by Sydney Bauer
Now, she was in the embarrassing situation of having to call Stein back and ask for a delay. Worse still, she would have to tell Cavanaugh his client would be spending another night in jail. All potential defendants charged with a crime were entitled to a speedy arraignment, within forty-eight hours of their arrest. Whilst Tuesday morning was still within this window, it seemed ridiculous to knock back an opening for this afternoon and she had no idea how she was going to explain it.
Damn Haynes. He knew he had her in the palm of his hand. Two years ago Loretta had fallen to one small indiscretion in the form of a romantic liaison with a reasonably well-known Boston attorney. Professionally, this should not have been a problem, but the fact the attorney was defence council in a major case she was prosecuting was. Not to mention the fact he had been, and still was, married with two children.
Eventually, her Catholic conscience (and his roving eye) won out and they went their separate ways. The liaison was brief and she had been fool enough to believe it would never get out but Haynes had a way of discovering skeletons in closets, and was even better at producing them at appropriate moments.
The conversation had been short and simple. He requested the DA take another twenty-four hours before formally laying the charge of involuntary manslaughter.
‘Senator, there is no need to delay,’ she had said. ‘ADA Katz and I are ready, and as you know, this is just a formal reading of the charge. We’ll do our best to block bail but Cavanaugh has a good case. Mrs Martin has no priors.’
‘Ms Scaturro, I appreciate your efforts to secure a speedy arraignment but another twenty-four hours will not harm the prosecution in any way. On the contrary, it might rattle Mr Cavanaugh and his client and act to your benefit.’
‘How is that Senator?’ she had tried to keep the frustration out of her voice.
‘I believe I will have more information by this afternoon. You and I both know that there are instances where the police miss a detail or two and, on occasion, it can be difficult for the people of your busy office to step back and see the big picture.’
That had been it. Senator Haynes may lunch with presidents but she was the DA in this city and he had no right telling her how to run her office, dead daughter or not.
‘Look Senator, I’m afraid a delay is both unnecessary and impossible. With all due respect Sir, you have a strong emotional attachment to this case and I have every confidence in my people.’
‘How is Jim Elliot?’ he interrupted suddenly, and paused before continuing. ‘Do you see him much these days? Good man Jim. Solid Republican. Saw him and his lovely wife Cecilia at a charity dinner last weekend. They have a son the same age as Christina. Oliver, I think his name is. Yes, that’s it, Oliver.’
She could not find the words to answer.
‘Tomorrow morning it is then. Let’s make arrangements to touch base later today so we can go over a few details regarding the direction of the case. I truly appreciate your keeping me across all of this Loretta. I’ll have my assistant call you before midday.’
And with that he was gone.
David was listening to Katz on the other end of the line, but he could not believe what he was hearing. He was telling him the arraignment had been delayed. He was saying his client would be spending another night in jail.
‘You have got to be kidding.’
‘Now Counsellor, you know that kidding is a euphemism for lying and I take offence to the suggestion. Unfortunately there was no opening in the court docket today.’
‘That’s bullshit Katz. Don’t treat me like an idiot. I know the Judge would have cleared time for this case.’
David knew Judge Stein to be rigid but fair, he also knew he hated interference from the press and would go all out to move things along if it meant denying them an extra day’s speculation.
‘I’m sorry Cavanaugh, the DA’s office can do a lot of things but I am afraid we are yet to conquer creating extra time in the day.’
‘You insolent bastard.’ David had had enough. ‘I know this stalling tactic is some macabre notion on your part to further torture my client who shouldn’t even be in jail right now. No doubt it also has something to do with your little conversations with Haynes.’
He could almost see Katz freeze at the other end of the phone.
‘That’s right, you heard me. I wonder if your boss knows about that, Roger. If I get one ounce of evidence that you are collaborating with the girl’s father to secure a conviction on this one, you’ll be thrown in jail faster than I can say the word ‘conspiracy’.’
David looked up to see Arthur staring at him, the corners of his lips forming a slight smile. He glanced through his office doorway to Nora who sat straight up at her desk looking like a proud mother . . . today’s proverb revealing itself as ‘If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen’.
‘If you have finally finished your childish tirade Mr Cavanaugh,’ said Katz, a sharp surge of anger fostering his recovery, ‘I would suggest you consider that this delay may work in your favour. I think you may need all the time you can get. After tomorrow’s arraignment we’ll be going straight to the grand jury for an indictment.’
David was not surprised. In the state of Massachusetts there were two ways by which a case got scheduled for trial: via a preliminary hearing after which a judge decided whether the evidence was strong enough to go to trial, or via the grand jury which could come to the same conclusion in minutes by issuing an indictment.
It made sense that the ADA would push for an early indictment; preliminary hearings were by nature less sensational than jury trials and the Kat never missed a chance to strut his stuff on the grander stage, especially if he thought he had a strong possibility of winning.
‘This is not going to go away, Cavanaugh. You may want to tell your client that sometimes things catch up with people. You can’t live in your own little world, deciding who should stay and who should go based on your own skewed idea of Utopia. Sooner or later it catches up with you. I’ll see you in the morning, Counsellor. Good day.’
David hung up the phone, his mind racing as he deciphered Katz’s last comments. He recapped the conversation for Arthur and they both sat silently, knowing where this was leading and terrified at the implications.
Everyone had been tiptoeing around the race issue. Mannix had mentioned it briefly, but from David’s point of view, it should be irrelevant. The charge was involuntary manslaughter and the fact the girl that drowned was white should have no bearing on the case whatsoever.
From the DA’s perspective, even mentioning the word race could be disastrous. Scaturro was seen as pro-minority and any suggestion that they were crucifying Rayna because she was black could mean political suicide.
Then there was Haynes. David and Arthur had heard rumours of Haynes’ racial preferences. He certainly moved in white circles, the land of country club parties and unspoken bigotries. But there was no solid evidence of prejudice. He had African–Americans on his staff. Maybe not in his closest clique of associates, but they were there.
No, David actually felt any play of the race card would only benefit the defence. The minute the words black or white were mentioned he could argue Rayna was being persecuted because of her colour. So why would Katz even allude to the issue? It just didn’t make sense. Maybe he was just trying to push David’s buttons.
At least Sara had not heard these remarks; somehow he figured she would have been even less impressed than he was. He had said this last thought aloud and heard her voice in the doorway.
‘What didn’t I hear?’ she said, looking stunning in a navy blue suit and white shirt, her hair pulled back in a bun at the base of her neck, her face filled with ‘let’s-go-get-em’ enthusiasm.
David filled her in on Katz’s call and, as predicted, she was furious.
‘I don’t believe this. What are we going to tell Rayna and Teesha? We promised them she would be out on bail by tonight. This is insane, what the hell are they playing at?’
David told her of Katz’s last comments and he saw her brow stiffen as if a random thought had just entered her head.
‘I know Haynes must be burning to bury the black woman,’ she said. ‘But I thought Scaturro would be just as determined to underplay the race thing.’
‘Our thoughts exactly,’ said David.
Sara paused for a moment before continuing. ‘Have you guys ever heard of the one-in-six rule?’
Neither of them had.
‘It’s a term we use at AACSAM. It basically refers to companies or persons we know that have a problem with hiring minorities, usually African–Americans or Latin–Americans, but still have to play the PC game and thus try to hire at least one in six.’
‘And Haynes?’ said David.
‘Oh come on, the guy is a classic one-in-sixer. I swear if you went through his staff list it would be almost to the number.’
‘How do you know this?’
Sara hesitated as if she was unsure as to where she should start.
‘Look around you,’ she said, gesturing towards Arthur’s old Federation-style windows. ‘This is Boston, the city of neighbourhoods, of unspoken racial segregation. The Italians are in the North End, the Irish in the South, the blacks in Roxbury, the Asians in Brighton. Okay, so I am generalising a little, but you know what I am saying is true.’
‘Some would say that adds to the city’s charm,’ said David. ‘It’s cultural diversity, a mini-United Nations, people of different backgrounds living side by side.’
‘True, but that’s just it, isn’t it. They live side by side and not together.’ She took a breath and went on, trying to explain. ‘The sad thing is, the system works. Crime is low, prosperity high. People don’t like being forced into one another’s backyards. They stick to their own little patch and all is fine with the world. The debacle of compulsory school desegregation back in the seventies certainly taught us that.’
David remembered reading about the utter chaos that followed when black children were bussed to white schools and white to black, the result being rioting, violence and bloodshed.
‘This city was built by people like Haynes – the white, protestant elite whose tolerance level is less than zero. He may appear to be walking the walk, but he is what he is, and that isn’t about to change.’
The room fell silent leaving her harsh assessments to hang in the air like unwelcome visitors.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, David,’ she said quietly, moving toward him. ‘But sometimes, people like you don’t live in the real world. You’ve been brought up to believe people are basically born good and ninety-nine per cent of them stay that way.’
‘And that’s a bad thing?’
‘No, it’s great, but it’s just not true, even the good guys have their hidden prejudices. They bubble inside them for years and when something like this happens it’s like pulling the pin out of the grenade.’
David looked at Arthur, afraid of where this was taking them.
‘She’s right,’ said Arthur, removing his glasses to massage his eyes. ‘We have to understand Haynes before we move on. Even if Katz was just being precocious we must remember he’s being steered by Haynes.’
‘So what the hell are they up to?’ asked David bringing the conversation back into the now.
All three looked at one another before Arthur spoke. ‘I have no idea, and we only have twenty-four hours to work it out.’
Vince Verne still had the golf ball that started their friendship. Ridiculous as it was, this little white sphere covered in tiny smooth craters and signed by one of the world’s greats was responsible for a relationship that had given him a reason to go on living.
The Gods must have been smiling on him that day nine years, six months, two weeks and three days ago, for it was on that day he had met Senator Rudolph Haynes. For years the Senator had played golf at the exclusive Westport, Connecticut Country Club and on this particular Sunday, Haynes was playing with the Vice President of the United States, a one-on-one that had been going on for some months. So far, the Vice President was one game ahead and today, one stroke under and four strokes ahead of Haynes on the sixteenth hole.
‘I hate to say it, Rudi,’ Verne had heard the Vice President say, ‘but it looks like you’ll be buying the drinks this evening.’ This was followed by a guttural laugh that scared some nearby sparrows out of their tree.
The Senator managed a smile for the Vice President who took obvious delight in one-upping the blue-blood Senator on his hallowed home ground. ‘I think you’re right, Larry, I can feel your handicap burning a hole in my pocket. In fact, I think it’s time I pulled out my lucky ball.’
Vince knew this was no light decision for the Senator. That morning he had overheard Haynes tell Vice President Howell that the ball had been a gift from Jack Nicklaus who had used that very orb to win a US Masters. It was personally autographed ‘To the S from the B’ – ‘To the Senator from the Bear’.
‘Whatever you feel you need to do, Rudi,’ Howell had replied.
Haynes lined up the shot on the seventeenth tee. It was a par 4 with a long curving fairway. The green was invisible slightly off to his left, surrounded by a bunker on its front side and backed by a moggy sphere of swamp.
He decided on the driver. His intention was to draw the ball left and, with the help of the healthy north-westerly breeze, curve it up and onto the green. He certainly had the drive; he hit the ball with full force. So hard in fact that he overshot the green, his ball barely touching the ground before it landed with a plop in the thick, muddy swamp behind.
‘Looks like the Golden Bear let you down there buddy. Never mind, plenty more balls where that came from, right?’
Secret Service Agent Vincent Bartholomew Verne had watched the entire scene from the sidelines. He was on the Vice President’s detail, one of the youngest on the team. At twenty-five his ambition was to make it to the A-team, to guard the President, and the general feeling was, it would not take him long to get there.
Truth be told, he thought the Vice President was an ass and most of his team agreed. He had overheard some of the players’ conversation and wondered how in the hell Senator Haynes kept his cool. He felt an immediate admiration for the man who obviously had twice the decorum and three times the brains of his egotistical competitor. That is a man who deserves respect, he thought as he stood back and watched the Senator’s lucky ball fall gracefully to its murky grave. The following night the Senator had been back home and sitting down to dinner with Elizabeth and a seven-year-old Christina.
‘Do sit still, Christina,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Agnes has made some wonderful berry pudding for dessert but there won’t be any for young ladies who decide to impersonate monkeys at the dinner table.’ Christina found this hysterically funny and laughed aloud until her father called for silence.
Their housekeeper, Agnes Gilroy, entered from the hallway. ‘There’s a young man at the door for you, Senator . . . a Mr Verne. He says he has something for you.’
‘I don’t know anyone named Verne, Agnes. Tell him to leave it with you and take his number.’
‘I did that, Sir, but he says he wants to deliver this package personally.’
For God’s sake, thought Haynes, they do climb out of the woodwork. Since he became a man of the people he was convinced half the population of Massachusetts took this literally.
‘All right Agnes, I’ll see him for a minute. Show him to the library would you?’
The Senator was not lax with security but, in his many years in politics, he had never been threatened and was sure this man simply wanted some sort of favour, or maybe he was just an admirer wanting to give him a gift. There were quite a few of those about and, as sweet as the sentiment may seem, he found them a constant annoyance.
‘I’m Senator Haynes,’ he said striding into his library. ‘How can I help you?’
The young man turned and Haynes was struck by his strong presence . . . tailored suit, crisp shirt, po
lished shoes, perfect hair.
‘Senator, my name is Agent Vincent Verne. I am a Secret Service Agent for the United States government. More specifically I am on Vice President Howell’s detail. I was working yesterday, when you played golf with the Vice President.’
Where the hell was this going? Did Howell send the boy to rub salt into his wounds? He wouldn’t put it past him.
Verne took the pause as a signal to continue. He moved forward swiftly as if sliding across the parquetry floor, so fast in fact that Haynes took a small step backwards.
‘I believe this belongs to you, Sir.’
He pulled it from his right inside jacket pocket. Haynes’ lucky golf ball . . . all clean and shiny with the black ink note from Nicklaus as clear as day across the bumps of its recently polished surface.
‘Where did you . . . ?’
‘I saw where it landed, Sir.’
It was rare that the Senator found himself lost for words. He realised Verne must have been wading around in a muddy swamp just to find his treasured golf ball. He was unable to move for a second or two as he stared at the sphere held out in Verne’s long arm.
‘Why?’ was all he could think to say.
‘Because I believe this item means a lot to you, Sir, and life is all too devoid of such possessions is it not?’
Haynes took the ball and looked at the man again. ‘Would you like a drink, son?’
Verne looked at his watch. ‘Well, my next shift doesn’t start for seven hours so, yes Sir, that is most kind of you.’
‘Not at all. Scotch okay? Straight up?’
‘Yes Sir.’
And so it began.
Over the next twelve months Haynes kept an eye on Verne’s career and, whilst Verne may not have been seen at any of Haynes’ dinner parties, he was invited to the house at quiet times. Verne, who had been raised by an emotionally unstable single mother, discovered he had found a pseudo father figure in Haynes. He enjoyed his conversations with Elizabeth who mothered him when he visited, and would spoil the young Christina with little gifts and birthday trinkets from his travels around the world.
