by Sydney Bauer
Another cough. This one louder, deeper and straight into the receiver.
‘Sounds like you need a check-up, detective. But then again, I suppose you already have one Petri draining the medical resources and those private clinics can be frightfully expensive.’
Pig, he had to mention his wife.
‘Detective?’
‘Yeah, I’m here.’
‘Good, we’re all on the same page then.’
Petri held the phone to his ear, listening to the beeps of the disconnected call before slamming the filthy receiver back on its greasy rest.
‘Prick,’ he said, before getting back in his car and heading uptown to work. ‘Fucking prick.’
Samantha Bale blew a small, fuzzy red curl out of her left eye before opening the manila folder in front of her.
Sam was twenty-seven, about five foot three and loaded with enthusiasm. She wore a deep green suit with well worn, high heeled shoes which she never seemed to master. Her fiery mane was controlled in a tight bun which still managed to spout wires of unruly auburn hair like little electrical threads alive with complimentary vigour. Her counterpart, Con Stipoulos, sat next to her, ready to contribute when needed, his relaxed manner soothing her jack-in-the box dynamism.
‘Okay,’ she began. ‘Let’s start with the weather conditions. On Saturday 4 May, the sun rose at 6.15am and set at 6.35pm. There was little if any cloud cover except for a small band of wispy cirrus which strung out across the sky from the south-east in the morning only to be burnt off by midday.’
Arthur gave David a sideways glance. This was so ‘Sam’, determined not miss a beat. Samantha Bale was not the obvious choice for associate, in fact there was at least twenty other applicants for her job that had better bar exam results and references. But Arthur was impressed by her ‘no-holds-barred’ spunk and enthusiasm and no one was more shocked than Sam when six months ago he had called to tell her she had got the job. She had been out to prove her worth ever since and more than made up for her slip-ups with an insatiable passion to learn and an unwavering determination to never make the same mistake twice.
‘The temperature range was a cool fifty to an above average seventy-eight – a maximum reached at 2pm that afternoon. Wind was mild, blowing from the south-west in the morning at six knots and lessening to a mild breeze by 11am. In other words, if they had been in a sail boat rather than a cruiser, the lack of wind would have prevented them from going very far.’
Sam looked up and smiled before burying her head back in the report and moving on.
‘High tide was at 5.52 am and low at 11.44 am so the accident occurred when the waters were close to their lowest of the day. The current was weak – a mere 0.75 knots to the north-east – basically still. The water temperature was about sixty-eight, cool but more than bearable, and a lot warmer than it usually is at that time of year. In other words the weather was beautiful. Exceptional for early May, in fact. More like conditions seen in July or August. A perfect day . . . well,’ she paused, ‘not in this instance of course.’
Sam released a breath and sat back into her seat prompting her partner Con, all calm professionalism and brooding confidence, to lean forwards towards the table and take a sip of chilled water before moving on.
‘There are approximately 110 licensed tour operators in the greater Cape Ann area, most of which operate out of Gloucester – population 28,716. Some of them only operate from late May to early September whilst others hold winter tours with a slight increase in activity at Christmas.
‘The greater majority organise boat charters and harbour cruises, with fishing and whale watching being two of the major drawcards. There are also a few who offer helicopter tours, flying over the greater Cape area of Manchester, Gloucester, Rockport, Essex and Ipswich and giving the tourists a bird’s eye view of the many coves and beaches. These operate out of Beverly Municipal Airport just south of Gloucester.
‘Others sell walking, hiking and biking expeditions, and there is the added attraction of the local art galleries and antique shops. But as a whole, about seventy-five per cent of the Cape’s tourist income is made on or near the water and most of that during the months of June, July and August.’
‘Given all this activity, why is it that no one witnessed the accident?’ said Sara.
‘Well, early May is still fairly quiet,’ said Con. ‘And the waters are expansive. The Cape doesn’t feel busy at that time of year. Also, the accident occurred north of the main marinas in the more tranquil waters of Essex and Ipswich bays. Crane Beach is private and protected. People go there to avoid the crowds.’
They all agreed that if anyone had witnessed any part of the day’s events they would have come forward by now.
‘We interviewed an endless number of tour operators and other locals,’ said Sam. ‘They all knew about the accident and the pending trial but no one seems to have seen anything. We spoke to George Livingston who leased The Cruisader to Rayna. He put them on board, saw them set off, but didn’t see anything else until they returned to port.’
‘Someone must have seen something,’ said David. ‘Let’s check with Teesha tomorrow, see if she remembers anything.’
‘I’m afraid there is not much else to tell,’ said Sam, disappointed they could not contribute anymore. ‘The good news is Mrs Martin’s story checks out. The conditions are just as she told us. But it still doesn’t shed any light on cause of death, or provide us with any witness to the conversation.’
‘You’ve been very thorough,’ said Arthur.
‘So what now?’ asked Con.
Arthur sat back in his chair and looked at his two associates.
‘I need you to do a little background work on a couple of police officers,’ said Arthur. ‘Let’s see what we can turn up on Detective Paul Petri and Officer Susan Leigh.’
20
What the hell was wrong with that girl? This was the fourth time this month that his secretary had called in sick. Her name was Bessie Billings and she was nineteen. She had one of those horrendous navel rings that popped out between her blouse and her skirt whenever she reached up to access the A–E filing cabinet draw. How anyone found those things attractive Ed would never know.
The phone rang again as Ed Washington cursed young Bessie and his wife who had promised to come down straight after breakfast but had so far failed to show. His junior realtor, a keen car-salesman type named Zachary Duck, was at an early showing and that phone just rang and rang, interrupting his efforts to concentrate on his end of financial year bookwork.
‘Hello!’ he screamed down the phone unable to stand the noise any longer.
‘Hello, Mr Washington?’
‘Yes,’ Ed took a breath and lowered his voice, realising this could be a potential client. ‘This is Ed Washington, how can I help you?’
Marc Rigotti sat up in his seat. This was the umpteenth time he had placed a call to Ed Washington and the first time Ed had answered the phone himself. Normally it was the monotoned secretary who kept saying he wasn’t in, or Ed’s wife who had hung up as soon as he offered his name and place of employment.
‘Mr Washington, my name is Marc Rigotti. I am a reporter for the Boston Tribune, I have been following the Martin case and I was wondering if you would be free to meet with me.’
‘My wife has told me you have been harassing her, Mr Rigotti,’ said Ed, and there was no mistaking the animosity in his voice. ‘We do not wish to . . .’
‘Sir, I know you are determined to protect your daughter, and rightly so, but I also hear you are a man dedicated to helping others, to making sure accidents such as these will never happen again.’
The first rule of getting a potential source to talk is to move quickly but smoothly. Present the facts, just enough to eliminate any confusion, play the concerned advocate of free speech, compliment your potential source for his or her public interest and act neutral with a slight lean towards your source’s slant on the situation.
But Rigotti realised he
may have just blown it. He said ‘accident’, which immediately gave away his own personal take on the case. A mistake. He held his breath, hoping Ed was as dim as he had been told.
‘Mr Rigotti, I do not speak to the press.’
‘But you did Sir, from the onset. I am just wondering why you decided not to continue your crusade for responsible teenage supervision. From what I am told, you hold the view that Mrs Martin was negligent in the care of the teenage girls she took out on the cruiser that fateful day. I have also heard you are a supporter of Senator Haynes.’
‘Look, Mr Rigotti, the Senator is a good man and I am extremely sorry for his loss. My daughter and his daughter were fast friends and it will take some time for Francine to get over this.’
‘Naturally. It must be very hard for your daughter, and for you, as her father, trying to console and protect her all at the same time.’
‘Yes,’ said Ed, obviously feeling that he was at last speaking to someone who acknowledged his position in this whole mess. ‘It could have been my daughter you know, that’s what the Senator said, and he was right.’
Now this was interesting. Firstly it showed that Ed Washington had spoken to Haynes and secondly it proved something far more powerful. That the Senator’s original take on the case was not as a hate crime.
If Haynes saw this as a racially motivated crime all along, he would never have suggested that ‘it could have been Francine Washington who was left for dead. Francie was black. Unless of course this was all part of Haynes’ plan to win at least one of the three remaining teenagers into his camp.
Rigotti smiled. Sometimes you just got lucky. He had to get this guy in a room with a tape recorder.
‘Exactly sir,’ he agreed. ‘It could easily have been Francine. Mr Washington, do you think we could get together, talk a little, clear the picture on this fog and in the process, help the Haynes’ find some form of justice?’
Haynes . . . the very name brought Ed back into focus. Lord, what was he thinking?
‘No, no I don’t think so, Mr Rigotti. I really shouldn’t be . . .’
‘Shouldn’t be what, Sir? You are only doing what is right for your family, for the Haynes.’
‘No, no I am sorry. I have already spoken to the Tribune and the story was never published. Check with your editor. You have the interview. I mean, Max Truman has it, speak to him.’
‘Truman? Who is Max Truman?’
‘He’s a reporter from your paper. Don’t you know what goes on in your own office, Mr Rigotti?’
‘Mr Washington, there is no Max Truman here. I know every journalist in the building. I was assigned to this story from day one and have been following it ever since. Who did you speak to, Mr Washington?’
Ed was no Einstein but he was no amoeba either. ‘Oh my Lord,’ he thought to himself. ‘Max Truman wasn’t a reporter, Haynes had organised for him to . . . he was a friend of Haynes.’
He had been set up. The breakfast, the talk of new clients, the cold shoulder at the funeral, Ivan Lipshultz!
‘I don’t know. I have to go.’
‘Mr Washington, how well do you know the Senator?’
‘Don’t call me again, Mr Rigotti. Please, please do not call again. Just leave well enough alone.’
Teesha was lying. And David knew it. Tyrone had cooked them a great dinner of honey-roasted spare ribs and baked vegetables, which was followed by Delia’s mouth-watering homemade rhubarb pie, before David and Teesha moved into the living room for a more private chat. David started by asking her about school finals and telling her how he once took up home economics as a dare.
‘To my horror,’ he smiled, ‘I won the class prize for best quiche. You can just imagine how well that went down at football practice.’
Teesha laughed and he saw her relax.
‘I think it’s cool when guys can cook,’ she smiled.
‘Me too, only I’m afraid I never progressed past the quiche.’
She laughed again and he took the opportunity to slowly introduce the subject of her birthday party and what she remembered of the day. Teesha jumped right in.
‘It is very clear in my mind, Mr Cavanaugh.’
‘It’s David, remember?’
‘David,’ she smiled. ‘Mom was very specific. She said, “Christina told me to come and get you”. I remember it word for word. She said, “I spoke to Chrissie. She is fine but the water is a little cold so I need you three to hurry.” She was angry at us, but she was very clear. Mariah and Francie didn’t hear her because they were already swimming to the back of the cruiser. But I was right in front of her.
‘She told us about that conversation,’ she went on. ‘I may have been the only one who heard her, but she told us. There is no doubt about it, David. That is what happened. That is the truth.’ Teesha’s eyes were downcast. She looked everywhere around her aunt’s large, comfortable living room, everywhere except at David.
And in that moment David felt a new respect for this terrified young girl who was willing to do anything to save her mother.
‘Teesha, let me explain something. Your mom is a good person, right? She has brought you up to be a good person too. You know the difference between right and wrong, the truth and a lie. The only way you can get your mom into trouble is by lying. You utter one untruth and the prosecution will know it, the jury will know it, and they will assume your mom has told you to lie for her. You think you are helping and I know that. But lying won’t help your mom. In fact, it will do the exact opposite.’
Teesha looked up at David. She was not stupid. She knew he was right. If the jury thought her mom coached her in a lie, it would only make her look worse. She could not protect her.
‘David,’ she said now looking him straight in the eye, her face a mixture of realisation, hopelessness and despair. ‘You tell me not to lie but what choice do I have? I know she spoke to Chrissie but she just didn’t spell it out to us.’ She took a breath. ‘We were behaving like a pack of idiots – sixteen-year-olds acting like a bunch of kids. It is our fault, no, my fault. I knew we shouldn’t have sailed into the Bay, or taken off our life jackets. I drank Francie’s champagne, I agreed with Chrissie when she suggested she should swim out to the cruiser. Don’t you see?’
David sat silently. Teesha wiped the tears with the back of her hand, pushed her long black braid behind her shoulder and went on.
‘Have you ever watched those courtroom shows on TV?’ she asked.
David nodded.
‘Well, I watched one a few months ago where a daughter covered up for her dad who killed her mom. She lied, saying she accidentally fired her father’s gun. The dad got off and the daughter got off too, because she said it was an accident. Then they find out the dad really was guilty but they couldn’t try him again because of um . . .’
‘Double jeopardy.’
‘That’s right.’
Not so much Law 101, more ‘Law and Order’ 101, thought David.
‘Well,’ she went on. ‘I’ve been thinking maybe there is a way for me to take the blame. Maybe there is a story we can tell that can save us all. I have been trying to work out a scenario in which this could work. How we could use the whole double jeopardy thing, or some other law that would protect my mom and bring her home to me. But I keep coming up with the same problem. There is no crime to cover up. This really was an accident.’
David looked at Teesha, seventeen going on forty-five, and felt the worst he had felt in weeks. For there was nothing he could say to make this better, no great legal solution, no rabbit out of a hat. So he said all he could say, knowing that false comfort would be unfair and she was too smart for it anyway.
‘You’re right, Teesha, there was no crime and that is our problem. We are starting with nothing and praying the truth will be enough.’
David asked Delia for another coffee, thinking it was best they took a break before pushing on. Teesha was happy for the chance to catch her breath and after a few minutes in the bathroom and a hot cup
of cocoa with Sara, returned to her seat by the living room window.
After another hour of questions it was soon clear that Teesha’s recollection of events mirrored Mariah’s, which was devastating for the defence. David suspected this would be the case but was hoping against hell that Teesha could provide something more concrete. It was getting late and he was almost done when he thought of one more issue that had to be explored again. It was a long shot, but at this stage anything was worth a try.
‘Teesha, can you remember seeing anyone else during the course of the day? Anyone who may have seen you on the outboard or seen Christina swim to the cruiser?’
‘I remember it was pretty quiet. I remember thinking we could be as noisy as we wanted without annoying anyone. When Francie popped the champagne we yelled at her to keep it down but there was no one there to . . .’
She paused.
‘What? What is it Teesha?’
‘I think . . .’
‘You think . . . ?’
‘I think maybe there was someone. No, two people, a couple.’
‘Where? Where were they?’
‘On the beach, Crane Beach, up the other end.’
‘I remember thinking Mom might hear the pop but she was too far away. So my head turned full circle, towards land. There was a couple. Asian, I think. Having a picnic on the beach. They looked like tourists. They were a way off, but I’m pretty sure . . .’
Her eyes came alive.
‘David, maybe they saw Chrissie swim out, maybe they had a better view around the outcrop, out to the cruiser. Why didn’t I think of this before?’
‘Because you’ve had so much to cope with . . . too much. But that doesn’t matter, you’re remembering now. Try to think harder, close your eyes, picture them. Were they old, young, large, thin, short, tall . . .’
‘They were young, a young couple. Both of them were slim, the man was pretty tall, I think, or the girl was short. She had long hair, tied back, and she was . . .
‘She was what, Teesha? Think . . .’