“Ms. Ryland?” McCusker interrupted her thoughts. “Have you—”
“Let her look,” the judge interrupted. “This is your show, Mr. McCusker. We’re in no rush here. This is the justice system.”
Jane looked again, right to left. Scanned every face, chanting her description mantra silently to herself. She dismissed the professorial type in the blazer. The white-hair in the short-sleeved madras. Could any human being reliably do this? Recognize, without mistake, a stranger they’d seen for less than a minute? Maybe she’d been too quick to rely on her own perceptions. She kept looking, examining each face, feeling all those eyes on her. It wasn’t the fidgeting teenager. Not the preppy with the popped collar. Not the bespectacled pin-striped suit.
He’s simply … not there, she realized. And of course he wasn’t. They’d told her the driver might not be there, explained that’s what made the identification fair. Were they trying to trap her? Seeing if she would choose someone who looked similar, and thereby prove she was unreliable so they could righteously nail the person who’d confessed? But she was reliable, and as certain as anyone could be of what she’d seen. Not recognizing anyone proved she really did have the correct description.
All eyes were still on her, each person leaning forward at exactly the same angle, hands on thighs, and with exactly the same expression, eyebrows raised and mouths slack, as if awaiting the announcement of a lottery winner. Or in this case, loser. Even the defense attorney had turned to look at the spectators. Courtrooms were theater, Jane realized, the theater of reality, and the same way spectators gawked at crime scenes and rubbernecked car accidents, this audience had gathered in this courtroom to watch whether a fellow citizen would be pointed out as criminal.
But wait.
She tried not to smile as she looked at the only person who now was stolidly not looking back at her. As if that ostrich technique would avoid her scrutiny. Pale brown hair, curly, a baby face. Even from here she could see freckles. She’d taken Psych 101. Easy enough to figure that was McCusker’s not-guilty guilty kid.
Wait, Jane thought. He’s confessed. For whatever reason, he wants us to think he’s guilty. So what she was really doing here was providing evidence that the person who’d confessed wasn’t the real driver. In this peculiar reality, the point was for her to help the DA prove the defendant was not guilty.
“Ms. Ryland?” The judge leaned forward from her higher perch.
Jane turned to her, smiling apologetically, then tried to erase her expression. She wasn’t supposed to feel any emotion about this. It was a simple question: Was the driver here in the courtroom? And the answer was simple, too.
“Sorry,” Jane said. “But I don’t—”
“Objection!” The prune-faced newcomer jumped to his feet in the audience before she could finish, his face reddening, even his scalp turning red under his thinning white hair. “Objection!”
The judge banged her gavel. The court officers moved forward, one putting a hand on his holstered weapon. The crowd buzzed, a million cicadas, all eyes now riveted on the man. Jane turned to McCusker, her eyes widening with her question. Who is this guy? The man had taken a few steps toward the bar separating audience from courtroom. Fifteen seconds had passed, less.
“I’m Randolph Hix, Your Honor, and Mr. McCusker knows perfectly well who I am and precisely why I’m here.” He turned, faced down the court officers, pointed at them with an accusatory forefinger. “And you two know me perfectly well, too. Thanks to my colleague Ms. Obele here”—he pointed to the dark-haired lawyer—“I’m here to insist we call this train wreck to a halt. Your Honor, I refuse to point out my client, for reasons that are more than obvious, and if Your Honor is a party to this, this manipulative charade and complete travesty of—”
Whatever else he was saying was lost in the crashing of the judge’s gavel and the now-unrestrained curiosity of the chattering audience. Jane clutched the sides of her chair, watching whatever drama this was unfold, deeply wishing she could pull out her phone and roll some video of this whole thing. Randolph Hix, that’s who that was. She hadn’t recognized him instantly. The once-headline-happy attorney had dropped off the legal radar several years ago. Maybe made all the money he needed. So what was he doing here? Who was the woman lawyer? Jane looked again at the curly-haired, baby-face kid who’d ignored her. He’d now fixed his sights on the protesting Hix. But then, so had everyone else.
McCusker turned to the judge’s bench, entreating, his voice raised to trample Hix’s demands.
“Your Honor, talk about a travesty!” McCusker’s voice, plump with scorn, escalated into outrage. “Bursting into your courtroom like this? With proceedings under way and a witness sworn? This is—”
Hix waved him off, infinitely dismissive. “This? Is clearly actionable. To the fullest extent, Your Honor. Learned counsel never…” Hix continued with his objection, now jabbing his finger at McCusker, his voice heavy with sarcasm, a twinge of a Boston accent thickening “never” into “nevah.” He paused, eyes to heaven, as if the whole episode were simply too egregious to comprehend. “We understood, we were assured, by Mr. McCusker himself, that Ms. Ryland was here only to—”
Scapicchio’s gavel continued its drumbeat, but the audience hubbub and babble went on unabated. Finally the judge stood, still banging, eyes shooting flames.
“Not. Another. Word. From either of you.” She pointed to the audience with her gavel. “Nor from any of you. Am I making myself understood? Or I will clear this room.”
The courtroom hushed, including center-ring combatants McCusker and Hix. Each man’s chest was rising and falling. It was impossible to decide whose face was redder. The audience seemed to settle in, perhaps hoping they’d get a better show than they’d expected.
“Approach please, counsel.” The judge, with an edge of disdain, gestured the two seething lawyers toward the bench, including the no-longer-texting Ms. Obele, then turned and nodded at Jane. “I apologize, Ms. Ryland. You’re excused.”
27
JAKE BROGAN
Jake waited for the answers, trying not to smile as he imagined the inner struggles of the pompous ass Edward Tarrant and his annoyingly theatrical colleague Sasha Vogelby. He loved it when he posed a simple question and the people he asked couldn’t seem to figure out an answer.
It was easy to come up with the truth. Only a lie was difficult. And, as apparently in this situation, a lie that had to be corroborated by people who couldn’t compare notes was the most difficult of all. Jake enjoyed the silent attempts at communication between these two. Communication that couldn’t possibly be successful.
“So, you’re thinking about whether you’d been at Ms. Morgan’s parties,” DeLuca said. “I must say I’m not sure why you’d have to do that.”
“They weren’t parties. And I’m not ‘thinking,’” Tarrant said. “Of course I’ve been there. It’s an Adams Bay property, and I was instrumental in providing that housing to Ms. Morgan. I’ve probably been there more than she has, come to…” He paused, huffed out a breath. “Be that as it may. My answer, which I most assuredly did not have to ‘think’ about, is yes.”
“I have, too.” Sasha Vogelby slid a cell phone from her skirt pocket, then replaced it as Tarrant glared at her.
Were they texting? Couldn’t be, Jake thought.
“Exactly when?” Jake asked.
“Now that I would have to think about.” Tarrant looked at his watch, as if to communicate how little time he had.
Jake got the hint. Jake didn’t care. “Do you have a key to the house?”
“Or do you need to think about that?” DeLuca said.
“Of course I don’t.” Tarrant was clearly not a member of the DeLuca fan club. “As for the dates, I’ll have Man—my assistant check the calendar,” Tarrant went on, addressing Jake. “It must have been some sort of school affair, gathering, whatever.”
“Me, too.” Vogelby stepped forward. “Probably the same event, whatever it was. Avery
was always having—”
She stopped.
“Yes?” Jake said.
“Nothing.”
“You can go, if you like, Ms. Vogelby.” Jake knew she’d be more cooperative away from Tarrant’s supervision. “We’ll be in touch.”
Jake saw how she glanced at Tarrant before she bolted from the office. The door clicked closed behind her.
“Just a few more things, Mr. Tarrant,” he said. “We’ve asked the surveillance company—you’re aware there’s an alarm system with surveillance?”
Tarrant blinked. “Yes, certainly.”
“So you know, then, we’ll be able to collect all the video of whoever came and went from the Morgan House. In fact, that’s already in the works,” Jake lied. Turned to DeLuca. “It’ll be ready soon, correct, Detective?”
“Far as I know,” DeLuca said, nodding, seamlessly playing along. “But, Mr. Tarrant? Speaking of video, do you have any? Of Ms. Morgan?”
“Good thought,” Jake said. For all his quirks, DeLuca was a solid partner. “Or of those parties?”
“They were not—” Tarrant began.
“Rehearsals, then. Are there videos or pictures of them? Students these days photograph everything.” Jake turned to DeLuca, wondered why he hadn’t thought of this earlier. “We should check YouTube.”
EDWARD TARRANT
Damned cops. He, Edward Tarrant, had nothing to do with Avery Morgan’s death, nothing whatsoever, and yet these two, questioning him, were making him feel not only guilty, but as if he were participating in some sort of cover-up with Sasha Vogelby. No wonder she’d failed as an actress. She couldn’t even keep an expressionless face as these two bozos clumsily attempted to elicit information. And unless she was deliberately playing the role of a guilty person, she was certainly acting—if you could call her pitiful performance “acting”—like she was terrified. He wished he’d been able to strategize with her, not that there was anything to strategize.
Which reminded him of his wife. And of Reginald Buchholz. Father-in-law. And boss. Which reminded him he hadn’t even crafted the school’s formal public relations response. Which reminded him someone had probably killed Avery Morgan, because there were homicide cops in his office, and that the inevitable avalanche of reality was one loose pebble away from burying him alive.
Vogelby had just fled, lucky woman, and now the cops were asking about video. First the surveillance video, for God’s sake, which he’d certainly be on. He should have thought of it, but who knew it would matter? Could they actually get that from SafeHouse?
And now they were talking about YouTube! He’d been smart enough to wipe that party video off the face of the Internet, and they couldn’t look at his computer without getting a warrant. By which time he’d have erased his last pictures of Avery. He felt a pang of sorrow. Unusual, but he was tired, and pressured, and in an excruciating situation. Still, better to be safe. If that was even possible now.
“Ah, video,” Edward said. “There was one on YouTube. Because of my role here, I had it taken down. Because it has AB students in it.”
The look on this cop’s face was absurd. As if he’d trapped Edward like some sort of insect. Pathetic, those two, the preppy one so smug and entitled, and the skinny one sarcastic. Real cops. He couldn’t believe he had to deal with this. He had so many other fires.
“We’ve got a state-of-the-art I-T division,” Brogan was saying. “Even if it’s been removed from YouTube, it’s never really gone. We’re the police, Mr. Tarrant. We can get whatever we want.”
Edward wanted to kill these assholes. He’d fight them instead, and win. Using their own damn rules.
“With a search warrant or a subpoena,” he said. He couldn’t resist, even though it was showing his emotional hand a bit more than he ought. “I know the system, too, officers.”
“‘Detectives,’” DeLuca corrected him. “Is that a problem? If you have a video, and I now assume you do, why can’t we see it? Is there something on it you’d prefer not to be public? We’re not the public, Mr. Tarrant.”
Edward imagined that video, let it play out in his mind yet again. What was there to lose? The camera never actually revealed him. Nonetheless, if they questioned others at the gathering, they’d certainly place him there. Would that be a deal-breaker? It was easily explainable. Had he somehow revealed their relationship? That he could not remember. He ran his tongue over his front teeth, contemplating.
A knock at the door. “Yes?” he said.
A reprieve, whoever it was.
JAKE BROGAN
Jake almost laughed out loud at the relief on Tarrant’s face. Whoever was knocking on his office door was clearly Tarrant’s lifeline. Any interruption gave the guy more time to figure out his next move.
Amusing how these blue-blazer types always thought they were in control. Sooner or later, they’d realize the cops were in charge. Only a question of how to get to yes. Right now, Jake needed to get there a little faster. This guy was clearly trying to keep that YouTube video from them. Which meant that video was exactly what they wanted.
A young woman opened the door, white female, approximately 19 y-o-a, Jake’s cop brain catalogued.
“Yes, Manderley?” Tarrant’s voice oozed charm. “What can I do for you?”
Again Jake stifled a grin. Manderley’s baffled expression telegraphed that the Tarrant she knew had somehow been replaced by a polite duplicate.
“Just, um…” The girl, a leggy fawn in the headlights, looked at Jake and D, eyebrows knitted. She’s forgotten her skirt, Jane would say. “To see if you need anything.”
“How nice.” Tarrant couldn’t have sounded more chivalrous. “I’m fine, right now, and hold my calls, please. Ah, unless it’s President Buchholz. You’ll put him right through, naturally. Or my wife.”
Manderley, nodding, closed the door behind her.
“Your assistant?” Jake said. Wife? Jake tucked that nugget away. “And her last name is?”
“Rosen,” Tarrant said. “Why does that matter?”
“Everything matters,” DeLuca said.
No need to antagonize this guy, Jake thought. His Grampa Brogan had always advised him to use a person’s own power as leverage. Gramma Brogan still told him, “You’ll catch more flies with honey.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jake said. He’d combine both methods. “I know you’re concerned about your campus. It’s a difficult situation, and I’m sure you have many compelling responsibilities. So we’re grateful for your help. As for the video, we’ll get it, sooner or later, so we’d be appreciative if you’d simply show us. It will give us valuable insight into who knew about Ms. Morgan’s home, allow us to watch her interactions. Listen to her. Our goal is not to embarrass any students, or to harm Ms. Morgan’s reputation, sir. Our goal is to solve this case, and if it is a homicide, bring to justice whoever killed Avery Morgan. I know that’s your goal, too.”
Tarrant eyed his computer. So that’s where the video is. Jake could almost watch the man’s thoughts marching though his brain, the options getting weighed, the outcomes calculated. Jake had seen this before, the turning point in a case, the moment when a subject decided he’d be worse off by stalling and might as well join the good-guy team. He’d even seen bad guys make that decision. They were the only ones who ever regretted it.
Now Tarrant was tapping at his keyboard, and moving his silver mouse over a thin black pad.
Jake, waiting, glanced at D, who raised a silent eyebrow.
“It is indeed my goal,” Tarrant said, not looking at them, talking slowly as he tried to mouse and talk at the same time. He paused, turned to look Jake square in the eye. “Certainly I want justice for Ms. Morgan.” He put a hand on each side of his monitor—Jake noticed there was no wedding ring—and swiveled the screen toward them. “Best I can do, gentlemen.”
Jake stood, and D hovered behind him as Tarrant double-clicked the white triangle over the video. The pictures, full-color and full-screen, exploded into r
eality. A peal of girlish laughter, startlingly clear, came from off camera. Night, twinkling lights in the trees. Swimming pool in the background, and center stage, a woman.
“Is that her?” Jake asked, pointing.
“Yes.” Tarrant leaned forward, an inch, didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
The woman, in a white top, her dark hair pulled back in a ribbon, sat with one arm draped across the back of her white plastic chair. Attractive, Jake thought. Caucasian female, dark hair, age approximately forty-five, maybe older. The woman in the pool, come to life.
A drink was in front of her, hard to tell what, in a yellow plastic cup. Another cup was to its left, but no one sat in the corresponding chair. The armrests of Ms. Morgan’s chair and the empty one were close together, touching, Jake noticed.
“Who are all these people?” Jake asked. The others surrounding Avery looked young, though it was increasingly hard to tell these days. “Are they students? Which ones? Are they in her classes?”
DeLuca flapped his notebook to a new page. “If you can point to them one by one, and identify them. Also if there’s anyone you don’t recognize. That’s important, too.”
Sounds of splashing and laughter provided a festive background, accompanied by the thumping bass of some unidentifiable rock music. It was impossible to clearly make out the faces of the students, if that’s who they were, in the shadowed pool.
“You can pause it, if you want,” Jake said.
Tarrant clicked the mouse, stopping the video. “None of this is about ‘wanting.’ I cannot give you their names. Even those over twenty-one are Adams Bay students, and as such, are entitled to privacy protection. What’s more, FERPA specifically prevents—”
“What-pa?” Jake hated jargon, especially as an excuse rattled off by a pretentious academic.
“The Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act. FERPA. It expressly prohibits colleges from releasing certain education records. But, frankly, I’m not sure why their identities matter.”
Say No More Page 17