“What about Murphy? The guy has been gunning for me from day one. Could he have planted the evidence just to make an arrest?”
“Anything is possible.”
“I don’t think it was a player. But I can’t be sure. A rival coach, maybe?”
“We’ve got a long road ahead of us, Tom. This is going to take time, and I’m not going to tell you that it’s going to be easy.”
“Marvin, can you tell me that you’re good at this sort of thing?”
“I’m good.”
“Tell me how we’re going to beat this,” said Tom.
“Do you remember the controversy around your state scoring title?”
“Sure. You found out that the state’s official statistician didn’t record all my goals.”
“Not only did he not record all your goals, but it was his kid who was nearest to you for the most scored in state history. And lo and behold, it was his kid who ended up with the title.”
“I’m liking the memory-lane trip, Marvin, but can you tell me what that’s got to do with my case?”
“Ask yourself, what is it about Marvin Pressman that made him start digging into that scoring record in the first place?”
“You thought it was bullshit,” Tom said.
“More than bullshit. I knew it was an outlier.”
“Outlier?” Tom said.
“You know, something that deviates from the norm. You being beat out by that kid, in my mind, was simply impossible. I knew it right away. He wasn’t even a senior. So I went back and watched all your games on tape and documented the date, time, and minute when you scored each goal. That’s how I figured out his daddy was cooking the official books so that his kid came out on top.”
“All very interesting, but how does this help me?”
“Why did Bjorn Borg generate more topspin with his backhand than any other player on tour?”
“Marvin, does it matter?”
“Because his backhand was almost like a hockey slap shot. It was that loose style that gave the ball its unique spin. Why can Rory Delap execute a longer throw-in that is more accurate than most corner kicks?”
“Why?” Tom said, going along with this thought train.
“It’s all in the way he throws the ball. Low, flat trajectory, tons of backspin, which counters gravity, even though his release is at a low angle.”
“And what does this have to do with my case, Marvin? Help me out here. I’m putting my life on the line with you.”
“What it means is that even though I’ve never tried a case exactly like yours, I’m really good at finding explanations for unusual events. I’m good at picking up insights that will make a jury nod their heads and say, ‘Hey, that does present us with some reasonable doubt here.’ I think it’s that wiring that gives my clients the edge. So the first rule of working with me is that you’ve got to trust me. Second rule ... See rule one. Comprende?”
Tom nodded. “Okay. So what do you know?” he asked.
Marvin reached behind him to close the door. “I’d like some privacy with my client,” Marvin said to the police officer standing guard. The door closed with a soft click. “Why don’t we start by you telling me what you know?”
Tom scoffed. “I have no idea. Somebody created these bogus blog posts claiming they were having sex with me. Supposedly, one of my players. The police turned it into a public spectacle by questioning my players about the post as a group. Nothing came of it. Then I gave Sergeant Murphy my school-issued laptop computer—”
“Gave it to him?”
“He asked for it, and I had nothing to hide. So yeah, I gave it to him. Then some girl sent me text messages with pictures attached. Naked pictures. Obviously, that’s part of the setup. I know that now. But at the time I thought it wasn’t related. I didn’t want to shine an even brighter spotlight on me, and subsequently on Jill. In hindsight, that was probably a mistake, because the next day someone used Facebook to say that they knew which player I was sleeping with. I got the police involved then, school officials, too. Now, why would I have done that if I was guilty? Doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe you knew the jig was up. Maybe the police think you were trying to make it look like it was a setup.”
“I don’t know what they’re thinking,” Tom said. “All I know is that a few days after somebody sent me that picture, I got arrested, booked, and questioned by the FBI about my connection to somebody named James Mann.”
Marvin nodded. “They’ve booked you on numerous counts of possession and trafficking of child pornography. Did she say why she wanted to talk to you?”
“She thinks I’m involved with a case she’s investigating. But that’s insane. I didn’t do any of what she said I did. It sickens me to even think about it.”
Marvin took off his glasses and stared through the lenses. He polished away some grime. “That’ll be the last time you tell me you’re innocent. Deal?” Marvin put his glasses back on.
“But—”
“I’m here. I’m your lawyer. I’m going to defend you.”
Tom had to close his eyes to keep from saying anything more.
Marvin continued, “Now, usually when I conduct my first interview, I don’t know much about the evidence, and the cops generally aren’t too forthcoming. But ...”
“But what?”
“But on my way in, Murphy said to me, ‘Don’t waste your time on this one, Pressman. The case is a slam dunk.’ So I say, ‘Why’s that?’ And he starts blabbing about things he probably shouldn’t be blabbing about.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the consent search you gave them for the laptop. And the evidence they found linking you to a sexual relationship with Lindsey Wells.”
“Lindsey Wells?”
“Apparently, they found a number of pictures of naked girls from Shilo on your computer, Tom. Including pictures of the girl you described to Rich Fox at that meeting. Murphy said ten are from Shilo and about thirty they couldn’t ID. He was being sarcastic when he said he’d ask your help with that.”
“Which I can’t do,” Tom said.
“Of course you can’t. But they think you recruited other people, kids probably, to help you obtain these images, which you then allegedly sold on the Internet.”
“And they found all this on my school-issued laptop?”
“Well, according to the forensic report—and again this is what Murphy told me—there is no sign of any tampering with the machine. No viruses. Nothing. It’s clean.”
“What about my home PC? They searched that, too.”
“I don’t know,” Marvin said. “But they also found alleged correspondences between you and Lindsey Wells. They got a search warrant, and a computer forensic team is over at Lindsey’s house right now, working on her machine.”
“But you told me Jill is staying there.”
“That’s why I said it might not be so good that Jill’s staying there. Murphy also showed me a printout of a Facebook message spreading around. Apparently, a Facebook user calling himself Fidelius Charm made a new profile after the company deactivated his old one. This person sent out a bunch of new friend requests and more messages after your arrest.”
“What did the message say?” Tom asked glumly.
“The secret is out,” Marvin said, reciting what he had read. “Coach Hawkins is sleeping with Lindsey Wells.”
Tom groaned and rubbed his manacled hands vigorously through his hair.
“My guess is the police are going to find out that it was Lindsey who made the initial blog posts about you. It’s one way to link you to the naked images of hers they found on your school computer. Don’t ask me how they’ll try and link you to the images of the other girls.”
“If Lindsey says anything to the police about our having a relationship, she’s lying. What does Jill know?”
“Tom, I haven’t spoken to Jill about it,” Marvin said. “But what I do know is that at your arraignment on Monday, you’re going to plead not g
uilty.”
“That won’t be a problem. Can I get out of here now?”
Marvin appeared glum. “The bail commissioner came down. Murphy sent him away. Bail commissioners almost never go against a police officer if they recommend you be detained until your arraignment.”
“What happens at my arraignment?”
“You’ll hear the charges against you. Bail will be set. You are presumed innocent. The judge should give you personal recognizance bail. They’re not supposed to bootstrap the current charges to your bail condition.”
“That sounds positive,” Tom said.
“But these are very serious charges,” Marvin said, “and just because a judge isn’t supposed to bootstrap current charges to bail conditions doesn’t mean they don’t. The prosecutor is probably going to argue that you’re a flight risk given your extensive military contacts and training. Bail could be high.”
“How high?”
“Fifty thousand,” Marvin said. “Maybe even a hundred.”
Tom’s mouth fell open. “I don’t have that kind of money. What happens if I can’t post bail?”
“You’ll sit in jail until your trial.”
“How long will that be?”
“Your case could come up for trial a year from now. Even longer.”
Chapter 30
Woonsocket County was home to five district courthouses. The morning of Tom’s arraignment, a team of three officers entered his tiny cell to secure their prisoner for transport to the closest courthouse, in the bordering town of Millis. Sergeant Brendan Murphy oversaw the transport effort, with an expression, Tom thought, more appropriate for a big-game hunter than a police officer. Then again, Tom Hawkins was the biggest game in town, as evident from the hordes of media types, from Boston to southern Maine, closing around the disgraced coach as soon as he exited police headquarters. They shouted their questions and blinded Tom with camera lights, which they used despite the bright, cloudless morning.
Tom decided not to conceal his face from the onslaught of photographers and TV news crews documenting his every step. Whenever he’d seen people hiding their faces under hoods or jackets, Tom always thought they looked guilty of something.
On the short walk to the waiting police car, Tom’s thoughts drifted back to Kip Lange and what he had done to protect Kelly and Jill almost sixteen years ago.
Had Kelly told Lange that he’d been the one to hide the drugs?
Tom felt certain the man in the woods that night was Kip Lange. But that certainty left him with two vital questions he couldn’t answer. What did Lange want? And what did Lange know?
Marvin had some friends, former cops who did investigative work for him from time to time. To help ease Tom’s worry about Jill, Marvin had coordinated a 24/7 watch over his daughter until after his arraignment. No way would Tom be able to afford to keep up that watch if he didn’t make bail. According to Marvin’s report, the PIs hadn’t seen anybody lurking around Cathleen Wells’s house. They’d been watching it nonstop for the last forty-eight hours. No prowlers. No strange cars. Nothing. If Lange was going to make a move on Jill, it would have been while Tom was locked up. Soon he’d be out on bail, ending what would have been Lange’s best opportunity to get to his daughter.
Why didn’t Lange take a shot?
Tom could think of only one answer to that question. Lange’s plan wasn’t to kidnap Jill.
He was going to blackmail Tom.
Tom’s police escort drove to the back of the Millis District Courthouse. The parking lot was unusually full, even for a Monday morning. If the police didn’t have designated spots for cruisers, they might not have had a place to park. Tom didn’t know the type of car Marvin Pressman drove, but felt certain that his lawyer was among the early arrivals.
Murphy and another police officer took hold of Tom’s arms and together hoisted him out of the patrol car. After checking the handcuffs on Tom’s wrists, they ushered him inside, through the security checkpoint, and into a locked room. They pushed Tom down by his shoulders until he sat on the only chair in the otherwise empty waiting room.
“What’s next?” Tom asked. Murphy pretended not to hear Tom’s question. “I said, what’s next?” Tom repeated.
Murphy grunted and pointed to another door on the opposite wall. “Your name gets called by the state. You walk through that door. You sit. You get arraigned.”
“Sounds simple enough.”
“Yeah, simple.”
They waited. Two police officers, one prisoner, silent as could be. Body heat and poor circulation turned the air inside the room thick and oppressive. The longer Tom waited, the more his nerves fired. Sweat dotted his forehead.
In those anxious moments, Tom pondered his fate. Will the judge set bail? Will it be as high as Pressman warned?
A wellspring of emotion flooded through Tom. If he went to jail, he would lose everything. He would lose his freedom. He would lose his good name. Certainly, above all else, he would lose his daughter forever. Marvin had advised him to suppress his emotions during the arraignment. Cool and calm demeanor, the lawyer had recommended. But Marvin’s life wasn’t the one on the line.
Tom tried patterned breathing to slow his pulse but couldn’t suppress the toxic mix of anxiety and rage boiling within. Tom’s muscles tightened to the point where he thought they might snap. His expression morphed from stony to snarled. Thick veins on the side of his neck pulsed angrily.
“Whoa, this guy looks like he’s ready to pop off,” a police officer said.
“Take it easy, Coach Hawkins,” Murphy said. “I wouldn’t want to cause a scene before your big day.”
Before Tom could respond, probably in a way he’d regret, the PA speaker mounted flush to the wall crackled with static.
“Docket CR-thirteen-s-sixteen-fifty-seven, State of New Hampshire versus Thomas Hawkins.”
The moment they called his docket number, Murphy opened the door leading into the courtroom and escorted Tom through.
Marvin had done his best to explain where Tom would be seated during the proceedings, but the reality was far worse than his lawyer had described. Tom found himself standing inside a box that looked out into the courtroom. One wall of the box was made from concrete brick, but the other three walls were built using floor-to-ceiling Plexiglas. Through the plastic walls Tom could see crowds of people jammed inside the tiny courtroom. He recognized many of the faces.
Marvin Pressman stood behind a long table that was barren, save for a single manila folder. One end of the table was pressed nearly flush against Tom’s holding cell wall. The Plexiglas had holes in it so that Tom could speak to his attorney. Marvin wore a well-pressed, nicely tailored suit. It was the first confidence booster of the day.
He’s dressed like a man ready to get me out on bail.
The dearth of documents displayed on the defense counsel’s table, however, didn’t engender much confidence.
Marvin moved his chair closer so he could speak to Tom through the cell’s tiny puncture holes. “Are you ready for this? You look good.”
Tom spoke in a low voice. “I look like crap and you know it. I haven’t bathed or shaved in days. My clothes stink, and I feel like a freak show on display in here.”
“Well, naturally you’re keyed up. Try to calm down. We have only one dog in this fight today. Bail. You got that?” Pressman gestured to the table across from his, pointing to a female attorney, actively organizing her stacks of folders, files, and case evidence.
“She looks more prepared,” said Tom.
“She’s not. Trust me. It’s all show. But she’s a mother who is very active in the community, her name’s Gina Glantz, and this judge likes her a lot. We’ll do what we can, but I need you to focus, and above all else, remain calm. Promise me that.”
“Yeah, I promise,” Tom said.
Tom allowed himself to think about Jill. He conjured up an image of Jill in better days, and that helped calm him. He’d come back to Shilo for her. Everything would
eventually turn out all right.
Next, Tom cast a sweeping glance at all the spectators gathered inside the courtroom. He couldn’t see everybody in the sizable crowd, but he did happen to catch Rebecca’s eye. He didn’t wave to her, though she motioned to him. Tom saw Vern seated behind the front row of benches. His assistant coach gave Tom an encouraging thumbs-up sign. At least some had come to show their support.
The judge, midfifties, with a full head of dark hair, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, was seated at his bench. With a bang of the gavel, the courtroom chatter fell into silence.
The proceedings began. The charges against Tom were read aloud. A dozen counts of felonious sexual assault, along with the possession and distribution of more than three hundred images deemed to be lewd and lascivious depictions of minors.
“Do you understand the charges against you?” the judge said, directing his question to Tom. For somebody with “judge” in his job title, Tom felt the man had already passed sentence, just by the way he looked at him.
“Tell him you do,” Marvin whispered.
“I do.”
“And how do you plead?”
“Tell him not guilty,” Marvin said.
“Not guilty.”
The judge wrote something down. In answering the judge’s questions, Tom’s throat felt dry and his own voice rang weak and defeated in his ears.
The judge spoke again. “Is there a question of bail?”
“There is, Your Honor.” The D.A.’s prosecutor, Gina Glantz, rose from her seat.
“Proceed.”
“Your Honor, these are very serious charges levied against Mr. Hawkins. I would like to remind the court that before Mr. Hawkins’s recent move, he had not been a resident of the town for nine years.”
Marvin pounced. “Your Honor, I believe that’s irrelevant to the question of bail.”
“I think it’s quite relevant. It demonstrates the potential for a flight risk, no real ties to the community, especially given the gravity of the charges Mr. Hawkins is facing.”
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