by Sydney Bauer
‘And did this daughter have any children?’
‘Yes.’
‘A son?’
‘No.’
‘A daughter then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which would make her your patient's maternal granddaughter?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed a confident St John.
Katz took a breath, preparing for his almighty finale. ‘Professor, do you see this man's granddaughter here in this courtroom today?’
‘Objection!’
Right on cue, thought Katz. He looked at Cavanaugh and then at his client, who had two red blotches starting to blossom on both of her hollow white cheeks. He had to stop himself from smiling.
‘Your Honor, this is insane,’ argued Cavanaugh. ‘This is entirely hearsay. We have no evidence the Professor had such a client, who carried this so-called allele, nor if the allele is linked to certain behaviour. Nor do we know whether this so-called study was conducted by a legitimate research facility, or if it is some pie in the sky hypothesis …’ Cavanaugh was getting flustered. He shook his head. ‘Seriously, Your Honor, you cannot allow –’
‘Oxford,’ interrupted the DA then. He had known exactly what was coming and as such was prepared. ‘The study was conducted at Oxford University's medical research facility, Your Honor,’ he said as he went to his desk to retrieve the documentation. ‘The Professor's medical records and DNA tests on said patient are also included here in this folder – which contains information ratified not only by the medical facility where the tests were carried out, but also by the British High Court who prosecuted the patient for domestic violence.’
The clerk took the documentation and handed it up to Stein. The room went silent as a furrowed-browed Stein examined the paperwork in front of him.
‘The research is legitimate, Mr Cavanaugh,’ he said after a time – admittedly without conviction, but it was said nonetheless. ‘Objection overruled. You may continue, Mr Katz.’
Once again Cavanaugh was forced to retake his seat, his client now close to apoplectic.
‘I'm sorry, Professor – you were saying about this man's granddaughter …?’
‘Yes,’ St John nodded. ‘Indeed she is here,’ he added, the entire room now following his hand as it rose to point at the defendant. ‘There she is. Lady Sienna Walker.’
‘You are referring to the defendant?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘She has an ancestor of British gentry?’
‘Indeed.’
‘And her grandfather, the one you examined, he was the famous artist, Earl Alistair Granby?’
‘I believe he still is, Mr Katz, but from what I hear he has chosen to live in solitude. No one has seen him for many years.’
‘And is it common for psychopaths to choose lives of solitude?’
‘Most certainly. These people see themselves as superior to all others, Mr Katz. They find it hard to tolerate inferiors – those that may weigh on them, like wives or husbands.’
‘Or children?’ offered Katz.
‘Indeed,’ replied St John.
‘So, given your extensive experience in psychopathic personalities and genetic transference, and given your intensive evaluation of Mrs Walker and her psychological examination, would you say the defendant not only displays psychopathic tendencies but may well have the genetic make-up that constitutes such a neurological profile?’
St John paused, just as Katz had told him to, before opening his mouth to speak once more. ‘Oh, without question, sir,’ he said, the entire room now following his eyes toward the defendant. ‘There may be no absolutes when it comes to diagnosing psychopathy, Mr Katz, but I must say that after thirty years of specialising in this very specific area of psychiatry, that this is as close as it gets.’
77
That night
Judge Isaac Stein's small but comfortable Superior Court chambers were dark and mellow. The drapes were partially drawn, restricting the lights from the busy Government Centre traffic below.
David sat across from him, his coat and tie discarded. He was slumped in his chair like a man defeated, understanding the Judge had probably called him here for some form of conciliation, but knowing it made little difference given the irreparable state of their case.
‘The law isn't justice,’ said Stein after a time. He was sipping at a glass of whisky, lukewarm in the palm of his hand. ‘It's a very imperfect mechanism. If you press exactly the right buttons and are also lucky, justice may show up in the answer. A mechanism is all the law was ever intended to be.’
‘You're quoting Raymond Chandler,’ said David, not really in the mood for a lecture.
The Judge nodded.
‘Chandler wrote fiction.’
Stein shrugged. ‘Since when did that make a difference? I have come to the conclusion that what takes place in our courtrooms has come to model itself on entertainment's take on reality – books written by Grisham, TV shows with acronyms for titles, judges named Judy.’ The Judge smiled before his face settled into an expression of earnestness. ‘What's going on, son?’ he asked. But then he held up his hand. ‘And be careful how you answer. We are mid-trial, after all.’
David knew what the Judge was saying, that this conversation had to be conducted with an eye to neutrality. ‘The DA is giving me a flogging is what is going on, Judge. And with all due respect, I can't help but feel you've blocked your ears to the crack of his whip.’ He could not help himself, the day had been nothing short of disastrous.
Stein took a breath. ‘Calling Agent Jacobs and Professor St John was Mr Katz's prerogative. I can't interfere with a line of questioning that –’
‘Once again,’ interrupted David, ‘with all due respect, Your Honor, close to every one of my twenty-odd objections were overruled.’
‘Because your objections were not legally sound.’
‘Katz used Jacobs – an FBI profiler whose job it is to find the right perpetrator, not make a call on one who's already been framed – to paint my client as a modern-day Jack the Ripper. And then St John …’ David shook his head. ‘The man was a stooge. He never met my client, he spoke of some bullshit to do with her grandfather, who Sienna hasn't seen in years.’
‘Professor St John may be a stooge but he has the degrees and the experience and the research to back up his arguments.’
David met his eye. ‘You can't be serious.’
Stein took a breath. ‘My personal opinion of the witness does not rate here, David.’
‘But the jurors do – and it's your job to help them distinguish a valid argument from a load of shit.’
David knew he was pushing it, but he had known the Judge for a long time – even thought of him as a sort of wise old uncle, and the Judge's lack of support today had disappointed him, professionally and personally.
‘It's your prerogative to introduce your own psychological expert,’ offered the Judge after a time, his lack of repudiation telling David that perhaps he was feeling a little disappointed in himself as well.
But David was shaking his head. ‘I'll call my own consult, Judge, but the damage is done.’
‘What about the grandfather? Perhaps, if he is well and able to support his granddaughter?’
David knew what the Judge was suggesting, that David find and fly in the man Katz and his cohort accused of being some sort of homicidal maniac. But that was not an option for so many reasons he did not know where to start. ‘No one has seen him for years, Judge. No one knows where he lives or what he's like or …’ David hesitated. ‘My client won't have a bar of it. The DA used her family, her flesh and blood, he …’ David swallowed. ‘I thought I knew how low Roger could go, but today he outdid himself.’
Stein gave him an almost imperceptible nod as they sat in silence for a while.
‘The DA – did he really send you that altered witness list?’ the Judge asked after a time.
‘No,’ replied David.
‘You did not consider filing a motion of c
omplaint?’
‘I found out about St John a few days ago,’ replied David, knowing the Judge respected him enough not to ask how he came about such information. ‘But filing a motion would have been pointless. I knew Katz would lie about sending me the list. I knew I would look cantankerous to the jury if I forced the issue. I knew, given the short time left to us, that filing such a motion would be a complete waste of our precious resources and … maybe I thought, obviously wrongly so, that I could blow St John's testimony out of the water on cross.’
Stein nodded, too much of a friend to condescend. ‘Your cross was … scant,’ he said.
‘My client didn't want me to cross at all. She said her grandfather had no part in this picture and that to argue St John's testimony would pay homage to it.’
‘Perhaps she was right,’ said Stein.
But David just shrugged, knowing the opportunity was lost in any case.
‘Your opening,’ said Stein after a time. ‘You promised you'd –’
‘I know what I promised,’ said David.
The Judge nodded. ‘I may not be the decider of the outcome, but this case, David, it is my responsibility to make sure all alternatives are considered.’
David sighed.
‘If you know something you must stop procrastinating.’
Silence.
‘David?’ urged Stein.
David met his eye. ‘My client is innocent,’ he said, not knowing how else to say it.
Judge Stein nodded again. ‘Will you be ready to start your case?’ he asked. ‘After the DA calls his last witness tomorrow?’
Tomorrow, thought David, at this point knowing that if today was bad, tomorrow could well be worse.
‘Davenport is a liar,’ he said, simply because it was true.
‘Then prove him one.’
‘It is not that easy, Judge.’
‘It rarely is, son.’
David shrugged yet again. ‘I'm losing her,’ he said then.
‘Excuse me?’ said Stein.
‘Sienna. She's been so brave, so strong, but this trial – my lame promises to protect her … she's slipping away, Judge, into a fog of fear.’
Stein sighed, knowing there was no point in correcting him.
‘It's funny,’ he said after a time. ‘I've always thought Chandler was talking about you.’
David shook his head. ‘What – when he said the law was imperfect?’
‘No, when he said that motivation determines what you do, and attitude determines how well you do it.’
‘And once again, Judge, Chandler wrote fiction.’
‘Perhaps, but every story – even the true ones – have to end in one way or another, son, and this one … well, we've all heard about that fat lady, son, and she isn't singing yet.’
*
That night David got home late – so late that he found Sara, still dressed in her work clothes, sound asleep on their bed next to a similarly sleeping Lauren. He stood in the doorway for a while, watching them breath in unison, their faces close together, the beauty of the sight making time stand still.
He took off his tie and his shoes and moved quietly toward them, lying down on the bed on the other side of Lauren, resting his head on the pillow and allowing the peace of the moment to take him.
‘How did it go?’ Sara's voice was low, the room so still it was almost as if the three of them were frozen in time.
‘I woke you,’ he whispered.
‘That's okay.’
‘Stein feels sorry for us.’
‘Doesn't say much for the state of our case,’ she said.
David did not reply.
‘Madonna called,’ Sara continued. ‘You know Joe missed the couple?’
‘Yes,’ said David, having spoken to a disappointed Joe earlier in the evening.
‘Madonna hasn't heard from Sophia.’
David was not surprised.
They lay in silence for a time.
‘I like her,’ said Sara a moment later, obviously referring to Madonna.
‘Me too.’
‘She said she wishes she could come up with a way to scare him.’
‘Davenport?’
‘Yes.’
‘She said he deserves to know how it feels – how she feels, how Sophia must feel – and Sienna.’
But David did not reply because Madonna's insight had planted a seed of an idea in his now exhausted brain. ‘Maybe there's a way we can,’ he said after a pause.
‘Scare Davenport? How?’
‘You're going to think I'm crazy,’ he said.
‘You are,’ she smiled at him. ‘That's why I fell in love with you in the first place.’
He returned the smile. ‘Let's go to the kitchen. I don't want to wake her.’
Sara looked at Lauren. ‘We're so lucky, David,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I know.’
PART SEVEN
78
9 am
‘The Commonwealth calls Dr Richard Davenport.’
David felt the words rush over him. This morning he had woken with a new surge of enthusiasm. It was his crazy idea that had done it, the one they had put into action at 6 am when they woke Madonna from her sleep. If it worked it might just be enough to at least rattle the slick-looking physician now taking the witness stand before them while he waited for the rest of their case to come together.
His entire case was running on hope – hope that they would find one of Madonna's elderly couples, hope that Esther Wallace would return one of their repeated emails, hope that Joe would find Marco De Lorenzo, who would shed some light on Jim Walker's death, hope they would locate the girl named Sophia and that Daniel Hunt's DNA would tie him to the victim. And he knew he needed close to all of these things to come off for him to save his client, and bring Daniel Hunt to justice, for all that he had done.
‘I want to thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to join us here, Dr Davenport,’ the Kat began, his smile one of pure appreciation.
Davenport nodded, as if too humble to accept the thanks.
‘If you don't mind I'd like to start from the beginning, from when you first made the acquaintance of the defendant and her late husband Jim Walker, whom I believe was a very close friend.’
‘That's correct.’
‘He was a talented man with a good job and a wife he loved, and … well, I suppose you might describe him as a man who had everything any man could hope for,’ led the DA.
‘Except for the child he craved,’ added Davenport.
‘Which was where you came in,’ said Katz.
Davenport smiled. ‘It's what I do, Mr Katz, and as such I consider myself the lucky one.’
‘Because you give childless couples hope?’ said Katz.
‘Because I make their dreams a reality, Mr Katz.’
And so it began.
9.35 am
‘This is Mannix,’ said Joe. He and Frank were in his office. Joe was pissed. He had just hung up from a call to Davenport's Dorchester Clinic having failed to strongarm the Director into handing over their patient lists. The Director refused to do so without a warrant, something Joe knew would be impossible for him to raise, given it would need to be signed by their asshole of a DA.
‘It's me,’ said the voice down the line.
‘Susan,’ said Joe, shooting a look at Frank to shut his office door. ‘You got something?’ He put the call on speaker.
‘Not something, someone. Marco De Lorenzo is currently in his beat-up Buick heading south on the Interstate 93 toward Plymouth.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He used a credit card at a service station just outside of Braintree.’
‘How much gas did he put in?’
‘Only ten dollars.’
‘Won't get him far,’ said Joe.
Susan agreed. ‘You want help on this?’
Joe considered it.
‘Jesus, Chief, you never know when to accept assistance. I'm w
orking a night shift, which means I am free until seven. I'll meet you outside HQ in fifteen.’
Joe was grateful. ‘Okay,’ he said.
‘Ask McKay what his wife packed in that Tupperware dish of his. I haven't had time for breakfast.’
‘It's leftovers from last night's dinner,’ said Frank. ‘Chicken liver stew.’
‘Stuff that. I'll grab a coffee on the way.’
‘Make it two,’ said Joe.
10.07 am
Lisa Cavanaugh shoved her hair away from her bright green eyes before pushing through the door to Lucas Cole's tiny but efficient research lab. ‘Jesus, Cole, you ever sleep?’ she asked, knowing her doctor friend had been in the lab when she left her last shift in the busy ER sometime after 11 pm last night.
‘I could ask you the same question,’ he smiled.
Lisa smiled back. ‘I got you a coffee,’ she said, shoving aside some paperwork to place the Starbucks latte on his desk. ‘Double shot,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ He grabbed for the brew and gulped it down.
‘How's it going?’ she asked, sidling up to him. He was seated at his computer, DNA molecules turning in spirals on his multicoloured screen.
‘I'm close,’ he said. He looked up at her before gesturing at the copy of the Tribune under her arm. ‘What does it say?’ he asked.
‘That my brother is stuffed,’ she said. She went to smile but couldn't manage it. ‘Seriously, I don't know how he does it.’
‘Does what?’
‘Goes to work every day knowing no matter how hard he tries there are no guarantees of success.’
‘Isn't that what we do?’ asked Lucas.
She shrugged. ‘I guess you're right.’
She leant toward the computer then. ‘Is that his DNA – you know, Hunt's?’
‘Yes. But comparing father to daughter is not as easy as you think. First up, I can't use mitochondrial DNA because that is only valid in maternity testing, and we're talking about a female, not a male, child so I can't use Hunt's “Y” chromosome to make a direct comparison.’
‘So what exactly do you do?’ asked Lisa, who knew a little about DNA fingerprinting but not nearly as much as her friend Lucas.