by Sydney Bauer
“I’m not sure, Mr. Cavanaugh. I asked his parents not to tell him, so I suppose they held true to their promise.”
“So he never knew.”
“I guess not.”
“But obviously, considering his statement, and Mr. Buntine’s as well, despite what occurred years ago, both young men still count you as one of their best friends.”
“Yes,” said James, shaking his head. His eyes were starting to water so he wiped them quickly with the back of his left hand. “Which is pretty amazing considering. In fact, this may sound crazy under the circumstances, but I gotta tell you, Mr. Cavanaugh, no matter what happens, when it comes to friends I am one very lucky guy.”
Just then, as Roger Katz was halfway between sitting and standing, obviously having found something to object to, the back double doors burst inward with a bang.
The noise was like a balloon bursting in a nursery, the silence cracked with a resounding thump. The reaction was instantaneous, as heads turned, and bodies squirmed, necks stretched and some smaller members of the crowd lifted their legs so that they might kneel on the long narrow pews in an effort to see who the hell had caused such a racket.
The two men now striding quickly up the narrow aisle were the picture of a weatherbeaten fiasco, hair dripping, soaked to the skin, with large clumps of semi-melted snow left pooling in their wake. And when David turned to see them—Joe Mannix and Frank McKay—heading straight toward the judge, Joe gave him the slightest of nods before hastening his step so as not to be waylaid by the now openmouthed ADA.
“Judge,” said Joe, the press now craning forward in an attempt to hear every breathless word. “We need a minute.”
“What is it, Lieutenant?” asked Stein.
“It’s a private matter, Judge, which has significant bearing on this case.”
David, who now stood mere feet from Joe just in front of his client, shot a glance at Sara before approaching the bench as well. And Katz, not to be outdone, leapt to his feet before almost jumping over his desk in a desperate need to be included. And in that moment as the judge, the two principal attorneys, and the two detectives formed a huddle at the front of the room, and as every other pair of eyes, without exception, were focused entirely on the all-important five, another man entered from the back.
This man was tall and thin and extremely light on his feet, so quiet and unremarkable in fact, that everyone, bar one lone spectator, failed to notice his presence.
“Mr. Lim,” said the boy in a whisper, now getting to his feet. “Mr. Lim,” he said again, and this time louder, causing Sara to divert her eyes from the huddle to turn to the familiar voice behind.
“Sawyer?” she said, almost instinctively as Sawyer stood and pointed at the advancing Mr. Lim. And Sara, who obviously read the confusion in Sawyer’s eyes, rose from her chair to meet him.
“Mr. Lim,” she said, joining the dazed-looking Chinese man at the top of the aisle, the group up front now also turning to see what was causing the commotion behind them. “What is it, Mr. Lim?” asked Sara, now taking the man’s elbow. “We thought you had left. Did you miss your flight? Have they closed the airport again?”
And then David saw it—the tiny glint of metal that caught the light from the window and rose like some self-motivated entity on a mission of its own. It was almost as if the object controlled the man who held it—Mr. Lim—his right arm now stiff and outstretched and making its taut, determined ascent toward something . . . someone on the right-hand side of the room.
Time stood still as all eyes focused on the small silver pistol. The screams rang out, the room ducked for cover, Sara grabbed at the man’s arm, the judge called for security, and Lim screamed “yao!” as Sawyer crawled over benches and bodies and security guards to get to the front of the room.
“Yamero!” screamed Peter Nagoshi who, in that second, finally realized the man was aiming at him. But the younger Nagoshi did not move, just stood, motionless, his face contorted in a stretch of terror, as his father grabbed him from behind trying to force him to take cover.
“Fusero, segare,” yelled John Nagoshi just seconds before the shot rang out, the air already bitter with the pungent smell of gunpowder.
And then David saw Sara’s body tug and lurch sharply to the right, her head hitting the corner of the prosecutor’s desk as she fell. He saw the blood—the thick, red explosion as it shot up into the air and sprayed everyone within reach, the masses now cowering in the wake of the gun being fired.
As he ran toward her, his ears barely registering the crash of furniture and the shrieks of horror around him, he tripped and slid across the floor, his arms outstretched in an effort to pull her away from the fray. But then she was up and crawling, her hand slipping in a thick pool of crimson before her body fell again in the middle of the puddle, her entire torso now covered in red, her face splattered with blood and other pale yellow matter that stuck to her hair in clumps.
And then David realized what she was doing, she was determined to get to him—the kid—who lay motionless, his brown eyes wide and unseeing, his thick hair now burned and matted at the side, his skin draining of color and his mouth open in a scream that David knew had been frozen as he shouted the name of the girl they both loved.
“He was trying to save me,” sobbed Sara hysterically, her hands now clutching at Sawyer’s shirt, pulling him up and resting his head on her lap, the blood now gushing from the large open wound, his body heavy and limp and cold.
“Oh God, no,” she cried, her entire body now convulsing. “No, David, please no.”
And then David enveloped her with his arms, his face now flush against hers, his mouth pressed against her ear repeating, “Shhh, Sara, Sara, I’m here, I am so sorry. Shhh, Sara, I love you. I’m here.”
And then time seemed to stand still as David and Sara and the young man named Sawyer existed as one. David and Sara’s tears cutting swaths through the blood, their eyes closed to the horror around them, and all reality lost in a blur of regret and sorrow and guilt.
90
Two hours later, after Mr. Lim had been arrested, and the room had been contained and most of the building had been evacuated and the road outside had been closed; after the police cars and ambulances had filled the streets and the spectators had been questioned, and Sara had been treated for shock as David, Nora and Arthur stayed close by her side . . . Joe finally got to tell his story.
They were in Judge Stein’s chambers, the only person not sprayed with the stains of Sawyer’s blood being the surprisingly fresh looking ADA who, David vaguely remembered, had last been seen ducking for cover behind the judge’s partition, as far away from the fracas as possible.
James had been taken to a private holding cell, his parents allowed to remain with him at least for the time being, while the jury were sequestered to a private meeting room under heavy security on the building’s top floor.
Joe was slow and deliberate, beginning with their original suspicions about Peter Nagoshi and how their investigations had led them to the recruitment of the younger Mr. Lim. He spoke of their simultaneous qualms about H. Edgar Simpson and their admittedly inappropriate decision to include the young Sawyer Jones as part of their investigatory team. He told them how Jones retrieved Simpson’s prints from the Deane Law School Common Room, unwittingly leaving his own print inside the glass, and how Susan Leigh had eventually identified the print as a match to the two in the Nagoshi’s greenhouse.
Eventually he moved on to explain how they got a district judge to fast-track a warrant to search Sawyer’s dorm, and in the process of doing so, they had recovered the long missing shoes. And finally he told the judge of his unexpected international call from Barbara Rousseau and their subsequent conversation as to what really happened on the night of Jessica Nagoshi’s death.
“Miss Rousseau lied, Judge,” said Joe. “She was with James Matheson when the Nagoshi girl was killed, but not in the way we originally suspected. Matheson is clean,” he added. “And the real killer is, we
ll, let’s just say Mr. Jones has suffered the ultimate penalty for his actions.”
And then there was silence as Arthur and David and Sara and Frank and Joe waited patiently for the judge to respond. A silence they sensed he needed, to absorb all that he had been told, until . . .
“This is preposterous,” said Katz, now standing from his chair, which was a good two feet away from the others. “Secret investigations, illegally recruited deputies, pathetically assembled evidence, which has done nothing but make a mockery of this court. Judge,” a determined Kat went on. “At the very least Lieutenant Mannix and Detective McKay should turn in their shields and report to internal affairs immediately. Their behavior has been nothing short of treasonous, and at your behest, I am personally willing to charge them both with conduct unbecoming, among other things, as soon as this meeting is over.
“As for Mr. Cavanaugh,” the Kat continued in disgust. “The fact that he recruited a murderer to act on his behalf, the fact that he carried out an entire covert investigation relating to the Nagoshis’ enterprises, the fact that he convinced his detective friends to do his dirty work and then failed to submit all of the above into discovery is, well . . . the man should be struck from the bar immediately and never allowed to practice in this fine state again.”
As he listened, David realized one extremely surprising thing—that his normal need to throttle the ridiculous ADA, that his usual response of facing off and fighting back, that the typical rush of anger that tended to accompany the Kat’s rant ings were nowhere to be found. And even more surprising was the fact that his four friends had similar looks of nonchalance on their faces. The truth was, they had seen too much in the past few hours for Katz to even register on their radar, and oddly enough, this felt good.
“All right,” said Stein at last, gesturing at Katz to resume his seat. “Let’s take this one step at a time, shall we?” And the group nodded.
“Lieutenant Mannix, Detective McKay, I want you to hand over your shields immediately and place them on the desk before me.”
David was in shock. “No, Judge,” he began. “This is my fault. Lieutenant Mannix, Detective McKay, they were only trying to . . .”
“Shhhh!” ordered Stein, his long narrow finger now placed firmly on his lips. “Please, Mr. Cavanaugh, allow me to finish. I want these two obviously exhausted detectives to go home, rest and seek counseling if they need it. Then I invite them to come back to retrieve their shields when they feel they are ready for duty. If that be in the New Year, then fine; if that be before Christmas then so be it, and if that be on Monday morning, which I think more likely the case, then that is okay with me too.”
And David nodded, and the Kat scowled, and Joe and Frank removed their shields with gratitude.
“As for you, Mr. Cavanaugh,” Stein continued. “First up, I want you to know that I have already received a note via my clerk from John Nagoshi who not only wanted me to thank the police for their efforts in this matter but also expressed a desire that I pass on his regret at what your client has had to suffer over the past few months.”
David nodded again.
“Secondly, I want you to know that I expect to be included in any follow-up investigations and reports in regards to this case. I shall anticipate a call from you daily, Mr. Cavanaugh, until this matter is finally put to rest.
“Finally,” the judge continued as he sat back in his large leather chair and removed his glasses, which contained the slightest spotting of red on the corner of the right lens, “I want to direct you to undertake one more significant task in relation to the proceedings today. I want you and your co-counsel,” he said, offering a smile to Sara, “to go free your client. For he has been incarcerated long enough, and right now, more than anything, he deserves to go home with his family.”
91
It was two days before Christmas and the snow had finally stopped, leaving the skies blue and the air fresh with the welcome warmth of the sun taking the edge off the bitter winter chill. Night fell to a star-filled sky, the moonlight strong and white, David and Sara packing the last few things for their week in Hyannis, thanks to Tony Bishop and his generous offer that they take his beach house and “go hide from the world for a while.”
“What time is it?” said David, taking another sip of his wine before tossing a picnic blanket across the room to Sara.
“Almost nine,” she said. “And Tony said not to pack things like blankets and towels,” she added, throwing the blanket right back at him. “The house is fully stocked.”
He leapt over the sofa and wrapped the blanket around her before pulling her close. “James’ big interview starts any minute.”
“I know,” she said, reaching up to kiss him. “Turn on the TV. I can finish this later.”
It had been almost two weeks since the trial—since that shocking day when they had lost and won on so many different levels. And even now they were not sure how they felt about it all—about Sawyer’s death and Mr. Lim’s incarceration, about James’ freedom, and Simpson and Westinghouse’s victory.
It had been Nora’s idea that they have a quiet Christmas—in fact, she had practically demanded they tell their respective families that they were getting away on their own. The past ten days had seen them reeling from the constant barrage of press inquiries and right now, just the idea of their imminent break was enough to make them smile.
They had barely spoken to James. Their client had been holed up in his Brookline mansion, constantly surrounded by cameras and news crews and journalists on a rotating shift. His parents had eventually hired a “manager” to represent his interests—the publicist/protector quickly streamlining James’ interviews to a series of specific exclusives, the main one of which would be airing in seconds.
“It’s starting,” said David, pouring Sara a water as the opening credits for the high-rating Newsline flashed across the screen. The anchor, a high-profile journalist named Caroline Croft, who David and Sara knew from previous cases, soon filled the frame, promising an hour of “riveting, exclusive, never-seen-before footage—the real story behind the dignified young man who never lost faith in times of unthinkable despair and grief.”
And then she threw to a special opening sequence—an emotional montage of those moments on the Superior Court steps just after James’ release—the imagery that showed James’ brief statement, where he spoke of his heartfelt thanks to his attorneys, his love for his parents and finally his respect for his two best friends.
The piece, that fell in and out of slow motion and was set to U2’s “With or Without You,” had David and Sara transfixed—the close-ups of James’ smiling face, the obvious magnitude of his parents’ relief, the beaming expressions of his two best friends and the entire group’s eventual descent down the Superior Court stairs with the crowd cheering jubilantly around them.
It was almost like watching the parting of the Red Sea, with James as Moses, literally walking into the sunset, his parents out wide, Westinghouse on his left, Simpson on his right, and an entourage of fascinated citizens shaking his hand and patting his back and offering words of admiration and congratulations and best wishes for the future.
And then the camera swung around at the joyous faces around him, doing a full three-sixty before looping back to James once again, his pale green eyes finally stopping briefly on a pretty young girl who offered the widest smile David had ever seen, lighting up the screen for the briefest of seconds, before . . .
David sat forward in his chair, the rug that was around their legs now falling to the floor.
“What is it?” asked Sara.
“Are we recording this?” he asked.
“No, but Nora is,” she said. “She set the DVD at the office. What is it, David? What did you see?”
“Not what,” he said, turning to her. “Who—the pretty blond girl in the crowd. Joe showed me a photo of her from a Deane University newspaper. I might be wrong, but I could almost swear that the girl beaming at James was none other
than his beautiful French alibi—Barbara Rousseau.”
“This better be good,” said Joe as he met David at their front office door. “It’s almost midnight and I just left Marie on the living room floor with at least fifty gifts to wrap.”
“I’m sorry,” said David, shaking his friend’s hand. “Come on up,” he said, pointing to the stairs. “They turn the elevator off at eleven.”
Fifteen minutes later, David switched off the DVD player and turned to look Joe in the eye. “Is it her?” he asked, knowing Joe was the only one who had met Rousseau in person. Barbara had agreed to fly to Boston to give her new statement to the police personally, saying she felt it was the least she could do considering the heartache she had caused.
“It’s her,” said Joe.
“But I thought you said you dialed her internationally on the last day of the trial?”
“I did,” said Joe, running his hands though his thick, dark hair. “But it was an international cell, which means . . .”
“She could have been next door and you still would have registered those international beeps,” finished Sara.
Joe nodded. “But why would she lie about being in Paris?” “Wait,” said David, getting up from his chair to move to the drawer behind his desk. “There’s something else that doesn’t make sense.”
“What’s that?” asked Joe, now staring at the document in David’s right hand.
“A courier delivery bill,” he replied, handing it to Joe. “Marking the delivery of the Australian boys’ statements as Tuesday morning, December eighth.”
“So?”
“So, according to Diane the boys only gave their statements on the Monday—the seventh, which is Tuesday, the eighth Down Under.”
“A courier that delivers from Australia overnight?” asked Joe.
“Not possible,” said David, shaking his head and returning to his chair across from Sara.
“So Diane must have got it wrong,” reasoned Joe. “They must have given their statements the week before,” he added, obviously not sure where this was going.