by Sydney Bauer
‘Stephanie didn’t collect the gun in person,’ said Joe, rendering all in the room speechless. ‘You remember Calvin Garretson claimed there was no video surveillance tape of Stephanie picking up the rifle because their camera was out that day? Well, when Gerald Garretson finally had some technicians take a look at their video system, and when the technicians assured him there was never anything wrong with it to begin with, he took his son to task on the whole issue over this last weekend – which is when the kid finally came clean.’
Joe went on to explain how Calvin Garretson had told his father that Stephanie Tyler had emailed and offered to pay him $5000 cash if Calvin agreed to overlook his professional obligation to do the required paperwork in person – and if he agreed to erase the surveillance tape on the day he would list as the purchase date, and drive the rifle down to Massachusetts personally. And Garretson junior, whose dad pays him little more than pocket money for working in the family business, barely hesitated before agreeing to blank the tape, fudge the paperwork and deliver the gun to Boston, dropping it at a Somerville post office where an envelope containing a key to a private security box which held the cash was waiting for him just as ‘Stephanie’ had said.
‘That’s illegal in how many ways,’ said Sara.
Joe nodded. ‘And if we were in a situation where we could go public with all of this, Garretson would most likely be paying for his mistake with the cancellation of his father’s gun trading licence – but the dad is an okay guy and . . . well, first things first . . .’
David sat forward on the edge of his seat, nodding for Joe to go on.
‘When Calvin Garretson finally told his father exactly what he had done, an embarrassed Garretson senior, determined to make amends by finding out exactly what had gone down before placing his call to the police, undertook some further investigation as to the origins of the rifle.
‘It turns out that the Garretsons had only had this specific gun, sold to them by a private owner, for a few days when they received Stephanie’s email asking for a rifle that fit the particular Mark V’s description perfectly – right down to the Claro walnut, raised comb, Monte Carlo stock, the rosewood forend tip and pistol grip cap and so forth.
‘And so Garretson thought all his Christmases had come at once – because he had bought the gun for a song one week and sold it at a premium price the next. It was almost as if the original owner and the new one had been thrown together by fate, like the gun was destined to remain in the possession of someone who appreciated it – or, in this case . . .’
‘Its previous owner who had no intention of letting it go in the first place,’ finished David.
Joe nodded, before taking a breath to go on. ‘Anyway, Garretson explained how he went back to check the paperwork on the original seller who had listed his place of residence as a house in Waterbury, Vermont. And in an effort to get as much information as possible, Garretson put in a call to his brother – a cop from Montpelier, who did a check on the seller’s address.’
‘Let me guess,’ said David. ‘The address was a fake.’
‘Not exactly – it was the location of a Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream factory in Waterbury, VT.’
‘Jesus,’ said David, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘This gun was protected by a maze of smoke and mirrors. The seller used Garretson to launder it so that any connection to him would be erased.’
‘Exactly,’ said Mannix. ‘And believe it or not, there’s more.’
‘Garretson also told me the Waterbury seller had given his name as James Golan – a name I immediately ran through the Vermont DMV only to come up blank. I even got Garretson to ask his brother to run the guy’s name through the local police wires while I did a nationwide search. But once again we came up with nothing – zero, nada, zip.’
‘So you hit a brick wall,’ said Sara. ‘Which is not surprising given the name Golan is probably as false as his address and . . .’
‘Yes to the alias, but no to the brick wall,’ said Joe, the slightest of smiles starting to creep across his face. ‘In fact, while I was talking to Garretson I was doodling the name Golan on a pad, and it sort of triggered a hunch which prompted me to call Rigotti and get him to ring Blackmore one more time. I wanted him to confirm the spelling of Nagle’s name. I knew it was a long shot but . . .’
Joe stopped, before looking at David as if he wanted him to see it before it was actually ‘said’. And then David met his eye and . . . it came to him, just like that – the almost invisible thread that finally connected it all.
‘Oh my God,’ said David.
Joe nodded.
‘What?’ asked Sara. ‘What is it, David – what the hell does the spelling have to do with connecting Logan to any of this?’
‘Logan is a master manipulator,’ answered a now excited David. ‘He plays games with people’s minds, their emotions, their perceptions. And the name Golan, the name Nagle, it is almost like he is challenging us, baiting us to catch him out.’
But the look on Sara’s face told him she was still confused.
‘We got the Nagle wrong,’ he said, glancing at Joe before turning in his seat to face her. ‘We assumed it was spelt N.A.G.L.E, but it wasn’t, was it, Joe?’ He swivelled back to Joe. ‘It was N.A.G.O.L.
‘The Golan is an anagram,’ he went on, turning his eyes back to Sara. ‘And the Nagol, if you spell it backwards . . .’
‘Oh my God,’ she said at last.
‘David was right,’ said Arthur.
Joe nodded. ‘The gun belonged to Logan all along.’
44
The first shock was bad enough.
Amanda Carmichael had been waiting for Jeffrey Logan to make the decision on his children’s legal representation for almost two months. And while her overactive mind had anticipated some high-powered names such as Gloria Shapiro, a high-profile criminal defence attorney who had at least thirty successful murder trials under her belt, or Baker O’Reilly, an attorney who had a penchant for defending the rich, or Tucker Gates, a beast of a man who practically bullied juries into finding his clients ‘not guilty’, the fact that she was now presented with the man before her was quite surprise enough.
But the revelation that the elderly Charles Harrison, from Tony Bishop’s blue chip firm of Williams, Coolidge and Harrison – a greying corporate attorney who had not dipped his wick in the lower salaried criminal courts for over two decades – was named as the Logan teenagers’ counsel was just the first surprise to smack ADA Carmichael square between the eyes this morning. For what the deteriorating Harrison had to say was even more unexpected than the fact he was here in the first place . . .
‘The Logan teenagers want to plea,’ he had said, mere seconds before.
Amanda was finding it difficult to recover.
Now, on the surface of it, the fact that J.T. and Chelsea Logan (who had been charged as an accessory before the fact – a charge which, given it assigned her equal responsibility for her mother’s death, would see her, like her brother, facing an equated charge of murder one), were willing to change their plea from ‘not guilty’ to ‘guilty’ might sound like a welcome proposal to the DA’s Office, which could negotiate sentences and claim a victory without all the trouble of having to wrestle the case through court. But from a personal perspective this was the last thing Amanda Carmichael wanted. For almost two months she had been working towards, building on, craving her ‘once in a lifetime’ opportunity on the centre stage. She wasn’t even taking pleasure in the fact that her ex-lover, Bishop, was now standing in the corner of her office looking more dishevelled than ever. And she had always taken such pleasure in her exes’ demise following her exit. But not today. Not today.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Carmichael at last, addressing Harrison, Bishop and Doctor Jeffrey Logan who sat fresh-faced and confident before her. ‘I must say, this is somewhat of a surprise.’
‘It shouldn’t be,’ said Harrison, his voice a grainy croak. ‘We are aware th
e original court date was set for Monday the thirteenth of August and given this deadline is a mere two weeks away, and the unusual . . . ah, defence counsel issues surrounding the case, I would have thought you might have anticipated Doctor Logan’s desire to make certain decisions so that he might get his children help as quickly as possible. The children planned and executed the murder of their mother in an act of desperation, and this needs to be considered in view of both the nature of the charges against them and the sentences applicable to such charges.’
‘So what are you thinking?’ asked Amanda, her eyes darting quickly towards an obviously unhappy Bishop. She had heard around the traps that Logan had ‘adopted’ Tony Bishop as his personal legal advisor in recent weeks, a role she had no doubt Tony abhorred but was professionally obligated to, considering his firm had always made – and continued to make – bucketloads by having the Tyler/Logans as clients.
‘A reduction of the charge against J.T. Logan from murder one to murder two and a similar reduction for Chelsea Logan on the charge of accessory before the fact.’
Jesus, thought Amanda Carmichael, what kind of defence attorney was this idiot? It was true that Chelsea Logan faced the same charge and potential penalty as her brother (that being life without parole), but considering she was not the one who physically ‘pulled off the job’, Amanda figured that in the very least Harrison might be asking for the lesser charge of voluntary manslaughter in the case of the sister. But no, Harrison here was handing Carmichael her victory on a silver platter – which made the ADA even angrier given said ‘victory’ would not be played out in court.
‘I see,’ said a straight-faced Amanda, sure that she had not allowed her thoughts to betray her. ‘And how do your children feel about this, Doctor Logan? I would have thought this discussion would have best been had in their presence.’
While Amanda was certainly not one disposed to unnecessary consideration for the defendants in the cases that she prosecuted, there was something about Harrison’s offer, and Logan’s approval of it, that did not sit easily with the learned ADA. Amanda was all for winning, but she was still her father’s daughter and this one was . . . well . . . she found it quite a stretch that the two young people in question would have agreed to the proposal that their lawyer and only remaining parent were proposing on their behalf.
‘They understand their situation,’ said Logan. ‘And to be honest with you, Ms Carmichael, they are both extremely distraught. I am trying to shelter them as much as possible from the incredibly stressful nature of these legal proceedings. They know what they have done, Ms Carmichael – and first and foremost we need to get them some help.’
Amanda nodded, not missing the colour now rising in Bishop’s cheeks. ‘Let me think about it,’ she said. And if she was expecting an argument from Harrison she didn’t get one – for the lawyer simply nodded at Logan, who subsequently flicked his finger at Tony to follow as they all rose to leave.
‘Thank you, Ms Carmichael,’ said Logan, offering his hand. ‘I am so sorry about . . . well, you know, all of it.’
‘Ah,’ said Carmichael, who in that second found herself highly tempted to say ‘not as fucking sorry as your wife’. ‘I understand, Doctor Logan, and I can assure you I shall give Mr Harrison’s offer my every consideration.’
Five minutes later, her secretary at lunch, her door closed and her phone diverted to voice mail, Amanda Carmichael was up and pacing.
How dare they, she thought. How dare they waltz in here and surrender like a trio of dickless halfwits. How dare they throw in the towel, a mere two weeks before trial, with such gutless inanity and leave me with the ultimate of career anti-climaxes. This isn’t a win, it’s a forfeit. What kind of victory is it when the opposing team is too spineless to even show the hell up and fight?
Worse still, she knew there was no solution. Even if she rejected their offer – an offer she would never have been stupid enough to put on the table if the shoe were on the other foot – Harrison could still advise his clients to plead guilty and pray for the leniency of the court. On the other hand, if the rejection of their offer saw them do another about face and stick with their original plea of not guilty . . . sure she would get her day in court, but beating Harrison would be like taking candy from a baby, like kicking the walking stick out from under a man who already had one foot in the grave and was too damned past it to know which way in the hell was up.
No, she thought. This is not good. In fact, it was worse than not good, it was a massive opportunity missed, a once-in-a-lifetime chance squandered – a bona fide professional disaster. Truth be told, she knew why she was so pissed. (And it was not, she told herself, because of her earlier suspicion that the Logan children were being ‘swayed’.) It was not just the exposure of this high-profile trial that she craved, but a chance to face off against David Cavanaugh – the only man to have refused her, the only one insolent enough to turn her down! The very thought of it made her blood boil, made her want to strike out and slap him straight across the face.
But given the impossibility of that no doubt satisfying retaliation at present, she compensated by kicking off one high-heeled shoe and bent to take off the other so that she might throw it – hard – against the far office wall. And that was when she saw her office door open quickly and the most unexpected of visitors stride determinedly into the room.
‘Jesus, Tony,’ she said with a start. ‘What in the hell . . . ?’
‘I forgot my briefcase,’ he said, his face flushed. And in that moment she sensed that Bishop, whose brown leather case was indeed sitting by the visitors’ chair leg, had left it there on purpose – that he had come back for more than just a piece of luggage, that he had come back to . . .
‘My God,’ she said. ‘You left it here deliberately so that you had an excuse to come back.’ She shook her head. ‘For God’s sake Tony, grow some balls. It’s over between us, has been for months, and I have no intention of . . .’
‘Jesus Christ, Amanda, for once in your life stop assuming that everything in this Goddamned universe revolves solely around you. Logan and Harrison are downstairs waiting for me, which means I don’t have much time, so I need you to shut the fuck up and listen.’
And with that she caught her breath and nodded. She was dumbstruck – for the second time in less than an hour – but this time something told her it was in her best interests to do exactly as Tony had asked.
‘Harrison is an idiot,’ he started. ‘He is tossing this case away and you know it. The man is a senile fool who thinks he can score some points with the media by settling this case for the big TV star and his mentally disturbed kids, but that is a load of crap and I am pretty sure you agree.’
Amanda said nothing, so Tony went on.
‘The kids deserve decent representation, Amanda – for no matter what the hell went down in that Logan “House of Horrors” over two months ago, those two young people have the right to their day in court. Their father is steamrolling them. I can feel it. And no matter which side of the legal fence you sit on, that is not how our system of justice is meant to work.’
Amanda hated him then, for making her pull at her conscience once again.
‘So here’s the thing. I know you are pissed – seriously pissed – at not getting the opportunity to strut your stuff in front of a national, hell, an international, audience. You are good, Amanda – brilliant, in fact. And the fact that this rare opportunity is being snatched from you by a savvy psychologist and his fool of a lawyer is eating you up inside. And don’t try to deny it because I can see it in your eyes.’
Amanda blinked, but did not protest.
‘So what if I told you I have a way for you to take it back – for you to get your day in court and play your best shot at prosecuting one of the most groundbreaking, high-profile cases this Commonwealth has seen in decades? What if I told you I could give you a way out – or “in” for that matter – which, as you and I both know, is exactly what you want.’
&
nbsp; ‘For God’s sake, Tony,’ she said at last. ‘I am not stupid – and I know what you are going to say. You are about to tell me that you can convince Harrison to bail on the plea and take this case to court. But in all honesty, I have no desire to face off against a man who is probably wearing diapers under his $3000 suit. It doesn’t interest me, Tony – and you know, when something fails to interest me I . . .’
But then he was in front of her, and lifting his hand to her mouth so that she could not say another word.
‘Shut up,’ he said, before finally lowering his hand. ‘There is another way.’
She met his eye and slowly but surely got a sense for what her clever ex-lover was proposing. And in that moment she knew, without question, that Tony Bishop could well be her lucky charm, after all.
45
It had not taken long for their high to crash and burn. Logan may be Golan and Nagol and a myriad of other characters for all they knew, but in the end, they had no concrete proof of the connection and, even more importantly, no solid evidence that he was behind his wife’s death.
Worse still, while Garretson’s admission that Stephanie did not pick up the rifle in person certainly helped validate their suspicions, it did not provide any direct link to Logan as the buyer. If anything, they realised the ADA could argue that Stephanie, given her devious and abusive nature, was indeed the one who offered Garretson junior the $5000 to deliver the weapon personally – a tactic Carmichael would say she adopted to keep her ‘birthday purchase’ secret. It was Stephanie’s email address (albeit a new one she had supposedly created on Webmail – explaining why the email would not have been found on Stephanie’s home computer’s Outlook), credit card and FIC linked to the purchase, after all – which meant that in reality Logan’s ‘fingerprints’ were nowhere near the gun purchase, whether they liked it or not.
‘There has to be a way we can tie Logan to these other characters – Golan or Nagol,’ said David.