by Sydney Bauer
‘Good point,’ interrupted David, turning towards the Judge. ‘Your Honour, I have no problem with Dr Svenson answering Mr Adams’ query. In fact, allow me to rephrase his question. Dr Svenson,’ he said, turning towards his witness once again. ‘Could Professor Montgomery have administered both drugs, the succinylcholine to paralyse the Vice President and the OxyContin to kill him?’
‘Of course,’ said Svenson. ‘But he did not.’
And that was it. The room erupted in an explosion of confusion, forcing Donovan to raise his gavel, slamming it down on his desk as he called for order.
‘Dr Svenson,’ yelled Donovan over the hubbub. ‘Please explain your answer to the court.’
‘Yes, Your Honour,’ said Svenson. ‘It is impossible that Professor Montgomery administered both drugs due to metabolic rate of OxyContin. After injection, even such a high dose of OxyContin take at least ten minutes to result in respiratory depression and cardiac arrest.’
‘So,’ said David. ‘Even if the Professor injected the first drug as soon as he entered the Vice President’s suite at 8.17pm, and then waited the two minutes for the succinylcholine to take effect by 8.19, and then rushed to place the Vice President – a larger man than himself – neatly on the bed at 8.20, and then folded his sleeve and administered the OxyContin and arranged the drug paraphernalia next to his bed so that his death appeared like an overdose, 8.21 tops, and then walked calmly out the door, the Vice President would have been alive for at least ten minutes after the OxyContin was injected – say until 8.31pm.’
‘Roughly, yes.’
‘But Mrs Bradshaw found her husband dead exactly one minute after the Professor had left the room – at 8.22pm. And she raised the alarm a minute later at 8.23, after which numerous people – Secret Service, FBI and so on – attended to the Vice President, none of whom could detect a heart beat.’
‘So I am told. Yes,’ said Svenson.
‘Yes,’ said David. ‘So, the drugs – both of them – must have been administered earlier, long before the Professor even arrived at Tom Bradshaw’s Presidential suite door.’
‘Medically speaking, yes.’
David walked towards the witness quickly, angling himself so that he faced both Svenson and Judge Donovan before clarifying, ‘So Dr Svenson, just so we are clear, Professor Montgomery could not have killed the Vice President, simply because he did not have the time to do so.’
‘No time. That’s right,’ said Gus. ‘It is a medical impossibility.’
65
‘He was different,’ she said, her green eyes wide, her shiny black hair resting on her slim but broad shoulders. ‘He was warm, genuine. We have a lot of famous people stay at the Fairmont but I have never met anyone like Vice President Bradshaw. The Vice President was . . . unaffected, real.’
Gus Svenson’s showstopper testimony over, David immediately followed up after lunch with Maeve Barlow.
‘So tell us, Maeve, what happened after your short chat with the Vice President?’
‘Well I realised he was very busy. In fact Mrs Bradshaw . . .’
Maeve stopped there and David sensed his witness was a little embarrassed about having overheard what was obviously meant to be a private conversation between Bradshaw and his wife. But David knew this seemingly inconsequential piece of evidence would eventually turn out to be significant – and so he pushed on.
‘It’s okay, Maeve, go ahead.’
‘Well, I overheard Mrs Bradshaw asking the Vice President to try to get a few moments rest before the function. She was obviously concerned about his welfare after what must have been a very tiring day. She asked him to keep his next meeting short and . . .’
‘The meeting with CIA Director Richard Ryan,’ interrupted David.
‘Yes, I assumed so, as she mentioned the name “Dick”, and then she suggested she ask his physician to check in on him – Professor Stuart Montgomery.’
Maeve looked downwards as if uncomfortable at being privy to events which everyone suspected had led to Tom Bradshaw’s death. But she soon collected herself and looked up again, resettling herself in her seat and ready to answer the next question.
‘And what was the Vice President’s response to Mrs Bradshaw’s mention of Professor Montgomery?’ asked David.
‘The Vice President said something like “no, I’ll be fine,” before commenting that he and the Professor had had a falling out. But I got the sense it was not a serious argument, just one of those silly altercations that resolve themselves in time.’
‘Objection,’ yelled Adams. ‘Speculation.’
‘He’s right, Mr Cavanaugh,’ said Donovan.
‘Judge, if Mr Adams would allow the witness to continue, I think she can clarify as to how she came to the conclusion that the Vice President’s and my client’s falling out was a mild and recurring part of their friendship.’
‘All right, Mr Cavanaugh, your witness may continue. But Ms Barlow,’ Donovan said, turning to Maeve, ‘please refrain from telling us what you may have sensed and restrict your responses to what you heard or saw.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Maeve, her cheeks flush. ‘I’m sorry, Your Honour.’
‘It’s okay, Maeve,’ said David. ‘Just tell us why you thought their argument was of a light-hearted nature.’
‘Well, I remember the Vice President saying they’d “get over it”. That he enjoyed sparring with the Professor. He did not look troubled by it, in fact he was smiling as he mentioned it like it was some sort of “game”.’
‘Right,’ said David, now happy to move on. ‘And then you went about your duties and . . .’
‘Yes, I finished the turndown and left the suite just as Director Ryan arrived. The Vice President called him in and then he . . .’
‘Go ahead, Maeve.’
‘Well, it sounds a little odd out of context, but he collected the Bible from his bedroom and handed it to the Director commenting that it was “for inspiration” and that he had “made some notes”.’
Check, thought David, before changing tack again.
‘And that was the last time you saw the Vice President?’
‘Unfortunately yes,’ she said with genuine grief.
‘Thank you, Maeve,’ said David, making his way back to his desk, prompting an obviously eager Adams to begin rising to his feet.
But David had not finished, in fact, he was simply retreating so that he could retrieve his own ‘piece of magic’ from the defence desk. An exhibit that looked identical to the one Adams had showcased before – except, in essence, very, very different.
David said nothing, simply retraced the Trial Attorney’s steps towards the TV and video player. Inserting the tape in the slot and fast forwarding to a point just before missing four minutes. Still silent, he started with the vision of the now-familiar corridor, keeping one eye on the television and the other on the Judge who, he now noticed, was starting to furrow his freckled brow.
The Judge went to say something, but closed his mouth again. Adams stood to object, but Donovan motioned him down and the entire courtroom sat in wonder at the reality that was 8.03 – when FBI Assistant Director Ramirez re-entered Tom Bradshaw’s suite – to 8.07 when he left the room again only to meet with a determined looking Maxine Bryant in the corridor.
At the end of the sequence David paused, capturing exactly what his co-counsel had seen barely nights before – a housemaid’s shoe heel and the corner of her skirt.
‘Maeve,’ said David, pointing at the two items of clothing. ‘Is this you?’
‘Yes,’ said Maeve. ‘I had just finished another turndown in the room across the corridor when I saw Assistant Director Ramirez and US Chief of Staff Bryant having a conversation outside the Vice President’s room.’
‘And what was the nature of this conversation Maeve?’ asked David at last.
‘The Assistant Director told Mrs Bryant that the Vice President was not accepting visitors. That he was resting and could not be disturbed under any circumsta
nces.’
‘And Mrs Bryant’s response?’
‘I got the feeling she may have felt a little – well, miffed. Agent Ramirez was blocking the door and well, as you can see from the tape, she went back to her room.’
‘At 8.07?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ten minutes before the Professor entered?’ David asked, gesturing at his client.
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, Maeve. No further questions, Your Honour.’
Ramirez had had enough. First the succinylcholine – the so-called undetectable narcotic that had been detected after all – and then the original tape. He needed Adams to discredit the young Barlow’s recall, question Svenson’s medical data and throw the spotlight back on to the physical information they had compiled and the man they had charged in the first place.
Everything had gone so well to date. Framing Montgomery had been even easier than expected – his recent spat with Bradshaw, the monitoring of his patients until he prescribed a fatal painkiller, his presence requested and honoured on the night in question, and his kind contribution in the form of the plastic syringe cover he unwittingly left behind. He even helped their cause by ‘taking flight’ after finding the President dead in his hotel room bed. They had expected him to raise the alarm immediately, enabling them to accuse him of feigning surprise to cover his ‘murderous tracks’, but his failure to report his finding made him look even guiltier than he was supposed to be. Like a cowardly killer on the run – the perfect stooge in the perfectly constructed crime.
Ramirez was determined all their hard work would not go to waste and knew, despite his best efforts, only one man could stop this morning’s preposterous events from shattering their years of meticulous planning in one unexpected blow. And so he took a breath before leaning forward and placing his hands on Trial Attorney Adams’ shoulders. He moved in close, now mere inches from Adams’ right ear before opening his mouth to say, ‘Adams’. His voice was low, steady, cool. ‘This is not acceptable. The girl is a servant, for Christ’s sake, who’s to say she isn’t sampling the mini-bar herself? And as for the local ME – medicine is by nature a science of variance. Svenson gave one man’s opinion and most likely a biased one, given he is tight with defence counsel.
‘Eleanor Caspian’s statement proves the Professor had access to the OxyContin,’ Ramirez continued, ‘and then there is the plastic syringe cover. The Professor injected Bradshaw with something that night and if not the succinylcholine or the OxyContin, then what?’ He paused before going on, squeezing Adams’ shoulders a little tighter before speaking again. ‘You have him. Do not let this Boston hack destroy what we know is a foolproof case. Montgomery did it. There is no other option. No other option for the court and no other option for you.’
Ramirez could feel the man’s large deltoids tense under his grip, but he did not release him as yet, for he had one more thing to say. ‘If I were you, Mr Adams, I would get to your feet, now, for you have a hearing to win. You do not want to go down in history as the man who let Saint Tom’s killer walk. For people who suffer such devastating humiliation have been known to cut their own lives short rather than suffer the mortification of defeat.’
And with that he released Adams, finishing with a discreet pat on the man’s back. And Adams turned ever so slightly to make two simple points to the man who had just threatened his life. ‘Assistant Director Ramirez,’ he began, twisting his body a full 180 degrees, bending low to whisper right back into the agent’s ear. ‘First up, I will win this case, but not because of you. I will win this because I am good at what I do – the best in fact. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, I need you to know, that if you ever touch me again, if you ever grab me physically and make pathetic thinly veiled threats on my career or my person, I will kill you. I swear to God.’
‘Your Honour,’ Adams began. ‘I appreciate the defence’s desperation and I acknowledge Dr Svenson’s experience. I also know I could pull in a long line of medical experts to dispute Dr Svenson’s opinions on drug metabolism – which I will do at trial – and that’s a promise.
‘I believe Miss Barlow’s motives are genuine – which makes the defence’s actions all the more reprehensible. They are using this young woman, Your Honour, in a despairing effort to divert the court’s attention from the real killer.’
Adams started pacing now, casting his deep, impressive voice around the courtroom with gusto. ‘How convenient for this tape to turn up this morning, a tape we have had no opportunity to authenticate. How convenient and how ineffectual. But even if the video is an original, it still does not exonerate their client.’
He stopped short then, as if determined to make his final, all enlightening point. ‘Assistant Director Ramirez is entitled to check on the Vice President’s room – in fact it was his job as the leading FBI Agent on site that evening. Maxine Bryant is also entitled to seek an audience with her son-in-law, and Agent Ramirez would have been remiss if he had not repeated what had obviously been a strong request for some peace and quiet from the Vice President. The man was tired, understandably so, in fact Mr Cavanaugh’s own witness told us his wife recommended he take a much needed rest.
‘Enough with this speculation,’ he said, his right arm high as if he was about to make an all important declaration. ‘Let’s look at the facts. Montgomery was in that room, he was currently in the middle of an ongoing feud with the deceased and he had proven access to the drug that killed the Vice President. That’s means, motive, opportunity. Means, motive, opportunity,’ he repeated. ‘It was not until Professor Stuart Montgomery entered the room that the Vice President came to harm – critical, fatal, irreversible harm. In other words, Your Honour, this all proves nothing. The man is guilty, no question, and this is all one big fat waste of time.’
‘So,’ said Adams, pausing before he went on. ‘Might I suggest we get to the crux of this matter – to the bona fide, undisputed physical evidence supplied by Mrs Eleanor Caspian and that of the plastic syringe cover carrying the Professor’s print and found under Vice President Bradshaw’s death bed. Unfortunately Mrs Caspian is now residing in Brussels, and due to a recent breakdown following the death of her husband, will not be returning to the United States forthwith. But her statement is extremely comprehensive and tabled as . . .’
‘Your Honour,’ interrupted David yet again. He knew he had been asked to stall for time, but Adams had opened the door and by hell he was going to walk right on in. He had listened to Adams’ lecture, heard him do a fairly decent job of discrediting the defence’s arguments and given him enough rope to well . . .
And so, Presidential instruction or not, his gut instinct told him it was now or never. It was time to wrap that rope around said thick neck and, pull. ‘Mr Adams is right again,’ he said. ‘The defence is also committed to getting to the “crux” of this hearing and is therefore happy to assist the prosecution on its road to discovery.’
And with that David turned towards the back of the courtroom where Nora Kelly was now standing straight-backed and ready to act. David gave Nora a nod and she opened the door, stepped out for a few seconds and re-entered with a distinguished elderly woman at her elbow. Eleanor Caspian made her way to the front of the courtroom, stride determined, head high and addressed the Judge before her.
‘My name is Eleanor Caspian,’ she said. ‘And I would like to change my statement.’
The courtroom erupted around her, the press leaning forward to get a better view of the elegant older woman. David immediately ushered her to the witness stand so that she might be sworn in and make her new statement uninterrupted.
‘My name is Eleanor Katherine Caspian,’ she repeated, now holding a small slip of paper she had retrieved from her coat pocket. ‘My husband is . . . was Oliver Caspian, ex-Governor of Connecticut. My husband recently died of prostate cancer but before he did, he sought the services of his good friend and mine, Professor Stuart Montgomery.’
Eleanor lifted the glass of water be
fore her, sipping it slowly before going on. ‘On Saturday 16 April, my husband went to see Professor Montgomery at his Washington Memorial Hospital consulting rooms and during this visit asked the Professor to assist him in alleviating the terrible pain that plagued him in the weeks preceding his death. Professor Montgomery kindly wrote him a prescription for OxyContin, 160mg, and my husband filled the script that very same day at a pharmacy at Washington’s Dupont Circle owned by a Mr Ivan Schowdoski. I know this because I have the prescription repeat here,’ she said, fishing the repeat from her brown leather purse. ‘With me, in my hand today.’
David stole a quick glance at Ramirez, his expression stony, his brow now set in a contorted stricture of knots.
‘My husband did not take the drug,’ Eleanor Caspian went on. ‘He remained stoic to the end, deferring taking the OxyContin for fear it may inhibit his clarity in his final days. But the OxyContin intended for my husband was exactly that – intended for my husband and not for the late Vice President. Finally, I want to apologise, here, in open court today, to the man I wrongly believed used my husband as a means of perpetrating the murder of another great man named Thomas Wills Bradshaw.
‘I am sorry, Stuart,’ she said, now turning to her right to face Montgomery. ‘I am sorry with all my heart and thank you for attempting to ease my dear late husband’s pain in those horrible, wonderful final days. If it is in your heart and somehow, knowing you as I do, I believe it is, I ask you to forgive me.’
And then Montgomery did something he had been wanting to do, needing to do, for months. He got to his feet, tears in his eyes and spoke of what he knew to be true.
‘It’s all right, Eleanor,’ he said, the room around him now deathly still. ‘Oliver was a good man and I would have done more for him if I could. I do not forgive you, my dear lady, simply because there is nothing to forgive. For I did not kill Tom Bradshaw. On the contrary, I tried to save him – for he was already dead when I entered his suite.’