The Liar

by Steve Cavanagh

  Lynch wore a confused expression as my right hand folded his cheek in two. The snap punch caught him on the left side of his jaw, and his eyes closed as his legs folded beneath him. He landed on his back, and didn’t move. I kept both eyes on the camera as I dragged him over to the benches that sat in front of the glass wall. His eyes were open as I put both hands underneath his arms, and hefted his ass onto the bench and laid him down.

  His breath was coming fast, and his limbs were Jell-O.

  I turned back to the vending machine, picked up the correct change from the floor and fed two bucks into the slot. By the time the second coffee had finished pouring, Lynch had managed to sit up. He was holding his jaw and staring at me.

  I picked up the paper cups of coffee, one in each hand, and stood in front of the agent.

  “You need to be more careful. Looks like you slipped on some loose change and fell. The cameras were pointing the other way. Your word against mine. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  He stared up at me, the rage returning to his gaze.

  I turned and headed into the light.

  I backed into the door to the consultation booth, letting it close behind me. I put Harry’s coffee in front of him.

  “What took you so long?” said Harry.

  “I got into a fight with the coffee machine.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Handing me a document from the Howell case, Harry poured a measure into his coffee from the silver hip flask as I read over the witness statement he’d fished out of the pile.

  “We’re missing something,” said Harry.

  The statement Harry gave me was from a PD tech who’d examined security footage from the New Rochelle rail station. I’d read it before. Twice.

  It began by setting out the rationale for the footage search. The rail station only kept security footage for the last six months. The cell phone that had been found inside the locker was switched on and when the tech examined it, an hour after it was found, the cell retained a forty-three per cent charge. From the make and model the tech was able to discern that the cell phone held a charge, in standby mode, for around ten days. That meant that the phone had to have been placed in the locker around five days beforehand.

  Yet, having gone through the entire footage for a full ten days, the tech had not seen anyone approaching that locker on the security footage.

  “They’ve missed something,” said Harry. “This is the only time frame that we know of where someone directly connected to the kidnapping was in view of a security camera. Somebody put the cell phone into the locker. They just haven’t been able to see it.”

  I nodded.

  “You’re right,” I said.

  “Everything Barker has done has some meaning behind it. Four years of hiding in plain sight in Howell’s organization. He has to be involved in Caroline’s disappearance. There’s something here that we’re not seeing.”

  Harry’s cell phone chimed. Dragging his thumb across the screen he squinted at the message and then handed the phone to me.

  “My clerk copied the psychiatrist’s report into an email. I can’t read on these things – it’s just too damn small. Tell me what it says,” said Harry.

  I didn’t read the entire report, I scanned through it looking for the paragraph that dealt with the patient’s history. There were long-standing mental health problems, exacerbated by drug and alcohol abuse. Family background was stable. Both parents were deceased. The doc noted that Julie Rosen lost contact with her sister about three months before the fire.

  “Listen to this: ‘When questioned about her relationship with her sister, Julie became agitated and then withdrawn. She said, “She hated me,” and shrugged her shoulders. She refused to relate any feelings associated with her sister, and merely stated, “We weren’t close,” and repeated this answer when I put the question to her again. Ultimately I had to move on, as she became increasingly aggressive.’”

  There was no further mention of her sister.

  “‘Julie stated to me simply, “I loved my baby. The man took her away from me.” It is likely that no such person existed. Such thinking is indicative of paranoid schizophrenia, but there are deeper issues which lead to a more complex diagnosis. In all probability Julie has manifested sociopathic behavior for some time, which has gone untreated. She has an inability to express emotion toward her surviving family – her sister. The other possibility is a narcissistic pathology, consistent with sociopathy, which renders Julie incapable of empathy. This is evident by the matter-of-fact style of recall in relation to the death of her child.’”

  I looked up and saw Harry staring at the floor. The lids of his eyes looked as heavy as sacks of potatoes. There was a sadness in his face too.

  He wiped at his eyes, and I saw tears glistening on the tips of his fingers.

  “People aren’t born like that. They are made. Drugs, sickness, whatever it is – Julie Rosen is a victim here too. Never forget that, Eddie. If she was lying about the man in black, then she’s still a victim. No matter what kind of evil people do to each other – they harm themselves just as much as they harm others. Something broke inside Julie. No mother willingly harms their child. If she was telling the truth about the intruder, then I’ve let her down. I’ve failed her.”

  I nodded. I could’ve told Harry that there were no excuses for harming a child, but I didn’t. I knew he wasn’t making excuses for her. He was trying to do what we all do in the face of something bad, something evil – we try to understand.

  Sometimes that works. Sometimes it doesn’t because the act is so abhorrent that it can’t be understood. In fact, it shouldn’t be understood.

  Placing Harry’s phone on the desk, I then jotted down some notes, tore off the corner where I’d written a few lines and handed it to Harry.

  “Think your clerk could find out a few more things for us?” I said.

  Reading glasses hung from a fake gold chain around Harry’s neck. He brought the half-rim glasses under his nose and stared at my notes.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

  Two knocks on the door made me turn. I got up, fist clenched, ready to lay out Lynch a second time if he tried anything.

  It was Harper, with Washington standing behind her.

  “The jury are here, the cops are on the way with Barker. His lawyer is here. He asked to speak to you and the prosecutor.”

  “What about?”

  “Barker wants to make a deal.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  While defense lawyers had to make do with cramped, foul-smelling, and none-too clean consultation booths, the District Attorney’s had a plush back office on the fifth floor of the courthouse. I’d left Harry in the consultation room, thinking and listening to Beethoven’s Fifth. The elevator opened onto a landing with double doors ahead of us. There was a black pad on the wall beside the door, so that prosecutors could swipe their ID to open the doors. Harper went to the intercom that sat just above the swipe card reader and pressed the call button, igniting the LED that encircled the button.

  More dull beeping, but faster this time, alerted Harper that both doors were now open. She pushed the right hand door and I followed her, Washington trailing behind me. There were an assortment of desks on the left, with ADAs typing on laptops surrounded by towers of paper. On the right, a bank of offices with glass walls and shades on the other side. Harper stopped at the last office, knocked on the door and went inside.

  Another conference room, another polished wooden table surrounded by office chairs. Only this time the table was walnut, and the chairs looked as though they each cost as much as the conference table in the PD’s office.

  Sitting at the head of the table, Max Copeland laced his fingers together over the waistcoat of his tailored three-piece suit and gave me a hard stare. Bear was nowhere to be seen. My guess was Copeland figured he’d be secure in the courtroom without his minder. He ignored King on his right. I took a seat on Copeland’s left so that together
we formed a semi-circle. Harper and Washington closed the door and sat at the opposite end of the table. In the corner, I saw Groves and Powers.

  Copeland checked his watch. Settled his hands on the table again and stared straight ahead.

  “Agent Lynch will be here in a moment,” said Harper.

  For the sixty or so seconds that we waited in silence for Lynch to arrive, I didn’t once take my eyes off Copeland. Not once in that minute did he look at me or break his gaze away from the blank wall in front of him.

  The door to the conference room opened and Lynch came in fast. He’d slicked back his hair, and from the dark spots on his shirt I guessed he’d been in the john splashing cold water on his face and then running his fingers through his hair. Lynch acted like nothing had happened between us. He simply ignored me.

  “We’re all here. Let’s have it,” said King.

  Copeland didn’t react, didn’t even acknowledge King. He waited for a moment, then drew back the cuff of his shirt revealing a gold Rolex. He gave the watch his full attention.

  I didn’t want to look away from this guy. He had an air about him – wealth, privilege, education, and all of the ruthlessness that you might expect to go along with it.

  He let the cuff of his shirt slip back over the watch, bent down to his right and came back up with a lilac folder which he placed on the desk in front of him. With slightly chubby fingers, he adjusted the position of the folder, making sure it sat square on the table. He then turned to King and spoke.

  “My client has now been in police custody for precisely two hours. At this time, I am authorized by my client to make an offer in relation to the possible resolution of this case, and other matters.”

  A black, gold-embossed pen seemed to appear in Copeland’s hand and he made a small note on the front of the folder. I glanced at it and noticed he’d recorded the precise time, six fifteen.

  “As you already know from the photograph of the victim supplied by my client, he is privy to highly significant, relevant, and credible evidence in relation to the kidnapping and murder of Caroline Howell. I am instructed to tell you that there is more than just the photograph; there’s Peter McAuley and Marlon Black, and the ransom. My client will reveal all of the relevant evidence to the police and FBI in open court in exchange for the following: first, the conviction of Julie Rosen, now deceased, for murder and arson – will be declared unsound and her conviction overturned.”

  I looked around the room and saw confusion and surprise on a few faces. The raised eyebrows on King in relation to the audacity of such a request, but the rest of them were just confused at the mention of Julie Rosen; they’d never heard the name before.

  “Second, full immunity from state and federal prosecution for my client in relation to his current charges and any part he may have played in the abduction and murder of Caroline Howell. This is my client’s offer. It is final, and non-negotiable. This offer is on the table for the next thirty minutes. Once the time is up, the offer expires and there will be no further information from my client in court, there will be no further offers or negotiations,” said Copeland.

  Copeland just confirmed, beyond any doubt, that the Rosen case and Howell were connected. Only Copeland and I knew there was a connection. Now, everyone else would start piecing it together.

  He removed a draft agreement from his folder, gave it to King. Raising his left hand, Copeland unstrapped his watch, placed it on the desk in front of him and waited. Everyone else got up and left.

  I stayed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  “I heard you and your client didn’t talk much at the precinct. Not at all, in fact. When did you get instructions to make this offer?” I said.

  Copeland sat at the head of the table like a mannequin. Silent. Unflinching. Cold.

  “Scott Barker, that’s your client’s real name, right? He wanted to talk to me I hear. Why is that?”

  His big, bald head caught the ceiling lights as he adjusted his position, leaning forward on the table with both elbows on the walnut. The only answer was a sigh.

  I got up, turned around to make sure the blinds were still drawn. They were almost fully down, but I could see the polished shoes of the cops and the FBI standing outside the room, and Harper’s unpolished brown leather boots. The footwear disappeared as I pulled the shades down full. No cameras in the corners of the room, no view into any other offices. We were alone. Nobody could hear us. Nobody could see us.

  For a smart guy, sometimes I do the stupidest damn things. Maybe it was the photos of ashen bones that had once been Julie Rosen’s baby daughter; maybe it was the picture of Caroline Howell I’d seen in Howell’s study where she wore a jacket just like my daughter’s; maybe it was because I could still smell Howell’s blood on my skin – maybe it was all of those things. Whatever it was, I lost it.

  Without being immediately aware of it, I found myself whistling an old blues tune as I walked back to my seat, pushed my chair to one side, got myself two handfuls of Copeland’s suit jacket and hauled him to his feet. His initial cries were drowned out by my high-pitched whistle. I didn’t ask him anything. Didn’t threaten him. At that moment I just wanted to hurt him.

  He was too small to have been a football player, but he had the wide shoulders and barrel chest for the game. Powerful too. He grabbed my wrists and began to press down. His leverage and thinking were all good. I couldn’t hold on to him for much longer – he was going to break my hold.

  “Let go of me, this is assault,” said Copeland.

  His eyes burned in a way that I’d only seen before in cruel men. Those eyes were intense, almost lit from behind and yet wet. Like they’d been dipped in distilled hate.

  The pressure was making my wrists ache. All I could think about was making Copeland suffer – like he’d made a lot of victims and their families suffer. I wanted him to get just a taste of what it was like to be angry, and know there was nothing he could do about it.

  Every nerve in my body wanted to hurt Copeland. I fought down that urge, and let go. Backed up a few paces.

  “An innocent seventeen-year-old girl is dead. Her father just tried to kill himself, and you and your client are playing games. This has all been carefully planned. Barker’s arrest, this offer, the appeal in the Rosen case – all of it. I’m through playing games. You tell me what the hell is going on or I will finish you.”

  “You’re the one who’s finished,” he said, drawing a cell phone from his jacket pocket. He held it up, swiped the screen. A graphic appeared of an old-time microphone.

  “I’ve been recording the whole meeting. I’ve got you assaulting me on the record. Now get out,” he said.

  He was out of breath. The anger taking hold in his chest. I stood still, not letting him see that I was kicking myself. Grabbing him was a mistake. He locked the screen on his cell, put it back into the inside breast pocket of his suit and adjusted his tie.

  I spoke slowly, keeping my anger in check, as I walked toward Copeland.

  “This is bigger than my career,” I said.

  Another step toward him.

  “This is bigger than your paycheck.”

  Close now. Another stride and I’d be on top of him. He took two steps backwards and his back hit the wall.

  “You’ve crossed the line,” I said.

  “So have you,” said Copeland.

  I was in his face now. Almost touching him.

  “You’re right. I have crossed the line. So, if I decided to beat the hell out of you right here it wouldn’t make much difference,” I said.

  We were eye to eye. Our faces inches from each other.

  “I don’t know why you’re getting so upset, Flynn. You’re a defense attorney – we’re the same.”

  “Oh no, no way. I do my job, but I won’t help a murderer, or a kidnapper, or anyone that I know is guilty beat the system. I’ve been down that road and I’m not going back.”

  “How do you know who is guilty, or who is innocent? You can’t
know, not for sure. Everyone lies.”

  “I can tell. I can smell it on them. Like I can smell it on you,” I said.

  I got the reaction I was hoping for. His lips curled into a look of disgust, and he put both hands on my chest and pushed me away.

  Turning, I walked swiftly to the door, put his cell phone in my pants pocket and left.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Outside the conference room, in the corridor of the DA’s office, the battle was already in full swing. King waved the agreement in the air, while Lynch battled with Harper and Washington. Powers and Groves were each on their cell phones.

  The agreement was a lifeline for Michelle King. Her perfect prosecution case hung in the balance and it was her fault for calling Barker as a witness in the first place. She wanted control. The agreement handed the reins back to her and she would fight to get it. What Copeland asked for wasn’t unusual. Most of the high-profile busts in the last twenty years came through snitches. Any decent snitch wanted his payday and his ticket out of jail in exchange for his testimony. That was the way the system worked. Law enforcement figured it was the lesser of two evils to let the middleman slide and do some real good by taking out the guy at the top.

  If you’re going to spill your guts about all the criminal acts you’ve witnessed, you can’t usually do that without implicating yourself in those crimes, which is a direct violation of your right against self-incrimination. Instead of pleading the fifth, you get immunity for your own crimes first, and then you get to paint the full picture without fear of prosecution.

  Immunity agreements were part of everyday life in the justice system.

  But normally those agreements stopped short of payment. You talked, you walked. No cash. No new identity. If you were lucky you got a bus ticket and a pat on the back.

  Copeland’s client wanted a conviction overturned.

  That’s not so easy.

  But the fact that Rosen was dead, the victim had no other family members and no father on the birth certificate, made it at least possible.