ who, placards screaming ‘Crucify Him’ held high, showed an almost vehement determination to get a decent look at the place where the man accused of ‘Saint Tom’s’ murder was about to emerge.
On top of all this, it was peak hour in one of the busiest points of the city. Pedestrians stopped on their way to work, cars honked as they emerged from the famous traffic jams of nearby Storrow Drive, and wardens, security guards, secretaries and janitors emerged from the behemoth that was SCJ to see what all the commotion was about.
‘Sara,’ said David from behind. And Sara turned to see the three of them approaching, an extra posse of security workers bringing up the rear. ‘We’re ready,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ she replied. But she wasn’t, okay that is. No matter how hard she tried, having Karin a mere few feet away, watching David support her was, well, far from okay.
She tried to focus on how difficult this was for David, and admired him for his seemingly professional approach to the extraordinary situation at hand. But somehow she was finding it hard to separate her role as attorney from that of girlfriend, and looking at David and Karin now, together, she had to swallow the uneasy feeling that this was not going to end well – for Montgomery, for David and selfishly, most of all, for her.
David opened the front doors and moved outside, stopping right at the top of the white granite stairs between two of the eight grey rectangular pillars which stretched across the impressive modern façade like sentries. He had expected a crowd but its size and reaction was way beyond anticipation – the very picture of the two men and two women standing defiant, in the now light rain, enough to send the media and all others present into a frenzy.
It struck him then how this must look – his client, his girlfriend and his beautiful ex-wife. He knew he would have to keep this straight and tight, hoping he could distract them from the obvious and undo some of the massive damage the prosecution’s ‘letter’ had already inflicted on his new client’s case. And so, as he raised his arms calling for quiet, all obeyed, standing at attention, waiting, anticipating, hoping that this morning’s unexpected ‘performance’ might prove worthy of an ‘I was there’ recount to a more than captive audience at work, home, the club and pub. And, in the end, nobody left disappointed.
‘My name is David Cavanaugh,’ he said, Sara to his left, Montgomery and Karin to his right, the rain now picking up steam. ‘And I am an attorney at law in the State of Massachusetts and the US Federal Court. As you are no doubt aware, my client, Professor Stuart Ignatius Montgomery, has been charged with the murder of Vice President Thomas Wills Bradshaw – a crime of which he is innocent and that we will strongly defend in the Federal Court of Massachusetts.’
David paused there, expecting a reaction of some sort but getting none. In fact it was deathly quiet, so much so he could almost hear the crowd breathe in unison before him.
‘This morning the prosecution has released, to certain members of the press, what they claim to be a new piece of evidence – a piece of evidence we have not yet seen nor had the opportunity to authenticate. This alleged discovery has been partially published in a prominent Boston newspaper this morning, contrary to the clear and specific rules of evidence disclosure, and creating a situation of unlawful bias which will no doubt add to the already difficult task of locating a jury with a predisposed opinion of the possibility of my client’s innocence.
‘I remind you all of this because every man and every woman selected to take the hallowed seat of juror in this trial, as in any other, must, I repeat MUST, enter the courtroom with a predisposition of innocence. Not two miles from here our fellow Americans fought for a code of justice we cherish today – the right of every individual to be innocent until proven guilty, the right of every individual to a fair and unbiased trial, and the right of every individual to equal representation under the law – a representation that has been spat on today by opposing counsel who have chosen to release this alleged piece of evidence without the permission of the court.
‘I . . . we . . . stand here before you today to ask you, as citizens of this democracy, to remember and respect the virtues our ancestors so bravely defended. Anything less would make a mockery of the very system they died to protect.’
Another pause, more silence, even more rain.
‘Our evidence will prove my client is innocent – after which he shall return to his profession of saving lives – and then perhaps the FBI will turn their attention to finding the true perpetrators of this crime so that he/she/they might be apprehended, tried and punished accordingly. Anything less would be un-American.
‘The notion of predisposed guilt, the idea of intolerance based on hearsay, the prospect of prejudice rooted in speculation is not acceptable, no matter what the charge or who the victim. Tom Bradshaw fought for a system of justice dedicated to protecting the innocent, and we would be sorely remiss if we settled for anything less.’
And then he paused again, looking beyond the now mesmerised crowd towards the turbulent grey surface of the rain-hammered Charles River. He wiped the water from his face and turned slowly towards his client. And then he lifted his shoulder, extended his arm and shook the hand of the man he had hated for so many long and lonely years – for all the world to see.
The simultaneous explosion of camera bulbs was blinding, the calls for ‘Mr Cavanaugh, Professor Montgomery’ deafening as David nodded to the prison guards, grabbed Sara by the arm and attempted to lead the way down the dangerously congested steps. He headed towards the two cars – one a white security car for the Montgomerys and the other Arthur’s BMW where his good friend and superior stood trying to maintain a clear entrance for his two lawyers to make their escape, and head south to their meeting with Judge Donovan at John Joseph Moakley Courthouse.
Within seconds the melee gathered momentum as microphones were shoved in their faces, cameras forced into crevices between bodies and angry protestors jostled and screamed their manic messages of death. And in those final seconds, just as Sara grabbed Arthur’s hand and manoeuvred her way into the back seat of the car, with David playing bodyguard behind her, the bullet came from high to his right. It descended above the heads of the crowd in a perfect line, its speedy silence hovering dangerously lower, lower until it made its final dive towards the passenger side of Arthur’s metallic blue car.
He felt a small sting just above his right ear – a white hot flash accompanied by a high-pitched whooshing noise which came and went before he realised what had hit him. He smelt the dirty, hot tang of gunpowder, and the sickly smell of long overdue rain mixed with sweat and panic and the undeniable stench of fear. He heard the crowd scream in unison, a whaling orchestra of terror, as their bodies pushed, pulled, ducked, dashed, huddled and hugged the ground as if wishing they might be swallowed by it.
And then he fell into the back seat of the car. His head now
covered in splashes of bright red. His eyes, although open, restricting him to an increasing vortex of total and complete darkness.
‘Oh God, oh God,’ screamed Sara, pulling him in, cradling his head on her lap, his blood now pooling on her crisp cream skirt. ‘Arthur, he’s been shot. Oh my God. He’s been shot.’
46
At first he thought he was dreaming. In fact, he was sure of it because he heard his late father calling, ‘Get up! Get up, son. You’re all right. No need to make a fuss about it. There’s work to be done. Get up!’
How many times had he heard those words – almost every Saturday morning for close to fifteen years as his father religiously attended his weekend rugby games. He may have been at the base of a collapsed scrum, or on the receiving end of a high tackle or at the bottom of a twelve-man ruck, but still he could hear him calling. ‘Get up! There’s work to be done.’
And there was.
Now his dreams were merging with reality as he opened his eyes and saw her before him – not as she was then, in pigtails and braces, but as she was now, all grown up and determined in her crisp, white Massachusetts General nurse’s uniform, with her father’s dark hair and her mother’s green eyes.
‘Lisa,’ he said, looking at his little sister and feeling comfort in the squeeze of her hand.
‘Yes, it’s me, you fool,’ she said, just like her father using biting wit to disguise her concern and relief. ‘What the hell were you doing putting yourself in front of a bullet, DC? For God’s sake. Mom will have an absolute fit!’
‘I’m okay?’ he said, half question, half statement.
‘Yes you are. The bullet went through the top of your ear lobe and grazed the side of your head but there’s no major damage. You hit your forehead on the side of the car before you fell into the back seat, so you probably have concussion. The doc will want to keep you in.’
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s 10.30 but if you think you are . . .’
‘Where’s Sara?’
‘She’s right outside. Seriously, DC, you scared the hell out of her – and me for that matter.’
‘Is Arthur with her?’
‘No, he went on to see some Judge or something. To ask for some postponement or . . .’
‘I need to get outta here, sis.’
‘No way, DC.’ But he was already up and looking for his jacket, asking to see Sara and determined to get to the Federal Court Building.
‘David,’ said Sara, her pale eyes shot with red, her body physically shaking as she came through the door and ran towards him.
‘It’s okay, Sara,’ he said, holding her close, realising the blood on her clothes belonged to him.
‘David,’ from a second voice, another woman at the door.
David felt Sara give an involuntary flinch at Karin’s presence, and in that moment feared that this might all be too much for her – too much for them.
I am asking too much, he thought to himself. I am risking it all. And as if to confirm this, he turned to his sister, and saw the disdain for his first wife written all over her face.
‘I’ll get you some pain killers,’ said Lisa, turning her back on Karin. ‘But you have to promise you’ll call me in a couple of hours and let me come over tonight to change the dressing.’
‘I promise,’ he said, hugging her tightly. ‘Thanks, Lis. And I’m sorry. Tell Mom . . . Hell, do we have to tell Mom?’
‘Already have. I figured it was either me or one of the other ten thousand media outlets headlining your little adventure this morning,’ said Lisa Cavanaugh, now managing a half smile. ‘Don’t worry, DC, I played it down. Told her it was some whacked out protester aiming at the Professor. Which it was . . . right?’
‘Sure, absolutely. Thanks, Lisa,’ he said.
‘It’s okay. Just . . . ,’ she began, stealing a glance at her ex-best friend/ former sister-in-law in the doorway before putting her arm softly around Sara’s shoulders. ‘Just be careful, both of you.’
The first thing David did was to ask Sara to notify the police officers who had been stationed at the hospital following the shooting, that he was awake – and willing to give his obligatory statement. He knew they would not let him leave without some form of official account of the morning’s events, and so he told them what he remembered – which was basically nothing. Then he asked them for a favour in the form of an unmarked police car that could pick them up at the hospital’s back entrance and take them to John Joseph Moakley Courthouse at Boston’s Fan Pier. The press were everywhere, and he needed to make this ‘getaway’ cleanly, quickly, and ideally without being followed.
David called Arthur – who had managed to reschedule the Judge and the prosecution for twelve noon – and together with Sara and Karin he jumped in the government-issued sedan, stopping by Sara’s house to grab a fresh suit for her and a clean shirt for him along the way.
An hour later, they were half walking, half running around the breathtaking circular passageways of John Joseph Moakley US Courthouse. And by 12.10 they were almost at Judge Donovan’s extensive office on the northern side of the building, beyond the huge Harbour-facing-conical, rain-splattered glass façade. David recalled reading somewhere that the massive see-through wall, containing hundreds of misshapen panes, represented the different needs of the different people who entered this courthouse every single day – and he hoped today his ‘difference of opinion’ with the prosecution would go his way.
They raced down the corridor, past the striking black and white photographic series which chronicled courthouses – both old and new – from around the nation, before reaching Donovan’s conservative cherry wood door. Karin took a seat across from Donovan’s serious faced assistant, while David and Sara flew inside.
‘Well, Mr Cavanaugh,’ said Donovan as they entered, David nodding at Arthur and his client who sat straight-backed and ashen-faced next to a security guard in front of the Judge’s expansive walnut desk. David had noted the two policemen stationed outside Donovan’s door – it appeared Montgomery was now under official police protection as well.
‘I must say you take the cake,’ Donovan went on. ‘I have had all sorts of people do all sorts of things to avoid an audience before me and you have, shall we say, taken avoidance to a whole new level.’ Donovan’s sarcasm was tempered by a look of concern on the older Judge’s face. ‘Having said that, I trust you are well enough to be here and not playing hero to win you some brownie points on my behalf, because I can assure you, I do not . . .’
‘I’m fine. Thanks, Your Honour.’
‘All right then,’ nodded Donovan, before getting down to business by gesturing towards the two other men in the room. ‘I believe you know Trial Attorney Adams and FBI Assistant Director in Charge Ramirez?’
‘Charles,’ said David, before turning to Ramirez with nothing but a cold and empty stare.
‘Your Honour,’ said David, still not averting his gaze from Ramirez. ‘As you have probably heard, my tardiness this morning was due to an unscheduled detour to Mass General following an incident involving a bullet and its unfortunate collision with my head. Forgive me for getting straight to the point, but given this meeting is already running two and a half hours late, I would like to begin by stating the obvious.’ David paused there, wondering if Adams or Ramirez had the audacity to interrupt at this point – which, luckily they didn’t.
‘I have no idea of knowing if this morning’s fortunately less than accurate fire was meant for me or for my client. Either way, one thing is clear. This attack was prompted by the prosecution’s unashamed disregard of the sanctity of legal process – or more specifically, their staging of a twisted, illegal publicity stunt involving the pre-emptive release of a yet to be authenticated piece of so-called evidence to the mainstream media.’
‘Mr Cavanaugh,’ began Charles ‘Grizzly’ Adams, his normally subtle demeanour already discarded for his more true-to-form, deep-timbred stance of attack. ‘While we sympathise with you and th
e obvious distress this morning’s events have caused the defence as a whole, I might suggest that it was your determination to stage your own little “show” on the front steps of Suffolk County Jail that lead to this unfortunate incident.
‘Our release of the evidence, or more specifically the handwritten admission of guilt penned by Professor Montgomery, may not have been standard practice, but it certainly was not illegal. If you would permit me, Your Honour, I would like to explain.’
At this point Adams stood from his seat on the right hand side of Donovan’s desk and moved easily towards the centre of the room. There was no doubt about it. The man was compelling. His very presence, that domineering physique combined with an almost contradictory smoothness of style, oozed such charisma that the very thought of questioning his logic became almost sacrilegious. David was sure he was in for a well-rehearsed monologue of clever legal wizardry – and he was right.
‘For starters,’ began Adams, placing himself in the weak but noticeable ‘spotlight’ of muted midday illumination now filtering through the still thick cloud cover and into Donovan’s north facing windows, ‘I realise Mr Cavanaugh only inherited this ah . . . situation . . . four days ago, but the prosecution are yet to receive a formal request for disclosure from defence counsel. Legally we require such a request to proceed with the release of all relevant items of discovery. When this request is lodged, Mr Cavanaugh will “get the goods” so to speak. That’s just how it works.
‘Secondly, while I know Mr Cavanaugh is experienced in State criminal legislature, perhaps he is unaware that the procedural rules for discovery are dramatically different in the Federal Court. As much as Mr Cavanaugh would like it, the prosecution is not required to lay out its case for the opposition. We are required to make available all statements made by the accused while in custody, the defendant’s prior record as known or available to the government, and the results of any tests, reports or examinations that are material to the case. And we shall provide all of the above as soon as we receive the aforementioned request. I think Mr Cavanaugh will find that . . .’
