by Sydney Bauer
‘I think we have no choice. Unfortunately, the time to approach anyone subtly has passed.’
‘Then let me be the one to do it,’ suggested Sara.
David saw Nora shoot him a look. ‘No, Sara. I can handle it,’ he said.
‘I am sure you can, but no matter how hard you try, you are not going to come across as a woman who is sensitive to her fears. We got on well that afternoon at her house, David, we had a natural rapport. I can do it all from here,’ she insisted. ‘I can call her, feel her out, see if she wants to meet for a coffee.’
Nora was still giving him the eye.
‘Okay,’ he consented, his eyes falling away from his obviously displeased PA. ‘But let’s start with a phone call – nothing more – and we’ll discuss how it should play out from there.’
‘Okay,’ said Sara. ‘Done.’ And in that moment David loved her more than ever.
‘So what don’t we know?’ Arthur asked, once again keeping them focused.
‘Well, there is the unexplainable link to the Asian Boyz – but Joe and Frank are working on that.’ David took a breath. ‘And we still don’t know what that brochure means – the one Stephanie sent me for the Chatham Bars Inn.’
‘Maybe one of us should head down there,’ suggested Sara.
‘Maybe,’ agreed Arthur. ‘But it would be best if we had an idea of what we are looking for before we did. We don’t have the time to go running around blind.’
‘Then I shall call the Chatham Bars Inn,’ suggested Nora. ‘I shall ask if a Logan or Nagol or Golan is known to them. And if there is a link . . . well, I would be happy make the trip south to investigate.’
‘Nora . . .’ began Sara through the speaker.
‘I know what you are thinking, dear, but I would really like the opportunity to make amends.’
‘There are no “amends” to make,’ David insisted, moving towards his trusted secretary and taking her hand. ‘You are half the reason we have made such headway in this case.’
‘I am not sure Ms McCall would agree,’ Nora said, her green eyes once again filled with regret.
‘David’s right,’ said Arthur. ‘You’ve been a terrific help as always, Nora. And we need you here, holding the fort while we all prepare for trial. No matter how much we think we know, this isn’t going to be easy.’ His eyes shot across to David.
‘I know,’ David agreed. ‘But even the smartest of criminals have their weak point, Arthur – including sociopathic geniuses like Jeffrey Logan. And besides,’ he said, turning to meet his mentor’s eye, ‘something tells me there is one thing that gives me a distinct advantage.’
‘And what is that, son?’ asked Arthur.
‘Logan is the typical bully. He has the habit of carefully picking his victims – preying on women and children and those without the resources to fight the bastard back. But I am not afraid of him, Arthur. In fact, the prospect of facing off against him, the idea of finally nailing the monster who forced his son to kill his own mother with a rifle powerful enough to split her in two is . . . well,’ he paused, ‘. . . in all honesty, he can bring it on.’
55
He did not flinch when he said it. He did not hesitate or pause or suggest by the tone of his voice that what he was proposing was anything out of the ordinary. And Amanda Carmichael knew she should be celebrating; she understood that what Jeffrey Logan was offering would consolidate her victory. But she had to admit that, despite the considerable benefits, Logan’s suggestion had made her skin crawl, and if she wasn’t the career driven prosecutor that she was, she might have even described his offer as repulsive.
‘Forgive me for being surprised, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I am appreciative, of course, and I understand your motives are in the best interests of your children.’
‘Of course.’
‘But – and I have to ask this – I do not want to go down this path if your offer is, how shall I put it . . . a knee-jerk reaction to your children’s decision to seek independent counsel?’
‘Knee jerk?’ he said with amusement. ‘If there is one thing I am not, Miss Carmichael, it is a person prone to acting on impulse.’ Amanda did not doubt it; she had the feeling every move this man made was calculated right down to the tiniest detail, his latest proposal included.
‘You understand that your children’s attorneys will need to be informed of your decision. I have a legal obligation to provide them with a list of . . .’
‘Of course,’ said Logan again, with the same casual assurance.
‘And we will need some time to prepare.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ he said.
A pause.
‘Well,’ she said, in an attempt to stem the awkwardness, ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she added, starting to rise from her desk, ‘over the next few days, to set up some appointments.’
Jeffrey Logan smiled. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he said, as he extended his hand to shake hers.
She extended hers in return, and as Jeffrey Logan held on to her palm for that touch too long, she had to admit that just for the briefest of seconds, she sensed that she was dealing with the devil.
Deirdre McCall was missing. Joe got the call just after lunch. After apologising for not calling earlier, Detective Michael Lopez from the LVPD explained that the patient was last seen in her hospital room at about 6pm yesterday evening but that he was only informed of her MIA status after the hospital’s security staff had failed to find the woman on the premises and had confirmed with a Miss Tracey Scabo that she had not returned to her apartment.
‘We went to her place a couple of hours ago,’ he told Joe. ‘It was tidy but empty. The bed hadn’t been slept in, there was no coffee in the pot. My guess is the woman has bailed – probably scared those Asian Boyz who popped her a few weeks ago might come back to finish the job.’
And Joe sensed that was exactly what Deirdre McCall was fearing.
‘You got anything else you wanna tell me that might help with my investigations, Lieutenant?’ asked Lopez, obviously curious as to why Joe had been less than forthcoming in regards to his interest in a sixty-something dancing teacher who lived on the other side of the country.
‘We believe we know someone who might have a bone to pick with her.’
‘Anyone I know?’ asked Lopez.
Joe almost laughed at the irony. ‘Let’s just say the person in question is a man of many talents.’
Lopez said nothing, obviously sensing that Joe would tell him more if he could. ‘I don’t mean to push, Lieutenant, but this woman was shot on my watch.’
‘I know, Lopez, and I apologise for the cloak-and-dagger stuff, but if you could keep me posted on your efforts to find her, I promise I will fill you in as soon as I am able.’
Lopez read between the lines. ‘You got a live one?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Would it help if I pulled some of the Asian Boyz in for questioning? I don’t have anything concrete on them but I am sure our guys from narcotics could find something to hold them, at least for a day or two.’
‘That would be a huge help,’ said a grateful Joe.
‘All right then,’ said Lopez.
‘Thanks, Detective,’ replied Joe.
‘Don’t mention it. You know what they say, one less asshole on the street is . . .’
‘. . . one less asshole on the street,’ finished Joe. ‘Keep in touch, Lopez.’
‘Will do.’
‘I’m sorry, David,’ said Sara, resting her head against his shoulder. It was late and the air in the room was stagnant, despite the fact that David had opened every window in their apartment to try to give Sara a little relief from the heat.
‘First McCall’s disappearance,’ she said, referring to Joe’s call to inform them of Lopez’s communication late this afternoon, ‘and now Katherine. She just didn’t want to talk to me. It was so awkward. When we first met I felt like we made some sort of connection, but this afternoon it was like she could not hang up
the phone fast enough.’
David understood how Sara was feeling. For days now he had been hoping Deirdre McCall would wake up so that she might provide that desperately needed link between her son Jason and his new identity as Jeffrey Logan – but he never guessed his wish would be granted and then stolen away from him almost immediately, when the obviously terrified woman came out of her coma and literally ran for her life.
Katherine de Castro’s dismissal of Sara was a second blow. Joe had been right. While de Castro had made moves to come forward with whatever she knew, or at the very least suspected, her fear had got the better of her also. She had become yet another victim of Jeffrey Logan’s despotism – and another potential ‘life line’ who had fallen through the cracks.
‘It’s not your fault that de Castro dismissed you, Sara,’ said David, pulling her a little closer. ‘I think part of her wants to reach out, but she is just too scared.’
‘She’s petrified,’ returned Sara.
He felt her nuzzle in to him just that little bit more.
‘I’m sorry, Sara,’ he said, ‘. . . about putting you in this situation, only weeks before the baby is due.’
‘And I am sorry for overreacting,’ she said, referring to her hanging up on him and their subsequent argument last night. ‘It is just that Logan has a way of getting to me – with what he said about Carmichael and my pregnancy and . . .’
Last night Sara had come clean to David about her discussion with Logan at Quincy Marketplace all those weeks ago. And David had finally told her about Logan’s ‘counter-attack’ on his own sensibilities – his claiming David had impregnated Sara long before she was ready to put her career on the backburner.
‘And you were being so distant,’ Sara went on. ‘I was worried you thought I was not strong enough to cope.’
‘You are strong enough for both of us,’ he said.
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far.’ She smiled as she held his hand on her stomach. ‘But we have definitely got your back.’
They sat in silence for a while, taking comfort in one another’s embrace.
‘We are going to run out of time,’ David said after a while, knowing that jury selection would begin next week and his priority at that stage would be making sure they secured the best panel of twelve possible.
‘I know,’ she said.
But he did not reply.
‘I want to stand up for Chelsea,’ she said then.
David turned towards her. ‘No, Sara. No way.’
‘No, listen to me, David. It makes sense that the children have some sort of independent counsel. I went to see Doctor Taylor this afternoon and she said my blood pressure was back to normal and that all was looking fine. She now thinks the wait could be longer than we first expected, and that three weeks could well run into four.’
But David was still shaking his head.
‘You know what I’m like, David,’ she went on. ‘Sitting at home during the trial will be way more stressful for me than being involved in it. If Doctor Taylor is right, I could be there for all of the prosecution’s case, and some of ours as well. You know I can be of help. Just my presence in the courtroom – a pregnant woman holding Chelsea’s hand – will show the jury that we truly believe these kids can be trusted.’
He looked at her.
‘Besides,’ she said, perhaps sensing that in the very least she had his ear. ‘I irritate her.’
‘You irritate who?’
‘Amanda Carmichael. I unnerve her simply because I have what she does not.’
‘I think falling pregnant is the last thing on that ambitious woman’s mind, Sara.’
‘I am not talking about the baby, silly,’ she said. ‘I am talking about you.’
David was already shaking his head. ‘The only thing that woman wants to do it kick my ass.’
‘And the only thing I want to do is kick hers back.’
They could not help but smile at each other.
‘I’m not saying yes,’ David said then, wrapping his arms around her.
‘But you are saying maybe,’ Sara replied, before lifting her chin to kiss him. ‘And that is good enough for now, Mr Cavanaugh – that is good enough for now.’
56
In the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, jurors are empanelled according to a process known as the One Day/One Trial system. First trialled in Middlesex County in 1980, the system expanded the number of those eligible to sit for jury duty by eliminating many of the usual exemptions. It was also designed to make jury service less cumbersome by promising those selected that they would either serve one day or, if the proceedings were likely to run over that one day – one trial only. Prospective jurors are selected at random from the lists of residents supplied annually to the Office of Jury Commissioner by each of the 351 cities and towns within Massachusetts. In the case of the Logan trial, an unusually high 400 summonses were sent out before a final list of 150 were requested to attend the Suffolk County Superior Court for the meticulous selection process. That process, which began in the massive, high-ceilinged jury pool room before moving to a specified courtroom, would eventually see the large group reduced to sixteen, twelve of whom (the other four would eventually be named as alternates) would go on to decide the fate of the two defendants.
It was a long, generally exhausting process, during which both the Commonwealth and the defence would call on specialists to help them use their sixteen peremptory strikes (one for each potential juror) to maximum effect. And in David’s case that expert came in the form of the brightly dressed Phyllis Vecchio, a large, garrulous woman with a mouth like a sewer and a mind as sharp as a tack.
‘You’re fucked,’ said Phyllis, just as the judge called for the luncheon adjournment and she and David followed the group of sixty remaining potential jurors now moving excitedly from the courtroom. Arthur had gone back to the office to return some calls while David and Phyll planned to do some more brainstorming over lunch.
‘Jesus, Phyll,’ said David, whispering in the woman’s ear. ‘Selection has barely started. How can we be fucked already?’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Phyll with a roll of her eyes. ‘Have you learned nothing from my years of unparalleled advice?’ And despite her undeniable self-confidence, David knew Phyll’s tongue was firmly in her cheek.
‘Look at the . . .’ she began, but then held that thought as they reached the elevators and, taking note of the small placard near the now opening doors which reminded all that cases should not be discussed inside the confined space of an elevator, remained silent until they reached the ground floor.
‘Look at the high ratio of women to men,’ Phyll went on, her fuchsia stilettos clicking on the tiled lobby floor. ‘Look at their ages, their dress code, the huge fucking stars in their bright fucking eyes. That’s the Doctor Jeff fan club right there, David,’ she said, as they hit the front doors and moved outside into the sunshine. ‘You saw the looks on their faces this morning. These woman are greasing their pants to get on this jury for one reason and one reason only – they want to get close to their favourite shrink, the same George Clooney lookalike they dream about fucking every night after they put their children into bed and their slob of a husband lies snoring like a hippo beside them.’
And, at least on this point, David knew she was right.
‘The thing is, David,’ Phyll continued, directing him towards a café at the bottom of the steps that led up to Pemberton Square, ‘these women are going to believe everything the TV star tells them. If he says his wife was the devil incarnate then they are going to swallow it whole.’
‘But we’ve already discussed this, Phyll. I have no intention of calling Logan and there is no way he will ruin his reputation as the concerned father by appearing as a witness for the prosecution. So Logan doesn’t get a voice in this trial – at least not until I am ready to destroy him.’
Late last week David and Arthur had brought Phyll into their confidence – a necessity considering her role
in the jury selection process. And given they trusted her 100 per cent, and given her mind worked as well as that of any lawyer David had ever come across, they knew she could also be an asset in their plans for the days that followed.
‘Bullshit Logan has no voice in this trial,’ said Phyll. ‘He doesn’t need a courtroom to express his views, David. He is a national hero, for fuck’s sake. He can open his trap any time he likes and the masses will walk into it willingly with sweet smiles of surrender on their perfectly made-up lips.’
‘He will be sitting on our side of the room, behind his children,’ countered David.
‘And you think that will be enough for the jury to want to acquit them?’ Phyll was shaking her head as they took a seat in a sunny corner of the busy café.
‘Look at me, David, and read my lips: You are going to go after him – maybe not at first but when you get your chance you are going straight for the charismatic counsellor’s jugular. Those women are going to hate you – they are going to think you are launching an attack on Saint Jeff simply because you have no other way of defending your clients.’
Phyll signalled for the waitress who took David’s order of a club sandwich and Phyll’s request for a mega burger with the lot, before taking a breath and moving on.
‘From what you tell me, that bastard is one smart fucker and as soon as you go on the attack, he will play the poor, distressed father who is caught between a rock and a hard place. Don’t forget he confessed to the murder in the first place, so the entire nation believes he will do everything to help his kids.’
‘He wants them incarcerated,’ said David.
‘Sure, so all he has to do is insinuate to his friends in the media that he believes his kids need help – lots and lots of long-term help in the appropriate psychiatric institution. No,’ she said then as she tapped her long pink acrylic nails on the red formica table, ‘. . . we need men, David, young men who have never watched The Doctor Jeff Show in their lives and so couldn’t give a flying fuck what the hallowed psychonut says.’
‘But the women will have more sympathy for the children.’ It was David’s turn to shake his head. ‘By nature they tend towards leniency.’