by David Ellis
“No, it’s not possible,” Grant answers. “Dale is one of my closest friends. One of my father’s, too. And more to the point, Mr. Carey, if Dale needed money, I would have given it to him. All he’d have to do is ask.” Grant shakes his head, as if the notion is ridiculous. “Dale Garrison would never blackmail either Jon Soliday or me. It’s preposterous.”
“All right, Senator. Fast-forward. Let’s talk about the governor’s race. The primaries.”
Grant covers the background, that he and Trotter won the nominations for the governor’s race, that I looked at Trotter’s papers and found a problem with them.
“As Jon explained it to me,” says Grant, “it meant that Mr. Trotter’s petitions were invalid. The statement of candidacy has to be ‘signed,’ and a photocopy of a signature is not a signature. It’s no better than a blank piece of paper.”
The judge’s brow crinkles. She is thinking through the legal issue herself.
“Meaning the Attorney General could be knocked off the ballot if you challenged him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you seek a second opinion on Jon’s conclusion?”
“I probably wouldn’t call it a second opinion. Jon knows this stuff better than anyone. I might call it another perspective.”
“Whose perspective?”
“Dale Garrison’s.”
“Did Dale Garrison draft a memorandum on this topic?”
“Yes.”
“Your Honor, I’ll resort to Mr. Garrison’s computer if counsel prefers.” Ben is handling a copy of the memo on the Ace. “Defense number two for identification.”
“That copy is fine,” says Johannsen. Ben showed it to her during the recess. She matched it up with the one on the computer. Ben hands out copies to everyone.
“This is it,” Grant says. “Dale agreed with Jon. The error on the statement of candidacy was fatal.”
“How did this memorandum come to you?”
“Dale sent it over by messenger to our office. I think he sent it to Jon.”
“When was that, Senator?”
“It was August fourth.”
“And how do you remember that day?”
“Because when Dale sent the messenger package over with the memo, he also included a birthday card to me. In fact, Mr. Carey, I think you were the one who handed it to me. My birthday is August tenth. And I remember specifically thinking that Dale was six days early. It was just a thought that came through my mind that stands out.”
I remember seeing the birthday card. Good. That ties the date down well. That is critical for us, because we need to push that date as far before Dale’s death as possible. We need time for Dale to blackmail Trotter, then for Trotter to get hold of Lyle Cosgrove, then to send the blackmail letter to me, then to kill Dale. Dale sent the memo to us on August 4, and he died on August 18. Trotter had two weeks to plan this out.
“So, Senator.” Ben locks his hands at his waist. “At that point, you had the option of filing a challenge to Mr. Trotter’s papers.”
“I did, yes.”
“You could have knocked your opponent off the ballot.”
“Yes, I could have.”
“Did you file a challenge?”
“No, I didn’t. That’s not how I want to become governor. The voters deserve a choice.”
“Was that communicated to Dale?”
“It was. I told him myself. And Jon told him, too. He knew we would not use it.”
Not entirely true. Grant is hedging in my favor again.
“When was this, Senator? When did you tell Dale Garrison that you were not going to file an objection to Mr. Garrison’s papers?”
“I don’t recall the exact date,” says the senator. “But again, it was before my birthday. Because I thanked him for the card, and I told him my birthday was still a few days away. We joked about it. We joked about not wanting the birthdays to come.”
This conversation didn’t happen, of course. We were still thinking about using the Ace. Grant isn’t hedging here—he’s out-and-out lying for me. In his mind, I’m sure, the ends justify the means—a rationale he’s made before in my defense.
“So it was between August fourth and your birthday—August tenth—that you told Dale not to pursue this issue.”
“That’s correct.”
“Were you emphatic on this point? Were you waffling?”
“I was quite emphatic. I told him we weren’t going to challenge Lang Trotter’s papers. End of discussion.”
“Did Mr. Garrison object?”
“Quite the opposite,” says Grant. “He told me I was doing the right thing.”
“Object to the hearsay,” says Erica Johannsen.
“It’s not hearsay, Judge,” Ben replies. “I’m just showing Dale Garrison’s state of mind. Dale Garrison was glad that Senator Tully didn’t want to use the information because it left Dale Garrison free to blackmail Attorney General Langdon Trotter.”
“Overruled,” says the judge. She looks at the prosecutor. “It’s not hearsay.”
Ben continues on. “Do you have any knowledge, Senator, as to whether Dale decided to use this knowledge—this knowledge about Mr. Trotter’s nominating papers—in any other way?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you have any knowledge, for example, whether Dale Garrison used this information to extort the Attorney General?”
“No, I don’t, Mr. Carey.”
“Can you tell us with certainty that Dale Garrison, after your conversation, felt sure that you would never use this information yourself?”
“Objection,” says Erica Johannsen. “The senator is being asked to speculate as to someone’s state of mind.”
“Sustained.”
“Okay,” says Ben. “Well, did you tell Mr. Garrison that you would never use it?”
“That is hearsay,” says the prosecutor.
“If that’s an objection, Ms. Johannsen, it is sustained.”
Ben’s hands move into his pockets. “Okay. I have nothing further.”
The judge looks at the clock. It’s a quarter to eleven. Too early for lunch. “Ms. Johannsen?”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
I lean into Ben. “We got everything we needed?”
Ben nods. Grant killed the notion that either of us would be blackmailed about the rape. He made it clear that Dale Garrison knew we wouldn’t use the Ace, which left him free to blackmail Trotter.
The prosecutor rises slowly. I would have expected more anger. But my read on this woman is that she’s not part of the dirty side of this case. I think Erica Johannsen is more interested in getting the right guy than in winning. I never thought I’d say that about a prosecutor. Maybe she’s rethinking this whole case.
“Senator Tully,” she starts, “you have no idea whether Langdon Trotter has anything to do with this blackmail note, do you?”
“I’ve made that very point several times, Counsel.”
“You can’t rule out the possibility that this note was, in fact, written to the defendant.”
“The point I’ve tried to make is that it just wouldn’t make sense.”
“But surely, Senator, you don’t know what the ‘secret that nobody knows’ refers to, do you?”
“Not for sure.”
“In fact, that’s the point, isn’t it? That you don’t know. But the blackmailer was going to tell you.”
“If you say so,” says Grant. “That’s not impossible.”
“So this note could have been written by Dale Garrison to the defendant. Isn’t that true?”
“Aside from the fact that there is no logic to it? Yes, it’s possible.”
“So it’s possible that this ‘secret’ has nothing do with this statement of candidacy issue.”
“As I’ve said.”
The prosecutor examines her notes. “Senator, you can’t specifically recall the date of August fourth as being the date that Mr. Garrison sent the document to the defendant by messenger, can yo
u?”
“Counsel, I said that I did remember the date.”
“Because of the relation to your birthday?”
“Right. I recall Mr. Carey handing me the letter, and we joked that Dale was early.”
“Good,” Ben mumbles.
The prosecutor deflates as she pores over the scribbles on her notepad. “And about this other thing, Senator. This thing about the murder in 1979.”
“I believe it was determined to be an overdose, Counsel.”
The prosecutor smiles with the clarification. “Are you telling this court that you no longer would care if you learned that Mr. Soliday had killed this young woman?”
“That is not what I said. What I said was, first of all, I didn’t believe and I don’t believe that he did such a thing. But in addition to that, I was not interested in something that happened over twenty years ago. I know Jon Soliday to be an honorable man. A decent man. A dear friend. If it so happened that something occurred that night, taking into account that Jon was quite young and more intoxicated than I’d ever see him, then I suppose I would forgive him. I might yell at him and lecture him. But I’d forgive him. But we’re making a huge assumption when we say he might have done something wrong. The law enforcement authorities in Summit County concluded otherwise.”
Erica Johanssen nods. “And you’d still make him your top lawyer? Even if he was a murderer?”
Grant considers the question, as well as the gallery filled with media. “Jon is my chief counsel. I had no intention of changing that.”
“And if you were elected governor, were you planning to make the defendant the governor’s chief counsel?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“The defendant knew that?”
“Yes, I imagine Jon knew that.”
“And if you were to learn that your lawyer had been part of a murder, you wouldn’t rethink keeping him on.”
A good question from the prosecutor. What can Grant say to this? “That—that is a question I haven’t confronted,” Grant answers.
“So it’s possible, Senator, that if the defendant had committed murder in 1979, and you were told that by someone, you would fire the defendant.”
Grant inhales. “I have told you that I would forgive him. Because he was intoxicated and because he was so young. But I absolutely do not believe he did anything wrong.”
“Forgive him, yes. But allow him to assume one of the highest ranking positions in state government? Senator, are you telling this court that for absolutely certain, you would have kept a murderer as your chief lawyer?”
“I guess I can’t answer that for certain.”
“If you knew for a fact that he had committed a murder, at any time in his life, you would have fired him, wouldn’t you?”
“Objection,” Ben says. “Asked and answered.”
“Proceed,” says the judge. “Overruled.”
“I would be quite concerned, I suppose,” Grant concedes. What else can he say? He’s testifying to the entire state right now. How can he guarantee that he would keep on an admitted killer?
“All right, Senator. So it is possible that the defendant might have lost his job if you learned such a thing. It’s possible.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“And if the information became public, it would make it hard for the defendant to find any work in state government, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know if that’s true or not.”
“You’d help him look for work, Senator? You’d help a murderer and rapist find another job, as long as it wasn’t with you?”
“He’s a friend,” Grant says. “A friend who made one mistake when he was very vulnerable. He was young and confused and intoxicated. He didn’t know—” The senator catches himself. The room is silent.
“Jesus Christ,” Ben mumbles. I freeze in my chair. Grant is suddenly realizing what he just said. He didn’t say it as a hypothetical. He said it as fact. I killed Gina Mason. What does he know that he never told me?
“What I mean to say,” he continues.
“The defendant did commit that murder, didn’t he?” the prosecutor asks. “You just said so.”
“No,” says Grant, leaning forward. “No. What I meant to say was, if I were to learn that this was the case, I would still consider Jon to be a friend.”
“I don’t care about what you were going to say, sir. Please answer my question. You are under oath. Do you have personal knowledge that the defendant committed that murder?”
Grant doesn’t miss a beat. “No, I do not.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that the defendant committed murder?”
Grant looks at me.
“Objection,” Ben calls out. “Hearsay.”
“It’s not offered for the truth of the statement,” says Erica Johannsen, moving toward the senator. “This is all about state of mind, Judge. That’s the whole—”
The judge raises her hand. “The objection is overruled.”
Erica Johannsen turns back to the senator with renewed vigor. “Please answer this question, keeping in mind that you’re under oath. Senator Tully, did anyone ever tell you that Jon Soliday murdered that girl in 1979?”
Grant wets his lips. The moment of silence is deafening, surpassed only by the sudden drumming of my pulse.
“No,” he says.
“Do you know for a fact that he didn’t commit murder?”
“I suppose I don’t.”
“And if you were to learn that the defendant did commit murder, it’s possible you might reconsider keeping him on your staff. It’s possible you might fire him.”
“I suppose that’s possible.”
“And Jon Soliday knew that, didn’t he, Senator?”
“Objection,” says Ben. “There’s no foundation for that question.”
Erica Johannsen takes her seat as the judge sustains the objection. “I’m done,” she says.
“Mr. Carey?” asks the judge. “Any redirect?”
“A few questions,” Ben says.
The judge looks at the clock. “More than five or ten minutes?”
“Probably.”
“Let’s take lunch, then. Come back in an hour.”
56
BENNETT AND I confer very briefly with Grant in the courtroom as the press waits outside the door.
“I couldn’t go all the way,” says Grant. “I’m sorry, Jon.”
“Of course you couldn’t,” I answer. “You can’t admit that you’d keep a killer on staff.”
“You did fine,” says Ben. “I’ll do a little redirect to soften it up.”
“And hey.” Grant flicks the back of his hand against my shirt. “Sorry about that slipup.”
“No problem,” I say, leaving unmentioned whether he was speaking the truth. There are only so many things I can confront right now.
We decide it’s better not to be seen together. We’ll meet back in court. Ben and I angle our way through a considerable amount of reporters. This has been a big day for them, what with Ben’s opening statement and now Senator Tully’s testimony. This will be national news tonight. A candidate for governor, accused of murder. The other candidate closely connected. We’ll be the laughingstock of the country.
As for this election, it’s clear now, after hearing the words. Grant Tully is finished. We will never be able to prove that Langdon Trotter is guilty of Dale’s murder, not unless we can find a smoking gun. And Trotter is too smart for that. We might conjure up reasonable doubt, but Trotter will deny our claims as a desperate criminal throwing out whatever he can to beat the rap. At best, we will get a nice, quiet “Not guilty” from Judge Bridges, and Trotter will spin it however he wishes. Worst case, I spend the rest of my life in jail.
But either way, Grant Tully played a part, however tangentially, in something suspicious in 1979. He never talked about it, never told anyone. And it won’t be hard to figure out that the Tullys did more than mention Dale Garrison to Lyle Cosgrove. They hired him and
dispatched him to Summit County to clear things up for me. I know it now and I’ve known it all along. The governor’s race is over. And Grant, realizing this as well, no doubt, actually apologized to me a moment ago.
And I don’t even have time to feel bad about this.
Ben and I drive to the Maritime Club, the senator’s club, where Grant has reserved a small parlor room for us for two weeks running. We haven’t used it but we figured the time might come that we need the privacy, and after today’s revelations, a private club is about the only place we could go.
Ben knew this would be the case today, so he packed sandwiches, turkey with mustard. We sit in leather high-backed chairs, ignoring the extravagant artwork and the vintage baby grand piano, looking like two people who have seen ghosts.
“What a crazy morning” I say as Ben unwraps the cellophane off the first sandwich. “Do you think she’s buying it?”
“I think she finds it plausible,” he answers. “All of it makes sense. Making sense is not the hard part. We have to make it more believable. We need facts. And we don’t have them, not yet. But we need them fast.”
Bennett issued the subpoenas only yesterday. We didn’t want to tip off the prosecution as to our theory—pointing the finger at Lang Trotter—so we had to wait. We are chasing everything. Trotter’s bank statements, personal ones, corporate ones, political ones. His phone records from his home, his work office, his campaign office, his cell phone—we need one phone call to or from Dale Garrison or Lyle Cosgrove or Brian “Rick” O’Shea. Ben even issued a subpoena to the computerized legal research company that everyone uses, to look at the searches that Langdon Trotter’s attorneys might have conducted during the relevant time. We are hoping to find a search that includes the words “statement of candidacy” or “original” or “copy” or anything—anything that will prove that Lang Trotter was looking at the issue after Dale Garrison started his blackmail scheme. We are ignoring the fact that the attorney-client privilege might bar this information, hoping that the mere invocation of it by Lang Trotter might turn the judge our way a little. I see more clearly now why Bennett was content with a bench trial, where the trier of fact also hears contested evidentiary issues.
“Lang Trotter didn’t become AG by being stupid,” I say. “We’re not going to come up with anything.”