Matter of Trust

by Sydney Bauer

  ‘I made you a promise,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Yes. To love, honour and respect. But I am not telling you not to do this. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  More silence.

  ‘I’m missing you already,’ he said.

  ‘And we’re missing you,’ she replied, trying desperately to swallow the quiver in her voice. ‘But David,’ she hesitated. ‘I need you to promise me one thing. You will be careful, won’t you? You know, being down there, on your own I mean.’

  ‘I’m surrounded by people I know, Sara.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  Another pause.

  ‘I promise I’ll be careful,’ he offered, as if wishing to reassure her. ‘I always am.’

  ‘And I believe that’s the first lie you’ve ever told me.’

  More silence until, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be here,’ she replied, trying to sound supportive. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  *

  David was right about one thing and wrong about the other. The first appearance was scheduled for morning – but not for another twenty-four hours.

  He was both relieved at and troubled by this unexpected delay. While he was grateful for the opportunity to spend Monday consulting with his client, he was also uneasy about the fact that an early call to the court administrator had revealed the postponement had been at Elliott Marshall’s request. Last night the prosecutor had seemed keen to push this matter into action, yet now he was asking for the case to be moved to the following day, which meant he wanted more time for something – David just wasn’t sure what.

  David’s head was still reeling from the early morning argument with his brother. Sean was a stubborn ass, but David knew that part of what he’d said was true, which made the words sting all the more.

  David hadn’t spoken to Mike since Chris had been arrested, which meant he still hadn’t had the opportunity to quiz his Catholic priest friend as to why he blamed himself for Marilyn’s death, something David had decided against sharing with Chris – at least for the time being. ‘. . . it is all my fault,’ he had said – a confession David sensed had more to do with what Mike knew rather than anything he had done. He needed to see Mike as soon as possible.

  The media had already set up shop outside the aqua-coloured, high-security Essex County Corrections Facility. David had arrived in a taxi that dropped him alongside the walk bridge which led to the main visitor’s entrance. The mob had caught sight of him and suddenly he’d been surrounded, and as he’d tried to push his way through, he’d gotten caught on the wire fence, and tore the only decent pair of pants he’d brought with him from Boston.

  The headlines had been brutal – New Jersey’s biggest selling paper, the Star Ledger, leading the pack with a front page photo of Chris being escorted down his driveway in handcuffs. The shot took advantage of a rainbow that appeared to have formed a halo around Chris’s head, the banner above it screaming: ‘KINCAID ARRESTED FOR MURDER: LOCAL HERO – SINNER OR SAINT?’

  Luckily for David and his now exhausted-looking client, there were no references to Chris’s relationship with Marilyn bar a mention that they used to date as teenagers. But David expected this to change as soon as the zealous Marshall got the proof he needed to beef up his case. While Chris suggested Marshall’s rigid obsession with protocol might act in their favour, meaning he didn’t expect the prosecutor to surprise them with any legally questionable tricks, David knew that if the ME’s report confirmed any retrievable DNA inside Marilyn belonged to his client, then the ‘by the book’ Marshall would have more than sufficient evidence to go to the grand jury and convince them to indict.

  ‘What are the media saying?’ asked an orange jump-suited Chris when David entered the tiny whitewashed interview room. ‘How are they representing this? What did they say?’

  David shook his head. ‘This is no time to worry about your political reputation, Chris. I’m more concerned about your life than your career.’

  ‘Life . . . yes.’ Chris shivered as they both took their seats on the worn plastic chairs. ‘Marshall’s going for murder one. He hates me, David. I used to be his boss for God’s sake. He has a grudge to settle.’

  ‘You didn’t get on when you worked together?’

  ‘Marshall was a good worker, but he had no imagination. I was tough on him like I was all my staff. But criticism doesn’t sit well with a man like Marshall. I think he resented my privilege, thought I got the job because of my contacts rather than my record.’

  ‘And did you?’ David knew he was perhaps the only person who could ask such a question without rebuke.

  ‘Hell, no. That was one of the few positions in my life I had to battle for. My mother wanted me to go direct to the Attorney-General’s Office – and she had the contacts to make it happen. But I wanted to build my career locally. Kick some goals.’

  ‘Well, in the very least your experience as a prosecutor will be a huge asset to our case,’ said David. ‘Which brings me to what I need to get clear from the get-go. From here on in, you have to commit, Chris. No more lies, no more half-truths, no more skirting around the issues for your reputation’s sake.’

  ‘I understand,’ nodded an earnest-faced Chris. ‘No more lies,’ he repeated.

  ‘No matter how hard it gets.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  David nodded. ‘Then let’s go back to the day that she died – Saturday, January 12. I want you to tell me everything that went down – starting from when you two hooked up.’

  Chris sat forward, placing his forearms on the scratched metal table before him. ‘You know, as terrifying as this is, there’s something about being here – in this battle with you . . . I couldn’t do this without you, DC.’

  ‘I’ll do everything I can to help you,’ said David.

  ‘I know, DC. I know.’

  ‘We met at the Grand Summit at about ten.’ Chris settled into a rhythm. ‘We had sex and afterwards, ate a late breakfast in the room. Marilyn was upbeat – said she hadn’t had a drink in two weeks and was really quite proud of herself. She said she wanted to quit – for me.’

  David nodded, noting the sadness in his client’s eyes. ‘So what did you tell Rebecca – about where you were going?’

  ‘I told her I had a budget meeting at the office – with my finance manager.’

  ‘Wasn’t that kind of risky? I mean, she could have called the office.’

  ‘Why? She knew where I was.’

  David nodded again, understanding what was understood, and acknowledging in the process just how important Chris’s wife would be to his case.

  ‘I left about midday and that was that,’ said Chris.

  ‘That was the last time you made contact with her?’

  ‘It was the last time I saw her, but not the last time I tried to contact her.’

  ‘You tried to call her?’

  ‘Yes, later . . . from home and from my cell – to her cell and at the hotel – in case she’d decided to stay in the room. I’d requested a late check out for her benefit, so . . .’

  ‘You used your cell and home phone to call both her cell and the room at the Grand Summit?’

  ‘Yes,’ winced Chris, knowing exactly how this would look once Marshall subpoenaed his telephone records. ‘A few times. I wanted to check she was okay.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she be okay, Chris?’ asked David, fearing where this was going.

  Chris took a breath. ‘When I left her, she was . . . distressed.’

  This was getting worse. ‘You had a fight?’

  ‘Of sorts.’ Chris could read the concern in David’s face. ‘I know I should have told you this on Saturday. But at that stage I was . . .’ Chris hesitated, ‘. . . I was still holding on to the hope that this thing might all just go away.’

  ‘That was never going to happen, Chris.’

  ‘I know that now – perhaps I e
ven knew it at the time. But I was ashamed, David – ashamed of what you might think of me if I told you the truth.’

  David braced himself. ‘What were you and Marilyn fighting about?’

  ‘Our relationship.’

  ‘She asked for something more?’

  ‘I asked for something less.’

  ‘You told her you were breaking up with her?’ David could not believe what he was hearing.

  Chris nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shit! Did anybody else know about this? Could your fight have been overheard or . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Chris.’ David was sweating now, despite the too-cold airconditioning that wheezed noisily above them. ‘Marshall will have a field day with this. Your phone calls to the Grand Summit will lead him straight to your rendezvous – and if there are any witnesses, I promise you he will find them.’

  Chris did not argue, simply hung his head in shame.

  ‘How many clandestine meetings have there been, Chris?’ asked David, not wanting to rub salt into Chris’s wounds but needing desperately for his friend to see just how serious his situation was. ‘How many waiters and housekeepers and concierges and fellow guests do you think recognised you and your mistress as you slipped from hotel to hotel, from lobby to room?’

  But still Chris said nothing.

  ‘I know you loved her. I know. But can’t you see that this is playing right into the FAP’s hands? After all these years, Marilyn just happens to die on the very night of the very day you finally break it off with her.’

  ‘I did love her,’ Chris lifted his head, ‘but, DC, my mother was right. If I was going to succeed – to go on succeeding . . . I mean, Marilyn, she wasn’t part of our plan.’

  ‘Our plan? You dropped the love of your life because your mother told you to?’

  ‘Yes . . . I mean, no, of course not. It was my decision. In fact, when Mother first suggested it, I told her to go jump. But when it came down to it, it wasn’t a career decision. I know that sounds trite, but in the end, I did it for Rebecca and the kids.’ Chris did not continue, perhaps sensing David had every right to distrust him, even if what he was saying was grounded in truth.

  ‘So, where did you go after you left the hotel?’ asked David, deciding at this stage it was best to keep Chris on track.

  ‘To the office to return some emails for an hour or two, and then home, where I stayed, for the rest of the night. Rebecca left about seven to take the girls to a movie and Connor was holed up in his room with an economics assignment. So I went to my study and shut and locked the door and drank a whole bottle of Black Label Johnnie Walker in front of a muted TV.’

  ‘You were in the study all night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You got drunk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you locked the door?’

  ‘Yes. It was second nature. I often locked the door when I had to make important calls. The girls had a habit of bursting in when I was in the middle of critical conversations so it . . . became part of my routine.’

  David took a breath. ‘You didn’t go up to bed?’

  ‘At some stage I fell asleep on the study sofa. I woke there at about eight the next morning when the sun came through the windows. I was hung-over, I felt foolish. But in all honesty I sensed, deep inside, that I’d done the right thing – for my family, that is.’

  David nodded, buoyed by his friend’s honesty but shattered by the stark reality that Chris had no alibi to speak of. ‘Let’s backtrack a little,’ he said, knowing there was no need to point out to an ex-prosecutor that a lack of alibi was a massive setback for the defence. ‘The night before, did Rebecca take her own car to the movies?’

  ‘No, she took my Mercedes. We were having our drive re-paved and I’d moved the BMW to the end of the road earlier in the day. The Mercedes was parked right out front, it was raining a little and Connor was helping her with a large bag of clothes she wanted to drop at the Good Will on the way. It was just easier for her to take my car.’

  ‘And did she check on you when she got home?’

  ‘No, I heard her come in, but she went straight to bed.’

  ‘Was that unusual – for her not to say good night, I mean?’

  ‘No.’

  David nodded. ‘What about Connor? Do you think he might have come down to see you?’

  ‘He’s a teenager, David. He only comes out of his room to piss or to eat. And even if he did try to enter the study after I’d passed out, he couldn’t because I’d—’

  ‘Locked the door,’ finished David.

  A defeated Chris nodded.

  ‘What about any other visitors to the house that night? Does Connor have a girlfriend for example?’

  ‘No. He spends most of his time with his two friends from Saint Stephen’s, but I’m pretty sure they weren’t at our place on the night in question.’

  ‘They were the boys I saw at the house?’ said David, remembering how protective the dark-haired boy seemed to be toward Connor and his family.

  ‘Yes, they’re tight – which I encourage. Connor lives a life of privilege and I think Jack and Will keep him grounded, remind him how the other half live. In a way, they are to Connor what you and Mike were to me when . . .’

  ‘I’m not ashamed of my middle-class upbringing, Chris,’ said David, needing to make the point.

  ‘I would have thought you’d be proud of it,’ replied Chris.

  David nodded. ‘So there’s no-one else who could account for your whereabouts late Saturday night or early Sunday morning – you didn’t make any calls or send any emails?’

  ‘No.’

  David felt a knot of frustration beginning to form in his gut.

  ‘So in theory, Marshall could claim you left the house in your wife’s car, went to Marilyn’s apartment, fought with her, knocked her out, panicked and dumped her body in the Passaic undetected.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chris.

  The knot tightened.

  ‘How do you think Marilyn’s shoe got into Rebecca’s car?’ There it was – the sharpest nail in this evidentiary coffin.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Chris. ‘The only explanation I can offer is that someone killed her and wanted to frame me. But once again, I have to be honest with you, I have no real enemies. Sure, I have political rivals but no-one who’d do something like this. People like me, David – I’m basically a nice guy. I cheat on my wife and lie to my children but I’m basically a . . .’ Chris’s voice faltered.

  David shook his head ever so slightly before lifting his chin to meet his friend’s eye. ‘We’ll find a way to beat this,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure, DC,’ his friend answered. ‘We’re not seventeen any more.’

  35

  ‘That man is an ass,’ said Detective Harry McNally, hanging up the phone from Elliott Marshall and leaning back in his chair to lift his feet up onto his overcrowded desk.

  ‘The man’s too small to be an ass,’ said Carla Torres, who after an early morning discussion with her lieutenant had now been given official permission to work with her old partner on the high-profile Marilyn Maloney case. ‘He’s more like a Shetland pony or that horse from St Louis who made the Guinness Book of Records for never growing past the seventeen-inch mark.’

  ‘There’s a horse in St Louis that’s only seventeen inches tall?’

  Carla nodded. ‘Her name is Thumbelina.’

  ‘I’d like to give Marshall the Thumbelina.’

  Torres smiled. ‘Now, now partner,’ she said. ‘We’re meant to be on the same team, remember?’

  McNally shook his head. ‘Not if Marshall has anything to do with it.’ McNally went on to explain that Marshall had just told him that he had already briefed his homicide squad on the particulars of the case.

  ‘You think he’s gonna freeze us out?’ asked Carla.

  ‘I think he considers me a geriatric rookie and he’ll do everything he can to stop me
from stuffing up his case. He has a little more respect for you, though – considering your extensive experience in the NYPD.’

  ‘I never worked for the NYPD,’ said a now puzzled Carla.

  ‘Sure, but you grew up in Brooklyn and if the FAP misconstrued my reference to your origins, then . . .’

  ‘Jesus, McNally, Marshall thinks I’m your superior?’

  McNally shrugged as Carla grinned.

  ‘Well, I suppose what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,’ she said.

  ‘My feelings exactly.’

  Torres lifted her feet onto McNally’s desk, using the heel of her boot to clear a stack of manila case files to the side. ‘So what else did Marshall say?’ she asked.

  ‘He wants us before the grand jury at three.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she said, bringing her feet to the floor once again and leaning forward in her chair. ‘The guy is keen.’

  ‘He went to the attorney general, told her he wants to get an indictment before tomorrow’s arraignment. He wants to walk into the courtroom with the grand jury’s backing in hand so he can make sure Kincaid doesn’t make bail. He wants to show this city just how serious he is about nailing the good senator to the wall.’

  ‘But the forensics won’t be in until . . .’

  ‘He thinks he has enough to get the indictment without them.’

  ‘Does Cavanaugh know about this?’

  ‘Marshall has no legal obligation to tell him, so I’m gathering not. He’ll find out with the rest of the world – at tomorrow morning’s arraignment.’

  Carla nodded, before swivelling in her chair and reaching back behind her to pick up the telephone ringing on her new, uncluttered desk.

  McNally shifted in his seat and closed his eyes, the busy homicide unit now buzzing with activity around him. There was something about this case that wasn’t sitting right. Sure, the evidence against Chris Kincaid was mounting nicely, but that was part of the problem. By all accounts, Chris Kincaid was a very smart guy – hell, he was an ex-prosecutor with years of experience in criminal law. So why would a clever man like Kincaid – with everything to lose – be stupid enough to concoct a ridiculous reunion story, leave Maloney’s shoe in the trunk of his wife’s car, and then front up and ask the super to open Marilyn’s apartment mere days after her murder? And if Kincaid had taken the money, why did he leave the satchel, and why had the Newark PD’s crime scene unit failed to find a single print belonging to Kincaid in the whole goddamned place?