Cavanaugh had every reason to be confident, even if you got past the sensationalized coverage to examine the facts. Everson had an alibi, but it was next to useless; his mistress claimed he was with her the night of the murder. Who would believe Dawn Majewski, ex-model and would-be next Mrs. Everson? She might have the IQ of a potted plant, but she clearly had brains enough to realize that she had everything to lose if her beloved was shipped off to the state penitentiary for life with no parole. Cavanaugh didn't have an overwhelming amount of circumstantial evidence, but he had the murder weapon with Everson's fingerprints on it, he had the impossibility of anyone else breaking into the mansion, and he had as good a motive as you could want. He had enough.
I never worked so hard preparing a case. The strategy I finally decided on was so risky it almost gave Roger a heart attack, but I didn't see that I had a choice. I decided to pin it on the victim.
Alice Everson wasn't the world's stablest, happiest woman to begin with, and the breakup with her husband had depressed her even more. She couldn't believe she was being abandoned. She started drinking heavily. She talked to her friends about how empty her life would be after the divorce. So perhaps she had put an end to that life before it became intolerable.
But suicidal women don't stab themselves to death with a kitchen knife, Roger objected reasonably. They take pills or stick their head in the oven. True, but what if Alice wanted to have her death effectively put an end to Everson's life as well? One night, more despondent than usual and still angry at the husband who has left her, she takes the knife he had used when he was still living with her—the knife that still bears his fingerprints—and plunges it into her already broken heart, knowing that he will be the first and only person anyone would suspect of killing her.
My strategy was risky because, as Everson himself pointed out, he wasn't going to be a sympathetic defendant, and this approach would undoubtedly make jurors like him even less. The guy murders his wife, then tries to say she did it herself. How much more rotten can you get? I had to hope that the jurors would understand enough about reasonable doubt to put their dislike of Everson aside when it came time to vote.
So when the trial started and Cavanaugh presented the state's case, I tried to raise all sorts of questions about the angle of the wound, the placement of the fingerprints on the knife, the alcohol level in the victim's bloodstream—confusing, technical stuff, but necessary for our defense. Cavanaugh for his part did a competent, thorough job. When it was our turn, I tried to build a case against Alice, calling witness after reluctant witness to testify about her wild state of mind in the weeks preceding her death. Cavanaugh objected strenuously, but the judge let me go. The jurors eyed me with suspicion; they didn't like what I was doing, but they were listening. I didn't bother calling Dawn; she was a lost cause. But I did finally call Everson himself—one final risk. I needed to show that he wasn't an ogre, that he didn't eat babies for breakfast. The jurors could hate me if they liked, but I wanted them to think of Everson as a human being on trial for his life.
He listened carefully to my advice beforehand; he even took notes. I made him wear a muted gray suit and no jewelry; he looked like a prosperous businessman, nothing more. On the stand he was low-key, courteous, reflective. He didn't hate his wife, he said; he had simply fallen in love with someone else. He looked on the divorce wrangles as inevitable for someone in his position; he'd had far more bitter fights in his business dealings. He didn't kill his wife. No, sir. So help me God.
Then I handed him over to Cavanaugh. And Cavanaugh laid into him. This was the high point; this was what he had been waiting for all his career. Do you admit that you once punched her in a drunken brawl? Do you admit that you threatened her in the presence of both divorce lawyers? Do you admit that you stood to gain millions of dollars from her death?
Everson admitted what he had to, but he didn't crack. And then the Monsignor asked him one final question, with all the sanctimoniousness he could muster: "And I ask you, sir—this obscene, ridiculous accusation that Alice Everson committed suicide in order to implicate you. Did you put your lawyer up to it?"
"No, sir, I didn't," Everson replied quietly. "In fact, I agree with you. I don't think Alice would have done something like that. We had our problems, but neither of us wanted to hurt the other. I honestly believe that. And I simply can't imagine her committing suicide. I don't know who killed Alice, but I believe with all my heart that she didn't kill herself."
Cavanaugh was dumbfounded. The defendant had just trashed his own defense. But in doing so he had sounded awfully nice—almost gallant. So what should the poor prosecutor do next? He decided to leave well enough—or bad enough—alone, and with a dismissive, disbelieving wave of the hand he ended the cross-examination.
I was as astonished as Cavanaugh. After mulling it over, I decided that I was pleased. I had made the points I wanted to make, but Everson had effectively dissociated himself from them. Conceivably, the jury could believe me and believe him—believe, at any rate, that he was still loyal to his spouse after her death. I rested my case, and in my closing argument I made sure they understood that this was an option for them.
And then all our futures were in their hands.
I happened to share an elevator with Cavanaugh while the jury deliberated. "You prick," he said. "Everson's answer was your idea, wasn't it?"
"No, but maybe it should have been, except I wasn't smart enough to think of it. Besides, you can't coach that kind of response. He was sincere."
"Sincere, my ass. He's laughing at all of us."
"The years have made you cynical, Francis. Have some faith in human nature."
"Everyone is guilty, O'Connor. You should know that by now."
I smiled. "I leave such matters up to the jury. They know best."
Cavanaugh simply rolled his eyes. Then the elevator opened its doors, and we went our separate ways.
The jury took its time, but eventually the moment arrived. We stood erect and listened as the verdict was announced and our fates were determined.
NOT GUILTY! the tabloids screamed, and everyone in America knew who they meant.
Not guilty. There's nothing like winning a case you're expected to lose. Danny had his upset victories on the football field, I'm sure, but the feeling couldn't have been the same; the stakes were so much smaller. My career, my fortune were made; if I could get Paul Everson off, I could work my magic on anyone. I was the one lawyer everyone in America would want.
That night Everson brought me up to his penthouse at the Ritz—a quiet celebration just for the two of us, he said. I drank champagne that tasted as if it should be drunk only by gods, and I gazed out at the lights of the city, feeling that the beverage suited me, at least tonight. "A long way from college, eh, Jim?" Everson said, standing next to me.
"A long way from the Revolution."
He shrugged. "We make our own Revolution, if we have enough balls."
"You should know. You've got more balls than anyone."
Everson smiled and filled my glass. "I suppose that's accurate." He sat down on the sofa and stared at the sparkling liquid in his glass. "I told you that I'm a moral person in my own way, right, Jim?"
"Right."
"Well, I believe in telling the truth. Some people I've dealt with may scoff at that, but it's a fact. They're so suspicious of me that they assume I'm lying, they proceed on that assumption, and they never quite realize that what tripped them up was their unwillingness to believe that I might be telling them the simple truth. I won't deny that sometimes I lie, but the potential return has to be large enough to warrant it, because lying makes me feel bad." He paused for a long time. "I feel bad right now," he murmured finally.
I turned away from the city and looked at him. There was some sort of paradox in what he was saying, and it confused me. "You're lying about telling the truth?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I was lying at the trial," he said.
"The business about not belie
ving that your wife committed suicide? Well, I guess it's understandable. You were facing life in prison, after all."
He stared at me, and I stayed confused. Even after he said the words, I stayed confused. It couldn't be right. The champagne, the excitement, the exhaustion...
"I killed her, Jim," he said. "She was driving me crazy. I gave her everything, and it wasn't enough. She wanted me, and she couldn't get it through her head that she wasn't going to have me. That night I decided I couldn't stand it anymore, so I went there and took a knife out of the kitchen and I murdered her. I won't try to justify it, because I can't. I felt awful about it afterward. I'll always feel awful about it. But not awful enough to confess, frankly—except to you. Now, when it's too late for me to be punished. I certainly don't feel awful enough to go to prison for it.
"I know I shouldn't tell you any of this," he went on. "It can't make you feel very good, after you worked so hard to get me acquitted. But it helps to know the truth. You can hate me if you want, I'm used to being hated. But you should also know that if you ever need help—financial, whatever—you just have to ask. You've saved me twice, and now it's your turn."
It helps to know the truth. Do I believe that today? I didn't at the time. I had talked to murderers before; I had defended them and listened to them lie to me, just like Everson. But I had never believed any of them when they lied. And none of them had finally bothered to tell me the truth. It can't make you feel very good. That was an understatement. I felt like becoming a murderer myself. I felt like calling up a tabloid.
But I couldn't. Ethically I was bound to keep silent. If I did talk, it would ruin my career and do absolutely nothing to Everson. He had been tried and found innocent. He was free to go back to making his millions, and there was nothing I could do to stop him.
"I hope you feel better now that you've unburdened yourself," I said.
Everson merely shook his head.
I couldn't stand being in his presence anymore, so I put down the glass of champagne and left the penthouse. I drove home—to my beautiful new house in Hingham—and I kissed my wife and baby. And I thought: Everyone is guilty. The Monsignor's hard-earned wisdom. So why bother defending them? Because the system requires that they receive a defense? Well, the system didn't require that James O'Connor defend them. Because that's where the money is? That was the real reason. Cavanaugh would make less in a year than I had made on the case I had just won. Was it worth it? At that moment I sure didn't think so.
I had to tell someone, so I told Liz. That was a mistake. I wanted sympathy; instead I got rage. She didn't understand or care about legal ethics and double jeopardy. She demanded Everson's head, and she was furious with me for refusing to bring it to her. We went to bed angry, and I didn't bother to bring up the qualms I was feeling about my career.
She learned about them soon enough.
* * *
The snow has given up for the day, and now the wind has decided it needs some exercise. The panes rattle; the door of the toolshed bangs. It's dark, and I don't feel like going outside to latch the door shut. There are probably bears lurking out there. I can't figure out how to do some things with this computer. If Kathleen were here, my problems would disappear.
I'm lonely.
But that's beside the point. I have work to do, so I should just do it.
More coffee, and on to Act Three.
Chapter 12
I didn't want anything more to do with Paul Everson after that night, but it was impossible to avoid him once I entered public life. It wasn't worth the effort to return his checks when he contributed to my campaigns. It wasn't worth the rumors that might start if I spurned his handshake when we met at a political or charitable function. If Cavanaugh was right and everyone is guilty, then Everson was just more so. Or not even that—I was just more aware of his guilt. I knew that the hand I shook had blood on it; everyone else's sins were still hidden from me.
So we chatted politely at the fund raiser or the cocktail party. He asked after Liz, and I asked after his latest wife. He congratulated me on my latest success and reminded me that if there was ever anything he could do... But there never was; I made sure of that. I didn't want the scales to be balanced because that would somehow make me as guilty as he was.
But now things were different.
I didn't need Everson's money, but I figured I needed some information, and he was the best source in the world for information. One of the secrets of his success, he told people, was that he knew more than anyone else. If he was thinking about buying a company that made doorknobs, he would find out everything about the company: not just how many doorknobs it was going to sell but who its best employees were, how its president treated his mistress, what the food in its cafeteria was like. And somehow out of this morass of facts he would find what he needed to make the right decision.
Not all his information could have been obtained legally; that was the kind of accusation his enemies were forever making, at least. But the charges never stuck. He was good at what he did; I knew that from personal experience.
So I figured, if there was ever a time when I could use his help, this was it. I didn't have the luxury of worrying about whether this would balance the scales. I had to know what was going on.
When I arrived at my office the next morning, I had Mrs. Sullivan call Everson. He was out of the country, but his staff promised he would call back as soon as possible. Of course, that turned out to be when I was on the Senate floor. I never did catch up to him that day, and by the time I returned to my apartment I was having second thoughts. Even if Everson could come up with the answers I was looking for, what could I do with them? They would either set my mind at rest or confirm my worst fears, but they wouldn't give me a course of action. I had just called him because it was something to do, and I didn't want to feel helpless.
The next day I came back from a meeting, and the people in the office looked a little stirred up. "Paul Everson's here," Mrs. Sullivan said.
I wasn't listening closely, and I didn't understand. "I'll pick it up in my office," I said.
She shook her head. "He's in your office," she said. "I thought it'd be all right—" She stopped, uncertain, seeing my own uncertainty. Even in a Senate office Paul Everson was a big deal.
"That's great, Mrs. Sullivan," I said. "Exactly the right thing to do." I looked at the card that had my schedule for the day printed on it. I gave her quick instructions about shifting my appointments around, and I went inside.
Everson was standing in front of the bookcase next to my desk, examining the shelves full of Massachusetts knick-knacks people had given me over the years. He turned when he heard me enter. "Jim," he said. "Your secretary—"
"Of course. How are you doing, Paul?" I went over and shook his bloodstained hand.
No blood to be seen, actually. He was perfectly groomed as usual. The suit was tailor-made; the white shirt was starched; its cuffs were monogrammed. He wasn't exactly handsome—the nose was too thin, perhaps, the face too broad—but he was as good-looking as money and good taste could make him. And he had that aura of power that is sexy in and of itself. No wonder my staff was in a tizzy.
"I'm doing just fine, Jim. Just fine. Admiring your memorabilia."
"People like to give me things. I accept 'em if they're cheap enough."
He nodded. "Plaques, yes. Jaguars, no."
"That's the idea. Have a seat."
We sat in the armchairs in the corner of my office—where Amanda and I had sat for our first meeting. "I got your messages," he said, "but we couldn't seem to connect. I happened to be in the neighborhood, so—"
"You flew in specially," I said. "You don't have to be in Washington unless some committee's subpoenaed you."
Everson laughed. "All right. I apologize. I read the papers, Jim. I know what's going on. And when you called, I figured, after all these years maybe I'll finally be able to give you some help."
"Yes, well, this murder case has been worrying me
just a little."
"I can't imagine why."
I smiled, although I didn't really feel like it. "Cavanaugh's been waiting for ten years to get me," I said. "Now he has his chance."
"You don't have an alibi," Everson said. "And they have that witness who saw someone that looked like you going into the building. And there's your... interesting relationship with the victim."
"Yes," I agreed. No need to go further into the relationship.
"But Cavanaugh won't do anything," Everson said. "Not unless Finn tells him to. And Finn won't. He'd be crucified if they trumped up a charge against you."
"Who's to say what's a trumped-up charge?"
"Well, I'm no lawyer, but it sure doesn't look to me as if they have enough yet."
Unless they knew about Jackie Scanlon. So what should I tell Everson? He wanted the truth, obviously. He was so fond of the truth. But like any client, I wanted to tell him only what I thought he needed to know. "Have you heard that the police have some tapes of interviews she did?"
He nodded.
"One of those tapes, I believe, is of my brother."
"Danny."
"That's right. I need to know if the police have that tape or Amanda Taylor's notes of the interview."
He looked at me. Considering how deeply he should probe, I figured. Wondering how much truth he deserved. "What is it that you want me to do, Jim?" he asked finally.
"Anything you can find out about the investigation will help," I said. "But mainly I just need to know about the interview with Danny."
"I see."
"And of course, we can't have anything you do be traced back to the campaign."
"Of course."
He was silent again. This was as awkward as I had feared it would be. I wasn't going to tell him anything more about the interview. He would either help me or he wouldn't. "Do you think you'd be able to, uh, do something like that, Paul?" I asked.
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