by Sydney Bauer
‘Your Honour,’ said David. ‘This is Los Angeles Detective Samuel Croker who has been assisting us in our investigations. I believe he can clarify the whereabouts of Agent Doyle and Assistant Director Toovey, if you would permit him to make a brief presentation to the court.’
Donovan glanced at Adams again, his eyebrows raised as if asking the Trial Attorney if he had any intention in hell of objecting, but Adams merely shrugged and Donovan nodded – perhaps realising they were all now speeding down a road from which there was no turning back.
‘All right, Detective Croker,’ said Donovan. ‘What have you got?’
Croker proceeded to move to the front of the courtroom where he assembled five quickly organised wooden stands on which he placed the large pieces of board – each one showing a blown up colour photograph depicting the macabre contortions of death.
‘Your Honour,’ Croker began. ‘The people in these photographs are all the victims of homicide orchestrated or committed by the same individual – Matthew, alias FBI Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez – one of the only two remaining members of the aforementioned Gospel Four.
‘The first two victims, shown here from left to right are former DEA Agent Robert Doyle, GIV code name Luke, and former Customs and Border Protection’s Assistant Director of Intelligence Travis Toovey, GIV code name Mark. Agent Doyle was killed in Los Angeles, days after the Vice President’s death for his dissension in the group – and his decision to confide in his wife regarding his co-conspirator’s intentions. Travis Toovey was murdered in his Washington apartment almost two weeks ago. While the exact motive for Assistant Director Toovey’s murder is not clear, we understand he may have become a liability to the remaining two’s success and thus was disposed of before he could cause them any further inconvenience.’
Croker took a breath before going on. David knew how hard this was for him and admired both his ability as a cop and his obvious capacity for restraint given Nancy Doyle’s killer sat a mere few feet away.
‘The third and fourth photographs show Robert Doyle’s son Gavin, thirteen, who was killed in an automobile collision in the Hollywood Hills following an act of sabotage to his mother’s car. His mother was Doyle’s wife, Nancy.’ Croker hesitated then and David saw him swallow the lump in his throat.
‘Nancy Doyle was gunned down in cold blood three nights ago in her suite at the Boston Regency Park Hotel,’ Croker continued. ‘Mrs Doyle had bravely given me her statement and committed to appearing personally in this courtroom today – despite the deaths of her husband and son, and in the knowledge that her life was in imminent danger.’
David saw Croker’s hands clench and release, clench and release and at that point wondered if the LA Detective had it in him to continue. But Croker was determined, and so took another breath before stepping towards the fifth photograph and moving on.
‘The fifth and final photograph is of Thomas Wills Bradshaw.’
And there it was before them – the first time the public had seen their beloved Saint Tom in death, his body stiff, his eyes wide and tortured, his left arm exposed in a junkie’s static dance. It was difficult to absorb – a brutal onslaught of information which saw many in the room shield their eyes from the gruesome montage that sat like a study of horror before them.
‘We have information the Vice President, along with CIA Director Richard Ryan, was investigating the renegade Four at the time of his death and had, in fact, gone some ways to identifying the quad of criminals in question. We also have evidence to suggest the Vice President’s death was dually motivated by fear of exposure and ambition. We . . .’
‘Ambition?’ said Donovan. ‘Mr Cavanaugh, these accusations are beginning to unnerve me.’
‘I understand, Your Honour,’ said David, now approaching the bench, the humidity in the room thick and stifling. ‘I realise this information is difficult to consume. But I am afraid this goes beyond a matter of murder to protect identity. This goes way beyond any last ditch effort to save their thriving narcotics business and fill their bank accounts with money doused in blood.
‘I am . . . ,’ David paused there, holding his breath, realising he was on the precipice and about to jump. ‘I am sickened to say we have evidence Assistant Director Ramirez and his Gospel leader were planning to blackmail their powerful client base so that they might gain control of . . .’
‘No!’ It was Ramirez. Now on his feet, his face red with rage, his fists clenched in defiance.
‘Look at you,’ he boomed above the now petrified crowd, twisting quickly towards Judge Donovan. ‘You are a disgrace to your profession. There you sit, above your own personal universe, supposedly in charge of these pedestrians before you? What a joke that has turned out to be.’
Ramirez took an almighty breath, his large chest rising with it, and his entire body shaking with rage upon its release. ‘I cannot fathom why . . . how . . . you can let this Robin Hood heretic,’ he said pointing at David, ‘take over your courtroom with his band of pathetic merry liars, leaving him free to slander the name of a respected defender of this country.
‘I have seen many an attorney stoop to some extremely low levels in order to fudge an acquittal for their indisputably guilty clients. But I have never, in all my years as a decorated Federal agent, witnessed such a blatant disregard for the system of justice I have worked every day to protect.
‘Cavanaugh is a liar,’ he yelled, his voice rising over an astonished crowd. ‘A simple-minded show pony who, in his desperation to win exoneration for his murderous client, has rallied this group of geriatrics, has-beens, teenagers and drug addicts in a pathetic attempt to sully my good name.
‘No, enough is enough,’ his voice rose yet again as he turned to face front, addressing the audience beyond. ‘They have no proof. No proof! And I . . .’
David moved across the room and back to the defence table so quickly it caught Ramirez by surprise. He grabbed the book from his desk and turned again, charging towards the witness stand and slamming the Bible on the partition before him, in the process knocking all the other items of ‘evidence’ onto the floor.
Ramirez said nothing, just looked down and smiled, no doubt assuming Leo King had ‘stolen’ the useless hotel Bible from his temporary Boston office.
‘This proves nothing,’ David knew he was thinking. ‘The Bible is useless. It . . .’
David gave him no time to deliberate. He immediately repeated his actions, striding back to the defence table, this time taking a second Bible from Arthur before returning to the witness and slamming the second book on top of the first.
The look of shock on Ramirez’s face was immediate. He sat down quickly in a desperate attempt to examine this new ‘book’ closer.
‘That’s right, Ramirez,’ said David, now leaning across the partition and into the witness so close that he could smell the scent of fear on his breath. ‘There were two,’ he went on, his voice now at a whisper that only Ramirez could hear. ‘One on each side of the Presidential Suite bed. Here is my proof, Ramirez – in the Vice President’s own hand. He knew it all, and he wrote it down – Doyle, Toovey, you . . . and her.’
David was so close he could almost feel Ramirez shudder, taste the waves of panic that flowed from his previously smug facade.‘ You grabbed the wrong Bible, you stupid son-of-a-bitch and now you and your beloved John are going to hell. It’s over, Ramirez. There is no way out.’
‘Your Honour,’ said David, looking up at the Judge, the sweat now dripping from his own brow and forming droplets of pure exhaustion on the Bibles beneath. ‘At this point I would ask the charges against my client be dropped. I would also like to ask Trial Attorney Adams to serve a warrant for the arrest of FBI Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez for a plethora of criminal activities including drug trafficking, illegally manipulating the course of a Federal investigation, falsifying evidence relating to a Federal criminal case, perjury before the Grand Jury, perjury before the US District Court, four counts of
murder in the first degree and one count of attempted murder.’
David looked back to Ramirez, wondering how long it would take him to get it – to realise how he had ‘failed’. Their eyes locked in one final challenge of understanding and then, perhaps, he saw a glint of recognition followed by an expression of pure unadulterated terror.
‘I am willing to consider your request, Mr Cavanaugh, but before I ask Mr Adams to serve such a warrant, I believe you have two rather important matters still to explain.’
Donovan had caught it too, David knew. He was about to ask the two most important questions of this hearing. The two questions that would . . .
‘You talk of four “Gospel” conspirators and yet you have so far only submitted evidence as to the identities of three. Believe me, Mr Cavanaugh, part of me – perhaps most of me – is terrified to even broach the query I need to address but, I believe we are missing a “John”.
‘Secondly, I noted a discrepancy in the list of charges you presented before this court. Initially you gave evidence of five counts of murder – but then you listed only four, describing the fifth charge as attempted murder. And judging by the photographs Detective Croker presented, I can only assume this was an . . .’
‘It was no error, Your Honour,’ said David, now wiping his brow with the back of his hand. ‘In fact, in order to answer both of your questions the defence would like to call its final witness.’
David paused then, glancing back quickly at Sara, who nodded with encouragement in an expression which said ‘You can do this’ before turning to face the Judge once again. ‘The defence calls Mrs Melis . . .’
And then it happened.
The back doors opened with an almighty thud.
The crowd swung around in unison.
The Judge lifted his gavel as if ready to silence the unwelcome intruder.
And David knew that, finally, his time was up.
They were about to make their entrance.
And what an entrance it was.
Dick Ryan entered first, his ruddy southern complexion a sunburned red under the white overhead lights. He was quickly followed by two Secret Service Agents, including Dan Kovacs, who entered before folding left and allowing the next two ‘intruders’ to reveal themselves.
They came side by side – the President supporting his liege at the elbow, a pale younger man with a familiar face and a slight limp, his second-in-command, his dead man walking . . . Thomas Wills Bradshaw.
The wave of shock that shot through the room caused a current of reaction so strong and so vast that it seemed to reverberate off the walls, sparking everything from gasps to screams, to chants of miracles and losses of consciousness. At least two people in the back row fainted, while others broke out in tears, finally removing their hands from open mouths to instinctively reach out as if needing to check the vision before them was real.
Judge Donovan rose from his seat, his spotted Irish skin now a uniform crimson. Antonio Ramirez also stood from his witness chair, only to stagger and fall back down in a lifeless bundle of defeat. The press were already calling his name – ‘Mr Vice President, Mr Vice President,’ while leaping from their delegated seats over banisters and boundaries determined to witness this apparition for themselves.
And then the President finally moved forward, the crowd parting to allow them through as the Red Sea did for Moses all those centuries ago.
When he reached the front of the room Tom Bradshaw looked up at Judge Donovan. ‘Forgive me for being late, Your Honour, but I believe I can be of some assistance with your deliberations in this matter.’
He said this with a smile, that same, familiar, comforting smile, as if sensing the people around him needed some proof that the Vice President, their Vice President, was still the man they remembered him to be.
Donovan sat speechless as the Vice President, then whispering to his famous supporter that he was able to walk unassisted, did two very deliberate and prophetic things. First, he walked slowly towards the defence table, nodding at Arthur and Sara, before taking David’s hand and shaking it with fervour.
Then he shuffled right, to the fourth person at the defence table who, realising this unexpected visitor was incapable of manoeuvring his way around the large cedar desk, proceeded to walk around the table to come face to face with his friend.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bradshaw, his voice almost a whisper, before holding his arms wide and inviting the Professor into his embrace.
‘No need, my friend,’ replied Montgomery.
And there they stood, holding each other, Montgomery shaking with sobs that were absorbed by the man he was so wrongly accused of murdering. They remained there in silence for minutes with flash bulbs, not permitted inside a Federal courtroom, somehow materialising to catch this miracle in full frame, until Bradshaw finally released himself and nodded as if indicating there was one last thing he had to do.
The crowd watched as he made his way . . . step, shuffle . . . step shuffle . . . slowly, deliberately, across to the other side of the courtroom. He stopped briefly in front of the witness stand to turn his neck and stare directly into the eyes of the man who had ‘killed’ him, before turning abruptly back as if dismissing the ‘failed’ murderer in his midst.
Finally, their eyes met and the entire room perched on that knife edge that only exists between past and future when something historical is about to occur.
‘Melissa,’ he said, and David felt a chill of anticipation spread through his entire body.
Melissa Bryant Bradshaw, now standing with the rest of the crowd, her face the colour of the snow, stood stock-still, as if waiting for the executioner’s blade to fall.
‘Melissa,’ he said again. ‘I have missed you so much.’
And then Tom Bradshaw raised his arms again, inviting his killer into his embrace before saying, for all the room to hear, ‘I love you, Melissa,’ he said. ‘I love you more than life itself. And I cannot bear to be away from you a single minute longer.’
69
30 April
‘Hey,’ he said, her entrance catching him by surprise. ‘Not like you to forget something. What’s this, my super-organised wife missing a detail or two – or is it that you could not bear to be away from me a single minute longer?’
She returned his smile then and used her French-manicured finger to beckon him forward. ‘The latter,’ she smiled. ‘Come here. And turn around. Your bow tie is crooked. Seriously, Tom, you would have thought that after all these years you would be able to tie your own . . .’
‘You know I’m all thumbs when it comes to that sort of thing,’ he said, turning his back to her. ‘Besides, why should I have to tie the damned thing when I have you to . . . Ouch . . . what was that?’ he said, pulling away from her instinctively.
‘What was what, darling?’
‘That sting,’ he said, using his right hand to reach back towards his left shoulder. ‘It felt like something bit me.’
‘Perhaps a mosquito,’ she suggested. He was facing her now and he saw something, some new sense of determination in her face which, truth be told, unnerved him, just a little.
‘No,’ he said, staring directly into the cool deep pools of her icy blue eyes. ‘It was more like a small stab or a . . .’
‘What’s this then?’ she smiled. ‘The future President of the USA afraid of a small insect?’
‘No . . . I . . .’ He smiled again, before walking towards the mini-fridge to get another Evian. He opened the door and pulled out the water, unscrewing the cap and downing half of the bottle . . . quickly. And then he set it back, on the door shelf. But something still felt wrong. Something felt . . .
And then it hit him.
Smack.
Just like that.
He would never be able to recall what came first – the sense of realisation or the rapidly expanding wave of nothingness that began to claim his body. He felt himself not so much slipping, but shooting down a bottom less hole of powerlessness, his
brain still intact as his body gave way beneath him.
He fell to the floor.
‘I’m sorry, Tom, but we don’t have much time.’ She moved across the room to bend over him, looking at her Cartier watch as she used the other hand to smooth her dress before crouching, knees together, above him.
He went to speak but . . . COULDN’T. His tongue was fat and thick and immobile. And now, worse still, the basic human instinct to inhale seemed beyond him. And in that moment he realised what she had done – she had taken away his ability to walk, talk . . . BREATHE.
But why? There was something . . . something she had said – about the CIA and the FBI, about Panama and Philadelphia . . .
But it was too late. He could not think. He could not BREATHE! She had rendered him useless and now, was looking down upon him, watching him as he . . .
And then she did something completely unexpected.
She kissed him.
Not gently or passionately, but powerfully releasing a strong puff of air into his paralysed lungs.
This did not make sense. She was administering mouth to mouth resuscitation. She had sentenced him to death and yet was . . .
‘Confusing, isn’t it,’ she said between breaths. ‘Don’t worry, darling. It will all be made clear very soon. You see the anaesthetic I just gave you is a killer – but not the drug that must go on record. I am afraid this is just the forerunner for the real thing. You see, I have to keep your blood circulating so that the next surprise can metabolise and be named as the official cause of death . . . But don’t worry, the second drug is much more sanitary. In fact it should send you back to that place you used to know and love so well. Think of it as a surprise reunion with an old friend.’ She took a deep breath and exhaled into his open mouth again.
‘This is no fun, granted,’ she went on, taking another quick glance at her diamond-studded timepiece. ‘And believe me we did consider other options. But in the end there was no other way. You know I have never been one to compromise, Tom. That is one of the reasons you fell in love with me in the first place, is it not?’