Undertow

by Sydney Bauer

  Last night they agreed they would have to accept they may not find the Iceman in time for trial. While Sara and Arthur had found Mr Cruise – who indeed confirmed his friend Iceman had dropped the Satos on the beach – Cruise claimed to be ‘unsure’ of Iceman’s real name, and even more vague about his current whereabouts.

  Sara was sure he was lying, no doubt in an attempt to protect his renegade, unlicensed pilot friend. She could only hope that Mr Cruise would follow through on his promise to try to locate the Iceman and ask him to come forward with what he knew.

  ‘Tom,’ she had said, looking at him with her large aqua eyes. ‘I cannot tell you how much this would mean to us. I promise you we are not interested in the whole licence issue. This is about saving an innocent woman. I can see you are a man of integrity, Mr Cruise,’ she took his hand and shook it. ‘. . . And anything you can do, we would be eternally grateful.’

  Arthur was impressed. Cruise even more so. And now all they could do was wait.

  In the meantime, Samantha Bale, determined to redeem herself after the setback of Frasier Kemp’s Coastguard tape, had gone to Cape Ann for the weekend. Characters such as the Iceman tended to make an impression and Sam was hoping someone else may know where the elusive pilot may be. It was worth a shot.

  Marc Rigotti had come up blank. They looked at every frame taken by the Tribune’s photographer on the day of the funeral but there were no shots of the dark man. None.

  Marc did promise to rally some media mates, both in the press and electronic media, to see if anyone had caught their mystery man on film. In the meantime they had to realise their priority was the Martin trial and now, at least for the time being, their efforts on the Teesha shooting would have to take a back seat.

  ‘Dr Svenson, did Christina Haynes drown because she was drunk?’ David came straight out with it, knowing he had to shatter the prosecution’s cause-and-effect scenario quickly.

  ‘No.’

  The jury sat up straight. They were interested now – confused.

  ‘But this morning you gave evidence of the dangers of drinking, and the statistical links between alcohol and drowning.’

  ‘Yes. But alcohol is a contributing factor, not a cause.’

  David put on his best puzzled face, urging the ME to go on.

  ‘The early stages of drowning are much less likely to progress to the later stages if the said victim remains calm, maintains clarity and introduces problem solving techniques,’ explained Svenson. ‘Alcohol dampens such abilities – makes it difficult for the victim to act rationally, increases the likelihood of panic, distress and disorientation. But it does not cause someone to drown.

  ‘Further,’ Svenson went on, ‘I would not necessarily classify Ms Haynes as drunk. She was under the influence of alcohol, certainly, but the fact she managed to swim some distance in a relatively straight line suggests the alcohol had not completely diminished her cognitive abilities.’ This last comment was a gift and David was grateful.

  ‘So just to clarify, Dr Svenson, you have not so far, given testimony on the probable physical cause of the drowning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right.’

  The point was made and the jury were looking at him, interested in hearing more.

  ‘Dr Svenson, could you please turn to page nine of your report, and read for us the paragraph under section 5 (b).’

  Svenson read from the document which Scaturro had tabled this morning. It was the same paragraph he had studied a few weeks ago concerning Christina’s right ankle and the series of circular abrasions around it.

  ‘In other words?’

  ‘In other words, the victim had a series of overlapping cuts on her right ankle and foot. They were circular in nature, some longer than others.’

  ‘Which suggests?’

  ‘Some form of constraint and an attempt to free herself from said constraint.’

  ‘Objection,’ Katz leapt out of his chair before his boss had the chance. ‘Your Honour, this is new evidence. Dr Svenson gave no reference to these so-called cuts this morning. I do not think . . .’

  ‘Mr Katz,’ said Stein, ‘did you and Ms Scaturro have access to the full autopsy report before this morning’s testimony?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘And did Ms Scaturro ask Dr Svenson about these cuts?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘Well now he has been asked the question. I want to see where this goes. Objection overruled. Sit down, Mr Katz.’

  At this point David requested a wooden stand be moved from the corner to the centre of the courtroom. On it he placed a blow up postmortem photograph of Christina’s right ankle – section 5 (b) photograph #19.

  ‘Dr Svenson,’ said David, holding a pointer towards the large imposing photograph, ‘what, in your opinion, caused these indentations?’

  ‘It appears that whatever was constraining Miss Haynes’ foot was not one hundred per cent consistent. In other words, it contained irregular bumps or protrusions which left small engravings in the victim’s skin.’

  David then moved back to the defence table to collect a small shiny object which he held up high in his right hand. The bracelet caught the sunlight streaming through the upper western windows, the reflections sending scores of brilliant coloured rays bouncing around the room.

  The jury . . . the entire audience, were mesmerised.

  Those closest to Elizabeth Haynes heard a short, sharp gasp escape from her mouth. Katz turned to look and jumped to his feet.

  ‘Your Honour, the State is appalled. This is a brazen disregard for the law. If the defence have an item of the victim’s property in their possession they should not only be disqualified from this court for failure to disclose this discovery, they should be prosecuted for theft.’

  At that point David looked across the room and noticed one of the coloured lights was resting on Senator Haynes’ face. In that moment, as the small blue crystal of light danced over his hard and determined features, David saw pure hatred and knew there was no choice but to win this thing, for if he did not, he would bear the consequences of it forever.

  ‘Mr Cavanaugh,’ it was Stein. ‘Mr Katz is right, if this item belonged to the victim I will have no choice but to instigate legal proceedings against defence counsel.’

  ‘It is not hers.’

  The people in Court Nine could not believe it.

  Rayna Martin had risen quietly to her feet, standing tall, defiant, with the hint of a tear in her left eye. Stein should have stopped her straightaway, but he was caught in surprise, just like everyone else.

  ‘This bracelet belongs to my daughter. She cannot wear it right now because both her arms are attached to IV units.’

  ‘Mrs Martin,’ Stein was out of his trance and banging his gavel.

  ‘They all have one . . . all of Teesha’s friends.’

  ‘Counsellor, control your client,’ said Stein to David just as Sara rose to gently pull Rayna back into her seat. But before she did Rayna spoke once more.

  ‘Teesha has one, Mariah has one, Francie has one . . . and her best friend, her best friend Christina . . . she had one too.’

  Stein had had enough. His gravel echoed above the murmur of disbelief building throughout the room. He called for a recess to meet with counsel in his chambers, rising from his chair and storming through the back left hand door.

  David looked at Sara and Arthur just as they stood to accompany him behind the courtroom. Their look said it all.

  They were proud of their client, proud to be representing her, proud to even know her and more determined than ever to see her walk from this room a free woman.

  ‘Je-sus!’ said Rhett Lafayette, swatting another swamp fly off his right arm. ‘They’re breedin’ ’em as big as catfish this’n year.’

  ‘Know what you mean, Rhett,’ said Ted Buford, fanning himself with his handkerchief in his right hand, whilst sipping on an iced tea with the slightest hint of whisky that he held in his left.


  ‘It’s this dang heat. Brings ’em out in swarms,’ said Rhett.

  ‘Right again, Rhett. Right again.’

  Senator Theodore Buford was enjoying his ritual Friday evening drink with his oldest friend, Denham Springs, Baton Rouge barber Rhett Lafayette. The pair had been close since childhood with Buford’s political success never causing a problem between them. In fact, Lafayette was a Democrat of all things. That’s why he still charged his Republican pal five dollars every time he wanted a three dollar cut and shave.

  ‘It’s your contribution to the Democratic Party,’ he would joke, before laughing long and hard.

  ‘Just don’t expect a tip,’ Ted would counter.

  ‘Ah, you conservatives,’ Rhett would continue the script. ‘Tight as a string o’ dried molasses.’

  ‘Ted!’

  It was Buford’s wife Meredith. They heard her call from inside the house, listened to her footsteps on the aged hardwood floor as she approached the front porch, and saw her poke her head around the old screen door as it squeaked in protest at being pushed from its rest.

  ‘Phone for you,’ she said, surveying the two old comrades in their favourite chairs.

  ‘Who is it, honey? If it’s Merlin tell him to come on over, have a drink or two.’

  ‘It isn’t your brother, Ted, it’s a man from Boston. A Mr Tyrone Banks.’

  ‘Boston eh?’

  ‘Never been to Boston,’ said Rhett taking another sip of iced tea.

  ‘Well, you ain’t missing much old friend.’

  Ted Buford rose from his seat and walked into his nineteenth century home to take the call in his study.

  ‘Hello. This is Theodore Buford. What can I do for you, Mr . . . Banks is it?’

  ‘Yes Sir. Tyrone Banks. I am Director of Administration for the Democratic Party.’

  ‘Good Lord son, this some kinda joke. Rhett put you up to this?’

  ‘Rhett – no Sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Banks,’ Buford let out a chuckle. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Senator, have you heard of Rayna Martin?’

  ‘Who hasn’t, son?’

  ‘I am her brother-in-law.’

  ‘I see.’ Buford paused, taking this in. ‘Like I said. What can I do for you, Mr Banks?’

  It had been bothering Tyrone for weeks. Senator Theodore Buford, Rudolph Haynes’ oldest adversary, invited to his honorary banquet. It just didn’t make sense . . . unless the pair had built their bridges, made their peace, come to some sort of truce? So Tyrone made the call from Massachusetts General whilst Delia was at their niece’s bedside, and he asked the question. Was Senator Buford invited to last Friday night’s honorary banquet? And did he indeed attend?

  ‘Hmm, well. Yes, Mr Banks, I was invited. The strangest thing I ever did see. Meredith and I . . . we assumed it was some sort of joke. You see, Rudolph Haynes and I have never seen eye to eye. I suppose that’s no secret. He would not have expected us to attend. Unless he was planning to kick us out at the front door, which is really not his style. Rudolph is nothing if not discreet, even when it comes to his adversaries – especially when it comes to his adversaries. No Sir, Mr Banks. Last Friday night I was pretty much doin’ the same as I am doin’ right now – drinking slightly spiked iced teas with my old friend Rhett Lafayette.’

  ‘The Democrat.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Banks,’ Buford laughed again. ‘The Democrat. Is there anything else I can help you with Mr Banks?’

  ‘Not unless you can tell me who checked into Boston’s Regency Plaza Hotel in your name last Friday night, Sir.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Buford. ‘Now, that is what is known as a conundrum, Mr Banks.’

  ‘Yes Sir.’

  ‘And I hate conundrums, Mr Banks.’

  ‘Not as much as I do, Sir.’

  ‘Then let’s solve this mystery, shall we?’

  He had done it. David had set them up. Stein had allowed the bracelet into evidence, David had got Svenson to testify a similar bracelet was most likely the object which caused the abrasions on Christina’s ankle and more importantly the ME told the court such cuts most likely took at least five minutes to procure.

  But the State didn’t take this new piece of evidence lying down. Whilst they were not aware the defence would be producing evidence regarding the old fishing nets and could not know the significance of the upcoming Sato testimony, they realised David’s aim was to establish a pattern in timing.

  So as soon as David took his seat, Loretta Scaturro requested a counter cross whereby she took Svenson to task on the issue. In the end she had got him to admit, that whilst is was unlikely, there was a possibility the ankle injury was sustained over a shorter period of time – perhaps four minutes or maybe even three. This counter attack certainly worked to water down the strength of David’s theory but in the very least they had started to build a scenario which would hopefully provide the jury with grounds for reasonable doubt on the whole ‘unconscious vs conversation’ issue.

  ‘I wonder if we aren’t setting ourselves up for bigger problems here,’ said Sara, dropping onto Arthur’s couch whilst David pulled out three cold beers.

  ‘How so?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘Well, what if we do prove Christina’s struggle started after she reached the cruiser? What if they decide to change tack and agree with us?’

  They both looked at her.

  ‘If we prove the struggle started later, they could turn around and claim Rayna witnessed the struggle and still chose to abandon her. They could also claim there was a conversation but of a very different nature – Christina begging Rayna for help, only to have her turn the boat around and head towards shore. Which makes our client look even worse.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re forgetting their whole case for murder two is based on Francine Washington’s account that Rayna said Christina was “floating” next to the cruiser. And then there was Kemp’s tape, in which Teesha put Christina’s unconscious state prior to their rescue,’ said David.

  ‘David’s right,’ said Arthur. ‘Katz would probably love to nail Rayna for turning her back on a drowning girl but if they abandon the whole unconscious theory they basically destroy the foundations for their original charge.’

  ‘I guess so,’ said Sara. ‘It’s just that once we go the whole “timing” route I think they will find it hard to resist not countering with the argument that there is a possibility Rayna abandoned Christina mid-struggle. Because, bottom line, we still don’t have any proof that the conversation took place.’

  ‘David.’ It was Nora at Arthur’s office door. ‘Someone to see you – I put them in your office.’

  ‘Thanks, Nora.’ David looked at his watch, seven thirty. ‘That’ll be Joe.’

  ‘Good,’ said Sara on her feet.

  ‘I’ll get another beer,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Think you might need more than one,’ smiled Nora.

  David looked at his friends, and all three headed to the office next door to see Joe Mannix standing by the back window.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. Got held up. Had to wait for my friends here.’

  All three moved into the room and turned to look at the two people sitting in the chairs across from David’s messy desk. They could not believe it. Never in a million years would they have expected to see these two men sitting voluntarily side by side. Tommy Wu and Paul Petri.

  ‘You’d better pick your jaws up off the floor, hand us a beer and sit down,’ said Joe. ‘We got a few things to discuss.’

  44

  Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock . . .

  He was making them wait on purpose. This was all part of his plan. He had told them to meet him at his office at 8am sharp. On a Saturday. And they had been here at ten to. Leanne, Lorraine, Louise whatever her name was, had let them in.

  Loretta Scaturro looked at the digital desk clock again – 8.27. It made no sound. They never did. But she was imagining the ticking in her head.

  Tick, tock, tick, tock
, flap – 8.28.

  Katz had been pacing since 8.16. He was wearing his ‘weekend Lauren’ as Loretta liked to call it. But the ice blue Polo and cool cologne fell short of concealing his anxiety today. He was sweating on the inside. No doubt about it.

  She wore a suit. She thought it might help with the air of authority she would need for this meeting. She knew Haynes would be wearing a suit. He wanted psychological advantage and, as she turned to watch him stride into the reception area outside his office, she saw she was right – dark grey, subtle tie, crisp white shirt.

  You have to control this meeting, she told herself. Don’t let him walk all over you.

  Tick, tock, tick, tock, flap – 8.29.

  ‘Hello,’ David croaked down the phone, jolted from his sleep by the persistent ring of his bed side telephone. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Mr Cavanaugh, I have woken you.’

  David sat up in bed and picked up his watch from his side table drawer – 8.30am.

  ‘No, I just . . . I slept late. It was a long night and I thought you were my colleague. I’m sorry, who . . .’

  ‘No I’m sorry, Mr Cavanaugh. Moses Novelli returning your call. I apologise for not getting back to you earlier and for calling you at home so early on the weekend. This is probably the only chance I will get to make a call today – fourth of July weekend and all. The city is a hive of activity and for better or for worse, I’m in the thick of it.’

  ‘Mayor Novelli, don’t apologise. Thanks for calling,’ David was wide awake now. He had been trying to reach Novelli all week. ‘I . . . ah, I’m not too sure where to start.’

  ‘Maybe this is a conversation better held in person.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘How do you feel about lunch tomorrow? And don’t say yes until I explain the circumstances. It’s the annual Novelli family barbecue – just a whole lot of Italian–Americans downing a few beers and trying not to burn the sausages. Nothing flash, I’m afraid, but you’re more than welcome.’