by Sydney Bauer
His hands moved down and around her waist, lifting her up. She tugged at her jacket, pulling it off her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. He felt the beat of her heart against his chest, and the softness of her hair trailing across his shoulders and then they were on his couch, pulling at each other’s clothes, breathing hard, not wanting to think, not wanting to consider if this was . . .
And then she stopped, looking directly into his eyes, and he felt the slightest movement of uncertainty. He knew then what she was about to say and hated himself for knowing she was right.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we should. I want to. I need to. But . . .’
‘It’s okay,’ he said.
‘It’s just that I feel like my head is about to explode, and we have so much to do, to focus on and I don’t want to jeopardise . . .’
‘The case.’
‘Yes. No . . . Not just the case. I don’t want to jeopardise . . . us.’
He stood up, taking her hand and wiping one final tear from her cheek.
‘It’s all right,’ he said smiling, filled with disappointment but buoyed by her words of promise. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. You didn’t. It felt . . . it feels . . .’
‘I’m, glad,’ he said, kissing her gently on the forehead, now feeling the full force of the dull pain in his own. ‘Can I at least ask one favour? Well, two actually.’
‘Sure.’
‘I want you to promise me that when this is over we will try to give this . . . give us . . . a chance.’
‘I promise.’
‘I know how important this case is. But it has been so long since I . . .’
‘I promise,’ she said again, placing her finger on his lips, putting an end to his doubts. ‘Now, what was the second thing?’
‘Oh,’ he smiled at her. ‘My head is killing me. I was wondering if you could brew me up some seriously strong coffee.’
‘Coffee I can do. But then you have to fill me in on everything that has happened in the past twenty-four hours. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
Showered and changed, David walked back into his living room, the strong smell of coffee soothing the dull ache in the back of his head.
‘Thanks,’ he said as he turned towards the big bay window, the daylight hot on his face, the sun high in the sky. And then it hit him.
‘What time is it?’ he said.
‘After midday.’
‘Shit,’ he said struggling to remember exactly where he was meant to be right now. He knew he had an appointment. Thursday, lunch. That’s right. Tyrone Banks, Delia’s ex. He had made a booking at Radius.
‘Shit, I’m going to be late,’ he said, absentmindedly clutching at his collar, looking around for a tie to put on. Trying to remember where he put his keys.
‘David, where are you going? I want to know what happened with Tommy. You have to call Arthur.’
‘Okay, but first, I have to meet Delia’s ex for lunch. I think he might be able to help us – with research.’
‘Slow down. What research?’
‘Sara, I have an idea and the thing is, I’m not even sure what it means. I just have this feeling that I am on the right track, that we have to start way back at the beginning.’
‘You’re right,’ she said, finding a tie on his living room sofa and tossing it to him across the room. ‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘Thanks. I’m sorry,’ he said, his head was mentally ticking off his long ‘to do’ list. Something Sara had said before leapt to the front of his brain – Sean, his brother, calling three times. He made a mental note to ring him back this afternoon.
‘Listen, if you don’t mind dropping me down to High Street, we can talk on the way.’
‘Okay,’ she said, as he tossed her his keys.
‘My briefcase?’ he said looking around him.
‘By the coffee table,’ she said, scooping it up before heading for the door.
‘Thanks. You know what? We make a good team,’ he said.
‘You got that right,’ she smiled. ‘In fact, I am beginning to wonder how you ever managed without me.’
‘No idea,’ he said as they moved out the door. ‘Seriously, I have no idea.’
‘I want you at the head table, Moses. I want you and Sophia there, with Elizabeth and me.’
Novelli could not help but notice that the Senator’s eyes were planted firmly on the 1996 Grange Chardonnay which sat in the elegantly understated crystal glasses placed on this perfectly set table at the ultra-exclusive Somerset Club on Beacon Hill as he uttered these words of comradeship. Haynes, picked up the glass and swilled the pale fluid around precariously close to its smooth rim before taking another sip.
‘You are my oldest and dearest friend, Moses. And Elizabeth feels the same way about Sophia.’
Now that was definitely a lie. Sophia always felt uncomfortable around Elizabeth who she said had a tendency to treat her as a fortunate inferior; lucky to be included in Elizabeth Whitman Haynes’ circle of friends, if only on the periphery.
‘Of course,’ Haynes went on, ‘this banquet is all a lot of detestable ballyhoo and, normally, I’d avoid it at all costs. But it is a positive event for the Party and I cannot rob them of a reason to celebrate in these uncertain times.’
‘Everyone would understand if you decided to cancel,’ said Novelli, the first words he had spoken in minutes. ‘You and Elizabeth have been through so much. I almost wonder if it would not be better to at least postpone . . .’
‘Nonsense,’ said the Senator, now looking his old friend squarely in the eye. ‘Why would you suggest such a thing, Moses? You know we are a stoic pair and it is important to show my co-workers, my fellow Party members, my voters, that I am as strong as ever.’
And next year is election year, thought Moses, before responding.
‘You don’t need my approval to have the banquet, Clark.’
‘No, no, of course not, old friend. I just want you to know how important you are to me – to us. We value your friendship just as Boston values your guidance.’
So here it comes.
‘Moses.’ The glass was on the table now, the Senator’s hands firmly in his lap, his back straight, his pale eyes meeting the dark counterparts of his companion. ‘You are no doubt aware of how this Martin case is playing out in the press. People are being forced to take sides. It is not just those involved with the case, but the general public, the good people of our fine city. They are being asked to choose.’
Novelli said nothing so Haynes went on.
‘And it’s not just a black and white thing. Forgive me, an African–American, White–American issue. It has crossed the lines of race and become a moral argument. Some publications are painting that woman as the victim – a poor single mother being bullied by the almighty politician. But it simply isn’t true. The woman is a murderer, Moses. She killed your goddaughter, your beautiful, innocent, sweet goddaughter, and she must pay.’
Haynes lifted his glass to his lips, and this time Moses noted, his movements were not so smooth.
‘Look,’ he said, placing the glass on the table a little harder than was necessary, ‘let’s stop playing games shall we?’
‘I didn’t know we were.’
‘Bullshit. You know the press is waiting for your view on this case. The public lives by your God-damned opinion. You . . . little Jimmy Olsen, imagine that,’ he sighed.
‘Rudolph, what can I do? It is not my place to influence a judicial proceeding, especially one that involves the death of my goddaughter. Yes, I loved Christina, she was like a fourth child to us.’
‘I am not asking you to bribe the jury, for God’s sake, just offer your opinion.’
‘But it is precisely the reason that you ask me to offer such opinions that I cannot. I do hold clout. I do sway the public. It would, therefore, be extremely irresponsible, even criminal of me to step into this already overcrowded debate.’
Th
e Senator sat back and observed his old college buddy with a look that wavered between contempt and disgust.
‘Are you forgetting, my friend, that you are who you are because of me? Jimmy would be no one without Clark. Oh you might think you rolled up your sleeves and got down with the lesser members of our community to garner their support and with it their valuable votes, but it was me who taught you what was possible. If you had not had me as a benchmark, you would still be some pissant misfit in some pissant misfit law firm with pissant misfit clients.
’There would be no thousand dollar suits, no dinner parties with the President, no hire cars, no houses in the South End or pictures in the social pages. No high profile job to compensate for your short stature, no powerful friends to boost your flailing little ego, no perfect white goddaughters to compensate for your dark Italian brood.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Moses, his eyes watering with a combination of sadness and anger, his head willing his fists not to burst across the table and cover this all too white tablecloth with splatters of red.
‘But I haven’t finished,’ said Haynes. ‘You do not understand. This is not a request. It is an order. I have friends in high places, Moses and perhaps more importantly associates in not so lofty quarters who are always looking for an opportunity to assist. A rumour here, a suggestion there. Lord knows in our capricious society it only takes one scurrilous anecdote – true or otherwise – to bring a man down.
‘So let’s be plain shall we? Speak out in favour of our case and your career will continue to flourish. Say nothing or worse, support the Martin woman, and your future, your reputation . . .’ the Senator paused here to let his threat sink in. ‘Let’s just say your life is over.’
Moses Novelli rose from the table. He pulled out his wallet and placed two crisp one hundred dollar bills on a stark white napkin. He removed his dark blue, off-the-rack suit jacket from the back of his chair and put it on before opening his mouth to say one last thing and turning to leave.
‘There is one mercy in all of this, that Christina is not here to see what her father has become – or what he already was.’ Moses took another deep breath and looked directly at the man he once called his closest friend. ‘I pray to God each day that he blesses her soul – her wonderfully pure, idealistic, untainted and innocent soul. And I also pray for one other thing: that the Lord have pity on you, Clark. For your soul was discarded a long time ago, an unnecessary hindrance in your callous pursuit of power. Friend? How can I be your friend? I don’t even know you and, to be honest, I am not sure I ever really did.’
Lunch went well. Tyrone Banks was an interesting man. He was hospitable but straightforward, gracious but direct and, David suspected, used to having things done his way.
David was impressed with Banks’ career record. He was one of the most powerful administrators in the Democratic Party. He headed a staff of over 500 research analysts around the country and made it very clear to David that he was willing to do anything he could to help Delia’s sister and his niece Teesha.
They spoke of politics and the law, Boston and Washington, baseball and football and finally of Delia, and Banks’ high regard for his ex-wife and her family.
‘Forgive me if this is too forward,’ said David. ‘But if you are so close to Delia and her family, shouldn’t you two still be together?’
‘Short answer is yes. Longer answer is . . . well, not so short,’ Banks hesitated before going on. ‘You ever hear the saying “Be careful what you wish for” Mr Cavanaugh?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, I’m one of those lucky people who love what they do. I found a career that fits me like a glove. You see I love everything about research – the initiation, the process, the correlation and most importantly the results. I aim high, Mr Cavanaugh, and work hard to reach my goals. In the end I got what I wished for – one of the top research jobs this government has to offer and, might I add, I am very good at it.’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ said David.
‘Oh yes there is. A lot wrong when your wife is one stubborn woman who refuses to follow you on your selfish quest for advancement.’
‘I gather Delia’s not a big fan of our nation’s capital?’
‘No sir. She’s a Boston girl born and bred and I know I have no right to tell her where to live.’ Tyrone had a sip of his sauvignon blanc before going on. ‘Delia’s a good woman, Mr Cavanaugh, maybe too good for me. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had our moments but, when it comes down to it, I’ve never met anyone who has so much to give. And I was stupid enough to let that go.’
David wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Well, from what I can tell, you’re still a very important part of her life – and Teesha’s, and Rayna’s too.’
‘That I am, and grateful for it. Could be there’s hope for me yet.’
Radius was renowned for its mouthwatering modern French cuisine and the menu gave credence to its stellar reputation. Tyrone had the seared marine scallops while David ordered the slow cooked prime Côte-de-Boeuf.
Soon they were ordering coffees and speaking openly about the case, and about David’s suspicions that Haynes’ determination to crucify Rayna was not solely motivated by the death of his daughter.
‘Would it surprise you if I said we were considering a counter-defence aimed at proving the prosecution were being driven by the Senator’s need for revenge?’ asked David. ‘And by his views on African–Americans as a whole?’
It was a broad statement and a risky one considering he had only met this man two hours ago – but something told David that Banks could be trusted.
Tyrone raised his eyebrows, and David sensed it was not so much in surprise at being asked the question, more as an indication that he thought David and his team were extremely courageous to take this on. Courageous or crazy, David wasn’t too sure.
‘Considering this is a hate trial,’ Tyrone went on, ‘and knowing the parties involved, it doesn’t surprise me at all. In fact, I think it makes perfect sense. ‘I am an analyst, and one that concerns himself not so much with statistics but with human behaviour. Our country is not run by machines, but by men and women, each with his or her own opinions on this or on that.’ Banks spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘Sadly, there are a million Haynes out there. A million little boiling pots all determined to keep their lids on a belly full of hatred for fear of being labelled politically incorrect. I have made a few initial enquiries, just for my own information, so to speak, and from what I can see the Senator is very skilled at keeping his lid on tight. But that just means the steam inside is ready to explode.’
David sat forward, his elbows on the table.
‘So you think that maybe we could find some evidence of the Senator’s past prejudicial behaviour that could show a pattern of intolerance?’
‘Perhaps,’ answered Tyrone. ‘But that won’t be enough.’
Banks was right. Any evidence of past discrimination would not only have to unveil the Senator as a bigot, it also had to prove he was willing to break the law or, in the very least, do some serious damage to the lives of others in order to support his own skewed beliefs.
They sat quietly for a moment as Banks sipped his cappuccino and David downed his second black coffee.
‘Tyrone, I know you have some amazing research facilities at your disposal, and I would never think of asking you to compromise your position to help us but . . .’
‘I’m the one who asked you to lunch Mr Cavanaugh. In fact I was hoping you would . . .’
‘Ask for your help? It’s David, remember? And yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing.’
‘Well, it’s about time,’ he smiled. ‘You may not be Tom Cruise but you still “had me at hello”.’
17
Elizabeth Haynes threw down the pamphlet in disgust. It landed face up on the chintz-covered sofa beside her and she glanced at the heading again – ‘The Five Stages of Grief by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross.
It had been sent to her by a supposedly w
ell-meaning wife of some opportunistic political climber – as a ‘gift’, hoping it would ‘help her understand the process she must go through in order to go on with her life’.
What a presumptuous, audacious, stupid bitch. Elizabeth could not even remember meeting the woman, and now she was claiming to know how she, Elizabeth Whitman Haynes, could ‘get on with her life’. Seriously, it was laughable.
Having said that (and she hated to admit it), she had deigned to browse through the tackily designed brochure and realised it had actually helped. Certainly not in the way Mrs Stupid Bitch thought it would, but in a more constructive sense – it helped her realise she had gone about everything the wrong way. The only reason her husband was avoiding her, Agnes spying on her and her friends shunning her company was because she was coming across as weak, unstable and, as such, socially unacceptable.
She was stuck in stage one – ‘denial’, and needed to move to stage two.
Stage two – ‘anger’, was so much more tangible, stronger, more productive and she planned to remain in it as long as possible.
Stage two should help her negotiate three (‘bargaining’) and hopefully avoid four (‘depression’) altogether.
As for stage five – ‘acceptance’, well, that was decidedly ludicrous. How could she, why should she, ever accept what Rayna Martin had done to her. Certainly not.
No, she might have to think about devising another stage five for her specific circumstances. Perhaps ‘justice’. Yes indeed, that should do nicely.
But she was getting ahead of herself. First she needed to clear her head and then, as her husband had so often told her, she needed to take one step at a time.
Sara was sitting by Arthur’s office window, the sun now high enough to sneak its way through, the early morning light flickering across her face, bouncing off her aqua eyes making them appear almost translucent. She was in work attire again: a tailored navy skirt with a fitted striped shirt, her jacket flung over the back of Arthur’s worn leather couch.