Annie's Verdict (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 6)

by John Ellsworth

  "Ordinarily I would say yes. But where there has been so much killing I'm afraid I want to see Annie get a fresh start. Someplace away from old memories, places, and things. No, I want Annie here with me, Mr. Gresham. Has the mad woman who was stalking her been arrested?"

  "It was more like tracking her--hunter and quarry. No, she's still at large."

  "Then, by all means, let's get her placed with me without delay. She'll never be found on the other end of the country."

  "I wish I could agree," I said, "but I don't. Annie is very safe here with us. She and I are surrounded by three-deep security all day and night. No one can get through to her."

  "I wish I had your certainty, Mr. Gresham, but I don't."

  "Then we have to agree to disagree."

  "Do I need to file a motion with the court, Mr. Gresham? Maybe a motion alleging unlawful restraint by you?"

  She had me there. She could do that, and there was nothing I could do.

  "No, no need to file. I'd like to remain in touch with Annie, and I want no hard feelings between you and me."

  "Good. Then let's talk airline arrangements. Is this week too soon for you? Say, have her fly out Saturday morning? Or is Sunday better?

  "Saturday. I'll make the arrangements and let you know.

  I felt deflated. As I said, she had the legal right to custody. I had nothing. Even the argument that she would be safer with me wouldn't withstand judicial scrutiny.

  Annie was on her way to Berkeley.

  That night I tried to discuss the new arrangements with Annie. But she only sat at her desk in her room, refusing to turn and look at me when I told her I'd been in touch with her aunt about her living arrangements. So I plunged ahead.

  "Your aunt has legal custody of you, Annie. She knows the judges in Berkeley, and she's been to court and gotten papers. There's nothing I can do to stop her."

  Silence. Except for a steady tap-tap-tap on her computer keyboard as she retreated inside her shell.

  "Papers were served on you here at the house some time ago before you left for Chicago. I just didn't tell you then. She served me, too. We were too busy with your protection to take a side trip to Berkeley, so legal custody of you was awarded to her without objection. I'm so, so sorry."

  Still, the keyboard tapping continued. Annie refused to look at me although I asked her several times.

  It was unsettling, and I was despondent. I could only imagine how she must feel. But I tried once again.

  "What if I ask your aunt for visitation every summer? A month with me back here? Does that help?"

  Her fingers stopped typing, and I thought I'd struck a chord. But, just as fast they started up again. She was going to be resolute and untouchable. Annie could do that to you. It wasn't the first time she had completely shut me out. She was gone, hiding somewhere deep inside herself, non-verbal.

  That weekend, I had her and her two suitcases aboard the United Saturday morning flight to Berkeley. She wouldn't even look at me as I walked her onto the plane and helped find her seat. She buckled in without a word then turned her head to stare out the window.

  So I was lost. There was no way of forcing communication with Annie. I was standing in the aisle with other passengers trying to squeeze past me, so I soon had to clear out.

  "Goodbye, Annie," I said to her just as I was leaving. "I'll call you."

  Nothing. No goodbye, no go-to-hell, nothing.

  But I loved her all the same and knew I always would.

  Then I walked off the plane, back up the jetway, and put on my sunglasses before it became evident to all who looked at me that I was crying.

  Even tears didn't ease my sadness, however.

  My tears were disconnected from my feelings.

  Just like my precious Annie.

  47

  I told his attorney that he was subject to recall, so Paul Wexler shouldn't have been surprised when I gave notice of his continued grand jury appearance. So far the case was entitled UNITED STATES OF AMERICA vs. JOHN DOE, but the JOHN DOE name was about to be supplanted by PAUL WEXLER. I was sure I was very close to having enough evidence to indict him.

  Once he was settled on the witness stand, I began.

  "Mr. Wexler, describe your contract with Rudy Geneseo."

  "Who?"

  "The man you hired to murder Gerald Tybaum. Tell the grand jury what your contract with this Rudy person meant to accomplish."

  "I don't understand."

  "We know that you and Rudy Geneseo conspired to murder Gerald Tybaum. Do you deny this?"

  "I deny it, sir."

  "Then please allow me to show you some banking records."

  "Oh."

  "First off, the blow-up of the GULP account in Charter Bank and Mercantile of Boston."

  I displayed the blow-up. It showed where the money had left one account at Charter Bank and Mercantile of Boston and then emerged in the account of another at Charter Bank and Mercantile of Boston.

  I then showed a blow-up depicting the movement of funds. Jack Ames and his team at the FBI had gone to work on tracking down the identity of the person who had facilitated the cash payouts and deposits. He started with the most obvious choice, Paul Wexler. The bank's vault records proved that Wexler had visited the bank vault on the same dates as the cash withdrawals and that he had opened the account for Green Laundry and Cleaning. Access identities included, of all people, Rudy Geneseo.

  "Now do you recognize these transactions depicted on the second blow-up?"

  "I don't recognize them, no."

  "Mr. Wexler, you're telling the grand jury you've never taken the time to look at the transactions that moved your company's money around to the tune of twelve-million-dollars?"

  "I didn't say that. You asked if I recognized it. I don't. This doesn't mean I haven't seen it before. If I did, then I just don't recognize it at this point because I didn't think it proved anything."

  Next, I produced a blow-up of the bank's records that facilitated the movement of PAC funds from the PAC's account to the account for Green Laundry and Cleaning.

  "Tell us about this transaction. You did it at both ends: you transferred PAC funds totaling seventy-thousand dollars from the PAC bank account to the Green Laundry account the same bank. Why did you do this?"

  "As I remember, Green Laundry was a campaign contributor that demanded its money be returned after Gerry Tybaum lost the election. It happens. I returned their seventy-thousand dollars."

  "What about this signature transaction where Rudy Geneseo came to the bank and wired the seventy-thousand to a Swiss account? Can you tell us why a campaign contributor would hide its money in Zurich?"

  "I can't speak for a campaign contributor's business purposing, Mr. Gresham. Sorry."

  He spread his hands and looked over at the grand jury. They returned blank stares. He then smiled. They did not react. He turned back to me.

  "Mr. Wexler, isn't it true that you used seventy-thousand of your PAC's money to hire Rudy Geneseo to murder Gerry Tybaum?"

  "Untrue!"

  "You don't deny that Geneseo was shot dead in Gerry Tybaum's youngest girl's bedroom as Geneseo was aiming his gun at the back of her head?"

  "I don't know about that."

  "How do you expect us to believe the seventy-thousand dollars wasn't used to hire Geneseo to murder Gerry Tybaum and his daughter? How dumb do you think we are?"

  "I don't know about that. I don't know what Geneseo was doing."

  "So you deny all knowledge of Mr. Geneseo?"

  "Yes. I don't know the man."

  "All right. I think we're finished here, Mr. Wexler. Does the grand jury have any questions?"

  A grand juror whose name I can't reveal raised her hand. She looked rather fragile in her late-winter dress, and she looked wan. She asked, "Do you honestly think we're so stupid we don't see how you paid this man to kill Gerry's daughter? And probably Gerry?"

  "No, I don't think--"

  "Forget it!" said the grand juror and
sat down in her chair, throwing knife looks at Wexler.

  I then dismissed the witness and asked the clerk to read the indictment I had prepared. It charged Paul Wexler with conspiracy to commit the murders of Gerry Tybaum, Mona Tybaum, Jarrod Tybaum, and the attempted murder of Annie Tybaum.

  "All in favor of indicting Paul Wexler on the terms stated, please raise your hands.

  It was unanimous.

  Wexler was now officially indicted.

  He belonged to me.

  48

  It hadn't been quite a full month when I got the phone call from Annie's aunt in Berkeley. I was sitting in my office, reviewing the plea of not guilty filed by Paul Wexler's lawyers, when the call came in.

  "Hello, this is Michael Gresham."

  "Michael, this is Geraldine Tybaum," she said, using her maiden name.

  "Hello, Ms. Tybaum. How's our favorite twelve-year-old doing these days?"

  "We need to talk, Mr. Gresham. I've had Annie to my own psychiatrist's office three times. She refused to speak to Dr. Witham, but she did write him a letter."

  "And she said in the letter?"

  "The gist of the letter is she misses her family. Enough that she cries when no one's around. But most of all--you're going to love this--she misses you and wants to be with you."

  "We were very close, Ms. Tybaum."

  "She hasn't spoken to me even one time since she's been here. If you hadn't sent her list of favorite foods, she'd be starving by now. It's hopeless. And I love her enough to grant her wish. I'm sending her back to you, Michael. And I'm signing over custody so that you can sign papers for her and so forth as any parent can."

  I was stunned.

  Annie was coming home!

  "One requirement before I agree, Ms. Tybaum."

  "Which is what?"

  "You will consent to me adopting Annie. I want to make her my child."

  "Will I be allowed visitation if she's open to it?"

  "Absolutely. I'd never try to cut you off from your niece."

  "Then I'll waive any rights I have. She's already your daughter, Mr. Gresham. Make it official with my blessings."

  "I'll be dictating the paperwork today."

  "I'll send her to you this Saturday when I'm off work. Does that work out for you?"

  "I'd come in the middle of the night for Annie," I said. "Saturday is great!"

  "Goodbye, Mr. Gresham. And good luck."

  Two hours later, I received confirmation of her flight and arrival time. Annie was coming home Saturday at three o'clock precisely four Saturdays since I had put her on the plane to leave. I couldn't have been happier and immediately called Verona with the good news.

  "The kids and I will have her bedroom ready," Verona said. "Maybe I'll even get bunk beds so Dania can sleep in with her big sister now and then. She talks about that when her sister comes back, you know?"

  "No, I didn't know."

  "Oh, the kids have been telling me all along that the aunt wouldn't keep Annie. They said Annie would outlast her. Now look; she has."

  At noon that next Saturday we all journeyed to Reagan International to collect up Annie and give her our all-in welcome. Sure enough, coming up the jetway, on seeing me she doubled her gait and then was running, her computer bag banging against her hip. She ran into my arms and wrapped herself around me. Then she was soundlessly crying, and I started crying too.

  We carried on like that for several minutes before Verona got us herded up and headed for the parking garage.

  On the ride home, I said into the rearview mirror, "Welcome home, Annie."

  For the first time in a month, she spoke. "Thank you for taking me back, Michael. I love you."

  "Well, we love you too, and we're all delighted you joined us."

  "I'm ready to work with you some more, too, on my dad's killer."

  "He's just been charged with the crime. A man by the name of Paul Wexler."

  It went silent for a minute, then, "I thought I told you. The vice president killed my family."

  "Well, the evidence at the grand jury just doesn't support that, Annie."

  "Then you haven't found all the evidence yet. I'm telling you I'm right, Michael."

  "Well, we're still looking."

  "Number two in what I have to say. I want you to teach me how to shoot a gun."

  I looked at her in the mirror. "You want to learn to shoot--why?"

  "Is Nivea Young still on the loose?"

  "Yes."

  "Then wouldn't you want to know how to shoot too if you were me?"

  "Probably. Yes."

  "Please find a teacher for me. I'm ready now."

  "All right I think I know who we'll use."

  "Good. Name?"

  "Rusty Xiang."

  "Your other son?"

  Silence from me. How could she possibly know this?

  "How did you know?"

  "I knew you were in Moscow last year on a trial. So I looked it up on TASS. The whole thing is on there. Reading between the lines, you wouldn't have been there at all if it wasn't your son you were defending."

  "Who is Rusty, Dad?" asked Dania.

  "He's my son."

  "When do we get to meet him?"

  "Very soon now. This week, probably."

  "Let's make sure that happens, Michael," said Annie, more demanding than I'd ever heard her before.

  "All right."

  "I'm very serious about taking steps to protect myself. I need that firearms training without delay."

  I agreed. Annie deserved to know how to defend herself, given the severe breach of the defenses around her in Evanston. She had every right to be worried.

  We all did.

  That next day, Annie went shooting with Rusty.

  "This is the magazine, this is the muzzle, this is--"

  Annie looked impatiently at her guide. "Show me how to aim and shoot. Isn't that why we're here?"

  They were at the firing range at National Guns & Ammo in Annapolis. It was the most popular gun range/firearms outlet in the DC area. Rusty always was bumping into CIA agents he knew by name and police officers and detectives he was meeting now that he worked with the USAO.

  "This is a very popular place," Rusty told Annie. "I'm hoping it's not a long wait for a target."

  "You come to this one to keep sharp?"

  "I do. This place is also anonymous. They give everyone a number, so real names don't appear on their sign-in sheets and the like. I wouldn't be anyplace else."

  "Works for me too, then," said Annie.

  Their number finally came up, and they hurried to their firing range. Then he provided shooting eyewear and earplugs. He went through gun safety with Annie.

  Finally, it was time to shoot. Rusty positioned his new sister--papers had been filed for the adoption--at the firing line, adjusted her stance, and helped her aim the gun at the human silhouette target.

  "Now squeeze the trigger. Exhale first, then squeeze. Good, good."

  Annie's gun erupted and the target showed a hit about the centerline of the chest.

  Rusty knew--figured--the girl's accuracy was luck. He told her to fire a second time.

  A hole appeared in the target's head, just above the right eye.

  "Not bad, Annie, not bad."

  "I want to empty the magazine on him now. Is that cool?"

  "It is. Empty away."

  Annie squeezed off a dozen more shots before dropping her arms and placing the gun on the shelf before her.

  "What?"

  "She's dead," Annie said. "I'm saving the rest of my bullets in case anyone else came with her."

  "Smart lady," Rusty agreed. "Now let's learn how to strip and assemble this weapon. Then we'll run another couple hundred rounds through it and call it a day."

  "If I want to fire my most high-percentage shot, where would that be, Rusty?"

  "You're talking smack in the middle of the chest, then. The reason is, the head can move around. The chest cannot. So disable your target with th
at chest shot and then walk up and put two in his head."

  "Her head."

  "Her head, then."

  "Let me try a few hundred chest shots then. Let's make this perfect."

  "You're on."

  49

  Time with Michael went by too quickly in the evenings, for Annie Tybaum. But time alone during the day was interminably slow now that she was under police protection again and unable even to walk outside without some burly marshal directing her around behind the house to the treehouse and adult swing set. Two months had passed by, and Annie fitted in well enough with the family. There were inconsistencies the other kids had to learn how to deal with, and there were times of extreme moodiness with Annie and emotional ups and downs and times of rocking up and back, up and back, for an hour or more when everyone knew just to leave her alone.

  But there were also times to snoop around the house. She was excited when she discovered Michael's gun. He had never talked about it, but she knew that his Chicago gun was marked as evidence in the Gerry Tybaum murder case. But this one was new, a small pocket Glock 26 in .40 caliber.

  Now all she needed was a way to get to Annapolis. So she started a campaign for a bus pass, ostensibly so she could tour the Naval Academy and its environs. The pass was acquired--against Michael's and Verona's better judgment--, and Michael sat down with her several nights and studied the bus routes and which one got you where. When she was alone, Annie memorized the routes in one sitting. The trip to Annapolis was easy enough on Route 220 of the Maryland MTA.

  It wasn't long before she was being dropped at the bus stop, but always there was a U.S. Marshal shadowing and protecting her. Until one day over the Fourth of July when she managed to escape her overseer and jump on Route 220.

  She walked up and down the bus twice, looking for the Marshal. He hadn't made the connection that Annie had made, scrambling from the front of the bus to the rear door exit, where she jumped ship. An old ploy but it worked this time.

  She had decided that if Nivea Young were still in the area, she would sooner or later go shooting to keep her skill-level top-drawer. And what better place than National Guns & Ammo?