Open and Shut

by David Rosenfelt

  Pete shrugs. “Hasn't so far.”

  “Can you get me in there?” I ask.

  Pete laughs. “He'd be real happy to see you. You guys are good buddies.”

  “Just get me in.”

  Pete nods. “Okay. But only with Wallace on board. You want me to talk to him?”

  I tell Pete that I'll talk to Wallace, and I call him. He's more skeptical than Pete, perhaps because he's not feeling the force of my face-to-face charm. Wallace's boss has to get elected every two years, which makes him sensitive to life's political realities. He sounds sorry he even answered the phone.

  “Andy, I'm not even talking about whether or not Gant is guilty, or whether we could make it stick even if Markham gave him up. I'm saying that making the decision to go after Gant is a huge one. The kind we'd both better be right on.”

  “I agree, but we're not making that decision now. Right now we're just talking to Markham.”

  He finally agrees, which I knew he would. Wallace is not the type to sweep things under the rug, no matter how politically powerful those things might be.

  Pete makes a phone call to get us in to see Markham at his house. I drop Laurie and Tara off, then pick up Wallace. We drive out in my car.

  We arrive at Markham's and the patrolman at the gate lets us through. The justice system has determined that electronic ankle bracelets are not enough to keep Victor and son confined, and that armed guards are necessary to prevent their possible flight. I concur.

  The house is on a par with Philip's, which is to say it is magnificent. I reflect to myself that this scene of Victor's incarceration, albeit temporary, is rather different from Willie's residence for the past seven years.

  A patrolman accompanies us inside, and we are led into the den, where Victor awaits us with his lawyer, Sandy Michelson. Victor has changed lawyers since the deposition, a wise move, since Sandy is a first-rate criminal defense attorney. I had asked that Edward not be a part of the meeting, and apparently Victor agreed, since Edward is nowhere to be seen.

  I am stunned by the sight of Victor Markham. He's slightly pale, though he really hasn't changed much physically. However, his demeanor has changed so dramatically that he seems to be an entirely different person. He has been defeated and humiliated, and every move he makes screams that fact to the world. At least it would scream it to the world if he were allowed to leave his house.

  Victor is actually cordial, offering us something to drink and inviting us to sit down. But he is without energy, sort of like a fat, rich, male Stepford Wife. Wallace tells him that a new development has come up in the case, and then he turns the floor over to me to outline the situation.

  “Victor, I'm not here to tell you that your legal position is a shaky one. Sandy can do that, but I think you already know that wearing an electronic ankle bracelet is not a good sign. And I'm not here to work out a plea bargain; that is Mr. Wallace's job, should he care to do so. I'm here to tell you what I know.”

  Victor just sits and listens with no noticeable reaction; I'm not even sure he is hearing what I am saying. But I push on. “I know that you, and Frank Brownfield, and Mike Anthony, and my father were at the house the night that Julie McGregor died. And I know that Philip Gant was there with you.”

  I'm watching Victor's eyes as I bring up Philip's name, and the reaction is unmistakable. There is surprise, then a hint of fear, then definitely resignation. I realize in that instant that Victor on some level had been expecting Philip to help him, not to join him in custody.

  “I believe it was Philip's house where it all happened. I can't prove this yet, but believe me, I will. It would be in your interest to help me.”

  I'm expecting Victor to refuse, at least initially, but he takes me by surprise. “How would it be in my interest?”

  Wallace says, “I'm prepared to discuss the possibility of a plea bargain in return for your truthful and complete testimony.”

  Victor laughs, but it's not exactly a joyful one. “I'm sixty-four years old. My life is over, no matter what agreement we might reach. What will you offer me? A window in my cell? Extra cigarettes?”

  Sandy leans in to whisper something to his client, and Victor responds by nodding slightly.

  “I wasn't talking about a deal for you,” Wallace says. “I was talking about your son. Yours isn't the only life you've ruined.”

  The conversation goes on for another hour, but Wallace handles most of it from our end. I spend most of that time thinking about Nicole, and how devastating it will be for her if this meeting accomplishes our goal. There's no way I can alert Nicole to what is going on, yet I feel as if I am betraying her by concealing it.

  Both sides agree to consider their respective positions. Wallace will talk to the District Attorney about what they might do for Edward, and Victor will consult with Sandy as to what he might testify to. Both Wallace and I are surprised that it has gone as well as it has.

  We are even more surprised two days later when Sandy Michelson presents Wallace with a proposal and a proffer of what Victor's testimony would be. The proposal is for Edward to plead guilty to a conspiracy to murder charge, which would probably result in his getting ten years in prison. The proffer confesses to the murder of Julie McGregor, implicates both Philip Gant and Brownfield, and places the scene of the murder at Philip's house. According to Victor, Philip is the one who pushed her into the pool with his leg, and Victor believes that at the time she was unconscious but alive.

  It goes on to detail the events surrounding Denise's murder, which Victor claims was physically done by an unknown assailant hired by Philip. Apparently Philip has retained some connections from his time as a prosecutor dealing with the criminal element, and has used his considerable wealth to hire them. If true, it would also explain how the various attacks and threats were accomplished over the past weeks.

  A proffer of this type is a document written by the plea bargainer, detailing what his testimony will be if an agreement can be reached. The law states that if the parties fail to agree, the prosecution cannot benefit from the proffer in any way. It thus becomes a confession and testimony that never legally existed. The purpose is to allow the prosecution to know exactly what testimony it is bargaining for, so that if the accused subsequently reneges and testifies differently, his reduced sentence is reinstated in full.

  Wallace already knows what his boss will go for regarding Edward's sentence, and this proposal fits within those guidelines. He conveys to Sandy that the state agrees; all that remains is for Hatchet to put his rubber stamp on it. Wallace offers me the right to sit in on that meeting in Hatchet's chambers, which I am very grateful for.

  Even though I won't have a significant role in the meeting, I still want to be prepared, so I bring home some books to study up on the relevant law. When I get home, there is a message on the answering machine from Nicole. She sounds tentative, a little nervous, but basically just wants to know how I am doing. I don't call her back; I can't tell her what's going on with her father, and it seems too dishonest to have a conversation without bringing it up.

  The next morning at nine o'clock Wallace, Sandy, and I are ushered into Hatchet's chambers. His eyes focus on me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I'm a friend of the court,” I answer cheerfully.

  “Since when?”

  The meeting goes without a hitch. Hatchet has to be surprised when Philip's name is mentioned, but he doesn't show it. He asks the correct, perfunctory questions of Wallace and Sandy, and they provide the proper answers. At the conclusion, he signs off on the plea bargain. Nothing to it, but when the results of this meeting are made public there will be a political firestorm unlike any since the Clinton impeachment.

  When we leave the chambers, there is little said between the three of us. We all know the implications of what we are doing, and we're going to go about our business professionally. Sandy goes to Victor's to get him and Edward to sign off on the final agreement, Wallace goes to prep his boss for an afternoon
press conference announcing the news, and I go home to watch what promises to be an amazing night of television.

  THE PHONE CALLFROM SANDY MICHELSON comes at three o'clock. In a fairly steady voice he says that he's calling to inform me that his client, Victor Markham, is dead. After signing the proffer and watching Sandy leave with it, he went into his bathroom and took enough powerful pain medication to kill himself three times over.

  Sandy speculates that despite his careful explanations, Victor may well have believed that simply the act of signing the proffer meant Edward's deal was secure. He also believes that Victor's ego would not let him face the public humiliation that his confession would bring.

  I'm not really interested in dwelling on the tragedy that is Victor Markham. The fact is that as evidence the proffer is useless, inadmissible hearsay in a court of law. With the lack of physical evidence that exists, Philip is off the hook before he even knew he was on it.

  My frustration is complete. Laurie comes over to commiserate, but I really don't want anybody around me right now. I want to be alone to wallow in my misery. I don't tell her that, because even in this frustrated state, I retain my wimpy tendencies.

  Laurie is of the opinion that we shouldn't give up, that there still has to be a way to tie Philip to this. I know better and I tell her so, but she keeps throwing out ideas, which I keep shooting down.

  She asks me to take out the photograph, which I reluctantly do. Between the two of us, we've probably looked at it five hundred times, but now she looks at it carefully, as if she's never seen it before. It's an investigative technique she uses, which she has often told me about. She is able to will herself to take a fresh approach to evidence.

  This time it doesn't seem to get her anywhere. She looks at it for almost five minutes, then turns to me. “Are you sure there's nothing in the background that identifies this as Philip's house?”

  “I'm sure,” I say.

  She tries to hand me the picture. “Look again.”

  I don't want to; I never want to see that stupid picture again. “Come on, Laurie …” I whine.

  “Please, Andy, I hate seeing you like this.”

  “It'll get worse before it gets better.”

  She keeps insisting, so I sigh and take the picture and look at it. My assessment is it hasn't changed much, and I tell her so.

  “So you can't tell that's Philip's house?” she asks.

  I look still again. “Nope. In fact I've never seen those trees. He must have cut them down.”

  Now she looks again. “Why would he cut down beautiful trees like that?”

  So I look again, a fresh look like Laurie taught me. And all of a sudden, I know exactly why Philip Gant would cut down beautiful trees like that.

  I ARRIVE AT THE GANT ESTATE at eleven the next morning, having called ahead to tell Philip I needed to speak to him. He was cordial and without a hint of concern in his voice; he seemed to know nothing about Markham's proffer. I ring the bell and the butler, Frederick, answers.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter.”

  “Hello, Frederick. The Senator is expecting me.”

  Frederick nods. “Yes, sir. He's at the pool.”

  I nod and move quickly through the house and out to the back. I head toward the pool, and find Philip sitting in his bathing suit at an umbrella-shaded table, nursing a drink and reading a book. He hears me coming and looks up.

  “Hello, Andrew.”

  “Hello, Philip. Am I interrupting anything important?”

  “No … no … not at all. It's very disappointing about you and Nicole. I very much wanted it to work out.”

  “And you usually get what you want,” I say.

  I can see him react to this; it is not something that someone would ordinarily come out and say to him, even though it is obviously true. He decides to let it pass by treating it good-naturedly.

  He grins. “Yes, I guess I do. I guess I do. Congratulations on your victory in that trial.”

  “Did you hear about Victor Markham?” I ask.

  He nods. “I did. The entire episode is terrible. Just terrible.”

  “You know,” I say, “it's funny. A secret like that is kept for almost forty years, and then it comes out, just like that. Makes you think, doesn't it?”

  “About what?” he asks.

  “That if you have something to hide, you can never be sure it will stay hidden. There's always that worry, always that chance that a base hasn't been completely covered.”

  “I suppose that's true.” Philip's tone is now a little uncertain, tentative.

  “I mean, think about this case. There's still a secret to be revealed. There's still someone who hasn't been accounted for.”

  “And who might that be?” he asks.

  “The guy who took the picture.”

  The look in his eyes says I've got his attention, so I continue. “Maybe he's the one who gave my father the money. Maybe he's the one whose house it was.”

  Philip sits there, sipping his drink, unruffled. The son of a bitch. “Andrew,” he says, “you don't want to go any further.”

  But I do, and I will. “Maybe he's the one who was afraid he'd be ruined … that his perfectly planned future could be destroyed. Maybe he's the one who killed Julie McGregor to protect himself.”

  Philip puts down his drink: his way of saying that it's time to get serious. “All right, Andrew, what exactly are you saying?”

  “I'm saying that if I were that person, I'd be worried. Because secrets like this are very difficult to keep. And if that person were somebody prominent, somebody hot-shit important, then his whole life could go down the drain, slowly … surely … totally.”

  As much as I despise this man, I am almost mesmerized by him. He is being confronted with the revelation of a secret so terrible that he has murdered to preserve it, yet he seems unfazed and totally in control. It's either a confidence bordering on invincibility, or an Academy Award winning performance.

  “Goodbye, Andrew,” he says.

  But I'm not going anywhere. “I know my father took your money, and that was wrong. But you had saved his life when he fell through the ice, and now he was saving yours. You were his oldest friend, and he let that cloud his judgment. But it doesn't matter anymore, because you know what, Philip? The bad news for you is that I'm not my father.”

  “That much is true,” he says. “You're not even close.”

  “Victor Markham gave a proffer for a plea bargain, Philip. He said that you were there … that you all took Julie McGregor to this house.”

  For a moment there is a flash of uncertainty in Philip's eyes, but it is immediately replaced by confidence.

  “I don't believe that is true. But even if it were, his death renders that useless.”

  “You know,” I say, “Julie McGregor's body was never found.”

  Philip smiles, serenely confident. “Is that right?”

  “If it was me, if I were a pig like yourself, I would have buried the body. And then I would have covered it up … like maybe with a guest house. Which was built not long after that night. You didn't build it as a future home for your child, Philip. You built it as a headstone for Julie McGregor.”

  I see it, a quick look of panic, a steel blade of truth cutting through to the bone. “Andrew …”

  “Philip, you went to Yale Law, so how about we try a legal riddle? Ready? When is a useless proffer not useless?”

  Philip doesn't answer, so I continue. “Give up? It's when you want to use it to get a search warrant.”

  He knows I have him, but he's not giving up. He smiles, almost sadly. “We can reach an accommodation, Andrew. It was so long ago.”

  There are some things that I've got to know before this is over. “Why did you do it, Philip? A guy from your family, good-looking, smart, you could have had a lot of women. Why did you have to have Julie McGregor that night?”

  “She was no innocent, Andrew. She wanted to as much as we did; then she pretended to change her
mind. Well, the unfortunate fact was we hadn't changed ours.”

  “So you did what you had to do.”

  “And we have had to live with it ever since. Not an easy thing, I assure you.”

  “Yeah, you've really suffered. Where was my father when all this happened?”

  “In the house.” Philip laughs, as if recounting a funny story from long ago. “He drank too much and he was throwing up.” He laughs again, even harder. “He had a weak stomach and it cost me two million dollars.”

  It is all I can do not to strangle him. “You are a scumbag, Philip. My father lost a piece of himself that night—and he never got it back. And you deserve everything that is going to happen to you.”

  Philip starts to speak, but when I hear a voice it is not his. “Andy, what are you doing?” It is Nicole, having walked in on us. I'm not sure how much she has heard, but my guess is it's enough.

  “I'm sorry, Nicole. It's already done.”

  “Andy, what will this accomplish? For God's sake, he's my father.”

  “Your father is a rapist and a murderer.”

  Before she can respond, Pete, Wallace, and two patrolmen walk from the house to the pool. Frederick walks with them, as if he is escorting them. Wallace goes up to Philip and hands him a piece of paper, which Philip does not take. Wallace puts it on the table.

  “This is a search warrant for these premises, Senator. It authorizes us to excavate under the guest house, and it will be lawfully executed this afternoon.”

  Nicole goes over to Philip and grabs on to his arm. “Daddy …” she says, as if he is going to fix this.

  He just sits there, nothing to say and nothing to do.Nicole sits there with him. They'll probably still be there when Julie McGregor's body is dug up. But I won't be here. I want to get as far away from this as I can.

  “RICH OR POOR, IT'S GOOD to have money.” That's what my mother used to say, tongue firmly tucked in cheek, when she'd see an ostentatious display of wealth. Of course, she had no idea she was already rich by virtue of my father's hidden fortune, but I'm learning to accept that and deal with it.