by Sydney Bauer
‘No sir. I didn’t interview anyone at AACSAM. From memory, the story mentioned about twenty-five organisations. It was more a list than an article. I wasn’t much of a writer back then, Judge.’ This brought laughs from the rest of the jury pool.
‘Mr Cavanaugh?’
‘We have no problem with this juror, Your Honour.’ David glanced at Arthur, the guy was perfect.
‘Ms Scaturro,’ said Stein, ‘I tend to agree with the defence. So unless you are willing to use one of your peremptory challenges.’
Scaturro bent down and whispered something to Katz.
‘Yes, Your Honour. The Commonwealth would like to strike this juror from the panel due to the possible pre-disposed opinions regarding the defendant’s place of employment.’
‘Never mind he happens to be black,’ whispered Sara to David.
‘All right then, Mr Dale, I thank you for attending today. You are free to go.’
And with that David’s ‘perfect’ juror walked down the aisle of the Suffolk County Superior Court Number Seventeen, and out the back door.
Juror number 22 was Nancy Pirot, a forty-one-year-old widow from Boston’s affluent South End. Mrs Pirot had two sons – one in junior high and the other about to travel to Germany on a senior high school student exchange program. She was a trained accountant and, since the death of her husband in a car accident five years ago, had set up her own small accounting firm at home, providing a bookkeeping service for small local businesses.
The prosecution liked her but were worried her status as a widowed mother might see her feel some affinity with the defendant. Katz approached her.
‘Mrs Pirot, thanks for being here today, we can imagine how busy you are raising two boys, running your own business.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Pirot. ‘We do just fine, thank you.’
‘Can’t be easy for a working mom though.’
‘Nonsense,’ again. ‘With all due respect to my late husband, my business has flourished in the last five years and I get to work from home, see my sons every day.’
‘Best of both worlds.’
‘Exactly. The poor widow argument just doesn’t wash with me, Mr Katz. You make your own happiness in this world.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Pirot.’
‘That’s Ms Pirot.’
‘Forgive me, Ms Pirot. We have no problem with this juror, Your Honour.’
Stein nodded at David but it was Arthur’s turn to approach the potential juror.
‘Germany eh? It’s great opportunity for your son,’ began Arthur.
‘Yes, Mr Wright.’ The woman had been listening. She remembered all of their names.
‘Hard on you though. You’ll miss him.’ Arthur was concerned Ms Pirot, who was about to send her son into the arms of a student exchange family in Germany, may feel some animosity towards Rayna whose responsibility it was, back on that fateful day in early May, to care for three teenagers who were not her own.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But, I have spoken at length with his sponsor family and have studied their student exchange information documentation. I am confident he will be well looked after.’
‘Thank you, Ms Pirot.’
Arthur went back to speak with David and Sara. He was worried about this one. They had already used one peremptory challenge to strike a white, forty-six-year-old mother of twin twelve-year-old girls from Back Bay, and there were forty-odd more prospective jurors to go.
‘I don’t like her,’ said Arthur.
‘Neither do I but if we strike her, that only leaves us one more challenge and it’s too early.’
‘I’m with David,’ said Sara. ‘She has sons not daughters, she seems more logical than emotional. It could be worse.’
‘Okay, two against three,’ said Arthur who turned to Stein.
‘We have no problem with this juror, Your Honour.’
And with that Nancy Pirot became The State of Massachusetts vs Martin juror number 5.
34
‘I don’t even know what it means. I hate to say it, but this could all be a waste of time.’
Rayna looked exhausted. It was late and the four of them sat in interview room three – the two women with their shoes off, the two men with their ties loosened.
‘Rayna,’ said Sara. ‘It’s a start. You’ve only had a few sessions. You told me yourself that hypnotherapy takes time.’
‘Which we don’t have,’ said Rayna.
Rayna’s latest session had revealed a memory of dull background noise just as Christina had reached the cruiser. She recalled straining to hear Christina over the din that she felt ‘came from above’.
‘It could only have been a light aircraft or helicopter,’ said Sara.
‘Yes, but what difference does it make?’ said Rayna. ‘Hearing the aircraft is one thing, seeing it is another. We have zero chance of working out what it was and even less of a chance of finding a miracle witness in the sky.’
‘Unless . . .’ said David. ‘Unless it was the same pilot who dropped off the Satos.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Sara. ‘Their tour involved a morning drop off and late afternoon pick up. The timing is off. Maybe, if we could find the Satos . . .’
‘We might have some witnesses with their feet on the ground,’ he finished.
David was frustrated, as was everyone else in the room. The past three days had seen seven jurors selected and so far the pool was looking very pro-State. Five of the seven were women and all were white except for an elderly Hispanic postal worker named Jose Renderra. David would be giving his opening statement in less than a week and at this point was cursing himself for his rash ‘1 July’ strategy.
‘This is all my fault. If I hadn’t have asked for such an early date.’
‘Don’t,’ said Rayna. ‘It was my call.’
‘Come on now,’ said Arthur. ‘Regrets will get us nowhere. I’ll bet the Kat would like a couple of extra weeks too.’
But they all knew the scales of law, like anything else, could be tipped one way or another by that unpredictable element known as luck. Right now the prosecution were riding a high and probably celebrating. Hell, they would be ecstatic about going into trial with such a judicial and popular lead.
‘All right, let’s all get some sleep,’ said Arthur. ‘Tomorrow will be a better day. I can feel it.’
35
Foley Tibbs was a twenty-two-year-old mathematics major at Harvard. He was African–American, born and bred in Memphis, the fifth child of George Tibbs, a part-time taxi-driver/building super/handyman and his wife, Beatrice, a home-maker and part-time seamstress.
‘First up,’ said Foley as soon as he was sworn in. ‘I want to . . . beeeep, beeeeeep.’
‘Mr Tibbs,’ said Stein covering his ears, ‘you do not have to lean so close into the microphone. It will pick up your voice if you just sit back comfortably. That’s it.’
‘Okay, cool, sorry, anyway, Mr Judge Sir, I just wanna say sorry for bein’ late. You see the bean heads had a keg party last night and I . . .’
‘The bean heads?’ said Stein unable to resist.
‘Ah, yeah, the accounting majors. Anyways, it was a big night and I slept past my alarm and I am sorry for holdin’ people up.’
Foley smiled and the whole courtroom smiled with him. David liked him immediately – not just because he started the day on such a bright note, but because he was their first ‘ideal potential juror’ to appear before the court in days.
After a few preliminary questions from Stein, Katz approached the witness box.
‘Mr Tibbs.’
‘’sup.’
Katz was pre-judging this one already, David could see it and he stifled another smile.
‘Mr Tibbs,’ he repeated. ‘How long have you lived in Boston?’
‘Four years. I got myself a scholarship to Harvard fresh outta high school. Been livin’ on campus ever since.’
‘Do you read the newspapers, Mr Tibbs, watch the TV news.’ The question was actually very condescen
ding and David noticed Scaturro squirm in her seat.
‘Yes Sir, when I can that is. Life’s pretty full on right now – classes, study, partaaays,’ he smiled.
‘I’m sure. So you believe, given what you have read or heard about this case, that you could assess the evidence without bias or . . .’
‘Oh sure,’ Foley interrupted. ‘I would let the numbers fall and then I’d make my call.’ He said this rhyme with a rap-like rhythm.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The numbers, Mr Prosecutor Sir. Life all comes down to numbers: the click o’ my dad’s taxi metre, the mark on my latest exam, the probability of a crime bein’ committed, the likelihood of the defendant being the bad guy.’
‘This is a murder trial, Mr Tibbs, not a calculus class.’
‘No Sir, but I can see you’re a numbers man, Mr Prosecutor, just by lookin’ at you.’
‘How so?’ said Katz, now looking at Stein as if to say ‘Oh Pleease’.
‘That suit you’re wearin’, cost you a pretty penny. It says “I got more dollars than most o’ you in this courtroom”. You dress to impress dude, and that’s all about the numbers.’
The entire room started laughing, even Scaturro could not hide her amusement.
‘All right, all right,’ said Stein, calling for order. ‘Mr Katz, is this almost over, we haven’t got all day.’
‘Ah,’ said Katz who had totally lost his train of thought but decided this young freak was no threat to the Commonwealth. Hell, they knew they had to let some blacks through the cracks, and this idiot was probably the best they were going to get. He looked at Scaturro and she nodded in agreement.
‘We have no objection to Mr Tibbs, Your Honour,’ said Katz.
‘Mr Cavanaugh?’ said Stein.
‘No objection, your Honour.’
‘Thank you, Mr Tibbs, you are welcomed as juror number eight. Please take a seat up in the stalls with the other members of the jury and we’ll address you all very soon.’
‘Cool,’ said Foley Tibbs.
‘Indeed,’ said Stein.
This was a rare meeting. Vince Verne had entered Highgrove through the rear gardens and gone completely unnoticed, blending into the background amongst a sea of caterers, gardeners and event organisers who were busy setting up for tomorrow night’s festivities.
‘Vincent,’ said Elizabeth, taking him in her arms. ‘It has been too long.’
Elizabeth had obviously seen him approaching through the shadows of the back garden and gone to meet him at the large glass patio doors before her husband emerged from the library.
‘Thank you, Ma’am. I don’t think I’ve actually had the opportunity to say how sorry I am for your loss.’
‘I know you are, Vincent, and I thank you for being there for Rudolph. He needs you. We both do.’
‘Anything I can do, Ma’am, anything at all.’
‘I know, Vincent. I promise I will ask if something arises.’
‘There you are,’ said Haynes emerging from the hallway.
He noticed Elizabeth still holding onto Verne’s elbow and it made him uncomfortable. It was not that he did not see Verne as a valuable asset to the family, just that he was more comfortable with Verne remaining in the background, away from close contact. One of the reasons their relationship had been so successful was because they kept their distance. This meeting was a risk, but given the press had taken to following Haynes’ movements it seemed easier and safer to bring Vince into the ‘circus’ that was the house and its grounds whilst there was so much going on.
‘Can I organise some refreshments,’ said Elizabeth.
‘We’ll be fine. Thank you, dear. I think Ms De Bois was asking for you.’
‘Oh, yes, all right. It was lovely to see you, Vincent.’
‘Likewise, Ma’am. Thank you.’
And with that they went into the library and shut the door.
‘You’re all set then?’ asked the Senator, moving towards the back of the room to release the rear window curtains.
‘Yes, I check in first thing tomorrow.’
‘You don’t have to check in. I told you . . .’
‘I know,’ Verne replied. ‘I have the key card. Straight to the room.’
‘I have arranged a special car for you. It will be parked on level B2 space 31. The keys will be left in your room, top left-hand side desk drawer behind the Bible. I want you here at seven. No later. I don’t want to see you all night.’
‘No problem.’
‘It is highly unlikely you will be needed,’ said Haynes, now pacing. ‘This is just a precaution.’
‘Understood,’ said Verne, standing stock still in the middle of the room as Haynes moved around him.
‘I’ll be very busy over the next thirty-six hours and I do not want to call you at the hotel, so if there are any further instructions I will send them via messenger.’
‘Yes Sir.’
‘Don’t use the hotel phone.’
‘No Sir.’
‘And take all the usual precautions.’
Haynes knew there was no need to say these things but for some reason, tonight, he sought comfort in clarification.
They paused as he went back to the window and pulled the curtains aside slightly to see the large white marquee rise into the air like a circus tent, promising a night of magic and enchantment. In twenty-four hours it would be draped with fairy lights, the five peaks’ boosting poles flying five American flags.
‘What about Banks?’ Haynes said, dropping the drapes back into place.
‘He’s still asking questions but I don’t think he’s getting very far.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Smart, experienced, respected – a potential problem,’ answered Verne.
‘I don’t need this the week before the trial.’
‘No sir. Do you want me to . . . ?’
‘Let me think on it.’
‘Yes Sir.’ And then Verne, sensing their meeting was over and knowing never to outstay his welcome, turned to leave – but stopped at the door to say one more thing. ‘Congratulations Sir.’
‘What? What for?’
‘The fifty years, Sir.’
And there it was. Haynes realised tomorrow night he would be the guest of honour at a banquet celebrating a milestone so few had reached. It truly was an honour. He was an American institution. But she had stolen that from him too – the joy, the pride, the gratification he should be feeling at a time like this. He hated her. No question. He hated her and he hated her daughter and he hated her brother-in-law and her uncouth sister and everything they stood for.
‘Thank you, Vincent,’ he said, before moving forward to shake Vincent’s hand. And in that moment, as their palms met in a tight grip of understanding they made a silent vow to make it right.
36
The shrill of his bedside telephone rang long, shrill and loud.
Damn it!
Who could be calling this late? David was so tired he woke thinking he had only been asleep for ten minutes, when in fact he had crashed at midnight and now saw his clock radio blink a bright red 6.05am.
Last night had been rough.
Sam and Con had found no hard evidence that Petri was dirty, and Susan Leigh’s biggest crime seemed to be her relentless ambition to reach Commissioner by her twenty-sixth birthday. David had tried Ed Washington again with no luck, ditto with Tommy Wu and he hadn’t spoken to Joe Mannix since their drink at the bar over a week ago.
‘Who is it?’ he croaked down the phone.
‘And good morning to you too.’
‘Marc,’ David sat up, Marc Rigotti’s voice breathing life and hope into his morning.
‘We found them.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Sato Kyoji is a thirty-one-year-old quality controller who works for Coca Cola. He is based in their Tokyo office. His wife Yoke is a research assistant at Coca Cola – that’s how they met. They’ve been married for three years and she is
seven months pregnant with their first child. Both speak English, although his is a lot better than hers. Two months ago he was in New York for a conference at Coke’s NY office. From there the couple hired a car, drove to Boston, stayed a few days and then went up to Cape Ann for the weekend before flying home.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’
‘Only briefly. I gotta be careful here, David. I’m meant to be neutral remember.’
‘I know, Marc. I’m sorry.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘No. I’m not.’ They both laughed.
‘So that’s the good news, you wanna know the bad?’
‘Knew this was going too well. Hit me.’
‘There is none. Just pulling your chain. This must be your lucky day. Mr Sato makes regular trips to the US. He says he is open to assisting you, but he needs to speak with you personally, find out more about the case and how, if at all, he can help. I’ve got his number. You can call him, set it up.’
‘Of course but Marc, did he tell you . . . ?’
‘Listen here, buddy. It took every inch of my professional restraint not to interview him then and there, but he’s kind of a gentle-mannered dude, and I didn’t want to scare him off.’
‘But . . .’
‘But, if it was my call, I’d say you had some bona fide witnesses on your hands.’
‘Marc, you are a legend.’
‘I know, mild-mannered reporter by day, legend by night. By the way, you owe Ricky Suma from the Japan Times a case of Veuve.’
‘No problem.’
‘And a case of black label Walker for me.’
‘Goes without saying.’
‘And a case of that Guinness crap for Joe Mannix.’
‘What?’
‘Mannix. If it weren’t for him I would never had found them.’
‘How . . . ?’
‘I thought you knew. I mean, I assumed you asked him to call me. He was the one who tracked down the Satos on the police web. Turns out Kyoji has a few traffic violations, nothing serious, but Joe found him, called me back and I sent Ricky around for a chat.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Well, in any case, you owe him.’
