Alibi

by Sydney Bauer

  “Good for him,” said Arthur. “And good for me because I will probably stay no more than an hour before leaving you lot to fly our flag. I don’t think I . . .”

  “Sara,” interrupted Nora, now standing at Arthur’s door. “It’s for you.”

  “Thanks, Nora, but if it’s another disgruntled worker, tell them I will sort through my messages and call them back when I have had a chance to . . .”

  “No, my dear. It’s far more serious than that, I’m afraid. This young man says he is about to be arrested for murder—and he needs to talk to you now.”

  30

  The Deane University School of Law library was an institution in itself. Founded in the late 1800s, it had opened its door with an impressive 1000 volumes, expanding its catalogue over two centuries to now boast a collection of 1.5 million books and manuscripts, 500,000 volume-equivalents on microform, and an impressive multimillion-dollar art collection to boot. It provided a warm, historically rich but ordered atmosphere in which to learn—and a ten-million-dollar-plus annual budget to maintain its status as one of the most up-to-date and respected places for academic legal research on the planet.

  It also boasted a staff of over 100 personnel, all of whom James Matheson could have sworn were right this moment either peering at him, gossiping about him, or shaking their heads behind tall, book-laden petitions as they contemplated the walking, talking disappointment, tragedy, murder suspect, that was former “it” kid James Matheson. The grapevine had done its work. Everybody who was anybody, and even those who weren’t, had heard the latest—that Matheson had been questioned by Boston homicide detectives in relation to the murder of corporate heir Jessica Nagoshi. They had also heard that barely hours ago the same said detectives met with Matheson’s two best friends—peers they had no doubt would defend the popular Matheson to the death, unless (perhaps) it was in their best interest to do otherwise.

  That was the thing about the law, thought James as he turned off his cell and took a seat at a poorly lit cubicle behind a shelving unit at the back of the main library hall. It was impartial and just, to the point of being heartless and mercenary.

  It had been her idea to keep it quiet. She had told him her father, while rational and fair, would have frowned upon any distraction from her studies and her obligations as “Nagoshi chief executive in training.” Her father, she had said, was a generous and understanding man, but he was also set on assuring his two children maintain focus on their destinies. He had had a plan for her and it was, at least according to Jessica, “good and true.” But there were times when James wondered if such plans were not simply guises of control—and if Jessica, so completely unaware of the mesmerizing effect she had on people, would fall victim to such subtle domination without even realizing she was slipping into a trap. At the very least last night’s drinking fest with his two best friends had been cathartic, but he could still feel the weight of the blame about him, and knew there were many hurdles to jump before people would see him again as the man he was destined to be.

  “James.”

  He heard the voice before he saw her. Despite the fact she was two feet away and must have squeezed between two book docking trays to approach him from the narrow corner aisle. It was Jessica’s friend Meredith Wentworth, the one who was with her at the Lincoln that night.

  “Meredith,” he said, managing a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. I was absorbed in . . . ah . . .” He looked at the text in front of him, having no idea what it was about.

  “Alternative Dispute Resolution,” she read from the spine, coming to his rescue. “Enough to put anyone to sleep.”

  “I guess,” he said, after which there was a long and awkward pause.

  “Ah, listen, James,” Meredith went on, hugging her own heavy texts to her chest, “I was just wondering if you . . . I mean, I didn’t know if you were . . .”

  “What is it, Meredith?” said James, bracing himself for someone to finally ask him the question he knew everyone was bursting to ask.

  “I was wondering if you were going to the Halloween Ball tomorrow night,” she said at last. “And if you were, if you could maybe use some company, that is if you were planning to go, of course, and if you haven’t already asked somebody else, and wouldn’t mind if I . . .”

  “Meredith,” he said, realizing what this kind young girl was doing and feeling more grateful than ever. She was making a statement. As one of Jess’s best friends. She wanted the world to know that James Matheson was innocent and that her closest friend, now cold in her grave, would have wanted her to stand by him, no matter what.

  “I . . .” he began. “I would be honored to take you, Meredith. I mean, I kind of ditched the idea of going considering . . .”

  “There is nothing to consider, James. I could sense how happy Jess was before she . . . You were good for her, James. You made her feel alive.” And then she reached out to place her smooth, pale-skinned hand on his shoulder. “You never know, we might even enjoy ourselves.”

  “You think?” he asked, the grief now etched on his face.

  “Well,” she said, her own brow furrowing in sorrow. “I suppose we could try.”

  And James nodded. “Are you sure?” he asked at last. “Sure.” She nodded with the sweetest of smiles.

  “Well, thanks, Meredith,” he said.

  And she shook her head. “Nothing to thank me for.”

  “Yes, there is, Meredith,” he said, raising his own hand to his shoulder to squeeze hers in a gesture of pure gratitude. “More than you know.”

  31

  “Peanut Butter the Jellyfish,” Joe Mannix heard his fellow detective say. There was no mistaking it, as ludicrous as it may have sounded. But he knew he was meant to ask the question, and so . . . he did.

  “What was that, Frank?” he said, sticking to the “routine.”

  “Peanut Butter the Jellyfish,” said McKay, pointing at the small, orange clown fish in the New England Aquarium’s Tropical Gallery. “That’s where the concept of Finding Nemo came from. At least that’s what some pissed-off dentist from Newark claims. The guy filed a suit against Disney and Pixar Animation claiming he wrote a story called Peanut Butter the Jellyfish in the nineties and pitched it to Disney who basically told him they weren’t interested.

  “Seven years later he takes his kids to the flicks to see what he claims is his story up there on the big screen, dentist character and all, except the big screen version turns New York into Sydney and Nemo into a clown fish as opposed to a jellyfish named . . .

  “Peanut Butter,” finished Joe.

  “Exactly,” nodded Frank. “Anyways, before this dentist submitted his story, Disney had him sign a two-page waiver that said he would only be entitled to $500 if he were to claim the company used his material without permission. Now the dentist has asked the court to void the waiver and give him a portion of the $340 million the movie made at the box office.” Frank shook his head. “Just goes to show, Chief,” he went on. “Not even little guys like Nemo here are above the law.”

  “Especially if their names used to be Peanut Butter and Jelly.”

  “Not Peanut Butter and Jelly, Chief. Just Peanut Butter who was a . . .”

  “Jellyfish,” said Joe. “I got it.”

  It had just gone noon. The air was thick and moist and heavy and the dimly lit circular corridors inside the historical aquarium were crowded with excited kids on field trips, flustered teachers trying to contain them, and determined tourists jostling their way to the front of the glass in an attempt to get the best shot possible of the nine foot great white that circled the tank like an angry submarine.

  “Where’s Jones?” asked Joe.

  “He’ll be here,” said Frank.

  “We need him, Frank. We need somebody to shed some light on exactly what was or wasn’t going on between Matheson and the Nagoshi girl. Katz is breathing down my neck big time—and God knows what new bullshit he is concocting with the press while we are sitting on our
asses here in the magical land of Atlantis.” Joe was referring to this morning’s article on the Nagoshi automobile initiative and the suggestion that a suspect in the Jessica Nagoshi case would soon be in custody. The impatient ADA was using public opinion to put pressure on Mannix to make an arrest, and while normally he wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass what the arrogant attorney did or didn’t say, he had to admit that this time, he was feeling it.

  “The Rousseau girl is up on some goddamned Swiss Alp and we’ll be lucky to find her before the weekend, which will make it two whole days since I told Nagoshi we would . . .”

  “Wait,” interrupted Frank. “Here he comes. See down by the entrance near the penguin exhibit. It looks like he has somebody with him. In fact,” said Frank, squinting into the distance as if to make sure his eyes were not playing tricks on him. “It looks like . . .”

  “Sara,” said Joe.

  “Hi, Joe,” said Sara, walking toward them, no doubt reading the surprise on both their faces.

  “Sara, what are you . . . ?” Mannix began.

  “Lieutenant, Detective,” said the soapbox kid, shaking both of their hands with vigor. Jones was now surrounded by school kids in short pants and embroidered shirts and the thought went through Joe’s head that if he had have been dressed like the rest of them he would have been corralled by a teacher before you could say . . .

  “I gather you know Miss Davis,” said Jones, interrupting Joe’s thought. “I have just engaged her as my attorney.”

  “What?” said Frank. “What the hell for, kid? You are not under suspicion. All we wanted was a chat and some clarification of your earlier comments regarding James Matheson. We’re not here to bust your balls, kid. We just want to . . .”

  “I killed Jess Nagoshi,” said the boy at last, leaving an astonished Joe and Frank rendered speechless. “That’s right, Detectives, I am the reason she is dead. It is all my fault.”

  They took a seat by the window at a far corner of the Aquarium’s second level café—Joe, Frank and Sara opting for coffees while a pale-faced Sawyer ordered a super-sized chocolate shake. It was raining, and the wind was forcing the downpour sideways, so that it smacked against the window with visible force, blurring the harbor view beyond and making Joe feel that he too must have looked like a fish in a tank to the jostling Friday afternoon pedestrians beyond.

  Sara made it clear that she had had little time to confer with her client and that while she was willing to let him tell his story to the two detectives, she maintained the right to terminate this voluntary discussion if and when she saw fit. “My client has some information relating to events that may have led to the death of Jessica Nagoshi,” she said. “And I am recommending he provide you with as much information as possible. However, if we reach a point where I feel the direction of questioning leaves my client vulnerable, where he might unwittingly violate his own fifth amendment rights, I shall recommend this interview be terminated immediately. In other words,” said Sara, looking directly at Joe, “I’ve told Sawyer you can be trusted, Joe. He wants to help. And I know you won’t take advantage of that.”

  Joe picked up his blue paper cup, an animated smiling shark now peeking between his wide, dark fingers. He sipped his coffee slowly, before replacing the cup on the table and facing Sara. “I understand your position, Sara, but the kid just told us he is guilty of murder. He’s lucky we didn’t cuff him right then and there in front of fifty elementary school kids and all manner of aquatic life beyond.

  “So let me make myself clear. I will sit and listen and ask what I need to ask, but the minute I feel young Jones here is taking advantage of our generosity I will arrest the kid on suspicion of murder and drag him down to HQ before he has a chance to make a dent in his shake.”

  Sara was a friend and Joe didn’t want to sound harsh, but this was a murder investigation, and no ordinary one at that. If this kid had anything to do with Jessica Nagoshi’s death, he was gonna pay for it, friendly counsel or not. “So, here’s your chance, kid,” he said, turning to Sawyer. “Tell us everything you know and we’ll do our best to protect you. But the minute I feel you’re taking the piss I’ll cut you down. You got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jones, his complexion whitening by the minute. “And if it’s okay with you, I’ll start with China.”

  Sawyer Jones first noticed Jessica Nagoshi way back in November last year. She was second year pre-law, just like him, but their paths had not crossed to any great degree until they both opted to take on a subject known as international jurisprudence. It didn’t take long for Sawyer to work out who she was—multinational heiress, corporate royalty—and while Sawyer had only just assumed the senior position of Solidarity Global Youth Director, he saw an opportunity to make his mark as leader of the group by taking the bold step of recruiting the daughter of the “enemy” as a dedicated one of their own.

  “I cornered her after class one day,” he said, looking across the table at a now transfixed Joe and Frank. “I was straight up, asked her if she wanted to have a coffee, learn more about the group. I promised her I had no sinister motives, but was interested in getting her perspective on SG’s initiatives, given her upbringing as part of a corporate dynasty.

  “At first she just looked at me,” said Sawyer, now turning his pink plastic straw around the bubbly froth that sat on the top of his chocolate shake like milky spun cotton. “Her face a complete blank. But then she smiled and said one word—‘sure’—as if hooking up with me to learn more about SG was like accepting an invite to a girls’ night out.

  “Anyway,” he said moving on. “We had coffee the next morning. She said she was interested. She said she had great respect for what we were doing and shared her father’s philosophy on workers’ rights. She said her father had never compromised on his principles. She said he had rejected suggestions to downgrade the working conditions of indigenous workers in satellite plants, despite promises of increased output and profitability, because he was a man of integrity who was raised on the philosophies of veracity and truth.

  “And eventually she said she thought it would be more than appropriate for her to become a member of SG and pulled out her wallet to pay the joining fee right there and then.” Sawyer closed his eyes, feeling the momentary need to block out his surroundings, as if ashamed of what he had to say next, but knowing it had to be said.

  “And that was when it started,” he said, opening his eyes once again, “when I first dragged her in. That was when I took her hand and she slipped one slender foot over the edge of her grave—the other one soon to follow—as some time next summer she came up with her own ‘brilliant idea.’ ”

  Sawyer then explained how late last August Jessica called him from her home in New York, saying she wanted to help SG by providing a “prototype” for responsible employment practices. He told them how Jessica had elaborated on her father’s latest initiative—a new business foray into China where the booming industrial power would play host to Nagoshi Inc.’s first automobile plant—a plant built on the principles of “productivity by fairness and egalitarianism.”

  “She was very excited about it,” he said. “And so was I. She wanted to make her father’s company—her company—a benchmark for others to follow and was willing to open up its operations to scrutiny of the highest order.”

  “So what did that mean?” asked Joe. “And how does this have any bearing on . . .”

  Sawyer could see the stress in the tired-looking lieutenant’s eyes and reminded himself that, despite the desire to cut to the chase, this was a discussion best conducted slowly, calmly, carefully. He would get to his point, he knew. But not until he had laid the groundwork for what he had to propose.

  “Please, Lieutenant Mannix,” said Sawyer. “I need to tell this my way. I promise it will all make sense eventually. Just allow me to . . .”

  “Give him some space, Joe,” interrupted Sara.

  And Joe nodded, allowing Sawyer to go on.

  “First up,” he
said, after taking a long, slow drink of his shake, “you have to understand that China is the key to all of this. The great Asian expanse is currently the largest maker of toys, clothing and consumer electronics in the world, and swiftly moving up the ladder in car production, computer manufacturing, biotechnology, aerospace, telecommunications and other sectors thanks to low-cost, high-tech factories.

  “China is also where the world is investing. In 2004, for instance, the city of Shanghai alone attracted over $12 billion in direct foreign investment, roughly the same amount as all of Indonesia and Mexico put together. It is widely acknowledged that China’s huge population is one of the greatest natural resources on the planet. Largely because hundreds of millions of peasants have migrated from rural to urban areas to find work, providing an unlimited, low-wage workforce to power China’s economy—and that of its foreign investors.

  “So where does Nagoshi come into all this?” Sawyer asked rhetorically, now aware he had to bring the conversation back on track. “You probably read in this morning’s paper that the establishment of Nagoshi Inc.’s first automobile production plant in China is being hailed as a multibillion-dollar win/win for the consumer goods multinational, and the Tribune is not far wrong.

  “Nagoshi Inc. has been smart enough to establish a plant in a place where wages are as low as twenty-five cents an hour, where lack of regulation allows companies to drop this pitiful wage even further, and where appearances can easily be manipulated by clever local foremen who swear by equality but are rewarded financially for practicing exploitation.”

  “Are you saying John Nagoshi is not the saint his daughter made him out to be?” asked Frank. “That his Chinese workers are doing their daily grind for little more than a piss in a pot?”