by Owen Parr
Our pub, Captain O’Brian’s Irish Pub and Cigar Bar in Manhattan’s Financial District, was a New York institution. It was opened in nineteen forty-eight, after the war, by Captain Sean O’Brian, Father Dom’s grandfather, and it was almost seventy years old. Coinciding with Captain Sean’s death, his son, Marine Master Sergeant Brandon O’Brian returned from Vietnam and took over the pub in nineteen-sixty-nine. Since that time, and up until his death last year, Dom’s dad, Brandon, and Mr. Patrick had managed the pub.
Father Dom and I sat and waited for attorney Adams. The mornings were quiet in the pub. The occasional ray of sun shone in through the stained-glass windows in the front, and reflected on the wall-long mirrors behind the bar, guiding the sun’s rays in various directions inside the pub. We both enjoyed reading the papers, and savoring our espressos, with an occasional morning cigar for me. The pub was comfortable for us to work. It was the center of operations for our investigative service. Other than the TVs, and the brass banker’s lamps with the green shades we’d added to the booths, the pub was identical in décor since its inception. A row of comfortable booths with worn green leather seats ran the length of the bar on its right side. Black and white photos of Captain O’Brian with celebrities, like Norman Mailer, Truman Capote, Mickey Mantle, and others, hung above the banker’s lamps along the walls. Four-top wooden tables with captain’s chairs occupied the center of the pub. Brass lamps, also with green glass shades, hung from the ceiling above the tables.
Hearing the jostle of traffic always alerted us that someone was walking into the pub. Our pub is located on the corner of Hanover and Beaver Streets in lower Manhattan, and traffic flows as constant as the currents of the East River, just blocks away from our pub. Sure enough, two tailored suits walked in, one pinstriped, and the other navy blue. Dom and I got up from our chairs and greeted them. As I did, I could see through the front glass pane window of the pub, a checkerboard sky, patches of blue sky and dirty gray, around the tops of the tall buildings surrounding our location.
“You must be Father O’Brian,” said pinstriped, smiling and shaking Dom’s hand, “I’m Marshall Adams,” he said, in a low, deep voice. His tone reminded me of Henry Kissinger, who had been Secretary of State under President Nixon. Adams was in his mid-fifties, athletic build, tall, and handsome. A massive head of jet-black hair with a few gray ones, trying to make their way out on the sides, above his sideburns. Full black eyebrows and dark under-eyes framed his smoky gray eyes.
“What gave it away, Mr. Adams?” I asked, as I shook hands with him, and ushered them forward.
Dom smiled, as he put down his espresso, and got up to greet our guests.
Father Dominic, my half-brother, was a good-looking man of forty-nine. An Irish priest, but like me, he also was a bit unconventional in the practice of his duties. Pragmatic is a word that comes to mind, and while religious, his practice is geared for the twenty-first century.
“Don’t have to be a detective to see that one. Hi, Mr. Mancuso,” Adams responded. “This is my associate, Mr. Chuck Pearson.”
Pearson was a chubby-looking character, in his late forties, short, balding, but styling a comb over, from the right side of his head. He, too, was impeccably dressed. We exchanged a couple of more pleasantries, and sat down at a four-top in the middle of the pub to discuss the case.
Adams said, “Mancuso, and O’Brian, safe to say you fellows share or shared a mother?”
“Briana is our mom, living in Florida, that’s correct. First, she married Dom’s father. As you can see, he’s much older than me,” I said, as we all laughed and looked at Dom. “Then she married my dad. She went from an Irishman to a second-generation New York Italian.”
I pointed to a table, and we all sat down.
Dom, not being one for small talk, asked, “How can we be of help, Mr. Adams?” Dom folded The New York Post he was reading.
Before he replied, I asked, “Can we get you anything to drink?”
Both Adams and Pearson replied, “No, thank you.”
“Let’s get down to business. We don’t have much time, as it is,” said Adams. “You might already know a little bit about our case if you’ve been reading the local papers. Allow me to begin at the top, and then you can decide if you’re willing to help us. Fair enough?” He asked, glancing at both Dom and me.
Dom motioned with his hands, and replied, “Proceed, please.”
Adams began, “A little background on Harry Longworth. Harry and I met in high school. We ended up together at Yale. He went on to become a real estate developer, very successfully, I might add, and I went into the law profession. We’ve been friends forever and stayed close with our friendship. Our wives were good friends, and our kids went to the same elementary, and high schools. Other than for our professions, our families are almost mirrors of each other. His wife’s murder was a shock to our family, needless to say.”
I had my hands on the table. Opening my palms, I asked, “Would it be fair to say you believe Mr. Longworth to be innocent of the murder?”
Adams nodded. “Without question, Mr. Mancuso,” he said, without any noticeable gestures.
“Please call me Joey,” I said. “Go ahead.”
Adams went on, “Thank you. Mr. Longworth arrived at his home in Sagaponack, Long Island, a year ago, at about eleven in the evening, from his office in midtown. He went upstairs to his bedroom. And, as was the custom between him and his wife, if she had gone to sleep, the room would be dark, except for a light in the en-suite bathroom, which she’d leave on for him, so that he could see his way there, and to the walk-in closet. Mr. Longworth entered the room, and tripped on something on the floor, not immediately realizing it was the body of his wife. He fell on top of her, still not recognizing the body, and felt around to see what it could’ve been. Moments later, Harold realized it was a body, but wasn’t sure who it was. He called for his wife, but heard no response. He got up and turned on the night light, on the table next to the bedroom door. It was then he recognized it was her on the floor, and her body was covered in blood.”
I took a sip of my coffee and asked, “I assume that’s how he got the blood on him?”
Adams cleared his throat, leaned forward, and replied, “He knelt beside her and felt her pulse. Then he put his ear over her mouth to see if he could detect breathing. None was evident. His falling on the body, and the other steps he took to see if she was alive, caused the transfer of the blood to him, correct.”
Mirroring Adams, Dom leaned forward on his chair, and asked, “How did his blood end up on the murder weapon?”
Adams responded, “Harry saw a gun, inches under the bed, and at the same time, he heard a noise on the first floor of the home. He grabbed the gun, not thinking it’d turn out to be the murder weapon, and proceeded downstairs, all the time believing the perpetrator was there, about to leave the premises.”
I asked, “What happened next?”
Adams turned to look at me. “He took the stairs down, expecting to find someone. He moved quietly, and cautiously, then, inspected the entire first floor. There was no one. Secured all the doors, and then rushed upstairs. He put the gun down on the night table; again, he felt her pulse and concluded she was, in fact, dead. That’s when he called nine-one-one.”
I raised my right index finger, signaling to stop there. “When you say, he secured all the doors, did he find any doors opened?”
Adams replied, “Not opened, but he did say the kitchen door leading to the side patio was unlocked.”
Dom inquired, “We heard there was gunshot residue found on his right hand and arm.”
“Yes, there was.” Adams replied.
Putting down my coffee, I queried, “How do you explain that?”
“Harry, as he inspected the home, heard more sounds, and nervously fired a shot into the ceiling, trying to warn the intruder that he was armed,” Adams responded.
I sat back, “Being the devil’s advocate, that could have been done on purpose, to expla
in the GSR found on him.”
Pearson leaned forward, and speaking for the first time in a slightly high-pitched tone, said, “Yes it could have,” and repeated, “yes, it could have.”
“And what is the prosecution saying about that?” I inquired, as I moved my empty coffee cup to an adjacent table.
Adams replied, “They claim he shot his wife, then walked downstairs and fired the weapon into the ceiling, to cover up the gun residue found on him.”
Dom asked, “Any witnesses?”
“None,” Adams replied.
I asked, “Anyone hear the gunshots? Neighbors, or others?”
Pearson responded, “None that we’ve been able to find.”
I began, “We’ve established that your client had the opportunity. What about motivation?”
Adams closed his eyes, thought for a second, then said, “The prosecution brought forth a divorce attorney that Mrs. Longworth had consulted. According to her testimony, Mrs. Longworth, Sheila, wanted a divorce and expected a nasty, contested one.”
Dominic asked, “Why did she want a divorce?”
Adams glanced at Pearson, and Pearson replied, “According to the divorce attorney, Mrs. Longworth no longer was in love with her husband. She wanted to file for divorce based on the irretrievable breakdown between her and her husband. But he was adamant about staying together.”
I glanced at Adams and asked, “Mr. Adams, your families were friends, I assumed you socialize with the Longworths?”
Adams brushed his nose gently and replied, “Yes, we are, and did socialize with them. However, when we were together, I never noticed anything obvious. They seemed fine, for a couple married over twenty years.”
Motioning with my hands, in an inquisitive fashion, I said, “I’m a little lost. Mr. Longworth does not want a divorce, he wants to stay together, but he then turns around and kills her, because she wants a divorce? Is there something I’m missing?”
Pearson nodded to Adams. Adams turned to me and replied, “Harry did tell me that he suspected his wife, Sheila, was having an affair.”
Pushing the New York Post aside, Dom inquired, “Does the prosecution know that?”
Pearson responded, “There’s a witness yet to take the stand for the prosecution, a private investigator. He will testify that Mr. Longworth hired him, to check on his wife and a possible affair.”
Looking at Adams, then at Pearson, I said, “Then, that’s the motivation they are going to use. Mr. Longworth kills his wife, not because she wanted a divorce, but because she was having an affair. Does the PI have any proof?”
“Not from our deposition of him, no. He had just started on the case,” Adams replied.
Father Dom asked, “Gentlemen, this is not looking too good for your client, is it?”
Adams and Pearson exchanged glances, before Pearson replied, “True, yes, true.”
I glanced at Dom, and then back to Adams and asked, “Where are you in the case right now?”
Adams nodded at his associate, and Mr. Pearson said, “The prosecution concludes their case in two days. We are not due back in court until Wednesday, after the Christmas break. Then, we begin to present our defense. Even knowing that our client is innocent, we have a weak case. Their case against Mr. Longworth is very solid. They have the gun, the murder weapon, the GSR, and his bloody prints on the weapon. Her blood all over him. No other witnesses in the home, at the time of the shooting,” Pearson paused.
Adams added, “Frankly, we have very little chance of succeeding. All we have are character witnesses in his defense.”
I could see Dom wanted to ask a question, so I nodded to him, and he asked, “What can we possibly do at this stage?”
“We need you to find the real murderer,” Adams replied, looking straight into Dom’s eyes.
My cell phone vibrated, I ignored it, and let it go to voice mail. Then, a second later, the Pub’s land-line rang, I ignored that call, nodding to Father Dom. He asked, “That’s a big ask, Mr. Adams. And you said you had ten days?”
“We think we can stretch our presentation that long, and hopefully, with the holidays, we can add a few days. But we don’t believe that we can go beyond that,” Pearson replied, as Adams nodded.
I opened my hands. “So, why are you here?”
Adams leaned forward. “Harry’s oldest daughter, Margery, who’s nineteen, begged us to talk to you. She believes in you guys, having followed your other case. Plus, she liked the nickname the press gave you: ‘the last advocate’. She and her father spoke, and you have a blank check to see this through to the end. Name your price.”
“Well, that’s flattering,” I said, “but I think the media has made us into something we’re not. I mean, there are no convictions yet in the other case. This Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson tag that they put on us is a bit exaggerated. Besides, you guys are the advocates.”
Pearson added, “We are the advocates of the accused. You were called the last advocate of the victims. Because of the relentless pursuit that you display on your cases.”
Shaking my head, I responded, “Again, the press has a way of romanticizing the stories.”
Adams asked, “Would you mind if Margery called you?”
Dom broke in, “No, no, that’d be highly inappropriate, at this stage. We can’t raise her hopes like that. I’d be very uncomfortable with that. Wouldn’t you, Joey?”
“Yes, I agree. How soon would you want an answer from us?”
Adams glanced at Pearson, thought for a second, looked at his watch and replied, “We can wait right here while you fellows talk about it.”
I smiled at both men. Looking at Adams, I said, “Could you guys sit in the front booth, while my brother and I discuss this?”
Both Adams and Pearson got up and proceeded to the front booth. I turned to Dominic and said, “Let’s go to the confessional and talk about it.”
The confessional, or Woody Allen’s Booth, was a small booth, all the way in the back of the pub. It was big enough for two people to sit across from each other. Twice, patrons had asked to speak to Father Dom privately, in this booth, so we had baptized it “the confessional.” However, before that, Woody Allen would enjoy his privacy, sitting at this booth when he visited our pub, and a black and white photo of Allen and Captain O’Brian hung on the booth’s wall.
Dom and I talked for a few minutes, and I walked towards the front, to where Adams and Pearson waited patiently. Still sitting, they both looked up as I approached.
Standing, I made eye contact with both, smiled, and said, “I need to make you aware of a rule I have.”
Pearson asked, “And that is?”
“I go where the case takes me,” I replied.
“That’s fine, Joey,” Adams replied, “But there is what is called attorney work-product, that makes any findings you get, privileged information, thus non-discoverable by the opposition.”
“I’m aware of that. But, that’s only as it refers to your client,” I replied.
“So, what are you saying?” Pearson asked, a bit puzzled.
“If the findings point to another person, not your client, I’ll pursue that.”
Adams smiled, “That’s exactly what we would want.”
I extended my hand to Adams and said, “Let’s do this.”
2
We had ten days to find the murderer. I enjoy pressure, but this was like running after a train, once it left the station. As I walked these guys to the front door of the pub, two new suits were walking in. I wasn't surprised when they met and greeted each other.
Simon Cohen, the managing partner, and Ruth Goldstein, one of the senior partners at Bevans and Associates, Criminal Attorneys, said their hellos to Adams and Pearson. Cohen, sporting a three-piece gray Armani pin-striped suit, had called me for an appointment the week before, and I had tried to put them off, unsuccessfully. Cohen had been very gracious, but, persuasive in his introduction, and I acquiesced into meeting them this morning.
As Ad
ams was about to walk out the door, I noticed a little hesitation on his part, and a look of consternation on his face. Shaking hands with me, and squinting, he asked in a hushed tone, "Mr. Mancuso, you've agreed to take our case, correct?"
"That's right, sir, we have nothing else on our calendar that will take priority over your case," I replied. He was apparently concerned, having seen Cohen and Goldstein enter our pub. After all, Bevans and Associates was one of the most prestigious criminal law firms in New York City.
Still standing by the opened front door of the pub, with a cool breeze rushing in, Father Dominic came over to greet our new guests, and I made the formal introductions, after that, Dom excused himself from the meeting and advised everyone that he had a prior meeting. I had alerted Cohen and Goldstein that I would be meeting with them alone, knowing full well, that Dominic had no time to stay. His priority was still Saint Helen's Catholic Church in Brooklyn.
"How can I be of service?" I asked, as we sat down at the same four-top in the middle of the pub. I took Dom’s New York Post and placed it on an empty table. A Dean Martin song played in the background.
Cohen and Goldstein glanced at each other. "Right to the point," Cohen said. "I like that," he added.
"Forgive me for being short, but we are working on a case, and time is of the essence. I'm sure you can appreciate that," I stated.
"Understandable, Mr. Mancuso, allow us to get to the purpose of our meeting," said Goldstein, smiling.