by Sydney Bauer
Montgomery paused then, expecting the room to respond in horror to the truth he had just voiced, but the stillness remained, as if they knew – all of them – that he had one more thing to say.
‘I am guilty however,’ he began. ‘Guilty of walking out without raising the alarm and I will have to live with that – with my own lily-livered cowardice, for the rest of my life.’
Montgomery turned then to look at his wife who sat stock-still behind him, her face flushed with colour, her eyes filling with tears. He nodded at her then as if in relief that he had finally told her the truth. And she nodded back – a gesture of support, before he lifted his hand to wipe the tears that now flowed freely down his clean-shaven cheeks. Then he turned back towards Eleanor Caspian to finish what he needed to say.
‘Do not ask my forgiveness, my dear Eleanor,’ he went on. ‘For it is I who deserve yours – yours and every other citizen of this fine country. I did my best, but in the end I failed. Tom Bradshaw was my friend and grief is God’s cruellest emotion. I miss him, Eleanor, as no doubt you do Oliver. I miss him dearly, each and every day of my life.’
66
‘Why hasn’t Ryan contacted us?’ asked David.
It was late. He was sitting in a quiet corner booth at Bristow’s – Sara to his right, Arthur at the far end and Joe and Leo King facing him from across the table.
David had finished the day on a high and therefore was somewhat at odds with the feeling of unease growing in the pit of his stomach. Montgomery’s open show of compassion at the end of proceedings had unnerved him – or more accurately made him feel guilty for not being able to share what he knew. And so, despite his determination to feel positive, he could not kick the feeling that they were being played – and that this entire hearing was just one contrived scene within a bigger, political production.
‘He said he would make some form of communication before lunch,’ he went on. ‘But there’s been no message, no note, nothing.’
‘Is it just me or is this whole thing starting to stink?’ asked Joe, as if reading David’s mind. ‘The man is alive, for Christ’s sakes. So why the hell do we have to go through the pretence of . . .’
‘Because the President told David he had to play this thing out,’ said Sara. ‘Catch Ramirez at his own game. They want us to win this fair and square, minus any hint of political agenda.’
‘Sara’s right,’ said Arthur. ‘The minute Bradshaw reveals himself Ramirez and John go into damage control. We have to allow them to think they still have a chance of pulling this off – for it is their over-confidence that will crucify them. We have to remember this isn’t just about proving Montgomery’s innocence, it’s about exposing John’s and Matthew’s guilt.’
‘Is it?’ asked David. ‘I mean, that’s another thing that doesn’t sit right – the fact that Bradshaw, who looked his own murderer in the eye, refused to tell me John’s identity. He said certain things had to be “organised” before such information could be revealed. They seem happy for us to nail Ramirez, but John is . . .’
‘Untouchable,’ finished Joe. ‘David’s right, it may be the cop in me but something tells me we’re being jerked about. I just get the feeling this isn’t going to end the way it should – with John and Matthew firmly behind bars.’
‘Be careful, lads,’ said Arthur. ‘You’re playing with fire here.’
‘I agree,’ said Leo. ‘You’re talking about questioning the rationale of the President and the Vice President of the United States. They must have their reasons for . . .’
‘For what?’ asked Joe. ‘David’s the one with his neck on the line.’
‘I know, Joe,’ said Sara. ‘But let’s face it, we really have no option but to wait for their call. Maybe Ryan will contact David tonight.’
‘He’ll have to,’ said Arthur. ‘Our witnesses are ready and according to David, the President made it very clear he did not want him to proceed with issuing their statements until he received further instructions.’
‘But that’s the problem, isn’t it,’ said David. ‘I mean, these witnesses are putting their lives at risk – they know what happened to Nancy, and they must be wondering if they are going to be next. And then there is Croker and Susan and Frank – three dedicated cops who are currently guarding our petrified witnesses with no idea as to what the hell is really going down. The President was even against my telling you guys until Ryan convinced him you could be of help.’
David grabbed his Heineken from the table and took a long, slow drink before going on.
‘As for Montgomery – the poor guy is spending every waking moment persecuting himself for not raising the alarm. The man saved the Vice President’s life, for Christ’s sake. If he hadn’t walked into that room when he did, Tom Bradshaw would be . . . well, exactly where the whole world thinks he is right now. No,’ he went on. ‘The more I think about it, the more I know this isn’t about the law, it’s about politics. And I’m afraid that unless we take back control, justice may never be served.’
It was after eleven by the time they got home, Sara opting to stay the night at David’s.
They entered the elevator together, exhausted, contemplative and still unsure as to how they would proceed tomorrow given Ryan’s ‘disappearing act’ and the legal and moral responsibility they held to their client and to the court.
And then, as they reached the apartment door and moved inside, it was David who noticed him first – his long, unfamiliar shadow frozen against the far wall. He wasn’t making an attempt to hide himself, rather just standing there, stock-still in the dark as if he had been there for centuries, patiently awaiting their return. David instinctively hit the lights which, despite still being set on dimmer from the previous evening, provided enough illumination for Sara to gasp at the intruder before them – their missing ‘instructor’, CIA Director Richard Ryan.
‘Jesus, Ryan,’ said David. ‘What in the hell do you think you are doing?’
‘Good to see you too, Cavanaugh. Miss Davis,’ said Ryan, nodding at Sara. ‘Sorry I’m so late. Well, actually it is you two that are late. I’ve been here since nine and there is nothing but crap in your fridge.’
But David had had enough.
‘Shove it, Ryan. How dare you break into my home. You have no right to . . .’
‘We need to talk,’ said Ryan, now blatantly ignoring Sara.
‘No. That’s it Ryan. I have done everything you asked. I have tried to slow things down, play it cool while I wait for your God-damned green light, even kept the whole big fucking story from my client and the detectives who have put their lives at risk by working this case.’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Ryan consolatory. ‘It’s just . . . ,’ he hesitated before going on. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Right,’ said David. ‘And I thought it was child’s play.’
They paused then, the air thick between them, David stealing a quick glance at Sara who was still standing near the doorway, no one moving, as if unsure as to how this should play out.
‘The problem is, Cavanaugh,’ Ryan began, obviously choosing his words carefully. ‘That sometimes things are better left unsaid – stories not told, evils not revealed. Sometimes the world is a better place if Mr and Mrs Joe Average aren’t exposed to what really happens in the world of pure iniquity.’
‘So what are you saying?’ asked David. ‘Are you asking us to pull back, to risk my client’s future so that the American people can be protected from the truth?’
‘Yes and no. I am not saying you can’t work to exonerate your client – the Vice President will reveal himself and you will get your dismissal. But I am telling you that exposing the truth – about GIV and their intentions – makes the government vulnerable.
‘How do you think the good people of America will react when they find out four senior government officials managed to start up an exclusive drug cartel with clients, or relatives of clients, being voting members of Congress? How do you think they will resp
ond when they find out the drug thing was just a means to an end so that they might rise to power and manipulate our system of government? What will they say when they realise we were on the brink of becoming a dictatorship – because that’s what would have happened, if John had ascended to the Presidency.
‘Bottom line,’ he said, pausing before going on. ‘We have discussed this – President Latham, Vice President Bradshaw, Chief of Staff Bryant and I – and we have agreed on a course of action. You can have Ramirez, nail him for the attempted murder of the Vice President and for manipulating an investigation to cover his tracks. Bradshaw reveals himself and your client goes free, his reputation still intact – embellished even, given he was the one that administered the drug that saved the Vice President’s life.
‘But GIV – their narcotics operation and John – I am afraid they are a “no go”. We need to handle those issues separately, privately, in our own way.’
David stood there, saying nothing, his breathing deep, his muscles tense. He could not believe what he was hearing, could not believe what he was being asked, or more accurately told to do.
He looked at Sara then, as if her face might indicate which way he should go, and in that moment he knew. For in her wide aqua eyes he saw an unfailing faith that he would make the right decision – a complete confidence that he would do what he needed to do, despite the consequences and regardless of the cost.
‘Ryan,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t you see what you are doing? You think you are serving this country by telling lies and half truths. You think the people need “protecting” when really they deserve the reassurance that justice wins out overall. No, I’m sorry, Ryan, but we’re out. You can tell the President, no offence intended, but I am doing this my way. Now if you’ll excuse us,’ he said, standing clear of the doorway. ‘We need to get some sleep. Something tells me tomorrow is going to be a very busy day.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ she asked at last, moving towards him, the moonlight from the far window casting her long narrow shadow across the apartment floor. Ryan had left a moment earlier and David still stood in the middle of the room.
‘No,’ he said, managing a smile and knowing it could be no other way.
‘If we go down this road they will try to stop us.’
‘Then we’ll go down fighting.’
‘But we still don’t know who John is,’ she said.
‘Maybe not but we . . .’ And then it hit him – just like that, the reason Ryan and company were so keen to keep this quiet. The reason Bradshaw was willing to stand aside and let his killer walk free.
‘What, David? What is it?’ she asked, taking both of his hands in hers.
‘John,’ he said.
‘John . . . I don’t . . . ?’
‘We don’t need Ryan and his merry band of politicians,’ he said. ‘We never really did. We already know who John is and, ironically,’ he said pausing to shake his head, ‘it’s been staring us in the face for weeks.’
‘David, please. You’re not making any sense.’
‘Hector Gabbit,’ he said, referring to their previous elderly client. ‘Hector Gabbit and Stuart Montgomery – polar opposites and just the same. Don’t you see Sara? The answer has been with good old Hector all along.’
67
He had called Charles Adams at six and asked him to meet him at a quiet downtown café known as Rise by seven. At that hour the café’s only clientele were banker types drinking lattes with their heads buried in the business section of the Tribune. Adams assumed David wanted to negotiate a plea and thus had agreed to the early get together only to have his entire world turned upside as David told his incredible story.
Strangely enough, the Trial Attorney had said nothing – just sat there, sipping his double espresso, listening to everything David had to say and eventually nodding when asked for his help. David even registered a half smile across his wide, strong features as Adams offered to raise the arrest warrant for one FBI Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez – and serve it personally – when David gave his cue.
By 7.30am they were shaking hands – and David thought it was funny how justice worked sometimes. In effect, he had started down his road of exposition – defying the President and enlisting the help of the Trial Attorney in making sure justice was served. Adams was a dedicated prosecutor motivated by the same principles after all – and as such, by 7.30am, had effectively become the tenth member of their team.
And so now, as he sat behind the defence table on what was to be the last day of the case known as the United States v Montgomery, he felt strangely calm, at ease.
It was as if this hearing, and everything that had led up to it, was part of his destiny. So much had happened in the past few months. He had rebuilt a relationship with the woman he once lost – and gained respect for the man who stole her from him. He had jeopardised the trust of his one true love and discovered that nothing was more important than the truth. He had watched his friends put their lives on the line and learned that justice was not an ideal but an obligation, and he had seen a man rise from the dead only to be constrained by politics, cover-ups and lies.
He saw the clerk enter the room, indicating Donovan’s arrival was imminent and took this last opportunity to turn and look at the crowd behind him – elbow to elbow, knee to knee, silent, at attention and ready to begin. He made an effort to make eye contact with the people who had made this happen – with his unbiased confidant Marc Rigotti and the cool conspirator Caroline Croft, with his long-time buddy Tony Bishop and across to his FBI friend Leo King. He looked at Nora his protector and Arthur, his champion and Sara, the woman who had re-opened his heart.
And finally he looked at her – and she at him, and in that moment they said nothing and everything as all the years of pain and regret and loss and guilt were washed away with one simple dedication – to set things right.
68
‘The defence calls FBI Washington Field Office Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez.’
Ramirez had anticipated as much. He may have even felt a small, slick sliver of fear slip down his spine as Cavanaugh called his name, but he knew there was no way the man could prove any of his grandiose accusations. They had been meticulous, scrupulous in their procedure. There were no witnesses – at least none in the land of the living.
True, the Boston attorney had done a reasonable job in building a case for his client’s innocence, but now he was allowing his freakish run of luck to fill him with a dangerous degree of over-confidence. Not a wise move. Cavanaugh was greedy. He was not satisfied with just exonerating the Professor, he wanted to find the real killers as well. It was like he was reading from the script of some ‘B’ grade legal drama following some erroneously predictable plot where the ‘bad guy’ gives it all up in the end. Tidy for TV sure, but this was real life, and in the end, Cavanaugh didn’t have a leg to stand on.
He started just as Ramirez expected he would, asking him to tell the court about his status at the FBI and his responsibilities on the night of 30 April. He asked about the security measures, the order of procedure, the inhabitants of the fifth floor and even Bradshaw’s demeanour on the night – which Ramirez described as considerably ‘up beat’.
Completely true of course, up until John had injected the Vice President with the small syringe of succinylcholine – the miniature needle so long and slim that it fit ‘just so’ inside John’s beaded rectangular designer purse. She’d injected him at the back of his neck and Bradshaw swatted at it as you would a mosquito who had arrived for dinner uninvited. Of course, it wasn’t long before he realised the truth and by then he was no longer able to do anything about it.
‘Are you a good investigator, Assistant Director?’ asked Cavanaugh, refocusing Ramirez on the task at hand.
‘Mr Cavanaugh, I would suggest you do not get to the position I am in without being a capable investigator. I do work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, after all.’
‘Co
me now, Assistant Director, we appreciate your modesty but truth be told, you answer only to the Director of the FBI do you not? In fact, rumour has it you could well be next in line for the top job when Director Delgado moves on.’
‘If you say so, Mr Cavanaugh,’ said Ramirez with a half smile. ‘However, I have never viewed my position from a perspective of rank, more from a stance of responsibility. I am honoured to hold the position I do. I have great respect for the laws of this country and work hard to make sure they are upheld. If I am rewarded for that with promotion through the Bureau then that is my superior’s prerogative, not mine.’
‘Fair enough,’ said David. ‘So, I suppose you won’t mind if we call on your assistance to “uphold” the law today. You are the lead investigator on this matter, after all, so who better to lead us through the evidence than the man who collated it in the first place. Am I right, Assistant Director?’
But Cavanaugh did not wait for his reply, just moved to his desk to retrieve those two pesky video tapes. Well, they could easily be explained, thought Ramirez. And if that was all Cavanaugh had – this was going to be a walk in the park.
‘Let’s start with what we know then, shall we?’ said David, stacking the two tapes in front of the witness, their hard plastic surface making contact with the wooden platform with a ‘thwack’. ‘Two tapes: with the second – or the original – a good four minutes longer than the first. Any idea how this could have happened, Assistant Director?’
‘No idea whatsoever.’
‘You didn’t edit the original?’
‘Of course not. Why would I waste my time playing “cut the tape” when the four minutes in question had nothing of interest on them? Yes, I reentered the Vice President’s suite to check on security. Yes, Vice President Bradshaw asked me to make sure he was given a few moments’ peace. Yes, I told Chief of Staff Bryant as much. And no – despite your obvious enthusiasm to suggest otherwise – there was nothing untoward about any of these occurrences.