Matter of Trust

by Sydney Bauer

  The proprietor shrugged as if he was having trouble recalling the kid.

  ‘I need the blue coffee mug the kid was drinking from,’ said McNally.

  ‘Our coffee mugs are purple.’

  ‘Jesus, purple then.’

  ‘You got a warrant?’ asked the guy, running his large fat hand through his oily grey hair, his free hand holding a pencil that he was using to pick at his ear.

  ‘You got a death wish?’ McNally was in no mood for negotiating.

  The guy chuckled. ‘Seriously, Dirty Harry, you ain’t even shown me a badge.’

  And that was the problem, thought a now seriously pissed McNally. He’d had to give up his badge when he went on enforced compassionate leave – the badge, the ability to raise warrants, and the right to carry his police issue gun.

  McNally took a breath. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked as the guy took the pencil out of his ear to lay it on the counter.

  ‘Frank.’

  ‘You own this piece of shit excuse for a restaurant?’

  ‘No, I named it Greasy Frank’s after my grandmother.’ The man grinned at his own joke. ‘But don’t expect me to go looking for the papers to prove it. You don’t show me yours, I don’t show you mine.’ Again with the self-satisfied smile.

  ‘Jesus,’ said McNally, now slamming his fist on the counter, the single customer at the other end of the filthy benchtop slopping soup onto his tie.

  ‘Hey,’ said the owner. ‘Stop harassing my patrons.’

  ‘Restaurants have patrons, you piece of shit. This place holds prisoners.’

  McNally had a decision to make – for all he knew some equally as unhygienic scumbag was currently loading Cusack’s mug into a grease-clogged dishwasher somewhere out back. And so he fished into his pocket and pulled out four twenties and two tens.

  ‘I want to buy that purple mug of yours.’

  Greasy Frank smiled. ‘The glasses are a hundred but the mugs just went up to one fifty.’

  McNally forced himself to breathe – searching his pocket for the extra fifty. ‘All I got is one thirty,’ he said.

  ‘Then you’re lucky I’m feeling generous,’ replied the scumbag named Frank, before pointing at the kitchen. ‘Go fish,’ he said.

  McNally was in the kitchen in seconds – at least he knew it to be a kitchen but it looked more like a crackhouse lair. ‘Jesus,’ he said, taking in the disgusting sight around him. ‘How can you people work like this?’

  He was talking to a long-haired kid reading a girlie magazine in the corner. ‘I’m Newark PD,’ he said, his eyes scanning the chaos for the purple mug. ‘You just cleared a table. There was only one kid drinking. He had a coffee in a blue-ish purple mug.’

  The kid looked up at him blankly.

  ‘I need the mug, you idiot.’

  The kid managed a smile – but said nothing as he pointed toward the area behind the door. ‘Take your pick,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck!’ declared McNally as he saw the fifty odd cups stacked in a filthy crate on the sticky kitchen floor.

  He moved toward them, realising he would have to take the whole freaking crate. But Greasy Frank had cleaned him out, his pockets were empty and God only knows how much he would charge for an entire crate of . . . But then he felt it – the heat of steam from off the mugs.

  ‘These are hot,’ he said.

  ‘They just came out of the dishwasher.’ The kid didn’t even lift his eyes from a pair of naked chicks going at it.

  McNally moved back across the kitchen and snatched the magazine from his hands. ‘The mug I want is dirty, you idiot – you only cleared it five fucking minutes ago.’

  But the kid merely shrugged before snatching his magazine back and pointing at the far back wall of the kitchen. ‘The dirty ones are in the dishwasher, asshole,’ he said. ‘What do you think I do, sit here and jerk off all day?’

  And McNally didn’t know whether to scream or to puke.

  92

  David’s new-found hope did not last long.

  If the first two days at trial had gone surprisingly well, the next two had been nothing short of catastrophic. Marshall had spent the morning of day three establishing Chris’s extramarital relationship with Marilyn – calling a series of hotel employees, restaurant waitresses and barmen to give evidence of their affair. He even produced three hotel lobby videos showing the two checking into various establishments together, including a video from the Grand Summit taken on the morning of Marilyn’s death.

  Next came a representative from Chris’s telephone provider, who gave a detailed description of the number and length of calls Chris made to the victim on the day of her death. This testimony also included Chris’s texts – messages which Marshall used to show Chris had broken up with his lover of over twenty years at the Grand Summit that morning.

  Day four began with Marshall calling Marilyn’s building super Paul Sacramoni who David had also listed as witness for the defence. Marshall used Sacramoni’s testimony to both discuss the building’s security system and establish that Marilyn Maloney probably knew her killer given the front security door had been locked and so she had most likely ‘buzzed him up’, and to prove Chris Kincaid had indeed entered Marilyn’s apartment in the days after her death – a visit Marshall claimed gave Chris the opportunity to retrieve the missing $100,000.

  David, on cross-examination, had then used the super’s testimony to dispute why Chris would take the money but leave the curse-covered satchel, and question why Marilyn may have changed her shoes prior to her death. But an ‘on fire’ Marshall cleverly attacked David’s suppositions on counter-cross. First, he argued that Marilyn could well have removed the money from the satchel at an earlier date – leaving Chris to find the cash but not its original satchel, and then he shot David’s ‘shoe change’ theory to bits by suggesting that given the super saw Maloney take off one boot when she entered her apartment, she was changing into a sexier form of footwear in preparation for Chris’s visit.

  In short, Marshall cleverly painted the picture that after the super had helped Marilyn to her apartment, Kincaid had arrived a short time later swearing he wanted to take her back. And Maloney – drunk, emotional and exhausted – accepted her old lover affectionately and willingly into her home. And there was little David could do to dispute it, given Chris had no alibi and David’s imaginary rapist was just that in the minds of the jury.

  Immediately after lunch it got worse, when Marshall called Davian Jefferson to the stand. And while David and Chris were ready for this one – knowing Chris’s impromptu altercation with the fellow Essex County Correctional Facility detainee had given the prosecution a free ride – they didn’t anticipate the power of the man’s testimony. It wasn’t the man’s eloquence, which left a lot to be desired, that won over the jury, but his appearance. Jefferson looked like he had been fed through a meat grinder – his nose swollen, the stitches under his bruised left eye puckering, and a section of his thick black hair shaven where another slightly bloodied bandage sat at an odd angle to his face. Worse still, Jefferson exaggerated his injuries by walking with a limp and clutching at his right side where he said his ribs had been broken.

  While David managed to dilute the witness’s testimony somewhat on cross – by establishing the reason for Chris’s attack and revealing the prisoner had cut a deal with the FAP for a reduction of one of two charges of assault in return for his testimony – the power of the man’s presence was indisputable. One glance at the jury – whose eyes were trained accusingly on Chris – told David that if a vote were held immediately following Jefferson’s testimony, the jurors would return a guilty verdict without the blink of an eye.

  Now they can see him doing this, David told himself as he turned briefly to meet the eyes of Chris’s family. Now the murderer inside him is real.

  Finally, at 3 pm, after what felt like days of testimonial bashing from the obviously euphoric FAP, Marshall concluded his case by calling Eva Stankovic.

  At
this point, backed by Arthur’s extensive research into Lorraine Stankovic’s mother, David believed they had a real chance to turn the disasters of the past two days around. They had decided Sara would conduct this cross-examination – concluding that a young female attorney would play better with a jury who might sympathise with the childless witness before them – not that Stankovic’s appearance or attitude did anything to encourage sympathy, but she had lost her daughter after all, and they didn’t want to appear to be browbeating her.

  Just as planned, Sara set up her cross by stressing that Chris was never charged with any crime relating to Lorraine Stankovic’s death, and then subtly went on to tear the witness’s credibility apart, by listing her history of drug and alcohol abuse, describing her current status of incarceration at Essex County Correctional Facility’s Delaney Hall, and questioning her about the deal Marshall had cut in exchange for her testimony. In short, Sara’s cross-examination was nothing short of perfect – and as she returned to her seat, she gave David a tiny smile. She may not have turned the tide but she had definitely limited the damage, or so David thought.

  ‘I’d like to explore one more matter on counter-cross, Your Honour,’ said Marshall.

  Jones nodded for the FAP to proceed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Stankovic,’ he said now. ‘This won’t take long.’

  ‘Take as long as you like,’ said the witness, who had spent the bulk of her testimony picking at the now bleeding skin around her fingernails and chewing on a piece of nicotine gum.

  Marshall smiled. ‘You mentioned that back in 1985, just prior to your daughter’s death, that Senator Kincaid’s mother, Gloria Kincaid, paid you $50,000 not to pursue charges against her son.’

  ‘That’s right,’ chewed Stankovic.

  ‘But you have no record of this transaction – no proof that the money changed hands.’

  ‘It was in cash. I spent it – on hospital bills.’

  ‘And on getting high,’ whispered David to Arthur under his breath.

  ‘So we have no proof whatsoever, apart from your word, that the Kincaids used their considerable fortune to make this matter go away,’ Marshall went on.

  ‘No,’ Eva Stankovic bit. ‘Not that time. But that don’t mean it didn’t happen.’

  Marshall, who had been pacing slowly about the room stopped short. ‘Not that time?’ he repeated his witness’s words. ‘I am not sure what you mean by that, Mrs Stankovic.’

  Stankovic stared silently at the prosecutor, saying nothing until the FAP gave her the slightest of nods and she promptly got back on script.

  ‘What I mean to say is . . .’ Stankovic began patting at her middle as if she had hidden something in the oversized pockets of her faded grey dress.

  Chris looked to David in panic.

  ‘You would not believe it! I only remembered this last night,’ said Stankovic in a poor attempt at surprise. ‘I made a call to my cousin Maisie, and she went to my house and looked through my papers so she could bring it here today.’ Stankovic fished into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper which she shoved toward the FAP. ‘It’s a bank statement from 1986. It shows a deposit I made in July for $10,000.’

  ‘Objection.’ David was determined to shut this witness down. ‘Your Honour, we were not made aware of this document and as such have not had an opportunity to examine it. Further, if this deposit for $10,000 is legitimate, it could have come from any number of sources. Mrs Stankovic’s record shows she had a history of not only taking but selling illegal narcotics and, as such, could well have received the sum from a buyer or . . .’

  But Jones put his hand up in protest before gesturing for David and Marshall to approach the bench. ‘Mr Cavanaugh is right, Mr Marshall,’ Jones’s voice was low. ‘This is unfair surprise.’

  ‘But I didn’t know this statement existed until just now, Your Honour.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said David, loud enough for half the media and at least a handful of the jury to hear him. ‘This is a set-up, Judge – how do we even know this document is legitimate?’

  Marshall handed the statement to the judge and David could see it certainly looked real. It appeared to be in the customary statement layout, with the logo for Bank of America in the corner.

  But then, as Judge Jones handed David the statement for him to observe first hand, David finally understood just how damaging this old piece of paper actually was. For not only did it show the $10,000 deposit, it also gave the cheque number and the name of the account from which it was drawn – an account belonging to Christopher Daniel Kincaid.

  93

  ‘Are you fucking crazy?’ David hissed at his client.

  He had demanded a moment with Chris before the correctional facility security personnel transported him back to the jail for the night. He had also grabbed Gloria Kincaid by the elbow and insisted she too be part of this post-nightmare meeting being held in the now familiar congested conference room just down the hall from the courtroom.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ David turned his attention to Gloria.

  ‘Of course not!’ she exclaimed, a look of pure fury on her face. She turned to her son. ‘You idiot. You gave that drunk another $10,000 six months after the matter had been put to bed. And you used a personal cheque – for God’s sake, you stupid, stupid boy.’

  Chris swallowed, his jaw clenched in anger. ‘I felt sorry for her,’ he said. Just then a knock on the door temporarily distracted them. Sara moved to open it. It was Mike Murphy – and David nodded for him to enter, and close the door behind him.

  Chris turned back to David, ignoring the woman who had raised him. ‘I had been away at college. I knew that Mother had paid off Eva Stankovic, but . . . that didn’t absolve my guilt. I’m not sure if I was responsible for that girl’s – for Mike’s girl’s – death, DC,’ Chris glanced at Mike before returning his attention to David, ‘but I played a part in it. So as soon as I got back home, I wrote Lorraine’s mother a cheque. I went round to her place – she was drunk. I said I hoped she could get on with her life and I left the cheque on her dresser under an empty bottle of bourbon.’

  There was silence until Mike Murphy spoke up. ‘I’m glad you did it,’ he said.

  ‘And I’m sorry I had to,’ returned Chris, the first time he had said it.

  BANG! Gloria Kincaid had obviously had enough. She had slammed her designer handbag on top of a corner filing cabinet before turning to address the room.

  ‘What the fuck do you people think this is?’ she said, her eyes narrowing, her cheeks flushed. ‘My son is on trial for murder and you three,’ she gestured at Chris, Mike, David, ‘are playing this out like some sickening Boy Scouts’ reunion.’ She stepped toward David, pushing a stunned Nora Kelly aside to meet him face to face. ‘You and this pathetic excuse for a priest,’ she waved her hand toward Mike. ‘You were never good enough for Chris. I was wrong, you and your minority wife and your geriatric crew of also-rans have no place defending a Kincaid.’

  ‘No, Sara,’ said David, gesturing for his now advancing angry wife to move back.

  ‘You’re a joke,’ Gloria went on. ‘Chris’s case is imploding and there you sit with your Boston attitude and your politically correct wife, pretending that you have the ability to see this thing through.’

  Gloria took another step toward him, as the rage inside David rose.

  ‘My offer to give testimony about offering the whore the $100,000 is rescinded,’ Gloria said bitterly, ‘as at this point, it will make no difference in any case. And I do not want you coming anywhere near my home – or my son’s home, for the duration of this trial and beyond. I would fire you if I could, Cavanaugh – but unfortunately the time for that has passed. So I will have to put up with sitting mere feet from you and holding my tongue while I watch you screw my son’s chances at freedom – and then I will do what I have to do, to save his undeserving skin.’

  Gloria took a breath as the room fell into silence – but David could tell by the look in her e
ye that she had one more thing to say.

  ‘I blame myself really,’ she continued, her face now mere inches from David’s own, ‘for thinking a Cavanaugh could carry through on a commitment. I should have known that you would be just like your father – a coward who hides behind a facade of righteousness and responsibility – a man who dips in and out of people’s lives and leaves nothing but frustration and disappointment in his wake.’

  And in that second, as David’s hand rose in reflex, he heard two things – Sara screaming ‘No, David,’ and another voice, from a time past, telling him that striking a woman was not what a Cavanaugh did.

  But in the end it didn’t matter, for another force – this one more physical – was making the decision for him. Chris Kincaid had grabbed David’s arm and tugged him aside, before turning back toward his mother once again. And then he slapped her so hard that the sound reverberated like a single gunshot – a shot fired by a man who finally could take no more.

  94

  David closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of his youth. It was the combination of the hum of the refrigerator, the gurgle of the coffee maker, and the first cars of the morning idling slowly down their narrow Down Neck street.

  The early sounds of Newark weren’t of birds or trees whistling in the wind, they were the man-made sounds of routine or progress or struggle, sounds of life and every person’s attempt to make their own way through it.

  ‘You want some privacy?’ asked his mother. She was standing in the kitchen doorway, a basket full of laundry in her hands.

  ‘No,’ he said, gesturing for her to enter. ‘Actually, I could use some company. I’m a little on edge,’ he admitted.

  ‘Who’s your first witness?’ she asked, putting down the basket before moving to pour herself a coffee and top up his own.

  ‘Rebecca. She can’t give Chris an alibi but she can testify to seeing her car at the top of the street both late on the night of the twelfth and early on the morning of the thirteenth. She can show her faith in him, stress her commitment.’