Undertow

by Sydney Bauer

  Mannix looked at David again for reassurance of Sara’s loyalties.

  ‘All I know is, a cop can’t help it if he walks into the coffee room into pour some more black mud and overhears part of a conversation.’

  ‘What? Katz and Haynes? Do you think they . . .’

  David was cut short by the sight of Katz and Detective Petri rounding the corridor.

  ‘You better get going.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Joe.’

  ‘For what?’

  When Elizabeth Haynes was a child, she thought that all black people had the same first name – ‘The’.

  There was ‘The Chauffeur’, ‘The Gardener’, ‘The Butler’, ‘The Maid’.

  As she sat in her living room, cold and alone, she watched the television images of Rayna Martin walking towards the front doors of police headquarters and decided she was ‘The Murderer’.

  Elizabeth’s upbringing had protected her from life’s darker side. Her childhood was one of sailing boats and white ponies, tennis courts and pool parties. Then she’d been lucky enough to find Rudi, even if he wasn’t, at first glance, the obvious choice for the fifth and final daughter of Preston ‘Percy’ Whitman and his beautiful wife Christine. But Rudolph had risen to the occasion and proven himself more than worthy, despite his Yankee heritage and political affiliations.

  Elizabeth realised at that moment how much she needed Rudi right now and rose from her chair, turning off the television before heading downstairs to look for her husband in his study. He was busy. There would be so much to do. But surely he could stop for dinner, spend some time with her. After all, this was the worst time of their lives and without him she did not think she could go on.

  ‘They’ve arrested her,’ she said, standing at the door.

  ‘I know,’ he said flatly, pointing at the TV he had muted on the other side of the room.

  She looked a little bewildered as if she was wrong to feel some form of relief at the arrest.

  ‘It’s good, and it’s just the beginning, Elizabeth.’

  She smiled at this, but it was a poor effort riddled with pain and exhaustion. ‘Are you coming down for dinner, it’s after eight?’

  ‘I’ll be there in ten.’

  ‘Good.’ She managed a half smile before turning to walk slowly down the hall. ‘Good.’

  Rudolph Haynes watched his wife leave and noted that, even in grief, she was the picture of elegance. But that was to be expected, considering her upbringing, her lineage, and perhaps more importantly, the position in life she had long ago accepted as her ‘duty’.

  Elizabeth Whitman Haynes was the youngest of five girls in a family loaded with money and flush with connections. She grew up in Green Farms, Westport, the exclusive Connecticut town originally called Machamux or ‘beautiful land’ by the local Indians. The Whitman estate was a centrepiece of the local community, a large traditional white Colonial overlooking the glistening waters of Long Island Sound. Her father played golf with the Kennedys, her mother was chief fundraiser of the Connecticut Women’s Auxiliary and her sisters – Eleanor, Edith, Eunice and Evelyn – all married appropriately.

  So it was a miracle that she should find love, not amongst the Country Club set she frequented, but with him – a brash, young Bostonian with big ambitions and the brains to back them up. Not that Haynes was from the wrong side of the tracks, he was indeed very wealthy. His ancestors traced back to the First Families of Boston or Brahmins, as they came to be known.

  Young Rudolph, his mother having died in childbirth, grew up the only child of an affluent, emotionally detached single parent and was sent to the best boarding schools money could buy. He studied law at Harvard and entered politics at the tender age of eighteen, running errands for the then Republican Governor of Massachusetts. In fact, he recalled, reclining in his seat and closing his eyes, it was his work as a young campaign strategist which led to his first setting eyes on Elizabeth.

  It was 1960 and Elizabeth’s father, a diehard Democrat, was a major contributor to the Kennedy campaign – whilst an ambitious young Haynes was similarly devoted to securing the presidency for his opponent, one Richard Milhaus Nixon.

  Haynes found himself unable to suppress a smile as he allowed the memory to rush over him. He recalled jumping a plane to LA and scamming his way into Kennedy’s Democratic Nomination Acceptance address, decking himself out in JFK paraphernalia and forcing his way to the front of the Memorial Coliseum determined to get a bird’s eye view of the ‘enemy’ and ideally, in the process, come up with counter strategies to impress Nixon and the influential Republicans around him.

  True, it was hard to listen to the sandy-haired Catholic denigrate his man, but halfway through the speech his mission was all but forgotten for he found himself face to face with the most lovely thing he had ever seen – the fifth ‘E’, Elizabeth Christine Whitman.

  Rudolph could remember manoeuvring his way back to row five, behind the Whitman clan of endless blonde heads and their complementary husbands and children. He could not however remember hesitating – which is probably because he did not – before leaning forward to whisper in the youngest girl’s ear: ‘He’ll never win. The man’s an impostor, he doesn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she had replied as she turned to lock her wide blue eyes on the brazen young man behind her.

  ‘My name is Rudolph Haynes. l am a Republican, and you are the girl I am going to marry.’

  That was forty-six years ago and the rest, as they say, is history.

  They were husband and wife by the end of the following year, married on Elizabeth’s twenty-first birthday. Percy Whitman, whilst initially pained at his new son-in-law’s political persuasions, soon had his anxieties eased by Haynes’ fine manner and even finer bank account. In short, Rudolph slipped as smoothly into the Whitman fold as butter onto bread.

  That was when it had started, he knew – when his wife had seen the importance of fulfilling her destiny, moving to Boston with her dear housemaid Agnes, becoming active in the appropriate social circles, and immediately assuming the role of the perfect ‘politician’s wife’.

  He spent the next decade negotiating his way up the local Party ladder, biding his time, expanding his realm of influence, until the right opportunity came along. And it did. In 1978, the soon-to-retire Massachusetts Senator Rufus Fonte went looking for a successor young enough to energise the Grand Old Party with vigour and old enough to comfort them with experience. The choice was obvious.

  Rudolph was elected at the age of thirty-nine and had held his seat ever since. A remarkable achievement in a State dominated by the powerful post-Kennedy Irish-American contingent, a State where, despite its conservative roots, Democrats drove local politics and working class rhetoric ruled.

  Now he realised how important his wife had been. All those years working at his side, hosting dinner parties, attending rallies, chairing charity committees and following his stride on the gruelling campaign trail without a word of complaint. She had been – she was still – the perfect political companion and he knew he owed a good proportion of his success to her.

  And so as he sat in his darkened personal sanctuary, late for dinner and frustrated at the thought, he realised this latest turn of events had the potential to unsettle her. And if he was to protect everything they had accomplished, he had to make sure her sensibilities were supported. Which made this all the more important.

  Christina may have been his prized prodigy but she was also her mother’s miracle. They had all but given up hope of having a child when Elizabeth fell pregnant at forty-eight. Losing her daughter would leave a massive hole in his wife’s life – no more trips to ballet class, no more tennis club fundraisers, no more school committees or summer fetes. He would have to make sure this void was filled with various small tasks and commitments. He had so much to consider and did not need the added worry of his wife’s lack of purpose.

  The bottom line was, elections were looming and he needed
her by his side – at least in show. This thought led his eyes back to the evening news and he pressed the mute button again. He watched as they flashed up a school photo of his daughter and showed old images of the three of them standing on the steps of City Hall. He saw the vision of Rayna being herded into Headquarters, with Roger Katz lording over the proceedings just as he knew he would.

  Perhaps more interesting was the break-out story which saw a female reporter interviewing Francie Washington and her parents. Mr and Mrs Washington took the righteous role as they held tight to their daughter who seemed more interested in fixing her hair and smiling at the camera. The Washingtons expressed their deepest sympathies, spoke of their admiration for Senator Haynes and said this tragedy would affect them for the rest of their lives.

  The Senator could sense that the girl and her parents liked a little attention and this could definitely work in his favour.

  It was a quarter past eight and Elizabeth was expecting him in the dining room. Just one more call, he thought as he closed Rayna’s file and tapped in Verne’s latest cell phone number.

  Funny, he thought as the line connected. Two days ago he was furious at Christina for associating with the likes of Miss Francine Washington. Now, she could be just what he was looking for.

  Rayna Martin had made a discovery. If you sat completely still, reduced your breathing to a slow, steady rhythm, shut your eyes and tried to relax your body as much as possible, there was only one sound you could hear. It was the beating of your heart.

  Then, if you allowed the panic to creep slowly into your brain so that it spread like poison through every vessel in your body, the sound of your heart would grow louder until you could feel it pounding furiously in your chest like a wild animal trying to escape. It was an illusion of course, but a terrifyingly realistic one at that.

  Rayna desperately wanted to remain calm but the past thirty-six hours had been so frightening that she was not sure she could maintain any semblance of composure. She knew why David had given her this list of questions to consider overnight. It was to keep her mind active, to prevent her from dwelling on the horror of her circumstance. But the questions were actually making things worse.

  Did you call each of the girls’ parents to invite their daughter to Teesha’s birthday? She had spoken to Mariah’s mom, Elise Jordan – they were friends – but Teesha had invited Francie and Christina herself.

  Did you inform the girls’ parents where you would be taking the girls, that is the exact location of your sailing destination? She had told Elise of her plans but once again Teesha had spoken directly to the other two girls.

  Did you ring the Meteorological Society to check weather conditions the morning of your departure? That was a ‘yes’. This had been part of her coastal safety routine.

  And did you speak with the harbourmaster regarding tides, rips and any other coastal conditions that may have some or any effect on your journey that day? Well, no. She had called the coastguard’s recorded message line but had not spoken to anyone directly.

  She could see what was happening – and it only got worse.

  Did at least three other people know of your destination that day? Well, Delia had known – she was planning to come until her plumber accidentally burst a pipe in her bathroom. She had told George Livingston, the owner of Livingston Charters when she had picked up the cruiser, and Elise Jordan would have had a vague idea where they were headed but . . .

  Did you check the girl’s bags for drugs or alcohol? No.

  Did you lecture them on the importance of life jackets? No, but she had assumed they . . .

  Did you ask either their parents or themselves about their swimming ability? No, but they had all done swimming at school so . . .

  Did you tell the girls not to leave your field of vision? Yes, I mean, no. Not all of them. She had told Teesha.

  When they left your field of vision, did you pull anchor immediately? Well no, not immediately but . . .

  And so on it went, question after question – no, no, not really, not exactly, no, no, no.

  Rayna was a good attorney. She didn’t specialise in criminal law but she knew the signs of a potentially strong case for the prosecution when she saw one. These questions were tough, and they came from her lawyers, so she could just imagine what the State would be dealing up.

  ‘What have I done?’ she said aloud. ‘Teesha, I am so sorry.’

  Her mind raced ahead to the arraignment, the indictment, the trial, the guilty verdict, the sentencing, the years in prison. She had to concentrate on holding the meagre contents of her stomach. She had to steady herself for fear she would pass out.

  And then she did the only thing she could do. She got down and knelt by her small, hard bunk and prayed like she had never prayed before as the tears flowed steadily down her cheeks and her angry heart banged like a deadly drum inside her.

  He had chosen Ristorante Fiore, a small but popular Italian restaurant not far from Sara’s house in the North End. It was noisy in a comforting way, allowing them to either sit in silence without feeling awkward, or talk without being overheard.

  David and Sara had left Rayna after a long evening of reasoning, planning, consoling. There was little they could do for her tonight and they promised she would be out on bail within twenty-four hours. They decided to have dinner and talk about tomorrow’s arraignment. But neither had the energy to do much strategising and they both seemed to need an excuse to relax.

  ‘My brain is fried,’ Sara said just as the waiter came to take their order.

  ‘Mine too. Some wine?’ David asked, taking the wine list.

  ‘To be honest, what I really need is a cold beer,’ she said.

  ‘Make that two,’ he said to the waiter before turning back to Sara. ‘And if Arthur were here he’d be congratulating you on your fine taste in refreshments.’

  The waiter left them to consider their menus and they both sat back, breathing in the comforting aromas coming from the restaurant kitchen. After a few minutes silence, David looked up at Sara and smiled.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Tell me the David Cavanaugh story.’

  ‘Is it a cliché to say “not much to tell”?’

  ‘Yes, and I know that’s not true. You have a good reputation in this city Mr Cavanaugh and I would imagine there’s an interesting story behind it somewhere?’

  ‘Okay. Well, for starters, I’m from Jersey – Newark to be exact. Everyone at home calls me DC, and by everyone I mean my mom, my brother and his family, my sister, my old school friends.’

  David explained how he was brought up in an Irish Catholic household, the second of three kids. His father, Sean Snr was a hard worker who spent his life on the docks of Newark, bringing home with him the smell of salt and the trace of an after work pint.

  His father’s complement was Patty Cavanaugh nee O’Reilly, a green-eyed, strawberry blonde who seemed born to her chosen profession of teaching. Together they were like two pieces of jigsaw, nothing alike when they stood alone but making a perfect whole when placed together.

  ‘When I look back now I realise how hard it was for my dad. All those long hours, the physical work, the financial strain. Every night at around seven, we’d listen for his heavy boots in the hall and race downstairs to hear Mom ask him about his day. He’d always say the same thing which was something like ‘better than most and not as good as others’. And then Mom would smile and kick our butts for climbing all over our dad.’ David stopped, the memories rushing back.

  ‘Sounds like you got lucky.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, now refocusing on Sara. ‘I guess I did.

  ‘Ah, what else . . .’ he said, taking a breath before moving on. He usually felt awkward sharing so much about himself. He may have had his mother’s sandy coloured hair and pale green eyes, along with her unshakable idealism, but he also had his father’s ‘edge’, a toughness reinforced by a protective need to hold what was dear to him close to his chest.

  ‘I’m thir
ty-five, a lawyer, eater, sleeper, watcher of ESPN, sometime runner, rugby player, Celtics fan . . .’

  ‘Rugby, you mean that insane game where everyone seems set on stomping each other to death?’

  ‘The same,’ he said.

  ‘And the Celtics?’

  ‘An Irish team in the Scottish Premier League.’

  ‘And you play?’

  ‘Nothing like the Celtics,’ he smiled. ‘I played a fair bit in college and a bunch of us still get together for a semi-regular Saturday morning game.’

  ‘Thus the lip.’

  ‘Thus the lip,’ he smiled again.

  ‘Okay, so what else?’ Sara went on, her blue eyes reflecting the muted glow of the candlelight. ‘Tell me more about your brother and sister.’

  ‘Well, I have an older brother Sean Jnr who took over my dad’s shipping business when he passed away five years ago, and a younger sister Lisa who is a nurse at Massachusetts General.’

  ‘Did she follow you to Boston?’

  ‘I guess in a way. We’re pretty close. Sean and his wife have three kids of their own but Lisa and I are sort of like a pair of strays. We hang out together in between long days in court and odd shifts at the hospital.’

  ‘So why Boston?’ she asked, the expression on her face one of genuine interest. ‘Why not New York?’

  ‘That’s easy. Boston has always been like a second home to us.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘My mom grew up here, in South Boston. Her father, my grandfather, lived in the same two-storey bungalow his entire life. Mom kept the house after Pop passed away and now Lisa lives there.’

  ‘But not you.’

  ‘No, I have an apartment downtown, close to the office. Hell, sometimes I feel as if I may as well move into the office. Like I said, it’s a pretty boring story.’

  ‘So no wife, no kids, no pets even?’

  Their conversation had been flowing at such an easy pace that the question did not come so much as a surprise – more as a natural progression. But David had not been asked such a question in a long time and Sara must have read the expression of hesitancy on his face. He looked at her then, sensing her concern that she had gone too far. And in that moment he felt a strange need to put her at ease. To let her know that – despite the tug of discomfort – he still wanted to answer her question.