by Sydney Bauer
‘You'll need to be careful,’ said David. ‘If Davenport makes amends, she may tell him what we are up to.’
Arthur held up his hands. ‘The trial could well begin tomorrow, David.’
David nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said, just as the phone in the outer office started to ring. Nora left them temporarily to pick up the call. ‘If this works out, maybe you won't need to set up your meeting with Hunt after all.’
‘I gather he is yet to return your call,’ said Arthur.
‘It's been almost forty-eight hours,’ replied Sara.
Nora returned. ‘Sara,’ she said.
And somehow Sara knew exactly what Nora was going to say next.
‘It's Daniel Hunt, on one,’ she said, her green eyes flicking toward David.
‘I'll take it in my office,’ said Sara before nodding and heading toward the door. And even with her back to him she could feel David's look of concern following her from the room. He is scared for me, she thought. And, she admitted to herself, before she took a deep breath and picked up Daniel Hunt's call, that she was afraid too. She was setting up a private rendezvous with a man capable of what they knew he was capable of – the killer of the most innocent of victims, the man who gave the order to slit a baby girl's throat.
*
‘Mannix,’ said Joe Mannix into the phone, the impatience in his tone unmistakable.
There'd been a double shooting in Dorchester, and he was short-staffed, so he and Frank were in the process of rushing out the door to take the job themselves when his desk phone buzzed.
‘It's Rigotti,’ said the Boston Tribune deputy editor.
Joe sighed. Rigotti had either heard about the double shooting on the wires, or was after some sound bite from Joe regarding the progress of jury selection for the Walker trial – neither of which Joe had any intention of commenting on. ‘I don't have anything on the shooting yet, Rigotti. McKay and I are on our way out.’
‘I'm not calling about Dorchester, Mannix. We have a reporter on her way. She'll be there before you, so you can talk to her after you're done talking to me.’
‘Jesus, Rigotti,’ said Joe, tired of the press beating the cops to the crime scene, which was the case more often than not these days. Worse still, with the shooting ruled out, Joe knew that Rigotti was calling about the Walker jury, a place Joe did not want to go. ‘I've gotta move, Rigotti.’
‘Wait!’ exclaimed Rigotti just as Joe was about to hang up.
‘For what?’ asked an increasingly frustrated Joe. ‘In case you haven't noticed, I have a crime scene to attend so –’
‘I know. I'm sorry. But listen, Mannix, I'm trying to do you a favour. I need to check something and you're the only person I could think of to call.’
‘I just said –’
‘I know what you said,’ cut in Rigotti, ‘but this is about the Walker case, and not the jury. I've already got a stack of bullshit quotes from the Kat about the fine people who have graciously given up their time to blah, blah, blah … No, this is about something else.’
Joe went to argue but stopped short and so an encouraged Rigotti continued. ‘I'm taking a massive gamble by calling you with this, Mannix. Katz is set on using the kid's death to launch his personal re-election campaign and David is still attached to the case so, the way I see it, you're more than likely caught somewhere in between.’
‘Jesus, Rigotti, you called to ask if I'm playing piggy in the middle?’
‘I got a hold of his witness list.’
A pause. ‘You what?’
‘Katz's witness list. I have a copy – or more to the point, I have two copies – one of the original list the DA filed a month ago, and another with a couple of extras – the one he filed early this morning, the one he intends to use at trial.’
‘He has a new list?’ asked Joe, thinking aloud. ‘How did you …?’
‘You know better than to ask Mannix. Let's just say Katz slipped when he filed his amended copy with a clerk who wouldn't normally be on duty. Katz had his favourites, and normally he would wait for them to be manning the desk, but as you probably know, this show could start as early as tomorrow so he had to file today or …’
‘Lose his window for amendments.’
Joe was referring to a rule by which both parties – prosecution and defence – had to file their final witness list at least twenty-four hours prior to the trial's commencement. This was largely so that the other party might have time to prepare for cross-examinations, but also – from an administrative point of view – so that the judge might allocate the appropriate number of days for trial.
‘The Kat has a responsibility to provide a subsequent and simultaneous copy of the new list to the defence.’
‘The Kat has a responsibility to do what is best for the people, but the last time I looked the man was kind of preoccupied with doing what was best for number one.’
That was the understatement of the century.
‘So the Kat has two lists?’ Joe got them back on track. ‘And David has the original one.’
‘At least at this point. The second is the same as the first bar two additions. You're on both, Joe – as is Detective McKay, your forensics chief Martinelli, ME Svenson, the FBI agent named Jacobs, his buy-a-psych Shoebridge … the usual suspects.’
‘So who are the extras?’
‘One of them I know, one I've never heard of … let's just say this list is confusing in a number of different ways.’
Joe shook his head. ‘Listen, Rigotti, if you have something to tell me.’
‘Of course I have something to tell you, but Jesus, Mannix, this has to work both ways. If I share this shit with you, you have to promise you'll help me try and put the pieces together – work out why these people have been called.’
Joe considered the deal being put to him. ‘If I work out who they are, you can't approach them, Rigotti. That would amount to potential witness tampering, and no matter what I think of the Kat, there is no way I am going to jeopardise the legitimacy of the trial by –’
‘What goddamned legitimacy?’
Rigotti's outburst took Joe by surprise. The reporter seemed to have a bee in his bonnet about this one, and Joe was wondering why.
‘The DA is out for blood and he doesn't give a shit that that blood belongs to a six-week-old kid. I was there, Mannix. I was at Walker's brownstone when they carried the kid's body out in a small blue tarpaulin. She looked like a pound of sugar. And then the DA gets up on that stoop and starts pontificating about the tragedy that has just been uncovered and then I see him walk away trying desperately to hide the smile that is beginning to grow across his face.’
Joe understood.
‘I know you and Cavanaugh are tight,’ Rigotti went on. ‘And I also know that David has had a million and one chances to drop this case before the grenade goes off in his hand, which it is mostly likely going to do. But I know David too, Mannix, so if he believes in her, then my guess is, maybe I should be doubting the whole thing too.’
Joe swallowed. ‘You think she's innocent?’
‘I don't know that she isn't, and it's not my decision to make. What I do know is that the DA is cutting corners to suit himself and guilty or not guilty, that shit doesn't wash.’
Despite the fact that Rigotti often annoyed the hell out of him, Joe knew his intentions were always solid. But it was not Joe's place to give his opinion one way or another, especially to the second most powerful person at the biggest selling newspaper in Massachusetts.
‘I know I'm making you the meat in the sandwich here, Mannix,’ Rigotti coaxed, obviously sensing that Joe was still sitting on the fence, ‘and you can hang up on me and forget I ever called if you like. But time is ticking, and if I'm right, you're more than just a little curious as to who these witnesses are.’
‘You holding me to ransom, Rigotti?’
‘If that's what it takes to work out if the Kat is screwing the defendant over. I may be a reporter after a story but I'm also a hum
an being who knows what happened to that kid shouldn't happen to anybody, let alone a baby who'd barely had the chance to see the light of day. So if you want this intel, I suggest you send two more of your prize dicks to that double shooting in Southie and get your ass down to Eat This pronto,’ he said, referring to the nearby Roxbury coffee shop frequented by cops.
This time Joe did not hesitate. ‘Order me an extra strong black,’ he said. ‘And get Frank a donut, he likes the ones with cream.’
64
The girl sat like a sack of misery in front of him. Her skin was puffy, colourless, except for the blotches of red that circled her neck. A nervous rash, Davenport knew. The girl had been called in unexpectedly and Davenport knew she'd be panicking as to the reason for the urgency. These girls were meant to be no more than reproductive vessels that housed the new life until the incubation period was over, but they all cared for the life growing inside them in one way or another, whether they liked to admit to it or not.
‘Your baby is in distress,’ he said, avoiding the girl's eye.
‘What do you mean, in distress?’
‘Its blood pressure is raised.’
Sophia's lips parted and Davenport finally met her eye. She was pretty, he noticed for the first time then, in a Slavic/Angelina Jolie sort of way. In another life she might have been a model – five ten, high cheekbones, thick dark blonde hair that was now pulled back and knotted in a mess at the nape of that patchy crimson neck. And then he forced himself to refocus. This was not a time for regret – no, the time for regret was long gone.
‘How do you know?’
‘How do I know what?’ He was having trouble concentrating.
‘That the baby's blood pressure is raised?’
The question was a clever one, so Davenport had to think fast. ‘It showed up in your latest blood tests.’
Sophia's brow furrowed, her mind obviously wondering why such tests would show foetal blood pressure and why he hadn't called her in two weeks ago, immediately after the tests.
‘We need to induce you,’ he said. ‘As soon as possible.’
‘But the baby isn't ready.’ She clutched at her stomach, which told Davenport that the baby wasn't the only one who wasn't ready.
‘It's ready, and any delay could prove dangerous to the child. I want you in here first thing in the morning.’
‘I thought I was going to give birth at the hospital.’
The girl had grown a brain at the most inconvenient of moments. ‘I'm taking you to a private clinic,’ he said. ‘I want to make sure the environment is controlled.’
Sophia's eyes started to water. ‘I don't understand what that means.’
‘You don't have to,’ he said, his eyes shifting away from hers once again. ‘Look, I promise all will be fine. You will probably stay at the clinic for a day or two before being allowed to go home,’ he lied. ‘Then all this will be over, you will be paid and you'll never have to set foot in my surgery ever again.’
His eyes flicked toward her and he could see the sense of bereavement in her gaze. She was already mourning the loss of the child in her belly. She didn't want to walk away or be paid for the service she had been hired for. She wanted to hold on to the child inside her for grim death – which ironically, it physically hurt to remind himself, she would.
‘When I said I would do this, I thought I would want to take the money and go away,’ she said quietly.
‘You talk like you have a choice, Sophia. This was a business transaction from the outset.’
She swallowed. ‘Are the parents good people?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes.’
She nodded. ‘Then induce me, just make sure the baby is all right.’
His voice softened. ‘You have my word,’ he said.
Then she did the worst thing that she could have done. She reached across the table and covered his hand with her own, before meeting his eye to say, ‘Thank you’.
*
When Boston's Public Gardens' suspension bridge was erected in 1867, it was the smallest suspension bridge in the world and it held the title until 1921, when it was converted to a girder bridge with the suspension supports left in place for decoration. This completely irrelevant fact crossed Sara's mind as she skirted the tulip gardens which were now in full bloom, and in that moment she missed Lauren, knowing how much she loved the flowers and the swan boats that tracked their way lazily around the pond.
The jury had been selected – five men and nine women, most of the women in the age bracket that Phyl had called ‘Macy shopping mommas from hell’ – and they would be sworn in by late afternoon, meaning opening statements would be delivered to officially open the trial – the Commonwealth v Walker – at 9 am tomorrow.
Madonna Carrera was standing smack bang in the middle of the bridge, her palms resting on the metal handrails and her weight shifting from foot to foot as she scanned the gardens for Sara. She was wearing a floral dress with very high heels and oversized sunglasses – more California than Massachusetts. But when she turned, her silhouette framed by a massive weeping willow, Sara could see that there was no sunshine in this girl's life at present, if anything she looked dejected, miserable and perhaps even a little scared.
Madonna moved forward to greet her. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You look nice.’
‘The suit was half price at Neiman Marcus,’ said Sara.
‘They have good sales,’ said Madonna.
‘Don't I know it,’ Sara replied before holding up the bag that contained their sandwiches. ‘I got two chicken salads minus the mayonnaise.’
‘You don't need to diet.’
Sara was about to say something about keeping in shape after having a baby but instinct stopped her – she wanted to separate Lauren from the conversation she needed to have.
Five minutes later they were sitting on the grass under the shade of that light green weeping willow, both having discarded their shoes. After a lengthy discussion with David, Arthur and Nora earlier in the day, it had been decided that she would be straight up with Madonna from the outset, telling her as much as was needed to get the medical receptionist on side. It was risky, but as they all knew, the time to pay heed to caution was gone.
Sara liked Madonna from the get-go, mostly because she could tell her bravado was one big act. The girl was not the confident, trend-setting diva she proclaimed herself to be, more an unsure and somewhat self-conscious young woman who had not yet found her feet in the world.
‘So have you got any jobs for me?’ she asked as she sipped on her skinny wheat germ and banana smoothie.
Sara wiped her hands on her paper napkin. ‘Madonna, before I start, I want to say that … that I think you're a really nice girl, that you mean well and you try hard to, you know, be who you think people want you to be.’ She could not think of any other way to put it.
‘That your way of saying you don't know anyone who'd want to employ me?’ The girl's bottom lip started to droop.
‘No, no,’ Sara corrected her, ‘on the contrary. If I worked at an employment agency I'm sure I could place you in an instant.’
Madonna removed her sunglasses. ‘You don't find people jobs?’ She shook her head. ‘So why did you lie to me? Is this some sort of joke?’ Madonna looked around her as if expecting someone to jump from behind a tree and laugh at her. The girl was on the defensive, which was understandable given her recent altercation with Davenport.
‘No joke. I'm sorry, Madonna, the lie was … well, it was sort of necessary at the time. You see,’ Sara searched for the words, ‘I work for a legal firm who represents people wrongly accused of criminal offences. I'm an attorney, the criminal defence type that gets up and questions people in court.’
‘The Law & Order kind?’
‘Yes … no, not a prosecutor. I represent the accused.’
‘So why the hell would you want to talk to me? I didn't do anything wrong.’
Sara knew she was starting to scare her. ‘No, Madonna.’ Sara placed h
er hand over the girl's. ‘This isn't about you but the man that you work for. You see, myself and my partner, David Cavanaugh, we represent Sienna Walker. You've met David in fact, he was at the surgery a couple of months ago. You thought he was a pharmaceutical company rep, he has dark blonde hair and …’
‘Matt Damon minus the gut,’ said a shell-shocked Madonna. ‘He is Mrs Walker's lawyer? He works with you?’
‘He's my husband,’ said Sara.
‘I didn't come on to him,’ she said, almost as a reflex, but then she shook her head to clear it, trying to make sense of it all. ‘Sienna Walker killed her baby.’ She shifted backward and started reaching for her shoes. ‘She's evil.’
‘No, no she's not. She's innocent. She loved her daughter. She's been set up. She's facing a lifetime in jail for something she didn't do.’
‘How do you know?’ Madonna pulled away that inch further. ‘Everyone says she did it.’
‘Maybe, but they're wrong. We know Sienna didn't do it because … because we know who did.’
So it was said.
‘As with most crimes of this nature, Madonna, this was about greed and money and power. We believe Eliza Walker was killed for two reasons – firstly, because it gave them the opportunity to frame Sienna, who they believed had become aware of their criminal activities, and secondly, because Eliza was evidence of what the real criminals were up to.’
‘What were they up to?’
Sara admired the girl's directness, even if it was born out of naivety and a decent helping of fear. And she realised she had decisions to make – about exactly how much she should tell the young woman in front her, about how much they could trust her, and how far her nerves could hold out.
‘These people are operating a business where they steal women's eggs and men's seminal fluids without their knowledge. They take these cells and pair them with appropriate partners, creating sort of designer babies to match a client's requests.’