The Ex

by Alafair Burke

  “Save all that for trial, Ms. Randall, but I get your point. His mere presence at the waterfront does not overwhelm me, nor does this business about the picnic basket. Last time I checked, plenty of people find ways of carrying guns without using elaborate containers to disguise them. But what about the GSR evidence?”

  This was where Chandler’s choice to go for a bare-bones presentation of the People’s evidence could pay off for Jack. “Several police officers appeared at Mr. Harris’s home, based solely on the fact that he was near the shooting location—just a few blocks from his apartment. I have seen no information about how many of those officers had recently fired their weapons, handled other weapons, or processed suspects who may have handled weapons. They also dragged him down to the precinct, where any number of people and items could have been sources of contamination. As you know, Your Honor, gunshot residue is just a matter of transfer. If my client’s shirt tested positive for GSR—and I’m simply taking ADA Chandler at her word on that point—that is not proof he fired a gun. His shirt likely came in contact with residues from one of the many police officers who descended on his apartment without probable cause, or while he was in police custody. Importantly, no trace of residue was found on his hands.”

  If this were a real trial, the state would be prepared to call each and every officer to exclude as a potential source of transfer. But, for now, I was confident that Chandler would have nothing to rebut my basic point that GSR evidence had its limitations.

  “We have also learned,” I continued, “that Mr. Neeley was involved in far more combative litigation than the case my client shared with his fellow plaintiffs.” I heard more whispers as I launched into the fraud allegations against the Sentry Group based on Neeley’s affair with the wife of one of his principal investors. “And that wasn’t the only dispute about money. We are still investigating, but Mr. Neeley also had some contentious financial disagreements with members of his family that we are exploring. In sum, the People have no evidence. Moreover, ADA Chandler did not even discuss the most important factor for your consideration, Your Honor: whether my client is a flight risk. He is absolutely not. He is a widower. He is the sole parent to a sixteen-year-old daughter, Buckley Harris, whose mother was murdered in Penn Station. Neither he nor his daughter has ever lived outside New York. Mr. Harris writes for a living. His only money comes from book royalties, which he can only earn if his publisher knows where he is. He is in no position to go on the lam.”

  Chandler sprang from her chair. “Your Honor, I object to this elitist argument. You mean an award-winning author should be shown favor over a regular workingman?”

  “Ms. Chandler can throw around as much hyperbole as she wants, but she’s right about only one thing—this was a heinous crime, a triple homicide, committed only yesterday. If the People get a no-bail hold, they’ll be under the clock of New York law to seek an indictment. They’ll rush the investigation, as they’ve already done, and as we’ve seen them do in other high-profile cases.”

  “Your Honor,” Chandler said, “discussion of other cases is highly inappropriate.”

  Perhaps, but Judge Amador had to remember that, just last year, the district attorney persuaded him to hold a defendant without bail based on preliminary information. Only after the man was brutally assaulted in jail did prosecutors discover evidence proving his innocence.

  “What’s inappropriate is taking away a man’s liberty based on nothing but inflammatory rhetoric. And if that happens, Your Honor, my client will have to wait and wait and wait for his day in court, while he endures the hardship of custody, while he’s separated from his daughter, and while his daughter is forced to live without the only parent she has left.”

  I wanted the reporters to remember that Jack was a real person—a widower and a father. “The sole consideration today is whether there is some set of circumstances to assure you my client will appear for trial. We know the charges are as serious as they come, but they can’t come in here with no concrete evidence and pull this two-person family apart. My client will do whatever is necessary to assuage any concerns you have: a gag order, turning over his passport, home confinement—”

  “Electronic monitoring?” the judge asked.

  I answered immediately, while we had momentum. “Absolutely.”

  Chandler was up again. “Your Honor, this is ridiculous. It’s a triple homicide. This is a classic no-bail case.”

  “And that’s the problem, Ms. Chandler. Someone sent you here thinking your job would be that easy. Do you have any other evidence to show that Mr. Harris is a flight risk, if he’s on twenty-four-hour home arrest with monitoring?”

  Chandler was flipping through file pages to no avail.

  “That’s what I thought. Mr. Harris, I have no idea whether you’re guilty or not, but the last time I checked, we have a presumption of innocence in this country, and I don’t appreciate the way the prosecution tried to ignore that fact today. I am troubled that your lawyers seem to know more about the relevant evidence in this case than the prosecution.”

  As the judge read a long list of the release conditions, even I could not believe what I was hearing. “Bail is set at one million dollars.” Charged with three counts of first-degree murder, Jack was going home.

  DON WAS GIVING ME VERBAL pats on the back as we stepped into the courthouse elevator. The doors were stopped by a last-minute hand, and a young man stepped forward to hold them open. He looked familiar, but I did not immediately place him.

  “Is that how you plan to defend my father’s killer?” The spittle that flew from his lips with the “f” in father landed on my face, and I wiped it with the back of my sleeve. Now I recognized him. Max Neeley’s sandy blond hair was swept back the way he’d worn it for his photo on the Sentry Group website. “You can’t just drag a dead man through the mud that way. I’ll sue you for slander. Leave the fund out of this. That’s his legacy, don’t you get it? Sentry Group is all I have left.”

  I was pushing the Door Close button, and the elevator alarm began to sound.

  “This isn’t the place, son—” Don placed a gentle hand on one of Max’s shoulders, but Max immediately pulled away.

  “Don’t touch me. And don’t you dare call me son. How the hell can you people sleep at night?”

  He stepped backward, leaving us alone in silence. Buckley was pressed into the corner. When I asked if she was okay, she nodded, but she was obviously rattled.

  As we stepped from the elevator, Don whispered to me, “So which was it? Protecting his father’s legacy or all that money?”

  I had walked into the courtroom with so many alternative suspects that I’d had a hard time keeping all the theories straight. Max Neeley had just made himself a lot more interesting.

  My call to Gary Hannigan went to voice mail. “I’m hoping that lunch at Veselka entitles me to one more favor. You mentioned that Max Neeley had an ex-girlfriend who wasn’t too fond of her would-be father-in-law. Do you happen to have a name and number for her?”

  TWO DAYS LATER, I ARRIVED ten minutes before my scheduled appointment, my umbrella still dripping from the summer rain. But when I walked through the front doors, Einer immediately glanced toward a woman sitting in the waiting room. She was early.

  I had Googled Amanda Turner after getting her name from Gary Hannigan, so I had seen a few photographs of her—one on her LinkedIn profile, a few on her otherwise private Facebook page, a charity fund-raiser in East Hampton. But in person, she was stunningly beautiful, the kind of pretty you don’t expect outside the airbrushed, Photoshopped pages of a magazine. She was wearing jeans, but they were fancy skinny jeans, paired with high-heeled sandals and a bright pink silk blouse. Even though it was humid and sticky outside, her long caramel-colored hair looked freshly blown. I knew from last spring’s “must have” list in the Bloomingdale’s catalog that the handbag on her lap had a four-digit price tag.

  She must have recognized me, too, because she bounded from her chair when
she saw me, thanking me for taking the time to talk with her, even though I had been the one to request the meeting.

  According to Gary Hannigan, Amanda had been all too eager to dish the dirt on Malcolm Neeley. My hope was that she had new tales for me as well, perhaps some involving Max’s animosity toward his father. I greeted her with my warmest smile. “I love that bag. Tod’s? So cute.”

  AMANDA HAD THE LOOKS OF a kept woman whose only jobs were shopping and staying pretty, but her demeanor reflected the education and experience listed in her LinkedIn profile: an art history degree from Sarah Lawrence and three years’ marketing experience with a major cosmetics manufacturer. Across from me at the circular table in the corner of my office, she sat upright in her chair with crossed legs and the kind of open body language taught in public-speaking classes to convey honesty and confidence to an audience.

  “I understand you were in a relationship with Max Neeley.”

  “On and off, yes. Serious for a couple of years, in fact.”

  “Does Max know you’re here?”

  “Definitely not, and I hope you won’t have reason to mention it to him. I’d like to help you, though.”

  “I can’t imagine why. Max has made it clear he’s not very happy with the arguments we raised at the bail hearing.”

  “You barely scratched the surface. Malcolm was not a good person. He was cruel and controlling.”

  “Unfortunately for my client, the victim-was-an-asshole isn’t a defense.”

  “Maybe not officially, but when juries like the so-called bad guy more than the victim, they don’t put anyone in jail. You see it all the time on the news. From that chick who cut her man’s pecker off to the racists who get away with killing kids in hoodies. It’s a popularity contest.”

  She was right. If Malcolm Neeley had been the only one to die at the waterfront, I’d fillet him so thoroughly that no jury would care about his death. “Sounds like you should be a lawyer.”

  “Not enough money in it anymore, but thank you.” My office suddenly felt small, and I noticed smudges on the glass of the table. “I know enough to guess that you’ll be pointing to alternative suspects. I’m hoping, for Max’s sake, you can refrain from highlighting the dispute between the Sentry Group and the Grubers.”

  Frederick Gruber was the investor who had sued Neeley’s hedge fund, arguing that his wife and Neeley were lovers who duped him into investing. Gruber had looked like a prime alternative suspect, but unfortunately, we’d already debunked the theory. Gruber was worth billions, so his investment in the Sentry Group was a pittance compared to his overall wealth. Perhaps more important was the evidence the Sentry’s lawyers had filed to show the Grubers had an open marriage, meaning jealousy wasn’t a likely factor.

  I saw no reason to share any of this with Amanda. “Max isn’t my client, so his well-being is really not my concern.”

  “But that’s why I’m offering to tell you whatever you want to know about Malcolm. He had other girlfriends, and I’m sure some of them were married, too. And there was a reason Frederick Gruber wanted to pull his money. Malcolm was overstating the fund’s assets. He wasn’t as rich as he let on. That’s why Max wanted to go out on his own—to start his own hedge fund. But Malcolm was such an asshole, he wouldn’t give Max any seed money. And he didn’t even pay him what he was worth as a salary. He used his money to control Max.”

  “I get the impression this is personal for you.”

  She looked out my office window for a few seconds before focusing on me again. “Max loves me, but we broke up because his father told him he should marry rich. He said he married Max and Todd’s mother for love, and look what happened. He told Max his best bet at seed money for his own fund was to find a sugar momma and a generous father-in-law.”

  “And here you are, fighting for a man who actually listened to that garbage.”

  “Part of why I love Max is that I think I understand him. It’s like his whole family was afraid of love. Malcolm was a bad person, but I do believe he was crushed when his wife killed herself. And the news never really reported this, but a broken heart was the reason Todd was so distraught before—you know, Penn Station. He was head over heels for some girl at school who wouldn’t give him the time of day. He said she was all wrapped up with some older guy. He’d talk about all these plans to break them up, like awkward, scrawny Todd could save Rapunzel or something. And in Malcolm and Max’s eyes, look what that love did to him? It turned him into a madman.”

  I found myself looking away. Amanda made it sound like a fear of love was the saddest thing in the world.

  “And what about Max?” I asked.

  “Now that Malcolm’s gone, he has a shot. He can run the Sentry Group better than his father ever did. And he’ll get Gruber to drop that lawsuit and keep his money with Max. But if you start dropping Gruber’s name in a murder trial, he’ll run as far as he can from the Sentry Group. But if things work out for Max at work—”

  “He can be with the woman he actually loves.”

  She smiled. “And that’s why I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about Malcolm Neeley. Do we have a deal?”

  I made up some wishy-washy ethical reason for why I couldn’t make any guarantees, but promised to consider her wishes. “You know, you’ve said Malcolm was a bad person and a horrible father, but you haven’t mentioned how Max felt about him. Did the two of them get along?”

  A worried look crossed her face. “You asked that because of what happened at Princeton.”

  “I was only asking for your opinion.” She could construe my response however she liked.

  “He was drunk and pissed off. It got totally blown out of proportion. Max loved his father, even though Malcolm didn’t deserve it.”

  As soon as she left my office, I hit the Speaker button on my phone. Don answered immediately. “Turns out Max and his father had serious issues over money. We need to find out how much Max inherits now that his dad’s out of the way.” An alarm on my phone reminded me that it was time to go. “And can you ask Einer to see what he can find out about Max’s time at Princeton? It sounds like there was some kind of episode.”

  I wouldn’t have time to look into it myself. Jack was coming home today.

  Chapter 12

  IT HAD TAKEN two days for the police to schedule a time to inspect Jack’s apartment to approve the conditions of his release. I wanted to be here to make sure everything went smoothly. Of course, Charlotte insisted on being with Buckley to “oversee the process” and had hired cleaners to make the apartment pristine after the police search.

  While two men installed the boxes that would monitor the signal from Jack’s electronic monitoring anklet, Charlotte was monitoring the blogosphere’s coverage of Jack’s case on her iPad. Since Jack’s arrest, she and I had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, but we still had never spoken without Buckley in the room, which limited the scope of our conversations. “I got to hand it to you, Randall,” she said, “every paper’s got a quote from at least one person wondering if the cops rushed to judgment. The Daily News even mentioned the female victim’s drug arrest, like maybe she was the intended target or something. They got a little picture and everything.” She turned her tablet screen toward me. “She looks a bit like a young you, don’t you think? More strung out, mind you, but the resemblance is there.”

  Buckley popped up from the sofa and grabbed for the iPad. “I want to see.”

  We were both looking at what was apparently a booking photo of Tracy Frankel. Dark hair. Wide-set eyes. Heart-shaped face. But that was as far as the similarities went. “You’re crazy,” I said.

  “And you’re blind,” Charlotte said, letting Buckley wander back to the sofa with her. “But you know what? You’re also a fucking miracle worker. Malcolm’s son is trying to make him sound like a saint, but you totally turned the story around, and now Jack is coming home.”

  I wanted to remind her not to get her hopes up, but for Buckley’s sake, let the optimism fil
l the air.

  “Ma’am,” one of the deputies said, “to be clear, you’re taking that tablet with you when you leave? We’ll have to make sure of that.”

  “Yes sirree.”

  As a condition of his release, Jack could have no visitors to the apartment other than his daughter and lawyers. The court had also added a no-Internet provision, which was usually reserved for sex offenders or other people whose crimes could be facilitated on the Web, but I had decided to quit while we were ahead. The New York Observer had already asked if there was any chance of a black man being released pending trial on murder charges, and I had to admit there was not.

  “And the girl here knows the condition applies to her, too, right? No iPhones, Google phones, Samsungs, blueberries, strawberries—nothing.” You could tell it was a joke the officer had used hundreds of times.

  Buckley waved the brand-new basic flip phone Charlotte had purchased two hours ago. “The girl here has her vintage 1990 mo-bile ready to go.” She pronounced “mobile” as if it rhymed with “mile.”

  The fact that Verizon wanted a full-day window three weeks from now to install a landline probably explained why I, like the Harris home, no longer had one.

  “Stop staring at a picture of a dead girl,” Charlotte said, snatching her iPad back from Buckley. “It’s not healthy.”

  “Sorry. It’s just—she’s so young there. Like, not much older than me.” She seemed shaken by the thought of someone her own age being killed. “Hey, by the way, how do they even know if we’re following all these rules?”

  I looked around to make sure the officers were out of earshot. “Because they’re installing a camera at the door and have the right to conduct random inspections, so don’t even think about it. You can live without a smartphone for a while.”

  Buckley jumped from the sofa at the sound of the doorbell and ran to the front hall.

  Jack was wearing the clothes Einer had dropped off yesterday at the jail for him—khakis and a white polo shirt. They both seemed baggy. The officers had draped a jacket over his handcuffs. Buckley threw her arms around her father. When the officer looked at me and cleared his throat, I tapped her shoulder gently and explained that they needed to get Jack situated before she and her father could have a real reunion.