“Now you’re hitting the books for Jack,” Locke said. “What’s the latest news?”
“The hearing with Judge Martin is tomorrow morning. The whole thing has been expedited because of Salinger’s insanity, the guilty plea, and the bleach attack in KCJC.”
“How strong is our case?”
“Difficult to say.”
“If there’s a man on this planet who can get him out of there, it’s you.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m assuming that’s what will happen. What then?” Locke had been a phenomenal litigator; he could turn water into wine in front of a jury and convince them that it had been wine in the first place.
“Jack will stay with me until things have sorted themselves out,” Quinn replied.
“Good. That’s good. I have never given you any advice in all these years, Nathan, and I’m not going to start now. All I can say with regard to the Honorable Claire Martin, whom you have had the pleasure to argue before many a time, is: keep it simple. Find the core strength of your case, and hammer it home. Make it so it’s an inescapable truth. Scott Newton is a solid attorney, but he cannot prove what happened on that riverbank.”
If anyone sees the photographs, he will not need to prove much, Quinn thought, but he nodded. “I’ll bear that in mind. Judge Martin is somewhat unpredictable—I don’t want to under-prepare.”
“Nonsense,” Locke said, and he moved to leave.
“How come you’re here so late?” Quinn asked.
“I left some theater tickets on my desk. I’ll spend the day out at the tomorrow, and I didn’t want to have to come back for them.”
At the ranch. Quinn smiled. “Give Grace my regards.”
“I will.”
Quinn heard Conrad Locke’s steps recede down the hallway and the elevator that carried him downstairs. He thought about simplicity and about the times he’d heard Locke argue a case in court. Then he picked up each book and put it back on the shelf. At this point he knew what he knew. The case would not be resolved with something as prosaic as a precedent.
Nathan Quinn drove home and poured himself a measure of bourbon. Tomorrow night he’d be drinking one with Jack.
Chapter 50
Madison arrived home with three bags from Trader Joe’s. Her phone rang as she was walking in the door.
“Hey,” Rachel said.
“Hey.” Madison smiled.
“Do you want to know something funny?”
“Always.”
“Neal and Tommy are asleep, and I was surfing the ’net—you know, reading about the recent developments in the world of psychology.”
“Sure, which is code for cats doing yoga.”
“Right. Did you know . . .”
Madison twisted the cap off a beer and started unpacking while listening to Rachel’s soothing tones. Later she couldn’t have been sure what they’d talked about except that it had taken the edge off a hard day. Rachel always did that. And Madison missed Tommy, missed being part of a six-year-old’s life. Soon enough he would be seven, and she ought to be there when they brought out the cake and sang to him. Madison had sung to him; she had sung “Blackbird” to him in the forest that night she thought he’d die. She wasn’t sure she could sing to him again.
She sautéed a chicken breast in a pan with some garlic and crushed chili and had it on the sofa with her feet on the coffee table, watching The Fortune Cookie on DVD.
She had gone for a run, which had at least partially done its job, and yet as long as her brain was still capable of thought, all thinking flowed in one direction. What did she know today that she didn’t know yesterday? Well, for one thing, Jerome McMullen was a creepy piece of work, and she had no doubt that he would manage to weasel his way through the parole board and out the other side. And Conway was getting antsy, if the destruction inside Ronald Gray’s apartment was anything to go by.
Madison took a sip of her beer. Timothy Gilman was lucky that all he got for his troubles was a fall into a bear’s trapping pit: whether he fell or he was pushed, his death would have been instant, according to the autopsy report. God knows what Conway would have come up with for him had he been alive today; still, Conway was all the way on the other side of the country, and he had been just a kid at the time. Madison closed her eyes, and there it was: the notion that a kid could take on Gilman and use a bear’s trapping pit as a weapon against a man who was bigger, stronger, and infinitely meaner. A boy. A young man who had never before done anything remarkable or been in any kind of trouble with the law.
Madison stood up too quickly and felt rather dizzy with it—or perhaps it was the idea, the sudden understanding. And it wasn’t about the mechanics of it; it wasn’t about the plain sequence of events. It was dark shapes changing and shifting and locking into one another to form something so big, she could hardly conceive of it.
Madison flipped through her notes on the table. There it was: the last time anyone had seen Gilman alive, in a bar in his neighborhood. Madison already knew that date; she had been staring at that date for days last December when John Cameron was the prime suspect for the murder of James Sinclair and his family. It was the date on Cameron’s arrest sheet for drunk driving. It went with his picture: a somber young man with longish hair wearing a sheepskin jacket. For a long time it was all she’d had of Cameron to imagine what he’d look like, and she remembered now what she’d thought then: he didn’t look drunk; he looked serious—deadly serious.
Could a boy do such a thing? The questions wound around the idea faster than any of the answers. That boy with the sheepskin jacket—what had he done? What in God’s name had he done? No, not in God’s name, but in the name of a child who never got to see his fourteenth birthday.
Madison checked the time, and it was too late to go visiting. The bar where Gilman had done his final night’s drinking did not exist anymore; however, the bartender was still alive. What he might remember twenty years after the fact Madison could not find out until morning, and morning seemed a very long time away.
She dragged herself to bed and lay there wishing for sleep like a blanket of nothingness that would stop the questions at least for a while.
Chapter 51
Madison walked into the detectives’ room at 7:00 a.m. and went to work on what she needed. She studied the Gilman file and found what she expected to find; a quick Internet search confirmed her suspicions. By the time she left an hour later, it was still early but a decent enough time of day to call her only witness and invite him out for a cup of coffee.
She had taken four hours of personal time—considering the sheer number of days off missed and unpaid overtime, it was not a problem.
The bartender had not been a bartender for many years. Morris Becker was fifty-three years old and ran a sandwich bar on Mercer Island. The coffee would be on him, he said.
The previous day’s sunshine had been a blip: the day had dawned dark and stormy and apparently meant to continue that way. Madison drove under heavy rain to the address he had given her, and they sat at a table in the window, the pane already steamed up.
“I kinda thought someone would show up sooner or later,” Morris Becker said. “After I heard that name in the news, after the lawyer’s appeal on TV.”
“Why did you think that?” Madison said.
“The way things were left—as far as I know—no one was ever charged with his murder. Someone was bound to start asking the same questions all over again.”
“You think it was murder?”
“You never met the man himself, did you? No, you’d have been too young to be on the force then, but he was the kind of person who looks for trouble and brings trouble to your door. Whether you like it or not, whether you’re ready or not. I was sorry to hear he’d died that kind of death, sure, but surprised? Not really.”
“You seem to remember that business very clearly, though it was twenty years ago.”
“It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in that dump. I’m not ungra
teful for that job, you understand, but I was really glad to move on when I did.”
“I understand. My questions are mostly to do with the witness statements that were taken at the time.” Madison had gone through the testimonies in the precinct and knew what she had not found. It was no more than a hunch. “I didn’t find the statement from a kid—dark hair, late teens, sheepskin jacket. You remember him?”
The man blinked twice. “I’m telling you what I told the other guy: the kid was hanging around the bar for weeks before that night, and then nothing. I never saw him again. They didn’t take his statement, because I had no idea who he was; he was just a kid with a fake ID. It’s not like we’d never had one of those before.”
Madison’s brain had latched on to the first thing the man had said. “What ‘other guy’?”
“A few weeks after they found Gilman’s body, this fella turns up at the bar, and he asks me the same questions you’re asking, so I give him the same answers.”
“What did this fellow look like?”
“Tall, dark hair, suit and tie. I’d say lawyer if you’re asking me, and I’m not usually wrong about those things.”
Madison nodded and somehow found a small smile to go with the nod. “Say, I have some pictures with me. Would you mind having a look? See if anyone looks familiar?”
“Pictures of the guy? I’m good with faces, but I only saw him the once.”
“No, not the guy. The kid.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Madison took out a brown envelope from her knapsack and laid ten photographs on the table. She had spent some time printing just the right kind: the young men were all of a similar age.
Morris Becker leaned forward as his eyes moved from face to face. “Him,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“No question about it. He’s even wearing the same jacket he wore in the bar.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“Look, Detective, I can even tell you about his hand thing.”
“What hand thing?”
“All the time he came to the bar, one of his hands was always in his pocket. I figured there was some kind of problem with it. Twenty years later I can still remember what anybody used to drink, and he drank beer or coffee with bourbon.”
His finger tapped John Cameron’s picture.
Madison wanted to be nowhere specific doing nothing in particular. She needed to think the way she could when she was little, sitting in the backseat of her grandfather’s car and watching the landscape flow by. Her thoughts would come up and float past in the same way.
She drove to Pier 52 and boarded the ferry to Bainbridge Island, left her Honda on the car deck, and found a spot by a window. The return journey was one hour and ten minutes, not as much time as she needed but as much as she had.
Her legs were stretched out under a table, and a cup of coffee steamed before her. She felt as if she’d been hit by a boulder. She reached for her cell and was almost ready to speed-dial Brown when she stopped. She couldn’t drag him into this; this was for her and her alone to know and to decide.
Now she had the answers that Nathan Quinn had refused to give her: why he trusted his source and why he would not tell her how he had found out about Gilman. The truth, however, had given her more answers that she had even thought to ask, and she wondered what kind of world John Cameron and Nathan Quinn had lived in these past twenty-five years, what had been the real cost of justice bought by a trapping pit dug by a boy?
The rain had not stopped as the ferry began its return journey. Water above and water below and Madison in between, making a decision that could change the lives of all involved and would define her forever as a police officer and a human being.
Chapter 52
The hearing was closed to the public, and, considering the kind of ghoulish interest the case had produced in the media, no one was surprised at the fact.
John Cameron had arrived at the courthouse earlier and had changed into the clothes that Nathan Quinn had provided for him. He felt very much like himself wearing black pants and a cashmere roll-neck, and that was a good thing and a bad thing: a good thing, because, looking in the mirror, he saw a free man out of the KCJC jumpsuit, a man who could do as he pleased and go where his will might take him; a bad thing, because he had no intention of wearing that jumpsuit again, and—should Nathan fail—he would have to take some extreme measures to ensure that he would not.
John Cameron was a prudent man, and as well as a home in Seattle that not even Quinn knew about, he had provided for himself four packages in different locations in the county that contained the necessary items for a quick trip to safer grounds and a permanent exile from his home city.
Cameron looked around the waiting room: this was the smallest number of locked doors and armed personnel he’d had between himself and freedom in weeks. Once he was in court, there would be even fewer. He was not armed himself, but that was really not an issue: once he had decided on a course of action, there would be little that could stop him.
Nathan Quinn had hardly slept. He felt Cameron’s restless energy as if he could see him, and he knew that he had this one chance at making things work his way. If he didn’t—Quinn couldn’t bear to think about the consequences.
Conrad Locke had advised simplicity. He had suggested that Quinn should find one single, inescapable truth and use it to pierce the prosecution’s case. In his heart he knew he had found it, and it was the same truth he had found twenty years ago. Today the Honorable Claire Martin would decide whether he had been right.
The side door opened, and John Cameron was escorted into the court. He stood next to Quinn as if it was the most natural place for him to be.
“All rise,” the usher announced.
Judge Martin took her seat at the bench. Her hair was up in its customary bun, and her bifocals sat on the tip of her nose. She wore an Hermès silk scarf under the gown, her rulings were never, ever, overturned, and any attorney underestimated her at his peril.
Judge Martin looked around her. “Mr. Newton,” she said.
Scott Newton nodded. “Your Honor.”
“Mr. Quinn.”
“Your Honor.”
“We’re here to talk about Mr. Cameron’s bail, gentlemen.”
“Your Honor?” Quinn said.
“Go ahead, Counselor.”
“In view of the new circumstances, recent events, and the present state of the prosecution’s case, I move to file a motion for the immediate dismissal of all the charges against my client.”
“What the—” Newton was on his feet.
“Keep your hat on, Mr. Newton. You’ve thought this through, Mr. Quinn? You do know how much I hate the intentional waste of docket time.”
“I do know that, Your Honor.”
The judge sighed and stood up. “In my chambers.”
Quinn turned to Cameron. “I will see you in a few minutes,” he said.
Cameron held his friend whole in his amber eyes.
“What are we dealing with, Counselor?” Judge Martin sat at her desk.
“The charges against my client are totally spurious. The prosecution does not have even the beginning of a case, and the continuous incarceration of Mr. Cameron as a result of the denial of bail has led to an attempt on his life.”
“One thing at a time. Your client has been charged with attempted murder; hence, the denial of bail. What are the new circumstances?”
“Your Honor, the prosecution does not have a case for attempted murder; they don’t have a case for assault or reckless endangerment or even jaywalking against my client. They cannot prove intent, and they don’t have a weapon.”
“Mr. Newton, where’s your lethal weapon?”
Scott Newton had experienced numerous degrees of unhappiness on the job, but he knew when he walked into court this morning that this day was going to take the cake.
“We don’t have one, Your Honor.”
“You’ve been looking since Dec
ember, Counselor.”
“I’m aware of that, Your Honor.”
“How is the defendant supposed to have accomplished his attempted murder, Mr. Newton?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“I sense I’m going to hear a lot of that today from your side of the room, Scott. What about intent?” The judge turned to Quinn, and he hoped she had not yet seen the photos of Salinger’s injuries.
“The injuries sustained were dreadful, but they were entirely consistent with trying to restrain a man who had just admitted to four murders and the kidnapping and murder of a little boy. Harry Salinger has just been found legally insane and has pleaded guilty to four counts of murder, one of kidnapping of a minor in the first degree, and two counts of attempted murder. He confessed at the time in the presence of my client, Detective Madison, and myself. All my client did was try to stop this man before he fled, and, given the clearly proven violent and irrational nature of Mr. Salinger, he found himself struggling for his own life in the process.”
“You’re calling it a citizen’s arrest?” Newton’s voice cracked.
“My client waited for the authorities to arrive and gave himself up without question. He has no felony record and has been a model prisoner while on remand. Mr. Salinger has a previous assault record and has never denied any of the charges brought against him. He’s a dangerous man, and had my client not stopped him when he did, we have no idea what other horrors he might have committed.”
“Mr. Newton, where is your case?” the judge asked him.
“Your Honor, have you seen the records of the injuries inflicted on Mr. Salinger?”
John Cameron sat at the defense table. There were two guards by the side door, one by the door to the corridor. The stenographer stole a glance at him every so often, then quickly lowered his eyes.
All these people have done wrong today, he reflected, was to wake up and come to work.
“I have seen the pictures, Mr. Newton. What is your point?” Judge Martin said.
The Dark Page 30