by Sydney Bauer
‘That was Marshall again,’ said Carla, jogging McNally from his thoughts which had now moved on to Kincaid’s Boston-based attorney.
‘Again?’
‘He wanted to check I was available to front up before the grand jury also.’
McNally sighed. ‘Geez, the guy doesn’t even think I’m capable of passing on a message.’
‘Well, I am your superior after all.’ She smiled, then her brow furrowed.
‘What is it?’ she asked, now leaning forward across his desk and to nudge his feet with her elbows.
‘Nothing.’
‘Bullshit, McNally, I know that look. You’ve got a bee up your butt about something.’
McNally took a sort of strange comfort in knowing that despite his wife’s death, there was still one person on the planet who knew him inside out.
‘I was just thinking about Cavanaugh.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s got some reputation. I met him a few years ago – did a favour for his mom. He seemed like a straight-up guy.’
‘So . . . ?’ asked Carla, obviously not sure where this was going.
‘He’s also close to a friend of mine who runs Boston PD homicide. In fact, I called Joe Mannix last night and he vouches for him big-time. Says Cavanaugh’s the real deal. Says he has this thing about only defending clients he believes to be—’
‘Innocent?’ finished a disbelieving Carla. ‘Oh come on, Harry, every defence attorney thinks his client is innocent, or at the very least is smart enough not to ask. You were the one who told me how Cavanaugh lied about the reunion thing.’
‘Not exactly, Cavanaugh never told the lie, he just didn’t contradict his client.’
‘Isn’t that the same thing?’ asked Carla, picking up an elastic band from McNally’s desk to twist in her fingers.
‘Not exactly,’ replied McNally, and Carla’s brow knotted once again.
‘Come on,’ she said, stretching the band from hand to hand. ‘There’s something else niggling at that nit-picking brain of yours, so you might as well come clean. You know I’ll shoot you down if I think it’s bogus.’ Carla smiled, perhaps sensing that Harry needed some encouragement to get this one out.
‘Well,’ McNally began, ‘after I spoke to Mannix last night, and he gave me his take on Cavanaugh, I remembered something – about Cavanaugh and Kincaid when I took them to ID the body.’
‘Okay,’ said Carla. ‘What was it?’
‘When Sal pulled back the curtain, I was determined to watch Kincaid’s expression – you know, to get an instant take on what he was thinking.’
‘And?’
‘It took him a few seconds to register – but once his eyes shifted down her body and over her belongings I saw it – the shock, the horror, the fear. Kincaid knew that body was his lover the moment he laid eyes on her.’
‘And Cavanaugh?’
‘Well that’s just the thing. Cavanaugh’s first reaction was uncertainty, but then I saw him look across at his friend to gauge his reaction – and as soon as Kincaid shook his head, there was genuine relief in Cavanaugh’s eyes, like he trusted the man completely.’
‘So he was glad of his friend’s negative ID?’
‘Maybe, but even so, Cavanaugh believed Kincaid’s lie, whereas with the reunion story it was obvious he was extremely uncomfortable with Kincaid’s telling of one falsehood after the other.’
Carla took a breath. ‘Cavanaugh hadn’t seen Maloney for over a decade, Harry,’ she said, the look on her face telling McNally that she’d guessed how obsessed her partner was becoming with this high-profile case. ‘He knew Kincaid had seen her recently. And her body . . . it was . . .’
‘I know,’ said McNally.
Carla wrapped the elastic band around her wrist before leaning toward McNally once again. ‘Listen to me, Harry, I know you like to think of yourself as a crusader for good, but it isn’t your job to worry about whether or not Cavanaugh is being hoodwinked by his politician friend. We represent the victim, remember? And it seems to me that Marilyn Maloney would like nothing better than for us to squash Kincaid like a bug for belting her senseless before dumping her body in the Passaic.’
McNally nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said, lifting his feet off the desk, grateful that Carla had stepped into the role his wife once played – tempering his concerns and stopping his brain from going off on irrelevant tangents. ‘Cavanaugh’s not my concern,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘In fact, if anything we should be his. Right, partner?’
‘Sure, boss,’ said a now smiling McNally. ‘Whatever you say.’
Dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig in our mine the whole day through. To dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig is what we really like to do.
Elliott Marshall could not get the stupid song out of his head. Normally the Snow White references pissed him off no end, but today . . . today, he considered that he really was a lot like the dwarves from Disney’s famous fairy tale. Not Dopey of course, and certainly not Bashful, or Sneezy, or Sleepy, but maybe Doc, the smart one.
It was 8 pm on a Monday evening and Marshall was ensconced in his small but orderly corner office at the ECPO, which sat conveniently on the third floor of the Veteran’s Court Building at 50 West Market Street. He was in his element. It was little more than twenty-eight hours since Kincaid had been arrested, and Marshall had dug his way into a gold mine. And just like Doc and all his hard-working little friends, Marshall had found his own precious gem – this one in the form of some incredibly explosive evidence against one Senator Chris Kincaid.
Kincaid was a lying bastard. The man had been born into privilege and had used every opportunity to flaunt it. He was tall, smart and good-looking in that Prince Charming sort of way. He was the type of guy who rode off into the sunset like a hero after doing little else bar planting a kiss on the unsuspecting heroine’s lips while the real workers, the protectors of justice like Doc, were left behind to look after the daily responsibilities of cleaning, cooking and digging till their little hands bled.
But life didn’t always mimic fairy tales and, luckily, this was one of those times. Marshall’s decision to delay the first appearance, based on a gamble that he could unearth something to justify a grand jury hearing and nail an indictment (which he had done a mere three hours ago thanks to that shoe, Kincaid’s telephone records and a new explosive discovery), prior to arraigning Kincaid in court was, as it turned out, nothing short of genius.
Ironically, it had been Kincaid who had given him the idea. Years ago, when Marshall was just a junior in the Essex County Prosecutors Office, fresh out of law school, Kincaid had been a hotshot in the game. Kincaid had only four years on Marshall but he barely regarded him, however Marshall learned what he could from the arrogant son-of-a-bitch, including his clever use of the media (specifically, his strategic leaking of certain safe but pertinent case details and his placement of key exclusives), and his penchant for rattling defence attorneys by screwing with their schedule, and doing some heavy-duty research into their client’s past.
Of course, while Kincaid tended to bend the law – to call in favours and use his charm to tap dance his way to a conviction – Marshall despised such tactics and knew that there were other means of spearheading his strategies, means that lay well within the realms of legality. He knew this set him apart from most others. He doubted that the cookie cutters in this office or, for that matter, the great majority of prosecutors or assistant district attorneys around the country, would ever think to dig as deep as he did – but he had, and it had worked, and it was about to pay off big time.
Marshall had to remain on the front foot with this case for several important reasons. First, the media were all over it. Kincaid was beyond popular and despite the heinous nature of the charge, and the fact he was an adulterer, Marshall did not underestimate the senator’s ability to spin the story his way. Kincaid would be looking to turn Marshall into the villain of the piece and this meant Marshall
would need to attack and shatter Kincaid’s popularity base as quickly and efficiently as possible.
Second, while the physical evidence at this stage was convincing, it certainly wasn’t ironclad. The shoe and telephone records were a major bonus, granted, but the lab had just called to reveal there were only two sets of prints on the shoe, neither of them readable.
Further, the state of the body was a huge disadvantage to the prosecution – one that he knew a man like Cavanaugh would milk to the defence’s benefit. Worse still, a recent conversation with the ME had told him that while the scrapings from under Maloney’s fingernails were looking promising, the vaginal swab had failed to show any presence of semen, which meant Kincaid had most likely been wearing a rubber on the night he took his whore’s life. Add to this the facts that the apartment showed no signs of a struggle, that the satchel McNally had found offered no prints bar those of the victim, that Kincaid’s prints could not be found on the old school ring (there was no doubt in Marshall’s mind that the ring had once belonged to the defendant – but the defence could easily argue he gave it to her decades ago) or anywhere near the goddamned crime scene, and the fact that no-one had seen Kincaid near Maloney’s place of residence or the river on the night in question, and Marshall calculated he had his work cut out for him.
Third, there was Cavanaugh. Marshall knew of him, of course. The man may be green when it came to launching a defence in New Jersey, but he had a reputation for taking on the unwinnable and nailing a victory for his client, usually leaving his opponent’s surefire prosecution in tatters. From what Marshall had heard, Boston’s Suffolk County DA, Roger Katz, and his second in charge, ADA Amanda Carmichael, were two of the savviest prosecutors in the business, but Cavanaugh had defeated them both in sensational circumstances more than once over the past few years. Worse still, Marshall sensed Cavanaugh was the type to be driven by loyalty to his client – a dedication that would increase tenfold now that he was representing his high school pal. Cavanaugh was by no means stupid, but Marshall suspected that in this case he’d allowed the bonds of friendship to cloud his judgment – which meant the man would stop at nothing to set his famous friend free.
Finally, this one was personal. Elliott Marshall was a law-abiding public servant who took his responsibilities seriously. The duty of an Essex County Prosecutor was to ‘seek justice, to serve justice, and to do justice’ by using ‘lawful and reasonable methods to successfully identify, apprehend and prosecute those who commit crimes’. The job description didn’t mention showing favouritism toward those of public stature or wealth or popularity, but it did outline a commitment to ‘support an environment of safety, security and lawful behaviour for the good people of Essex County’. And that was exactly what Marshall intended to do.
And so, as Elliott Marshall placed the Kincaid file neatly in his faux-leather briefcase, and as he retrieved his handkerchief from his top right-hand jacket pocket to run it over the surface of his heavily lacquered desk, and as he looked up to check all in the room was in order before flicking the switch on his green-hued plastic desk lamp, he vowed then and there that he would continue to toil, to work, to dig until each and every one of Chris Kincaid’s precious little secrets had been unearthed and exhibited for all the world to see.
36
Early twentieth century architect Cass Gilbert was a man of many talents. Not only was the Ohio native regarded as a pioneer of the modern skyscraper – his Woolworth’s Building in Lower Manhattan had been the world’s tallest building when it was constructed in 1913 – he was also celebrated for designing some of the most breathtaking courthouses in the country – including the US Supreme Court Building in Washington DC, and the Essex County Courthouse in Newark, New Jersey.
Gilbert’s Newark-based masterpiece, constructed in a style known as American Renaissance, was perched atop a hill at 470 Dr Martin L. King Jr Boulevard, with a broad flight of sandstone stairs ascending to a portico supported by eight giant Corinthian columns. But perhaps even more famous than the building itself was the bronze statue of a bench-seated Abraham Lincoln out front, the President’s demeanour strong but informal, his hat sitting casually beside him, his hand resting comfortably on his knee.
David had asked the taxi driver to drop him at the front of the old courthouse despite the fact that Chris’s arraignment was being held at the newer Veteran’s Courthouse just up the hill – a massive concrete slab of a building which lacked all the charm and character of its beautifully crafted predecessor. David wasn’t sure why he needed to see Lincoln’s statue now – perhaps he was drawn by a memory from his youth when he went on a field trip to the old courthouse, when he had approached the statue and pondered why, considering Lincoln was perched outside a building where criminals met their fate, the beloved sixteenth President had appeared so relaxed. But then he recalled looking up toward the front facade of the courthouse where the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow quote, ‘Be Merciful as Well as Just’ was carved in stone. And he remembered feeling comforted by the notion that the laws of this country were built on the need for compassion – a philosophy that now both raised his spirits and dashed them, as he felt so utterly and completely alone.
He missed them – Sara and Lauren and Nora and Arthur and even Joe – who David knew, if he were here, would most likely be telling him he was mad to represent a ‘lying prick like Kincaid’.
David was also worried about his own competence – about his ability to launch the defence of a client who was now the most talked about politician in the country in a state he had never practised in before. Sure, he knew the basics, and when it came down to it, criminal law was what it was no matter where you hung your shingle. But back in Boston he enjoyed the comfort of familiarity – he knew the judges and the courtrooms and the jails, he had friends in the police departments and the medical examiners office. He was confident about the loyalty and competence of his co-counsel and jury selection expert – even the expectation that DA Roger Katz would do anything to win a conviction was part of that familiarity.
Marshall was an unknown quantity. From what Chris had told him, Marshall was one of those ‘by the book’ fanatics, and while this suggested the FAP wouldn’t stoop to the gutters of legal contortion David’s Boston-based nemesis DA Katz had frequented on more than one occasion, it also gave David cause for concern given his knowledge of this particular state’s ‘book’ was rusty.
And so, as he bade farewell to Lincoln, and moved past the historic courthouse and toward the grey rectangular box that housed the Essex County Superior Court, he looked up at the bright blue sky and attempted to soak in some sort of strength from the clearing of the storms and the promise of a perfect day to come.
You can do this, he said to himself as the first of the group of reporters recognised him and moved quickly down the hill in the hope of obtaining the very first sound bite from Senator Chris Kincaid’s attorney.
‘Good morning,’ he said, deciding it was now time to declare his client’s innocence in public. ‘My name is David Cavanaugh and I represent Senator Chris Kincaid,’ the very words sounding strange to him as he voiced them. ‘I have a few minutes for questions before I have to head inside to the senator’s arraignment – but let me stress from the outset, that my client is innocent of the charge unfairly brought against him, and we will prove it.’
Marshall made a show of it.
As soon as David entered the courtroom – a dark, grey-carpeted space with wood-panelled walls and white-painted ceilings, Elliott Marshall moved across to the defence table and shook his hand.
Chris had told David that Marshall suffered from a severe charisma bypass, so the move took David by surprise. Either the FAP was making a gesture of fair-mindedness, or he was smart enough to know that such an action, witnessed by a heavy media contingent and a gallery packed with locals, was an incredibly savvy way of implying that the prosecution showed no bias and was ready and willing to let justice take its course.
‘Rebecca,’
said David as Chris’s wife took the seat behind him.
‘Hello, David,’ she said. ‘Thank you for helping us.’
‘You don’t need to thank me, Rebecca.’
Rebecca was accompanied by an anxious-looking Mike, her perfectly coiffed mother-in-law, and a pale-faced Connor – the boy almost as tall as David, his dark eyes darting under heavy brows. ‘Mike, Gloria, Connor,’ said David, taking the young man’s hand and shaking it. ‘Your dad will be pleased you’re here.’
Connor nodded quickly, before his eyes flickered to the two young men behind him – the same boys David had seen at the house.
‘These are my friends Will Cusack and Jack Delgado,’ Connor said.
‘It’s good of you guys to come,’ said David, shaking the hands of the boys who were wearing the familiar uniform of his old school, Saint Stephen’s Prep.
‘Connor’s dad has been very good to us,’ said the more confident, dark-haired one named Will. ‘We’ll do anything we can to help him.’
David nodded.
The rest of the gallery was made up of faces David recognised but didn’t. Old friends of the Kincaid family was his guess. It seemed many of Chris’s more recent politician friends had decided to take a pass on any involvement with these proceedings until they’d worked out exactly which way the dice was going to roll. It was early days, after all – and this first appearance would do nothing more than set the process in motion.
Seconds later Chris was led into the courtroom. The fact that he was wearing the same ill-fitting orange jumpsuit was frustrating but unavoidable – while detainees were allowed to suit up for trial, most had to wear the customary prison garb for short appearances and pre-trial conferences. The stigma attached to such attire was undeniable, so David was glad Chris’s first public outing would be over in a matter of minutes.