Presumption of Guilt

by Marti Green

  “Hi, Dad.”

  Frank turned around and saw Finn. He gave him a hug, then asked, “Where’s Kim and the kids?”

  Finn shrugged. “Off somewhere. Graham’s probably doing the races and Sophie went looking for her friends.”

  “And Kim?”

  “Stayed home.”

  Frank raised his eyebrows but knew enough not to press his son.

  “It’s been a little strained lately between us.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Nothing to worry about; it’ll pass.”

  Frank held his tongue. He’d never liked Kim. Sure, she was pretty, and had a body to go with it. But that was it. It was bad enough she had no brains, but she had no heart either. Cold as ice. The only good thing she’d done in Frank’s view was produce Graham. And it’d be a miracle if she didn’t mess him up good with her coddling.

  “Mom here?”

  “She’s helping at the food table.”

  “I’m gonna go say hello. See you later.”

  Frank headed over to a group seated at one of the picnic tables—a few lawyers, an accountant, and a couple of local merchants. All big donors to his campaign in the past. He wasn’t up for election this year but it didn’t matter. Running for office never stopped. As soon as one election was over, he was out hustling money for the next. Only now, his head wasn’t into glad-handing some big wheels. The call last night still had him rattled. He needed to tell the judge about it.

  “Frank, how are you doing?” Jim Thornton boomed, turning heads all across the lawn.

  Frank slid into an empty seat at the picnic table and forced a big smile. “Just fine, thanks. And how are you all doing?”

  The men around the table nodded and offered murmured “goods” and “fines.”

  “You’re one lucky bunch,” one of the men said to him. “I don’t remember one time when it’s rained on your barbeque. And I’ve come to every one for at least a decade.”

  “The luck of the righteous,” Frank said. “And you know, we do right by you folks.”

  “Oh, we know,” said another. “And we remember come election time.”

  “I appreciate hearing that. I appreciate even more when I hear from your checkbooks,” Frank said, his smile widening.

  “Oh, you don’t let us forget that.” The men at the table laughed.

  The conversation soon turned to talk of the upcoming World Series. Frank couldn’t care less who won. Why was it that every time a group of men got together they talked of sports? He’d never shared that interest. Maybe it was growing up in the country, far enough away from New York City or any other place big enough to have a team. Maybe because, from as far back as he could remember, he’d always preferred academic pursuits to physical games.

  Now half the folks in Hudson County had come up from the city. First, they bought vacation homes and just came north on weekends. Then, taken with the beauty of the countryside, the abundance of outdoor activities, the peaceful, laid-back lifestyle, they began moving up to live year round. Housing prices skyrocketed, and before the locals knew what had happened, their children couldn’t afford to live there after they moved out of their parents’ homes. And even people who’d lived in their homes for generations had trouble paying the property taxes that escalated right along with the increased value of their houses. Still, the newcomers brought wealth with them, and money paid for campaigns.

  As the men heatedly argued over their favorite players, Frank could only think about the phone call he’d received. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead, and he hoped the men at the table attributed it to the warmth of the day. He didn’t want to appear nervous in front of them. The chief executive of the county should be confident and in control at all times.

  Only he wasn’t. Not today. He waited a bit, then stood up to leave.

  “Heading off to fleece more pockets?” Jim Thornton thundered, and the men laughed again, but good-naturedly.

  “Exactly. I don’t want my constituents to think you fellas have a monopoly on that privilege.”

  With the band having finally taken a break, their noise was replaced by the sounds of children laughing and the cheers of three-legged race spectators.

  Frank wandered over to the food tables. He was starting to get hungry. The smell of greasy hamburgers always got his juices flowing. He grabbed a bun, plopped a burger on top, then filled the rest of his plate with a corn on the cob and homemade salads made by loyal volunteers. He sauntered over to a large barrel and pulled out a cold beer, then looked for a familiar face to sit down with. As he scanned the picnic tables, he saw Bryson again, sitting with a group of men and women, all listening raptly to him. He began to walk toward him, then stopped. The last thing he needed was to antagonize Bryson.

  How did I get involved in this mess? I didn’t start it. It shouldn’t be on my shoulders. Frank felt a tide of anger, tried to push it away, but couldn’t. With tray in hand, he strode over to Bryson’s table and stood over him.

  “We need to talk now.”

  Bryson looked up and smiled blandly at him. “I told you, no shop talk today, Frank. Come by and see me on Monday.”

  “Sorry, it has to be today.”

  The judge’s smile dimmed. With a sigh, he slowly arose, like a king leaving his throne, and signaled for Frank to follow him. Once they were alone, he turned to face him. That smile was a distant memory now. “Don’t you ever contradict me in public again. You hear me? Never!”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “No buts. I don’t care what this is about. Come by and see me on Monday and we’ll talk. Need I remind you? You’re in office because I put you there. And I can just as easily get you removed.”

  As Bryson turned his back to leave, Frank whispered, “An investigator is coming to my office on Monday morning to talk about the jail.”

  Bryson swung around to face him. “Who? And why?”

  “His name is Tom Noorland. And he’s asking because of Molly Singer.”

  “Damn.” Bryson was silent for a moment. “The state already cleared us. He’s just on a fishing expedition. It’s your job to make sure he doesn’t catch anything.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “Then we’re going to have more problems than the jail.”

  With that, Bryson returned to the picnic tables, leaving Frank just as worried as before.

  CHAPTER

  11

  “He’ll be with you soon, Mr. Noorland.”

  It was twenty minutes past the time set for Tommy’s appointment with Frank Reynolds, and all he’d seen were the gray walls of the waiting room. He’d arrived on time for their ten o’clock meeting. The secretary sitting at the desk just outside Reynolds’s door, like a soldier guarding the castle, said he was running late. Running late, my ass, Tommy thought. He could see the buttons on the phone sitting on the secretary’s desk. Not one was lit up. A million to one against anyone walking out of Reynolds’s office when the door finally opened. He knew the strategy. Keep an enemy waiting long enough to get fidgety and it throws them off their game. Only it didn’t work with him. Ten years with the FBI had familiarized him with every type of deception, every kind of game playing.

  It made him question, though, why Reynolds treated him like an enemy.

  Tommy reread the report of the state’s investigation into the cost overruns on the county jail. He’d gotten a copy easily enough. As a public document, it was subject to the freedom of information laws. Which didn’t mean government agencies didn’t usually drag their heels complying with those requests. It often took two weeks or more to find such documents, but Tommy had former law-enforcement buddies throughout the country. One phone call, and the next day the report sat on his desk. As far as Tommy could judge, the report raised no red flags.

  Another ten minutes later, the door to Reynolds’s
office opened. Sure enough, the man standing in the doorway had been alone in there. He looked about Tommy’s height, six feet even, but weighed at least thirty pounds more. He was dressed in a rumpled suit, and through his open jacket Tommy could see his stomach hanging over his belt. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Noorland. Why don’t you come in now?”

  Tommy held out his hand to shake Reynolds’s. “Thanks for seeing me on short notice. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

  He entered the office and sat down on a wood chair opposite a plain walnut-veneer desk. Government offices all looked the same. No frills, even for the guy at the top.

  “So,” Reynolds said as he took his own seat, “you said you had some questions about the building of the jail. I’m afraid I won’t be of much help to you. I wasn’t county executive when that came about.”

  Tommy pretended to look through some papers on his lap, then pulled out one and placed it on top. “I see. That was before Hudson County had a county executive, right?”

  “Yes, the county was governed by its legislators. And although I was a county legislator then, I wasn’t the chairman. I was just one of forty-eight.”

  “Well then, this shouldn’t take long. Just a few questions if you don’t mind. Maybe you could fill me in on the decision to build a new jail to begin with.”

  “I’ll be happy to. But first, I’m wondering what this has to do with Molly Singer. Didn’t you say your office represented her?”

  Tommy saw Reynolds’s fingers tapping on the desk. He’s hiding something. Something about Molly. “Probably nothing. I’m just following the orders of my boss to check out the jail.”

  “But why?”

  “Molly’s sister got some anonymous letters. Whoever wrote them said her parents’ murders had to do with the jail somehow.”

  Reynolds’s face blanched, the tapping of his fingers stopped, and he sat up straighter. “That’s preposterous. How could that be?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  Tommy could hear the soft clicking of the clock on Reynolds’s desk. Finally, Reynolds stood up. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any information that would be helpful to you. I’ve a busy schedule.”

  Tommy remained seated. “You were chair of the appropriations committee in the legislature back then, right? Didn’t that committee approve the budget for the jail?” He smiled up at Reynolds. “Well, actually, I know the answer to that.” He looked through his papers and pulled one out. “Your group approved payments that were over fifty percent higher than the original seventy-million-dollar budget, didn’t they?”

  “Look, Mr. Noorland. This was all settled years ago. The state investigated the payments for the jail. They approved all of them. If you have a problem with it, talk to them.”

  “Oh, I will, Mr. Reynolds. You can count on that. Thanks for your time.” With that, Tommy stood up and walked to the door, a smile on his face.

  “Wait.”

  Tommy stopped and turned around.

  “I don’t know anything about the Singers’ murders, that’s the God’s honest truth.” For the first time since he’d showed up in the man’s waiting room, Tommy didn’t feel like he was being played. “For twelve years, I’ve believed Molly killed them. But Molly is my granddaughter’s mother. If she’s innocent, I hope you find who’s responsible.”

  Tommy nodded. “I hope so, too.”

  An hour later, Frank Reynolds sat in Bryson’s office. Unlike his own office, with its cut-rate furniture, this one was replete with rich wooden appointments: a large mahogany desk in the center, floor-to-ceiling wooden bookcases against two walls. On the desk, a Tiffany lamp emitted a soft glow. Bryson sat on a plush leather chair that looked like it would work fine for a quick catnap.

  “Did Molly Singer kill her parents?” Frank knew he should have approached the question with more finesse, but his nerves didn’t allow it. All he could think about on his walk over from the county office building was the possibility of Molly being innocent. And of his complicity in her conviction.

  “A jury said she did,” Bryson answered. “Why are you asking now? Did that investigator spook you?”

  “You haven’t answered me. Forget the jury. Do you think she was guilty?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Frank breathed a sigh of relief. The tightness in his chest he’d carried since his meeting with Tom Noorland whooshed out in a burst, like a balloon stuck with a pin. He sat back in the chair, spent. That whole business of the jail had been a disaster from day one. He hadn’t wanted any part of it. But he knew he couldn’t buck Bryson. Not if he wanted a political future.

  “Anything else on your mind?” Bryson asked.

  Don’t say anything. You got your answer, leave it alone. Frank dropped his head down and stared at his shoes. He knew he should thank him, stand up, and leave. Molly was rightly convicted, that’s what Bryson had said. It saddened him, though. At first he’d tried to keep her away from his son, but only because they were too young. Now he had a granddaughter. Sophie deserved her real mother, not the witch she got stuck with.

  His tension, so briefly absent, had seeped back in. He lifted up his head and met Bryson’s icy stare. “I know we were relieved when Molly was arrested. It meant they wouldn’t go looking into Joe’s stake in the jail. But this guy, he’s going to dig up the business with the jail now anyway. Molly taking the fall won’t stop it. So, I just need to know—”

  Frank stopped. He couldn’t will himself to say the words.

  “Know what?” Bryson’s voice dripped with disdain.

  Frank’s gaze drifted back to his shoes. With his voice barely above a whisper, he asked, “Was he killed to stop him from talking about the jail?”

  Frank could feel the heat of Bryson’s eyes on him, like lasers burning holes in his chest.

  “None of us murdered him. That’s all you need to know.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Dani had driven up to Andersonville—with fifty thousand residents, the largest town in Hudson County—that morning. The New York State Thruway was flanked with trees displaying the full regalia of orange, red, and gold that tourists flocked to see each year during the peak fall-foliage season. She’d smiled, thinking what Jonah would have said about the show. He might have described the colors as “deluxe” or “commanding.” Typical of children with Williams syndrome, he often used complex words that were close to what he meant, but slightly missed their mark. It was as though someone had dropped a thesaurus into his head and he repeatedly picked the wrong synonym from it. This was one of the countless things Dani loved about her son: his capacity to surprise her, even in the simplest conversation.

  Reminded of it again now as she glimpsed the trees outside the window across from her, she fought back a small smile and turned her attention to the man seated before that window, and across the large walnut desk from her. His appearance suggested he was in his fifties, as did the graduation date listed on the diploma from Albany Law School, which hung on the wall, nestled among reprints from the Museum of Modern Art. A well-tailored suit covered his small frame. Dani thought his eyes looked kindly behind his thick-lensed glasses.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. McDonald.”

  “Call me Bob. And I’m happy to meet with anyone who wants to help Molly.”

  “I’ve read the file, but maybe you can tell me in your own words about the case.”

  McDonald opened up the thick folder on his desk but didn’t glance down at it before speaking. “Well, you know Molly doesn’t remember that night.”

  “I do.”

  “Even so, I didn’t believe she was guilty then, and I don’t now.”

  Dani felt relieved to hear that. After meeting with Molly and reviewing her file, she believed in her innocence yet wondered if her own maternal instincts had infiltrated her judgment. �
�Can you tell me why?”

  “For starters, there wasn’t any forensic evidence tying her to the murders.”

  “But the police testified that she had showered before they arrived and washed away any blood.”

  “They tested the shower drain. No blood in it.”

  That surprised Dani. She hadn’t read it in the trial transcript.

  “The judge wouldn’t let that in. He claimed it wasn’t dispositive of anything.”

  “You said, ‘for starters.’ Were there other things that convinced you she wasn’t guilty?”

  He nodded. “The weapons. The Singers were bludgeoned with some heavy object, then repeatedly knifed. The police found neither weapon.”

  “But their house bordered the Hudson. The police claimed she dropped the weapons in the river before she made the call to 911.”

  “Yes, that’s a possibility. But let’s look at the police reconstruction of the case. The medical examiner said a heavy object knocked them out first, and that’s why there was no sign of a struggle when they were knifed. Don’t you think, though, that hitting one of them hard enough to knock them out would have awakened the other? The perpetrator would need to have moved to the other side of the bed to knock out the second victim. That should have given the other parent enough time to get out of bed, maybe struggle with the perpetrator. Both Singers were found in their bed, on their respective sides. Mrs. Singer had made it just partway out of her side, but still, I think there had to be two people committing the murders.”

  That made sense to Dani. She knew McDonald presented that theory in his closing arguments. Clearly, the jury hadn’t bought it. “Were there any other reasons you believed in Molly’s innocence?”

  McDonald picked up the coffee mug sitting on his desk and took a sip. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”