by Sydney Bauer
Father Michael Murphy sat back in his cushioned confessional chair and tried to compose himself.
He was not sure what it meant.
He had missed Father Patrick’s call. The old priest had rung his cell, not the church office, which meant the information he wished to impart was confidential. His message was brief and stilted – something about David coming to visit with some rather concerning queries. When Mike went to call him back, the priest was away from his desk, which meant Mike wouldn’t get the opportunity to catch up with him for at least another hour – an hour he would spend absolving the meagre sins of the pious regulars, who turned up every Wednesday desperate to cleanse their spotless souls.
What could David want? Why hadn’t he dropped in to see Mike after visiting with the headmaster? If David was back, defending Chris again, it meant that he no longer believed Chris was guilty. But did he blame Mike for questioning their friend’s innocence all those months ago? Was he avoiding Mike because he believed Mike still thought Chris was capable of murdering the girl who had been so much part of all their lives?
It had been a mistake to share portions of Marilyn’s confession with David. He knew that now, and regretted it. Mike knew Chris was innocent. Way down deep in his soul, he knew Chris Kincaid could never hurt the girl who had stolen his heart and held it at ransom until her final breath was taken. And when Mike thought about it, he realised that even after death, she still held both their hearts – Chris’s, which was no doubt breaking at the loss and the predicament it found him in – and Mike’s, which had ached for her when she lived, and now bled with sorrow at her passing.
He heard the door to his right open and once again tried desperately to focus on the task at hand. He was a priest, for Christ’s sake – a man of God whose role in this confessional was to act as a conduit to the Lord Almighty. He was supposed to help his brothers and sisters seek forgiveness from a higher being – and here he was, mourning the death of a woman he could never have had.
He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. Please Lord, he prayed silently. Please help me transcend my human frailties so that I might serve you as you deserve. But it seemed to Mike that his request fell on deaf ears, for what followed did nothing to ease his heart, nor reduce the burden of his responsibility. On the contrary, it wrapped its slippery fingers around his all-too-human soul and pulled him deeper into the abyss.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’ The boy’s voice was low and shaky, and Mike turned his head ever so slightly to confirm the profile of the young man he suspected it to be.
‘It has been two months since my last confession and I . . . I . . .’
‘Yes, my son,’ said Mike, relieved that the boy was here, wanting to talk, immediately snapping him out of his own selfishness. ‘You know that God is warmed by your intention to seek forgiveness. You have nothing to fear here, my son. You—’
‘I killed somebody,’ said the boy, his words slicing through the thin wire lattice that separated them and shattering Mike’s briefly attained composure.
‘My son,’ Mike began, trying desperately to remain calm. ‘Who . . . how?’
‘The woman the Senator is supposed to have killed. We . . .’ the boy corrected himself. ‘I did it. I killed her. It wasn’t him, it was me. And the guilt I am carrying, Father – with Connor’s father in jail . . .’ The boy took a breath. ‘I didn’t mean to do it – I mean, in the beginning it was just about . . .’ Another breath. ‘But then I found out that she was alive when she was thrown in the river and now, I wish more than anything, that we . . .’ He stopped.
‘You did not act alone?’ asked Mike, both registering the horror that Marilyn had been alive when she entered that freezing water, and noting the boy’s vacillation between ‘I’ and ‘we’. ‘Because if that is the case, son, you—’
‘No,’ interrupted the boy. ‘It’s my decision to be here, Father. I can only ask forgiveness for the role that I played – and I killed her, Father. I ended that poor woman’s life.’
Mike exhaled a shuddering breath. ‘My friend,’ he said, ‘we need to talk about this. You need to tell me what happened. You need to go to the authorities, explain your situation. And I will come with you. I will be there beside you, constantly. You will never be alone.’
‘I can’t do that, Father,’ said the boy, as if all was lost.
‘Why not, my friend?’ asked Mike.
‘Because this isn’t the way things were meant to go.’ Another pause. ‘You cannot tell anyone, am I right, Father? I mean, no matter what, you cannot tell anyone what I’ve told you. That’s the only reason I came here, because I trust in you, Father – and the decision to do this was mine, and mine alone. And if you told,’ the boy shook his head, the shadows created by his movements exaggerated across the tiny confessional booth, ‘if you told, there would be others, who made different decisions, who would suffer.’
Others – thought Mike. More than one.
‘I will not breathe a word of this, my son,’ Mike said with conviction. ‘You have my word, as a priest, as your friend.’ And no matter what the consequences, he meant it. ‘But . . . please, Jack.’ He said the boy’s name for the first time. ‘Please allow me to help you. You need to free yourself from your guilt – by speaking up, by doing what is right.’
‘It’s a little late for that, don’t you think, Father?’
Mike didn’t know how to reply.
‘I have to go,’ said the boy at last. ‘I am so sorry, Father. Please ask God to forgive me.’
And with that Jack Delgado rushed out of the confessional, leaving a shell-shocked Mike sitting all alone in his tiny cubicle of candour.
74
They were stuck in traffic. David had tried to call Sara from the car, but her cell continued to go through to voice mail.
‘Shit,’ said David, as McNally, who had offered to drive David’s Land Cruiser from the school to the courthouse, weaved in and out the busy Market Street traffic.
‘It’s only five to,’ said McNally. ‘You still have time.’
‘I hope so. You were right when you said it won’t look good if I’m late. Sara must have gone ahead and turned off her cell so that it would not interrupt proceedings. But she’s only just been accredited, she’ll be nervous – and it looks unprofessional if Chris’s lead attorney doesn’t front on time to a hearing he requested.’
‘You’re babbling,’ said McNally, obviously trying to calm him. ‘I know everything seems to be happening at once, but for now, you have to put Will Cusack out of your mind and focus on convincing that judge that granting admissibility of your client’s priors would be a massive travesty of justice.’
David managed a smile. ‘Listen to you. Defence attorney extraordinaire.’
‘Just trying to keep you focused, Cavanaugh,’ he said as he pulled over to the kerb. ‘You better get out here. I’ll park the car and meet you up there.’
‘Thanks,’ said David, as he opened the door and leapt quickly from the car.
He broke into a run up the steep West Market Street, past the historical Hall of Records, and the tiny flowered plaza named for Rosa Parks.
He was rounding the small garden near the Veterans Courthouse entrance when he saw her – pulling her cell from her suit pocket while proceeding to pace restlessly in front of the County of Essex shield.
‘Sara,’ he called.
‘David.’ She looked up and rushed toward him. ‘I was just about to call you. I turned off my cell in the hearing and . . .’
‘The hearing is over?’ He couldn’t believe it.
‘There was an administrative error. Apparently it was always scheduled for one. Luckily a court clerk rang me at twelve-thirty to check on a filing number and I grabbed our notes and raced down here. I tried to call you, but your cell went to voice mail, and by that stage I knew there was no point in leaving you a message because you wouldn’t have made it back in any case and . . . Oh David, I am so sorry.’
&nb
sp; He could see it in her face then: the pure disappointment of it all.
‘The judge denied our request,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid so. Marshall went in guns blazing. He was well prepared. The judge barely allowed us an argument – said he didn’t know why we wasted the court’s time with our request in the first place. He said he didn’t need a hearing to teach him the nuances of New Jersey law and the Lorraine Stankovic matter was fair game if it was already a matter of public record.’
‘But it wasn’t a matter of public record. No one knew about it until Marshall spilled the beans at the arraignment – a move bordering on illegal in any case.’
Sara was shaking her head. ‘You’re right – but what we didn’t know is that Chris’s old lawyer, Edward Fisk, filed a statement on the matter on Chris’s behalf.’
‘He validated Marshall’s claims?’ David could not believe it.
‘By entering a subtle argument against them.’ Sara nodded. ‘It was at the time when he was sure Chris was going to plea. A statement on Lorraine Stankovic’s death was part of the plea arrangement. Of course Fisk was extremely diplomatic in his wording, but the very fact that it was filed made it . . .’
‘. . . admissible at trial,’ finished David.
‘I’m afraid so,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She took his hand and squeezed it, leading him toward the adjoining garden where they sat on a bench next to a small water feature. ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ she said then, trying to lift his spirits. ‘The initial charges against Chris were dropped after all.’
David didn’t know how to feel – disappointed by this court decision, buoyed by their manipulation of Will Cusack, or terrified that they would run out of time before they had a chance to prove their client’s innocence. But he knew that they were drowning – three inexperienced rookies battling a prosecution backed by numbers and experience and clout. Suddenly it felt like it could all be over before they even got a chance to begin, that they were just going through the motions.
‘Oh, for goodness sake.’
The voice was as crisp and clear as always, but he assumed his overcrowded brain was playing tricks on him – because the owner of that voice was—
‘We come all the way from Boston thinking you’re flat to the boards and here you are enjoying a sweet afternoon rendezvous with your incredibly patient better half.’
‘Nora,’ David said, squinting against the sun to make her out. He jumped from the bench and embraced his tweed-suited secretary with all the strength he could muster. ‘My God, you have no idea how good it is to see you.’
‘Likewise, dear boy,’ she said, returning the hug. ‘Dare I say, I have missed you too – as strange as that may seem.’
‘Now don’t go all soft on us,’ said a second familiar voice from behind.
David turned to see his boss Arthur Wright now hobbling on his walking stick toward him.
‘When Sara said you could use our help, I didn’t expect we’d have to hug our way through an episode of Doctor Phil before we got down to business. That judge was an ass by the way. Wouldn’t happen in Boston, David – at least not with the judges I drink with.’
‘Arthur,’ said David, taking his good friend’s hand and pulling him close. ‘You were in the hearing with Sara.’
‘Yes – not that she needed us. She did a fine job, it’s just that the judge was an—’
‘. . . ass,’ finished David with a smile.
‘A complete incompetent,’ said Nora.
David turned to Sara once again. ‘You did this for me.’
‘I asked them here for us, David – and more importantly, for Chris.’
‘You should have asked for help sooner,’ said Arthur. ‘I knew you were recovering, and Nora was flat out minding the office.’
‘This is the office,’ said Nora, gesturing at the three people around her.
And David smiled in gratitude.
‘I got Arthur and Nora some long-term accommodation at a serviced apartment in East Orange,’ said Sara. ‘And I spoke to McNally’s commercial real estate friend – he’s given us an additional room next door to our current temporary office for a quarter on top.’
David took her in his arms and squeezed her tight. ‘I don’t deserve you,’ he said.
‘You’re right,’ she smiled. ‘But I’m okay with your continuing to work on it.’ She nodded toward Arthur and Nora once again. ‘We’re all starving. I hope you don’t mind but I called your mom earlier and asked if she’d mind if we all rocked up for a late lunch. That way we can check on Lauren and bring Nora and Arthur up to speed on everything that’s gone down so far.’
‘Good idea,’ said David, just as he noticed her brow begin to furrow.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Nothing that can’t wait until lunch. It’s something Chris told me this morning, but like I said, first things first.’ Her smile returned. ‘I’m dying to hear how you and McNally got on at Saint Stephen’s.’ She looked around. ‘Which reminds me, where is he? I told your mom it was lunch for five.’
‘Detective McNally, I presume,’ said Nora – pointing toward a red-faced man jogging up the hill toward them.
‘In one,’ said David. ‘You’ll like him, Nora – he puts up with more shit from me than even Joe does.’
‘Another fool in the mix,’ smiled the auburn-haired elderly secretary. ‘Well – he’ll be among friends then, and as far as I am concerned, the more the merrier.’
75
The following Monday
In the County of Essex in the State of New Jersey, prospective jurors were chosen from a source list derived from a compilation of four separate lists of the county’s registered voters, licensed drivers, filers of state income tax returns and filers of homestead rebate applications. In the case of a serious and high-profile criminal proceeding such as the Kincaid matter, a larger than usual pool was called upon – the prospective jurors first having to answer a lengthy questionnaire sent to their homes by the Court’s Jury Division, and then attend the Essex County Superior Court to take part in the process known as ‘voir dire’.
Voir dire is the French translation of the Latin term verum dicere, meaning an ‘oath to tell the truth’ and, as such, the process is often referred to as ‘a trial within a trial’. While David and his team were more than familiar with the nuances of selecting a jury, they weren’t used to the New Jersey variation of it – where the defence and prosecution were asked to pre-submit their questions to prospective jurors for the trial judge’s approval, rather than having the more flexible option of firing off their queries in court.
‘This is fucked,’ said David’s jury selection expert, another willing recruit from Boston by the name of Phyllis Vecchio. David knew Phyll was booked solid, but had taken a chance that she might be able to squeeze him in between the constant flow of Superior Court cases she was offered up north. And luckily for David, Phyll was not just a jury selection wizard but also a very good friend – and the moment he’d described their situation, she had dropped everything to catch the next Acela Express to Jersey.
‘It’s the way it works here, Phyll,’ he whispered for the umpteenth time in the ear of his ‘call-it-like-she-saw-it’ friend. ‘I know it sucks, but there is one upside of trying this case here – we get twenty preemptory charges compared to Marshall’s twelve.’
‘Maybe so, but how the fuck are we going to know who to strike if that know-it-all up there won’t let us ask questions as they come to me?’ she asked, gesturing at Judge Reginald Jones with a wave of her fuchsia-pink painted fingernails. ‘Wait,’ she went on, the colourful bangles on her right arm now jingling as she swept her arm across the pool of prospective jurors behind them. ‘I take that back. I want to strike all the fuckers. It looks like an audition for Fame back there. They don’t bring in some fresh white bodies soon my friend, you are fucked – and your client is doubly fucked which means you are triply fucked in any case, so . . .’
; Phyllis Vecchio was larger than life – big, colourful, outspoken, tactless, politically incorrect, intelligent and one of the kindest people David knew. Her mouth might be in the sewer, but her mind was as sharp as a tack, and when it came down to it, there was no-one David would have preferred sitting next to him as they attempted to whittle down the current group of a hundred to twelve jurors and two alternates.
‘This is Essex County, New Jersey, Phyll, with a population that is forty-two per cent black and eighteen per cent Latino. These are the people who voted for Chris.’
‘That was before they heard that he fucked his poor lover senseless before chucking her battered body in the river. What we need, David, is rich white men like your client. We need jurors who will sympathise – not ones who will take one look at your guy and decide he’s some rich white big shot who couldn’t resist dipping his wick into his old girlfriend one day and posing with his wife and kids for the cover of American Family Monthly the next. The majority of the cattle call behind me are women of minority races whose husbands earn less than your client spends on business suits per annum. They’re gonna wanna kick Kincaid’s lying, cheating, lily-white ass from here to hell and back – and unless you do something to cut them off at the pass, they have every chance of doing so.’
‘Why don’t you tell me what you really think, Phyll?’ said a defeated David.
‘Don’t be silly. I just did.’
The courtroom was stifling and David was tired. When the judge finally broke for lunch, he immediately offered to grab two sandwiches from the court cafeteria while Phyll continued to wade through the prospective jurors’ details.
The rest of the team was busy with their own tasks. Sara was doing grunt work, such as re-interviewing witnesses they had decided to call for the defence, like Marilyn’s building super Paul Sacramoni, organising for a high-tech digital recording company to work on enhancing the Airport Hilton security footage of the young man David was sure was Will Cusack, and trying to track down the man Will had spoken to – the guest in room 603 – through Hilton General Manager, Jacqueline Trudeau.