“Sure, I’m happy to help. She said she wants me at the courthouse in the morning, but I can come out east tonight and sleep there.”
Olivia had called Nunzio while we were still at the hotel. To avoid a spat with her about a slew of discovery complaints she threatened to level in court, he had agreed to allow Olivia to add Jake as a rebuttal witness.
“It’s not a good idea, Jake. If the prosecution finds out I met with a witness right before you testified. . . . We shouldn’t even be on the phone.”
“Yeah, you’re right. This will be over soon, though, Chloe. It’s going to be okay. Don’t give up.”
“Yeah.”
“I love you.”
“You, too.”
When I hung up, Nicky blasted the ’80s station so we could both pretend she didn’t hear me cry all the way home.
33
I was forty-one years old and had managed to avoid even a single incident of public humiliation. Now I was under oath, before a packed courtroom, about to testify to the darkest moments in my marriage.
I had made the mistake of reading social media last night before going to sleep. The trolls were having a field day with yesterday’s dual bombshells that my husband had been abusing me physically and that my son had been one of my most active online critics.
So Chloe Taylor shames men for telling ladies they look nice at work but has no problem with dudes who beat up their wives. What a bitch.
Imagine what a cunt you have to be for your own son to call you out like that.
Why hasn’t she killed herself yet?
Worst person in the world.
Really? Well, it’s about to get worse.
Olivia began by establishing that I had been in the courtroom previously and had seen both Ethan’s testimony and the video he had made of his argument with Adam.
“So you heard Ethan testify that your husband, Adam, was—quote—‘beating the shit out of’ you?”
“Yes.”
“Was he wrong?”
“Well, it’s not how I would word it necessarily.” There were a few nervous laughs. “But, yes, he was correct that we were having problems recently. And we had ferocious arguments—along the lines of how Adam appeared in that video, but outside Ethan’s presence. And there was physical violence involved.”
Olivia had prepped me for this. She had forced me yesterday in her suite to practice the lines—brutal and blunt—over and over again. But now that I was here, I couldn’t say them. I looked at Ethan. He called me weak, a coward, a hypocrite, caring more what people thought about me than my actual reality. He needed me to be different now.
“Ethan spoke a truth that I never wanted known: my husband, Adam, was beating me.”
“And why didn’t you want this known?” Olivia asked.
Nunzio objected that the question was irrelevant.
“Your Honor, the prosecutor tried to make it sound as if Ethan dropped the evidentiary equivalent of a nuclear bomb in the courtroom yesterday when he finally badgered this boy into disclosing his family’s deepest, most shameful secret. The jury deserves the right to understand his state of mind.”
Judge Rivera agreed.
“I was embarrassed, and I blamed myself. I was probably in denial about it, too, hoping it was temporary. He’s drunk, he’s stressed out, it won’t happen again. I was so in love with him. Against all the taboos—he was my sister’s ex, for goodness’ sake, my nephew’s father—I dated him and then married him, because I truly believed we were soul mates. I had absolutely no idea that Ethan was aware of the abuse, or I’d like to think I would have made different decisions. But now I understand why he wrote those internet posts. Just like he said, he was trying to get my attention. To wake me up and make me see the situation from the outside, even as he internalized my own shame.”
Nunzio rose again. “She can’t read the defendant’s mind, Your Honor.”
“I’m going to allow it.”
“Now, Mr. Nunzio here has suggested that Ethan was motivated to kill Adam because he was the stricter parent, while you were the more lenient. To be clear, did you adopt Ethan?”
“No.”
“Who are his legal parents?”
“Well, it was Adam and my sister, Nicole, with Adam having sole physical custody once they divorced almost fourteen years ago.”
“What is your understanding of who Ethan’s legal parent is now that Adam is deceased?”
“Adam’s will directed that Ethan remain with me, but he included that clause because, as a simple legal matter, his biological mother would become the presumptive guardian.”
“In fact, when the state has sent legal notifications during this trial to the parent of my client, they’ve sent those documents to your sister, Nicole, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And the detention center where he’s been held pending trial permits you to visit not on a parent’s schedule, but as an aunt?”
“Yes.”
“How many times would you estimate that Adam Macintosh physically assaulted you?”
Another objection came from Nunzio. “Relevance, Your Honor. The victim is not on trial here.”
Judge Rivera tapped her pen against a legal pad. “I’m inclined to agree. The bad acts of the victim are not relevant unless they were known to the defendant, and he testified to the extent of his knowledge yesterday.”
“Your Honor, the defense offers this evidence for another purpose. I promise to tie it in quickly.”
“A few questions, Ms. Randall, but be quick.”
While they wrangled over the law, I was trying to count how many times Adam had hurt me. “I didn’t keep a log or anything. My guess is more than eight, less than twelve. Maybe ten times?”
“Did he ever grab you?”
“Yes.”
“Push you?”
“Yes.”
“Slap you?”
“Yes.”
“Punch you, by which I mean, a closed fist?”
“Yes.”
“Choke you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever leave bruises on you?”
“Yes.”
“Draw blood?”
“Yes. My lip, once. He never punched me in the face after that, though.”
Nunzio again, back on his feet. “Your Honor, this is clearly designed to—”
“Mr. Nunzio,” the judge said, “can I please remind you that you are the one who injected this topic into the trial with your cross-examination of the defendant? You can’t pick and choose which parts of the subject matter make you comfortable.”
I took a tiny amount of pleasure in seeing Nunzio slither, chastised, into his chair.
“Did you retaliate against your husband in any way?” Olivia asked.
“Yes.”
“Physically?”
“No, I tried defending myself once, and it did not go well.” I looked directly at the jury for the next sentence. “I retaliated by having an affair.”
My testimony was having the desired effect. Several jurors’ eyes widened. They were all leaning forward.
“When did this affair start?”
“Last September. Right after Labor Day.”
“So about eight months before your husband was killed?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have reason to believe this man knew that Adam was abusing you?”
“He would see bruises. On my body. I told him that I bruised easily, and that they were from Pilates. He’d joke around that I should probably find a workout that didn’t involve instruments of torture.” I pictured him kissing the dark purple blotch on my rib cage, supposedly from arching against the equipment, and delicately tracing his fingertip across the scrape on my neck, where I said a spring-loaded handle had ricocheted.
“Do you know where this man was on the night your husband was killed?”
“Not precisely. But I saw him in East Hampton, where he owns a house, the following day.” When I went to him tha
t afternoon, he told me he had spent the previous night alone, watching Netflix. I was certain he was telling the truth. We hadn’t lied to each other, not until now.
Nunzio was flipping through documents that I suspected were my cell phone records. He wasn’t going to find anything.
“Did he know that Adam had been alone at your home the previous night?”
“Yes. I told him that, in fact. I spoke to him around five o’clock. He had just arrived in East Hampton. I told him that Ethan was staying at a friend’s for the night and that Adam wouldn’t be out until later. He asked to see me, but I told him I was leaving for a party.”
“So this man you were seeing knew you were going out for the evening, Ethan was already gone for the night, as well, and Adam was on his way home?”
Nunzio, his attention still aimed at documents on his desk, muttered an objection that Olivia was testifying, which was sustained.
“Was this man aware that only the three of you resided at your home?”
Nunzio objected again, but this time was overruled.
“Yes,” I answered. The implication was clear. My lover would have known that Adam would be alone once he arrived at the house.
“How far is this man’s East Hampton home from yours?”
“About eight tenths of a mile.” I thought about all the times I had stolen away to walk alone on the beach, only to turn left after the Maidstone Club to circle around to his house. I hated that I was doing this to him, but reminded myself that I had to for Ethan.
“Did this man ever express any animosity toward your husband?”
Another objection from Nunzio, this time on the basis of hearsay. Olivia responded with something about it being an excited utterance and state of mind, and Judge Rivera instructed me that I could answer.
“The last time I saw him before Adam was killed—about two weeks before the murder—he noticed another bruise.” That part was true. Adam had worked late and came home to find me already asleep in the middle of the bed. He kicked me, saying he couldn’t get me to move, but I knew it was because he was mad about getting stuck at work all night. “I finally told him that the bruises weren’t from Pilates—that Adam was violent, but I was afraid to leave him. He was furious. The only thing I can think of is that he did this to protect me.”
Nunzio, still searching wildly for cell phone evidence he wouldn’t find, was slow to object. “Speculation.”
The objection was sustained, but the damage was done. I could tell from the disgusted looks on their faces that the jurors had believed me. In their eyes, I was a slut, but not a liar.
“Mr. Nunzio. Do you have a cross-examination or not?”
Watching Nunzio still flipping through those records, I realized how many dots Olivia had to connect to be confident about this plan.
She had predicted this very moment the night before in her suite. “We’re not going to give him a name,” she’d said. “He’ll assume you’re lying to protect Ethan. He’ll look in the cell phone records for a Friday-night call, and he won’t find it. So he’ll have two choices: flail around in the dark and ask questions he doesn’t know the answer to, or wait until closing to argue that you made up a nonexistent boyfriend to distract the jury. He won’t even cross-examine you.”
Now, here we were, and Nunzio had a decision to make.
“No questions, Your Honor.”
34
At Olivia’s request, Jake had been waiting in the courthouse. The plan she came up with the previous night worked best if he walked into the courtroom expecting to be asked his impressions of Adam’s relationship with his son.
I saw a small smile cross his face as he walked past me on his way to the witness chair. I knew it was intended as a sign of optimism for me, but it only made me feel more horrible.
I kept my hands clasped in my lap and stared straight ahead as Olivia walked him through the basic questions she’d ask of a standard character witness. His name and age. His employment with Rives & Braddock for the past fifteen years. The fact that he first met Adam and his family approximately six years earlier through the law firm’s head partner, Bill Braddock, who represented Eve magazine. The additional fact that the firm subsequently welcomed Adam in as a law partner to handle white-collar criminal cases a little more than two years before his death.
“Would you call Adam Macintosh a friend?”
“Definitely.”
“You socialized together?”
“Yes. Often, in fact, once he joined the firm. Our weekend houses are within a mile of each other, so we saw each other out there quite a bit. And, of course, at work.”
“You had cases together?”
He paused. “No, not per se. He was primarily a criminal defense attorney. I’m a transactional lawyer. But we were partners at the same firm, so, in that sense, all our work was shared. And a few clients had a need for both of us, in which case we’d team up.”
“Did you even take trips with the Macintosh family?”
He nodded. “Yes, a couple of times.”
“And what were those?”
“The firm had a big celebration for its fiftieth year. About a hundred of us went to Anguilla together last January. And then a much smaller group of us—more our social crowd from the East End—went up to Boston together for a Yankee-Sox game, if you could even call that massacre a vacation.”
“And did Ethan Macintosh and Chloe Taylor go on both of those trips?”
He blinked a couple of times at the mention of my name, but I doubt anyone else noticed. “Yes.”
“So you had a chance to get to know both of them?”
“Yes, I’d say so.”
“And did you commence a sexual relationship with Chloe Taylor?”
It only took him a second. I could see the flicker in his eyes. Jake was probably the smartest person I had ever met. How many times had Adam and Bill said that he was the resident genius at Rives & Braddock? The lawyer part of his brain probably even admired Olivia for the move, realizing he never would have fallen for it if it weren’t for his loyalty to me.
He turned calmly to the judge, his eyes moving quickly past mine. “I’m not going to answer that question.”
Jake’s own objection triggered one from Nunzio. “Inadequate foundation for the question, Your Honor.”
Olivia was prepared with a retort. “Ms. Taylor’s testimony laid a sufficient foundation, Your Honor. If necessary, I can recall her to the stand.”
I had said everything except Jake’s name. It wasn’t our fault that Nunzio hadn’t made the connection to Olivia’s late addition of a family friend as a character witness.
“The objection is overruled,” Rivera said. “You must answer the question, Mr. Summer. Unless there’s an applicable privilege, of course. I can give you a recess to give you an opportunity to retain counsel if necessary.”
He looked up at Olivia and set his mouth in a straight line before speaking. “On the advice of my own counsel, I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me.”
“Did Chloe Taylor tell you prior to Adam Macintosh’s murder that her husband was physically abusing her?”
“On the advice of my own counsel, I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me.”
Over and over again, he repeated the same phrase, like a mantra.
“Did you provide a burner phone to Ms. Taylor so your private conversations with her would go undetected by Adam Macintosh and other members of your law firm?
“At approximately five p.m. before the murder, did you receive a phone call from Ms. Taylor notifying you that she would be at a party and that her husband, Adam Macintosh, would be alone that night, less than a mile from your own home?
“Where were you the night that Adam Macintosh was killed?
“Jake Summer, did you stab Adam Macintosh?”
That was the question that finally made him flinch. I could see how badly he wanted to defend himself. Instead, he looked at me, a pained expression on
his face, as he answered one last time, “On the advice of my own counsel, I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me.”
When he left the witness chair, he used the opposite aisle through the courtroom so he did not have to walk directly past me. As I watched him leave, Nicky and I glared at him, just like Olivia had us practice. After all, he was the man who must have killed my husband.
35
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible driver?”
Technically the speed limit on this section of Abraham’s Path was thirty, but even civilians averaged a little over forty. Guidry could see from the passenger seat that Bowen was rolling at a constant thirty-one, and that’s when he wasn’t tapping the brakes for reasons known only to him.
“Pretty much every person who’s ever ridden shotgun with me. I grew up in Queens. Went into the navy. Managed to never drive a car once until I decided I wanted to be a cop. You haven’t noticed I’m more than happy to sit in that seat over there?”
“Thought you were overcorrecting for the fact I’m female.”
“You overthink.”
“Or maybe you just like sitting here to jam all your candy into the seat cushion like a fucking squirrel preparing for winter.” She slipped two fingers into the upholstery tear, pulled out a gummy bear, and tossed it out the window. “Seriously, what is wrong with you?”
He chuckled. “Just seemed funny at first. Then I started wondering if you’d ever notice.”
“I’m taking the car home tonight and having Amy sew this up for good.”
Guidry’s cell phone buzzed in her blazer pocket. A 917 number, a city cell phone.
“Guidry.”
It was Agent Damon Katz from the FBI. “I got your message asking about the Gentry Group.”
“Not Gentry per se,” she clarified. “Their lawyer, Adam Macintosh.”
Bowen tapped the brake at the mention of Macintosh’s name, sending Guidry lurching against her seat belt. She shot him an annoyed look and gestured for him to pay attention to the road.
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