by Sydney Bauer
This seemed to calm Rayna a little but she admitted she was still concerned at how long the girls had been held for treatment, wondering if it was a tactic for the police to tire them with endless questions.
‘Not that that should be a problem, right?’ said David.
‘No, not at all,’ she said, her brow now fixed and tight. ‘But these are teenagers, David – scared, impressionable, emotional kids who have just witnessed the death of their good friend.’
David suggested they get themselves a fresh cup of coffee and start from scratch. Sara offered to go down the block for the real thing, leaving David and Rayna to get to it.
Twenty minutes later, Sara returned with the coffees. Teesha was sitting next to her mom, their hands held tightly, Teesha’s head resting on her mother’s shoulder. Rayna was just describing their arrival back at the marina and Sara took a seat quietly by the door.
‘The police officer . . . Officer Wu, he was very polite, gave me a blanket, some coffee. The other officer, the woman . . .’
‘Officer Leigh,’ said Teesha.
‘Yes, she was speaking to the girls. I told Officer Wu exactly what I told you David, just as it happened. He was thorough. He took notes.’
‘Wu’s been involved with some of my cases in the past. He’s a good cop.’
‘I got that feeling too.’
‘He . . .’ she went on, as if trying to remember something.
‘He what?’ said David.
‘Well, he seemed to be annoyed by his radio. It kept interrupting our conversation and he was getting up every few minutes to talk into it.’
‘Who was he talking to?’
‘Someone back at Boston HQ, a detective, Petri I think.’ Rayna rubbed her temples as if trying to massage away the fatigue and clear her head.
‘I remember hearing bits and pieces but to be honest I’m having a little trouble recalling all the details.’
‘Understandably. Go on, just take your time.’
‘The next thing I know he asked me to come down to the station, back to Boston. I told him I wanted to see my daughter but he promised he would have someone drive her back down. By the time I got here, two detectives were waiting for me at the front door. It all happened so quickly. They were treating me like a perp. I have seen the routine too many times, except I’m usually the one who comes to the rescue. That’s when I got wise.’
Rayna explained how she told the big detective – Petri – that she had given Officer Wu her statement and would not be answering any further questions until she made a phone call to her lawyer.
Petri sang the usual ‘Why do you need a lawyer when you haven’t done anything wrong’ song, but that made Rayna all the more determined to find David and secure legal representation as soon as she could.
‘I called Sara and asked her to track you down.’
Sara explained how directories gave out his home number, but when there was no answer she took a punt that he would be at his office – and luckily he was.
‘And that is basically it,’ said Rayna, looking at David apologetically, as if knowing it wasn’t enough. ‘It was an accident, a horrible, tragic accident but I can’t help but think they . . .’
Rayna’s eyes started to pool with tears as she swallowed a silent sob lodged deep in her throat. David took her hand and they sat for a moment before Rayna spoke again.
‘You know, it’s true what they say.’
‘What’s that?’ asked David.
‘That the events of one day can change your life forever.’
David saw the fear in his client’s eyes and wanted desperately to reassure her. ‘It’s okay, Rayna. You will get your life back.’
‘Do you think so? Somehow, I’m not so sure.’
By the time Rayna had finished her story, their coffee cups were empty and Teesha had fallen asleep against her mother’s shoulder. David looked at his watch. It was almost eleven. This was crazy. His client had given a full statement and as far as he was concerned, there would be no more questions tonight. If there was no charge, Rayna should be allowed to go home with her daughter.
David rose from his chair to go tell Mannix just that, and found Tommy Wu standing immediately outside the door.
‘Hey Tommy.’
‘Hi Mr Cavanaugh.’
‘What is it?’ This came from Detective Paul Petri sitting at his desk just three feet away, and smirking behind mounds of untidy paperwork and countless dirty cups of coffee dregs.
‘Where’s Mannix?’
‘He’s busy.’
David glanced at Mannix’s office and immediately noticed the change. The Venetians were drawn. Joe had visitors and David’s guess was his client was the subject of their discussions.
‘You got something to say?’ Always the charmer was Petri.
‘My client has given her statement. No charge has been laid and we certainly won’t be answering any further questions tonight. So unless you guys have something else, I’m taking Rayna Martin and her daughter home.’
Petri told David to wait with his client while he checked things out and within minutes Tommy Wu was knocking on the interview room door.
‘Mrs Martin, I’m sorry about the delay. You and your daughter can go home now.’
Tommy glanced at David. ‘I’m sorry about all this, everything seems to take longer on the weekends,’ he attempted.
David noticed Tommy looked straight at the floor and decided to do a little more fishing.
‘Long day, Tommy?’
‘Yeah, my shift finished hours ago. But you know what it’s like; when the DA’s around, we all jump.’
Tommy’s eyes hit the floor again and his brow furrowed slightly, as if he had realised that maybe he had given too much away. But then his eyes lifted briefly to meet David’s straight on. The comment about Scaturro was not a slip. It was a tip off.
‘Scaturro’s on station?’
‘Ah . . . yeah, she popped in for a bit. Anyways, we’ll drive you home if you like, Mrs Martin.’
‘It’s okay, Tommy. I got it,’ said David.
‘You sure then? Okay. Mrs Martin, I’m sorry for. . . you know.’
‘I do, and so am I, and thank you officer, you’ve been very kind.’
‘No problem.’
And with that, Tommy Wu slinked backwards out of the door as if embarrassed that he had ever been involved with the whole unruly mess.
David dropped Rayna and Teesha at their home in South End before heading uptown towards Sara’s brownstone in the historic North End. It was a neat looking building with window boxes and a painted mailbox, located between a small Italian restaurant and another family brownstone so common in this culturally rich Harbourside cranny. It looked warm and inviting.
He turned off the engine and they sat there in silence for a moment before she spoke.
‘Thank you,’ she said, looking straight ahead.
‘There’s no need.’
‘This isn’t the end of it is it?’
David paused before answering. ‘No.’
‘Should we be preparing for the worst?’
By ‘worst’ David knew Sara was referring to a criminal charge – most likely involuntary manslaughter. In order for this charge to stick, the DA had to believe they had a chance of proving Rayna was grossly negligent when she left Christina alone in the water, and that this one decision ultimately led to her death. Involuntary manslaughter could carry a jail term of up to twenty years but first-time offenders usually expected a three to five year sentence.
David hated to admit it, but while the charge seemed horribly unjust, it was not totally unreasonable in the eyes of the law. He had seen similar cases where ordinary people were placed in extraordinary circumstances over which they had no control, and ended up facing a jury.
‘Yes’, he finally answered. ‘We should prepare just in case.’ He turned to look at her. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’
‘You mean today, don’t you?’ It was past midn
ight.
‘Today then,’ he said.
‘You tell me.’
‘Why don’t we meet at my office late morning, say about ten thirty. I’ll try to get my boss Arthur Wright to be there too. He has a knack for heading off trouble. Can I pick you up?’ he asked, not sure if he was being inappropriate.
‘No, thanks, I know where you work, I’ll meet you there. But thanks again, you know, for everything.’
Her smile almost made him forget the horrible circumstances which had resulted in them sitting here, alone, in the early hours of a spring Sunday morning.
‘Tomorrow then,’ she said before turning to get out of the car.
‘Tomorrow’ he said to himself, watching her go and sitting there a moment longer, as if unwilling to disturb the quiet that had settled over the old, narrow streets. He waited as her automatic entrance way light went on, and then off, the last of the neighbourhood lights extinguished, before turning on the engine and heading for home.
3
Rudolph Haynes closed his eyes and allowed the memory to consume him. For some reason his father’s words had been looming in the back of his brain all day – today of all days, the worst day of his life, the day of his daughter’s death. Haynes was not one to reminisce, but over the years he had come to acknowledge that memories such as these resurfaced for a reason and, considering his father had been the man that he was, he realised he would be foolish to ignore what could be a valuable insight.
‘You know what the most ridiculous Americanism is, son?’ Alistair Haynes had asked his five-year-old son over sixty years ago. ‘You can count on it. You can count on it!’ He had said it twice, the second time with gusto. ‘That, young Rudi is rubbish, claptrap, tripe, utter nonsense! If you want to get ahead in this world son, you count on nothing,’ Alistair Haynes had continued. ‘For there is no such thing as fate and any man who tells you otherwise is a liar and a fool.’
Haynes remembered the smell of malt and sweat and perhaps a trace of regret that accompanied his father’s late night visits.
‘Life isn’t going to cut you any breaks, Rudi. You make your own way like your father and his father before him. Of course you must play the game,’ the older Haynes had gone on. ‘As doing the dance is just as important as getting the applause. But know inside, son, in here . . .’ he had pressed his hand against his son’s chest, hard enough for Rudi to swallow a cough, ‘. . . that you are a Haynes, better than the rest of them with a clear mind and determination to succeed.’
Young Rudi had looked at his father then, his brain absorbing the advice like a hungry sponge, his back straight, his expression intense and his respect beyond question.
‘Finally,’ the older Haynes had said in conclusion. ‘You must set goals. Know your plan from beginning to end and don’t ever let some weak-kneed son-of-a-bitch think they can get away with cheating you. Mercy is a weakness and pity even worse. You’re a good boy, Rudi,’ he had said as he took his only child in his arms, in a rare show of affection. ‘Just don’t take any crap.’
Haynes’ father had been talking about the power of strategy – and now it became clear why this conversation had come back to him tonight.
‘A man with a plan is a man in command,’ his father used to say. And it was upon this philosophy that Rudolph Haynes had based his long and successful political career. A loyal Republican, he had been elected a US Senator almost thirty years ago – an amazing feat considering Massachusetts had been a Democratic powerhouse since JFK won his Congressional seat back in 1946. He had conquered Boston, a blue blood conservative in a city of Irish liberals, and still, after all these years, held his seat with an unbeatable majority.
Like his father before him Haynes had learned the art of ‘tap dancing’. He had mastered the skill of demanding perfection without alienating the public and could lead a campaign that no political opponent could rival. He had a reputation for strength, consistency and getting things done and he still didn’t take any crap. Still, he knew the timing of this tragedy could not be worse. US Senators were elected or re-elected on a cyclic basis once every six years, and his seat was up for re-election next year. His campaign strategy was about to begin for God’s sake, and this heinous distraction was unforgivable.
So now, as he sat at his hand-carved cherry wood desk in his painstakingly arranged library, in his beautifully positioned home, he knew he must call upon every iota of his organisational genius to set things right – for his own sake, for his wife, Elizabeth, and most of all for Christina.
He could hear the faint moans of Elizabeth sobbing in the living room and immediately chastised himself for this wave of emotion that had stolen into his thoughts and could ultimately cloud his focus. He must stay calm. There was no time for grief. First things first. One step at a time. His daughter was dead – and the explanation was unacceptable. So he knew it would be left to him to carve the road to justice and ensure those running this show were driving in the appropriate direction.
He had great respect for the legal process and its many ambiguities – for Harvard had taught him the rules, while politics had shown him the possibilities. Katz had called twice and he had spoken to Verne and so he took some relief in the comfort of ‘action’.
‘Justice,’ he said to himself. ‘Justice,’ he said it aloud, and then followed it with another word – ‘control’.
They called him the Kat because he was slick and quick and always landed on his feet. Not to his face of course, but behind the secretarial partitions and closed office doors of the DA’s office. And now, sitting across from him in her Martha Stewart-esque sunroom, in her tastefully decorated Harbourside condominium, on this sunny Sunday morning, Loretta Scaturro had a silent laugh to herself as she had to agree the name fit.
ADA Roger Katz was her second-in-command, a meticulously groomed man with expensive tastes, a George Hamilton tan and Armani sunglasses that rarely left his dark, almond-shaped eyes. He was confident to the point of arrogance, smooth with the ladies and one of the boys. He drove a red Corvette, shopped on Newbury Street and lived in a condo in Back Bay’s fashionable Copley Place. He was also one of the smartest attorneys she had ever worked with and if there was one thing she needed right now, it was a sharp mind to help her sort through this mess.
DA Scaturro had spent most of last night at Headquarters trying to get her head around every piece of information relating to the Haynes case. Senator Haynes had called her within minutes of receiving news of his daughter’s death and, cool and calm as usual, asked her to personally investigate the circumstances surrounding Christina’s drowning. His voice was cordial but strong and she knew when Rudolph Haynes asked for something he expected results, quickly and efficiently.
So she had called the coroner and organised a weekend autopsy, the results of which she should have within twenty-four hours. She met Mannix at Headquarters and questioned Officers Wu and Leigh. She called Katz and briefed him on the situation. She wanted him to focus on Rayna – her job, her home life, her personality. She knew Katz would jump at this one, it was high profile and gave him the chance to impress Senator Haynes. Right up the Kat’s alley so to speak.
She brought her attention back to Katz, fully decked out in his Sunday Ralph Lauren Polo. He was telling her what he had discovered so far.
‘Everyone at work loves her,’ he said. ‘But this is a niche group, racially and socially. In other words, they don’t get out much.’ Katz flashed one of his perfect-teeth smiles. ‘She has a reputation for being smart, savvy. She’s gracious without being sycophantic. She is happy to burn an insurance company CEO one minute and console a crack head the next.’
God, thought Scaturro, this woman was beginning to sound like the second coming, which, from their point of view, would make things difficult.
‘She is forty-two, widowed, one daughter. She has a wealthy older sister who lives in Brookline, a divorcee named Delia Banks who often keeps an eye on the kid when she’s busy at work, which is often.
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br /> ‘Martin is independently quite well off herself. She sends the kid to Milton Academy, owns a million-plus property in South End and drives a Lexus 4WD.’
Katz went on to explain that Rayna had at least three years sailing experience and was well trained in all areas of nautical safety.
‘Which sounds pretty rosy but it is only Sunday morning and there is plenty of digging to come.’ Katz smiled some more.
‘Look Roger,’ started Loretta, getting to the crux of the matter. ‘Senator Haynes is breathing down my neck . . . make that our necks on this one.’ There was nothing like a threat from lofty heights to get Roger fired up. ‘We don’t have much time, it’s already making the front page. If there is a case for involuntary manslaughter we have to find it fast. We’re already behind the eight ball for not booking her last night. But Mannix claims there are no solid grounds for the charge. He also warned if we harass this woman we’re in for some serious flack from her colleagues who, you may have noticed, hold some serious clout in this community.’
‘With all due respect, Loretta, Mannix is full of crap and it doesn’t help that he’s good friends with her attorney. We don’t need an ironclad case to book her. All we need are the grounds for a potential case.’
He was right, but this was a tricky one and Loretta still had her doubts.
‘Look,’ the Kat took the floor, smoothing down his pants in the process. ‘First of all she leaves a teenager . . . no, a drunken teenager, floating over 500 yards out to sea.’
‘She didn’t know about the alcohol,’ countered Scaturro. ‘And I don’t think the girl was drunk, a little light-headed maybe.’
‘Come on, one glass at sixteen and you’re on your way right? And this is not about what she says but what we might be able to prove. Let’s not forget these kids were under-age, in her care and drinking booze on a small boat in the middle of historically treacherous waters. Secondly she has that whole mother/daughter protection thing going on, so she decides to dump the friend to go and save her own kid. Understandable maybe, but still irresponsible, or some might say grossly negligent.’