Undertow

by Sydney Bauer

  The press, who had been asked to remain behind temporary barricades positioned around the periphery of the Square, began clicking and filming from the footpaths. This was a society funeral after all.

  David looked up to see the Senator and his wife emerge, and it became a case of who could get to them first. Elizabeth was soon surrounded by a large group of well-dressed women – social clones of herself, who held her hands and fussed quietly about her like a group of well-mannered worker bees. The Senator received a procession of mourners, mostly fellow politicians and businessmen, giving quiet nods and strong handshakes.

  David noticed a young girl in school uniform handing Elizabeth a small bunch of white tiger lilies whilst her mother literally curtseyed in the background.

  And then David saw him.

  Edward Washington was moving fast through the crowd towards the Senator. He walked with his back straight as if he belonged in this herd of white men, his wife taking quick excited steps behind him and Francine, unsure of herself, bringing up the rear.

  Arthur moved alongside David.

  ‘You see them?’ asked David.

  ‘Sure do,’ replied his boss. ‘I think he’s moving in.’

  ‘Just as we suspected.’

  ‘Now, the only question is, how friendly he thinks he can get.’

  David found Sara in the crowd and was pleased to see her eyes were also following the Washingtons.

  Now, all three could see Edward Washington and his family elbow governors and senators and corporate chiefs out of their way so that they could get to their best friend Rudi.

  Haynes saw them too and the look on his face was pure horror. At first, he turned his back, hoping they would move on, but when the annoying Edward Washington poked him on the shoulder, he had no choice but to turn and give his best impression of an appreciative smile. Luckily, Sara had moved close enough to hear the conversation.

  ‘Senator,’ began Washington in a rather loud, deep timbred voice, ‘as I have said before, we are so sorry for your loss. Please do not hesitate to ask if there is anything else we can do.’

  So there it was . . . ‘as he had said before’. . . ‘anything else’ they could do.

  ‘Ah, thank you, Mr . . .’

  ‘Washington, from the other morning. Surely you . . .’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Washington.’

  Sara processed the enormity of the words just spoken whilst noticing Haynes desperately trying to cut the handshake short. She was not surprised when he started to look around as if trying to determine who might have been close enough to overhear their conversation, and took grim satisfaction at the look of shock on his face when he turned in her direction and they locked eyes.

  Teesha was watching Cassandra Cummings and getting angrier by the minute. No way was Cassie Cummings Christina’s best friend. In fact, one of the last things Chrissie had said to her was that Cassie was a stuck up bitch who only sucked up to her because her dad was famous.

  Christina had told the girls how Cassie’s mom would ring her mom and invite Christina over. Christina’s mom thought it was a great idea and Chrissie thought it sucked.

  Teesha suspected Chrissie had fought with her parents about her choice of friends the very morning she died – turning up to the party unannounced, the distinct tinge of red in her moist blue eyes. She had no doubt this argument would have been about Teesha, Mariah and Francie. Chrissie may not have said this outright, she wouldn’t have wanted to hurt their feelings, but the girls knew where they stood.

  Teesha’s mind was made up. If Cassie could stand there holding Chrissie’s mom’s hand, then Teesha had every right to tell Mrs Haynes how much she was missing Christina too. Surely she would understand. They could break down the silly black and white thing to share in their grief, a sort of solidarity in pain that would hopefully bring some comfort to both.

  Teesha looked around for Sara. She knew she would stop her. But she was over near Chrissie’s Dad. Delia was at least four bodies behind her and Mariah and her family had left straight after the service.

  That’s when Cassie stepped back and Teesha met Elizabeth Haynes face to face.

  ‘Mrs Haynes, my name is . . .’

  ‘I know who you are,’ said Elizabeth, her soft features turning to stone.

  ‘I just wanted you to know . . .’

  Elizabeth lowered her voice. ‘How dare you show your face here.’

  Teesha took a small step backwards, unsure of what to say, and then she thought of Chrissie and took a deep breath before stepping forward again and extending her hand in an attempt at conciliation. But Elizabeth reacted quickly, slapping Teesha’s wrist and forcing her arm downwards.

  Teesha instinctively pulled back, but her hand was stuck, caught on something. Her silver charm bracelet was entwined in threads on Elizabeth’s black skirt and an embarrassed Teesha yanked hard to release it, wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible.

  Teesha soon realised Elizabeth had no room to move, and covered her face as her best friend’s mother twisted around making rapid shooing gestures. Elizabeth’s skirt swung about her waist, the twisting doing nothing to loosen Teesha’s grip.

  ‘Please, Mrs Haynes. I only wanted to . . .’ said Teesha, now starting to panic. There seemed to be no escape. Elizabeth’s flailing arms had triggered a chain reaction as half the women around her, unsure of what was going on, started to flee, while the others, thinking Teesha was trying to attack their friend, joined the fray and tried to pull the two apart.

  The press on the pavement had picked up on the fracas and clicked away with enthusiasm. They were not completely sure what had caused the commotion, but knew that whatever it was, it was front-page fodder.

  David saw Haynes look directly at Sara and instinctively moved in. In that split second he noticed Haynes’ head turn from Sara towards the road. David followed his line of vision and saw a dark-haired man dressed in a suit springing out of a parked car directly across the street from the main gate. David took note of the fact that Haynes shook his head quickly as if telling him to stay where he was before turning back to Sara. He mouthed something to her, which David could see made Sara freeze. But by the time he got to her, Katz had entered the picture, his arm moving around her waist pulling her backwards.

  David reached for Katz, grabbing him by the right shoulder, pivoting him around. ‘Get away from her, Roger.’

  ‘My God, you’re all here,’ said Katz. ‘I don’t believe it. This is the girl’s funeral for God’s sake. Leave these people alone, Mr Cavanaugh or I’ll have you arrested for harassment.’

  David could tell that Katz realised the surrounding press would hear every word and was playing this one for effect.

  It was about now that Elizabeth’s arms took full flight and her friends started a tug-o-war with Teesha and a new commotion behind David caused him to turn around. It was the secret service – and they were moving in.

  There was a fresh circle of chaos in the middle of the crowd where the Haynes and, co-incidentally, the US Chief of Staff were standing. David knew the secret service were trained to act immediately with any indication their charge was in danger, and they certainly wasted no time. Four men in black suits with dark glasses, buzz cuts and ear pieces burrowed through the crowd at record speed with complete disregard for everyone except the woman they were here to protect.

  David saw them grab Chief of Staff Maxine Bryant under each arm and run her to a nearby government limo, all the time yelling at police to clear the access to the road so they could get out of there . . . now!

  The police, not to be outdone, followed their lead. David was pushed aside by four zealous uniforms as Haynes and his wife, now free from Teesha and holding her skirt tightly at her waist, were shuffled quickly into their town car. He stumbled as the officers forced the congregation further back into the park and the government car carrying the Chief of Staff screeched down the pavement, onto St James Avenue and out of sight.

  Next came t
he screech of a new set of tyres as the driver of the hearse, obviously deciding to follow the government cars’ lead, swerved in an attempt to make as hasty an exit as possible. David saw Elizabeth Haynes grasp her husband’s arm as their driver started their car and immediately accelerated after the hearse, across the Square and down the sidewalk with no regard for the customary decorum.

  The two funeral cars, now desperate to avoid one slow, elderly parishioner standing stock still in the middle of the roadway, veered up onto the grass, their wheels ploughing deep burrows into the perfectly manicured lawn and crushing a sea of wreaths that had been laid row upon row at the top of the Square in front of the Church’s main entrance.

  The next thing David registered was the sound of falling barricades as the press joined in the general disregard for order and attempted to follow the frenzy. Flashes went off everywhere, reporters stood yelling frantically into live cameras while police tried desperately to push them aside so that the funeral cars could enter the street.

  ‘Look what you’ve done,’ a voice said from behind and David turned to see Katz with a smirk on his face.

  David did not hesitate, just pulled back his right arm aiming directly at the ADA’s perfectly proportioned nose. But just as he was about to connect, Mannix grabbed his shoulder and yanked his arm back in a classic police hold. Before he knew it he was being dragged to the pavement and forced into an unmarked police car.

  ‘Get him out of here,’ he heard Mannix say to the young officer. ‘Drop him at his car and escort him back to his office.’

  Then Mannix slammed the door and banged on the roof twice with his right hand leaving David, still fuming, to turn back in his seat and see what looked like the process of a war zone evacuation.

  It was one almighty mess and, worse still, he knew it had handed Roger Katz his blessed motive of ‘hate’ on a platter. He also knew it was an incident that would have serious repercussions, fired as it was by Haynes’ rage and aimed unequivocally at destroying their case and putting their client away, for good.

  8

  ‘I swear, Tyrone,’ said Delia Banks down the line to her ex-husband in Washington. ‘It was pure bedlam. I’ve never seen such chaos – a whole lotta so-called civilised white people fussing about like loons in a lockup. They all blame Rayna, Tyrone,’ she said and he knew she was starting to cry. ‘They think my baby sister is a God-damned murderer and if she would’ve been there, I swear, they would have held a good old fashioned lynching.’

  Tyrone felt the familiar sensation of guilt wash over him. He should have stayed in Boston for the funeral, but his job as a senior research analyst for the Democratic Party was a demanding one, and he was already feeling the pressure of a backlog after taking two days’ personal leave to be by his ex-wife’s side.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Delia,’ he said, the apology so habitual that its genuineness was lost in its familiarity. ‘I should have taken the extra day.’

  ‘Of course you should have, Tyrone. But a leopard never changes his spots and we all know those precious politicians in DC cannot cope a minute without you.’

  And so it began, the sarcasm, the hurt, the familiar routine of one upmanship that had ended their marriage. In all fairness to Delia, she had made it clear from the outset that she would never move to Washington, and in the early days Tyrone coped with the regular commutes. But the promotions got bigger, the trips got longer and before long Delia was giving him the ultimatum – Boston or Washington – me or them.

  In the end Tyrone took the easy way out, burying himself in polls and statistics and the loneliness that was Capitol Hill. Professionally it was the best decision he ever made, as he worked his way up within the Party, earning some serious clout and the dollars to go with it. Personally it was a disaster, for he had lost the only woman he could ever love and rarely saw the niece who he thought of as a daughter.

  ‘I’m owed plenty of vacation time,’ he said now, hoping to make amends. ‘I’ll finish up on my current projects, and then I’ll come home for a while.’ Home, he noticed himself say, after all these years he still thought of Delia’s home as his own.

  ‘Since when have you been thinking about anyone but yourself, Mr Banks?’ his ex-wife asked, but he could hear the relief in her voice and took comfort in the knowledge that despite the proud façade, she still needed him – at least just a little bit.

  ‘I guess Teesha could use the support,’ she said, determined not to show any sign of frailty. ‘So, if you want to come, I suppose I could do up the spare room.’

  ‘I do. And thanks, Delia.’

  He hung up the phone, turned on the TV and sat back in his lonely apartment to watch the chaos of the funeral on the evening news. He felt completely helpless. There must be something he could do.

  Being there for Delia, Teesha and Rayna was one thing, but he had to be able to contribute something more. He may not be a hotshot lawyer, but he was good at research, meticulous in fact. Trials required plenty of research, didn’t they? Perhaps he could use his skills and contacts somehow?

  His mind was made up. Tomorrow he would call David Cavanaugh and offer his services. Anything was better than sitting back and watching this terrible thing happening to the people that he loved the most.

  Vincent Verne had always believed that a true leader was one who knew how to delegate. He also believed that a leader’s strength lay in his ability to allow his ‘people’ to execute their expertise unhindered. That is probably why he respected the Senator so much – because he would assign an instruction without interference or, more specifically in this case, give Vince a broad directive and leave the details of implementation to him.

  Haynes had taught Vince that the reason most people failed to advance in life was because they were too easily distracted. ‘Distraction,’ he would say, ‘is your enemy’s greatest weapon.’

  He believed the greater majority only had the ability to concentrate on one thing at one time with one hundred per cent efficiency. Throw in a little disturbance here, an interruption there and their one hundred per cent focus would have dropped to eighty-five. Hit them with an emotional obstacle, one that would screw with their head and their heart simultaneously, and the concentration level was down in the mid sixties.

  Distractions were the negative to the positives of commitment. It was a basic mathematical formula where you simply continued to subtract from the total.

  Vince was not one to argue. Experience had shown him the Senator was right. So, if the Senator wanted distractions he would have them – delicately placed, growing in intensity and untraceable.

  He dialled the number committed to memory and gave a few specific instructions into the cell phone. The whole conversation, one way that it was, took all of thirty seconds. He put down his cell phone and allowed himself a smile. He would start with Sara Davis and go from there.

  ‘You know you are breaking the law,’ said David.

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Mick McGee, scratching his head in mock confusion. ‘I don’t see how that’s possible, Davy my boy, given my good friend here,’ Mick gestured at Joe, ‘obviously has no problem consuming alcoholic beverages on my hospitable premises.’

  Myrtle’s was a breakfast and lunchtime café and closed at 5pm. It had no liquor licence and a little late night gathering like this may have cause to make the proprietor nervous if the clientele had not included the Commander of Boston PD’s Homicide Unit.

  ‘I thought this was ginger beer,’ said Joe, putting the Bud to his lips.

  ‘Aye, that it is,’ said Mick, downing his own icy cold brew. ‘This fella is just out for a tussle today,’ he said, pointing at David. ‘I saw him on the news. Throws a good right hook by the look of things. It’s the Irish in him, Joseph. We all have hot tempers so try not to be too hard on him.’

  ‘Yeah well,’ Joe began, ‘I hate to say I told you so.’

  ‘Well, don’t,’ said David who opted for a coke and passed another to Sara before throwing a glance at Arthur, daring
him to agree with his detective friend.

  ‘This is no joke,’ said Arthur. ‘We may know the Haynes showed their true colours today, but all the public saw was Rayna’s daughter and defence team harassing the dead girl’s parents, at her funeral no less. It was inappropriate. It was a serious setback, and we will pay for it.’

  They sat in silence knowing Arthur was right.

  ‘All right, we stuffed up, now we have to start thinking about how to gain from what we learned today.’

  ‘If you guys are gonna talk strategy, I better take off,’ said Joe, draining his beer and grabbing his jacket.

  ‘Me too,’ said Mick. ‘Otherwise I’ll sell my story to the papers and head for Vegas.’

  ‘I can lock up,’ David told Mick, standing to walk Joe to the door.

  ‘That you will, lad, and you’ll also promise not to start any fist-fights in future without including me.’ Mick went to turn off the kitchen lights while David walked outside with Mannix.

  ‘Thanks for the emergency rescue today, Joe.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. But David . . .’ Mannix slowed, turning to look at his friend.

  ‘Yeah,’ David expected Joe to have another go at him for attending the funeral in the first place.

  ‘What I am going to say to you now stays between us, and only us,’ Joe said.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I mean just us, not Arthur or Sara, and if you ever repeat this I’ll deny I ever said it.’

  ‘Okay Joe, what is it?’

  Joe looked around the quiet street and took a deep breath. ‘Haynes knows people.’

  ‘He knows people . . .’ repeated David, scratching his head, not too sure where this was going.