Matter of Trust

by Sydney Bauer

  ‘So the cell was definitely Marilyn’s?’ said David.

  ‘Yes.’ Joe took a sip of one of Arthur’s longneck Australian beers. ‘Maloney was the registered owner of that cell number – she had an account with Verizon, a pay by the month package.’

  ‘And the cell that sent the texts?’ asked Arthur. ‘It carried a SIM card from AT&T – one of those pay as you go jobs, and the purchaser was listed as a Miss Deborah Lambert – a doctor’s secretary from Brooklyn.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Sara, shaking her head. ‘Miss Lambert lost her cell some time ago.’

  ‘Yep. I tracked her down at her surgery and she said she misplaced her cell at some Jersey City bar almost six months ago, but she didn’t bother to report it, given it was old and she was out of credits so . . .’

  ‘Shit,’ said David.

  ‘Happens all the time,’ said Joe. ‘Cell phones are like dollar bills these days, they swap hands faster than McDonald’s changes its staff.’

  Arthur nodded. ‘What about the actual texts?’ he asked, standing to top up Nora Kelly’s sherry. ‘Did you speak to our friend Susan?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Joe, ‘and she says the unscrambling should be easy. But she needs to get the cell down to Virginia, and considering this job is under the radar, she said it might take some time for her overworked friends in Computer Analysis and Response to get to it. In the meantime she said you guys might be faster fiddling around with the letter and number combinations yourselves.’

  ‘We’ve been doing that, Joe,’ said David.

  ‘And it’s not as easy as it looks.’

  ‘Maybe for an old geezer like you – but not for someone in the know.’

  ‘You gave the combinations to Joe Jnr,’ smiled David.

  ‘He has to earn his pocket money somehow,’ said Joe.

  David smiled again. ‘Okay, so what about the cell phone towers?’

  ‘My friends from Larceny got some way with those enquiries,’ answered Joe. ‘But I’m not sure how much it is going to help you.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Sara.

  ‘Well,’ began Joe. ‘Newark has scores of cell phone towers, and not all of them are required to be registered by the FCC.’

  ‘Our guy used an unregistered tower?’ David was just waiting for the obstacle to challenge them.

  ‘No,’ smiled Joe. ‘From what my guys tell me, the first two texts were triangulated through the Cellco Partnership Tower at Gateway 1.’

  This did not ring a bell to anyone bar David who understood this tower probably covered parts of Downtown and the Ironbound.

  ‘And the last two were routed through one of the busiest towers in the city,’ Joe went on, ‘the New York and Port Authority Tower, at the Newark International Airport entrance, adjacent to Tower Road.’

  ‘The guy was on his way to the airport?’ asked Sara. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Sara’s right,’ said Joe. ‘And it doesn’t exactly help us identify the texter. The guy could be from anywhere – maybe just passing through?’

  ‘Or coming from somewhere?’ suggested Nora.

  ‘Or on his way out,’ Arthur chimed in.

  ‘There’s no way to tell,’ said Joe.

  Just then, they were interrupted by the ring of their main line which echoed from Nora’s desk just outside in reception.

  ‘You can take it here, Nora,’ said Arthur, gesturing at his office phone.

  She picked up. ‘Wright and Associates. This is Nora Kelly speaking. How may I help you?’

  Silence until: ‘Yes, one moment please.’

  Nora pressed the hold button and looked up at David. ‘It’s for you, lad. Rebecca Kincaid.’

  David glanced at Sara. ‘We haven’t spoken since I left Newark,’ he said.

  They all watched as David took the handset from Nora. ‘Rebecca,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, David,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I should have called earlier – I wasn’t sure if you’d still be at work, but I didn’t have your home number so . . .’

  This told David that Rebecca was ringing of her own accord, otherwise she would have asked her husband for David’s home number.

  ‘How are you, Rebecca?’ he asked. ‘Is everything okay?’ A stupid question under the circumstances.

  ‘Yes . . . I mean no . . . I,’ she paused. ‘I don’t know how else to say this, David, so I shall simply put it as plainly as I can. Chris is planning to plea, at least, his lawyer is advising him to. The trial is looming – now only a few weeks away and Chris is nervous and . . . Gloria and I . . .’ She paused again. ‘I mean, I . . . think this is a bad decision. Chris did not kill Marilyn, David, and he does not deserve to go to jail.’

  David pondered on how to respond. ‘Did he ask you to call me?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted.

  ‘He’s angry that I left,’ he said.

  ‘Not angry. He’s ashamed, David. He lied to you,’ Rebecca took a breath. ‘Chris and you and Mike . . .’ She hesitated again as if trying to find the words. ‘Chris once told me about that night, after Lorraine’s . . . accident. He told me how he and Mike got into that fight and that you broke it up, and afterwards, the three of you made certain promises to one another – a pact of friendship, honesty, commitment. It was something the three of you shared that I . . . that even Marilyn had no part of. He knows he broke that trust David, so no, he’s not angry, he’s embarrassed and remorseful and worst of all, David, I fear he’s given up hope.’

  David kept his emotions in check. This was no time for feelings of guilt. ‘What kind of plea are they talking?’ he asked.

  ‘Reckless manslaughter, which I believe carries a sentence of—’

  ‘Seven years on average,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Connor will have graduated from college, the girls will be teenagers, and I . . .’ She took a breath. ‘Will you talk to him?’ she asked.

  David turned to meet the eyes of everyone in the room, people who would stick by him no matter what. And then he thought about how lonely it must have been for young Rebecca Gillies Kincaid over the years. The woman had probably never known any real sense of companionship since the day that she was born.

  ‘Tell him not to agree to anything until I get there,’ he said, knowing there was no other decision he could make.

  And he could hear the relief in her sigh. ‘You’re coming back?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Rebecca, I’m coming home.’

  53

  When Elliott Marshall was in the sixth grade his favourite TV show was Barnaby Jones. He knew this did not make him popular, given the rest of his classmates spent their lunchtimes discussing the adventures of Laverne and Shirley, Jaime Sommers or that annoying Vinnie Barbarino from the ridiculously unrealistic Welcome Back Kotter. But he didn’t give a shit, for Barnaby Jones was a legend as far as the eleven-year-old Marshall was concerned, for reasons almost too numerous to name.

  First up, the actor playing Jones, Buddy Ebsen, was realistically unattractive, not like Steve Austin or Jim Rockford or one of those other too-good-looking-to-be-true investigator types. Secondly, Barnaby only drank milk, which the young Marshall saw as incredibly refreshing, and inclusive given he would always time his milk-drinking to coincide with Barnaby’s. Thirdly, the detective always caught his man, and finally (and Marshall liked this part the best), the program was cut into neat pieces – Act I showing the murder, Act II having Barnaby figure out the murder, Act III revealing the plot twist, Act IV giving the resolution, and the Epilogue always featuring Barnaby’s pretty daughter-in-law Betty asking Barnaby Jones how he figured it all out! In short, Marshall took comfort in the show’s order and inevitability. He knew where things were going and appreciated the respect a man like Jones was shown.

  Marshall took a breath and refocused on his current state of play.

  Edward Fisk was sweating.

  Marshall could see it – shiny little pearls of panic on his distinguished-looking face. The man had bee
n around the traps for decades, charging his clients hundreds of thousands of dollars for his so-called expertise. And they fell for it, thinking that just because the man had the number III after his name, just because his father and his grandfather before him had all graduated Harvard Law with honours, just because he drove a Bentley and was chauffeured in from Somerset County every single day, that he could wave his magic wand and make all those horrible charges disappear. Which was ludicrous, of course – given the odds were always with the prosecutor. And Marshall’s odds were increasing by the minute.

  ‘I’m afraid patience has never been one of my strongest virtues, Mr Fisk,’ said Marshall, standing from his uncomfortable plastic chair to pace around the too small interview room. It was Saturday and he was dressed down in a polo shirt and jeans, his heeled RM Williams boots giving him a pleasurable, but not too obvious, ‘lift’.

  ‘And while I did say that my offer was available until the end of next week, since making said offer, I have been made aware of some new information and . . .’ Marshall thought back to Peter Hogan the paver and his eagerness to testify. ‘Let’s just say that your window of opportunity has shrunk and I am giving you until Monday morning to decide on whether or not you want to take the plea.’

  Fisk looked to his client who was already shaking his head.

  ‘I need more time, Marshall,’ said an exhausted-looking Kincaid.

  But Fisk was already holding up his manicured right hand to silence his client. ‘Do the terms still stand?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, yes,’ answered Marshall, enjoying every moment of lording it over the fancy lawyer and his famous politician client. ‘In as much as I will agree to reduce the charge to reckless manslaughter. But I must tell you that, in light of this new information, I shall be recommending the maximum term for this offence – that being a sentence of ten years.’

  ‘Ten years,’ said Chris. ‘Jesus, Marshall. I am innocent.’

  ‘Then feel free to take your chances with the jury. I will be happy to lay it all out for them to hear, especially the gem about the battered victim being alive when she hit the water. Goodness knows they’ll love that.’

  Fisk’s hand was up again. ‘I find your attitude insulting, Mr Marshall.’

  ‘And I find the seconds hand on that gold Rolex you’re sporting is now racing toward your new deadline.’ Marshall smiled. ‘The thing is, Counsellor, your client here is going to have to realise that there is a huge difference between ten and thirty years. Why, his daughters will have kids of their own by then, and they can all come to visit their granddad in—’

  ‘What is this new information?’ asked Fisk then.

  ‘All in good time, Mr Fisk. My enquiries are in their preliminary stages.’

  ‘Well, how do we even know this new information exists?’

  ‘You don’t,’ said Marshall.

  Marshall had said his piece, and was determined to leave with the last word, and before the other two men rose, given he’d had the advantage of standing height over them for most of the meeting. ‘I’ll be in my office first thing Monday, anxiously awaiting your call.’

  And with that, his good friend Barnaby in mind, he strode to the door proudly realising that he’d created his own ‘Act III’ – plot twist – leaving his opponents speechless with no room to wiggle, and thereby assuring his victory in Act IV.

  54

  ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you?’

  Will Cusack had arrived at the Delgado house moments earlier – a smiling Vicki Delgado warning him that ‘Jackie’, as she had always called him, had come down with the flu and was currently resting up in bed. And after asking if Will had had breakfast, and checking how he’d gone in his finals, she gave him a hug before commissioning him to take Jack up a hot mug of cocoa – simultaneously warning him not to get too close, or wake her son if he was finally getting some sleep.

  ‘Did you know he’s been having nightmares?’ she asked in a whisper. ‘I heard him just after one this morning, tossing and turning in the room next door. He must have been sweating this flu for quite some time. But now I think the fever’s broken, which means he should be on the mend.’ Her voice had risen at the end of this sentence turning it into a question, which had made Will wonder if Jack was giving his famous mom more than just a flu to worry about.

  ‘Is he talking?’ Will had asked her then, a genuine look of concern on his broad, unshaven face. ‘In his sleep, I mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she had replied. ‘Why, Will? Do you think he might be worried about Harvard? Of course, I am so thrilled he has been accepted, but perhaps I have pushed him too hard. I mean, it is what his father and I always wanted for him, but . . .’

  ‘We’re all hung up about the future, Mrs D,’ Will had said, managing to offer her a consolatory smile.

  ‘That’s exactly what Connor said.’

  ‘Connor?’

  ‘Yes, he came by about an hour ago – only stayed for a little while, so that Jack could get some sleep.’

  And that was when Will, who had spoken to Connor last night and heard nothing of his planned visit, took the cocoa from Vicki Delgado’s hands and high-tailed it up the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Jack – wake up,’ he said, shaking his friend’s shoulder – the fretful Jack now writhing in the bed before him, his brow a sweat-covered furnace. ‘Jack – come on, man.’

  Jack Delgado finally opened his eyes. ‘Will,’ he said. ‘I was dreaming – about that night. And I think it was a sign – that we have to do something. That we have to tell.’

  Will caught his breath. ‘Connor came to see you,’ he said, knowing that if he was to control this, he had to take it one step at a time.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Jack. ‘He said his dad’s solicitor had called his mom and told her they’d had a meeting with the prosecutor. Said the prosecutor had new evidence and had given his dad a deadline for negotiating a plea.’

  ‘What new evidence? Kincaid is going to plea?’ Will felt the air rush out of him.

  ‘They don’t know what the new evidence is, but Chris Kincaid’s attorney is recommending he take the plea because the new stuff teamed with the information the prosecutor had been saving . . . for trial.’

  ‘Jesus, Jack – what the hell has the prosecutor been saving?’ Will’s voice was rising, and his hand clenched around Jack’s wet T-shirt collar.

  Jack winced as he swallowed, his throat rising painfully as if the words were like daggers in his throat. ‘The woman was alive when she was thrown into the river.’

  Will released Jack’s T-shirt, the full impact of his friend’s words sending his brain into a spin.

  ‘She was alive, Will. Do you know what that means? It means that we made a fatal mistake. It means that we . . .’ Jack tailed off, unable to say the words aloud.

  Will’s mind was working in overdrive as he tried desperately to make sense of it. ‘We weren’t to know,’ he said then.

  ‘The fuck we weren’t to know.’ Jack met his eye. ‘We panicked, Will – or at least I panicked, and you . . .’

  Will ran his hand through his thick dark hair, then shook his head from side to side in an effort to clear it. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it now,’ he said, knowing it was more important than ever that he provided the guidance Jack needed. ‘You have to man up, Jack. This Catholic guilt thing is bullshit. As hard as it may be, you have to cut the whole “woe is me” act before someone starts asking what the fuck is wrong with you.’

  Jack let out a sigh. ‘Jesus, Will. Aren’t you listening to me? Connor thinks his dad is going to plea. The senator’s going to go to jail, for at least ten years. He’ll kill his career, leave his family without an income.’ Jack fell back onto his sweat-soaked pillow. ‘I’m tired, Will. You’re the one who is always telling me how invincible I am – well I am, or I was, but then I started trying to cover for every goddamned father figure in my life and now I have nothing else to give.’

  W
ill tried desperately to quell the anger he felt rising in his belly. Chris Kincaid and his lily-livered son had done it again, managed to stand in front of Will’s opportunity to sort things the fuck out. He forced himself to focus. Jack said something about their income. And that was when Will remembered he had still not seen one single cent from this fucked-up ‘investment’. If Kincaid copped the plea, Will’s earning potential was over. He needed to suppress his rage and focus on why they’d started this whole thing in the first place – the problem that hadn’t been solved.

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Will, his dark gaze set on Jack’s bloodshot eyes. ‘Nobody is saying anything, do you hear me? I will find a way out of this – for us – and,’ he had to brace himself to say it, ‘maybe even for Kincaid. I just need some time to—’

  ‘But there is no time. If Kincaid is going to plea, it’s going to happen soon.’

  Will knew that if he was going to salvage this situation, and make the money he should have made in the first place, he needed to come up with a new plan. ‘Then we have to move quickly,’ he said.

  ‘We did that before, remember?’ said a now depleted Jack. ‘And look where that got us.’

  For once, Will was speechless, as the calamity of the situation finally hit home.

  ‘I will fix this,’ he said, rising from Jack’s bed.

  ‘I’m not sure you can,’ said Jack. ‘Connor said his dad was resolute. He’s like a suicide bomber, Will, and everyone knows they are the one group that can’t be stopped when their hearts are set on self-destruction.’

  ‘Then we have to go to someone who has a vested interest in making sure Kincaid understands he has to act in the best interests of his family – someone who’ll be dragged down with him if he . . .’

  ‘That would be us, Will,’ said Jack, his wide-eyed, sucker-punched face now flushed with defeat.

  ‘Not just us,’ said Will, the fog finally clearing. And then, ‘I have to go.’

  55

  When David Cavanaugh was a small boy he used to love to crawl into his mother’s bed and nestle into her shoulder. On the best of these nights, she would allow him to first fish under her bed for the old photo albums, and he would rummage through the pile until he found the oldest-looking one of the bunch – the one that contained pictures of his mom and dad when they were not much older than him.