by Sydney Bauer
‘I’d love to, Mayor. Thanks.’
‘All right then, I’ll tell Sofia. I’ll get my assistant to call you back with the address and directions. About twelve okay?’
‘Yes. Thanks again.’
‘Don’t thank me yet, Counsellor. I don’t know if I can help you.’
‘But you’re offering.’
‘I’m offering to cook you a few overdone salsicciej, he laughed. ‘As for anything else, we’ll just have to wait and see.’
‘You’ve had the ME’s report for weeks. How in the hell could you have missed it?’
Haynes had taken off his jacket and now sat behind his over-sized desk. His chair was at least a few inches higher than all the others in the room – establishing his dominance, diminishing the power of those before him and consolidating Scaturro and Katz as subservients who had failed to deliver.
‘With all due respect, Senator,’ said Scaturro. ‘We didn’t miss it, we just failed to recognise the significance of the ankle injuries.’
‘How else did you think she got them, at ballet class for Christ’s sake?’
Haynes was furious. The velvet gloves were off. They were here for some serious brow beating and Scaturro started to feel the perspiration underneath her arms tingle against her silk shirt.
‘Senator,’ she countered, ‘even if we did miss the injuries, I can promise you, they will have no bearing on the final result. The point is not in the cause of death but in Rayna Martin’s reluctance to prevent it. Alcohol, anklet . . . it really doesn’t matter. The woman abandoned your daughter, Senator, and without trying to sound callous whatever caused Christina to drown is irrelevant.’
‘Big words, Ms Scaturro, but the defence obviously sees it differently. They are trying to force us into a corner on timing. I need to know why this is so important to them. They must have a witness, someone who can spell out the chain of events in minutes.’
‘Yesterday they added a new name to their witness list,’ she said. ‘A Mr Sato Kyoji. He may be their witness, but I do not believe he saw their “conversation”. If he did they would not have to set up an argument on timing. They would just produce him and let him tell what he saw.’
Haynes looked at her. She could tell by his expression that he knew she was right. But she could also read the concern on his face – concern that if this Sato could set up a time frame, it could tear their ‘unconscious’ theory to shreds.
‘How solid is the Washington girl?’ he asked.
‘Solid,’ said Scaturro.
‘In all honesty, Senator, I have some concerns,’ said Katz, speaking for the first time.
What!
Scaturro was in shock. She could not believe what she was hearing. He had spent the past month convincing her Francine Washington was iron clad. She looked at him and he avoided her glare. What the hell was he up to?
‘I’m listening, Katz,’ said Haynes.
Katz stood. A daring move in itself and one which, Scaturro now knew, was all part of a pre-conceived ‘performance’ he had rehearsed for this morning’s audience with the King. She had always humoured Katz’s arrogance, largely because he was good at his job, but right now, at this very moment, she had to admit, she hated him more than ever.
‘Senator, I share your concerns regarding the defence’s obvious manoeuvring to establish some sort of timetable. I also agree this Mr Sato could well have witnessed events from the periphery. But like Loretta, I do not believe they have an eye-witness to establish the existence of their conversation. So, where does this leave us?’ he asked rhetorically, the orator giving his speech.
Jesus!
‘Given our motive – that of hate – I am starting to wonder whether we could not use their timing theory to our advantage.’
‘Go on,’ said Haynes.
‘What if Francine Washington got it a little wrong? What if Christina was not actually unconscious when Martin saw her, but on her way to becoming so? Martin told the other three Christina was “floating” next to the cruiser. That could be because subconsciously she knew, by the time she had reached the other girls, Christina would have been unconscious.’
Haynes looked at him. Scaturro could see his mind considering the new theory. Katz went on.
‘All I am saying is that we have to be prepared for what the defence may have up their sleeves. We have to face the fact that Cavanaugh’s timing theory could kill our “unconscious” scenario and we have to have a plan in place to turn it to our advantage.’
‘And I suppose you have come up with a way to do that?’ said Haynes.
‘Well . . .’
Act 1, scene 2, thought Scaturro.
‘Let’s look at this hypothetically. What if the defence use their timing theory to convince the jury Christina was conscious when she reached the cruiser, and worse still that a conversation took place. We just need to make sure we control the content of said conversation.
‘The defence will claim her ankle was caught on something – plant life, nets, whatever – it really doesn’t matter. But they will claim this happened after Martin left to fetch the three girls. We claim Christina is caught up as she reaches the cruiser and that she asks Martin for help. Martin demands to know what happened to the other three and then turns her back on the struggling white girl to go to their aid.
‘All I am saying is,’ Katz went on, ‘if we need to, we give them their conversation but change its content. Then, the defence will be screwed and the jury, who spent all of yesterday morning listening to the horrors of Christina’s final moments, will want to put Martin away for good.’
‘What about the Washington girl?’ asked Haynes.
‘We can still use her. We just paint a picture which says Martin used the word “floating” because she jumped ahead in her own mind, which is even worse because it spells pre-determination. Don’t forget the Washington kid will testify Martin favoured the black girls over Christina.’
No one said anything. Scaturro was still in shock. Haynes was mentally dissecting Katz’s argument.
‘That’s all fine and good, Katz, but as far as I am aware, the defence have no witness to their conversation. What makes you think they are going to find one?’
‘I am afraid they may be closer than we think, Senator.’
Haynes was on the edge of his seat. Scaturro was ready to pass out.
‘Yesterday I dispatched one of our associates to Gloucester, basically to find out more about this Mr Sato and look into where the defence may be going with their anklet theory. The associate concerned called me last night. He says the defence had also dispatched an investigator to the area. A young lawyer named Samantha Bale – totally second rate, but that’s beside the point. My associate questioned the same people Bale spoke with shortly after she moved on. It seems Bale has been seeking a helicopter pilot with the moniker of “Iceman”, who, from what we can gather, may have been in the air at the time of the incident.’
‘A witness.’
‘Potentially, yes.’
‘We have to find him first.’
‘I agree. In fact, my associate says he may have a lead. He was drinking late into the night with a fisherman from Rockport whose brother runs a charter company in Beverly. He says he has heard of this Iceman – a dodgy type – an unlicensed pilot who shops his services to less than reputable operators.’
‘Do we know how to find him?’
‘Better than that. We know his name and his place of residence.’
Katz pulled out a piece of white notepaper he had tucked neatly in the back pocket of his perfectly pressed chinos.
‘Gabriel Jackson. He rents a duplex in Essex.’
‘Does Cavanaugh’s girl have this information?’
‘We don’t think so. At least not yet.’
‘What makes you think this Jackson will see things our way?’ asked Haynes, his full focus now on the ADA with Scaturro all but forgotten.
‘Two previous counts for unlicensed piloting,’ Katz began, �
�and at least four outstanding warrants in three different states for misdemeanours such as assault with grievous bodily harm, drunk and disorderly and aggravated assault.’
‘He’s ours,’ said Haynes, a broad smile of triumph now spreading across his face.
‘Yes Sir,’ smiled Katz in return. ‘I believe he is.’
Paul Petri had been working for Rudolph Haynes for a little over two years. He had been recruited, over the telephone, shortly before his transfer from general duties to homicide and shortly after his wife had been diagnosed with breast cancer. He had been a ‘straight’ cop for more than twenty years and accepted Haynes’ offer, via proxy, for one reason and one reason alone – he needed the money.
Rebecca Petri’s cancer was advanced and Petri was determined to seek out the best care available. That meant several specialists, experimental drugs, chemotherapy and monthly admission to Ashleighford Clinic for biopsies, blood count tests and intermittent transfusions. In the very least, the four thousand cash Petri picked up each month from a previously arranged deposit box at the Bank of America in Somerville had probably prolonged his wife’s life for at least twelve months.
So would he do it again? Shit yeah. No question.
But now that she was gone, and in the wake of the Martin girl’s shooting, Petri was feeling the weight of his part in the whole charade and wanted to make a deal. He was willing to tell the defence everything he knew, but in return wanted them to keep what he told them within the four walls of David’s office. In other words, they had his information but not his testimony.
‘I am six months from retirement,’ he told them. ‘I got no kids, I just lost the one thing that I gave a damn about and I have sixty bucks in the bank. I need my pension.’ Petri took a long wheezy breath before going on. ‘This gets out, I get prosecuted and the deal is off. I’ll deny everything and, when it comes down to it, you have no proof. So,’ he said, looking tired and drained and festering with guilt, ‘that is my offer. Simple as that. Take it or leave it.’
Time was short. He was their only link to Haynes’ illegal activities. There was no discussion needed. They took it.
Joe Mannix didn’t appreciate one of his men turning dirty, and had certainly never ‘brokered’ such a deal before. He may have understood Petri’s motives, but his actions still made him sick to his stomach. However, the trail to Teesha’s shooter was growing cold and he knew this may be his only opportunity at linking Haynes to the elusive gunman. Sometimes you had to take the sour with the sweet. Life was like that.
As for Tommy Wu . . . he was terrified. He told them about the photograph of Vanessa and Mikey, and the accompanying threat. Petri admitted putting the envelope containing said items in Wu’s locker but assured them he was unaware of what it had contained and was sorry for the distress it had caused.
‘I am afraid I need to make a deal too, David,’ said Tommy. ‘Believe me, I want to help but there is no way on God’s earth I will put my family at risk. I’ll give you my testimony, but there will be no mention of Haynes or the note or Petri’s reindeer references. I promise to tell the truth – that I found Mrs Martin cooperative and compassionate and that I did not and still do not perceive her to be a murderer. But I’m afraid that’s as far as I go.’
And so they had worked on into Friday night, Wu recounting the events of 4 May and Petri explaining how the whole thing worked. They sat and listened until midnight until Petri had finished and their brains could not absorb any more.
And now, on Saturday morning, after a long, hard, first week at trial, the three of them were going through it all step by step. Working out what it meant to this case and to Teesha’s shooting – the two events so sickeningly interwoven in a web of escalating horror. It was nothing short of amazing – complex, calculated, clever, contrived – a chain of events which started over two years before and worked itself into the frenzy of recent weeks.
As for their ‘deal’ with Petri, which at first sounded stacked in his favour, it was fortunately more ‘even’ than they first suspected. For Petri gave them a major piece of their puzzle. He gave them a link to Haynes’ right hand man. He gave them his recruiter, his conduit – a name. He gave them Vincent Bartholomew Verne.
Two and half years before, Detective Petri had received a call from an unidentified man asking him if he was interested in working for a prominent US Senator.
The ‘job’, it was made clear from the start, would be viewed by some as illegal, however, it was to be ‘passive’ rather than ‘active’, meaning the detective would simply pass on information and encourage certain courses of action rather than directly influencing any specific legal chain of events.
It was enough to get Petri listening. They had sought him out after all.
He asked for details and the ‘conduit’ was quick and specific in reply. Petri would be required to collect data, undertake a monthly drop of said information, advise on the status of any investigations of specific interest to the Senator, and occasionally pursue selective individuals or issues at the Senator’s request.
The fee was $4000 a month cash, and with Petri’s wife now in the throes of her first round of chemotherapy, he did not hesitate.
Petri had never met his conduit. But he was a cop, curious by trade. Call it collateral, call it watching your own back, but he needed to know who his go-between was.
Petri started staking out the Somerville safety deposit box, hoping to see his contact in the flesh. But after months of surveillance, he realised the conduit had several ‘dummies’ – average Joes and Joannes who would empty his box, go to the closest post office and redirect his drop via mail. The same people delivered his cash – a different person each week.
Petri would follow them home to their average homes in average streets but knew there was no point in approaching them. They would not know the name of his contact and he certainly did not want to tip them off to his curiosity.
Then, one week Petri came up with the idea of making his drop larger than usual – too big for the messenger who picked up the package to drop it in the post box, making it necessary for them to leave it behind the post office counter for postage.
So, when the overweight, bald-headed courier left the Somerville PO, Petri went inside, showed his badge and asked to see the package which had been re-addressed to a security box in Chelsea.
He then took two days sick leave to stake out the new box and a little over twenty-four hours later, saw his contact for the first time – tall, dark, clean cut. He looked like CIA, FBI or maybe even Secret Service.
Next he followed the man to a café where he saw him order a coffee and bagel. He waited on the street until the man left, swept inside and stole the cup for prints. It was that easy.
From there it was a matter of running said prints through the local police computer – no match. State Police – no match. Interpol – no match. Finally he followed through on his hunch by calling a federal cop friend to the run the prints through the government system.
It took his friend twenty minutes to come up with a match. The guy was ex-secret service. He was thirty-four, six three, 180 pounds, current address not listed – and his name was Vincent Bartholomew Verne.
Then came Saturday, 4 May. This was a memorable day for many reasons, but for Petri its significance was magnified because it was the day he would speak to his employer for the first time.
When Susan Leigh radioed to report the suspected and then confirmed death of Christina Haynes, Detective Paul Petri faced the biggest dilemma of his illegal career.
The information was critical, personal, but the delivery was out of context considering his usual directive and as such both awkward and unnerving. Normally, if he had an urgent message he would call Verne on a pre-arranged number and leave a message – and then wait for the return call.
But, when Christina Haynes was DOA at Gloucester Harbor, Petri knew he had to act immediately. This was not the sort of news that could wait, and he knew it would be ‘safer�
� if it came from him rather than Joe Mannix.
So he decided to bypass Verne and call the Senator direct. The housekeeper answered, and after a short pause Senator Haynes was on the end of the line saying four words. ‘This better be good’.
It was – and it wasn’t.
Long story short, Haynes knew his daughter was dead half an hour before Joe Mannix knocked on his door. Enough time for him to pack his pain, instruct Petri to do whatever he could to nail the ‘black bitch’ to the wall, and feign surprise when the Head of Homicide came to his door.
Petri then called Wu, forced the race issue at his boss’s request to try to secure an arrest before midnight. Unfortunately, the perp clammed up and by that stage Mannix and the DA were involved leaving the detective a way down the pecking order of power which, in this case, suited him just fine.
From there it became a matter of following orders from Verne – including dropping the newly arrested Rayna at the front of Headquarters and planting drugs in Jake Davis’ car. He had also been at Katz’s beck and call. He had even been told to keep an eye on his boss, Joe Mannix, who Katz suspected was sympathetic to the defence.
And so he had reported every time David had visited or called, and monitored the defendant’s activities including her hypnotherapy sessions. Up until last week he had also attended regular weekly meetings with the ADA to rehearse his testimony, in which he would state he found Rayna Martin to be suspect, difficult, disobliging and uncooperative.
His appearance in court had been avoided with the death of his wife and his subsequent claim to having had ‘chest pains’ requiring urgent medical attention. This last detail was a lie, although Petri felt like his heart had broken so perhaps it was not so far from the truth after all.
Bottom line – they weren’t too sure how any of this could help Rayna in the short term. It did not prove the conversation took place, and it did not provide tangible evidence against Haynes.
It suggested Haynes could be guilty of anything and everything from corruption of justice to conspiracy to commit murder but as yet, there was nothing concrete.
