Undertow

by Sydney Bauer

  David steadied himself on Katz desk and looked straight into his eyes. He hated to admit it, but his face was a blank.

  In that instant he realised the ADA had no idea what he was talking about. Then he saw something register in Katz’ eyes. He was thinking the same thing – it had to be.

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ Loretta Scaturro pushed past the crowd huddled in the doorway and bounded into the ADA’s office. ‘Shut up both of you and turn on TBS now.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just do it, Roger. Turn it on. Turn on Newsline.’

  Katz fumbled for his remote and flicked on the TV, and then the three of them stood there in silence, in disbelief, in shock.

  There was Caroline Croft, super-imposed in front of artwork depicting a vibrant Christina Haynes. Introducing the story as an ‘exclusive’, stressing that this was not only the first interview with Mrs Elizabeth Haynes, but also the first time one of the principals affected by the case had spoken to the media.

  She went on to give the background to the story: the details of the charge, the motive of hate, the effect the case was having on the city of Boston and the country as a whole. Then, after giving the obligatory narrative on the Haynes and their standing in society, she threw to the interview, which she explained was recorded very recently at the Haynes’ stunning estate in Chestnut Hill.

  It was sunny. Elizabeth Haynes sat in front of a rose bush, the pale pink flowers in full bloom. She wore pastel, with the lightest tinge of makeup on her face and the slightest glisten of grief in her eyes. Her hair was up in a soft French roll just like Grace Kelly, with the sun’s natural backlight forming a halo effect around her head. In short, Elizabeth Haynes looked saintly.

  Caroline Croft: Elizabeth, I think we can all appreciate how hard this must be for you and I want to thank you for speaking with us today.

  Elizabeth did not reply, just gave a slight nod and even slighter smile.

  CC: Let’s start at the beginning.

  Elizabeth Haynes: All right.

  CC: On the morning of Saturday 4 May, your daughter left the house to attend a birthday party for Layteesha Martin.

  EH: That’s right.

  CC: It was a sailing party and Rayna Martin, Teesha’s mother, was the sole parent responsible for four teenagers on the day. Did you know Mrs Martin?

  EH: Not really. I knew of her through Christina but she did not seem to be . . . she did not seem to be socially active with a lot of the other mothers I knew from Christina’s school.

  CC: Did you have concerns about Christina attending the party?

  EH: Yes. In fact, I had told Christina she could not attend. I felt the girls were too young to go sailing on their own outboard. On this particular morning we had a slight argument, as mothers and sixteen-year-old girls tend to do – nothing serious. And Christina left as an act of . . . I suppose you would say, teenage rebellion.

  CC: I am sure many parents would identify with that. What was the argument about?

  EH: Shopping. It sounds so ridiculous now. I wanted her to go shopping with me, so we could chose a dress for her to wear to my husband’s Honorary Banquet. She wanted to go to Teesha Martin’s party.

  CC: Given these circumstances, does this make it harder on you, knowing your last conversation was in the form of an altercation?

  EH: (pause) First of all, let me explain, there is no ‘harder’, there can be no ‘harder’. This is as hard as it gets, losing a child. Of course, I have pondered on this question, and the fact that our last morning together was spent squabbling over something as trivial as a party dress. But if I had allowed her to go to Teesha’s party, she would have gone with my permission and maybe, perhaps in that case, it would have felt slightly worse . . . if that is at all possible.

  CC: Why is that?

  EH: Because I would have been giving her my blessing to go to her death.

  Caroline went on to talk about Elizabeth’s initial reaction to the news of her daughter’s death (shock, disbelief, devastation), her husband’s love for his daughter (she was the light of his life), her horror at discovering the subsequent charge was race related (inconceivable) and her attempts to get through each subsequent day, before moving on to the funeral.

  CC: Elizabeth, we have all seen the pictures, read the conjecture, heard the gossip about what occurred at Christina’s funeral. Perhaps you can tell us what really happened between yourself and Teesha Martin.

  EH: Yes. (Elizabeth shifts slightly in her seat.) First allow me to say that I bear no ill feeling towards Teesha Martin. She was my daughter’s friend. What happened was not her fault. I feel for her under the circumstances.

  CC: Then how do you explain the reports that there was an altercation between you and Teesha at Christina’s funeral?

  EH: There was no altercation. Teesha came up to me to ask for forgiveness. She wanted me to know how sorry she was, how much she missed Christina. It was a distressing morning for me, as you can appreciate, so I am sorry if I was not perhaps as compassionate as I should have been.

  CC: Do you think she was speaking on behalf of her mother?

  EH: I do not know.

  CC: So what caused all the commotion?

  EH: The appearance of the defence team.

  CC: You are talking about Rayna Martin’s attorneys, David Cavanaugh and Sara Davis.

  EH: Yes. They went to approach my husband and the Assistant District Attorney, Mr Roger Katz, attempted to deter them.

  CC: Why were they at the funeral?

  EH: I have no idea. I still cannot fathom the insensitivity of their actions.

  From here they moved on to the motive of hate and the public interest in a race-related trial which was becoming as big as ‘OJ’ or ‘Rodney King’. Caroline asked how Elizabeth felt about such a motive.

  EH: As a human being, I cannot understand it. I cannot conceive such levels of intolerance.

  CC: You must be aware then that there has been some speculation, from pro-defence sectors, that perhaps you and your husband ‘exist’ in a racially limited social infrastructure, and perhaps the charge against Mrs Martin is fuelled by . . . shall we say, a racially limited perspective.

  If Elizabeth was shocked by the question she did not show it. All she did was lift her right hand to brush a wisp of hair from her forehead.

  EH: I have heard such rumours and in all honesty, find them ludicrous and hurtful. Firstly, my husband and I are not the prosecutors, we are the victims. We do not run the DA’s office and to suggest this is an insult to Loretta Scaturro who I believe to be a highly intelligent and capable attorney. Secondly, my husband has done so much for this city, this state . . . this country. He is a man of the highest integrity, a decent person, a wonderful husband, a doting father. Thirdly, I have spent many, many years involved with charitable organisations which assist minority groups. To say we are intolerant is both insulting and disappointing. (A pause.) We have been lucky in life, true, and perhaps such comments come from jealousy. But I do not understand why anyone would be jealous of us now. For we are in hell.

  CC: So, if you cannot conceive anyone committing murder based on racial intolerance, does this mean perhaps you hold doubts about Mrs Martin’s guilt.

  EH: Initially yes because, as you say, to me, the concept was unthinkable. I refused to believe a woman, a mother, could abandon another girl . . . leave her to die (she paused to let this sink in) just because her skin was a lighter colour than that of her own daughter and her daughter’s other friends. But (another pause), subsequent information has led me to believe otherwise.

  CC: Which brings us to a conversation we had this morning. Elizabeth, (Caroline tilted her head to the left, allowing her cropped blonde hair to fall over her shoulder, and paused for impact) just before we sat down here together, you told me you had discovered evidence, new evidence, that this crime was indeed motivated by hate.

  EH: Yes.

  CC: And this evidence comes from . . .

  EH: My daug
hter – Christina.

  CC: Elizabeth, once again I want you to know we understand how difficult this must be but . . . can you tell us how Christina ‘told’ you this, gave you this information, this message . . . I suppose it is from her grave? (Caroline had obviously decided it was time to build the drama to its emotional crescendo.)

  Elizabeth looked down into her lap, twisted her white hanky and then turned to pick up a small sheet of pink paper from the pretty round garden table beside her.

  EH: I found a letter in Christina’s bedroom drawer. It is a note she wrote to Teesha Martin. A birthday message. She must have written it only days before her . . . her passing.

  CC: Do you think you could read this letter for us, and perhaps shed some light on exactly what happened the day your daughter died?

  EH: Yes . . . I, I’ll try.

  Elizabeth straightened in her chair, took a breath and unfolded the delicate sheet of stationery. She took a pair of round reading glasses and placed them on the bridge of her petite nose.

  Dear Teesha

  Happy, Happy Birthday!!!!

  Can you believe we are turning 17 – seriously.

  We’ll be seniors in a few months. We’ll be going to the prom next year and doing our SATs (oh my God!) and then college . . . (can’t wait).

  I just wanted to say – about all the other stuff. PLEASE don’t worry about it. Parents can be weird sometimes. She gives me such a hard time – and there’s nothing you or I can do about it (I can’t change who I am . . . obviously) and it is NOT YOUR FAULT.

  That’s why it’s best I don’t come to your party – I can’t handle that ‘look’ anymore, you know what I mean? She doesn’t want me there in any case.

  Anyway, we’ll celebrate heaps more birthdays together and pig out on our own cake next week.

  Love, your friend forever,

  Cxxxxx

  CC: Elizabeth, you must realise the significance of this letter. It basically tells you Christina knew Mrs Martin did not like her and suggests the reasons for such dislike were based on race.

  EH: Yes.

  CC: But you have not handed this letter over to the DA?

  EH: I only found the letter very recently and I think, at first, I wanted to hold onto it because it was probably the last thing my daughter wrote. It was a letter she was sharing with her friend and I felt – I still feel to some degree – that it was her private business and unfair to her to make it public. (Elizabeth patted her eyes with the white hanky.) I was also concerned about what it would do to Teesha. She is only seventeen and has had a lot to deal with in recent weeks. I did not want to destroy another young life.

  David listened to this line and flinched; this woman was good and she scared the hell out of him. She didn’t just lie with ease but she did it with grace. Jesus, he thought, she is going to bury us.

  CC: But . . .

  EH: But I also appreciate its significance, that is why I speak of it today and why, after this interview goes to air, I will hand it over to the DA.

  CC: Finally, Elizabeth, is there anything, anything at all, that you want to say to Rayna Martin?

  EH: I . . . ah . . . It is strange. I have had dreams about coming face to face with her and in these dreams I am struck dumb as there are no words – no words to express . . . But I suppose I want to ask her why. Why my daughter, my beautiful, young, vibrant, clever, happy daughter?

  Elizabeth starts to cry freely.

  EH: I want to say . . . that I try . . . I have always tried to be a kind, understanding, generous person. I taught my daughter these values, and she carried them with dignity. But I am finding it very hard . . . so hard . . . to forgive her. Perhaps in time.

  CC: Elizabeth Haynes, thank you so much.

  Roger Katz, his right eye now starting to swell, the blood on his face now dry and cracking against the stretch of his smile, looked at David Cavanaugh and said just two words, ‘You’re screwed.’

  Tyrone and Delia Banks watched the program in Delia’s family room.

  ‘My God,’ said Delia, her body shaking.

  Tyrone put his arm around her and felt immense relief that Teesha was upstairs listening to her CDs, not that she wouldn’t have to deal with this tomorrow, and the next day.

  ‘That woman,’ he said. ‘She is . . .’

  ‘She’s a liar.’

  ‘Yes, but it is more than that. She is out for blood, Delia, and this is just the beginning.’

  Moses and Sofia Novelli sat on their living room couch together, their wine untouched.

  ‘Caroline . . . I have never trusted her,’ said Sofia. ‘She must have talked her into this. Poor Elizabeth.’

  ‘No, Sofia,’ Moses shook his head. ‘Elizabeth knows what she is doing. She is smarter than we give her credit for.’

  ‘I was right all along,’ said Ed Washington to his wife and daughter as they sat glued to the big screen TV in Ed’s billiards room. ‘That woman is a God-damned murderer.’

  Ed did not admit it to his family, but he was privately relieved at this latest revelation as it gave him an excuse to push all his recent fears and doubts to the back of his brain.

  ‘The Haynes are good, honest people – like us. They need our support. Decent people should stick together.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Harriet Washington, taking her daughter’s right hand in her own.

  ‘Amen,’ said her husband, taking his daughter’s left and consolidating the family bond.

  ‘Amen,’ said Francie Washington, simply because she could think of nothing else to say.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Rudolph Haynes had seen the story in all its ‘exclusive’ glory on his office TV. He had called home immediately and Agnes had told him his wife was in his study, waiting for him and, dare she say it, drinking his black label Bourbon. He made it home in a record fourteen minutes, running two red lights on the way.

  ‘Elizabeth.’

  ‘You’re here,’ she said, her face blank, her body strangely relaxed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You saw it then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you angry?’ she asked, without looking at him.

  ‘Yes. No. Yes. I am surprised. I am disappointed you did not tell me sooner.’

  ‘You would have forbade it. At least this way I did not disobey you.’

  ‘Elizabeth . . . The letter is a revelation, it is nothing short of brilliant, but you should have given it to me the minute you found it.’ He was wavering between anger and delight. True, he was furious she held this from him, but it was a major coup and just what they needed to turn the case their way. ‘I’ve called Scaturro, she is on her way here to pick up the letter personally.’

  ‘Fine.’ She took another long, slow sip of bourbon before speaking again.

  ‘Rudi.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take this.’

  She had something in her lap. There was the letter, he saw it there, the pink paper with (on closer examination) pretty perforated edges. But she discarded the letter and slowly handed him a book. It was white with a patent leather cover.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Her diary.’

  ‘What? You mean, there is more? Elizabeth, we can nail this woman to the wall. Katz has a plan and . . .’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she laughed, the Bourbon now slurring her speech and dulling her senses.

  ‘Read it,’ she said. ‘Read it and you will see . . . She wasn’t talking about the Martin woman, Rudi, she was talking about me, about us. Read it, Rudi, and see what your daughter really thought of you.’

  He took the book in his hand, the reality of his daughter’s words hitting him for the first time.

  ‘The funny thing is. I am not shocked or surprised even,’ she said ignoring her running nose, the flow of tears. ‘We were losing her, Rudi. She told us as much just before she ran out of this house. And it was not because she was growing up, although that was part of it. No, we were losing her because she was old enough to
see us as human beings rather than just her parents.’ She took another long, slow sip of the dark liquid before continuing, ‘And sadly, my dear, she did not like what she saw.’

  30

  Loretta Scaturro had learned a lot about herself in the past eighteen hours. All this time she had convinced herself that the reason she was so nervous was because her conscience, her sense of morality, saw her sickened by recent events and the part she had to play in them. This was true, but she was surprised to realise that, despite her desire to remain true to her convictions, she was not beyond ‘compromising’ such scruples when it came to protecting her career.

  Certainly her uneasiness had arisen from her ethical sense of responsibility but it was amazing how the definition of said responsibility could change when influenced by the dire need for self-preservation. She had been so terrified of losing this case – and what such a loss would do to her professional standing – that she was preparing herself for defeat by justifying it on the grounds of principle. She hated to admit it, but last night, when she saw her first real chance to win this thing, she felt good.

  I must not be so hard on myself, she thought. Winning is my job, it is what I am paid to do. Defence attorneys are paid in turn, to offer the alternative argument, and in the end the verdict lies with the jury.

  She had built her career on taking the higher moral ground, but the higher moral ground had always been a matter of conjecture. Much of the community would argue she was performing her duties with integrity and honour – fighting against the ugliness of bigotry, representing those too young or weak or in this case, too white or deceased to stand up for themselves. Bottom line, despite her own selfish internal skirmishes, she could come out of this looking better than ever. Especially now.

  So, as Judge Walter Fitzgerald, with new evidence in the form of the aforementioned letter in hand, passed their motion to strike the count of involuntary manslaughter and go for the single count of murder two, she decided to at least try to put her own views on the matter aside and uphold her legal responsibility as District Attorney. They had filed late Friday night, requesting an urgent hearing the following morning (it did not hurt that Judge Stein was at a legal conference in Washington on this particular weekend) so as to secure the strike prior to jury selection which began on Monday.