by Sydney Bauer
‘Not that I have any,’ said Rayna. ‘But even if I did, why would I be stupid enough to say something of that nature after what had just occurred?’
‘That’s just it,’ said Sara. ‘That may have been the perfect time for you to say something incriminating. Thousands of perps lose their case and their freedom by saying too much immediately after the crime. You think about it – you’re in shock, cold, frightened, you haven’t lawyered up. You might have been panicking, trying to relay blame, like put it on the stupidity or disobedience of the white girl. If you were going say something which gave away your prejudices, it would have been then.’
‘Haynes wanted this to be a hate crime from the start,’ said David. ‘He was looking at murder two before Rayna was even charged with involuntary man, which also means he spent the next two days orchestrating a charge of murder.’
‘Does this mean we can also assume Haynes told Petri to take me through the front of Headquarters after my arrest?’ asked Rayna.
‘Looks like it. And he organised Katz to be there to meet you. That’s probably what Mannix overheard in the coffee room.’
‘First Jake and now this,’ said Sara.
Rayna looked at her confused and Sara filled her in.
‘Do we go to Joe?’ Sara asked David.
‘No,’ he said. ‘At first I thought that was the right thing to do but now . . . If we go to Joe we place him in a very awkward position. We can be pretty sure Petri is dirty but we don’t have any real proof. Joe is protective of his men; and rightly so, they’re a good bunch as a whole. Also, Joe has already stuck his neck out for us on this one and every time we run to him, the DA thinks he’s batting for the opposition. No, I don’t want to go bothering him until we have something more substantial.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Sara.
‘We go to Tommy,’ finished David.
‘Doesn’t that put Tommy in an even more sensitive situation?’
‘Yes, but we need him to substantiate what you heard and fill in the blanks.’
‘Officer Wu may be a good man, but he won’t talk, why should he?’ said Rayna.
‘Because he is just that – a good man.’
Rayna saw Sara exchange glances with her co-counsel and sensed something between them. A past disagreement? A clash of ideals? A difference in perspective on human beings, positive and negative, black and white? Rayna knew Sara tried hard to see the good in people, and sometimes fell short, erring on the side of caution. But then Sara smiled and Rayna saw something else – an understanding between them, perhaps more. David seemed to have the ability to get Sara to question her somewhat sceptical view of the world, and Rayna knew it was good for her.
‘But first,’ said David, turning to Rayna, interrupting her thoughts, ‘we have some work to do. Let’s start by bringing you up to speed on Mariah, and then you have to go back to last Saturday and start remembering everything – detail for detail, word for word, second for second. It will be the details that save us and we can’t afford to miss a thing.’
There were twelve messages on his home machine. David threw his backpack on the sofa and contemplated the mess before him. This really was the stereotypical bachelor apartment – big but largely unfurnished, clean but messy, lived-in but not homey.
At least the twenty-fifth storey view down to Back Bay and across the Charles River gave his rather bland apartment some character. Otherwise, it seemed pretty soulless. But he guessed that’s what happened when you used your place of residence as a dormitory between days at work.
There were times when he missed Jersey, his old friends, his mom’s cooking. He could have stayed and gone into the family business with his brother. But while Sean loved the shipping industry, David was more interested in other things, like people and why they did the things they did.
‘Horses for courses,’ his dad used to say.
Most nights he would come home to one or two messages – usually one from his sister Lisa about work or some new guy or some complaint about his lack of calls, maybe one from a friend wanting to go for a run or a beer, or Arthur calling with one last anecdote for the day.
The truth was, David didn’t have much time for anything besides work and his lack of messages usually reflected this. No dates, no mates, he thought to himself.
But not tonight.
Tonight his machine told him he was very popular.
He got a pad (kitchen drawer) and pen (living room floor) and took notes as he deleted the messages one by one.
The first was from Lisa, wanting to catch up this weekend – too late for that. One from Sara, trying his home before she tried his cell on Friday night – delete. The beeps of a hang-up, someone changing their mind about leaving a message – delete. One from his niece Katie with the news she had got the lead in her school play – good for her. ‘Ring Katie – congrats’, he wrote on the small pad in a lawyer’s scrawl. One from his rugby buddy Tony Bishop asking why he missed Saturday morning’s game. Shit, he thought and wrote down, ‘Call Tony’.
The sixth message was interesting. It was Tyrone Banks, Delia’s ex-husband, apologising for bothering him at home on the weekend but he got his number from Delia and wanted to know if he could help. He left a DC number. David wrote it down.
Another call from Lisa. Another hang-up. A third hang-up. David got the feeling someone wanted to say something but kept changing their mind at the last minute.
He moved about the living room, picking up stray items of clothing he really should either fold or wash or . . . that’s when the tenth caller stopped him in his tracks.
‘Mr Cavanaugh . . . David . . . it’s Tommy Wu. I need to speak to you. I, um, think it could be important but I don’t know what to . . . Look, if you get this, just give me a call okay. I’m off all weekend, back on duty Monday, but don’t call me at work. My home number is 555 6738. Um, well . . . talk soon.’
David wrote down the number and looked at his watch, it was after ten thirty – too late to call? Probably. Damn it. Someone once told him Tommy shared a place with his sister and her little boy. No, he’d better wait until tomorrow afternoon.
The eleventh message was from his mom. She rang to tell him she was doing some substitute work at St Francis Elementary, his old school. She was teaching Grade 1 whilst their class teacher was on maternity leave. She sounded excited which was great.
The all too familiar feeling of guilt settled on him again as he tried to remember the last time he had called his mother – a week ago? A fortnight maybe? Or was it closer to a month? He had a habit of forgetting to return her calls and taking her patience for granted. He kicked himself for not being more attentive and made a mental note to call her first thing tomorrow.
The last caller must have rung just before he walked in the door. It was Sara telling him she had decided to go straight to her office at AACSAM in the morning. The guys at AACSAM had given her all the time she wanted to work on Rayna’s case but there were always some details to clear up. She signed off by thanking him for, well, she wasn’t quite sure – for just being him. This made him smile and feel something he had not felt since . . . since . . . Karin.
He shook this thought from his brain, knowing he was too tired to go anywhere near that pathetic emotional minefield again, looked around at his singular existence and instinctively started shoving clothes into a laundry bag, promising himself he would get to a laundromat at some stage in the next twenty-four hours.
Then he showered, ate some scraps from his close to empty refrigerator and went to bed. He was asleep exactly two minutes after his head hit the pillow.
All the calls were interesting, thought Verne as he put down his own pad and pen, the details listed neatly in numerical order down the right hand side of the page. Especially Banks and Wu. He would make some enquiries about Banks, and Wu, well . . . he could be a problem. He put a small, neat red asterisk next to caller number ten realising this would have to be dealt with immediately.
Cavanau
gh was obviously close to his sister and his mother – good, the closer the better. And the last call, well that was precious. Cavanaugh and his co-counsel were obviously getting cosy and Verne knew this may play to the Senator’s advantage.
Yes, it was a good list. Thank God he got the bug in before Cavanaugh played them all back and erased them. Some days, you just got lucky.
It was late on Sunday night and Ed Washington could not get the name out of his mind.
Ivan Lipshultz. Ivan Lipshultz.
He had not thought of him for over a decade. But one call from Haynes had brought it all back.
Lipshultz was a grumpy old miser. All that money stashed in the bank, and under the mattress and God knows where else, and living like he didn’t have a penny.
I didn’t do anything wrong, Ed told himself. It’s not like he didn’t have enough to live on – if you call that living.
Ten years ago he had felt mighty proud of himself for buying Lipshultz’s advantageously positioned, four-bedroom Fenway home at a steal (a good one hundred thousand under the market price!). But now the thought, and the potential repercussions of any Massachusetts Board of Real Estate Registration investigation made him nauseous. Haynes knew all about it and now Ed was swallowing gas.
Whilst the Senator began his late night call by thanking Ed and his family for attending the funeral, the subject of the discussion soon moved to real estate – and more specifically to Ed’s white-washed, picket-fenced, flower-box-festooned Fenway home.
‘Yes Sir,’ Ed had begun, delighted the Senator had shifted the conversation to his area of expertise. ‘We love it here Senator. We’re on Queensbury Street, just north of the Back Bay Fens. It’s a big property, huge potential. Fenway may not be Chestnut Hill, but it certainly . . .’
‘You bought it off a man named Lipshultz, didn’t you,’ said Haynes, interrupting Ed mid sentence. The Senator even pronounced the name correctly ‘Lip-shits’, as opposed to the more obvious ‘Lipshooltz’.
‘Or more specifically I believe you brought two properties from Mr Lipshultz – adjoining homes, if I am correct, the smaller of which you sold to your brother at a tidy profit.’
Haynes was right. Lipshultz was a client and Ed had convinced the old Russian an exhaustive (non-existent) marketing campaign had turned up zero interest in his property. But being the ‘dedicated’ agent that he was, and hating to see an elderly gentleman ‘lumbered’ with the ‘burden’ of two large homes before moving to a retirement complex in Jamaica Plain, Ed was willing to take the properties off his hands for a more than generous price. Which of course he did.
Within weeks Ed had moved his family into the larger of the two homes and, after a little sprucing, sold the house next door to his older brother George. He made fifty grand plus on the later transaction, but he hadn’t charged George any commission so . . .
‘Did I mention to you I have a friend at the Board of Real Estate Registration ?’ asked Haynes.
Ah the world of coincidences!
‘His name is Grainger, Bob Grainger. In fact I think he was recently appointed Chairman. Perhaps I should get you two together. You could discuss Bob’s concern about the current deterioration of some agents’ standards of practice and ethics. Big problem according to Bob – especially the rising incidence of under-selling and misrepresentation of the market to the vendor!
So there is was plain and simple – and so came the bottom line. Ed would pull his head in, keep Francine in line, make sure their confidential discussion remained exactly that, and not talk to any press except for the Tribune’s Max Truman (whose story had never even been run). In return Haynes would unfortunately be way too busy to organise a meeting between Ed and his good friend Bob Grainger.
No need to think about it. Ed knew a good deal when he saw one. And this was a damned fine deal.
13
Monday was a blur. Whilst Sara was tidying up some loose ends at AACSAM, David and Arthur began compiling a potential witness list, and working on an estimated time line for the trial. Arthur surmised the DA would be asking for some time in early November before the cold and the Christmas season set in.
They both acknowledged the importance of Tommy Wu’s testimony, especially given the rumour that his partner Susan Leigh was being courted as a witness for the prosecution. While they doubted Leigh was in Haynes’ pocket – her reputation was one of aspiration rather than suspicion – they had no doubt Katz would be sweetening her contribution with the promise of ‘career advancement’. Arthur made a note to get Con and Sam to make some further enquiries about the ambitious young police officer as soon as they had finished their physical report.
It was after three when they finally took a break so Arthur set about returning his messages and David decided to do the same. He figured he would give Tommy another half hour to make sure he was home from work before making the call. He dialled Tyrone Banks and got his voicemail, leaving a message suggesting they catch up as soon as he returned to Boston. He had forgotten to call Lisa and his mom, but he could do that from home tonight. He was tempted to ring Sara and check how her day was, but decided she probably needed a break from the case, at least for today.
So he leaned back in his chair, balancing on its back legs, his feet on his desk, his biro in his mouth.
‘I’ve got half an hour up my sleeve,’ he called out to Nora, knowing the whole feet on the desk thing would annoy her. ‘How’s about you and I go out for a quick afternoon cocktail?’
‘How very nice of you,’ she replied, her strongly accented words dripping with sarcasm. ‘But I don’t date out of pity.’
And with that she turned her computer screen around to reveal her proverb of the day: ‘Forbidden fruit is the sweetest’.
Twenty-five minutes, then he’d call Wu.
Ten minutes later Arthur poked his head around David’s door.
‘Judge Stein wants us in chambers at ten tomorrow morning.’
‘To set a trial date,’ said David. ‘You’re still thinking . . . ?’
‘Scaturro will ask for six months give or take. We could ask for more time.’
‘I know,’ said David, tapping his chewed pen on his desk. ‘You still think we’re better off going for sooner rather than later?’
‘Well . . .’ Arthur took a seat in front of his friend. ‘I know, in most cases it is in the defence’s best interest to delay, particularly when their client is guilty. Cops lose their notes, witnesses forget details, the prosecution is so busy that any delay just shifts that one case further down in the pile of priorities. But this one is different.’
‘Go on,’ said David.
‘For starters there’s the public interest. The press are all over this and it will only get worse as the black versus white thing gathers momentum. Rayna is innocent, we have to trust the fresh memories of the police involved and those of our witnesses to act in our favour.’
David agreed and pointed out one other advantage to agreeing to an early date.
‘It wins us the first points with Stein. Katz will assume we want to delay so he’ll have his “speedy trial” speech ready. He also knows he’ll have Stein on his side. So we play the good guys, concede to the DA’s wishes, give Stein his fast track to justice. The Judge thanks us for our cooperation, we start in the box seat, and in the very least, that will piss off the Kat.’
‘Can’t think of a better reason to do anything really,’ said Arthur with a smile.
‘Me neither.’
David picked up the phone and called Wu’s number.
‘Tommy?’ a woman answered.
‘Ah no . . . Is this Ms Wu?’
‘This is Vanessa Wu.’
‘Hi, my name is David Cavanaugh, I’m a friend of your brother’s. He left a message for me to call him and I was wondering if he was in.’
Vanessa explained Tommy was due about an hour ago so she expected him any minute.
‘Running late, is he?’ David went fishing.
‘Yeah, no
t like him either, probably having a beer with the guys.’
‘Probably. Vanessa, have you spoken to him today?’
‘Well, not since he left for work early this morning. Is there something wrong, Mr Cavanaugh? Tommy always calls if he is going to be held up.’
A horrible feeling started to rise from the pit of David’s stomach. He swallowed in an effort to force it back down.
‘No, no, I’m sure he’s okay, probably having a drink like you said. Will you tell him I called then? He has my numbers.’
‘No problem.’
‘Thanks,’ and he hung up.
Tommy Wu looked at the note again and closed his eyes. The quiet was disheartening. Bunker Hill was normally much busier than this; Monument Square usually abuzz with camera-carrying tourists, picnickers routinely taking advantage of one of the best outlooks in the city.
He had been sitting here, in the driver’s seat of his car, for almost an hour, oblivious to the view or the sweet summer weather or anything else besides the piece of paper in his left hand. He had found the envelope in his locker at the end of his shift. He had walked calmly to his car, driven across the river, making sure he wasn’t being followed, and pulled the letter from his shirt pocket before opening it to read in private.
Officer Wu
I have no time for pleasantries, I only deal in facts so here are some for you.
You know nothing.
Even if you think you know something, you don’t, for it is none of your business.
A sense of duty should not transpire to stupidity.
Successful police officers, future detectives and lieutenants protect their own. Just as fathers protect their sons, brothers protect their sisters and uncles their nephews.
Did you learn something Mr Wu?
I hope so.
The note had been typed on an old-style typewriter. He had no doubt it was free of prints. It was typed on the back of a black and white photograph – the computerised date notation showing it had been taken that morning.
