Ascension Day

by John Matthews

  Jac felt his pulse twitch in his jaw as Pyrford, in smug, sing-song tones, informed him that Morvaun Jaspar’s next police interview was later that morning.

  ‘Eleven-thirty. Be there or be square. Not that I care either way.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’ Jac slammed the phone down sharply enough to hopefully make Pyrford jump the other end.

  Fourteen minutes later the Fedex messenger arrived, and, as he left with the tape, Jac eased out a tired breath, closing his eyes for a second. Two days. But at least there was a fresh glimmer of hope again with his anonymous e-mailer. A chance rather than no chance.

  Pyrford’s call had unsettled him. Pyrford had no doubt made the appointment tight to give Jac little time to prepare himself, and it wasn’t the best time for it to be happening, right in the middle of organizing the e-mail to Larry Durrant. And there had been that nagging glitch in Morvaun’s demeanour that made Jac worry Morvaun was holding something back from him. Some big surprise that the police would suddenly spring. But it wasn’t just that, Jac realized; it was something else not so easily quantified.

  Jac had immediately warmed to Morvaun Jaspar when they first met. Sixty-seven, sharp as a razor, the product of an African-American father and Irish/French/African-American mother, he had wavy, black hair and an easy, full smile showing one gold tooth five from the back on the top row. ‘All mine,’ he’d proudly proclaim to anyone, interested or not, ‘except this one.’ His dress was often wild and eccentric, somewhere between Mr Bo-Jangles and Vivienne Westwood.

  Morvaun had been a serial forger for over twenty years. Before that he’d been a make-up man for a local theatre group, and when it disbanded the only work he could find was piece-meal with a brief flurry at Carnival time. Morvaun took a side-step into forging to supplement his income. Where before he was dealing with skin, hair and flesh tones, now he was dealing with paper, photos and document stamps. The core aim of both was the same: to create an illusion.

  And sometimes there was crossover between the two, which had provided Jac with the vital key to getting Morvaun off the last charge.

  Morvaun’s last lawyer had retired, and when he approached the firm, Beaton swiftly passed it down the rungs to Jac. Possibly because it was too lightweight, possibly because – like Durrant – he saw it as hopeless. But Jac quickly saw some hope in Morvaun Jaspar’s case, mainly because this time there’d been no forged documents involved.

  Antonio Amador, a Mexican national, had used the documentation of his brother, Enrique, who’d gained American citizenship six years previous. All Morvaun had done was make Antonio look like Enrique.

  One drawback to their scheme was that Antonio wouldn’t be able to use the documentation to work, otherwise it would look like Enrique had two jobs. But that hardly mattered since Antonio’s main aim was to move freely back and forth across the Mexican border running cocaine. Apprehended one day during a routine search, Antonio promptly gave Morvaun’s name in a plea bargain.

  But Jac argued in court that no forging of documents had taken place, and since all Mr Jaspar had done was make Antonio look like his brother – unless he’d informed Mr Jaspar in advance that it was to perpetrate some criminal activity – Mr Jaspar himself had committed no crime. ‘Given the circumstances, it’s unlikely that Antonio Amador would have shared that information with Mr Jaspar.’

  The judge agreed and directed the jury accordingly. It was unlikely, and on its own it was no crime to make one person look like another. Hollywood did it all the time.

  Some chuckles from the courtroom floor, and a beaming hug of thanks for Jac from Morvaun when, forty minutes later, the jury acquitted him. But the police and the prosecuting attorney were far from pleased.

  ‘Good result, Jac. Good result,’ Langfranc congratulated him on his return. ‘But you want to watch out you’re not pushing your luck too far. The police might now target Jaspar, go all the harder on him.’

  Pushing your luck. As soon as Langfranc said it, Jac realized that the Morvaun Jaspar case, along with a few others, embodied how he saw himself as a lawyer. Beaton would hand him these hopeless cases that nobody else wanted, and because he was eager to prove them all wrong and not fail, he’d go that extra mile, or two. Push his luck.

  Perhaps it went deeper than that. Trying desperately to prove that in no way was he continuing his father’s cycle, a scream back at the world and Aunt Camille: ‘He was never a failure, and nor am I.’

  Jac realized that his main strength was also his Achilles Heel, and began to worry that one day Langfranc would be right, that he’d push his luck too far.

  Jac busied himself with preparation for Morvaun’s police interview, but felt his chest tighten with anxiety as it approached eleven, his mouth suddenly dry. With still no answer back from Haveling, Jac wondered if finally his luck was about to run out.

  ‘No, I told you, Jac. I’m happy to help out and send the e-mail.’

  ‘No morning-after second thoughts?’

  ‘None. But if you’re fishing for reasons why someone you just met would help out with something momentous like this. Well, you know, it’s not often we get a chance to change things in this life – I mean, really make a difference. And helping to save a man’s life must surely come close to the top of that poll. If this works, I can look at Durrant’s face in future newscasts and think smugly to myself: “Hey, I actually helped save that man’s life. I made a difference for once”.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘But how about you after last night? No morning-after second thoughts?’

  ‘None. Because, you know, it’s not often we get a chance to really make a difference with things in this life.’

  A chuckle. ‘So the spicy dish went down okay, and I’m not talking here about the Jambalaya?’

  ‘A treat. Except that it left my legs a bit weak heading back to my place.’

  ‘Well, at least you didn’t have far to go. If you couldn’t make it a dozen paces, then I was rougher on you than I thought.’

  Nel-M waved one hand, indicating for Vic Farrelia to wind forward to the next conversation. They’d already played the tape once, this was just a highlights re-run.

  So, that explained why he hadn’t seen the girl going into McElroy’s building that night, or why there was no trace of her belongings in his apartment: she was his neighbour! And with the earlier call from that other girl, it certainly looked like McElroy’s love life was more complicated than most.

  As the tape came to McElroy’s conversation with Rodriguez ‘…I gotta get back on communication-room duty to receive it. Also to send out those last few sample e-mails from JD…’ Nel-M suddenly sat forward, the final pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

  On that first taped call, McElroy’s new girlfriend had suggested someone else sending an e-mail; now she was doing it herself! But still he was no closer to knowing why an e-mail from Josh Durrant held such a crucial key to keeping his father alive.

  A bloodless coup. All over in less than twenty minutes. Jac shouldn’t have worried.

  From the outset, it was clear that the police evidence was slim, and while with a good deal of posturing and dark innuendo Lieutenant Pyrford tried to make more of it than it was, the crunch came when he passed across Alvira Jardine’s forged passport.

  ‘Do you recognize it now?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Morvaun said indignantly, his glasses perched on the end of his nose as he inspected it. ‘And you should be ashamed of yo’selves tryin’ to link a piece of shit like this with my handicraft. An eight-year-ol’ could do a better job.’ Morvaun pointed out its many flaws and failings as Pyrford’s jaw twitched. ‘If you’d taken the trouble to study in detail any o’ my –’

  Jac stopped Morvaun there, before he incriminated himself on any past cases.

  More congratulations from Langfranc. ‘Luck’s still holding with Jaspar, by the looks of it.’

  But it did little to make Jac feel good, quell the uneasy feeling that some day s
oon it must surely run out. And that each time he got away unscathed merely increased the chances of a fall.

  Jac finally got a call back from Haveling just before lunch, forty minutes after his return from the Fifth District station-house, agreeing to let Rodriguez back into his seat in the communication room later that same day, ‘Sometime between three-thirty and four.’

  Jac left his office immediately to call Alaysha from his cell-phone. She had to pick up Molly around that time, so she’d drop into a nearby internet café.

  ‘There’s one a couple of blocks away on Palmyra Street… “Netwave”. I’ve used it a few times before. Probably four-thirty by the time I get there.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Aside from haste, Jac didn’t mention the other reason he was keen on the suggestion: it pushed things still further away from any connection with him. He explained that her initial e-mail to Rodriguez should be as if Josh Durrant wanted the last few e-mails to his father, mistakenly deleted, sent back to him to check on something. ‘That way hopefully nothing will seem untoward with the monitoring guard when Rodriguez sends those samples out to you as a guide. Then send back the main e-mail when you’re ready.’

  ‘It’ll probably be twenty minutes to half an hour after the samples arrive before I send it … I want to make sure to get this right. I’ll go to their café section with Molly or maybe round the corner for a while in between.’ Alaysha explained that Netwave had dedicated e-mail numbers for each computer to save people the time of setting up personal e-mail accounts. ‘So tell Rodriguez not to send me anything else meanwhile – because I’ll probably be sending that final e-mail from another machine.’

  ‘Okay, will do.’ Jac tucked his head deeper into his shoulder as the passing traffic got louder. ‘And, once again, Alaysha… thanks for helping. Good luck.’

  Then he phoned Rodriguez, and, after the usual long pause of getting routed through to the phone at the end of the cell block, kept his instructions ambiguous.

  ‘We’re on for four-thirty. One e-mail incoming with the address for the samples we discussed to go out to. And then the main return twenty minutes or so later.’

  ‘Okay. Good going, Counselor. Catch yer later.’

  ‘Sorry to trouble you, Mrs Durrant. My name’s Jim Whitman from the Prisoner’s Liaison Committee. It’s just a general survey, but I wondered if I might ask a few questions about what contact you and your son have had with your husband, Lawrence Durrant, while he’s been incarcerated at Libreville prison.’

  ‘Well… I suppose so.’

  Nel-M could tell that she was hesitant, guarded, so he kept the first few questions very general – type and regularity of contact – without homing in on either her son or e-mails.

  ‘And when was your last prison visit?’

  ‘Nine, ten months ago now?’

  ‘Any other contact since?’

  ‘Just one phone call, about six or seven weeks after that visit. And the rest has been my son, Joshua, sending e-mails.’

  ‘Regular e-mail contact?’

  ‘Well, I suppose you could say… twenty or more e-mails over the past year. But that’s stopped now too for a while.’

  ‘How long ago did that stop?’

  ‘Oh, a couple of months back, I suppose.’

  ‘Any particular reason for it stopping?’

  By the pause and heavy intake of breath from the other end, Nel-M knew that he’d stepped too far.

  ‘Look… if this has got something to do with my husband’s lawyer calling the other day, trying to persuade me by coming at me from another direction – you’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Lawyer? I’m sorry, Mrs Durrant, you’ve lost me. We work completely independently – we don’t know anything about your husband’s lawyer visiting, nor indeed have any contact with him.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need to be. But you’ve intrigued me now, Mrs Durrant: why was your husband’s lawyer visiting? And if you don’t mind me saying, you sound somewhat troubled by it.’

  Nel-M felt a tingle of anticipation as he realized he was poised on a knife’s edge. She’d either open up or step back completely, in which case he’d get nothing and be left wondering.

  But with another long breath, she started to relate Jac McElroy’s recent visit, falteringly at first, but gaining momentum with her rising indignation, while Nel-M made a couple of cryptic notes at his end, a slow smile creasing his face as the final pieces of the puzzle fell into place. He’d struck gold big time and couldn’t wait to get off the line to share his treasure with Roche.

  ‘Believe me, Mrs Durrant, you or your son don’t have to make any contact with your husband that you don’t want to,’ Nel-M assured. ‘And his lawyer has no right to try and persuade you to do so, regardless of the reasons.’

  ‘I… I suppose I shouldn’t be too hard on him.’ She mellowed as she became reflective. ‘He’s only doing his job, I suppose. I mean it’s not his fault that Larry’s suddenly decided he wants to throw in the towel.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Except these lawyers don’t give much pause for thought on whether they should be too hard on us when they present their bills.’

  Francine Durrant joined him in a brief chuckle before asking, ‘And who did you say you were again?’

  ‘Jim Whitman, Prisoners’ Liaison Committee. And I thank you kindly for your time today, Mrs Durrant. You’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘Are yo’ done there yet, Friggy?’

  ‘Just signing in now… aaaand we’re there. All systems live and running.’

  ‘Okay, man… okay. Make room for Josh. Let ‘im do his stuff.’

  As uncomfortable as Joshua Durrant felt because of the neighbourhood and company he was in – and what he was about to do – he had to admit, they were going out of their way to make him feel at ease. Ellis Calpar and his crew treating him like royalty? It felt totally alien, reminded him he was on unfamiliar ground and so added to his anxiety – but even so he could easily get used to it.

  The neighbourhood was on the bad side of St Claude close to the rail-yards, though the house itself looked decent enough and a good size. The computer was in the garage, but there was no car there, only a couple of mountain bikes and a ton of junk: TVs, stereos, ghetto-blasters, microwaves, car radios, cell-phones. There were at least two of each item, but with the predominance of car radios and cell-phones – more than a dozen in each case – Joshua caught on that it wasn’t because Friggy’s father was an electrical repair man. This was probably stolen gear.

  Aside from Friggy, there were two others from Calpar’s regular crew; along with all the junk, about all the garage could take.

  Friggy leant over and with a couple of taps got the e-mail box up for him.

  Joshua sat staring at it for a second then, with a quick look over his shoulder, brought his hands up to the keyboard.

  ‘Step back everyone, give ‘im some space,’ Ellis ordered. ‘This is mean’ t’be private, remember.’

  Joshua took a final deep breath to compose himself. This was one of those important moments, like exams or making sure he was nice to his mom’s new boyfriend, or when you got passed the basketball just before the hoop and the whole school was watching. It had to be the right tone and straight from the heart, but without giving away that he knew his father wanted to die. Only one chance to get it right.

  Rodriguez hissed ‘Yessss!’ under his breath and went to make a clenched fist salute as the e-mail came through – but not too high in case Nielsen, the monitoring guard with his eyes fixed to his computer screen at the end of the room, paid him too much attention.

  But his fist hardly got above chest height as he thought about its timing. Then he read it again and looked at the e-mail address.

  ‘Oh Shiiiiii-’ The clenched fist was abruptly dropped. He looked towards the eight phones on the far wall separated by glass side-screens, and nodded towards Nielsen. ‘Quick call to make. Okay?’

  Nielsen mumbled something indiscer
nible without hardly looking up and gave a begrudging nod.

  It took Alaysha Reyner only eight minutes to get the e-mail from Joshua Durrant half right.

  But from that point on it was slower going. Despite three more drafts and numerous small changes, it was still no more than seventy per cent there. One hundred per cent right was starting to look elusive.

  She’d hopefully got the overall tone and phraseology right from Joshua’s last few e-mails, but then she reminded herself that there’d been a long gap from the last e-mail, and also Durrant was now that much closer to his execution date. After a brief explanation and apology for the lack of contact, it should without doubt be weightier and more emotional than the past e-mails. After all, this might be one of the last times Joshua Durrant would have contact with his father.

  Alaysha dabbed at a stray tear as she became deeper immersed in the e-mail and what it represented.

  Molly at her side was looking concerned. ‘Are you okay, Mommy?’

  ‘Yes, I’m okay, honey. I’m fine.’ She gave Molly a reassuring hug.

  Though now, Alaysha started to worry that she might have overcooked it. Too much emotion, not enough… she continued juggling to try and get the balance right.

  Jac found himself looking more and more at his watch as the afternoon progressed.

  All of it happening out there in cyberspace between the city and Libreville prison, and now, having set it all in motion, the realization that he no longer had control over it. Everything hanging in the balance, Durrant’s life, Jac’s career too if it went wrong, and to make matters worse, he’d suddenly found himself facing a flurry of work to assist John Langfranc with a trial preparation.

  Jac didn’t want to let Langfranc down, but he was finding it increasingly hard to focus as it approached four-thirty. Langfranc, understanding as ever, had only asked once, ‘How’s it going?’, but he couldn’t help noticing Langfranc’s look when he’d returned after disappearing without warning for twenty minutes to make his calls outside to set everything in motion.