Matter of Trust

by Sydney Bauer

  And then finally, after Marilyn had replied with her ‘OK’: Thank you. I prmis U wont regret it. Make sure U bring $. Rm undr Dallas Winston. Outsidrs Blong 2gether. C x.

  ‘Jesus,’ said David, ‘you think he wanted her to bring the money?’

  ‘I know,’ said Joe, who had faxed the handwritten translation to David’s new office machine first thing. It was still early and the sun was pouring through the single east-facing window, capturing the normally invisible dance of the dust particles in its rays.

  ‘Susan is a genius,’ said Sara into the speaker phone.

  ‘Susan is still trying to get her overworked FBI friend to take a look at the cell,’ replied Joe.

  ‘Then this is Joe Jnr’s handiwork?’ David looked up toward the speaker phone. ‘You’ve bred a genius, Joe.’

  ‘Yeah,’ added McNally, who had come to ‘work’ in collar and tie. ‘We could use him at the Newark PD.’

  ‘My kid’s gonna pitch balls for the Red Sox, McNally,’ said Joe. ‘Not dodge bullets for the city.’

  ‘Like you’d have done it any other way,’ returned McNally.

  Then there was silence until, ‘So how did the kid know so much?’ asked Joe. David had given him a full briefing on their coup with the Hilton security tape at the beginning of their call.

  ‘Good question,’ replied McNally, getting up to pace around their tiny brown-carpeted office. ‘He knew about The Outsiders thing, about Kincaid’s break-up, and more importantly, the $100,000.’

  ‘I believe Gloria when she says she told no-one but Rebecca about the money,’ said David, sitting forward on his red canvas chair. David had also shared the contents of the previous night’s conversation with Gloria Kincaid with both Joe and McNally. ‘And I agree with her opinion that Rebecca would not have told Connor.’

  ‘Maybe the kid overheard his mom and grandma talking,’ suggested Joe.

  ‘Connor was at school when the conversation took place.’

  ‘Then how in the hell did his text-happy friend find out about it?’ asked Joe.

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied David.

  There was silence for a while as Sara moved to the corner of the office to grab three bottles of lukewarm water for herself, David and McNally. ‘David,’ she said as she re-took her seat, ‘are you sure Marilyn wouldn’t have told anyone bar her priest about the money?’

  David had shared his thoughts regarding Marilyn’s ‘confession’ with Sara, McNally and Joe.

  ‘She was one of the proudest people I’ve ever known,’ said David.

  ‘Sure, but the information about the money was leaked to Cusack somehow. Maybe Mike sought advice from someone else?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You should have seen Mike when he was editing the information for me – it was like he was being tortured. He’s a good man, Sara, and an even better priest. He treats that confessional with respect. There is no way he would . . .’

  And then it came to him, the seed of an idea.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Sara, turning to face him.

  David got to his feet. ‘Years ago,’ he began, ‘when we were teenagers . . . Chris, Mike and I, we got up to some pretty mischievous stuff. Mike said it was illegal – under the law of man and God, he . . .’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Joe from down the line. ‘You want to start making sense, David?’

  ‘We taped the confessions,’ said David. ‘We snuck into the Saint Stephen’s confessional and stuck one of those long-running miniature tape recorders under Father Patrick’s chair, and we waited a while before going back to retrieve it.’

  ‘You taped people’s confessions?’ asked Sara in shocked amusement.

  ‘Yes. And the last time I saw Mike, he said something about Chris telling Connor and his friends the story – about what we did and how we almost got away with it.’

  ‘You think Kincaid gave this Will the idea?’ asked McNally, incredulous. ‘That he mimicked your little prank and caught Maloney’s confession on tape?’

  ‘It would explain how he knew about the relationship,’ chimed in Sara, ‘and about Marilyn’s reservations . . . the money.’ She was up and pacing too. ‘He got the idea from the confession and—’

  ‘When she didn’t turn up at the Hilton,’ McNally cut in, ‘he went after her – looking for the money.’

  ‘But then maybe Maloney resisted,’ contributed Joe. ‘And things got rough, and . . .’

  ‘You think this boy raped her?’ asked Sara, her brow knotting as she turned her attention back to David. ‘I mean, the kid may be an opportunist, a liar and a thief, but rape and murder, David,’ she shook her head, ‘that’s a whole new ball game in anyone’s imagination.’

  David knew she was right.

  ‘You know anything about this kid’s background?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Not much,’ answered David, before glancing toward McNally.

  ‘I’m on it,’ responded McNally. ‘Maybe there’s something in the kid’s background that goes toward explaining his behaviour.’

  ‘It’s explained a whole lot of shit in the past,’ said Joe.

  No-one spoke, the ramifications of what they were speculating slowly sinking in.

  ‘Jesus – the irony,’ said Joe after a time. ‘If we are right, Kincaid signed his own arrest warrant. He unwittingly gave this Cusack the idea that set this whole damned thing in motion.’

  And David knew Joe was right. History had repeated itself – at the cost of Marilyn’s life.

  68

  Jack Delgado was at peace.

  He was lost, in a memory triggered by the shock of pink in the cherry blossoms coating the grass around him, by the smell of the lake behind him, and the sounds from the elementary school boys now sprinting around the baseball diamond in front of him – uninhibited, energised, free.

  ‘Run,’ he said to himself, as a red-haired kid hit a home run and charged around the Branch Brook Park bases with a look of pure triumph on his sun-kissed freckled face.

  ‘Attaboy,’ he said, this time aloud. He clapped for the kid who was now being mobbed by his excited team mates. ‘Enjoy it while you can,’ he whispered to himself, recalling the days when his dad used to bring him and Josh and their older brother Eddie here to teach them how to hit a curve ball like the best of them. ‘Because one day the truth will sneak up on you and you won’t be ready to smack it out of the park. And then you’ll be left all alone with no idea how in the hell to make your way back to that familiar home plate. And then you’ll be lost in the spiral – running the bases like your life depends on it. And then the umpire will call you out and your future will be fucked forever.’

  ‘Jack,’ said the voice, the very sound of it punctuating Jack’s last thought.

  ‘Connor,’ he said, getting to his feet to brush the dead cherry blossoms from his crushed school trousers. ‘How are you, man?’ He reached for Connor’s hand.

  ‘Okay, I guess,’ said Connor. ‘Your mom know you’re missing another day of school?’

  ‘My mom sees everything and gets nothing.’

  ‘Same,’ said Connor, and then: ‘Dad decided against the plea.’

  Jack nodded – the initial feeling of relief soon replaced by a fresh sense of horror. ‘He’s taking his chances at trial?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Connor, his own fear written all over his brooding olive-skinned face. ‘If he loses, he goes away for life.’

  Jack said nothing – both boys past trying to cheer each other up with platitudes.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Jack as they took a seat on the grass, the shade of the cherry blossoms casting irregular patterns across their faces. ‘Not so much thinking, but remembering.’

  ‘Remembering what?’ asked Connor.

  ‘That day we met. You, me and Will.’

  Jack knew Connor would remember it – that grief-stricken memorial ceremony wrapped up in hope. Jack recalled the pride on his mother’s face as the tears rolled down her cheeks w
hen her husband’s name was called out and he was saluted by his fellow police officers. He remembered Chris Kincaid hugging the widows and consoling their kids. He remembered Will’s mom lost in a catatonic haze as she placed a picture of her late husband on the makeshift shrine. And he recalled the confusion on the skinny Kincaid kid’s face as his dad introduced him to the two fatherless public school kids.

  ‘Do you remember what Will said to you?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Yes,’ said Connor. ‘He said, “What the fuck would you know about tragedy?” ’

  ‘And you said . . .’

  ‘“Nothing.” ’

  ‘And he said . . .’

  ‘“Then I’ll be happy to fucking teach you,” ’ finished Connor. ‘And then when my dad wasn’t looking, he spat at my feet.’

  They sat there in silence for a while.

  ‘It made me respect him,’ admitted Connor.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Will – treating me like shit when he first met me. It made me look up to him.’

  ‘Because you were used to people sucking up to you?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Because he didn’t give a crap what people thought.’

  ‘But you did.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And still do.’

  ‘Yes.

  ‘Me too.’

  The breeze picked up to a steady wind, the leaves around them lifting before settling once again on the carpet of green around them. Connor’s eyes went to the baseball game, and Jack noted the cherry-haired kid was now having his first shot at pitching, his left arm lifting as he raised his right leg in mimicry of the superstars on TV.

  ‘I’m not sure I can hold it in much longer,’ said Jack then.

  Connor said nothing.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt your dad, or you, or Will . . . but . . . I’m not sure I can do it. It’s creeping up on me, Connor – what we did.’

  ‘What did we do, Jack?’ asked Connor, as if finally needing Jack to spell it out.

  ‘We made the wrong decision.’

  ‘And if we hadn’t made it?’

  ‘She’d still be alive.’

  ‘But my dad would still be in prison.’

  Jack didn’t answer, merely closed his eyes as the red-haired kid pitched his third strike. ‘I wish we were wrong,’ he said, his eyes still shut tight.

  ‘About what?’ asked Connor. ‘Your dad.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I was wrong about my dad,’ said Jack.

  ‘You were?’ asked Connor, obviously surprised by Jack’s confession.

  ‘He said one thing and did another.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I inherited the mess he left behind.’ Jack finally opened his eyes to see Connor looking at him in confusion.

  ‘Your dad was a hero.’

  ‘My dad was a man – just like yours.’

  ‘And that makes up for things?’ asked Connor.

  ‘That depends,’ said Jack, ‘on just how guilty we believe our fathers to have been.’

  Connor said nothing, until, ‘Will says he has a new plan,’ he continued, the shadows casting dark circles under his eyes. ‘He came by my house and took something belonging to my dad. Maybe we should trust him, Jack. He says he can fix things. He was there for me, just like you were on that horrible night.’

  More than ever Jack wanted to tell his good friend the truth – about his motives, his selfishness, but doing that would only implicate another, and that he would never do. ‘Will is your friend,’ he said instead. ‘He’ll do whatever he can to protect your father, Connor.’

  ‘I know. And I’m grateful but . . .’

  Jack turned to meet his eye.

  ‘I want to protect my father because I love him,’ Connor continued. ‘But Will, why would he—’

  ‘Because he hated him,’ Jack cut in.

  ‘My father?’

  ‘No, his.’

  Connor blinked in understanding, and the two boys turned their attention toward the game once again.

  ‘My father says he is innocent,’ said Connor after a time.

  ‘Then maybe you should forget everything you know.’

  ‘Could you?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s not my father.’

  Connor nodded again. ‘Are you going to tell someone?’

  ‘Part of me wants to, but if I do . . .’ Jack shook his head. ‘You’re my friend, Connor, your father’s been good to me and – and Will, well, he’s . . .’

  ‘I’m not sure we deserve protecting, Jack.’

  ‘It’s what friends do, Connor.’

  And then there was silence, until, ‘Will was wrong about one thing,’ continued Jack.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Connor.

  ‘About you knowing nothing about tragedy.’

  Connor nodded. ‘Do you ever get over it?’

  ‘Over what?’

  ‘Losing your father.’

  ‘That depends on how you lose him,’ said Jack, as the freckle-faced kid caught a high ball in his scratched leather mitt. ‘But in your case, my friend, my guess is . . . no.’

  69

  Saint Stephen’s Preparatory school for boys is located in the University Heights area of Downtown Newark. It encompasses twelve buildings over twelve acres – each of them constructed in soot-stained red brick. The main entrance fronts onto Martin Luther King Boulevard where the shadow of the spire of Saint Stephen’s church cuts a long, narrow swathe across the school’s heavy wooden doors. A plaque to the left carries the school’s name and a crest to the right bares its motto – Fortitudo, Veneratio, Veritas – Courage, Honour, Truth.

  Nothing has changed, thought David, as nostalgia overwhelmed him. As he and McNally approached the young woman in the reception area, he felt both a desire to embrace the reminiscence, and a simultaneous urge to run. For while his memories of high school were largely positive, there was also that sense of being stifled – of a need to forge his own way – a long way from the place he called home.

  ‘My name is David Cavanaugh and this is Detective Harry McNally from the Newark PD,’ he said to the pretty mocha-skinned girl. ‘We’re here to see Father Patrick.’ He took a breath, the name of his old school principal triggering a Pavlovian sensation of apprehension. ‘He’s expecting us.’

  David had called Father Patrick’s secretary late yesterday and requested a meeting at the headmaster’s earliest convenience. Together with McNally and Sara, David had made two decisions after the conference call with Joe yesterday, the first being that they would approach Father Patrick for some discreet information on Will – and perhaps even seek an opportunity to speak with him under the guise of David wanting to take up his earlier offer to be a character witness for Chris. At this stage, all they had to implicate the kid was a fuzzy image on a hotel security disc and a set of close to indecipherable text messages they were assuming Will sent. Neither was enough to accuse the boy of even the slightest of indiscretions, let alone murder.

  Their second decision involved Sara’s offer to accompany them to Saint Stephen’s. Both David and McNally agreed it would be best if they slipped in and out of the school relatively unnoticed, a task David had argued would be impossible with Sara tagging along.

  ‘Why is that?’ she’d asked, perhaps a little frustrated at their excluding her.

  ‘Sara, this is a school full of teenage boys,’ David had said before looking to McNally. ‘No offence, but a girl like you in a place like that . . .’

  ‘You think I’ll be less of a distraction down at County?’ she’d asked, given they had suggested she be the one to spend the day getting Chris’s take on their latest findings regarding Will.

  ‘No,’ David had smiled. ‘But the jail has guards and the inmates are behind bars.’

  ‘And you expect me to find this argument flattering?’ She’d managed a smile.

  ‘I’ve heard it gets you everywhere.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ she’d answered. ‘Go back to hig
h school where you belong.’

  And so they’d agreed to go their separate ways until later this afternoon, when the Sands hearing was scheduled to consider David’s request to rule Chris’s previous record inadmissible.

  The receptionist made a call before looking up toward David once again. ‘Father Patrick is expecting you. I can get one of the students to show you to his office.’

  ‘No need,’ said David.

  ‘You know the way?’ she asked.

  ‘Too well,’ he responded.

  She smiled.

  Five minutes later they were in the familiar waiting room outside the priest’s office – a portrait of the Virgin Mary on the far wall looking down at them as if in sympathy. A few minutes after that, Father Patrick was opening the door to his office – the same office David and his two best friends had frequented so regularly all those years ago.

  ‘David Cavanaugh,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘It has been too long.’

  David was surprised by the overwhelming feeling of warmth brought on by the old man’s smile. ‘I thought you were happy to see the back of me, Father,’ he said, moving forward to take the priest’s leathery hand, noting the priest’s own school ring which had worn a groove in his right ring finger.

  ‘That’s just because you heard the rumour that I celebrated with a whole bottle of whisky the day you and your two friends moved on.’

  ‘Is the rumour true, Father?’ asked David.

  ‘Why, of course it’s true,’ smiled Father Patrick, standing back so that they might enter his shady corner enclave. ‘But I don’t expect you gentlemen are here to reminisce,’ he added, as David introduced him to McNally.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Father,’ said David.

  ‘Then let me know how I can help you,’ he said, ‘and your old friend Chris Kincaid.’

  ‘Will Cusack is a tormented young man,’ said a concerned Father Patrick, slowly, carefully, as if wanting to choose his words. ‘I would like to say he is who he is because of his father’s death, but in all honesty I think the odds were against Will long before 9/11.’

  ‘So who exactly is he, Father?’ asked David.