Undertow

by Sydney Bauer

‘Okay, help me out here,’ he went on. ‘How much time elapsed between when Rayna lost sight of the girls and when she saw Christina near the cruiser?’

  ‘Ah, ten, fifteen minutes max,’ said David.

  ‘Right, so in that time the girls down a drink or two, capsize the boat and then Christina makes the swim.’

  ‘Right,’ said David.

  ‘So, those cuts on her ankle, they took time to procure. She must have tugged at those nets until she bled, till her skin was raw, poor kid. Just like the rabbit and the dog except she also had to struggle to keep her head above water.’

  ‘So,’ said David, now following his lead. ‘That struggle had to happen after Rayna left her simply because there was no time for it to happen beforehand.’

  ‘If the autopsy report is accurate, and you have to assume it is, those cuts took at least five minutes to procure. Ask your Coroner, I am sure they would agree. The human body don’t lie,’ said Ewan.

  ‘He’s right,’ said David, looking at Sara.

  ‘Ewan,’ said Sara. ‘You’re a genius.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Ewan. ‘But I once cured a twenty-year-old turtle of depression, and that was pretty cool.’

  Three hours later Ewan had retired to a makeshift divan on the top deck. He had offered to bunk under the stars giving the two below-deck quarters to David and Sara.

  The pair were now sitting at the back of the yacht, their feet dangling over the edge, the water lapping peacefully against the hull and the moon providing enough light for them to see each other’s faces.

  ‘They hurt, don’t they?’ said David.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your feet. They hurt.’

  ‘They do not.’

  ‘Yes they do. Those shoes cost you a fortune and you won’t admit that they cut off your circulation.’

  ‘Well,’ she smiled, ‘maybe just a little.’

  They sat in silence for a minute longer, looking at the stars, enjoying the peace, and David noted that despite the fact they had spent many working hours alone together over the past weeks, tonight felt ‘different’. Maybe it was the moonlight setting, or the fact that their investigations were finally getting somewhere, but whatever the case he knew the growing attraction he felt towards Sara was becoming more and more difficult to suppress. Just sitting next to her made him want to lean across and kiss her, to run his hands through her hair, to feel her breath against his skin. It took all of his strength not to turn to her and tell her how much he wanted her – the only compensation being a sense of hope that she felt the same way.

  ‘More wine,’ he said at last.

  ‘No, thanks,’ she smiled.

  ‘Big day.’

  ‘Yeah, we got lucky. Feels good.’

  ‘Finding the Satos won’t be easy,’ he went on, trying to get his thoughts back on track. ‘They are probably back in Tokyo by now.’

  ‘We just have to pray the details on the card are enough.’

  The Satos had completed a registration card when they booked the helicopter tour. Their names were in English but the information under address was limited to one or two words and written in Japanese. It appeared as though they may be from Tokyo, but they planned to find a translator as soon as possible, and hoped there was enough detail to give them solid contact information.

  ‘It’s incredible out here at night,’ Sara said, looking upwards, her long neck stretching gracefully, her profile a perfect silhouette against the reflected moonlight which bounced off the water and softened as it dispersed upwards towards her face.

  ‘Incredible,’ he said looking at her.

  ‘It’s strange isn’t it, that Christina’s death has resulted in us being here in this beautiful place. I almost feel guilty.’ She turned to face him then, her eyes a brilliant blue.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said, his fingertips now resting against hers, their slightest touch providing a mixture of comfort and exhilaration. ‘There is nothing we could have done.’

  They sat in silence for a while, their fingers now entwined, listening to the soothing sound of the water, cooled by the slight breeze which had finally arrived to temper the memory of the day’s summer sun. David had no idea how he managed to ‘leave it at that’, but realised that as much as he wanted to make love to Sara right then and there, he wanted her to want it more – and if that meant waiting until this trial was over, then so be it.

  ‘Timing is everything,’ she said at last, as if reading his mind.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, you know, we all stumble through life trying to get it right – pacing things, making decisions, forming priorities, influencing our so-called fate. Sometimes I think we can be too cautious. Sometimes I just think we should say ‘what the hell’.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he said. And he did.

  ‘I was thinking tonight, how the small decisions we make can change everything,’ she said. ‘I mean, if Christina hadn’t argued with her parents, not gone to the party, not worn that bracelet on her ankle . . . if she had obeyed them she would still be alive.’

  ‘Yes, but she was reaching a stage in her life where she was questioning their beliefs. She was filled with idealism and stifled by their narrow-mindedness, she was on her way to breaking out.’

  ‘You think so?’ she said.

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want you to think I am some sort of pessimist and I don’t want to dampen your positive perspective on life. I think that is what I like most about you.’ She smiled at him as she said this. ‘But you don’t just break away from being a Haynes. She would have gone through her idealistic teenage years, given her parents a few headaches, caused them a few sleepless nights. But she would have come back into the fold, probably gone to Harvard, studied law, attended country club parties, married a nice white Ivy League boy. And most likely, her three friends would be nothing more than names with addresses she sent Christmas cards to each December.’

  25

  The weather had turned. The sky was grey and the wind fresh with a light rain kissing the water’s surface making millions of dissolving concentric circles. They had set sail after breakfast, heading north up the Annisquam to Ipswich Bay and then west towards Castle Neck Peninsula. They took it slowly, retracing Rayna’s voyage, willing to wait until the tide was low enough for them to re-create the events of 4 May.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Ewan.

  ‘Almost two,’ said David.

  ‘I think this is as low as it’s gonna get today.’

  The conditions were vastly different from those on the day of the accident but they wanted to see if the old fishing nets were visible beneath the choppy surface.

  ‘I can’t see a thing,’ said Sara pulling the hood of her white sailing jacket over her head.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Ewan. ‘The swell is lifting the sand and silt off the seabed floor. Visibility is zero.’

  ‘Ewan,’ said David. ‘You mentioned there were some snorkels and masks on board.’

  ‘Sure are.’

  ‘It’s probably freezing in there,’ said Sara.

  ‘Actually,’ said Ewan. ‘It’s not too bad, probably about 70 degrees.’

  ‘Well?’ said David.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ said Ewan, already pulling his windcheater over his head.

  For a big man, Ewan was very agile. He wore swim shorts and a wetsuit vest and handed David a ‘short john’ or sleeveless wetsuit. David stripped down to his shorts, pulling the wetsuit up and over his shoulders. Sara zipped him at the back and he pulled the snorkel and mask over his head.

  ‘Here goes nothing,’ he said as they jumped over the side.

  They swam out from the yacht, disturbing the pretty patterns made by the rain with strong determined strokes. Sara could not help but feel anxious as she watched them swim further away. She knew this was where Christina had lost her life and felt an illogical desire to scream for David to get back on board. For the next thirty min
utes she watched them snorkel, dive and swim – every now and again shouting and signalling to one another – the wind and rain making it impossible for her to hear what they were saying. As they turned back towards the yacht, Sara grabbed two large beach towels ready to hand to them as they climbed back on board.

  ‘Thanks,’ said David. ‘Ewan lied about the temperature being comfortable.’

  ‘Ah, come on,’ smiled Ewan. ‘It wasn’t so bad.’

  ‘Cut it out you two. Just tell me what you saw.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said David. ‘It’s the nets . . . they’re everywhere.’

  ‘One big fat tangled mess down there,’ confirmed Ewan.

  ‘And they are just below the surface,’ said David. ‘My feet got caught a few times, had to shake them loose. If her anklet was caught, even trying to undo the clasp would have been close to impossible. Especially for a panicked teenager who had had a few drinks.’

  ‘You were right then,’ said Sara.

  ‘No question,’ said David. ‘It’s like net soup out there. Once she was caught, Christina didn’t stand a chance.’

  26

  ‘So why now?’

  David and his journalist friend Marc Rigotti had just been served two cold beers after sitting in the far corner of Bristow’s Bar and Steakhouse, a small but popular downtown bar with a predictable but satisfying menu of grills, all served with a generous serving of chunky-style French fries and crisp green salad.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Rigotti, obviously knowing exactly what David meant.

  ‘Come, on Marc. That editorial was a probing mission. You were trying to get a reaction and my guess is, you got it.’

  ‘You’re here aren’t you?’

  ‘Exactly. And I would imagine there was a similar perhaps more spirited response from the opposing team?’

  If this was a question, Rigotti’s only answer was a shrug.

  ‘Okay,’ said David, knowing the gesture itself meant Rigotti had had to deflect a few swipes from the State. ‘But you still haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I thought I was the one who was supposed to be asking the questions.’

  David threw up his hands in frustration.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Rigotti, obviously knowing when he had reached his limit. ‘You wanna know why now?’

  Marc was a born and bred New Yorker and his accent betrayed him. He had that sharp edge they bred in the Big Apple, that brazenness that comes from growing up in the world’s biggest metropolis and knowing it. David had known the Tribune’s legal writer for years and they had always been straight with each other.

  ‘I have a source,’ he began. ‘Not necessarily a willing one . . . more, shall we say, a person who gave me some information freely without realising its significance.’

  ‘Okay,’ David was anxious to hear more.

  ‘This source didn’t so much tell me anything of note, more suggested a certain chain of events had taken place – that he was steered in a certain direction by someone with certain interests and now things were out of his control.’

  ‘And these events are detrimental to my client?’

  ‘Ah . . .’

  David knew Marc had to be careful, he would be mindful of his obligation as a journalist to protect his sources and know he was walking a fine line here.

  ‘Let’s just say my editorial, the issues in it, were prompted by a conversation with the said source.’

  ‘The hate thing is a set-up,’ said David.

  ‘Well, one would think your team would have carried that opinion from the very beginning.’

  ‘Yes, but we need proof that the charge of murder two is bullshit. Hell, involuntary man is bullshit. From what you wrote, I’d say we were of same mind regarding the motives of the prosecution, or rather, who is driving them.’

  ‘My opinion doesn’t count.’

  ‘But your readers’ opinions do. Whether we like it or not, the public is going to have a big effect on this trial.’

  ‘I thought you were trying to prevent that, keep it simple. Isn’t that why you haven’t returned my calls?’

  ‘Yes, but that was before you set the cat amongst the pigeons,’ said David.

  ‘I didn’t do it for you.’

  ‘Hey, you really know how to hurt a guy. So why?’

  ‘Because I’m a sap. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t written it. Nothing pisses me off more than watching our so-called democratic system of justice screw itself and some poor innocent bastard in the process.’

  ‘My point exactly,’ said David. ‘You want your story, you’ll have it. The first post trial interview with Rayna Martin guaranteed.’

  ‘And updates during the trial.’

  ‘Okay, but within legal reason.’

  ‘All right. So what’s the catch?’

  ‘No catch, just an opportunity,’ David replied. ‘You say you want to make sure an innocent person doesn’t get screwed, well, I’m giving you the chance to help.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I need to find a man and his wife.’

  ‘You have a name?’ Marc fished for his notepad.

  ‘Yes. It’s Sato. S-A-T-O.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Sure,’ David had to stifle a laugh. ‘They could still be holidaying somewhere along the eastern seaboard, or be back home.’

  ‘And home is . . . ?’

  ‘Tokyo.’

  Rigotti looked up, his face saying it all.

  ‘You want me to find two people in a city of thirteen million?’

  ‘Yeah. And Marc, I need you to find them now.’

  27

  As Roger Katz shut his office door to show himself out (was it his imagination or had he actually backed out of the room with his head slightly bowed?), Rudolph Haynes could not help but smile. He looked at his watch. It was still early and he had at least another half hour before Louise and the rest of his staff rattled in to add their usual list of irrelevant items to his already cluttered agenda. His idea was actually quite remarkable – very confident, extremely bold. Katz wanted to go for all or nothing. He wanted to strike the count of involuntary manslaughter. He wanted to go for murder two and murder two alone.

  Haynes stood up, out of his chair, pulled back the navy blue drapes and looked out of his sun-drenched high-rise windows, surveying his city, his small ant-like subjects scurrying obediently below. He had to admit, the idea excited him. It had been a horrible week and this audacious, ambitious suggestion had sent a rush of adrenaline through his veins. Careful, he chided himself. He had to think this through. He took his seat again, closing his eyes, clearing his brain.

  Part of the thought process, when considering any new variation to his plan, was to reflect upon the strategies of the ‘greats’ – warriors like Alexander, Khan, Bonaparte, Nelson, Patton and Macarthur. Their philosophies often helped clarify his thoughts, guide his line of approach and ultimately, strengthen his resolve . . . but of course, none of them came close to Caesar. Gaius Julius Caesar was the greatest of them all, not because he won more battles, which he did, but because of his all-round brilliance and his, dare he think it, similarities to Haynes himself.

  Caesar lost his beloved father at sixteen. Haynes was only twenty-three when his father died. Caesar was tall and fair and well built, a remarkable resemblance to the Senator himself. Caesar was a brilliant lawyer, with rich and powerful clients. He studied rhetoric at Rhodes and became a first class public speaker. He mastered the art of politics, culminating in his receiving the highest political honour the Roman State could offer at the very young age of thirty-nine – the same age at which Haynes himself was first elected a US Senator. He possessed great magnetism, personal charm, masterful wit and above all, led tens of thousands of loyal soldiers into battle, defeating millions and expanding the Roman Empire to include a landscape so vast that no one in history would ever be able to compare.

  And so to Caesar. What would the great Roman Empero
r think of Katz’s suggestion?

  Caesar once said: ‘I would rather be first in a little Iberian village than second in Rome.’ Meaning winning was everything, there was no room for second best. A conviction on the lesser sentence may be a conviction, but it would still be a defeat.

  He also said: ‘Men freely believe that which they wish to be the truth.’ Men in general were a feeble race who would rather entertain an ‘acceptable’ notion to that which was more abhorrent but closer to the truth. Katz in fact had made this point. He quite rightly pointed out that involuntary manslaughter gave the jury an out. If the jury were so abhorred by the Martin woman’s actions that they preferred not to believe a woman could murder a teenager because of her skin colour, they could subconsciously defer to the charge of involuntary manslaughter simply because it sat easier with their idealistic view of what the world should be. With only one charge to choose from, the jury would have to convict on second degree murder, for they could not allow the murder of an innocent teenage girl to go unpunished.

  Caesar also said: ‘He has not learned the lesson of life who does not every day surmount a fear.’ Right again. There was no challenge without fear. The risk made the victory all the sweeter. This was the part that Katz had liked the best. The abolition of the count of involuntary manslaughter meant there was only one alternative, and one sentence. When found guilty, Rayna Martin would be sentenced to life without parole and Katz would be the man who put her there, demolishing Cavanaugh’s career in the process.

  It was interesting how Scaturro barely entered the conversation. But then, she was digging her own grave with her lack of dedication to the cause. She would be gone by the end of the year, replaced by her second-in-command, and Haynes would have the new DA tucked neatly in his pocket. Perfect.

  He smiled slightly at this thought before refocusing on the issue at hand. They would have to time this correctly and file the motion at just the right moment. Katz was right, they needed a swing back in their favour. They needed the public back in their camp and this would be Katz’s immediate priority. Once this was achieved, they could file the motion just prior to jury selection, catching the defence on the hop. In the meantime, Cavanaugh and his team could use a few more obstacles in their course.