Matter of Trust

by Sydney Bauer

  A reminder.

  That was what Connor needed.

  For, unlike Will, Connor Kincaid had way too fucking much to lose. Connor, like his father before him, had been accepted into Princeton, and while Will knew Connor wanted nothing more than to save his dear old dad from a life in the slammer, Connor’s fear of embarrassing his family, his desperation not to disappoint his father by dragging the Kincaid name even deeper into the cesspit they already found themselves in, would override his urge to tell the truth in full. More importantly, the kid knew exactly what had gone down in that apartment before Will arrived to clean up the mess – and coming clean would mean he’d have to face it, and tell his fucking story to the whole goddamned world.

  And so, Will would give Connor a little talking to; maybe even include Jack just in case Connor had gotten in his ear. Not that Jack would ever betray them. There were some things in life that you were sure about – and Jack’s loyalty was one of them.

  79

  ‘The prosecution wishes to use its last preemptory challenge to remove this juror, Your Honour.’

  ‘Shit,’ said David to an anxious-faced Phyll beside him. Marshall had himself close to a flawless jury and now he was going for one hundred per cent. The juror before them was what Phyll had described as ‘defence heaven’ – a white, affluent, professional male with an interest in politics.

  ‘On what gounds, Mr Marshall?’ asked Judge Jones, who, on this last day of what had been a particularly tense jury selection, was obviously feeling the strain. The judge removed his glasses to rub the space between his eyes at the bridge of his nose, taking a breath before addressing the ‘obsessed with detail’ Marshall before him.

  ‘Mr Brewster is a Democrat, Your Honour.’

  ‘He’s a Democrat?’ repeated the judge, replacing his glasses and peering over the top of them at the now standing FAP. ‘Half the country are Democrats, Mr Marshall. I would suggest you’ll need a better reason than that to send Mr Brewster packing.’

  George Brewster was a sixty-one-year-old company CEO – a sort of rarity in the New Jersey jury system given the nature of the jury selection process itself. New Jersey set its jury selection standards according to recommendations from the Supreme Court – standards which note that a liberal approach to dismissing jurors for cause resulted in both a faster selection process and a panel more dedicated to performing their duties to the utmost of their abilities.

  In other words, busy CEOs usually argued left and right – about work and family commitments – in an effort to avoid jury duty, and were more often than not excused. But Brewster was on the verge of retirement – and David guessed he might be viewing the murder trial as an interesting and intellectually stimulating experience.

  Marshall was shaking his head. ‘I understand your argument, Your Honour, but Mr Brewster is a practising Democrat and . . .’

  ‘I’m a practising Baptist, Mr Marshall. Would that preclude me from sitting on a jury?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Marshall, smiling graciously at the large man before him. Marshall had been sucking up to Judge Jones all week – and David guessed the judge was getting sick of it.

  ‘I am sorry, Judge – what I meant to say was, Mr Brewster is active in his support of the local Democratic Party. He openly admits he voted for the defendant at the last election. He is a successful man, with a wife and three children and . . .’

  ‘You want to strike this juror because his life bears some resemblance to that of the defendant?’ The judge cut to the chase.

  ‘Well, not just that, but . . .’

  ‘Mr Cavanaugh?’ asked the judge then, turning his attention away from the now frustrated FAP. ‘What do you have to say about Mr Marshall’s concerns in regard to Mr Brewster?’

  David got to his feet. ‘I have to say that I believe Mr Marshall here is underestimating the dedication of Mr Brewster and the already chosen eleven jurors now seated before us.’ He proceeded to walk toward the eleven now sitting wide-eyed in the jury box to his right – seeing a chance to befriend them before the trial commenced next week. ‘I’m guessing a lot of these folks voted for Senator Kincaid at the last election. I also know many of them have kids and are incredibly successful in their own right – and the idea that the very nature of their life circumstances would influence their ability to remain impartial for the duration of the trail is . . . well, to be honest with you, Judge, it’s somewhat insulting.’

  The jury smiled – as did Judge Jones.

  ‘Well played, Mr Cavanaugh,’ Jones conceded before turning his attention to Brewster.

  ‘Mr Brewster, despite your political affiliations, and your family and career circumstances, do you think you can assess the evidence that will be provided for you at trial in a neutral and unbiased manner?’

  The clean-shaven Brewster shifted in his seat to face the large dark-skinned man beside him. ‘Judge, when I was a kid my father sat me down and told me the most important thing to remember in life is to never judge a book by its cover, and it seems to me that is what our entire system of justice is all about. It’s dangerous you see – making assumptions about people because of their colour or age or job or political affiliations.

  ‘Yes I am white, financially secure, I’m married with kids and I vote liberal. I live in a nice house, I drive a European car, and I have a nice little weekender in Martha’s Vineyard. But my wife is African-American, my youngest kid is Korean, my oldest son is a Republican and my middle kid is gay . . . so I suppose, what I am trying to say is,’ Brewster took a breath, ‘the cover doesn’t always tell the whole story, Judge – at least not in my case.’

  David saw the unspoken notion that here was a ‘leader’ in the mix. If David could manage to secure this man as one of the chosen twelve, he felt that the other jurors might look to him for inspiration, for guidance.

  ‘Being asked to sit in judgment of another human being is a big call, Your Honour,’ Brewster continued. ‘It’s a responsibility we can’t afford to take lightly. And if I am appointed, I promise I’ll do whatever I can to remain as unbiased as possible when voting to decide another man’s fate.’

  Exactly ten seconds later, George Brewster was named by Judge Jones as juror number twelve – and exactly ten seconds after that, Phyllis Vecchio leant slowly toward David and whispered, ‘Well I would have preferred it if he was banging his high school sweetheart, but beggars can’t be choosers. Am I right?’

  David couldn’t help but smile. ‘All it takes is one, Phyll,’ he said. ‘All it takes is one.’

  80

  The five of them were crushed into David and Sara’s portion of the tiny downtown office. They were drinking beers – local and out of cans – which was not exactly to Arthur’s liking, but considering the accountant down the hall had offered to rent them his bar fridge for $100 a week and had thrown in a case of Coors gratis, and no-one had had time to run to the store in any case, he would have to make do.

  David felt energised – the appointment of Brewster to the jury had ended what had been a gruelling week on a high note. He had been to visit Chris after jury selection and his client’s relief at Brewster’s empanelment had lifted David’s spirits even further – as Chris assured him he had lost many a case as prosecutor because of one smart, charismatic, ‘spoiler’ in the mix.

  ‘All right,’ said Arthur, interrupting David’s thoughts, ‘today was a good day. We secured ourselves a juror who, at least on paper, appears to be pro-defence.’ Arthur looked toward a now pacing McNally. ‘And Harry here looks like he’s bursting to share something else with us tonight.’

  Arthur was right. The normally composed McNally was pacing the small space like a tiger, with the slightest of grins on his face. His enthusiasm was contagious – and David felt another rush of optimism as the detective turned toward them.

  ‘I found Robert Jones,’ he said.

  David looked at Sara, whose mouth turned up at the edges. ‘You found our Room 603?’ She smiled.

>   McNally nodded. ‘At first, my friend from Jacksonville PD came up with twenty possible matches – with licences issued under the names of Robert, Roberto and Bob. But then I got the idea of getting him to get the DMV to check their driving records – told him to narrow in on the ones with the most driving violations across multiple states.’

  ‘Jones is a salesman,’ said Nora.

  ‘A nomad on wheels,’ replied McNally, unable to suppress his own smile. ‘Anyway, there was one Robert Jones who had various speeding and traffic infringement notices up and down the entire east coast. My cop friend gave me his contact numbers and – Viola! – Mr 603 was on the other end of the line in moments!’

  McNally took a breath as the rest of the room waited for him to continue. He appeared to be enjoying this – and David couldn’t blame him.

  ‘Jesus, McNally,’ said David. ‘You plan on continuing anytime soon?’

  McNally smiled. ‘Impatient, isn’t he?’ He looked to Nora, who smiled before offering him a nod.

  ‘Mr Jones said he would have no problem helping us with an ID. He said he is very good with faces – has to be, considering remembering faces is key to his business.’

  ‘So, how do we do this?’ asked Sara. ‘We need an image of Cusack to send him.’

  ‘Already done,’ said McNally. ‘I called our friend Father Patrick and got him to get the editors of the school yearbook to email me the latest head shot of Cusack. Then I forwarded the email to Jones and ten minutes later he emailed back with one word.’

  The room held its breath once again.

  ‘Semblable.’

  More blank stares.

  ‘It’s French. It means “identical”. Jones has a flair for theatrics.’

  Nora laughed. ‘Well, good for Mr Jones.’

  ‘Will he come to Jersey if we need him to appear in court?’ asked a now excited David.

  McNally nodded. ‘Even asked what kind of computer programs the court staff were using – mentioned something about a new software package for judicial administrators.’

  ‘You gotta love an opportunist.’ Sara looked to David, who returned her smile.

  ‘Tell him he’s on notice,’ said David, turning back to McNally.

  ‘Already did,’ replied McNally.

  And then there was silence until: ‘What about Cusack?’ asked David. ‘Did you look into what he told Chris – that his father was on the take?’

  McNally shook his head. ‘You think I had time to track down Jones and compile an exposé on Will Cusack’s life story?’

  ‘I’m sorry, McNally,’ said David, knowing he was expecting too much. ‘I know how hard you’ve been pushing this.’

  ‘Don’t be, because I had some luck on that front too.’

  Sara smiled. ‘You’re full of surprises today, Harry,’ she said, the room now buzzing with McNally’s progress.

  ‘It wasn’t so hard really, I just rang some friends who had some friends who used to work the beat at Port Authority and they confirmed what the son told your client.’

  ‘The guy was scamming on the quiet?’ asked Sara.

  ‘The guy was scamming, but the “on the quiet” thing wasn’t working out so well. Cusack was being investigated by IAB mere months before his death. Rumour has it he’d been on the take for years, but Internal Affairs didn’t have enough evidence to make the charges stick. Worse still, his fellow cops suspected he was beating on his wife and kid, but the wife refused to press charges and the boy was young so . . .’ McNally shook his head. ‘But like I said, the evidence was scant so in the end IAB decided to offer the guy early retirement – an offer extended just days before 9/11.’

  ‘So, in a way, John Cusack died before the truth came out?’ said David.

  McNally nodded. ‘At least officially. His wife got the full pension but his reputation was already shot. His fellow cops knew about the IAB investigation and according to my guy’s guy, Cusack kind of flipped when some of them started to ostracise him. He was drinking heavily, picked a fight with colleagues at their local bar, took the aggression home to his wife and kid.’

  ‘That explains it,’ said David. ‘Will Cusack’s anger and the pattern of aggression. Maybe the leap from theft to rape and murder is not such a big one after all. If Will was abused, if he was brought up in an environment of violence?’ David looked across the room to Arthur and realised his mentor had been silent during the entirety of McNally’s report – the look on his face suggesting he was nowhere near as excited as the rest of them.

  ‘What is it?’ asked David. ‘This is progress, Arthur.’

  But Arthur was shaking his head.

  ‘I know John Cusack’s story is just background,’ David pressed on, ‘and I understand Robert Jones can’t place Will Cusack at the crime scene. I know it’s not a lot, Arthur – but it’s a start.’

  ‘The time for “starts” has passed David, and you know it,’ said Arthur. ‘We need something concrete – a witness, forensic evidence linking the boy directly to the crime.’

  And despite their progress, David knew that Arthur was right – which was why he finally made the decision he had been deliberating on for days.

  ‘I’m going to see Connor Kincaid,’ he said before bracing himself for the room’s reaction.

  ‘No,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s against our client’s wishes.’

  ‘I know, Arthur, but what kind of father can Chris be to Connor if he is sent away for life? So I am crossing a legal boundary, a personal one as well – but what are our alternatives, Arthur? Tell me, what the hell else can we do?’

  David knew what was happening. He was acting in desperation, clutching at thin, brittle, straws.

  ‘You think you can talk this kid around?’ asked Arthur after a time.

  David gave the slightest sigh at his question. ‘I can try,’ he said.

  Arthur nodded. ‘Then go to Connor – maybe he can help but . . . if he doesn’t . . . you need to consider an alternative strategy that’s best for your client. That’s your responsibility, son – that’s your job.’

  David knew exactly what Arthur was saying.

  ‘Two days. Give me two days, Arthur – and then if I turn up nothing . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll consider the alternative you’re suggesting.’

  Arthur nodded, finally offering his protégé a slight smile of understanding. ‘Then I hope Connor Kincaid is the solution, David, for your client’s sake – and for yours.’

  *

  Later that night, as the smells from his mother’s kitchen drifted comfortingly up from below, as Lauren lay sleeping safely next door and Sara’s head lay softly against his chest, David stroked her hair until she finally drifted off.

  And then he lay there, exhausted, motionless, thinking of nothing bar how he might reach the young man named Connor Kincaid.

  He tried hard to imagine himself at a similar time – with high school behind him and his life on the precipice of the great unknown. And it came to him then, like an old friend in the dark – a distant memory he had either blocked out or locked away in some secret place where it would be kept safe until it was needed.

  And he needed it now, more than anything. And so he closed his eyes, and slowed his breathing, until the moment returned.

  Newark, New Jersey; 1985

  ‘When I was a little girl, my mom – before she died, used to say to me, that all it takes is one.’

  It was late, the stars were bright, the only sound coming from the water that lapped softly at their feet and the bonfire that crackled soothingly behind them. They had come to Cape May as a sort of last hurrah – before Chris went off to Princeton, David to Boston and Rebecca to some secretarial school in nearby Jersey City. Mike had taken a job at his cousin’s tile manufacturing plant but had no specific plans bar drinking beer and getting laid, and Marilyn had signed some contract with a talent scout named Joe Kapitsky, who claimed that if she paid him five hundred dollars to cover the cost of creating a portfolio, he would turn h
er into the next Christie Brinkley.

  ‘I’m not so sure what you mean,’ said David. It was a rare moment. In all the years they had known each other, David could probably count on one hand the times that he and Marilyn had been alone together. They were always with Chris or Rebecca or Mike or, more often than not, with the whole lot of them at once. And David found sitting next to her, his friend, like this, looking out upon the expanse of white wash and blackness, strangely comforting.

  ‘What I mean to say is,’ she said, still staring straight ahead, ‘that there’s something special about you, Rob. Always has been. You’re one of those people who change other people’s lives.’

  David was not sure how to respond. Marilyn craned her neck to take in a beer swill – Chris and Mike now tackling each other a good fifty yards up the beach, a cold-looking Rebecca jogging slowly in their wake – before turning toward him to meet his eye.

  ‘You look at me differently,’ she said.

  ‘I do?’ he managed.

  ‘You look at me like nobody else does. Chris loves me,’ she went on, ‘I know that, but every now and then, I see his mother in his eyes. It’s usually when I say something stupid or express the wrong opinion or push something too far or too hard. But it’s there – that look that tells me I’ll never be good enough.’

  ‘Marilyn,’ said David. ‘Chris thinks the world of you.’

  ‘No Rob, you’re going away soon and I’m going to miss you, so you really need to let me finish.’

  David nodded, half embarrassed, half sorrowful at the things she needed to say.

  ‘Mike, he loves me too. Perhaps just as much as Chris does and maybe even more.’ It was the first time she’d voiced it. ‘And he will always forgive me – everything – even when I don’t deserve it, but he will never be man enough to tell me how he feels – and for that I feel both sad and grateful.’