by Sydney Bauer
“You were amazing in there today,” he said.
“Thanks.” She smiled, before reaching across the coffee table to rest her hand on his. “I’m learning, David,” she said then. “How to separate the two.”
And he nodded, knowing just how hard it was to disconnect your own views from the argument you needed to make in court.
“James was right,” he said then. “That despite everything we have to do, when it comes down to it, the world ceases to exist without the people you love.”
And she smiled, before moving around the table to fall into his arms. “Then maybe we need a reminder of what matters most,” she said, kissing him then.
And as he unbuttoned her blouse and took her in his arms and entered a world where he was allowed to forget, at least for a time, who they were and what they needed to do, he took comfort in knowing that whatever else, they were in this—and everything else they chose to take on—together.
When the man first walked through the door, she thought he was a vagrant seeking respite from the cold. Nora Kelly was not one to judge people, at least not by appearances alone. But this large, red-faced man looked like he had commandeered every jacket and overcoat in Boston and layered them one on top of the other, like a circus clown wearing an impossible mishmash of colors and patterns and styles.
“Can I help you?” she asked, looking over the top of her small, square tortoiseshell glasses.
“I need to see Mr. Cavanaugh,” said the now puffing man, removing his purple tartan scarf and resting his hands on No ra’s desk as he attempted to catch his breath.
“Ah . . .” began Nora. “I am afraid he is out of the office at present, but if you would like to leave a message?”
“What is it, Nora?” asked Arthur, now at his office door.
“Are you Mr. Wright?” asked the man, turning around.
“Yes. I am Arthur Wright, one of the partners of this firm. How can I help you Mr. . . .”
“Professor,” said the man. “Professor Carl Heffer. I’m a lecturer at Deane.”
“Right,” said Arthur. “Well, Professor, if you’d like to come into my office, Mrs. Kelly will get you some coffee and . . .”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wright, and I apologize for the late hour, but the boys were very specific. I need to speak to Cavanaugh and Mr. Cavanaugh alone.”
“What boys?” asked Arthur, his curiosity now piqued.
“H. Edgar Simpson and Heath Westinghouse, or the master and his apprentice, as I like to call them.”
Arthur nodded.
“Nora, call David, and ask him to come at once. He’s not far, Professor,” he said, turning toward Heffer. “It should not take him long.”
“Good, because believe me, Mr. Wright, if what I am guessing is correct, then time is not on your side.”
An hour later David sat stock-still across from the cherry-faced man before him—his office door closed, with Sara, Arthur and Nora waiting anxiously in the rooms beyond. And even as Professor Heffer reached the section headed “conclusion,” David could still not believe what he was hearing—the scope of it all, and the arrogance it had taken to see it through.
“It’s them,” David said at last, as Heffer put down the report and looked up at him.
“Yes,” replied Heffer, incredulous. “The names are aliases of course, but there is no doubt the two subjects in this assignment are Simpson and Westinghouse.”
“And you believe them?” asked David, anxious to get the professor’s learned opinion. “You think these two are capable of . . .”
“Yes,” interrupted Heffer without hesitation. “Simpson is a genius, a Machiavellian mastermind with an extremely accomplished intellect. Westinghouse is also incredibly bright, but naive when it comes to his choice of friends—obviously.”
The report was nothing short of extraordinary. It basically laid out their entire strategy from beginning to end. David had no doubt the boys had edited the copy to ensure their own legal protection and the work had been submitted as a work of fiction. But it was real, David could feel it, and he knew Heffer could feel it too.
“Mr. Cavanaugh,” Heffer began.
“Call me David,” said David, and Heffer nodded.
“David, these boys have basically admitted to concocting the entire ‘confession,’ to setting up your client simply to see if it could be done. And despite what you think or what everyone else would assume, this is not about the money. These boys are trust fund babies of the highest order. I believe Simpson inherited close to twenty million when he turned twenty-one, and I suspect Westinghouse would not have been far behind.”
“They sold out their friend simply to get off on their superiority?” asked David.
“Yes and no,” said Heffer. “As the report suggests, they believed in their friend’s innocence from the very beginning and were certain the foreign ‘lover’ could verify his whereabouts at the time of the young girl’s death. But the third friend, your client, lied, or in the very least exaggerated, leaving our two principals with a monstrous calamity on their hands.”
“So this was all an exercise of ‘let’s see how far we can go,’ ” said David. “They wanted to test their manipulation abilities against the police, the DA’s office, the FBI, and then use the money as proof that they pulled it off. It was all a game from the beginning, one astronomical scam that proved, at least to themselves, that they were smarter than some of the highest law enforcement officials in this city.”
“Yes,” said Heffer simply. “The assignment requested they be entrepreneurial, and I suppose, in a macabre sense, they outdid themselves, literally.”
David nodded, while Heffer took a sip of his coffee, a long, slow slurp that reminded David of the noise kids made when they drained the bottom of their chocolate malt with a straw.
“Of course,” Heffer went on, wiping a drop of espresso from his large double chin, “now they find themselves in some very deep water—about to take the stand in an extremely high-profile trial. If they lie and say Matheson’s confession was real, they perjure themselves and send their closest friend to the gallows; if they tell the truth and admit to their own obnoxious lie, they come off looking like the smug manipulators that they are—and once again their future is in tatters.”
“They have no way out,” said David.
“It appears so, at least at face value,” said Heffer, and David was beginning to see why this man was coveted by respected law schools such as Deane. “But this is obviously not the case.”
“I’m sorry, Professor, I do not follow.”
“They have found a way out, David. There is no doubt about that. These boys have come up with a solution and it is sitting before me as I speak.”
“Me?”
“Of course. Why do you think they submitted this assignment and added a note instructing me to contact you at my earliest opportunity.”
“And the note?” asked David, who was yet to see Simpson’s handwritten adjunct to the controversial report.
“It requests you meet him tomorrow—seven a.m., before court begins and Westinghouse is called to the stand.”
“Where?” asked David.
“The Somerset Club, a private room no less.”
David nodded. “Will Westinghouse be there?” he asked, perhaps sensing he might have a chance of winning over the less manipulative of the two. Heffer looked at him as if the question was beneath him.
“I guess not,” added David. And they sat there for a while in silence.
“I don’t trust him, Professor,” said David at last. “How do we know that this meeting is not just another layer of their incessant deception?”
“You don’t,” replied the straightforward professor. “And forgive me for being blunt, David, but you have no other choice.”
“They still have the money, Professor. That alone proves the motive of greed.”
But Heffer shook his head before pulling a small piece of paper from one of his many pockets. “Not anymore.
For this was attached to their assignment—a check for one million made out to Deane.”
“A donation?”
“Yes. Very philanthropic of them, wasn’t it?” replied Heffer.
“Jesus,” said David, taking the check from Heffer’s substantial hand—a bank check from the Grand Cayman Island Caribbean Trust and Banking Corporation no less.
“And the other million?” asked David.
“Gone to an international charitable organization, I believe. Like I said, David,” said Heffer, shaking his head. “This was never about the money.”
“So I meet him,” said David.
“Yes.”
“And negotiate with the devil.”
“Yes. I have followed your career, David, and at the risk of sounding sycophantic, you are the ultimate entrepreneur. This boy is smart, but his ego will be his downfall.”
David nodded, as the professor got up to leave.
“Professor,” said David at last, having one more question to ask before he escorted this honest, genuine man toward the back of his office. “Is Simpson sleeping with a staff member at Deane?” He didn’t mean to be blunt, but given the nature of their conversation, he felt it only fair to be straight.
“I have heard as much,” said Heffer, perhaps just a touch surprised that David had heard it too. “And according to faculty gossip, it is a professor no less.”
David looked at him, willing him to say it.
“Her name is Maggie Grosvenor and she has a PhD in criminal law. Sort of ironic, don’t you think?”
But David heard nothing after the name Maggie—their only hope for survival now was fading before him, faster than he could blink.
83
As David approached the Somerset Club at 42 Beacon, the morning still dark, the air cool and fresh, he remembered an old and much told anecdote about the level of exclusivity at this historic establishment. From what he could recall it dated back to an event in the 1940s when a fire broke out, spreading to all three of the Club’s impeccably decorated floors. The firemen apparently ran straight through the front doors, only to be told by some legendary majordomo that, as they were not members, they would have to go round back and enter via the servants’ quarters—which they did, and continued to battle the fire while those in the dining rooms sat completely unperturbed.
But David’s early entry was much less troublesome. In fact, he barely got the chance to utter his name before a faultlessly dressed concierge escorted him silently to a private dining room on the third floor. Although he had heard much about this elite Boston establishment, David had never been inside. The décor was rich and ornate but still subtle in a comfortable way that spoke of years of affluence and breeding. The heavy drapes, leather lounges, dark wood chairs, lush tapestries and richly colored European rugs were all accented by the effective but restrained lighting of crystal chandeliers, which hung from ornate ceiling roses, bordered by elaborate cornices that stamped the room with authenticity.
The room was empty—at least from what he could see. There was a large table set for two with silverware neatly arranged next to thick white napkins and china cups for tea. The fire in the corner was warm and inviting, burning beneath a white marble mantle that held two matching antique urns displaying some sort of colorful bird on lean leafy branches.
“Mr. Cavanaugh,” said a voice, and David turned to see Simpson—who had been seated behind him the entire time—rising slowly from his plush, burgundy chair. The boy extended his arm in greeting, his ginger hair parted neatly down the side and shining almost golden in the glint of the elaborate glass lights above.
“Welcome to the Somerset,” he said as if he owned the place—his blue button-down, subtle tie and beige cashmere V-neck fitting the casual young affluent to a “T.”
“Please,” he said. “Take a seat, I took the liberty of ordering you some poached eggs and bacon with the Somerset’s delectable potato on the side. Some tea?” he asked, taking a seat at one side of the long cherrywood table.
“No,” said David. “Coffee, black. That is, if they serve it here.”
“Of course,” said Simpson. “I expected as much so I asked William to bring a special pot of their pure Brazilian. It is nothing short of sublime.”
David took a seat, feeling like he was in some strange time warp where his previous reality had ceased to exist. This was the other Boston, the historic, prosperous, upper-class world of the city’s first families—where privilege and superiority seemed to come with genes on some very well-to-do strands of DNA.
He went to open his mouth, feeling the need to control this meeting from the outset, only to be interrupted by a gray-haired William who glided in, presented the coffee and poured its aromatic contents into David’s china cup before turning to leave, having not made one single sound in the process.
“All right,” said David at last, staring directly at the blue-eyed young man. “Your time is up, Simpson, in less than two hours your buddy Westinghouse takes the stand, and if you have something you want to tell me before I tear him to shreds on cross, I suggest you explain yourself now.”
Simpson smiled. “I can see why James chose you, Mr. Cavanaugh—I mean David. Can I call you David?”
“Can I call you Homer?”
“Best not,” he said.
“Likewise.”
“What I mean to say is,” said Simpson, shifting slightly on his emerald green silk embroidered chair, “I appreciate your straightforwardness.”
“And I’m sick of your bullshit,” countered David. “I read your assignment, Simpson, and it reeks of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.”
“We saw to that.”
“Oh, I know you covered your asses,” said David. “But I also know I am a fucking determined lawyer and if anyone can find a crack to have you indicted, it will be me.”
“I believe the Somerset discourages swearing, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
“Well then you will no doubt enjoy cussing your ass off when you are sipping tea in your two by four at Massachusetts Correctional.”
“All right.” Simpson smiled, lifting his small, smooth hands to give David a short round of applause. “Fair enough. Let’s get down to business shall we, before our eggs arrive.”
David nodded, grabbing his teacup like a coffee mug and downing it in one, long, strong-scented gulp.
“James is innocent,” said Simpson. David was slightly taken aback from his frankness from the get-go. “We understand that. We concocted this highly ambitious, and might I add, singularly brilliant plan, simply because we wanted to explore the possibilities of testing the boundaries of justice. Which we did, quite successfully, would you not agree?”
David went to answer but Simpson held up his hand.
“We did not, however, foresee the problem relating to our good friend’s alibi. We took him at his word—a word backed by our own personal observation of Miss Rousseau’s obvious intentions on that night at the Lincoln. She had the hots for him, Mr. Cavanaugh, and who were we to think he would be fool enough to decline?
“That being said, our friend’s lack of honesty created a fissure in our otherwise flawless plan, a gap which has unfortunately grown beyond repair.”
Simpson picked up his own teacup as he said this, as if examining it for cracks.
“And with all this exceptional planning,” said David, “did you ever once consider the repercussions on your friend?”
“Of course, which is why we built the confidentiality agreements into the terms of our testimony. James was supposed to hand himself in within a specified time but failed to do so. Which I suppose is understandable, given he knew his alibi would not hold.”
“You’re suggesting James was in on this from the very beginning?” asked David, watching Simpson closely. He could see this question was a difficult one, and that Simpson was thinking carefully before offering a reply.
“I am suggesting,” Simpson began, “that James may have misread my intent, and in the proc
ess dug himself a hole from which there appears no escape. You have to understand, Mr. Cavanaugh, that myself and Heath and James, we are different to most others at Deane. Indeed we are different to most others at any of this nation’s fine educational institutions, set apart by our superior intellect and circumstances.
“We did not ask to be born into advantage, Mr. Cavanaugh, it was simply a matter of luck. But we are, at the very least, three of the few who use such good fortune to improve ourselves and push at the boundaries the less progressive set upon us. It is our duty, and to fail to do so would do our fortuity a gross misservice.”
David shook his head. This kid was something else. “Tell me, Simpson, do you actually believe the crap that comes out of your mouth? Are you that conceited that you truly see yourself as some sort of demigod, delivered like a deity to us less fortunate individuals so that you might rewrite the ground rules of justice and . . .”
“Lord no,” said Simpson. “In all honesty I could not give a crap about the masses, Mr. Cavanaugh. What they learn from my example, what they perceive from my feathering my own nest is left entirely up to them.”
“Then you admit this is all about you.”
“Of course, and to a lesser degree Westinghouse and Matheson. I am not a complete narcissist, Mr. Cavanaugh, more an individual willing to share with a select few who are worthy, which James is of course, a fact I am sure you already know.”
Seconds later William was back delivering their steaming hot breakfasts, the aroma of eggs with Parmesan and perfectly grilled bacon strong and inviting in the cozy, softly lit room about them—a warmth so at odds with the nature of their discussion. But as William made his silent retreat, neither of them moved to consider their meal, both waiting for the other to make the first move and broker the deal they had come here to make.
“I have a proposal for you, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Simpson at last. “An offer that will be withdrawn unless you agree to it forthwith.
“I am not stupid, Mr. Cavanaugh. I know our situation is precarious and Westinghouse and I are locked in a room to which you hold the key. But my advantage lies in the fact that I hold a second key to your release—or more specifically your client’s, who let us be honest, is the most desperate prisoner of all.”