by Sydney Bauer
‘Exactly,’ replied David.
Jones took a breath before turning to Marilyn once again. ‘This Anna Chesnokov, I gather she looks like you?’ he asked.
‘Enough to confuse people,’ replied Marilyn. ‘I mean, from what David told me, he and Chris they . . . well, they didn’t rule out Anna being me when they viewed her body at the morgue.’ Marilyn shifted ever so slightly in her seat.
David wished he could take the pressure off her. His old friend had been close to robotic ever since she’d learnt the truth of what had happened at the trial yesterday morning. Her arrival had caused a mini-riot in the courtroom – a chaos culminating in Jones dismissing the charges against Chris, given the woman he was accused of killing was still very much alive.
What had followed was twenty-four hours of non-stop interrogation with Marilyn shuffled between a damage-control-driven Marshall and a still reeling David and McNally. She hadn’t spoken to Chris, and in one of the brief moments when she appeared to let her guard down, had made it clear to David, that she did not want to see him – not now, not ever.
Jones sat back and considered the truths being slowly unravelled before him – then leant forward once again, to ask the next question on his seemingly endless list of queries. ‘So the boys found the woman post rape and beating?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said McNally. ‘First Jack Delgado, then Will Cusack followed by Connor Kincaid. According to the ME, at this point, the woman was most likely close to death. ME Curtis says her breathing would have been shallow and her pulse incredibly weak, which explains why the boys made the suppositions that they did.’
David was grateful for these last comments. McNally was not only quantifying the boys’ testimony regarding their assumptions that Anna Chesnokov had died after the fall, but he was also suggesting that even if the boys hadn’t intervened, Anna Chesnokov would most likely have died from her injuries. Both McNally and David were hoping the judge would show leniency when it came to issuing a punishment for Connor Kincaid, who still had a case to answer in relation to his involvement in placing Anna Chesnokov in the river. They also hoped, ironically, that Jones would show leniency toward Cusack. Will may have set this scheme in motion, but they knew that his motives were based partially in altruism, and that when it came down to it, he had suffered enough.
‘According to Will Cusack,’ McNally continued, ‘Jack Delgado told him that he’d found the woman bloody and beaten and in a state of extreme distress. He went to help her but she clutched on to him, scratching him, before losing her footing and falling heavily backwards – knocking herself out on the coffee table.’
‘And do the forensic investigations carried out on Mrs Chesnokov’s apartment confirm this?’ the judge asked.
‘Yes,’ said McNally. ‘A single bloody strand of Mrs Chesnokov’s hair was found on the edge of her coffee table and further blood samples the boys did not manage to clean have been removed by the ME for analysis. The crime scene was basically untouched since the boys left it over six months ago.’
Jones shook his head with incredulity. ‘So it was greed that landed these boys in such an almighty mess?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Your Honour,’ answered Marshall, finally seeing an opening. ‘Cusack and the late Jack Delgado are still guilty of attempted theft, breaking and entering, and a myriad other misdemeanours. And the three boys, Connor Kincaid included, whether intending to or not, were without question physically responsible for ending poor Mrs Chesnokov’s life.’
David would have winced but he didn’t have the energy.
‘You intend to indict Delgado in his grave, Marshall?’ said Jones.
Marshall snorted. ‘Unfortunately we are too late for that, Judge, but—’
‘Your Honour,’ interrupted David, way past the point of listening just for the sake of it. ‘I understand the boys’ initial motivation was the theft of the $100,000, but in evaluating such a motive I would ask that you consider their circumstances.’
‘Their circumstances?’ asked Jones, his large finger now drifting to his lips in a signal for the open-mouthed Marshall to shoosh.
‘Yes, Your Honour.’ David looked to McNally, signalling for him to explain.
‘Will Cusack came up with the idea to take the money to cover Jack Delgado’s tuition fees at Harvard University,’ explained McNally. ‘Jack was a straight-A student who had recently been accepted to Harvard prelaw. Jack Delgado’s father, Port Authority Police Officer George Delgado, had set up a college fund for both his sons before his death in 9/11, but unfortunately the man developed a chronic gambling habit and the funds were whittled away to nothing. The older son secured a basketball scholarship to the University of North Carolina, but when it was suggested Jack attempt to secure a Harvard scholarship, his mother, Vicki Delgado, decided one scholarship in the family was enough – that others less fortunate deserved the chance at a free education, and that Jack would use his father’s money to put himself through college.’
‘But the money was gone,’ said Jones.
‘Yes,’ answered McNally. ‘According to Cusack, Jack Delgado received a bank statement telling him as much late last year. So Jack faced the dilemma of exposing his father – a celebrated hero from 9/11 – as a gambler who’d lost it all. He knew such a revelation would kill his mother – who has worked, and continues to work, tirelessly for the families of the victims of the World Trade Center attacks. And as Will Cusack thought of Jack as a brother and Vicki Delgado as the mother who took him in when his own mother became addicted to drugs, he felt a desperate obligation to help.’
Judge Jones nodded, before taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘So Vicki Delgado lost a husband and a son to 9/11, and now she’s lost a second son to suicide.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said David, registering the waste of it all over again.
And once again Marilyn blinked, as a sad-faced Jones turned toward her.
‘I am sorry, Ms Maloney, I know this information is distressing.’
Jones was no fool, he could obviously see the woman before him was torturing herself for her unwitting role in this whole catastrophe.
‘But there is still one thing I do not understand,’ the judge continued. ‘This case has been plastered across every front page of the country and it has been the subject of thousands of TV and radio reports over the past six months. So how is it then that you had no clue that the entire country was focused on the circumstances surrounding your death?’
There was silence as Marilyn looked out the window. The weather had finally turned, the freshly spent rain now carving rivers through the powdery grit that stuck to the courthouse windows like paint.
‘I . . .’ she began, her eyes meeting David’s before returning to Judge Jones’s. ‘After Chris told me that he no longer wanted to continue our relationship, I drank way too much, and had to be helped to my apartment by Paul Sacramoni. And that’s when I made the decision to change. I understood that there was no point in blaming Chris for his decision, that I was the one responsible for not being able to let go. So I did what I never thought I would do – I took the money and caught a bus to Vermont. I checked into a rehabilitation clinic and put the $100,000 over the counter. The money covered my in-house therapy for six months exactly, and it made me sober, it gave me back my life.’
Marilyn’s eyes hit the floor – as if ashamed that she had regained her life while others lost theirs in her stead.
‘The clinic doesn’t allow any access to the media,’ Marilyn went on after a breath. ‘No papers or radio or TV. In return for our willingness to surrender to the rehabilitation, for our commitment not to make any contact with the outside world for the term of our stay, they assured us our anonymity by not requiring us to submit any formal ID. I checked in under the name Dianne Hughes. I needed to be anywhere other than Newark in order to save myself – which I think, ironically, I did.’
Marilyn glanced at David, a look of pure sadness on her still beautiful face. Dianne
Hughes was the name of the character Kelly Lynch had played in Drugstore Cowboy. Lynch played Matt Dillon’s wife – a woman addicted to drugs, and to her husband.
‘And how did Mr Cusack find out that you were still alive?’ asked Jones.
Marilyn took a breath before answering. ‘At the clinic, Your Honour, they taught us that cutting ties with negative aspects of your life is essential for you to move on. So when my six months was up I . . .’ she swallowed, ‘. . . I called Chris to tell him that while I still cared for him, and bore no resentment toward him, that it would be best for both of us if we never saw each other again – and that was when Will Cusack answered the phone.’
‘Will Cusack was at the Kincaid house at the time?’ the judge clarified.
‘Yes. I am not sure why but . . . he was actually very kind to me. He said that there’d been a big misunderstanding and that I had to come back to Newark to correct it. At first I hesitated, but he swore that Chris’s future was at stake, and that David and Mike and Rebecca . . .’ Marilyn paused. ‘Will said that I was the missing piece of the puzzle and that there would be serious consequences for everyone unless I returned.’
‘And you believed him?’ asked Jones.
‘I had no reason not to. I knew of Will, of course. Chris had told me about Connor and his two best friends – how good they were for him and how much he admired their courage. He said that Jack and Will were to Connor like David and Mike were to him.’
‘But Cusack didn’t elaborate on the circumstances.’
‘No. He apologised for not being more forthcoming but he said it wasn’t his place to tell me any more. He drove to Vermont to pick me up, but made nothing but small talk all the way home. He just kept saying that all would be explained the moment we arrived – but that we had to hurry, for Chris’s sake, for Rebecca’s, for Mike’s, for David’s.’
But Jones still appeared concerned by her naivety – and so Marilyn tried to explain.
‘The thing is, Judge,’ she continued, her large brown eyes flicking toward David before returning to Jones once again. ‘Ever since I was a child, I’ve caused trouble for others without meaning to, and . . . I suppose, I just knew, that whatever had happened to Chris, that I was the one responsible for it, and as such, the only one that could make it go away.’
‘None of this is your fault, Ms Maloney,’ said a sympathetic Jones.
‘Maybe on the face of it,’ said Marilyn. ‘But, as my mother used to say, Sir, I tend to exist in the eye of the hurricane.’
And perhaps Jones understood that that was it in a nutshell, for he did not push the point further, merely turned to David once again.
‘There are other matters we have to deal with, Mr Cavanaugh – such as Mrs Gloria Kincaid’s attempts to pervert the course of justice.’
‘Mrs Kincaid understands the gravity of her poor judgment, Your Honour,’ said David. ‘She will engage the services of independent counsel to discuss these matters with the prosecutor’s office. But once again I ask for leniency on her behalf, considering that she too was motivated by the need to help someone she cared for.’
Jones nodded before turning his attention to Marshall. ‘I’ll want to keep across all this, Mr Marshall,’ he said.
‘I . . .’ Marshall looked more than ready to express his own opinion on everything that had come to pass, but obviously reconsidered after a look from Jones. ‘Yes, Your Honour,’ he said.
‘You mentioned Mrs Kincaid is seeking independent counsel,’ said Jones, looking once again to David. ‘Does that mean you are heading home, Counsellor?’
Home, thought David, as he realised he had been right and wrong about Boston. Part of him would always think of Newark as home, but his life would always be with Sara and Lauren, and for now, that meant home was Boston. ‘Yes, Sir,’ he replied.
Jones stood. ‘It’s been a pleasure having you in my courtroom, Counsellor,’ he said, as David got to his feet to take the wise man’s hand.
‘Likewise, Your Honour.’
The rest of the room stood too.
‘As for you, Detective, I can see you are well and truly back at work?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And I trust you will keep me abreast of any developments in regards to the apprehension of Alexei Chesnokov.’
‘I’ll let you know the moment we make the arrest, Sir.’
‘Good . . . and,’ Jones hesitated, perhaps not wanting to embarrass McNally. ‘As belated as my condolences on the loss of your wife may be, I want to offer them in any case.’
McNally took a breath. ‘Thank you, Sir.’
Jones shook McNally’s hand firmly, then turned to the FAP. ‘Mr Marshall, I will see you soon no doubt.’
Marshall offered the judge a curt nod.
‘And Ms Maloney,’ Jones moved around his wide red oak desk to extend his hand to Marilyn, ‘I want to say how sorry I am for all you have had to go through and . . .’ the judge paused as if considering how to word his final goodbye to Marilyn. ‘There is an old Chinese proverb that I have always adhered to – it goes something like: Better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness. You must be proud of yourself for seeking the light, Ms Maloney, for the darkness would have happened in some form, with or without you.’
But Marilyn shook her head, before offering the judge the slightest of smiles. ‘I understand what you are saying, Judge, and I appreciate your kindness, but I’m not sure I deserve to live a life free from blame.’
‘None of us does,’ returned Jones. ‘But I have faith that you and blame will come to a truce at some point.’
‘I hope so, Sir,’ said Marilyn. ‘I hope so.’
104
Wednesday – two days after trial
David put down his Guinness and looked at the two men sitting across from him at their sticky walnut table. Men – they were men, not boys, and yet he could see it in them now, the past that had made them who they are, for better or for worse.
‘This is good,’ said Chris, lifting his frothy dark brew in toast toward the others’.
‘The beer or the company?’ asked Mike who had arrived at Quincy’s without his collar.
‘Both,’ smiled Chris, but David could see the sadness there. Like Marilyn, Chris would probably never come to peace with the fact that his decisions had unwittingly ruined the lives of so many others – people like Anna Chesnokov, Jack and Vicki Delgado, and his own son, Connor.
‘I need to thank you,’ said Chris, as he put down his beer. ‘For stepping up for Connor.’
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ David said. He had called Judge Jones once again this morning to let him know that he had spoken to Elliott Marshall regarding a plea bargain for Connor Kincaid. ‘I told Jones that Marshall was holding out for felony murder, but that we determined to seek a negotiation for second-degree manslaughter.’
‘Do you think Jones will intervene on our behalf?’
‘That’s what I’m hoping.’
‘So you’re thinking . . . ?’ David knew Chris was fishing for David’s opinion regarding a negotiable sentence for Connor – perhaps praying his own estimations of seven years or thereabouts were high.
‘I’m aiming for five, at a minimum-security facility,’ replied David, ‘which means he could be out in two for good behaviour.’
‘I’d like to think that was possible,’ said Chris. ‘But Marshall is still furious about his total misread on this case. You embarrassed him, DC, and I’m afraid he will be out for blood.’
David shook his head. ‘No. Underneath it all, I think Marshall realises he allowed his blind determination to get in the way of reason. I could see it – the weight of culpability in his eyes. He knows he broke his own stringent code of legal ethics when he went after you no holds barred. And I think he also realises that if he had listened to me last Friday night, that maybe Jack Delgado might still be alive.’
‘The man has to live with his decisions,’ said Mike as he took another sip of his beer.
> And David nodded, his eyes downcast.
‘What happened to Jack Delgado – it wasn’t your fault,’ said Mike, leaning across the small bar table to place his hand on David’s shoulder. ‘You and McNally, you did everything you could.’
While David knew this was probably true, he also knew that the boy’s death would be forever etched in his memory.
‘Do you think McNally will take us up on our offer and meet us here for a drink?’ asked Chris, perhaps sensing a change of subject was in order. ‘I really wanted to thank him in person.’
David drank some more of his beer. ‘I asked him, but he’s back on the job already. He doesn’t get off until ten.’
‘Then I’ll go see him at the precinct next week,’ said Chris. ‘He’s a good man.’
‘The best,’ replied David. ‘In fact . . .’ He paused then, before meeting his two friend’s eyes. ‘I want to ask a favour,’ he said.
‘You name it,’ replied Chris.
‘McNally, he’s a good cop with lots of people who respect him, but . . . I get the feeling that, after his wife died, he kind of let a lot of friendships fall by the wayside, and he might be a little . . . you know . . .’
‘Lonely?’ asked Mike.
David nodded.
‘We’ll keep an eye out for him if that’s what you mean,’ said Chris. ‘Maybe even introduce him to our weekly rendezvous at Quincy’s.’
‘I’d appreciate it,’ smiled David.
Then there was silence once again.
‘Have you seen her?’ asked Chris at last. The light from the stained-glass windows cast a splash of muted colour across his tired, unshaven face.
‘Yes,’ said David, knowing this was coming. ‘I was with her when she gave her statements to the police and the prosecutor’s office and I went with her to her apartment so she could pack the rest of her things.’
‘She’s leaving?’
‘Yes,’ said David, knowing Chris would be after a better explanation than the one he was about to offer, but he had made Marilyn a promise that he would say it the way she wanted him to, and it was a promise he was going to keep. ‘The thing is, she’s different, Chris. She’s trying so hard to hold on to the things she learnt at rehab. I think she’s afraid that if she doesn’t make a clean break, get away from the things she’s familiar with, that eventually, she might give in to what she wants, rather than what she knows is right.’