by Sydney Bauer
Arthur and Nora were back at the office. Nora was sorting out the paperwork they had compiled so far and checking on the condition of the incarcerated thug named Davian – Sara’s news of Chris’s altercation being yet another blow to their case – while Arthur was working on other aspects of the trial such as the cross-examination of Marshall’s witnesses who sat on a list that was both long and comprehensive.
McNally was doing what he did best, investigating – Will Cusack. David’s ‘lost ring’ strategy had confirmed that Cusack was somehow involved in Marilyn Maloney’s murder – for a call to Father Patrick, on the afternoon of their visit, revealed that Cusack had taken the risk and gone straight from the quadrangle to the school’s lost property department where he asked if anyone had handed in a lost class ring. No-one had, which meant the boy must still be in a controlled state of panic.
David knew that Chris was anxious, not just about the trial, but the state of his family. Rebecca had told him she was concerned about Connor – who had turned into a virtual recluse and was spending most of his time holed up in his room. The news had made Chris reiterate his instruction that under no circumstances were they to approach his son.
‘I don’t want to lead Connor, or Jack Delgado for that matter, down a road where they feel any way responsible for what is happening to me – and you start mentioning Will, and that is exactly what will happen,’ Chris had argued. ‘Will is Connor’s friend and Connor has welcomed him into our home. The kid feels responsible for everything that goes on around him, DC, but I won’t let him bear the blame for this.’
Despite David’s protests, Chris hadn’t wavered. David figured he would try again tomorrow, and the next day, in the hope his client would eventually give him the nod.
As for Mike, David had gone back to Saint Stephen’s on the night of Arthur and Nora’s arrival and found his old friend more distressed than ever. In all the years David had known the seemingly indestructible Michael Murphy, he had never seen such despair and confusion in his weary blue eyes.
The pair had sat side by side in the pews they had frequented so many times before, and David had told Mike that he didn’t blame him for thinking the worst about Chris. But the look on Mike’s face – the look of pure regret – told David that no matter how many times he professed his understanding at Mike’s assumptions, Mike would never forgive himself.
And so in the end David had said the only thing he could think to say, ‘You’ll put in a good word for us then?’ he’d asked, pointing toward the heavens above.
‘I am not sure my requests count for anything,’ Mike had answered. ‘But maybe, if sheer volume is a factor.’ He’d managed a smile.
‘You’ll be there for him – in court, I mean?’
‘Not just for him, David, but for you, and for me.’
David had nodded.
Now, with less than a week to trial, all they could do was dig as deeply as possible in an effort to unearth something, anything, that would connect Will Cusack to Marilyn’s murder. And if worse came to worst, David knew there was one more route left open to him. It had been suggested by the well-meaning Arthur who, in his wise, kind way, had pointed out that as hard as it may be, David’s first priority was to his client, even above and beyond the victim who, tragically but realistically, would not be around to feel the pain that this last option would bring.
76
‘Connor?’
His mother was at his bedroom door, a look of concern on her pale, narrow face. When he was little, she’d walk in without a second’s hesitation, but since the child made way for the man, she’d taken to hovering as if afraid any closer contact might wreck the fragile bond between them. His mother had spent her life apologising for who she was, and deep down, he both loved and hated her for it.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked. He realised she had probably been standing in the doorway for some time, watching him sitting straight-backed and blank-faced on his perfectly made bed.
‘Yes,’ he said, not moving an inch.
And then she did something she hadn’t done for years, she walked into the room uninvited and sat next to him on the bed.
‘I’ve always loved this room,’ she said, ‘the way it captures the last of the evening sun. When you were a boy, I used to sit here and watch you play on the floor in front of me, grateful this room allowed me to stretch the day that few moments longer.’
‘I remember,’ he said.
And she smiled.
‘Are you doing okay?’ she asked after a time.
‘I’m fine, Mom,’ he replied.
‘No, you’re not. And neither am I. I miss your father and I . . .’ She drew a breath. ‘I wish there was something else I could do for him.’
‘None of this is your fault, Mom.’
‘But that’s where you’re wrong, Connor,’ she said. ‘Perhaps if I had done a better job as a companion, as a wife, he . . .’
Connor Kincaid lifted his chin and turned his face toward his mother. For the first time in a long time, she looked – real. Her eyes were clear and her breathing was even and her hands rested calmly in her lap.
‘You’re not the only one who let him down, Mom.’
She shook her head and met his eye. ‘Oh Connor, you didn’t let your father down. Your father loves you. You are the reason he is able to fight. Your faith in him, your trust in his innocence, it’s what feeds him, Connor, what makes it possible for him to see this through.’
Her words were like barbs cutting deep into his heart.
‘Mom . . . I,’ he began, not sure if he could ask it, but sensing this would be the only opportunity he would ever have. ‘After everything Dad has done, how do you . . . I mean, isn’t there a single shred of doubt, a tiny morsel of fear that what happened – that he . . . ?’
If he expected her to be shocked or horrified, he was mistaken.
‘No,’ she said – offering him of all things, a smile. ‘I’ve known your father for a long time, Connor. Our marriage may not have been perfect but that’s part of the reason why I trust him – do you understand?’
But she must have seen the look of confusion on his face.
‘He loved her. Always did. He could no more hurt her than he could hurt you or the twins or even me. You father has a great capacity to love, Connor – and even the suggestion that he could have done what they say he did is . . . is . . .’ she took a breath, ‘well, it’s simply not possible, and I know that and you know that too.’
Connor wished more than anything that he could believe her.
‘You know,’ she went on, ‘when I was in high school I did an assignment on Abraham Lincoln and I’ll always remember this one quote that he . . . well, it went something like this. “I am not bound to win, but I am bound to be true. I am not bound to succeed but I am bound to live the best life that I have. I must stand with anybody that stands right and part from him when he goes wrong.” ’
Connor’s eyes began to sting.
‘What I am trying to say is . . .’ She took his hand. ‘Your father is a good man, and he has good people standing with him – people like his family and Mike and David. People who have known him for most of his life, and know that he is incapable of violence. Men like your father, they don’t just make friends like David and Mike, they earn them, just like you’ve earned your friendship with Jack and Will.’ His mother paused. ‘David will stop at nothing to save your father, Connor. Nothing,’ she repeated. ‘He’ll do whatever it takes to uncover the truth and for that I will be eternally grateful.’
‘Be careful what you wish for, Mom,’ was all Connor could think of to say.
‘No,’ she answered. ‘I used to be, Connor – but not anymore.’
77
‘One million, eight hundred and ninety-five thousand, three hundred and fifty-three,’ said Sara, as she collapsed onto the worn fabric sofa that sat against the far wall of Arthur and Nora’s makeshift office.
‘Let me guess, dear,’ said the neatly dress
ed Nora Kelly. ‘You’re counting the number of times your dear husband has jumped in the deep end backwards.’
Sara smiled. She knew how much Nora loved David – he was like a son to her. ‘Actually, David’s nearing the nineteen million mark on that count.’ But her smile soon faded. ‘I was actually referring to my guy from room 603 – I mean of all the names he could have had, it had to be Robert Jones. There are 1,895,353 Jones in this country Nora, and almost 30,000 of them are named Robert.’
‘Does Ms Trudeau know why Mr Jones didn’t provide a home address when he checked into the Hilton?’ asked Arthur.
‘Yes. He checked in with a group of computer software salespeople who were attending a conference in Manhattan but were staying in Newark to save on accommodation costs and they all gave the one address of the company’s head office in Denver. I tracked down the manager of the company concerned, but they said Mr Jones was a consultant who was attending the conference as a freelancer. They provided him with the necessary conference accreditation, but don’t have his home contact details on record – which isn’t unusual, given most of these guys spend eight months of the year travelling. Their homes are hotel rooms and four-door sedans.’
‘So he could be anywhere?’ frowned Nora.
‘I’m afraid so. The only lead I have is that, according to the valet attendant at the Airport Hilton, Mr Jones was travelling in his own car. He thinks it had Florida plates, but says he can’t be sure.’
Arthur nodded. ‘Did you ask McNally to—’
‘Run his name through the Florida DMV?’ Sara was one step ahead of him. ‘Yes. Harry made a call to a friend in the Jacksonville PD last night – he said he might have something by late tomorrow.’
Arthur nodded again, before glancing at the calendar they had sticky-taped to his far office wall. It marked their countdown to next Monday’s trial – Nora having crossed off Wednesday late last night before they went home exhausted after another day of pre-trial preparation.
Sara met Arthur’s eye, a little relieved David wasn’t there to hear what she was about to say. ‘I’m worried, Arthur. It’s already Thursday and we have nothing solid against Will Cusack. I feel like we’ve all been working so hard, but that our efforts are getting us nowhere.’
Arthur nodded, perhaps sensing there was no point in contradicting her.
‘The boy has left us no leads to follow,’ Sara continued. ‘And Chris still refuses to give us his permission to approach his son.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Arthur. ‘Perhaps it’s time we bypassed Connor and went to his friend.’
But Sara was shaking her head. ‘Chris also vetoed our suggestion that we approach Jack Delgado. He says Delgado is a good kid and that he and Connor are tight and that in the end, going to Jack is the same as going to Connor.’
‘No, it’s not, Sara – the Delgado boy is not his son.’
‘But Chris is our client,’ countered Sara. ‘And by law we are obliged to follow his instruction.’
A defeated Arthur nodded, knowing she was right.
‘Bottom line, Arthur,’ an exasperated Sara continued. ‘We are up the creek without a paddle. Cusack wasn’t seen anywhere near Marilyn’s apartment building on the night of her death, we can’t prove he knew about the money, we have no evidence that he planned to steal it, we still have no grounds to raise a subpoena for his DNA and my computer guys had very little luck in enhancing the image of the boy we think is Will Cusack on the hotel’s security footage. It looks like him, Arthur, but we’ve all watched it over and over and we know it’s not conclusive.’
Arthur said nothing. The stark reality of her words lay heavily in the small room about them.
‘What if you find this Mr Jones, lass?’ piped in Nora. ‘And he confirmed the lad to be Will Cusack?’
‘It will help,’ said Sara. ‘But with only four days until trial, Nora, and the jury being like it is?’
She was right and they knew it. So far nine jurors had been appointed and, of them, six were woman – three black, one Hispanic, one Portuguese and two white, and three were men – one Asian-American and two whites. Three of the women were homemakers and only one of the men was a professional – a GP from Forest Hill.
‘Arthur,’ Sara said, ‘I hate to say this but we are going to have to convince David. At the very least, he has to prepare for the option. He needs to talk to Chris about it. There are witnesses he needs to source – now – just in case they’re needed next week.’
‘I broached the subject with him, Sara, and while he didn’t reject it outright, I could tell that he considered it a worst-case scenario. We’ve been in these situations before and, while nine times out of ten, I am the first one lining up to make David see sense, this time, with this trial being so close to home, I’m not sure it’s my place to tell him how to play it.’
‘But don’t you see, Arthur? David’s closeness to the defendant is exactly why we have to step in.’ She knew they saw the fear in her eyes. ‘I know what taking this line of defence will do to David – but I’m afraid of what will happen to him if we don’t. If he loses this thing, Arthur, if Chris is sentenced to life without parole on David’s watch, well . . .’ She felt her heart sink. ‘I am not sure he will ever recover.’
78
Will Cusack stared blankly into his strong black coffee. He was sitting in one of the many Portuguese restaurants not far from his Ironbound home. The place smelled of spices and the faint exhaust fumes that drifted in the doorway from the busy Ferry Street, and the rhythmic background music provided a soundtrack for his ponderings, which could well turn into panic if he did not fight to stay in control.
‘Here,’ said the waiter, placing a small shot glass in front of him. He progressed to pour a shot of tequila before gesturing at Will to drink it up.
‘Do I look like I need a drink, Carlos?’
‘You’ve looked like you needed a drink since the first time I see you,’ said the man, who had known Will since he was a boy.
Will nodded in gratitude, before downing the shot and signalling for Carlos to pour him another. The heavy-set waiter moved silently back to the kitchen, leaving the bottle on the table before he left.
Will tried to focus. First – Jack still had his ring so at least his friend was in the clear. Will, however, was both minus his ring and concerned about the other piece of evidence that could link their activities to the crime scene, that goddamned fingernail DNA.
The whole reason Will had come up with the river solution in the first place was to eliminate the possibility of exposure – not for Kincaid’s sake, although ironically he had benefited the most from Will’s quick thinking.
Think, he told himself then. If you could think then, you can think now, you smart fuck. And within moments, as if in direct response to his heated self-command, his head finally began to clear, the fog diffused by his determination, and the four shots of tequila that fuelled it.
And then it came to him. Just like that.
The ring was bullshit.
The ring was bullshit, as was Cavanaugh’s pathetic attempt to deputise Will as his cohort.
If the ring belonged to a current school senior, the cops would have picked it up months ago. The woman died in January for fuck’s sake, and Connor had said the prosecutor was a particularly thorough shit who had it in for his father. There was no way they would have missed it; the school ring was used to tie Kincaid to the case, so if the ring was bullshit, then . . .
Maybe the fingernail DNA was a piece of shit too. Maybe Cavanaugh and his burnt-out detective friend just wanted to see Will’s reaction to the idea of sampling the whole senior year’s DNA. Of course, Will had kept his cool – well, as much as was humanly possible under the circumstances – but in retrospect he’d probably given them something to think about, especially if they knew about his trip to the school lost-and-found.
So there was good news and bad, he told himself as he downed another shot of tequila. The good being t
hat Cavanaugh’s lies were just that, and the bad being that Will had become a suspect.
If the Boston asshole was coming at him with these – Will had to admit – cleverly targeted dodge balls, it probably meant that he had other information Will was not aware of.
But what – and from whom?
Will closed his eyes.
This changed things significantly. First up, it made Will’s current strategy moot. If Will went to the cops now – fulfilling his commitment to Gloria Kincaid and securing that $100K for his efforts – he would confirm Cavanaugh’s suspicions that he was in some way involved. Which meant he would have to come up with yet another way to secure the goddamned money!
Further, if he came forward as the guilt-ridden thief who knows he should have spoken up sooner, he could well give the cops a legal reason to test for his DNA. And if the fingernail DNA story was legitimate, which was a possibility, such a test would open a whole other can of worms, the consequences of which Will couldn’t bring himself to consider.
So how could he work out if he was right? Who might have tipped off Cavanaugh as to his involvement?
The obvious answer was Chris Kincaid. The senator could well have told Cavanaugh about Will’s attempt at a bribe, but that action alone didn’t link Will to the crime, just painted him as an opportunist recognising his chance to cash in.
There was no way Gloria Kincaid was saying boo – the woman would do anything to secure her son a walk and Jack’s bond was as good as blood so . . . in the end . . . when it came down to it . . . there was only one other person to consider.
Connor.
Connor the fuck Kincaid.
That ungrateful bastard must have spilled. Maybe Cavanaugh told him about the bribe. Maybe Connor realised Will’s motives were not that altruistic after all, and maybe Connor’s jelly-like spine had curved in acquiescence.
The kid mustn’t have told Cavanaugh everything, though. If he had, the turncoat cop would have arrested Will on the spot. No, Connor must have given them just enough to start digging – a situation which had to be remedied as soon as possible, before the gutless prick spilled some more.