Alibi

by Sydney Bauer

  “Fuck you, H. Edgar,” said James. “You know exactly how this went down and from what I hear, you are about to give the ADA another nail to hammer into my coffin.”

  H. Edgar took a breath, wondering how James could possibly know about his new piece of so-called evidence. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this.”

  “Really?” asked James. “Are you trying to tell me you screwed up because if that’s the case then why am I the one wearing the red cotton clown suit?”

  “You know who I am, James,” said H. Edgar. “I have never professed to be anything different.”

  “And I cannot help who I fall in love with.”

  H. Edgar felt that now familiar rush of heat again, and waited for it to subside—the two of them standing there, saying nothing, but knowing that no matter what happened, they would never be friends again. And then Simpson took the slightest of steps forward, his shoes squeaking loudly against the gray concrete floor.

  “Stay away from me,” said James, the back of his legs now flush against the square metallic table. And H. Edgar stopped, realizing just how much damage had been done.

  “All right,” he said, “I’m leaving, but I want you to remember that what I am about to do has nothing to do with you. I am a rare beast, James, who will always survive against the odds. So when this is over, I do not want your thanks.”

  “I do not want your help, H. Edgar.”

  “Maybe not, but you need it.”

  “Then I choose to refuse your fucking generous offer.”

  “Then I choose to refuse your refusal.”

  James said nothing, and so H. Edgar turned to leave.

  “You know your problem, Simpson?” said James at last. “You can’t see past your own fucking nose. The world does not live or die by the beat of H. Edgar Simpson’s drum.”

  “Perhaps not, but as I am about to save your skin, Matheson, I suggest you swallow your goddamned pride and allow me to do exactly what I do best.”

  67

  Three weeks later—Thanksgiving

  They were only three hours into a five-and-a-half-hour drive and already they were running two hours late. Sara had taken an early “Happy Thanksgiving” call from Sawyer who had just happened to mention that his parents were on some skiing vacation in Canada and that he planned a quiet day, on his own, sitting in his dorm, eating turkey takeout from the Deane cafeteria.

  “He is all alone,” Sara had said at 8 a.m. just as they were getting into the car. “I mean, turkey takeout . . . ?”

  “Turkey is turkey, Sara,” David had replied.

  But then she gave him that smile—that wide-eyed, innocent, impossible to refuse expression that had inevitably resulted in them driving to Wellesley to meet Sawyer for a cafeteria-cooked Thanksgiving breakfast of processed turkey and a too-dry cranberry sauce on two burned pieces of rye. And it was as if the kid, who Sara had grown increasingly fond of over the past month (which wasn’t such a stretch considering Sawyer seemed to spend every spare moment either at the office or popping into their apartment), had been treated to the breakfast of kings—his bright face alight with an expression of pure joy and appreciation.

  Two days. They had given themselves two days to drive to Newark and see the family before heading back to Boston and the approaching Matheson trial. The past three weeks had been tough and forced them to take a difficult but necessary reality check as to what they had and what they did not, where they were headed and where they could not afford to go.

  Ironically, the only good news came in the form of a victory for Katz. The ADA had won his motion for a speedy trial, the date now set for early December, a mere week and a half away. Judge Stein had argued that if the ADA wanted his fast track to justice, then this was the only window available. Any later in the year and the courts would be closed for Christmas and the trial, if not resolved, would be dragged into the New Year. From Stein’s point of view, and ironically, the defense’s as well, any lengthening of the period in which the media could exploit the “sexy” Matheson case was a negative. The judge was already concerned about finding an unbiased jury and stressed his ruling was based on a desire to “curtail an environment where gossip was rife and speculation the flavor of the day.” In other words they had ten days to pull it all together which, at this point in time, seemed close to impossible.

  China was a nightmare. They had managed to talk Mr. Kwon into working his people double-time, a request they hated to make. But keeping the plant operational was the only way they could continue investigating Peter Nagoshi’s possible role in Mr. Lim’s death.

  FBI Agent Susan Leigh had been a blessing. She had spoken to her FBI colleagues in Beijing who were currently undertaking a series of secret investigations into the Guangdong operation with the help of Mr. Kwon and his colleagues. There was even talk of organizing the secret passage of Mr. Lim’s brother to the US so that, if necessary, he might testify at trial.

  However, a fundamental problem came in the form of the very nature of the workers’ suspicions. For while they felt sure Peter Nagoshi was linked to the older Mr. Lim’s death, their “proof” was in the form of intuition rather than fact. As Taoists they believed that people were good by nature, but they also believed that the ghosts of those who once lived evil lives could be born again, and from what David could gather, the Lims and their friends believed Nagoshi to be a sort of reincarnated devil, most likely a colorful take on the truth, but not one that would hold up in court.

  Their next tack was to investigate Peter Nagoshi’s martial arts training, and once again Susan had come through. Her discreet investigations had revealed that Nagoshi was indeed a master at the Japanese martial art of Bujinkan. But this posed a problem in itself, given that Bujinkan was not motivated by violence or aggression.

  The ancient Japanese martial art was in fact based on the principles of patience, self-control and dedication. Worse still, its mantra spoke of a “foundation in peace” and a path to the immovable heart or fudoshin. In other words they knew it would be extremely difficult to claim Nagoshi’s dedication to Bujinkan could have been utilized to slaughter his only sister with his own bare hands, especially when the art’s philosophy was based on respect and a dedication to the well-being of others.

  And so progress on this front had been slow, or more to the point, close to nonexistent. It had been hindered by the distance of miles, the barriers of philosophical and religious differences and the bona fide restrictions of fear. Worse still, their investigations had been mired by the need for secrecy, for they had no doubt that if Peter Nagoshi got wind of what they were up to, despite his dedication to the Chinese operation, the plant would most likely disappear, and any potential evidence against him right along with it.

  H. Edgar Simpson seemed impenetrable. James told them of his two friends’ visits and Simpson’s strange promise that he would set things right. But they all suspected, especially since they had no evidence to the contrary, that a scorned H. Edgar was simply telling James what he wanted to hear. By all accounts, Simpson and Westinghouse were still firmly in Katz’s camp and they had no reason to believe this would change. And to top it all off, Joe had found no evidence of Simpson being near the Nagoshi estate on the night of Jessica’s murder. For starters, Simpson did not own his own car and a canvasing of taxi activity on the night had turned up nothing.

  The prints had come up negative as had any attempt they had made, with Sawyer’s help, to try to establish the nature of H. Edgar’s sexuality. If the kid was gay they had no proof of it. In fact, if anything the young man appeared to be asexual. David had argued his asexuality could well be a result of sexual confusion or, more to the point denial, only to be countered by the informed Sawyer, who explained asexuality was a legitimate sexual orientation in itself, a word used to define people who lack sexual attraction or otherwise find sexual behavior unappealing.

  And so, with no new evidence, physical or circumstantial, at their disposal, they had decided there was only one way
to play it—or rather two, simultaneously. And ironically, it had been James who had come up with the double attack plan that they had eventually decided to follow.

  First up, if they could not establish who did kill Jessica Nagoshi, then they had to establish who didn’t. They would use all the evidence Katz had against their client and manipulate it to paint the real picture—that James was a victim, a young man of high character set up out of greed, that he was guilty of one thing and one thing only—falling in love and conceiving a child with the girl he intended to marry.

  Secondly, once they had painted James as an unlikely culprit, they needed to hand the jury someone else in his stead. In other words it was a “Plan B” with a twist. This was where it became a little tricky, for they knew they could not afford to appear desperate and disorganized to a savvy jury of twelve. If they threw up two separate alternatives, with little or no proof to support either claim, they could well shoot themselves in the foot by watering down their defense with what would appear to be fantastical finger-pointing. And so they would pick one alternative, one target at which to fire—a target, at least at this stage, they decided would have to be H. Edgar Simpson.

  The reasons were fairly simple and largely based on the difficulty they knew they would face if they set out to accuse a respected young executive of killing his sister. Despite his social shortcomings, Peter Nagoshi was highly regarded in the international business world and any slight on him—who had been painted in the press as a familial victim saddened by the loss of his only sibling—may result in the defense being branded heartless desperadoes.

  Simpson was another matter however. For starters he reeked of arrogance and moneyed superiority—qualities David knew, despite any efforts on Simpson’s behalf, would be evident to a jury from the moment he took the stand. The boy had no alibi and he was a ruthless conspirator who had manipulated a police investigation to suit his own needs, while all the time focusing on securing his half of the much coveted reward. While David knew it was “not about the money,” he also knew that the majority of the jury would only ever have dreamed of possessing such an amount, and this alone should plant the seed of doubt in their minds, and paint the already wealthy Simpson as the mercenary Judas that he was.

  They would hold off on bringing up his questionable sexuality unless they had proof, or more to the point, were desperate enough to do so. And they were hoping beyond all hope that whatever evidentiary “gem” Simpson had promised Katz on that fated recording could be proven to be fabricated, or at the very least, circumstantial.

  And so it would come down to that—one friend set against the other with Westinghouse painted as the pathetic pawn in Simpson’s malevolent game. While they knew Westinghouse was an important part of the picture, and still considered the possibility of approaching him in secret, they also knew this could backfire as anything they said to Westinghouse could well be relayed back to Katz. And if Katz knew they were gunning for Simpson, their entire strategy could crumble before they even had a chance to get it off the ground. This was James’ life they were playing with, and no matter what else, they had to proceed with caution.

  And so they would put their efforts into showing their client to be the hardworking, good-natured, well-intentioned young man that he was, and his greedy, traitorous “friend” to be a covetous criminal with no regard for the principles of loyalty or, more importantly, the law. How far they would go to paint him as the real killer was something yet to be determined. It would be decided at trial, as they gauged their own process, as they evaluated Katz’s chances and studied the jury’s response.

  None of this was perfect—in fact, it was so far from ironclad that it made David sick to his stomach every time he thought about it. But it was all they had, at least for the time being. And as Nora had so profoundly reminded them: “A trout in the pot is better than a salmon in the sea.”

  68

  “I swear to God, Mom,” said the dark-haired Lisa Cavanaugh as she swallowed the last morsel of homemade apple pie, “I have not eaten like this in . . . well, since the last time I was home.” And she smiled then, before resting back in her seat and undoing the top button of her jeans.

  “What, you gonna belch for us now?” said her older brother Sean, only half joking.

  “Maybe,” she smiled, her bright green eyes alight with amusement. “Unless DC here beats me to it. He seems to have had his ‘eloquent sufficiency’ as well,” she said, gesturing at David beside her while mocking her oldest brother’s tendency to play the “head of the house” all at the very same time.

  “I don’t know about eloquent sufficiency,” said David, grinning at his sister. “But I will tell you I am well and truly stuffed,” smiled David.

  “Well, despite your lack of table manners I am pleased,” smiled his mother. “Because you have lost a little weight.”

  Lisa was right, dinner had been delicious, from the starter of French onion soup to the main of herb-roasted turkey with cranberry and orange relish, to the sides of candied sweet potato and the finale of Patty Cavanaugh’s homemade apple pie.

  “Come to think of it, you are looking a little scrawny, DC,” said Sean. “But then I guess that happens when you sit behind a desk all day.”

  “Leave him alone, Sean,” said Sean’s wife, Teresa, nudging her husband in the ribs.

  “Come on, Tess. He’s a lawyer. They are supposed to be good at handling the truth. All I am saying is, if he were working on the docks like me, or like Pop did before us . . .”

  David had to hand it to him, although at least Sean had managed to contain himself until after dinner before bringing up the eternal sticking point that sat between them like a festering sore. Somehow David’s decision to leave Jersey and move to Boston to study law had always been viewed by Sean as a betrayal. A betrayal that intensified when their father died seven years ago, leaving Sean to manage the business alone. Did David feel guilty about it? Sure, especially since his little sister, Lisa, followed him to Boston to study nursing. He knew Sean and his family filled his mother’s life with love and activity—and for this David was grateful. But while Sean’s words still cut into his sense of culpability, he knew the decision he had made was the right one. He was doing what he needed to do, whether Sean approved or not.

  “Come on, Sean,” said David, swallowing his frustration and attempting to make light of the matter for his mother’s sake. “If I was doing all that physical work, day in, day out, well, I would be a walking Mr. Universe.” He managed a smile.

  “Over my dead body,” said Sara, taking a sip of her wine, her look telling him she admired his decision not to “bite.” “I, for one, can’t stand that Mr. Universe look.”

  “Me neither,” said Lisa, finishing her beer. “In fact,” she hesitated, waiting for her mom to leave the room to take some plates to the kitchen. “I once dated this ’roid freak who, well . . . let’s just say his muscle was all stacked above the belt.”

  “Jesus, Lisa,” said Sean. “The kids!” He tilted his head sideways to indicate his three children who were now sprawled on the living room floor.

  “They didn’t hear me, idiot,” said Lisa.

  “No, but I did,” said Patty, now standing in the doorway.

  “Busted,” said David.

  “Shit,” said Lisa with a huge grin on her pretty, narrow face.

  Half an hour later, the dinnerware stacked neatly in the dishwasher, the entire Cavanaugh clan was gathered in the living room of their old Newark duplex, watching David’s oldest nephew, eleven-year-old Seamus, kick the butts of his two younger siblings in a Simpson’s trivia game.

  “Milhouse’s last name is Muntz,” said ten-year-old Katie.

  “Wrong. It’s Van Houten.” Seamus smiled. “Nelson’s last name is Muntz and Martin’s last name is Prince.”

  “Okay, smart guy,” returned Katie. “So what is Sideshow Bob’s real name?”

  “It’s Robert Underdunk Terwilliger,” answered Seamus.

 
; “Geez,” said Katie. “He’s right!”

  And so it went, the kids on the floor and the adults on the couches, and David felt somehow sad that once again he felt “old,” sitting here looking down at his brother’s carefree offspring.

  “So how’s the case going,” asked his mom at last. “How is that poor boy coping?”

  “As well as can be expected, Mom,” said David. “He’s feeling the pressure a week before trial. He’s had a lot to deal with in the past three months—losing his girl, his child, being betrayed by his two best friends.”

  “His poor parents,” said Patty.

  “They’re good people,” said Sara.

  “The thing is,” began David. “This boy is normal, despite his privilege. He is smart and understanding and sees the good in people. He deserves a future, and not just because the one he had was so full of promise. He deserves it because he is just a good kid who has a vision of how to make things better.

  “And besides all that,” added David after a pause, “ADA Katz is using this case to kick off his campaign for DA. He is keeping company with the attorney general, who has most likely been showering him with promises of advancement if he manages to nail the Ivy League kid with the good looks and the big bank account.”

  “They want to convict him because he is wealthy?” said his mother.

  “The government believes they have received unfair criticism. It seems the general consensus is that the richer you are, the easier it is to get an acquittal. And Katz, being the asshole that he is, sees this as an opportunity to . . .”

  “I disagree,” said Sean at last.

  “What?” asked David.

  “Not about your ADA, he sounds like a right prick, but as far as the government is concerned. The criticism is by no means unfair, DC. The statistics are clear—the wealthier the defendant, the more likely they walk. What is it they say? ‘America has the best criminal justice system that money can buy’?”