by Sydney Bauer
‘She was slim but when she turned side on . . . David, I think she might have been pregnant.’
21
‘You’re going to have to talk fast because my shift starts in an hour,’ said Lisa Cavanaugh over the clatter typical of a Monday morning at Myrtle’s.
‘No . . . wait, let me start. You are an awful, horrible, neglectful brother and I hate you. There! It had to be said. You promised you’d call me over the weekend.’
‘I did call,’ said David.
‘Sure, at 11pm last night to invite me to a quick breakfast at Myrtle’s.’
‘Eleven pm Sunday is still technically the weekend.’
‘Can it DC. This is me you’re talking to.’ She gave him one of her feigned dark stares before grabbing her juice and swallowing half the glass in three seconds flat.
‘Well come on then,’ she went on. ‘Let’s hear it, what’s going on with you? What’s happening with your case? All I know is what I read in the newspapers. This is big stuff, David. Seriously, I mean how are you, really?’
A wide-eyed Lisa said all of this whilst shovelling forkfuls of egg, tomatoes and sausages into her mouth. She was petite – five foot four – and David never knew where she put it.
‘Everything all right over here?’ said Mick, pouring David another coffee and smiling at Lisa.
‘Great, Mick. Super as usual,’ grinned Lisa.
‘He been neglecting you?’ Mick asked in jest, cocking his head at David.
‘See,’ Lisa smiled at her brother, blowing a strand of long, dark hair away from her green eyes. ‘Mick understands.’
‘All right already,’ said David, glad of the relief after a weekend of hard work.
‘Just keeping you on your toes,’ grinned his sister.
‘And fair enough too,’ said Mick, winking at Lisa before moving on to the next table.
‘So . . .?’
‘So, you’re right. It’s pretty big.’
David went on to explain the basics of their case, all the while trying not to worry his sister in the process. Lisa liked to play it for laughs but David knew her light-hearted banter was often a cover-up for concern.
He talked on for fifteen minutes, telling her of his anger at the charge in the first place and his crazy, self-imposed time limit.
‘So, are you going to win?’
That was Lisa, straight to the point.
‘I . . . ah . . .’
Then it hit him. Usually he had a fair idea of his chances in court, and luckily, most of the time he could answer ‘yes’ to such a question without too much hesitation. But no one had asked him this question in regards to the Martin case, and it scared the hell out of him that he did not know what to say.
Lisa saw the fear in his eyes and reached across the table to hold her brother’s hand.
‘DC, if it makes any difference. I think you will – no, I know you are going to win.’
‘Either that,’ he said, grateful for the encouragement, ‘or die trying.’
It was early.
Senator Haynes was almost out the door when he heard her footsteps behind him. But it wasn’t his wife, it was Agnes and, strangely, he felt a small wave of relief.
He had spent most of the weekend at the office, calling friends, lunching with media owners, touching base with associates – basically ‘campaigning’ for his own cause, making sure the right people with the right amount of power were saying the right things to those that mattered. And as such, he knew, he had been neglecting Elizabeth.
‘Senator.’
‘Yes Agnes? What is it?’
‘Sir, I just wanted you to know that Mrs Haynes, well, I know you have been concerned, and rightly so under the circumstances.’
‘Agnes, I am running late.’
‘Yes Sir. Well, I just wanted to say that she has been so much better. I truly think she has found a way to deal with it all. She has thrown herself into the banquet arrangements and seems to be more . . . ah, focused. Yesterday she found the strength to go through Christina’s things, start to pack them in boxes. I just thought this might make you feel a little more at ease, Sir – knowing she was better.’
Agnes had been with them for as long as Haynes could remember; she had worked for the Whitmans since she was a teenager, and then come with Elizabeth when she moved to her new home in Boston. She was helpful, hard-working and most importantly loyal. She had been a good influence on his daughter – all in all, a team player. He made a mental note to give her a bonus in her next pay.
‘Thank you, Agnes. I’m glad. Thank you for telling me.’
‘Anything I can do, Senator. I know it will take time but I honestly feel she is on the right track. She will be all right, Sir. I just know it.’
In the state of Massachusetts, and throughout the country, the preparation for any trial involved the filing of numerous motions. Many of these submissions were part of the pre-trial routine, and most filed as insurance against a negative result for the defence and the need to call upon them later when appearing before the appellate court.
The possibilities were endless – there were motions for discovery, production and inspection of evidence; motions to disclose evidence favourable to the accused; motions to suppress evidence; motions for a list of all the State’s witnesses; and motions for the State to produce all criminal records of witnesses.
On the other hand, the State could also file any number of motions. These might include the motion for a speedy trial, or to dismiss information or compel discovery. It was all about insurance, hedging your bets, dotting the ‘i’s’ and crossing the ‘t’s’.
Whilst motions were generally brief and to the point, the process still took time and much of David and his team’s week would be spent making sure their ‘insurance’ was paid up in full. David knew such paperwork could be done by associates, but Arthur agreed in this case they should prepare the briefs themselves and make sure their chances, in the event of an appeal, were as strong as possible. Of course, this was depressing work, for it meant admitting there was a possibility of defeat, but it was also reality and therefore they approached it with the necessary stoicism.
Despite all this, Teesha’s revelations regarding the Asian couple were definitely at the forefront of their minds and had, in effect, turned their course of discovery upside down. Con and Sam hit the phones first thing Monday calling and re-calling every hotel and tour operator in the Cape Ann area. Sam in particular felt individually responsible for not discovering evidence of any witnesses earlier, and took on finding the Asian couple as a personal quest.
Three days of endless telephone calls turned up nothing and David realised, if they had any chance of finding the couple, they would need to go to Gloucester and talk to the locals first hand. They all realised that, if the young couple were tourists, chances were they were home by now, and home could be anywhere – here or abroad. The search seemed impossible but, given it was the one piece of evidence that could prove Rayna’s version of events, they clung to it and swore not to give up until the mysterious Asian holiday makers were tracked down.
David couldn’t help but feel there must be another way, he needed an ally with contacts – ways and means of finding the impossible. And then, the following morning the tide finally started to turn their way.
22
NO MOTIVE . . . TRY GOOD OLD-FASHIONED ‘HATE’
LEGAL COMMENT AND GUEST EDITORIAL BY MARC RIGOTTI
Hate is an unnecessary word.
I say this not because I do not think human beings are capable of strong negative feelings towards one another, more that there are so many more accurate words which offer greater clarity in definition.
In other words it is not so much unnecessary as unspecific.
Think about it.
Abhorrence, revulsion, disgust, loathing, detestation, repugnance . . . these and many more refer to ‘hate’, but somehow hit the nail on each specific head with greater precision.
Hate is too general �
�� it is like saying the sea is only one shade of blue.
Why then is it possible for our intelligent, superior system of justice to use this word — this erroneous over-simplification — as a motive for a crime as serious as murder.
The Martin case is evidence of this major anomaly in our legal process.
Rayna Martin is accused of leaving an unconscious white teenager in the water-leaving her to drown so that she might save three African-American girls in her stead.
According to the State, her motive was hate.
Even if Mrs Martin were guilty of the alleged crime, and many believe she is not, why is the motive hate? Why not a desperation to save her own daughter? Why not pure mathematics that it is better to save three than one? Probably because these motives require a charge of manslaughter rather than the sexier one of murder two.
One might be led to believe that a motive such as hate is used when no other seems to fit. It is the motive you apply when all others seem ridiculous, making it all the more ridiculous itself.
That of course begs the question why a respected citizen, who spends her life helping people of all races, should fall prey to the law’s most absurd definition of ‘motive’.
Perhaps it is not the accused but the accusers who suffer from an overzealous case of ‘abhorrence, revulsion, disgust, loathing, detestation, repugnance’.
Then again, perhaps in this case, none of the above words are hitting that proverbial nail on that proverbial head.
Perhaps the more appropriate word in this instance is ‘revenge’.
There, he had done it.
It had taken him almost a week to get the piece approved. It had been read and re-read by at least twenty lawyers and in the end, only half of them had given their legal nod of approval.
‘The key’ Rigotti’s editor, Bud Wiseman, had argued, ‘. . . is to run it as editorial. That way we are not printing it as fact but as a thought piece.’
Bud looked at the room full of suits hoping to see a vote of unanimous agreement. What he got was dissent, warnings and another hour of legal mumbo jumbo.
In the end it was Bud’s call and Rigotti was bursting with admiration for his boss who had looked at the room of discerning faces, turned to his editorial manager and simply said ‘Run it – Page 6’ before replacing the soggy cigar in his mouth and stomping off to his office.
Bud Wiseman – scruffy, overworked, short tempered, opinionated hero! Marc knew the piece would, to put it politely, ‘ruffle a few feathers’, enough to trigger a reaction from one or both sides of the legal fence, and he and Bud hoped he was right.
Now it was a matter of time. He would wait a little, start making the right calls and pray the defence would finally agree to speak with him. He had probably scared the hell out of Ed Washington, nothing personal, but the guy made his own bed so to speak. What he really wanted was a reaction from Haynes or the DA.
There was merit in the theory that the media were the fourth arm of government. It wasn’t particularly accurate of course, it was more likely an understatement. The media were actually first in rank when it came to public influence.
Let’s see where we go from here, he thought. Good or bad news, depending on where you stood, travels fast. He sipped his coffee and looked at his watch – a little after seven. He knew someone would knee jerk off his editorial. It would just be a matter of who.
Rayna Martin put down the newspaper and looked at David across the chipped laminated interview room table. ‘This is good,’ she said. ‘This is . . .’
‘Just what we needed,’ he finished.
‘Rigotti is an ally,’ she said, her voice echoing around the small cinderblock room.
‘Rigotti knows something. This is his way of getting his point across without landing his paper in court for undue influence of an impending trial. It’s fact disguised at opinion and, if I know Marc, aimed decidedly at getting a rise out of the prosecution.’
‘I’m sure he won’t be disappointed.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’
They sat quietly for a minute enjoying their small victory.
‘Is there any way we can find out why Mr Rigotti ran this piece now?’ asked Rayna. ‘Something must have prompted him to climb so far out on a limb.’
‘Something or someone,’ said David.
‘Whatever the case he certainly seems to be on our side.’
‘That’s what I’m counting on – because I’m about to ask him a favour.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Rayna.
‘I’ll get to that later,’ he said, reaching into his briefcase to retrieve a miniature tape recorder. ‘First, I have some more good news for you, Mrs Martin.’
‘You do?’ she said with a half smile. ‘How so?’
‘Let’s listen to Teesha’s interview tape. I want you to hear this for yourself.’
Riddle me this, Batman: When is the Boy Wonder no longer the Boy Wonder?
Answer: When the Bat decides he wants his Robin for breakfast.
It had been a long day, his mind was playing tricks on him and he had no idea why this ridiculous riddle had entered his head. He didn’t even like Batman. Never went through the superhero phase as a kid. Thought it was stupid make-believe rubbish. A waste of time.
So why now was Roger Katz, the second most powerful prosecutor in the city (well, probably the most powerful considering his boss’ lack of cohunes), thinking about some stupid also-ran who never had a chance in hell of graduating to the top job. Probably because, as of early this morning when Haynes had treated him like a dim-witted lackey, his career prospects were looking frighteningly similar.
The Tribune editorial had hit him like a truck. Haynes had been on the phone at 6.45am, interrupting his morning calisthenics, scaring the hell out of him, dropping the subtlety and going straight for the jugular.
Unlike Scaturro, Katz didn’t have any skeletons. He had no family . . . well, none of any consequence, and thus thought he was safe from the Senator’s usual ‘hit’em-where-it-hurts-most’ threats.
But then he did it anyway, ‘hit’em-where-it-hurt-most,’ that is. One word. Career. Which of course led to other associated terms like money, status, reputation, power. The message was clear. Control the press, make sure the Tribune – that Marc Rigotti and his Goddamned editor – never ran a piece like it again.
Wiseman finally came out of morning conference to take his call at about 7.30am and as usual with these journalist bastards, went on about that ‘freedom of the press’ bullshit served up in that superior, working class tone newspaper dinosaurs seemed to think was macho. Katz had threatened legal action, and promised if such an editorial ran again that he would go straight to Judge Stein for a gag order. The only consolation was that his boss had obviously been hit even harder than himself. She looked like a total wreck when he got in at eight thirty and seemed to get progressively worse as the day wore on. Her door was shut for most of the morning and he could have sworn he saw her enter the ladies room with tears in her eyes. Women . . . no control!
Come to think of it, it was no wonder Haynes had asked (told) him to deal with the press. Scaturro just couldn’t hack it. Her days were numbered no matter which way you looked at it. He would get the job done and everything would be sweet.
Ironically Rigotti’s slanderous piece had actually given him an idea – a proposal that had the potential to not only put him back in the good books but shoot him all the way to the top. It was risky, and he may have to bide his time until things turned a little more in their favour. But the Senator was a man who demanded all or nothing. No compromises, no second bests.
‘Well, okay then,’ he said aloud. ‘Let’s give the man what he wants. No compromise. No halfway. Let’s put this woman away for good.’
David turned off the tape, sat forward on the well-worn vinyl chair, placed his hands on his knees and looked across at Rayna. She was smiling.
‘I am so proud of her.’
‘You should be,’ he s
aid. ‘But I’m afraid her version doesn’t give us confirmation of the conversation.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I just thought she might have?
‘Lied?’
‘Yes.’
‘She did.’
‘Oh.’
She smiled again. ‘Well, I suppose that just means she’ll go to any lengths to protect me so I am just as proud.’
‘Like I said.’
They had been at it all day, going over every single detail. Cross-referencing Rayna’s account with Mariah’s and finally with the additional information most recently supplied by Teesha. They talked about the Asian couple – Rayna had not seen them – and what they may or may not have witnessed and David told her how he and Sara planned to drive up to Gloucester and stay for the weekend, to see if they could track down any contact information on the mysterious holidaying pair.
Next they talked about Teesha’s account of what occurred at the funeral – her altercation with Elizabeth Haynes, and the subsequent frenzy.
‘I feel so responsible for all of this. Teesha is a strong, bright girl but what happened at that funeral was nothing short of humiliating.’
They sat in silence for a moment before Rayna looked up, a puzzled look on her face.
‘What is it?’ David asked.
‘Something Teesha said about Mrs Haynes – her skirt. She said her charm bracelet – it was too big for her, it caught on a thread. Teesha loves that bracelet, never takes it off. There are four bracelets in all. Teesha has one, Francie, Mariah and Christina have the other three. They are quite chunky, with thick links and lots of dangling charms.
‘Anyway, Christina is smaller than the other three, she wears – I mean wore – hers on her ankle, as an anklet. It would jingle when she walked. Teesha told me her parents hated it, thought it was crass. She had it on that day. On her ankle, I’m sure of it. But I don’t remember seeing it later, after she—’
‘It must have come off in the water,’ said David, not sure where this was going, but sensing it may be something significant.
