by Sydney Bauer
Five years passed and, in that time, Verne rose through the ranks of the secret service, eventually being assigned to the President of the United States. Vince kept Haynes abreast of political goings on. He fell into the habit of doing small favours for the Senator. It was amazing how much you could learn in the White House just by watching, listening and knowing who to ask the odd discreet question. He didn’t exactly break any rules, just gathered information, deciphered it and passed on what might be beneficial to the Senator who was, after all, a respected politician and patriotic American.
Then, two years ago, his whole life went to hell.
Verne, who lived alone in a small but neat rented Georgetown apartment, was accustomed to a late night stroll down to his local convenience store to buy the essentials and pick up the earliest edition of the next morning’s paper. On this particular night he was taking a Diet Coke from the freezer when two men entered the store. The first man jumped over the front counter and climbed its left corner ripping out the surveillance camera and demanding the proprietor open his till.
In the confusion and gunfire that followed, Vince remembered feeling pain as he crash-tackled the second thief to the ground, causing the criminal to accidentally shoot himself in the right thigh. The bandits panicked as the second man bled onto the linoleum floor and fled the store penniless.
Then, it all went black.
Vince spent the next week in and out of surgery. The bullets had torn both his kidneys, spleen and upper liver. They had severed his femoral artery and lacerated his abdominal wall. He earned the title of local hero until another brave, more press-worthy variety came along and spent all of this time in and out of consciousness completely unaware of what was going on.
He received a new kidney, just hours after the shooting, a transplant procedure which normally took months to organise with waiting lists long and donors all too rare. The Senator had organised it privately. He had used discreet means to pay for the specialists and then funded the entire extensive rehabilitation program, never asking a cent in return. He did not visit the hospitals or clinics and never even had a conversation with Vince regarding the situation.
There was no need. Vince knew of his generosity and respected the Senator’s distaste for open gratitude. So rather than shower him with thank yous he decided to dedicate the rest of his life to repaying his debt to the man he admired more than any other. His career with the secret service may be over, but his dedication to duty grew tenfold.
Now, as Vince, alias Boston Tribune reporter Max Truman, turned into Queensbury Street and pulled up outside the Washingtons’ neat, pale blue wood-shingle home with white gloss trim and late blooming daisies in the window boxes, he vowed to do whatever he could to destroy Rayna Martin and those willing to help her. Not just for the Senator, or for his wife, but also for the little girl who used to look up at him and smile when the rest of the world had a tendency to look straight through him.
Over the past two days, David’s respect for Rayna Martin had grown a hundred fold. Her ability to stay calm and focused, to think solely of her daughter’s welfare and maintain a sense of grace was nothing short of amazing. This morning his admiration for her grew again as she showed she was human. When given the news of the delayed arraignment she turned in her chair, fell into the arms of her visiting older sister Delia and broke down and cried.
There was no point in empty promises. Rayna was an attorney and way too smart for the usual placations David would give to a client unused to the complications of the law. David recounted Katz’s conversation, knowing Rayna was entitled to the full story and hoping she may be able to shed some light on his allusions to the race issue.
‘Tell me what you know about Haynes,’ said David.
‘She knows he’s a God-damned liar,’ interrupted Delia who David had discovered was prone to such emotional outbursts. ‘He has my sister locked up in here while she should be home with her baby, who needs her. It just isn’t right.’
‘It’s okay, Delia,’ said Rayna, patting her sister’s hand before taking a deep breath, wiping her tears and turning back to David to say, ‘I know the campaign spiel, that he is a man of the people, strong, direct, determined, conservative. I know he’s been around for a long time. I know the people that work for him are polarised, meaning they either love him or hate him, and I know he’s a bigot.’
‘I told David he’s a one-in-sixer,’ said Sara who had removed her jacket, undone her top button and was leaning forward on the vinyl interview room chair.
‘Right,’ said Rayna. ‘There is no concrete evidence of course, but AACSAM is a pretty good place to hear the unspoken.’
‘Would anyone at AACSAM have evidence of such prejudices?’ said David.
‘Probably not. The man is very careful. I do believe, however, that if you pooled his staff, those at the negative end of the polarisation would be largely African–Americans, Latin–Americans, Asian–Americans.’
Rayna paused to think of how best to describe a man such as Haynes.
‘You have to understand that Haynes has been a politician for decades. He is a master of illusion. If he is a bigot, then he would never have admitted it directly. People like Haynes exude their racial preferences subliminally. They give more opportunities to white employees whilst still patting the black ones on their backs. They have a circle of close friends, all white, but make sure they have the odd public dinner or game of tennis with a respected Latin–American. Their wives mix in socially acceptable white, upper class circles whilst waving the flag of tolerance at their expensive charity dinners. They give to minority causes and claim the contributions on their tax returns, but then encourage their children to form friendships with those whose skin is the same colour as their own.’
This last remark hit a cord as David realised Rayna was making an accusation of a more personal nature.
‘Was Christina under pressure to stay away from Teesha?’
‘Of course she was,’ interrupted Delia again. ‘That poor child was a victim of the worst kind of prejudice. She was stuck in the middle with no place to go.’
‘I think Delia’s right,’ said Rayna. ‘She never spoke ill of her parents and I respected her for that. But there were times when we sensed she was under pressure to forgo her African–American friends. The party was a perfect example.’
Rayna explained how Christina initially declined Teesha’s invitation and then turned up at the last minute.
‘So you think her coming to the party was an act of rebellion?’
‘Probably. Initially she said she couldn’t come because her mother wanted to take her shopping for a dress to wear to a dinner in honour of her father . . . some 50 Years in Politics banquet, you probably read about it in the paper.’
David had, it was scheduled for some time later this week. In fact, Arthur was invited, not because he knew Haynes personally but because of his legal standing in the community. He also assumed that, given Christina’s funeral was scheduled for Wednesday, it would be cancelled until further notice.
‘Anyway, when she turned up she mentioned her mom and dad hassling her and I figured she had come . . . not just to have fun with her friends, but also as a stand against her parents. God, the irony of it all now.’
‘Did Christina ever say anything more specific about her father’s racial preferences?’ said Sara.
‘You’d have to ask Teesha, or maybe Mariah. I’d say those two were her closest friends.’
‘The Senator would have loved that,’ said Sara.
‘Exactly.’
David wanted to take advantage of Rayna’s experience and so had no qualms about asking her opinion straight out.
‘Given your experience with race motivated crimes, where do you think the DA is going with this?’
‘Well, most of my dealings in crime are more to do with discrimination in insurance matters, employment, stuff like that, but I could have an educated guess.’ Rayna’s brow furrowed in concentration as if s
he was trying to think of a way to voice concerns steeped in the ugly and often unspoken realities of racism. ‘I agree with you that the race card appears to be a dangerous one for the prosecution but, from Haynes’ point of view, it is the only card to play. Don’t forget Haynes is up for re-election next year. He can’t afford a setback. Winning is everything to him and his drive to succeed is vehement.
‘I believe at this point, Senator Haynes and his wife hate me more than any living being on the planet. The fact that I am black makes it that much easier. He wants to hang me out to dry, David, and he will not rest until it is done. This may be tough given the nature of the charge, but that makes it all the worse.’
‘Why is that?’ asked Sara.
‘Because Haynes loves a challenge and he never, ever loses.’ Rayna looked at them both. ‘I don’t want to appear melodramatic. I have been trying to keep a clear head through all of this mess, but I truly believe they will go for broke.’
Delia reached across to her sister to cover her hands in her own.
‘So you good people have a job to do,’ said Delia. ‘My sister’s life is in your hands. She never hurt a single person in her whole entire life. So you go work your miracles . . . and set things right.’
The autopsy report came in at midday.
David and Sara had both skipped breakfast so they decided to take the file and head to Myrtle’s for a quick lunch. They sat next to each other hunched over the document whilst Mick, knowing better than to interrupt, brought them some sandwiches and mineral water with two strong hot coffees on the side.
Christina Haynes had died of suffocation due to submersion. There was salt water in her lungs, and since this liquid was saltier than her body fluids, water had left her blood and entered her lungs to help dilute the salt. The air in the lungs then mixed with the fluids and formed a frothy foam, which acted as a barrier to oxygen exchange. The coroner concluded she most likely struggled to inhale as much air as possible, eventually inhaling the water. This resulted in a lack of oxygen to the brain, loss of consciousness, most likely convulsions and cardiac arrest followed by death. In other words she had drowned.
The coroner also reported these events usually took a maximum of five minutes. Meaning Rayna must have been away from Christina for at least this amount of time. If she had reached Christina within the first five minutes her chances of resuscitation would have increased considerably.
Her blood alcohol level was .051, which, considering Christina weighed roughly 115 pounds, meant she had consumed approximately two drinks. This may not seem like a lot, but it would have been enough for Christina to be feeling the calming effect of body warmth and perhaps the beginning of some reduced small muscle control. At a distance, she could well have seemed sober, but she was definitely high enough to be experiencing at least some loss in judgement, especially at the age of sixteen. This reduction in reasoning ability may have led to panic or, on the opposite end of the scale, complacency, either of which could have decreased her chances of survival.
‘Five minutes,’ said Sara taking the first bite of her egg and salad roll. ‘The timing will kill us. This report gives the State their case. They’ll just say Rayna shouldn’t have left her, that she was away for too long. And from what you tell me about Katz, he’ll milk the emotion so that every parent on the jury visualises their son or daughter alone in the water, abandoned and gasping for breath.’
‘So we have to try to keep the case on a platform of logic,’ said David. ‘Rayna had to make a split decision regarding all four girls’ welfare and we have to prove, given the information available to her, that she made the most reasonable choice,’ said David.
‘And that means convincing a jury they would have done the same thing,’ she said.
‘Exactly,’ said David, skipping his lunch and going straight for the coffee.
‘You know,’ said Sara, breaking the silence, ‘that all sounds fine except for one major problem. Christina is the one who told Rayna to go after the others. She is the one who said Francie was in trouble. She is the one who also said she’d be okay treading water. ‘Our whole case is based on Christina’s last conversation with our client, and our number one witness is dead.’
He had called her. ‘Just wanted to see how you were doin,’ he had said. ‘And find out what happened. You were there, right? Everyone is dying to know.’
Francie could not believe it. Mitchell Dresco. The Mitchell Dresco. Milton Academy’s number one quarterback: tall, dark and seriously hot who drove a fancy red sports car called a Wasp or a Spider or something like that. He had called her and it felt good.
In fact (dare she admit it), everything felt pretty good right now: all the attention, the lights, the cameras, the reporters and Mitchell Dresco! Truth be told, the last twenty-four hours had been the most exciting in her entire life. Her dad was proud, her mom had something else to yap on about besides the usual crap, and the cameras were focused on her, not on Chrissie or Teesha or any of the white, super skinny, big-breasted bitches from the cheerleading squad at school.
She could hear her dad now. He was down the hall telling her mom about the new clientele and once in a lifetime opportunities, and all because of her, the receiver of calls from Mitchell Dresco, the centre of attention, the brave survivor of tragedy.
Of course, it came at a price. Chrissie was gone. But she was the one who wanted to swim to the boat, wanted to show off yet again. And that was Chrissie all over, wasn’t it? So typical. Mrs Martin would have come for them at any minute, it was just another case of Chrissie trying to prove she was . . .
Francine took a deep breath and avoided her reflection in her bedroom mirror as she went to her window to look out on the shadows falling on her mother’s gardenias. She swallowed hard, needing to rid her throat of something bitter that lingered behind. Maybe what that reporter said was true. Maybe her dad was right. Maybe Teesha’s mom was a bigot. Yes, yes she must be. Why else would she leave her like that? Seriously, what a stupid thing to do.
Now, all Francie had to do was – how did her dad put it? – help Chrissie’s mom and dad find peace, justice. She could do that. She could even help things on a little, at least that’s what her dad had said. It was only fair after all.
Francie closed her eyes and tried to conjure up the image of Mitchell Dresco on the back of her eyelids. But the lump in her throat had returned and, with it, a burning sensation that clutched at her chest and restricted her lungs. She took a deep breath and swallowed again, praying it would disappear and the sickness in her stomach would go with it.
Sometimes, fate was on your side and you came up lucky and as much as he hated to admit luck actually played a part in life’s twists and turns, there was no other way to explain the good news the Senator had just received. Francine Washington was not just a potential ally, she was a verifiable gold mine.
Haynes had set on this route with reasonable expectations but had no idea he would pull out an ace so early. The breakfast with Washington had gone as expected, with Trustworthy Ed playing right into his hands. Haynes may have to call in a few favours to get the man some extra real estate business, but that was a small price to pay for his daughter’s surprise contribution.
He had to see Scaturro. Timing would be important. He wanted to leave Cavanaugh as little reaction time as possible. He would see the DA and Katz this evening and try to delay informing the defence until tomorrow morning. Hell, he’d love to drop the bomb at the actual arraignment but he wasn’t too sure how far he could push the duty of disclosure.
He would have his secretary Louise call Scaturro’s office and set up a meeting for six. Louise could tell Scaturro he would be unavailable until that time, as he was busy organising his daughter’s funeral.
He surprised himself when realising that he was smiling through this thought. But then, he knew, revenge was the sweetest way to dull the pain of grief.
6
The next morning David left his apartment at six, hitting the pave
ment hard and fast, heading straight for the waterfront in the hope it would clear his head. He sprinted through Downtown, turned north on Atlantic Avenue and jogged past the many wharfs and docking bays all the way up to Christopher Columbus Park. The sun formed a small bump on the flat surface of the horizon, breathing light into the darkness, cutting clarity through the early morning fog.
Having grown up on the wharves of Newark he had always sought the smell of salt and the breeze of the Harbour when unsettled. And so he took long, deep breaths as he cut west towards Myrtle’s, feeding his lungs, storing the energy as he anticipated the magnitude of the day ahead.
‘Big day then,’ said Mick, who was reading the story about Christina’s autopsy report and Rayna’s imminent arraignment on the front page of the Boston Tribune.
‘Yeah, you could say that,’ said David.
‘She’s a good woman this Rayna Martin?’
‘She is.’
‘Then I know you’ll set things straight.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mick.’
Mick poured the freshly squeezed orange juice into a large takeaway cup.
‘So the girl is smart and pretty,’ he said, unable to resist mentioning Sara.
‘That would also be true,’ said David managing a smile.
‘Well good luck to you both then. I’ll have my fingers crossed today, and the juice is on the house.’
The courtroom was packed. The early morning sun poured softly through the east-facing windows, throwing alternate stripes of light and shadow across the worn hardwood floors. On its way it captured millions of floating dust particles as they entered and left the pale yellow beams.