by Sydney Bauer
The photo itself was covered in little bumps, like Braille, formed by the whack of the typewriter’s letters from behind. They distorted the picture somewhat – that of a mother kissing her son goodbye before he walked into Alexander Hamilton Elementary. Her face was obscured by the boy’s, and his was turned to the side so you could only see his beautiful profile. Vanessa and his nephew Mikey.
They were his family. His sister had given up a scholarship to study medicine at Tufts to bring up the child she had not expected. Now she had been granted admission on a mature-aged student scheme at BU and Tommy was determined she got a chance to see her dream to its completion. Six-year-old Mikey was like his very own – smart, funny and full of life. He would do anything to protect them. Even turn a blind eye to the corruption of a system of justice he once swore on his life to defend.
He folded the note and put it back in his breast pocket, then he started the engine and headed for home. Vanessa would be worried. He was late – and he hadn’t called. He practised his best calm smile in the rear vision mirror and listed a few facts of his own.
He knew nothing.
Even if he did, it was none of his business.
He needed this job – for his sister and her son.
And Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer was a myth, just like Santa Claus.
14
David glanced at Sara when he knew no one else was looking and rolled his eyes. Katz really was something. The suit was another Italian – a light wool in deep brown with matching leather shoes, a crisp white shirt and discreetly patterned beige tie. The hair was slick, the face shaven, the fingernails manicured.
‘Good to see you again, Judge, how’s that golf game going, still working on your handicap?’
‘My day is filled with handicaps, Mr Katz, unfortunately none of them to do with golf.’
That put a lid on Roger’s enthusiasm, at least for a few seconds.
Normally the two parties would meet in open court to set a trial date, but the Judge wanted to avoid the media circus and thus recommended a short, closed quarters proceeding in his chambers. They all agreed, even Katz who must have been disappointed he and his beautifully cut summer-weight ensemble did not get a bigger audience.
There were nine of them squashed into the smallish office: David, Sara and Arthur – who sat at the back of the room with Rayna and the obligatory security guard – Katz, Scaturro, a court reporter to record all of the proceedings and, of course, Judge Stein.
‘All right then, let’s get down to it,’ said Stein.
‘Your Honour,’ Scaturro was standing right in front of the Judge’s desk, taking the floor as if in the courtroom, ‘the State believes this case should be heard as a matter of priority for a number of reasons. Firstly, there is the growing concern of escalating media coverage and subsequent potential for jury tainting. Even at this early stage it would be difficult to find a group of twelve people who have not already formed some form of opinion on the events surrounding this case.’
Scaturro paused for an objection from the defence. The fact she got none seemed to rattle her a little, but she cleared her throat and moved on.
‘Secondly, there is the very nature of the crime.’
‘Your Honour,’ this was Arthur, ‘surely Ms Scaturro means charge. Ms Martin is not guilty of any crime until proven so. Perhaps her trial is moving so quickly she has jumped to the verdict and left us all behind?’
‘Very funny, Mr Wright,’ said the Judge. ‘He’s right Ms Scaturro, please rephrase.’
‘I apologise, Your Honour. My point is, there is no question over how Ms Haynes died, there is no question over a murder weapon and witnesses are limited to the defendant and three girls who saw the body after the fact. A lot of the usual time-consuming aspects of your “average” murder investigation are not applicable here. This should reduce the need for discovery. The DA’s Office is happy to reduce such time due to the controlled circumstances in which this crime . . . I mean to say, alleged crime . . . took place.’
Scaturro was right. Most murders were committed under much more confusing circumstances. Often it would take weeks or months for Crime Scene Investigators, better known as CSIs thanks to the popular TV show, to go over every inch of a crime scene – for blood, fibres, body fluids, prints and a million other pieces of the puzzle which the prosecution would normally use to secure a conviction. This case was more cut and dried because the defence and the prosecution agreed on most aspects of it. No one was arguing over the cause of death, just over the few minutes prior to Christina’s drowning.
Scaturro paused again. Still no objection.
David glanced at Katz. The ADA obviously didn’t know whether to be pleased or suspicious. By the look on his face he chose the latter. David guessed he would have to say something soon and he was right.
‘Your Honour. I . . .’
‘Mr Katz, I would say Ms Scaturro is doing a fine job here, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Of course, Your Honour.’
‘Right, well let’s allow her to finish then shall we?’
‘Yes, Judge. Certainly.’
‘Your Honour,’ said Scaturro with a quick sideways glare at her second-in-charge. ‘There is also the issue of compassion. This trial will involve testimony from a number of young people. Indeed it centres around the death of a sixteen-year-old. The parents of the girl need some closure on the matter. We believe a speedy trial will at least reduce the period of uncertainty and distress that looms between every arraignment and verdict. We realise the courts cannot always accommodate trials on compassionate grounds, but in this case it might be possible.’
David knew this final point would hit a chord with Rayna, and this was probably why Scaturro had used it in her argument. Scaturro would know Rayna would be wanting to make this period as easy as possible for her own daughter and would be guessing Rayna might push her counsel for an early trial in an effort to do so.
‘All right Ms Scaturro, what are you suggesting?
‘Six weeks from next Monday Your Honour – 29 July.’
The defence were speechless. This was a whole three months earlier than they had expected. It was unheard of. July!
July was a vacation month, kicked off with the 4 July long weekend. It was mid-summer, the month where the atmosphere breathed good karma – friends, family, plain old-fashioned fun. All intermingled with the reminder of how lucky they were to live in this country, in this city, the birthplace of independence.
And then David got an idea.
It was insane.
One part of him said ‘shut up, don’t even think it’, but another part of him – his gut instinct – told him it might work to their advantage. It was a huge risk but, hell, in the very least it could catch them off guard. Before he knew it, the words came out of his mouth.
‘We recommend Monday, 1 July, Your Honour.’
Everyone was silent. Including Arthur and Sara who looked at him in shock. Katz’s mouth had dropped to the floor, and for once it appeared the normally eloquent ADA was completely lost for words.
‘You are aware, Counsellor, that today is 21 May. That leaves you a little under six weeks.’
‘I realise that, Your Honour, but we agree with everything the State has put forward. Further, we know that no crime has been committed here.’
David stood up and moved to the centre of the room.
‘The prosecution have called this a hate crime, a murder based on a decision made by a woman they claim is so predisposed to an abhorrence of Caucasians that she chose to leave a sixteen-year-old girl alone to die. Not only is this preposterous, it is unprovable – and since the prosecution bear the burden of proof . . .’ he let this thought hang for a few seconds before pushing on.
‘We know our client, we know the way she lives, how she is bringing up her daughter, how she treats her colleagues and friends. The extra time may seem necessary to the State because creating fiction is more laborious than stating facts. They say they wan
t a speedy trial, they point out the potential for jury tainting, the straightforward nature of the events surrounding the case and the argument for compassion. We agree on all three points – especially the last.
‘Rayna Martin deserves to be home with her daughter. The longer this drags on the longer a good woman’s reputation is under unfair scrutiny. We would be happy to begin jury selection in the second last week of June and start the trial on the first of the month. We can work through the long weekend and complete this matter before it drags this city any further into the ugly pit of prejudice.’
The room was silent. David could see a small line of saliva starting to appear at the corner of Katz’s gaping mouth, which was still in fly catching mode.
David saw Sara and Arthur both turn to Rayna, who was looking at David with such respect and admiration that he knew their client had decided the matter for them.
‘All right then, Mr Cavanaugh, do you agree with this Mrs Martin?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘Ms Scaturro?’
‘Your Honour, I um . . . we didn’t expect such a short . . .’
‘You were after haste, were you not?’
‘Yes Sir, but our suggested date already cut the usual trial preparation period by some months. This new proposal is a fair bit faster than . . .’
‘Judge,’ Katz had finally shut his mouth and mopped up the damage with a monogrammed handkerchief. ‘With all due respect to Mr Cavanaugh’s noble motives, conducting a murder trial a mere two months after the crime – excuse me sir, alleged crime – is unheard of. The DA’s office is swamped during an average week, but holiday periods are particularly awkward with court staff and other officials taking leave. Surely it would make more sense to . . .’
‘Are you free from 1 July, Mr Katz?’
‘Of course, Your Honour.’
‘Ms Scaturro?’
‘Yes, Judge.’
‘Well, the defence suggests they are also available and I am free as a bird so I don’t see the problem. The DA’s office cannot have their cake and eat it too, Mr Katz. You came in here demanding speedy justice and you have it with a bonus.’
The Judge turned to David.
‘By the same token, Mr Cavanaugh, I admire your confidence in your client and in your case, or rather the inability of the prosecution not to prove theirs. But you are placing yourself in a very, very tight squeeze here. Your client is an attorney, a good one I’m told, so I trust she has the nous to understand the implications of your recommendations.’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘All right, 1 July it is. Now, move along all of you, it’s getting more than a little claustrophobic in here.’
‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ said Scaturro.
The defence filed out behind the prosecution with David at the rear.
‘Mr Cavanaugh,’ said Stein, ‘a quick word before you go.’
David stayed behind and the Judge asked him to shut the door.
‘Mr Cavanaugh, are you sure about this?’
‘No Sir.’
‘I didn’t think so. Did your client know about your recommendation before you entered this room?’
‘No Sir.’
The Judge took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
‘One word of warning, David. A girl is dead. Not just a girl . . . People are going to want someone to pay for this. It’s part of human nature, an eye for an eye . . . but we have had this discussion before.’
‘Yes Sir.’
‘I am worried about you and your client. The DA is not stupid and neither is her cohort despite his unwitting efforts to appear otherwise. I see what you are trying to do – 4 July and all that. But remember, patriotism takes many forms, even that of bigotry. In fact the very idea of nationalism could be construed as a form of prejudice.
‘I admire your chutzpah, but do not expect any leniency from me in court. In there, my personal opinion accounts for nothing. From here on in, you are on your own. Do you understand, son?’
‘Yes, Judge.’
‘All right then.’
The trip back to their offices was a three-way shouting match with each of them jockeying to get a word in. Sara was panicking about the terrifying lack of time. Arthur was outwardly furious but seemed unable to wipe the half-smile off his face. He declared David to be one of those rare individuals who hovered dangerously between genius and insanity.
David concurred with them both and admitted his on-the-spot strategy scared the hell out of him too. They all agreed they had to believe in their client who supported David’s decision, and take heart in the fact that the prosecution only had six weeks as well.
Rayna wanted this thing over, largely for Teesha’s sake. Before returning to her cell she had reinforced her support of his fourth of July strategy, arguing the longer the trial preparation period, the longer Haynes would have to condition his ‘soldiers’ and recruit new ones in his quest for revenge.
She too was concerned how the case was affecting the community and agreed with David that each day saw an escalation of public debate, and a distortion of the basic fact that this was accidental death. She told her team she had used time – or lack thereof – to her defence strategy advantage in the past and found that generally it was the prosecution who came unprepared. The DA’s office was an arm of the public service, just like any other government body, and by nature tended to get bogged in bureaucracy, making it more difficult to work on a fast track.
Most of all she had faith in her attorneys’ ability to win this thing. More faith perhaps than David had in himself.
Arthur warned it meant late nights, weekends, work, work, work every living, breathing minute for the next six weeks and what could turn into months beyond. This was agreed to without a hint of hesitation and they hit the ground running.
15
The theory was not a new one. Hannibal, Khan, Caesar, William the Conqueror, Napoleon – all the great warriors had used it at one time or another. Attack the heart.
Senator Haynes looked up from his newspaper which was proclaiming the date of the trial and leaned back in his grey leather office chair. This really was a beautiful city, and on days such as these, when he surveyed its grandeur from the fifty-eighth floor of the John Hancock Tower in Boston’s affluent Back Bay, he felt like it was his own. A king in his glass castle, a sovereign on his throne, a ruler of the people.
He liked this time of day, early, before his staff arrived, the sun rising over the Harbour and with it the challenge of new battles to win. It gave him time to think, to breathe, and lately, a small respite from his mourning wife and the shroud that covered his home and cast his life into shadow.
The distractions had begun and were now entering their second phase. Verne had discovered Cavanaugh’s weakness – a sentimental attachment to his family, which was, at this very moment, being manipulated to their advantage. Haynes’ father had taught him well.
‘Love,’ he would say, ‘is a man’s greatest weakness and that weakness, a soldier’s greatest weapon. It is no coincidence that love is associated with the heart, the biological key to our survival. That is why a clever enemy targets the heart – it is where he plants his flag and damns his foe to hell.’
‘All you have to do my son,’ the memory came flooding back. ‘. . . is find out what matters to people – what, or who, drives them. And there, my dear Rudolph, is your mark. Remember this and you will never know defeat.’
Haynes wished his father were here now. He could use such a man on his team. Still, in the end, kings breed kings and he was trained by the best. In truth, it had been a long time since he had needed anyone. Some would say this made him lonely or emotionally restricted, which was rubbish. On the contrary, he knew, it made him invincible.
‘I don’t understand, Lillian,’ said Patty Cavanaugh, now sitting across the desk from Mrs Lillian O’Shae, longstanding principal of Newark, New Jersey’s St Francis Elementary.
‘Please, explain it to me aga
in. What is it she said I had done?’
This was very hard for Mrs O’Shae. Patty Cavanaugh was one of her oldest friends. Lillian had taught all three of her children and knew Patty to be one of the best teachers, one of the best people she had ever met.
She also knew her friend may be a little lonely with her husband gone, two of her children in Boston and the other very busy with his own family. So she had thought the job might help fill in the odd empty hour.
‘Maybe it is because I am new? You know I made the decision not to teach at St Francis whilst my kids were students here. I thought it would be unfair to them. But that was a long time ago. Maybe this woman has me confused with someone else. Is there another substitute teacher on staff right now? Not that I would think for one minute that any teacher would . . .’
‘Patty,’ interrupted Lillian, ‘I am so sorry, it isn’t me, really. I know you would never strike a child. But the complaint wasn’t made to me. It was made directly to Social Services and they have a legal obligation to investigate.’
‘My Lord, how could this have happened. You know I would never lay a finger . . .’
‘Of course not, and I have told them as much, but there really isn’t much I can do. I have the name of the Social Services representative who will be looking into the matter and I have already placed a call to her. Believe me, I will not rest until this is resolved. But in the meantime I am afraid you cannot teach here.’
Lillian had received the call from the Department of Social Services about two hours ago. They told her a Mrs Nell Putty had complained the new first grade substitute teacher had struck her son Louis during a painting session a week ago. According to Mrs Putty, Mrs Cavanaugh had grabbed her son and struck the back of both his legs with a paint stirrer before sending him to sit in the corner. Mrs Putty said Louis sported two red welts, which had turned into nasty black bruises, across the back of his thighs and knees. Mrs O’Shae suspected such bruises, which were not uncommon on the small surface area of poor little Louis Putty’s blotchy skin, were the result of a beating from another source closer to home. She had told the woman from Social Services as much, and planned to do a bit of reporting of her own.
