by Robert Ellis
“You graduated at the top of your class,” he said after a moment. “I’ve often wondered why someone with your ability avoided criminal law. You should’ve been drawn to it, yet you stayed as far away from my classes as you possibly could. You look scared, Teddy. Why are you frightened if the case is as straightforward as you say? It must have something to do with your past.”
Teddy flinched. Nash gave him a long look with those cobalt-blue eyes of his, then swiveled his chair around to the window behind his desk. He was staring outside at a view of West Philadelphia digging out of the snow. He was looking at the long line of row houses mixed with larger homes from the neighborhood’s grander past. But Nash wasn’t seeing them. Instead, he puffed on the cigar with his eyes turned inward as if the window had become a looking glass.
“Teddy Mack,” he whispered. “Teddy Mack.”
Teddy could see Nash’s mind sifting through the smoky past. After a moment, a look of wonder bloomed on his face, and Teddy assumed that Nash had answered his own question—Teddy Mack, son of Grace and Jonathan Mack, a man who stood accused of murder. It had been a long time ago, with Teddy Mack on the run ever since.
The chair swiveled back.
“I’d like to show you something,” Nash said.
He stood up and walked over to the jury table, sorting through a stack of files. When he found the one he was looking for, he motioned Teddy over and opened it on the table. It was background information on the murder case the district attorney had prosecuted and botched.
“Derek Campos is a classic example of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Nash said.
There were a series of family snapshots included in the file, and Nash laid a photograph of Campos with his wife and young daughter on top. They were at a picnic, enjoying a summer afternoon in the park.
“An elderly woman had been raped and bludgeoned to death in Mount Airy,” Nash said. “Campos was a landscaper, working in the churchyard across the street. The police saw him weeding the flower beds and thought he might be a witness. But Derek Campos had grown up in North Philadelphia and had a natural fear of the police. He was a simple, uneducated man with a low IQ. After speaking with him, detectives asked for hair and blood samples. Campos was nervous. He didn’t know any better and agreed. Within twenty-four hours, the lab claimed they had a match.”
Teddy only had a sense of the case from what he’d seen on television at lunch yesterday, and Nash’s findings and a transcript from the press conference printed in the paper today. Campos had been executed before the use of DNA analysis became routine and could have saved him.
“It was the forensic scientist that clinched it for the jury,” Nash said. “Vera Handover. Her testimony, her assurance and confidence that Campos was guilty. Now we know that everything she said at the time was a result of bad science. Lousy detective work. A prosecutor without any talent working his way to the top. Derek Campos died for no other reason that on the day the body was found, someone looked out the window and saw him working in a flower bed.”
Teddy could hear the deep-seated anger in Nash’s voice. The contempt for everyone involved. He guessed at that moment that there was no way Nash would agree to help. He gave the photograph of the Campos family a last look, the wife and daughter, and stepped away from the table. Nash closed the file and placed it on his desk.
“This is how I’m spending my time,” Nash said. “The focus of my workshop. Looking for what’s slipped through the cracks. Lending a hand to the forgotten. So what makes you think I’d have any interest in getting involved in the Holmes case?”
“Alan Andrews,” Teddy said without hesitation or much hope. “It’s a chance to keep your story in the papers. A chance to keep what he did to Derek Campos alive.”
Nash smiled. “You mean the use of my name gets you and Barnett off the hook. That’s why you’re really here, isn’t it? You need to think about what you’re offering, Teddy. It’s not enough.”
Nash had seen through him as if he was wrapped in cellophane. Nash didn’t have any interest in holding their hand, or prepping the ground for negotiations with the district attorney. He wasn’t going to budge, and that piercing look in his eyes was back. Teddy felt like an animal caught in the headlights of an approaching car. As he glanced away, his eyes skidded off the lithograph of the empty prison cell, then dropped to the floor, his nightmare surfacing again. Free At Last. The cell was empty because his father was dead. He could see the guards grabbing his father’s feet and dragging the body away. They’d left his blanket behind. Teddy tried to get a grip on himself.
“A few words of advice,” Nash said.
Teddy leaned against the jury table, watching the man strike his lighter and toke on the cigar again.
“I don’t think your plan to avoid a trial will work,” Nash said. “Andrews’s motives are obvious. He’s a political animal, and thus his motivations in life are transparent. In the end, you’ll have just as much trouble with ADA Carolyn Powell. She’ll be the brains behind the duo while Andrews takes all the credit. But make no mistake about it. The crime they allege Holmes committed is egregious. And the pressure on them to prosecute will be substantial, particularly because the girl came from a family of means. To put it more bluntly, Teddy, I believe they’ll want your client’s head on a stick and nothing less will suffice.”
Nash was beaming. Teddy didn’t find the pep talk all that reassuring. He wondered how Barnett would take the news and hoped he had a plan B in mind.
“How much do you know about your client?” Nash asked.
“He worked for the post office,” he said. “We’re just getting started.”
“Did you know that five years before Oscar Holmes became a mailman he was a butcher?”
Teddy shook his head, his stomach beginning to churn.
“No, I didn’t.”
Nash flashed another smile and sat down on the corner of his desk.
“That’s right,” he said. “Holmes was a butcher, Teddy. He worked at a shop just off South Street for years. I saw it on the news before you arrived. He loved his job and was good at it. Apparently, he was handy with a knife.”
ELEVEN
Burying the news of Holmes’s life as a semi-retired butcher in a mental file labeled worst-case scenarios, Teddy made it back to Center City in less than fifteen minutes. By the time he entered his office, all he could think about was Holmes’s head on a stick. Nash was an obvious genius. But even Teddy had been able to foresee that the case would come down to a long trial, and getting the death penalty off the table just wasn’t in the cards.
He picked up the phone and dialed Barnett’s office. Jackie said he was at lunch with Stokes and that they’d be a while. Teddy knew what that meant. Barnett was filling Stokes in on their new client. After the shock dissipated, Stokes would worry about the firm’s reputation. They were probably drawing up a public relations plan. It might take hours before Teddy could reach Barnett to tell him that Nash had refused and they were on their own.
Jill walked through the door with her lunch and sat down before the computer. Cottage cheese and a salad with low-cal dressing and slices of canned fruit. Lunch looked more healthy than appetizing today.
“What are you working on?” Teddy asked.
“I finished early,” she said. “I’m hiding out and trying to get some studying in for the bar. Did you check your messages?”
Teddy found them on the desk, recognized Jill’s handwriting and picked them up. Of the three, two could wait but one was marked urgent.
“Who’s Dawn Bingle?” he asked.
Jill shrugged. “She called a few minutes ago. It sounded like she knew you.”
“What did she want?”
“I think it’s got something to do with that personal injury case. I asked if she’d like to speak with Brooke, but she refused. She said it was important and that she’d only talk to you.”
“Where’s her number?”
“She didn’t leave one.
She said she’d call back later.”
The woman’s name didn’t register. Teddy shrugged it off, pulling the murder book out of his briefcase and sitting down at his desk. There was no real need to take a second look, but he did it anyway, reading through the preliminary reports until he came to the photo of his client, Oscar Holmes. When the phone rang, he picked it up and could hear a woman’s voice mixed with digital noise from a cell phone. The woman spoke through the breaks in the signal, introducing herself as Dawn Bingle and apologizing for her phone.
“I’m in my car,” she said. “But we need to talk.”
“Brooke Jones is handling the case now.”
“She’s a bitch,” the woman said. “I saw her yesterday in court.”
Teddy didn’t recognize Bingle’s voice through the breakup, but guessed that she was in her late thirties. “What’s this about?”
“I work for Capital Insurance Life. I’ve got evidence that proves what my company did to your client is a matter of corporate policy.”
Teddy closed the murder book and pushed it aside. “What kind of evidence?”
“A memo sent to every insurance rep in the company detailing how to string out claims and avoid sizable payouts. When your client was hit by that truck, they knew he was injured all along. The memo is a how-to on how not to write checks and send them out.”
“Give me an example.”
He heard paper rustling, then Dawn Bingle’s voice. “I’ll give you two,” she said. “Paragraph three, using distraction to push a claim beyond the statute of limitations in order to win a zero payout. Paragraph four, recommending a physician from the following list because of their strong support and special relationship with the company.”
Teddy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The story he’d pieced together with letters from the insurance company amounted to fraud but was still open to interpretation. It sounded like Dawn Bingle, an obvious disgruntled employee, was ready to hand him the goods in black and white. The case would mushroom beyond a single client. The firm could hunker down and go for the kill.
“How much do you want?” he asked.
“You mean money?”
“That’s right. How much?”
She paused. The question had thrown her off, and Teddy took this as a good sign.
“I don’t want any money,” she said after a moment. “It’s my company that’s corrupt, not me.”
“Then we need to meet,” he said.
“I work out of our Center City office, but I can’t take the chance of being seen with you. I don’t want to lose my job.”
“You name the place,” he said. “I’ve got all afternoon.”
“My husband’s the treasurer at one of the boat clubs. Maybe we could meet there.”
“Which one?”
“The Nautilus,” she said. “See you in half an hour.”
When he asked for her cell phone number, she gave it to him and hung up.
TWELVE
Teddy marveled at the lack of traffic as he walked down the bike path along Kelly Drive. The sounds of the road were as faint as a country lane, the din of the city, behind him. He could see the Schuylkill River through the trees to his left. Even though it looked frozen solid, he could hear water spilling over the Fairmount Dam below the hill.
It was almost as if he’d left his worries behind and stepped into an oasis, a place where he could see his former life and the dreams he had for his future, but not touch them. After all, the insurance case was no longer his. Whatever he received from Dawn Bingle would have to be handed over to Brooke Jones the moment he returned to the office.
Maybe the act of giving Jones such an amazing gift would do something to change her attitude. As he thought it over, he had his doubts and laughed. You could feed a mean dog tenderloin steak, but it probably wouldn’t make the animal any more friendly.
He didn’t care.
As the bike path straightened out, his view cleared and he caught his first glimpse of the nineteenth century buildings that had become known as Boathouse Row. Constructed of stone and cedar siding, they looked more like large homes from the period than anything else. Steam was venting from the snow on the ground. All ten buildings were set directly on the river and shrouded in a fine mist that lingered in the eaves along their roof lines. When the afternoon sun popped out from behind a cloud, filling the moist air with rays of warm light, Teddy couldn’t help but think that the boat clubs never seemed more peaceful or majestic.
He spotted the Nautilus ahead and glanced between the buildings as he continued down the path. It looked as if the river had risen over the brim of the retaining wall before last week’s flash freeze. Beneath the ice, the sculling course lay hidden until spring.
He stopped in front of the club and checked his watch. He was ten minutes early. Reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes, he lit one and watched a snow plow work its way up the street. Piles of discarded snow four feet high filled in the parking spaces off to the side. If Dawn Bingle was looking for a place to park, she’d have as much luck as he had, and wouldn’t find one until she reached the art museum.
He gazed up the path and noticed a woman walking toward him. She was wrapped up in a long wool coat and scarf with a Navy blue beret pulled over her red hair. From what Teddy could see of her face, she seemed about the right age. But as she reached the Nautilus, she passed him by without a word or even a look and kept walking.
Teddy followed the woman’s course until he lost sight of her in the trees around the bend. He was beginning to feel cold and thought he might wait for Dawn Bingle inside. Although the boating season usually ended with the Frostbite Regatta in mid-November, he knew the clubs were open to some degree all winter long. There were rowing machines upstairs, weight lifting rooms and meeting rooms, and probably a kitchen where he could get a cup of hot coffee.
He flicked his cigarette into the snow and started down the walkway, unlatching the iron gate and crossing a small terrace to the front door. A note was taped to the inside of the glass. It had been left for a plumbing company, indicating that a keycard would be waiting in the usual spot if they needed to gain access to the building after hours. Teddy guessed that the call to a plumber had everything to do with the river cresting the retaining wall. Floods were a cyclical event for all ten boat clubs along the row.
He glanced at the keycard access box mounted on the wall, then reached for the door and pushed it open. Kicking the snow off his shoes, he wiped them on the mat and stepped into the entryway.
The air inside the club was moist, the dank scent of the river trapped within its walls, overwhelming. As he unbuttoned his coat, he glanced at the pictures on display. The Nautilus Rowing Club was founded in 1854, and many of the photographs of the club and various regattas dated back to the Civil War. On the table beside a lamp he saw a blank envelope that had been crumpled up along with a keycard. When he noticed the faint sound of a pump working in the background, he guessed the plumber had already arrived.
He climbed a short set of steps, following the sound of the pump around the corner until he found himself standing in the entrance to the base of the building. The lights were out, and he wondered if anyone was here at all. As his eyes adjusted to the dim window light, he could see the racing shells set in racks and slung from the ceiling. He called out, but no one answered.
He entered the room and looked past the boats to the four bay doors cut into the far wall. The set of doors closest to him were pushed into the walls a quarter of the way and open to the river. It looked as if the water had advanced halfway into the room. Several hoses were tossed out onto the ice beyond, pumping water from the building as fast as it came in. The pool of water on top of the ice appeared substantial, and Teddy figured that the plumber must have rigged the pumps sometime during the night.
He checked his watch again. Dawn Bingle was running late. Moving to the front window, he peered through the glass and looked outside. No one was on the bike path, and the traffic
on Kelly Drive remained unusually light.
He pulled his cell phone out, flipping it open and entering the woman’s number. The phone rang eight times without an answer. As he slipped the phone back into his pocket, he decided he’d put off worrying about her for fifteen minutes. The roads were bad, the temperature, dropping. She could easily be caught in traffic.
He heard a sudden crack, and turned around. Crossing the room, he eyed the boats until he reached the edge of the river rising up the floor.
It wasn’t the water damaging the building. It was the ice, pushing its way into the bottom panels of the bay doors. He could hear the wood blistering and breaking up. It looked as if a tree caught in the ice jam had punched through the set of doors at the far end. Water was gushing through the hole and showering over the trunk into the room.
He looked at the roots and tried to focus, wishing he could find the lights because something about the image seemed wrong. After a moment, he felt a quick shot of adrenalin streaking through his chest and heard himself gasp.
Inside the roots of the tree was someone’s arm.
Teddy bolted into the water, charging across the room. The doors were latched in the center. Flipping the lock open, he grabbed hold of the recessed door and heaved it into the wall. When he stepped outside, he shuddered.
Her body was naked but for a black tube top clinging about her ribs. She was stretched out on the ramp beneath two feet of water, her blond hair encrusted in a thin layer of murky ice and discolored snow.
Teddy kicked through the crust with his heel, grabbing her by the shoulders. With brute force, he yanked her body up through the ice and into his arms. As he rushed inside, he shook her as if he could somehow bring her back to life. Spotting dry concrete, he laid her down on her back and almost choked.
A rope was tied to her ankles, the loose end frayed. Her pale gray skin was extremely wrinkled and littered with dark splotches. And she’d been cut down the middle of her chest. Lifting the tube top, he followed the course of the wound all the way down and knew she’d been split open with a knife. He looked at her swollen face. Her eyes were open, but missing. That’s when he screamed.
