Never Goodbye

by Adam Mitzner

  “He wants me to be the special prosecutor on the Dana Goodwin case.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him that I wanted to take a day to think about it. But I honestly don’t see how I can say no.”

  I hear him laugh. “Well, that part would be easy. What’s the line . . . you just put your lips together and say no.”

  “I think the line is ‘blow.’”

  This time it’s not a laugh I hear. It’s a deep sigh.

  “Is this something you want to do? Not something you think you should do? But want to do?”

  “That sounds like you think I shouldn’t.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong about that. Think about how much I’m going to enjoy working under you.”

  It takes a second for the full meaning of his double entendre to sink in. By taking over the prosecution of the case, I’ll become his boss. When Dana and he were investigating, Gabriel was in charge, but now that a defendant is in custody and the matter is going to trial, I’d be calling the shots, and his job as the detective in charge of the investigation is now to assist me. I’m surprised that this hadn’t occurred to me sooner. It’s another reason my assignment might have appealed to McKenney. It gives him control not only over me, but also the NYPD.

  After getting off the phone with Gabriel, I seek advice from the only other man I trust: my father. I call ahead to secure time on his schedule, though I know my father won’t have an open slot: nobody ever cancels an appointment, not with the nonrefundable $1,500 an hour he charges. Some client or other must be bumped for him to see me.

  Ashleigh, his far-too-shapely secretary, greets me at the door to my father’s eponymous law firm. “So nice to see you again, Ella. The place just hasn’t been the same without you around.”

  During my brief foray in criminal defense, when I worked with my father, I suspected that he might be seeing Ashleigh. At the time, I did not approve. She’s too young for him, and even though she is actually pretty smart if you engage her, the first impression she makes is of being a bimbo. Allison and I have spoken about it a few times; the one tangible change I can see in my life from therapy is that I’m less judgmental about whom people choose to love.

  Ashleigh leads me to my father’s corner office. I know that he would have come out to greet me himself unless he was otherwise occupied, so I’m not surprised to see him on the phone when I enter. He raises a single finger, telling me that he’ll only be a moment more. If I had a nickel for every time he’s made that gesture to me in my life, I’d be sitting on a mountain of nickels.

  As he speaks, I scan his work space. Nothing, but nothing, makes me feel more like a child than being in my father’s office. Although the room is furnished with antiques and fine art, he still displays on his bookshelf the carousel full of crayons that Charlotte and I used whenever we visited as children.

  He brings his call to a swift conclusion and takes a moment to beam at me before saying anything. He’s done more of that since Charlotte’s death, as if he’s thankful for our every encounter. For nearly all my life, I felt the pressure that comes with being the firstborn. More than anything else, perhaps, it has shaped my destiny—for better and for worse. Yet now I realize that the role of “only child” is even more laden with potential for parental disappointment.

  “This is truly an unexpected pleasure. I only wish I had some advance notice. I would have jettisoned my lunch plans for you in a heartbeat, but at this point, it’s something noncancelable, I’m afraid.”

  “This shouldn’t take long, but I need some advice. I’ve been offered a job.”

  “That’s great, Ella. With anyone I know?”

  “In fact, yes. Drake McKenney. He wants me to prosecute Dana Goodwin for Lauren Wright’s murder.”

  My father is like me in that we’re both careful when we speak. An occupational hazard for lawyers, he’s always said. A misstated word can mean that someone goes to prison. The stakes here aren’t quite so high at this moment, but by his silence, my father recognizes the measure of import I’ll attach to his next utterance.

  “Congratulations. It is quite an honor that Drake would assign to you what I don’t think it’s any exaggeration to say is the most important case he’s had as DA. From what I read in the papers, this will not be the easiest case to win. Without putting too much pressure on you, I’ll say that McKenney’s got to win it if he wants to be mayor someday. He probably has to win just to continue being DA after next November.”

  “I haven’t accepted yet,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. I’m . . . not sure what to do.”

  “I don’t believe that, Ella. You know what you want. You always have. I think sometimes you’re as unfair to me as you think I am to you, if you know what I mean.”

  I say I don’t, but of course, I do.

  “You want to share responsibility for your choices with me. Now, I don’t mind—it comes with the job of being your father. But it also makes me wonder if I’d done a better job whether you might not need for me to do it at all.”

  This is another recurring theme in my sessions with Allison: my decision to follow in my father’s career footsteps rather than pursue music back when such a choice made sense for a twentysomething with dreams. I’ve held it against him ever since, despite the fact that, deep down, I know it was my decision, even if I was motivated by pleasing him. And he’s probably right that I’m here now to get his blessing to accept the job so I will have someone to blame if I fail in the end.

  “I’m working on it,” I say with a smile.

  He smiles back. “I know you are. I’m working on it too. Which is why I’m not going to tell you that if you take the case it will make you the most famous prosecutor in this city. Or that you will be able to write your own ticket after that.”

  “Not if I lose.”

  He chuckles. “Even if you lose. Think about the A-list lawyers in this city. They’re known for their famous clients, but they almost always end up either losing or pleading them out. I mean, look at me. I haven’t won an acquittal in . . . I don’t know, four or five years, at least. Hasn’t hurt my practice any.” After a beat, he continues, “I’m also not going to say this: it is perfectly acceptable for you to decline. Cases that are personal, they’re always the toughest. There’s enough pressure on you to win besides having to feel that you’ve failed to avenge the murder of someone you love if you lose.”

  There’s a knock on the door. Even before my father can respond, the door slides open slightly. Ashleigh’s head pokes in.

  “Your one o’clock is here,” she says.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I tell him. “For everything you said—and everything you ‘didn’t’ say.”

  Since Dana Goodwin’s arrest, Gabriel has kept to a saner schedule, but he still rarely comes home before seven. Today he arrives at six, undoubtedly because he wants to finish discussing the conversation we started earlier.

  I sometimes can’t believe how much I miss him during the day. I’ve never felt this way about a man before, and it both frightens and exhilarates me.

  Tonight I’ve cooked, which is something I’ve been trying to do more lately. Not so much to prove to Gabriel that I’m domestic, but to give some structure to my day.

  “Something smells delicious,” he says.

  “It’s just the sautéed onions. I honestly didn’t expect you to be home so early. In a half hour or so it’ll be chicken fajitas. I’m also going to make some spicy guacamole.”

  “I’ll make us some margaritas, then. Give me a minute.”

  Gabriel retreats from the kitchen, no doubt heading to the bedroom to stow away his weapon. He returns quickly and opens the cabinet where I keep my alcohol.

  “I see tequila, but no margarita mix,” he says, his head stuck in the cabinet.

  “This is a from-scratch operation, my friend,” I call back.

  He stands up straight. “I talk big,” he says with a chuckle, “but I don’t know how to make a margarita wi
thout margarita mix.”

  “That’s why God invented the Internet.”

  He rolls his eyes but reaches for his phone. A few taps later he says, “Okay. Two ounces of tequila . . . check. One ounce of lime juice. Do you have that much?”

  I laugh. “Yes, but you’ll need more than that if I’m having any. Luckily, I have a whole container, so we’re good there. What about the Cointreau?”

  “You’re good. I was just about to ask you what that is.”

  “It’s a kind of liqueur. Check the cabinet. I think I have some. Or at least I did once.”

  I can hear the bottles clacking against one another. “I don’t see it. Can you make it without it . . . Oh wait . . . Yup, you have some.”

  He walks the bottle into the kitchen with a proud look on his face, as if he’s Indiana Jones extracting some ancient artifact from a secure crypt. “Two margaritas coming up.”

  He opens the freezer and plunks two ice cubes into each glass, then stirs the ingredients together and sets the finished product on the counter in front of me.

  “To . . . a new challenge,” he says, raising his glass.

  I clink my glass to his. “Is mixing a margarita a new challenge for you, Gabriel?”

  He takes a sip of his creation. “I was referring to your new job.”

  I take a sip. It’s good. Perfect, even.

  “I still haven’t told McKenney I’m taking it.”

  “I’m not McKenney. What are you telling me?”

  I take another swallow of the margarita. Then one more.

  “Yeah, I’m going to do it.”

  Gabriel looks down at his drink. I know this expression: he has something to say but doesn’t think it’s his place to say it.

  “What?” I say.

  He sighs. “What what?”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I don’t think Dana killed her.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Richard. The affair gives him a strong motive.”

  “But the texts from Dana’s phone—”

  “I know, but I bet she comes up with some explanation.”

  “Good luck to her on that.”

  He shakes his head in disagreement. “She’s going to say that she texted Lauren to meet her for a happy reason, a lover’s rendezvous for some make-out time in the park. Richard was suspicious and followed Lauren. He hid while Dana and Lauren did their thing. Then, after Dana left, Richard put two bullets into Lauren.”

  Gabriel hadn’t shared this theory before, but it’s a good one. In fact, I’m disappointed that this didn’t occur to me on my own. Perhaps I have a blind spot here. As much as I might try to keep my personal feelings at bay in bringing Lauren’s killer to justice, I can’t deny that I’ve wanted Dana to be guilty from the moment she was arrested. I’ve told myself that’s because I believed she is guilty, but maybe my desire to be Lauren’s favorite plays a role too. I know that, in life, Lauren obviously preferred Dana—but if I can prove Dana’s guilt, then I’ll regain my favored position, albeit posthumously.

  38.

  DANA GOODWIN

  “Right before you arrived, I received a call from Ella Broden. She’s been designated as special prosecutor for the case.”

  LeMarcus says this to open our second meeting. It’s Saturday morning; by meeting on the weekend, we’ve avoided the press barricade, at least at his office. There are still a few die-hards camped in front of my house, unfortunately.

  My instant reaction to this news is negative, although it takes me a moment to organize my feelings so I understand why. It’s not that I’m concerned Ella Broden is too worthy an adversary. In fact, I can think of a few ADAs I would consider better in the courtroom, not to mention that Ella must be a little out of practice. As with an athlete, it’s hard to take a year off and then come back for the toughest game of your career.

  And then I realize the reason for my opposition is right in front of me. I’m concerned about Ella’s connection to Lauren. Although that might work in my favor, making her too close to be objective, it also means she’ll work twice as hard to secure a conviction as someone not personally invested.

  “We don’t want her,” I say.

  I expect LeMarcus to inquire further, but my reaction must be consistent with his own take.

  “Agreed. What grounds do you propose we allege to make that happen? I don’t think her friendship and working relationship with Lauren will be enough.”

  The most common grounds used to disqualify the other side’s lawyer is to cite a conflict of interest. Traditionally, that can happen when the lawyer once represented the other side on a similar matter. The thinking goes that in such circumstances, the lawyer has acquired inside information about the adversary and therefore cannot now appear on the other side. Obviously, that happens far less in a criminal setting than in civil cases. Ella Broden has never been my lawyer, so there’s no clear conflict of interest in having her prosecute me.

  The only other basis for disqualification would be if she could be considered a witness in my case. I’m certain that consideration was vetted before her appointment, and the powers that be must have concluded that she has no inside knowledge to add to the prosecution’s case.

  From my prior discussions with Gabriel, I know that Ella would have nothing to add to my defense. Still I say, “The night Lauren was killed, she and her husband had dinner with Ella and Gabriel.”

  LeMarcus seems surprised by the revelation. “Hold on. Gabriel Velasquez? The police investigator working the case with you?”

  “Yeah. He and Ella are boyfriend-girlfriend. Small world, right?”

  “Was Ella ever alone with Lauren that night? I mean, even if it was just to visit the ladies’ room?”

  “No. Gabriel would have told me if Ella learned anything in a one-on-one that was relevant to the case.”

  “All right. Even so, I think that’ll be enough to disqualify her. We can say we want to call her as a witness. It’s not like there aren’t lots of other people who could prosecute the case without denying the defense the opportunity to call to the stand one of the last four people to see her alive.”

  I like what I’ve just heard. Ella’s as good as out.

  “Which brings me to the next issue,” LeMarcus says. “Who do we tell the jury actually did murder Lauren?”

  Working as a prosecutor, I cared only about what really happened. I always took for granted that I could demonstrate the truth to a jury. Defense lawyers like LeMarcus see the world differently. The truth doesn’t matter as much as how he can spin the evidence he can present. Evidence and the truth are distant cousins.

  I don’t provide him with a scapegoat, at least not quickly enough. My hesitation causes LeMarcus to answer his own question.

  “Richard Trofino is the obvious choice. Was there anyone else in the mix?”

  “Do we have to decide this now? I’d prefer to see how the prosecution’s case comes in before committing to that kind of defense.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have that luxury. The moment the jury hears about your affair with Lauren and sees that last text, every single one of them is going to believe that you killed Lauren Wright. And they’re going to hear that in the prosecutor’s opening statement. That means they very well may make the decision to convict before I even get a chance to speak. The only way we can fight that is if we tell them equally early who actually killed her.”

  I nod in agreement. It’s the only way, I tell myself.

  “There were only two other people we looked at,” I say. “This guy Lauren prosecuted ten years ago named Donald Chesterman. She tried the case with Ella Broden, actually. He made some threats and just got out of prison, but we didn’t see a way of linking Chesterman to the gun. Besides, we had no idea where he was.”

  “Okay. Who’s behind door number two?”

  “Drake McKenney,” I say. “Lauren was going to run against him, and Richard claimed that McKenney reamed him out over it, even making
some threats. McKenney denied it, though, and then the homeless guy said the man he saw was shorter than McKenney.”

  LeMarcus considers this for a moment, no doubt trying to figure out whether it will be easier to get the jury to believe that Drake McKenney murdered Lauren than to convince them Richard pulled the trigger. I don’t point out that my lawyer’s careful consideration of accusing Drake McKenney gives the lie to the idea that we’re going to tell the jury exactly who killed Lauren. More accurately, we’re going to try our damnedest to blame whomever we can most plausibly sell to the jury. In fact, that’s LeMarcus’s job. My freedom depends on his doing it well.

  “I’m not worried about the ID,” he says. “The least of our problems is the homeless guy. The jury’s not going to convict on his partial sighting. After I’m done with him, they’ll sooner believe he saw the Easter Bunny. But you can’t cross-examine a cell phone. McKenney has some appeal in this regard because he got custody of Lauren’s phone after the arrest. That means we don’t have to claim that someone else sent the text. Instead, we argue that he framed you by somehow putting that text on her phone after the murder.”

  “How could he do that?”

  “I have no idea. But, I expect that if we pay enough, we’ll find some expert to say it’s possible. That would go a long way toward establishing reasonable doubt. And I like going after McKenney because he’s not very popular with the minority community. You gotta figure that at least three of our jurors will be people of color.”

  I nod to indicate that he’s made a good point. It takes only one person to hang a jury.

  “But I still think Trofino is the more attractive choice,” he continues. “It’s a hard sell that a sitting DA commits murder to avoid a potential primary challenge. People lose elections all the time. In his case, the worst-case scenario is that he’ll end up making millions of dollars in the private sector if he’s voted out of office. Besides, when a woman having an affair is murdered, it doesn’t seem plausible that her murder is completely unrelated to that. By contrast, everyone on earth will believe that Richard Trofino had an obvious motive for killing his wife. And I suspect the jury will hate him every bit as much as McKenney. A multimillionaire who can’t take no for an answer. My thinking is that we explain away the text by claiming that Lauren mistakenly took your phone home the night of the murder. That kind of mix-up happens sometimes. Richard read the texts, flew into a jealous rage, and then decided that he could kill his wife and frame you for the murder just by sending a text from your phone. As part of that theory, we’ll need to demonstrate that you didn’t have a passcode on your phone. Otherwise, Richard wouldn’t have been able to access it, even if he did have it in his possession.”