Alibi

by Sydney Bauer

  “You said we were safe,” said Westinghouse.

  “We were, until James stuffed it up.”

  They sat there then, H. Edgar giving his friend time to digest the seriousness of their situation. Simpson sensed he would have to calm his friend just that notch further before setting him on the desired path and steering him in the right direction.

  “So what the hell do we do?” said Westinghouse at last, opening the door just as H. Edgar knew he would.

  “We stick to our original statements. We testify. We give them what we know, and maybe even . . .”

  “But I don’t know anything, H. Edgar,” said Westinghouse, interrupting a new thought that had begun to rise in Simpson’s superior brain. “Only what you told me, and what James said when he was seriously loaded the other night. None of this makes sense.”

  “Then count yourself lucky, Westinghouse, because ignorance, as they say, is bliss.” And then he saw it again, that look that he glimpsed briefly the other night at the Halloween Ball, that flash of anger that lingered, perhaps a little longer this time, before disappearing again.

  “They’ll say we betrayed him,” said Westinghouse at last.

  “No, no they won’t, Westinghouse. There is no reason why the payment of the reward should be made public. That was also part of the deal.”

  “But they’ll assume . . .”

  “That we struggled with our inner conscience,” interrupted Simpson, “that we spent close to two whole days wondering what the hell was the right thing to do. But in the end we decided that we could not live with ourselves if we did not speak up. A girl is dead, Westinghouse—and, as it turns out, her innocent unborn child as well.”

  “Be careful, H. Edgar,” said Westinghouse, his eyes showing a spark of that now more familiar intensity. “For a moment there it sounded like you actually cared.”

  “Good,” said his red-haired friend. “Because that, Westinghouse, is exactly how I intended it to sound.”

  45

  He was in the “dirty room.” At least that was what the locals here at Nashua Street Suffolk County Jail called it, the room before processing and searching, after which you became “clean.” He was wearing his “arraignment” suit. The newly dry-cleaned, conservative Italian suit that David had collected from his law school locker, still in its plastic, after a summer of interning at Westinghouse, Lloyd and Greene. It still had that lemon-ish smell of the dry-cleaning fluid. A sweet citrus scent that seemed to be leaching from him second by second only to be replaced by the strong stench of antiseptic, which, despite its eye-watering power, could not quite mask the underlying stink of vomit and urine and sweat. He was beginning to realize just how much of a favor Lieutenant Mannix had done him—allowing him to stay that one extra night in Boston PD lockup. For some reason the temporary small gray cell in Roxbury felt closer to the real world, while this whitewashed hellhole spoke of guilt and permanence—even though he knew that if convicted he would be transferred to another, even more horrifying maximum security institution where young men like him were sucked in, chewed upon, swallowed, digested and crapped out the other end until someone else came along and sucked them in all over again.

  Processing was slow. The jail workers were bored and disinterested, never once making eye contact. He figured this was because they either feared catching whatever criminal germs that he carried or more likely because they just didn’t give a fuck.

  They took his details, fingerprinted him. They made him strip. He was weighed and examined by a doctor. Then he was taken to the “clean room” where some robotic stick figure with sunken cheeks and soulless eyes searched every orifice of his body—slowly, mechanically, like he had followed this routine a million times before with the same senseless aim of coming up empty.

  His suit was taken away. And with it the scent of freedom. He was given new clothes. A shapeless red top, matching cotton pants two sizes too big and a pair of dirty white flip-flops. Flip-flops.

  “It’s cold,” he said to the pale-skinned skeleton, the first voluntary words he had spoken since he had arrived at the jail some two hours ago. “I saw other inmates wearing sneakers. Why do I have to wear these?”

  “Because you’re up on six,” said the man, looking everywhere but at James. “Maximum security. The homicide floor.”

  “So you are making me wear these for my own protection—so I can slap somebody to death?” said James, feeling the burning sensation of injustice rising deep within his gut.

  “It’s not you we’re worried about,” said the praying mantis. “Sneakers grip the floor a lot better than sandals.”

  “What? I don’t get it,” said James, now somehow obsessed with this seemingly ridiculous detail.

  “You will when you see a fight breaks out and understand how important floor grip is. Serious injuries have been reduced by almost thirty-five percent since we swapped the sneakers for flip-flops.”

  “These flip-flops are supposed to protect me from major injury, simply because whoever decides to beat the crap out of me can’t grip the floor?” asked James, the words somehow foreign as they spewed from his mouth.

  “No,” said the man with a half-smile, his cool hazel eyes meeting James’ for the very first time. “But they have been known to make the difference between just fucked up and dead.”

  46

  The minute David turned off Beacon and onto Harvard Avenue, eventually finding Brown (thanks to the bored looking camera crews camped on the sidewalk), he got the sense that the Matheson home was going to be something special—and it didn’t take long for him to realize that James Matheson didn’t live in a house, he lived on an estate, or more specifically, a picturesque portion of it. He gave his credentials to a private security guard at the front entranceway and turned into the drive—a long, narrow gray-graveled pathway, bordered by perfectly trimmed hedges and “lollipop” manicured figs. At the end of the driveway were two large whitewashed wrought iron gates, which opened automatically a good ten seconds before David reached the intercom at which he had intended to announce his arrival.

  Security cameras, he thought.

  He passed through the gates and followed the drive north, the greenery eventually giving way to reveal a massive cream-painted Colonial, with white-accented window borders and miniature balconies with flowering window boxes and impressive hand-carved, whitewashed double doors. Even more impressive were the two people standing on the front sandstone steps, obviously awaiting his arrival. The couple—the man’s long arm extending comfortably across the woman’s shoulders—were nothing short of perfect. In fact, standing there as they did now, David could have sworn they were in some surreal commercial for the virtues of blue-blood America—he with his pepper-colored hair, tanned features and toned physique and she with her naturally thick dark locks, green cashmere twinset and Katharine Hepburn pants.

  David put his foot slowly on the brake, feeling the strange need to bring his Land Cruiser to a gradual stop, careful not to disturb the evenly distributed gravel, which, for some reason, he suspected would upset the harmony of this perfectly arranged environment.

  “Mr. Cavanaugh,” said the man who approached him with his arm outstretched as David got out of his car. “Jed Matheson—and this is my wife, Diane.”

  “Mr. Cavanaugh,” said the strikingly beautiful green-eyed woman. “We cannot tell you how much we appreciate everything you are doing for our son.”

  “To be honest with you, Mrs. Matheson,” said David, shaking the woman’s smooth and slender hand. “I thought you and your husband might have had other preferences when it came to an attorney, so I suppose I am the one who is flattered by your confidence.”

  “Nonsense,” said Jed Matheson, now steering David toward the house. “We’re aware of your record, Mr. Cavanaugh, and it is nothing short of impressive. You are right when you suggest that I know a lot of lawyers, but not too many who represent those accused of . . .”

  Jed Matheson obviously could not bring hims
elf to say the word.

  “First up,” said David, feeling a need to put this amiable couple at ease, “you can call me David. And secondly, I can totally understand why you have had little or no dealings with criminal attorneys. Finally, I am just as determined as you are to clear your son’s name. James is a good kid, Mr. and Mrs. Matheson, and I will do everything I can to make this go away.”

  David spent the next half hour in the Mathesons’ sitting room, a high-ceilinged, neutrally decorated space with cozy cream and beige striped sofas and matching thick pile rugs. He was drinking tea, a strong English blend, with a side tray of freshly baked macaroons sitting on a blue and white Wedg wood platter placed slightly left of center on the antique white oak coffee table before him.

  “I appreciate your willingness to help,” said David who had just listened to the pair give a detailed summation of the first twenty-two years of their only child’s life. “It is obvious James is a very talented young man.”

  “He is a blessing, David,” said Diane Matheson. “And has never given us one ounce of trouble. Admittedly there were the usual teenage dramas, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “I understand,” said David. “But we’ll need to talk about those incidences in more detail even if they seem trivial. James is obviously a good kid, but that just means the ADA will dig even deeper to unearth whatever he can and then, undoubtedly, try to put his own spin on it.” David saw a slight furrow in Diane Matheson’s brow as she nodded and replaced her teacup on its matching china saucer.

  “I don’t want to scare you, Diane,” he said. “But there is no point in my sugarcoating things. James made a few mistakes with his handling of his situation, mistakes that, among other things, have left him in an extremely serious position. So now we have to be as thorough as we can, and speaking of thorough . . .” He leaned forward on his seat, wanting them to focus on what he was about to say. He wanted to prepare them for what was no doubt going to be one of the most harrowing afternoons of their life—the formal police search of their much loved family home.

  “In about half an hour the police will arrive. Lieutenant Joe Mannix is a good man—direct but fair, so I have every faith he will instruct his men to carry out the search with every respect for your property. They will have a warrant so there is no point in being antagonistic. In fact, the more cooperative you are the better. You don’t have to serve them coffee and cake, but you do need to make them feel free to turn this place upside down if they want to.”

  Jed Matheson shook his head.

  “I know, Jed,” said David. “This is not going to be easy, but believe me, there is no other way to play it.”

  Diane Matheson nodded, taking a breath, straightening her back as if she was more than willing to take this on if it meant being of help to her son.

  “So they will want to search the entire property,” said Jed at last. “Even though James lived largely in the pool house.”

  “Yes,” answered David. “James may have spent most of the time in his own quarters but he still used this house as his home. Having said that, and if it’s okay with you, I’d like to have a quick look at James’ residence before the police arrive. It might give me a better take on the aims of their search.”

  “Certainly,” said Matheson rising to his feet, his lemon V-neck sweater sitting comfortably on his fit fifty-something frame, his single pleat pants falling comfortably into place.

  “Diane, why don’t you get the key and I’ll walk David down the south entrance toward the pool. And then,” he said, looking David directly in the eye, “my wife and I shall leave you to it. Some things are best undertaken solo, am I right, David?” he said with a look of calm determination on his face.

  “Ah, yes sir,” said David, not knowing what else to say. He could have been wrong, but he was pretty sure the man had just invited him to confiscate anything he might have regarded as “evidence to the negative” from his son’s private pool house.

  David then got the sense that Jed Matheson had probably done a good search of his own over the past twenty-four hours—but was most likely unsure of exactly what to look for. The man believed in his son’s innocence, David was sure of that, but he was also aware that a successful merchant banker like Jed Matheson was probably no stranger to the practices of manipulation and subterfuge. He wanted to cover all of his bases in the event the police found anything that might be misconstrued as evidence against his son. And he wanted David to help him.

  “Jed, I know you have James’ best interests at heart. But, you have to understand, I cannot . . .”

  “My son has every faith in you, David, as do Diane and I,” interrupted Matheson, patting David squarely on the shoulder as he steered him toward the glass bifold doors and out onto the limestone-paved courtyard. “We know you will do everything in your power to help our son. You said it yourself, David, James is innocent, so let’s show those bastards what we are made of and get this done.”

  47

  “This is Mannix,” said Joe as he picked up his direct extension in his Boston PD Office.

  The phone had rung just as he and Frank were heading out the door and normally he would have let it go. But he knew the ADA would be calling with any news on this morning’s grand jury hearing, and while the thought of talking to Roger Katz turned his stomach at the best of times, he was anxious for an update.

  “Joe,” said the friendly voice. And Joe had to admit the call from FBI Boston Field Office Special Agent in Charge Leo King was still a welcome alternative.

  “Simba,” said Mannix. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, you know, the usual. Mickey just won some major art award at school. Some drawing of a cricket. I’m actually gonna take time out at lunch to attend some special elementary school award-giving ceremony.” Leo and his wife, Janet Leung King, had eleven-year-old twin daughters, Elena and Michela, both of whom were the apples of their father’s eye.

  “Good for her, and even better for you,” said Joe. “In fact, if it’s a free for all, I’m happy to ditch the Matheson search and come along as part of the Michela King fan club.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a day ahead of you.”

  “You could say that,” said Joe. “So I’m praying you’re calling to add some sunshine to my otherwise gray existence.”

  “Sorry, Joe,” he said. “No such luck. The guys at Quantico came back with their print analysis and I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

  “None of the three prints match Matheson?”

  “Two are a definite no—the one on the glass near the greenhouse doorway and the one on the flower. The prints belong to the same person, but they’re not a match with your perp.”

  Mannix had taken David’s advice and got the Crime Response Unit to test the orchid for prints. The team came up with one juicy impression, an almost perfect replica of somebody’s right thumb.

  “They ran the two prints through CJIS but didn’t find a match,” said King, referring to the FBI’s Criminal Justice Information Service Unit’s latent print database, which contains the world’s largest repository of fingerprint records. “Even tried to match the plant with the gardener but it was a no-go all round. In other words, whoever they belong to is record-free. We’re checking further, with other international bodies, but at this stage . . .”

  “And the third?” asked Joe, realizing he probably should be disappointed, but registering nothing but acceptance, almost as if he had been expecting the prints to be a dead end from the start.

  “The third print,” Simba went on, “the one on the rock where the Nagoshi girl was placed . . . I am afraid that one was pretty much unreadable. It was really only a half print to begin with, and the rock was porous and flaky. The lab ran it through the IAFIS over a dozen times, the best they could come up with was a possible match for both comparisons.”

  The IAFIS was the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System—a primarily ten-print system that can digitally capture ten-print images a
nd perform several functions, including enhancement and improvement of image quality, comparison of latent fingerprints against suspect ten-print records retrieved from the criminal fingerprint repository and determination if a prior arrest record exists.

  “By the way,” said King. “Why did you give me two prints to test against? I know one was Matheson’s but who . . .”

  “It was mine.”

  “What?”

  “I knew the print was foggy. I just wanted to make sure we had a fair comparison.”

  “So you submit your own print,” said King. “And when the lab comes back with the same result for both, you know there is no way it’ll stand up in court.”

  “Pretty much—or in this case, the confirmation that it is just as likely that I topped the Nagoshi girl as the kid we sent to the lockup.”

  Joe had said too much. He realized he was allowing his growing suspicions to seep into his role as lead homicide detective on the case. It was a mistake, and he regretted it the minute it came out of his mouth.

  “Whoa,” said King. “Did I just hear you right because I thought you said . . .”

  “I gotta go, Simba,” interrupted Joe. “I’ll get our guys to bag the kid’s shoes so you can compare them to the impression left at the scene.”

  “Ah . . . okay,” said King. “But make sure they bag them with any dirt intact. I’ll tell the lab to run them through Materials Analysis—that way you’ll get a full geologic, mineralogic, metallurgical and elemental report, which we can match to the material under the print.”

  “No stone left unturned, hey, Simba?” said Joe.

  “I guess not,” King hesitated before going on. “And Joe?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you ever need someone to shoot the breeze with . . .”

  “I gotcha, Simba. And thanks.”

  48