Moments later I was outside my apartment, fumbling in my pocket for my keys when the door of a car parked outside opened up onto the sidewalk.
From inside came the most improbable sound.
“Mr. Valentine, I’d like a word, off the record,” said a husky female voice.
From my position it was impossible to see who it was, but the voice was familiar. I approached the car slowly, and there, sitting inside alone, was none other than Lizzie Guthrie.
“Hello, Jack,” she smiled up at me, flashing a perfect set of Hollywood-white teeth.
“Lizzie, how long have you been here?”
“Too long, and it’s freezing. Are you going to invite a girl in from the cold, or what?”
I paused momentarily, wondering what it was all about, what she wanted, what her motives were, and the implications.
There was only one way to find out.
“Sure, come in,” I said, holding the door open as she stepped out of the car.
We made our way inside, through the lobby to the elevator. We stood in silence for it to arrive, then rode it side by side to my floor without a word shared between us. It was too late for chit chat, if she wanted to talk then she could. As for me, I was waiting for her to make the first move.
When we reached my apartment and stepped inside, she turned my way and touched me tenderly on the arm, staring at me with her big blue eyes.
“Can a girl get a drink?”
“Sure, coffee?”
“I was thinking whiskey.”
“Ice?”
“Two rocks.”
I fetched her drink and poured myself one too: double shot, neat.
She took a slow sip and held my attention once more with those big saucer eyes.
“You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders, Jack,” she said softly, rubbing her hand up my forearm. “Let me help lift it.”
I didn’t respond.
She took a step closer and leaned in towards my ear.
“I saw someone at the charity event outside Brian Gates’ dressing room,” she whispered.
I took a step back, so she was at arm’s length and looked her squarely in the eye without warmth.
“What’s the matter Jack, why are you no fun?” she said with a disappointed huff.
“It’s too late for games, Lizzie. You got something for me? Well, let’s hear it. Otherwise…”
I glanced towards the door.
“Come on, Jack,” she said. “You know I’ve always had a soft spot for you, don’t shut me out.”
She looked me in the eye again, and for a second I thought she might try her luck once more, but she could see I wasn’t biting. She wasn’t the sort of woman used to getting rejected, to not getting her own way, but I wasn’t the sort of man to be toyed with, not by her, nor anyone else.
With a reluctant sigh, she backed off.
“It was Packman,” she stated, matter-of-factly.
“You’re sure about that?”
“As sure as you’re standing here.”
“What was he doing, going in or coming out?”
“Going in, looking mighty upset.”
“And what were you doing near there?”
“Oh, Brian and I liked to ‘chat’ from time to time,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure you know how it is.”
“Chat, hey? Oh, I’m sure he was a great conversationalist.”
“Actually Jack, he was, among other things.”
“And what time was this?”
“About ten forty-five.”
“You realize this makes you a suspect as much as it does Packman, eleven o’clock is the estimated time of death.”
“Sure, but then this is off the record, Jack. Anyone tries to get me to testify to this and I’ll deny it completely, no question about that. I never said a word of this or anything like it to you, it’s all just a figment of your overactive imagination, don’t you know? The only person that knew I was there, is… well, he can’t testify at his own murder trial.”
“Understood but being at the scene at that very time implicates you just as much as him.”
“Really? You think I moved the body? What, a slender size eight like me?” she said, suggestively tracing her hands down from her tiny waist to her hips. “Whereas big, butch, muscly Pat, of course…”
She had a point.
Whoever killed Brian Gates had moved his body, forensics had established that, and Brian Gates was a big man, well over 200 pounds, as was Packman.
“And you’re telling me this why, Lizzie? Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose?”
“Brian and I were closer than you might imagine. Brian really saw me, understood me, in a way that people would struggle to believe. I want his killer punished. They stole a great man from this planet, a man of warmth, humor and genuine passion, someone I miss and the world is a poorer place without, is that so hard to believe?”
“So why the silence until now, until the trial of Alfie Rose is just about to begin? Why didn’t you tell the police this when their investigation started? This could have been a significant line of inquiry, but instead you tell me, off the record, why?”
“Why do you think?” she said, flashing her wedding ring my way. “You think Hugh and I want the world to know our business, what’s between us and no one else. If I admit to my relationship with Brian then it would be all over the gutter press; they’d have a field day, front page coverage on every tabloid, racking up every bit of salacious dirt for their own voyeuristic pleasure and profit.”
“That’s true enough, and if what you’re telling me is true, then it’s significant.”
She smiled, giving me those eyes again and stepping closer.
“Of course it’s true. I just want to help, Jack. We’ve always had a connection, you and me. We’d make a good team, you know. How about it?”
She reached towards me, but I checked her arm.
“Lizzie, you don’t even know me. I worked for Hugh one time, briefly. And we met, what, a handful of times?”
“If it’s Hugh that bothers you.”
“What?”
“We have an arrangement. I’m not his keeper and neither is he mine.”
“Let me be clear. There is no connection, it’s a wrong number. Completely disconnected.”
She looked hurt but I hit home the point.
“In fact, I’m not even sure the phone is on.”
Down went her drink onto the nearby sideboard.
She started to leave but then turned to me as if about to say something, only to think better of it at the last minute. She shook her head with clear annoyance instead, turned on her heel and strode off into the night, back to Hugh, maybe, or heaven knows where. It didn’t matter to me. What did, was her information. But was it credible? Did she really see Packman outside Gates’ dressing room at the time of his murder? And if so, why was she really telling me?
I didn’t doubt that her marriage vows to Hugh were interpreted loosely, but it seemed likely she had some ulterior motive for spilling the beans other than love for the deceased.
I was still tired, but now also restless, questions running around my mind unchecked. I’d be taking Lizzie Guthrie to bed alright, but not in the manner she wanted. She’d be on my mind as I lay there trying to sleep, wondering what it all meant, and, more importantly, what my next move was. Whatever it was, it would have to be decisive. Alfie’s trial began in less than a week, and his life, more than ever, depended on how I proceeded tactically over the next few days.
Packman was already in my sights. And with the new information from Lizzie, I was now practically ready to pull the trigger.
Chapter 15
A bleached blond teenager with a classic ‘angry girl haircut’ of super short wonky-lined fringe that revealed nearly all of her forehead, knelt on the cold stone steps leading up to the courthouse, wailing at the top of her lungs into the unresponsive air, as if the world as she knew it was about
to end at any moment.
The media circus was lapping it up, paparazzi cameras flashing all over the place to capture the melodramatic image, while film crews got their rushes for the evening news.
“What does Alfie Rose mean to you?” yelled a reporter to the kneeling hysteric.
“Alfie is the world’s most innocent man. He is a kind, big hearted, gentle giant. I love him. I would die for Alfie Rose!”
She pumped her fist triumphantly into the air.
“Yeah! Me too!” yelled another Rose groupie nearby.
“Me too!”
“Yeah, me as well!”
Competition for Alfie’s greatest, or most deranged, fan was on alright, and there was no shortage of participants, with a large collection congregated by their kneeling comrade.
“If they convict him, I will kill myself,” screamed the girl on her knees, raising the stakes even further.
The others echoed her sentiment, although this time not quite so enthusiastically.
What happened next was beyond my comprehension.
From the girl’s jacket pocket came a canister of pepper spray, which she held aloft.
“In the Sixties a Buddhist monk became an icon by burning himself alive in protest at the Vietnam War,” she screamed. “This is our generation’s Vietnam! This is for Alfie!” she paused briefly, checking the nozzle was aimed the right way and then, while everyone was staring open-mouthed at her in disbelief, let it rip with the canister, squirting herself in the face with a big orange covering of capsicum.
“Ahhhh!!!!!” she screamed, as the spray took effect.
Even her fellow groupies looked shocked at that one.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I thought to myself, I think we have a winner.
I left the bonkers brigade to it and made my way up the steps towards the courthouse, passing some Brian Gatesers yelling at two teenagers wearing t-shirts emblazoned with the words: Alfie’s Angels.
“Innocent, is he? That no-good killer is gonna die like a dog!”
“Yeah, let him fry!” yelled another.
At the top of the steps was another group of Alfie devotees, who had formed a rather ineffective human barrier.
“Don’t cross our picket line!” announced several of their signs.
It, like most everything else outside the courthouse, made little sense to me, as if they were trying to block access to the court then they had failed miserably on two fronts: firstly, everyone of any importance was already inside; and secondly, their line was nowhere near the building’s actual front door, allowing me to stride on inside uninterrupted, which is exactly what I did.
A few preliminary security checks and I was shown through the expansive lobby to the courtroom itself.
Despite strenuous protest from his lawyers, Alfie had put me down as a person of importance, allowing me to skip the usual pretrial lines for a spot in the packed public gallery. I made the decision to spend the first few days of the trial in court, looking for any clue I might’ve missed. I needed the thinking time, and I needed the time to piece it all together. Casey was out doing the investigative leg work on the streets, and I could help after the day in court.
Taking a seat at the back of the courtroom, I looked around. Supporters of the accused and the deceased packed the gallery, with court reporters, journalists and family members of Rose and Gates making up the rest. A nervous looking Alfie sat up front with his legal team; and across from them, the prosecution’s big gun lawyers, hard hitters every one of them, who looked ready for a fight, the months of preparation finally over and the battle about to begin. The place buzzed with anticipation, a nervous tension pervading the court to the extent that even the seasoned security staff looked on edge.
It was clear something very big was going down today.
“All rise. Cook County Criminal Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Clifton presiding.”
In walked the judge, Norris Clifton, a no nonsense, conservative, law and order merchant, whose lack of empathy and personal power trips were legendry. A guilty verdict with Clifton meant the maximum sentence, every time.
He took his time to sit, plumping up and then repositioning a big comfy cushion on his chair.
When finally satisfied, he instructed the bailiff to welcome the jury. They were Alfie’s supposed twelve peers, the men and women whom his fate resided in. I took a good look at them one by one, wondering about their selection process, their prejudices, and their ability to base their verdict on the evidence, and the evidence alone. Problem was, the evidence was strong.
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Clifton stated. “We are going to begin with the opening statements made by the lawyers in the case. As I explained to you yesterday, these statements are not to be considered evidence. They are an overview of the type of evidence that the attorneys intend to present to you.”
He turned to the lawyers.
“Are both sides ready to proceed?”
“We are, Your Honor.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Then proceed, we shall.”
First up was the prosecution’s statement, delivered by their lead attorney, Christine McIntyre.
I’d seen McIntyre in action before and she was no joke. In fact, she was quietly terrifying.
A small woman in stature but with a giant presence, she was the classic wolf in sheep’s clothing, who you underestimated at your peril, as many had before and then perished. She had a killer instinct, an encyclopedic knowledge of the law, was a superb tactician and a captivating speaker who could tie even the best prepared defendants up in mental knots.
She loved, thrived in and understood the theater of the law. But what made her cross examinations especially intimidating was her strategic use of silence, those awkward moments in-between questions and answers where she would pause, sometimes agonizingly long, leaving defendants as exposed and vulnerable as newborn lambs without a mother. And this wolf had no mercy.
She made her way to the front of the court.
“Your Honor, Judge Clifton, my colleagues seated here before you today, and to the people most interested in the outcome of this case: The Gates family, and the Rose family, and of course to you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, good morning.”
She took a few paces, looking from juror to juror, letting her presence fill the silence of the room.
“Thou. Shalt. Not. Kill.”
She said it slowly but firmly, one word at a time, letting the gravity of her words sink in.
“It’s been the ultimate crime since the beginning of humanity, the taking of another human life. You steal a wallet, a car, some jewelry, they can be replaced, claimed on your insurance, if you’re lucky enough to have some, but a life? No. No one can give that back.”
She paused again and looked the foreman of the jury in the eye.
“No one.”
She shook her head with a look of regret.
“Not me, not the judge, and not you. No matter what happens over the course of this trial, and what the outcome is, no one can bring back the life of Brian Gates. That’s what makes my job so difficult, and what makes your job so hard. But both our jobs have a central focus and a clear objective. That objective is justice. To deliver justice, we need to answer a question. It’s a question that I’m sure most everyone has been asking, all across this great country. That question is, did Alfie Rose kill Brian Gates?”
She turned towards Alfie and eyeballed him while she said it, practically staring him down until he squirmed in his seat.
She was good, really good, and the jury looked impressed and enthralled.
“Well ladies and gentlemen, I stand here in front of you today to answer that question, through credible witness testimony, DNA analysis, and of course through unequivocal hard evidence. It will make it easy, simple even, for when you piece everything together, there is only one answer.
The answer is: Yes, Alfie Rose murdered Brian Gates.
My name
is Christine McIntyre, and with my team, we will present to you an astounding amount of evidence that will leave you with no doubt about the guilt of Alfie Rose.
Mr. Brian Gates was a respected newscaster, whose career had spanned decades across numerous networks, and whose opinion was respected throughout this city, and throughout the country.
Mr. Alfie Rose is a professional gamer, a young man that earns his money from playing computer games online.
That profession annoyed Mr. Gates, and he announced that opinion loudly, and often. Mr. Gates belittled Mr. Rose, his profession, and his personality.
Throughout this trial, you will hear from witnesses that will tell you that Mr. Rose had said that he had enough of Mr. Gates’ attacks, that he was going to put a stop to the abuse.
And he certainly did that.
He ended it for good.
Mr. Rose murdered Mr. Gates in cold blood in his dressing room after a charity function. Mr. Gates died as a result of a brutal blow to his head, delivered by the large and aggressive Mr. Rose.
Mr. Gates spent his last hours raising money for others. He was raising money for charity, doing good in this world, and it ended up costing his life.
Over the coming weeks, we will present numerous witnesses to you that will explain there is no reasonable doubt, no doubt, that Mr. Rose caused the death of Mr. Gates, and that he had intended to do so.
By the end of this trial, you will understand that Mr. Rose had the intention to cause death. He had the intention to murder Mr. Gates. He knew that what he did would end Mr. Gates’ life.
You will hear from witnesses that will explain the hatred that Mr. Rose had for Mr. Gates, stemming from the fact that Mr. Gates had attacked Mr. Rose verbally, not only on that night, but also in the months previous. The witnesses will explain to you how those verbal attacks started to eat away at Mr. Rose, started to get under his skin, until he decided that he had enough. Mr. Rose had decided that he was going to defend himself from these verbal attacks, and he was going to do so physically.
Gates of Power Page 10
