Undertow

by Sydney Bauer

  Moses Novelli looked at David, his eyes filled with recognition and perhaps some trace of regret. The Mayor nodded his head slowly and opened his mouth to say one more thing before standing and indicating this meeting was over.

  ‘You’re digging in the wrong garden.’

  ‘What?’ said David, tired of people suggesting he was missing something when he knew Haynes was impenetrable. ‘Rudolph Haynes is protected. It doesn’t matter how deep we dig we still won’t get anyone to . . .’

  ‘No, you’re not listening to me, Cavanaugh,’ said the Mayor. ‘You’re digging in the wrong garden.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Stop trying to dig up the old oak tree. It is deep-rooted and stubborn and cosseted by age – an impossible task. Focus on the roses, they may be beautiful to look at, but temperamental, unpredictable and much easier to deracinate.’

  David looked at Novelli, realising what he had said.

  ‘Where do I start?’

  ‘In the past. You were right about history, Counsellor. That is where the answers lie.’

  ‘With all due respect, Moses, that’s not enough. I’m running out of time.’

  Moses Novelli looked at the man before him.

  ‘My old college friend once told me it was important to know your enemies, and he was right. Public record is an amazing resource, Counsellor, if you know where to look.

  ‘Please, Mayor. I . . .’

  ‘In 1968, a young US marine was killed in Vietnam. His name was Christopher Bloom.’

  ‘And . . .’

  ‘And, as Mayor, I have a legal and moral obligation not to pervert the course of justice – that includes assisting your case.’

  ‘Please Moses, if the man is dead, how can he help me?’

  ‘History, Mr Cavanaugh. Like I said, the answers are in the past.’

  The shrill of the telephone jolted her from sleep. Sara had no idea what time it was, only that she had fallen asleep, her head resting upon the reams of paperwork on the breakfast table before her.

  ‘Sara,’ said David as soon as she picked up.

  ‘Yeah, um. Hey.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You were sleeping.’

  ‘No, no . . . at least not intentionally. I was just writing down some last minute thoughts for the next two days. Scaturro’s next witnesses and . . . anyway, I’ve been trying to reach you all evening. What time is it?’

  ‘Eleven. Sorry to call so late.’

  ‘That’s okay, just tell me, how did it go with Novelli?’

  ‘Sara, I need you to do something for me.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It will mean missing the next few days of the trial, it may be a total waste of time. But I need someone I can trust.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But you must promise me you will be careful,’ he said. ‘Digging this deep may be dangerous.’

  ‘David, what is it?’

  ‘I need you to find out about a man named Christopher Bloom.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, reaching across her kitchen table for a pen. ‘Who is he, what does he know and where can I find him?’

  ‘That’s just it. I don’t know, I have no idea and he died in Vietnam in 1968.’

  ‘David, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I know. It sounds . . .’

  ‘Ridiculous. Crazy.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘This come from Novelli?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right then,’ she paused before going on. ‘You know, you may as well ask me to find the man in the moon.’

  ‘At least we know where he lives.’

  46

  Moses Novelli was right, Monday and Tuesday were damaging. The State marched out witness after witness in a series of short, sharp testimonies all with one agenda – to brand Rayna Martin as a racist. Individually, their evidence was weak but cumulatively they painted an ugly picture.

  There was the old Boston University professor who testified a young, idealistic Rayna belonged to an African-American activist group which organised equal rights rallies on College grounds. There was an ex-next door neighbour who said Rayna did not allow Teesha to play with her white children. Then came an ex-AACSAM employee who claimed he was fired because he was half white, followed by an ex-client – a young black drug dealer – who said Rayna Martin promised to get the ‘white trash bastards’ who set him up just because he was a ‘brother’. An interesting claim given the State had offered the young man a walk on a possession charge for his testimony.

  Tuesday brought more of the same – the PTA mom who said Rayna refused to be involved in school activities because the ladies on the committee were white and the ex-housekeeper, a bitter, elderly white woman who accused Rayna of underpaying and overworking her because she enjoyed ‘lording it over the white folks in revenge for those years of black slavery’.

  David and Arthur worked each witness on cross, eating away at their petty little stories, trying to expose hidden agendas, tarnish their credibility, question their own racial sensibilities. But Scaturro was operating on the theory that there was strength in numbers and in the end, she was right.

  Put together, this contemptible collection convinced the jury to at least consider that Rayna Martin was capable of a murder motivated by hate. And the defence knew their acceptance of this possibility opened their minds to the prospect of delivering a guilty verdict. They could see it on their faces.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s him,’ said Amber Wells, not knowing what she had done to receive this much attention from so many men.

  The guy asking the questions was particularly cute. She normally went for the dark and mysterious type but with this one she’d make an exception.

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ she said, looking at the paused shot on the TV. ‘That’s the guy, Mr . . .’

  ‘Cavanaugh, but you can call me David.’

  ‘Thanks, David,’ said Amber with the coyest of smiles. ‘What did he do? Kill somebody?’ It was meant as a joke but nobody laughed and Amber responded by saying ‘Oh, shit.’

  Marc Rigotti had managed a miracle. He had called a cameraman friend from Channel 4 who spent most of the funeral taking ‘B roll’ or ‘colour’ shots outside Trinity Church. Most of the film showed mourners entering and leaving the church but there was a whole lot of tape in the middle focusing on the people out front, the blocked traffic, the passers-by, the curious on-lookers.

  Just before the film turned back on the congregation pouring from the front doors, the camera swung right and caught about three seconds of a tall, well-groomed, dark-haired man sitting inside a dark blue sedan – the make and registration number were not visible – across the road and up Boylston Street to the right of the church’s main entrance, exactly where David had seen him go to get out of his car before being waved off by Haynes.

  ‘Senator Buford! My mom always says, it’s always the one’s you least expect,’ said Amber.

  ‘It wasn’t the real Senator Buford, Amber,’ said David.

  ‘Right, I get you, sure. I should have guessed something was up when his wife was a no show and he started giving off signals . . . you know. But I am a professional and would never date a guest. You’re not staying at the hotel, are you David?’

  ‘Ah, no.’

  ‘Good. Then maybe . . .’

  ‘What else can you tell us about him?’ asked Joe Mannix.

  Amber didn’t think the detective was anywhere near as cute as the lawyer and it was obvious to her by the way that he interrupted, that he was jealous of their ‘chemistry’.

  ‘Well, he looked kinda tight.’

  ‘Tight?’

  ‘Yeah, you know . . . serious. He didn’t even want the champagne.’

  ‘But Mr Brewster told us he took it,’ Joe looked at Brewster. ‘He said you returned to the kitchen with every bottle delivered.’

  ‘Yeah, but I had to practically shove it down his throat.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you
know where that bottle is now?’ asked Mannix.

  ‘If the bottle was unopened,’ Brewster explained, ‘we would have returned it to our kitchen – making sure of course that it was not damaged or tampered with in any way.

  ‘The bed was not slept in, housekeeping confirmed that, so we can assume the supposed Senator Buford did not return to his room that evening and as such, probably did not drink his champagne. Given we are now talking ten days ago, the bottle would most likely have been re-sold or re-presented in a complimentary basket.’

  ‘So we have him here,’ said Arthur. ‘The same man David and Joe saw at the funeral, the same man Petri identifies as Verne. But we still have no evidence he was acting under orders. Mr Brewster, are you sure there were no calls made to this room last Friday night?’

  ‘Sure. The switch has a record of all incoming calls and the room extension to which they are connected. There were no calls put through to room 1025 on Friday the twenty-eighth or Saturday the twenty-ninth.’

  ‘Yes, there was,’ said Amber, her words prompting their immediate attention.

  ‘What do you mean, Amber?’ asked David.

  ‘He got a call while I was standing there,’ she pointed at the doorway. ‘I was “saved by the bell” so to speak. The Senator was coming on to me but he had to turn around to take the call. Which was when I politely turned to leave.’

  She looked at Brewster hoping her stellar work ethics would win her some brownie points with the boss.

  ‘How is that possible?’ Tyrone looked towards Brewster.

  ‘The call must have been direct,’ said Brewster. ‘From outside the building. Someone must have known his pre-allocated room number and called the requisite three digit prefix followed by the last four digits of the room number – in this case, 555-1025.’

  ‘Can you find out where the outside call came from?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Probably, we would have to talk to our telecommunications provider, but I am sure it’s possible.’

  David looked at Joe. ‘Let’s do it, asap.’

  Joe looked at Brewster and Brewster gave him a nod.

  ‘Mr Brewster,’ said Joe. ‘One more thing, your valets are sure this Senator Buford did not get into his allocated car to the banquet.’

  ‘That’s right. He was unaccounted for.’

  ‘So you assumed?’

  ‘We assumed he made his own way there.’

  ‘He could have taken a taxi,’ said Arthur.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Joe. ‘He wouldn’t have risked the ID.’

  ‘He must have had a car,’ said David.

  ‘He . . .’ Amber began, but then hesitated, wondering how much she should tell David with her boss in the room.

  ‘What is it, Amber?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Amber,’ said Brewster picking up on her concerns, ‘you’re doing a great job here. I need you to help these people.’

  ‘Well about fifteen minutes after I dropped off the champagne, I kinda left the kitchen for a few moments and went up to his room to tell him his car was ready. But he wasn’t there. So . . .’

  ‘So . . .’ said David.

  ‘So, on my way back to the kitchen, I saw the Senator taking the service elevator down to the basement. I figured he must have gotten confused or something. I ran down the fire escape, wanting to help the guest as much as possible, just in case he was lost.’ She cast another glance at Brewster. ‘Anyway, just as I got there I saw him getting into a car – a classy black sedan, you know, like a banker would drive.’

  ‘Do you remember anything else about the car, Amber?’ Joe spoke slowly. ‘This is very important. Someone else might have seen that car later that evening and it might help us solve a crime.’

  ‘No, not really. It was black, shiny, clean, four doors, kinda plain.’ The cute one – David – looked so disappointed. Those big green eyes turned all downcast and . . . What the hell, Amber thought, and dropped the bombshell. ‘But I got the plates if that helps. I figured he must have been driving to the banquet and considering we were told all guests had to arrive in the hire cars, I figured, if security didn’t have his plates, they wouldn’t let him in.

  ‘I ran upstairs and told one of the security guys – his name was Kevin, I think, yeah Big Kev, if you know what I mean,’ she smiled to break the tension, not knowing if she was doing something wonderful or seriously damaging her career.

  ‘Anyway, Kevin said he would ring ahead to the Haynes’ house security so Senator Buford wouldn’t have any hassles getting in. I told Kev to make sure the Senator knew it was Amber from the hotel who made his entrance as smooth as possible. Just wanted him to know the Regency Plaza provides all kinds of services to their guests.’

  ‘Do you remember the plate number, Amber?’ said green eyes, and Amber was excited to see him so hopeful.

  ‘Sure, I wrote it in my own little address book. It was the only paper I had on me at the time. I keep it in my back pocket just in case I meet someone who . . .’ She stopped before going on, pulling out a well-worn, bright red, vinyl covered address book from her skirt pocket. ‘Here it is – Massachusetts plates V106 – 9554. Does that help?’ she asked, hoping David would be eternally grateful.

  ‘Amber, you’re worth your weight in gold,’ said David.

  ‘My dad always said there was a reason I was named after a precious stone. I guess they just picked the wrong one.’ She batted her eyelids again. ‘And David, as I have the book out, I may as well get your number. Just in case I remember something else. Right?’

  ‘Sure, Amber,’ smiled David.

  ‘I’ve been a help then?’

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  ‘Good,’ she reached out and patted his hand. ‘Because I always aim to please.’

  47

  ‘I’m not one to complain about long working hours, Loretta, but seriously, this is ridiculous. Six am, for God’s sake. What’s the matter, the stress affecting your sleep?’

  Loretta Scaturro looked around the chic, early-opening downtown café known as Rise to check their conversation was not being overheard. The sun was just up, the early morning air yet to respond to the effects of its warmth, and the café – a tribute to the cold starkness of minimalism – deserted apart from a few banker types who sat scattered at white marble tables, drinking black espressos and reading the business section of the Tribune.

  Truth be told, Scaturro could hardly bear being in the same room as Roger Katz, let alone across the confines of a small table.

  ‘Just shut up and listen, Roger. I am about to offer you the career opportunity of a lifetime, but first we need to get a few things straight.’

  The pair had hardly spoken since Saturday morning’s ‘performance’ in Haynes’ office, the sting of the betrayal still fresh in Loretta’s mind. After they had left Haynes’ rooms, Scaturro had managed to contain her rage long enough for them to ride the elevator down to the basement where they had both parked their cars. But by the time they were way beyond Haynes’ earshot, she let loose at her lying, underhanded deputy.

  She had never been so humiliated in her entire life. This two-timing, conceited, arrogant asshole had blatantly conspired to undermine her authority and displace her position in the eyes of one of the most powerful and terrifying men in the country. Katz knew what Haynes was capable of, and he was happy to lead her into his office like a lamb to the slaughter.

  Bastard. Rat. Son-of-a-bitch.

  But the most frustrating thing of all was Katz’s reaction – complete silence. He just didn’t care. He couldn’t give a flying fuck what she thought of him and she knew he was mentally counting the days until the rug was pulled out from under her feet so that he might be crowned as her successor.

  For Katz, it was a fait accompli – Scaturro was up for re-election in September so all he had to do was humour her until the end of the trial and then manoeuvre for the top job with Haynes’ gratitude and public support.

  She knew how these things went. She could hear Haynes now. />
  ‘You look tired, Loretta. The Attorney General is an old friend of mine and we agree you have done a great job and deserve a well earned break. In fact, we think it best you do not run in September. Probably best you step aside, ‘go out on top’, so to speak. I know Roger will welcome your support and be forever grateful for all the experience he has gained during your term. And by the way, how is Jim Elliott and his fine fucking family ?’

  Well, now it was time for her to get some insurance of her own. She had thought she would need Joe Mannix, but it was way beyond that now. Things had gone too far, and only she could save her own skin.

  She had one bargaining chip left on the table – the examination of the last three witnesses – and if Katz was as narcissistic as she knew him to be, she was fairly sure he would do anything to be the one to ask the questions over the next two days.

  ‘All right,’ said Katz who, waiting on his skinny milk latte, turned to snap his fingers at the only waiter in the room. ‘You have my attention. What do you want?’

  ‘It’s not about what I want, Roger, it’s about what you want – to question the next three witnesses – Francine Washington, Elizabeth Haynes and Gabe Jackson.’

  His face remained expressionless but she did catch a tick at the corner of his left eye. He wanted this, and he wanted it badly.

  ‘You and I both know that the case will be won over the next two days . . . Washington, Mrs Haynes and her letter . . . and Jackson, the one that will seal the deal and give us headlines for months to come. But everything comes at a price, Roger, and if you want this, you have to give me something in return.’ She watched his eyes narrow, like a cat facing a prize canary but still concerned the neighbour’s dog was just around the corner. ‘So let’s cut the crap, shall we, because you know I still have the power to keep you on the bench. I give you this trial on a silver platter and you tell me everything you know.’

  Katz considered her for a moment just as the two lattes arrived at their table, Scaturro’s placed carefully in front of her, Katz’s slapped roughly in the middle of the table. Touché.