Gospel

by Sydney Bauer

  But David had heard enough. The man was trying to bamboozle him with his blue chip knowledge of Federal Law, but two could play at that game.

  ‘Thanks for the lesson in Federal Law 101, Charles. I appreciate your trying to teach us state-based hicks a thing or two, but I believe you are quoting from Rule 16 of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure, and if so, you are forgetting one very important point. Under US Federal Law the prosecution are also obliged to make available any documents and tangible objects that are material to either the prosecution case or the defendant’s – and, forgive me if I am wrong, but I believe this letter falls into this category – unless you guys don’t want to use it in court and just released it for a lark?’

  David was right and a quick glance in Judge Donovan’s direction told him the cantankerous Irishman was not pleased. Adams had been caught trying to edit Federal jurisprudence to his advantage, and in Donovan’s book that was one big mistake, stellar record or not.

  ‘He’s right, Mr Adams,’ said Donovan. ‘You may be Mr High and Mighty back in DC, but here in Massachusetts you cannot cherry pick legal procedure at will. I’m listening, Mr Cavanaugh,’ he said, turning to David. ‘Go ahead and make your point.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ David went on. ‘Given the nature of this so-called evidence and the way it was released to the public, I would like to request this letter be ruled inadmissible.’

  Donovan said nothing, just sat back in his shiny olive green leather chair taking in the people before him, the weight of the decision obvious on his shoulders. On one hand David knew the Judge would be furious at the way the evidence had been made public prior to court disclosure; on the other, he also knew the Judge would be weighing up the fact that denying admission of the letter could ultimately result in the prosecution finding grounds for a mistrial – or worse still, accusing the Judge of being pro-defence. But more importantly, in the end, David guessed Judge Donovan would be thinking about the law – realising that his opinion was actually of no consequence. David hoped he was wrong, but if he wasn’t, the next words that would most likely come out of Judge Donovan’s mouth would be . . .

  ‘Request denied. I am sorry, Mr Cavanaugh, as much as I agree with you that the prosecution has been highly negligent in their treatment of this discovery, the evidence was not withheld from your possession, simply released to a more widespread audience prior to your knowledge. While I may personally find these antics,’ said Donovan glaring at Adams, ‘beyond reproach, it is not enough to rule the letter inadmissible. I do forewarn the prosecution however, that any further displays of such media manipulation shall be met with sharp disapproval on my part.’

  At that point Donovan stood, his own physical presence now dominating the room. Unlike many Judges David knew, this man didn’t need a black robe to assert his authority. It was enough for him just to look at you from across his court appointed desk – it was in his eyes and the determination of his voice.

  ‘I know you’re not in Washington, Mr Adams, and that my Boston-based ass may not be planted on the hallowed benches of the country’s capital, but Federal Court is Federal Court and as anyone will tell you, pissing off Judge Donovan is not a very clever thing to do. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Judge.’

  ‘All right then. If there is nothing else I would suggest the defence lodge their precious formal request and the prosecution get busy with providing Mr Cavanaugh and his team with the relevant items of discovery. Mr Cavanaugh, might I also suggest you cooperate with the local police in regards to locating the source of that wayward bullet which so rudely upset my morning’s agenda.’

  ‘I gave them a statement just prior to leaving the hospital, Your Honour,’ said David, the very mention of the shooting sending a fresh sensation of sharp pain across his forehead.

  ‘Good. And . . .’ Donovan paused here, relaxing his shoulders and looking David square in the eye, ‘look after yourself, for God’s sake. The last thing your client needs, the last thing I need, is another change of defence counsel. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said David, who despite the words of encouragement, felt totally defeated.

  ‘Right. Then, get out, the lot of you.’

  And so they filed out of Judge Donovan’s office; the wet mottled glass panes before them all distorted and full of promise, exposing the blur of the Harbour, its silver expanse so substantial and endless.

  And then David felt him – a smothering presence from behind, his cool breath like that of a predator hovering, gloating above his wounded prey before moving in for the kill.

  ‘You got something to say, Ramirez?’ said David, pivoting quickly to face the tall, dark agent, eye to eye, toe to toe. ‘Is this how it works? You do Grizzly’s dirty work and follow up with some “B” grade performance of physical intimidation?’

  ‘Not at all, Counsellor,’ said Ramirez with a smirk. ‘I was just going to enquire as to the status of your injury, and if the FBI could do anything to help.’

  ‘You like to pray, Ramirez?’

  There, he said it.

  It was not enough to expose what he knew, but enough to set some doubt in Ramirez’s Machiavellian mind. By this stage Charles Adams had turned to notice the tension between the two, and moved closer to hear the nature of the confrontation.

  ‘I said . . .’ David went on, half knowing what he was about to say was a dangerous mistake but unable to stop himself. ‘Do you pray? Do you believe in God? Do you read the Bible, have faith in a higher being?’

  The FBI Agent said nothing, just stood his ground, but there was something in his face, some essence of understanding.

  ‘Yes, I pray,’ said Ramirez who, obviously realising he now had an audience, seemed to be choosing his words carefully, adding to the drama by shaking a concerned Charles Adams’ hand from his arm and moving a fraction closer to David to say, ‘I pray every night. I pray that the man who killed Tom Bradshaw gets what he deserves. I pray that he is damned to hell, and I thank God for blessing me with the honour of helping him on his way.’

  ‘Funny,’ said David, now turning his back on the smug FBI agent. ‘That’s exactly what I pray for too.’

  47

  Later that evening, David sat on his comfortable sofa, propped up with pillows and wincing at the antiseptic Lisa was now re-applying to his forehead. Despite his claims to the contrary, his head really was aching, but he wasn’t sure if it was the injury or the events of the day – or the fear that the bullet that came within inches of taking his life, was not from the gun of a fanatical protester firing a poorly aimed pot shot at his client, but that of a more skilled assassin who had almost made his mark.

  ‘That was Nora,’ said Sara, hanging up the phone and moving towards them from the kitchen with three cups of milky coffee. ‘She said Joe heard the news and has been calling from pay phones all day. He’s on his way back, says he needs to see you ASAP. He told Nora he’ll have to check in at work first thing but should be able to get away around lunch time.’

  Pay phones, thought David. Joe wasn’t using his cell. He must be worried about his calls being traced back to Washington, which probably means he is also worried about their safety – and the possibility that Ramirez might . . .

  ‘I called King earlier,’ Sara went on. ‘He must still be with Joe. He called in sick to work today so . . .’

  ‘You what?’ said David a little too loudly.

  ‘I called Leo King, to see if he was in. I thought that if he was back, he could tell us what happened with Ryan and . . .’

  ‘Sara, Simba is sharing an office with Ramirez. What’s Ramirez gonna think if he finds out the defence is calling FBI Special Agent Leo King whose job it is to see our client is injected with enough poison to kill an elephant. Please tell me you didn’t leave a message.’

  ‘I . . .’ said Sara, the corners of her eyes now starting to sting with tears. ‘David, I was just trying to help. You were hurt. In hindsight I can see it wa
sn’t the smartest thing to do.’ She took a breath then, and swallowed the silent sob that sat visibly lodged in her throat. ‘But I was just trying to keep on top of things. You can’t do everything on your own, David. You asked me to take this on, despite how hard . . .’ She took another breath, as if trying to calm herself down. ‘The answer to your question is, no, I did not leave a message.’

  David tried to feel empathy, but all he felt was pain, and frustration and worry that Sara might have unwittingly tipped off Ramirez to Leo’s involvement with the defence – putting King, and Sara, at even greater risk from . . .

  ‘Did you call from your cell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If Ramirez gets suspicious about Simba, he can trace it.’ David knew he should stop, but his concern for her safety overrode his sense of discernment and he found himself unable to control the anxiety that was growing to a new level of terror inside of him.

  ‘Hey,’ interrupted Lisa. ‘What the hell is going on here? Who is this Ramirez? Has this got something to do with the gunshot this morning?’

  ‘Sara,’ said David, brushing his sister’s hand from his face and standing to confront his girlfriend. ‘I’m sorry, but you have to realise this is no game. This is no Hector Gabbit charged with wheeling his Bridge Club President down the stairs. Not thinking puts us all at risk. These are evil, powerful people who will stop at nothing to . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she yelled, the tears now flowing freely. ‘It was a mistake, a stupid mistake. You know I couldn’t live with myself if I put anyone in danger of . . .’ And then she fell forward into his arms, the trauma of the day’s events now releasing themselves in series of long, violent sobs.

  Lisa said nothing, just left the room to give them some space, obviously terrified of what she did and didn’t hear. Ten minutes later she must have heard the front door close because she returned to the living room. ‘Where’s Sara?’

  ‘She went home. Said something about being tired and not wanting to worry Cindy – and her cream skirt was soaking and . . .’

  ‘David, I have no idea why you . . .’ she said, but she was interrupted by the phone and so returned to the sofa, listening to a one-way conversation.

  ‘Karin . . . Karin, you have to calm down. You’re safe there. The Hotel has put on extra security. The police have cars on patrol. You . . .’

  ‘It was probably just a car backfiring. There is no way anyone could . . .’

  ‘The press can’t get beyond the lobby. You’ve already changed suites twice. They don’t even know which room you . . .’

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You are probably a hell of a lot safer over there than you would be here with . . .’

  ‘Maybe so . . . but I still don’t think we should . . .’

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll call the concierge and arrange for a cab to pick you up in the hotel basement. Make sure you duck down when the taxi rounds the front of the Hotel. We don’t want them following you.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll go down to the garage and buzz you in.’

  ‘About twenty minutes. Okay. See you then.’

  And then he said nothing, feeling the sickly sting of betrayal flush over him. He had just fought with Sara, and now Karin was on her way over here and . . . He looked at his sister, knowing she knew nothing and everything about him and Karin and Sara and the danger they were all in, all at the same time.

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot, DC,’ she said. And there it was, his father’s tactless honesty, his sister’s cutting candour.

  ‘I swear to God, you allow that woman back into your life, you let her screw you up again and I will not be around to pick up the pieces. I did that once before and saw how it almost killed you.’

  She got up from the couch then, grabbing her purse.

  ‘That woman is dangerous. You pined after her for so many years, and now look at what her re-entry into your life has done to you – has done to Sara.’ She walked to the door still holding the bottle of peroxide in her left hand. ‘I’m warning you bro, you break Sara’s heart and I’ll never speak to you again. Do you hear me? She is the best thing that ever happened to you and you are too bloody stupid to see it. Don’t stuff this up, DC,’ she said, throwing the peroxide at his head. ‘I’m begging you . . . for my sake, for Sara’s, and most of all, for your own. Don’t fucking stuff this up.’

  Twenty-five minutes later, just as Karin Montgomery was being met by David in the basement of his Downtown high rise, Sara was wringing the water from her ‘dry clean only’ skirt for the umpteenth time, exhausted by the determined tinge of pink that refused to leave the flow.

  ‘Damn it,’ she said to herself before flinging the skirt across the room towards the rubbish bin in the corner.

  ‘You okay down there?’ called her housemate and best friend Cindy Alverez from the upstairs bathroom.

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ said Sara, embarrassed by her pathetic show of frustration. ‘I was just about to take out the rubbish and I bumped into the side table.’

  ‘Might help if you turn the light on down there, silly,’ said Cindy, her head now peeking over the upper balustrade. ‘Anyway, you’ve had a big day. Go to bed, honey, leave it for me. I’ll take it out after my shower.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Sara, managing a smile. ‘It’ll only take a sec, and then I’m off to bed. Promise.’

  ‘Okay. And Sara, I’m so glad David’s okay, you know?’ smiled Cindy, trying to contain the long, loose frizz of brown curls that fell in front of her pretty, tanned face. ‘I know how hard today must have been for you and, well, I’m here if you need me.’

  ‘I know,’ said Sara, trying to control the tears that were welling at the base of her eyes. Part of her wanted to tell Cindy everything – about her fears and failures, about Karin and David and her total confusion as to where she stood in this whole God-damned mess. But in the end she swallowed the ever-present lump in her throat and looked up at her friend, praying the dim light would hide the lie she was about to tell. ‘I’m fine, really. But just having you offer is . . .’

  ‘Sure, any time. I got your back, girl, you know that, right?’

  ‘Yeah, I know – and thanks,’ said Sara, now coughing to stifle the rising sob that threatened to betray her, and lifting her hand in a shooing motion to say: ‘Now go shower. It’s late.’

  Cindy smiled again before disappearing beyond the railing, and Sara stood there, quiet, still, waiting for the familiar squeak of the vintage bathroom faucets followed by the calming white noise of the shower head releasing hundreds of tiny streams of warm, clean water.

  And in that moment, she found herself surrendering, losing all the strength in her legs, holding on to the stainless steel soaking tub as she allowed herself to drop onto the cold laundry floor and give in to the torrent of emotion she had been harbouring all day. Her tears flowed freely now, accompanied by long deep sobs as she tried to distinguish exactly which one of today’s disasters she was actually crying for.

  There just seemed so much to take in – like what did happen and worse, what almost happened to David today – if that bullet was meant for Montgomery or more terrifyingly aimed at him. Then there was the hopelessness of their case, the new evidence – a major setback to the defence. She knew David was yet to ask Montgomery if he penned that letter – most likely because he was afraid the answer would be ‘yes’. But most of all, she knew, her tears were for herself – for her stupidity in calling Agent King, for David’s curt reaction, for their argument in front of an already worried Lisa, and for the fear that Karin Montgomery would steal him from her before she even had a chance to prove just how deeply she loved him.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said to herself, now closing her eyes to see the image of Karin before her – her long chestnut brown hair, her flawless olive skin, her dark almond eyes that lit up every time David walked into the room. She still loved him, Sara was sure of it, and worse still, she could not help but think that part of him – perhaps a lot of him – actua
lly enjoyed the fact that he was coming to her rescue. After all those years of rejection, now she needed him.

  But this was getting her nowhere.

  ‘Enough,’ she said aloud before wiping her eyes and getting to her feet, accidentally knocking her cream suit jacket from the hanger which was hooked over the laundry room door.

  She bent to pick it up, amazed it was barely touched by the seemingly endless flow of blood from David’s forehead – just a spot here and there. Perhaps I could have it dry cleaned, she thought, trying to concentrate on something, anything that would banish the demons from her brain. And wear it separately, with my beige pants or my tweed skirt or . . . And then she saw it, protruding from the right hand side pocket, a small, white, folded slip of paper.

  ‘What the . . . ?’ she said aloud. She could not remember putting this in her pocket. Someone else must have, during the chaos at the County Jail.

  She pulled out the note and unfolded it slowly, to see the seven words she had hoped with all her heart she would never have to see or hear for the rest of her life.

  ‘Your boyfriend is sleeping with his ex,’ she read it to herself, the sting of the words targeting the depths of her greatest fears.

  ‘Your boyfriend is sleeping with his ex,’ this time aloud, running her fingers over the fine indentations the old-fashioned typewriter had made on the cheap white notepaper.

  She felt an icy chill rush over her – at the same time sensing her body was breaking out in an uncontrollable sweat as her breathing became constricted and her heart pounded deep inside her.

  ‘It’s a lie,’ she made herself say, before crushing the note in her hand and moving quickly towards the rubbish bin. She buried it deep beneath her wet skirt, watching the cherry coloured stain bleed onto the crumbled piece of paper. And then she grabbed the plastic tags at the top of the bag and tugged them tight, forcing the sack shut, before wrenching it from their kitchen tidy and running outside to throw it into the dumpster.