by Sydney Bauer
‘Thanks again, Marc.’
‘No problem. That’s just what we legends do.’
Sara had met Arthur in the lift on the way up to their now routine 7.30am pre-court briefing.
‘Feeling positive today, are we?’ smiled Sara at Nora as she walked past her desk and spotted the Screensaver of the day. ‘Faith Will Move Mountains’.
‘Truer words have ne’er been spoken,’ said Nora with a prophetic smile on her face.
‘Is he around?’
‘Here already. I think he came in directly from his morning run. Something tells me he has some news.’
Nora’s words got them moving into Arthur’s office where David was sitting behind his boss’ desk wearing a sweat shirt and running shorts.
‘Well?’ said Sara.
‘I just left my third message for Mr Sato Kyoji. He is in an all-day marketing conference at his office at Coca Cola Tokyo. His secretary said he was expecting my call and would get back to me asap.’
‘At last,’ said Arthur, throwing his worn old suitcase on the office sofa, a huge grin on his face. ‘Now don’t get too excited, we don’t know how much they saw.’ David’s brow started to furrow.
‘What is it?’ asked Arthur.
‘Well, I don’t want to appear ungrateful for any form of good news but to be honest I’m pretty pissed that you went to Joe without telling me. We discussed all that and I thought we agreed not to.’
David stole a glance at Sara, realising he had just admitted to deciding upon their stance with Joe without consulting her.
‘David, I have no idea what the hell you are talking about,’ said Arthur.
‘Come on, Arthur, Marc told me. It was Joe that found the Satos. He used the police web and cross-referenced with Rigotti and his man in Tokyo. I thought we agreed not to involve Joe any more than we needed to. He’s already stuck his neck out for us a number of times over the past few months.’
‘David, I can assure you I did not call Joe.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Sara. ‘It was me, okay. I called him.’
‘Sara,’ said David, ‘I can’t believe you did this. We’re a team and we make decisions as a group.’
He realised what he had said – he had just chastised her for doing exactly what he had been doing with Arthur all along. But it was too late. He could see the colour rising in her cheeks and braced himself for what was to come.
‘What?’ said Sara. ‘Do you know how hypocritical that sounds? I called him because I knew you wouldn’t and because we needed the help.’
‘You shouldn’t have made such a call without . . .’
‘Without what? Without asking your permission. I don’t work for you, David. I work for Rayna.’
‘Maybe so, but you should have spoken to us first.’
‘Is that so? Well why is it I get the feeling you and Arthur have been speaking about Joe but you have chosen not to include me? Anything else you been keeping from me David?’ Her look was cool, her voice on the rise.
David looked at Arthur. Taking his cue Arthur turned and asked Nora if she would help him with the coffee machine. She nodded, almost pulling him from the room and they left, shutting the door behind them.
The click of the lock acted as a starting gun, triggering a tide of emotion Sara and David had been suppressing for weeks. The accident, the charge, Katz, Tommy Wu, Paul Petri, Sara’s brother, David’s mother, Stacey Pepper, the letter, Haynes, what they almost did in David’s apartment over a month ago.
‘All right out with it,’ he said. ‘You have a problem with the way I am running things?’
‘Frankly, yes. I have sat here for the past eight weeks watching you play your ridiculous game of moral hopscotch, protecting me, protecting Joe, protecting your family. That’s all fine and good, you’ll get a front row seat in heaven David, but it don’t mean shit to Rayna Martin.
‘Rayna is our client – she is our number one priority, our only priority. You know that. I hate to say this, David, but Rayna’s biggest problem right now is you, because you have the talent to win this thing but you are unwilling to compromise your God-damned ideals to do it.
‘The point is, David, no matter how honourable that may be, it makes for crap counsel. The only good thing about it is that if we do lose, Rayna could file for appeal on the grounds of inadequate counsel because that’s what you are right now, inadequate.’
She took a breath, staring straight at him, as if willing him to respond, as if wanting him to shout back at her with all he had. They needed to yell, scream – they needed a physical release this last Friday before the trial began, before they walked that final mile that would carve out Rayna’s destiny and, in a way, their own.
‘Okay, Sara, you want the truth you got it. I am trying to protect you,’ he began, his fists clenched, his chest tight. ‘There it is. I’m guilty as charged. But maybe I can’t help it, and maybe you are the one who is losing out by not opening yourself up to something that could be.’
‘No, David. I don’t want to hear it. You can’t use that as an excuse. We both agreed we can’t go there until this is over. In the very least you should have had the decency to treat me as an equal.’
‘Fine, but you can’t have it both ways, Sara. You cannot stand there and accuse me of holding back on this case if you are unwilling to hear the reasons why. You can’t tell me you value the fact that I’m an idealist and then abuse me for upholding those ideals.
‘What do you want me to say?’ he moved towards the window, and then turned to face her before going on. ‘That you’re right? Well, you are right, Sara. Seems I am stupid enough to believe that justice should be served with dignity. Seems I am even crazier for wanting to protect a girl I . . .’ he stopped there, knowing she would want him to, and at that point, too afraid to hear what she might or might not say in return.
It took all of Sara’s willpower not to move across the room. But even if she did, she was not sure if she wanted to hit him or hold him. After what seemed like an eternity, she took five slow steps towards him, until they stood as close as they could without actually touching.
‘Okay,’ she said quietly, lowering her voice. ‘Point taken. But don’t you see, the reason I say all this is because of how I feel about you.’
‘You accuse me of being crap counsel because you have feelings for me?’
‘No . . . I mean yes. I want you to win this case, David, more than anything, and not just for Rayna or for Teesha or for me, but for you. You deserve this, but you will give it all away if you don’t stop worrying about me and Joe or anyone else for that matter. You must do whatever it takes, because I promise you, if you don’t, you will never forgive yourself.’
And so they took a seat on Arthur’s old leather couch, two feet and a million miles apart, and he told her everything. He told her about his guilt over the death of Stacey Pepper and how much he hated Katz; he told her about Joe’s warnings that night at Myrtle’s and of his fears for Tommy Wu and his family. He explained how he had asked Joe’s help with Tommy and how he had accused one of his most experienced detectives of dealing with the devil. And he told her how he lived each day in fear of what was going to happen next.
Just after morning break, Scaturro made a strategic mistake. She used her last peremptory challenge to strike a thirty-eight-year-old black paramedic named Benjamin Boone.
On face value, Boone was a perfect juror for the defence: single, no kids, with a job that taught him how to shut the door on emotion. But a background check by Arthur’s jury experts had revealed Benjamin had lost a brother to a boating accident twenty years ago, and this, teamed with the man’s obvious discomfort in a courtroom, made Arthur nervous. Thus they weren’t too distressed when Mr Boone speed-walked to the back courtroom door and even happier when the next prospective juror took the stand.
Amy Fae Basker was a bright and enthusiastic sixty-year-old widow. She had three children, six grandchildren and was a retired attorney who had served most
of her career in the family court. By all accounts Amy Fae had the ability to separate emotion from logic with the swiftness that only came from years of detachment necessary in her chosen profession. And the more Arthur questioned her, the more he liked her.
By this stage, Scaturro had realised she had made a serious mistake – and if she hadn’t, Katz’s glare would have told her. Her objections that Amy Fae’s previous profession would leave her with legal bias fell on deaf ears, and Mrs Basker was sworn in as juror number eleven – only the second African–American in the pool.
By mid-afternoon David had used his third and final challenge to veto a forty-one-year-old mother of two named Faith McGinty-Hill. McGinty-Hill, from Beacon Hill, was a wealthy home-maker who had listed her profession as ‘charity advisor’ and was cut from exactly the same fine silk as Elizabeth Whitman Haynes. She swore she did not know Mrs Haynes but David was certain their paths must have crossed at some time. She was bursting to get on the jury and took David’s challenge with all the distaste and disappointment her much practised decorum could not hide.
By 4.30pm all twelve jurors, and four alternates had been selected and Judge Stein took a full half hour explaining the weight of their responsibilities before thanking them in advance for their time and dedication.
At exactly 4.52pm the group of twelve (seven women and five men/nine white, two African–American and one Latin–American) and their four alternates (two women, two men/one white, two Latin–Americans, one African–American), stood, raised their right hands and were sworn in as jury members in the case of the State of Massachusetts vs Martin for the charge of second degree murder.
Bristow’s was unusually quiet for a Friday night, and the atmosphere uncharacteristically sombre. It was as if the mood of the four forlorn souls in the far back corner had bleached into their surroundings, daring any happy-go-lucky Friday night reveller to interfere with anything resembling a smile.
Four more,’ said Arthur, signalling the barman for beers.
They sat there in silence, all of them knowing the pool was a coup for the Commonwealth. Only two African–Americans in the twelve. Only two.
‘It could be worse,’ said Sara.
‘How exactly?’ asked David.
‘Well, at least the alternates are mostly minorities.’
More silence. Truth was, the use of alternates was rare, especially in high profile cases where the twelve became heavily involved in their duties.
‘We have the Satos,’ said Arthur.
‘We may have them,’ corrected David. Mr Sato had still not returned his call. ‘And we’re still not sure what they saw, if anything.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Tyrone. ‘I thought the banquet invitation list might be more fruitful but, let’s face it, I’ve been about as much use as a watering can in an inferno.’
‘That’s not true,’ said David. ‘It’s not your fault people are too frightened to be honest about him. Haynes might be the subject of gossip but, after the letter, no one is going to tell us.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Sara. ‘What did you just say?’
‘When? What? That it’s one thing to gossip, and another to go on the record.’
‘Right,’ she said again, putting down her beer, her eyes lighting up. ‘So tell me, where do people gossip?’
‘What?’
‘When they are with friends, co-workers, socialising,’ interrupted Tyrone. ‘When they are with people who move in the same crowd, share similar opinions.’
‘Exactly,’ said Sara. ‘Like at a social gathering for instance. A party, or a banquet.’
‘Sara.’ Arthur was reading Sara’s mind. ‘No. No way.’
‘We’d never get in,’ said David, a step ahead.
‘Yes we would.’ She was smiling now. ‘Arthur’s invitation, remember? It’s for two and it was transferable to other members of the firm if the principals could not attend.’
‘She’s right,’ said David.
‘No way,’ said Arthur again. ‘Are you insane? You’ll be arrested.’
‘It’s not trespassing if we were invited.’
‘You weren’t invited,’ said Arthur raising his voice.
‘Yes, but you were,’ smiled David.
‘The principals of my firm were invited as a matter of courtesy long before this thing erupted,’ countered Arthur. ‘Besides, I RSVP’d in the negative and I am sure they have a guest list on the door.’
‘An invitation’s an invitation,’ said David. ‘Worst case scenario I’ll claim they misread our RSVP. They’ll have security, but my guess is they’ll have been told to be discreet. There is no way Haynes would insult his colleagues by having bouncers on the door.’
‘What could you hope to achieve?’ asked Tyrone.
‘We go in knowing we will probably come out with nothing. No one is going to talk on the record, but we can stay low, listen to the gossip. Maybe pry a few details out of the champagne swilling masses, get some sort of lead.’
‘Come on, David,’ said Arthur. ‘Don’t you remember what happened at the funeral? It’s too risky. Joe will kill you.’
‘Joe will never know,’ said David.
‘Good Lord,’ said Tyrone now grinning from ear to ear. ‘You people are truly crazy.’
‘What do you say, Miss Davis?’ David turned to Sara, pleased their morning confrontation had cleared the air and excited by her daring idea. ‘Wanna go to a party?’
‘Why, Mr Cavanaugh, I thought you’d never ask.’
Two successive thoughts flowed through the mind of nineteen-year-old Amber Wells as she strolled down the classically decorated corridor on the tenth floor of the newly refurbished, highly respected Regency Plaza Hotel in Boston’s upmarket Back Bay. The first was a sense of importance, a feeling of grandeur, that came with working for a ‘seriously la-de-da’ establishment such as the Regency. The second was more a reflection on the clientele and came in the form of a sweeping deliberation regarding her current place of residence.
‘I am moving to Louisiana!’ she thought as the hot looking politician opened his door. ‘If this is how they bred their Senators down south I am wasting my time with those conceited Harvard grads who were only after one thing. If this one was as good as he looked, well . . .’
But her mind was rambling again, and this was only her second week on the job. ‘Focus, Amber. Focus.’ ‘Good evening, Senator. On behalf of the Regency Plaza I would like to welcome you to our fair city and offer you this complimentary bottle of champagne.’
Verne was hamstrung. It was 6.30pm and he had just opened his door to head down to the car in the basement when he was confronted by this waitress/hostess/room service maid, whatever she was, distributing bottles of tastefully appropriate Krug champagne. He was in the hotel as a measure of security. It was a big night for the Senator who did not want any unforeseen hiccup or resultant negative publicity from beginning to end – which meant having Verne across the entire procedure, blending with the other guests, slipping easily into the background.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But maybe later.’
‘Oh, you gotta take it,’ she said. ‘I mean, please accept this complimentary token, Senator. There is one for each guest and the manager will be very disappointed otherwise.’
‘All right. Thank you,’ he said, hearing other doors open down the hallway and not wanting to cause a scene. He took the bottle in his ungloved hands and made a mental note to wipe it – as he had done everything else in the room – before he left.
‘Sure. Say, you need anyone to show you round a little? I’m a Bostonian born and bred, know the Hub like the back of my hand.’
Just then the phone rang in his room. Saved by the bell. But who would be calling him here? He should not answer it, but she would think that strange.
‘No. No thanks.’ He started to shut the door.
‘Okay then, just offering. If you change your mind my name is Amber and . . .’
That was the last he heard o
f the annoying housemaid. He crossed the room and picked up the phone.
Deloris Du Bois was in ecstasy. Never before had she achieved such heights in society function perfection. Her heart was aflutter with excitement, her skin flushed with pride as she walked the journey with the guests, experiencing their enchantment, feeling their delight. She had outdone herself. She was truly one of the best.
It was like a chapter from a fairytale. But instead of horse and carriage, the beautiful people arrived in sleek black limousines, the red-jacketed valets opening doors to couples dressed in all their finery. The men wore dinner suits, the older generation opting for the traditional tuxedo and bowtie with the younger guests wearing more fashionable designer suits with straight ties in white or black or grey.
‘Class,’ thought Ms Dubois as she nodded at Congressmen in traditional garb. ‘Pure, bona fide class.’
And then there were the women. Their partners’ perfect complements, coifed and coutured within an inch of their lives and compensating for the colour their mono-hued companions lacked. Their dresses were long. Some were in full skirts which ballooned in the evening breeze as their wearers swept across the drive; others hung comfortably on lithe frames, shimmering in the light as the women slid out of their cars and towards the music beckoning from the back of the house.
Du Bois followed the guests’ wondrous gazes as they walked down the side of the garden and looked up towards the arc of elms glittering with fairy lights which weaved through their branches in perfect randomness.
Once at the back of the main building, they were led down through the gardens which were backlit with muted blue light, softening the intensity of the strong pinks, blood reds and bright apricots of Elizabeth’s prized roses.
‘Amazing, isn’t it,’ she said, as she led a group towards a temporary bridge constructed above the swimming pool which was now scattered with hundreds of white lily pads. The lilies too were backlit by blue underwater lamps which created a muted Monet-like canvas on which they could settle.
The bridge led to the main back gardens and up towards the marquee which looked for all the world like a huge, regal circus tent. Here the guests were met with tall flutes of Verve – Vintage Reserve, no less!– a drop they sipped politely before nodding to one of the many attentive waiters for a black label whisky or a perfectly mixed martini.
