Presumption of Guilt

by Marti Green

  The Catskill Mountains, which ringed the town, had disappeared in the dark. Only a few cars were still parked in the lot, and the sidewalks were devoid of pedestrians. The desolation of the town settled over Dani and magnified her own sense of unease. She was missing something. She knew it. People didn’t steal millions of dollars and go on as though nothing had happened. Yet it seemed as though they had. Was it Frank Reynolds? He still lived in the same house he’d owned for thirty years. He hadn’t taken any elaborate vacations, purchased any expensive cars or boats. Tommy had scoured the public records and found nothing. Still, for Joe and Quince’s scheme to work, they must have had people on the inside. Frank Reynolds approved the invoices from Building Pros. Was it incompetence? Even the state thought the invoices were legitimate. Still, it was Reynolds’s job to scrutinize each expense. Reynolds and—

  Dani stopped. “We never spoke to the nun’s husband,” she said to Melanie.

  “Huh?”

  “The nun. I don’t remember her name. The one who was responsible for approving the construction bills along with Reynolds.”

  “Mary Jane Olivetti. And she wasn’t a nun any longer.”

  “Yes, I know. Tommy said she was married. He never spoke to her husband, though.”

  They reached their cars, parked next to each other, and stopped. Melanie leaned against her Acura sedan and asked, “Do you think she was in on the scam?”

  “I don’t know. But we have to find out. Tomorrow. It’s late now. Go home and get some rest.”

  They got into their respective cars and drove off.

  Was greed so pervasive that even a former nun would succumb to it? Dani wondered as she headed toward the thruway. Was there ever a point at which a person would be satisfied with the money he had? Joe Singer and Quince Michaels were living comfortable lives, with expensive homes and fancy cars. Why did they need to steal from the county? Taxpayers footed the bill for their avarice. People barely holding on to their homes as property taxes escalated paid more so Quince Michaels could have a mansion on the intercoastal and a boat to navigate the waterways. It sickened Dani.

  She thought back to a trip she and Doug had made to South Africa, before Jonah was born. While in Cape Town, they visited the shanties of the poorest of the poor, one-room homes minimally constructed with colorful sheets of metal, barely standing upright. Yet, so many years later, she still remembered the faces of the children she met there, their happiness exploding in their smiles and playful energy. The people who stole from Hudson County had so much more, yet it wasn’t enough. Their greed led to the murders of Joe and Sarah Singer and Quince Michaels and placed eighteen-year-old Molly Singer, pregnant and an orphan, in jail for the rest of her life.

  It was after seven o’clock and all the government workers had left for the day. Only Frank Reynolds remained in his office, along with Sheriff John Engles.

  “How did it go?” Reynolds asked.

  Engles had sat through the day’s court proceedings. “They know about Joe and Quince. Some expert—I think he said he was a forensic accountant—figured it all out. But only them. He knows there are others but doesn’t know who.”

  “But what about Molly?” Frank asked. “Do you think he’ll give her a new trial?”

  “Nah. Too risky.”

  Frank felt a weight in his chest. It didn’t matter what the judge had said. Once Quince was found dead, Frank knew Molly was innocent. He’d never for a moment believed the boat explosion had been an accident. She didn’t belong in jail. She shouldn’t have spent twelve years there, her daughter taken away from her.

  He could change her fate. He knew enough to blow open the whole case. Only doing so would put his own life at risk. And maybe Finn’s as well.

  The next night, Tommy rang the bell of Burtram Olivetti. When the door opened, he saw a tall man, well over six feet, and rail thin. Olivetti held out his bony hand to shake Tommy’s, then welcomed him inside.

  “I wondered when you’d get around to speaking to me,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because of Mary Jane. Her role approving the payments for the jail project.”

  Tommy nodded. “Yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

  Olivetti led Tommy into the living room. The home was a modest ranch house, identical to the others crowded together on the block. The sofa had started to show signs of wear, and the rug underneath it was threadbare. The Subaru parked in the driveway was at least six years old. It didn’t seem to Tommy like the home of someone who’d pocketed money from the jail project.

  “First, let me say I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. It’s been twelve years, but it seems like yesterday.”

  “Do you mind my asking, how did the accident occur?”

  Olivetti quickly responded, “It wasn’t an accident.”

  Tommy looked at him quizzically and waited for an explanation.

  “The police said it was, of course. The roads were slippery. They claimed she’d lost control of the car. But Mary Jane was a very cautious driver. Always had been, even in the best conditions.”

  “Was there an investigation into the accident?” Tommy asked. “Maybe to see if there had been any tampering with the car?”

  “The car was destroyed. Even if they took my concerns seriously, it would have been hard to tell.”

  “Other than how cautious she was as a driver, is there any other reason you’re so sure it wasn’t an accident?”

  Olivetti grew silent. Outside, the wind rustled through the trees. Tommy could see through the window that it was blowing up. The storm that had been forecast was getting closer. He hoped to be back home before it hit full blast, but he didn’t want to rush the man sitting opposite him.

  Finally, Olivetti spoke. “I’ve never told this to anyone before. My failure to speak up has weighed heavily on me these years. When I saw there was going to be a hearing on Molly Singer’s case, I knew it was time.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “This is difficult. Please be patient with me.”

  “Take all the time you need.”

  Olivetti swallowed deeply, then began. “Mary Jane hadn’t planned on going into politics. I mean, she’d been active behind the scenes for a while, but never wanted political office for herself. But she didn’t like the way things were going, and someone, I don’t want to say who, urged her to run. He was in the county legislature himself. This man, he became Mary Jane’s mentor, and she grew very close to him. Mary Jane was a good legislator. She listened to her constituents, and every two years they re-elected her. She got to a senior position on the appropriations committee, and that’s when it happened.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She had opposed building a new county jail, like most of the Democrats. But they were in the minority, and it got approved. After the contract was awarded, Paul Scoby asked for a meeting with her.”

  Tommy remembered that Scoby was leader of the Democratic Party in Hudson County.

  “He told her he wanted her to approve the bills that came in for the jail. She said she’d look each one over, and if it was in order, she’d approve it. He said no. She had to approve them even if she thought something was wrong. Mary Jane laughed at him. ‘Why would I do that?’ she said. Scoby told her if she didn’t do as he said, he would reveal some personal information about her mentor. Information he didn’t want known.”

  “Did he tell her what that was?”

  Olivetti nodded. “He told Mary Jane that her mentor was carrying on an affair with another man. He showed her pictures of them together. Explicit pictures.”

  “This is a pretty progressive county. His constituents probably wouldn’t have cared.”

  Olivetti shook his head. “He’s married, had been for almost twenty years back then. He had children in the schools here. It would have devastated his wife and kids. A
nd you have to remember—even just that long ago, people weren’t as accepting of homosexuality.”

  “So, Mary Jane agreed?”

  “It was the hardest decision she’d ever had to make. Harder than the decision to leave the church. She knew she had a duty to her constituents. But she’d come to love her mentor. He was like a father to her. She went to see him, told him what Scoby said, what he threatened to do. He begged her to keep his secret. She did.”

  “Then why was she killed?”

  “At first, when the Singers were murdered, she didn’t think it was related. Then they arrested the daughter. She followed the case closely, saw they didn’t have any real evidence against the girl. She began to think maybe it had to do with the money Joe Singer had skimmed. So, she called her mentor and said she had to tell the authorities about it. She’d wanted to give him a heads up, so he wouldn’t be blindsided. She was on her way to the police when the accident happened.”

  Olivetti sank down onto a chair and buried his head in his hands. Moments passed, and when he lifted his head, his cheeks were tear stained. “For a long time, I harbored an intense hatred toward her mentor. He had to have called someone, alerted them to Mary Jane’s intentions. Maybe Scoby. Maybe someone else. I don’t know. But I realized Mary Jane would have forgiven him, and I needed to for her.”

  “After the accident, why didn’t you tell the police about this?”

  Olivetti looked downcast. “Because I was a coward. I was afraid they’d kill me, too.”

  “Why are you telling me now?”

  “I have stage-four liver cancer. In a few months I’ll be dead. They can’t hurt me anymore.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  “I guess for once Republicans and Democrats agreed on something,” Dani said. “They teamed up to bilk the county.” Tommy had just filled her and Melanie in on his meeting with Burtram Olivetti.

  “You’re assuming Frank Reynolds was in on it, too?” Melanie asked.

  “Had to be. They couldn’t have approved the payments without him. Whether he was coerced, like Mary Jane, or participated voluntarily, I don’t know. But he had to be in on it.”

  “So what now?” Tommy asked.

  Dani wasn’t sure what to do with the information, other than turn it over to the US attorney. Josh Cosgrove would have one more name to investigate. Paul Scoby had to be one of the three others who profited from the jail. Why else would he have strong-armed Mary Jane? Dani considered making a request that the hearing be reopened to add Olivetti’s testimony—but to what end? They already had put in substantial evidence that five people illegally benefitted from the construction of the jail—including Joe Singer. But there was still a missing link—something that tied the fraud to the murders. Dani firmly believed Joe Singer was killed to silence him, quickly followed by Mary Jane Olivetti and now Quince Michaels. Could she convince a jury of that?

  At Molly’s first trial, her confession had trumped the lack of evidence. Now, in addition to her expert, Dani could trot before the jury a slew of wrongfully convicted men and women who’d confessed to crimes only to be later absolved with DNA evidence. She’d suggest someone else had had a powerful motive to kill Joe Singer, but Murdoch would undoubtedly point out that it was speculation. No one could know for certain that Joe Singer was about to come forward about the theft when he was killed. Molly overhearing her father’s increasingly heated arguments with Quince Michaels wasn’t nearly enough.

  Dani wanted to find the murderer. That was the equivalent of DNA—absolute proof of innocence. Whoever had been sending the anonymous letters knew who it was. But she had no clue as to how she could find him or her.

  Dani turned to Tommy. “Two people approved the payments—Mary Jane Olivetti and Frank Reynolds. One is now dead. Let’s put more pressure on Reynolds. He has to have been in on it.”

  Tommy nodded. “I’ll make another trip up there.”

  The meeting over, Dani turned her attention to the brief Judge Bryson wanted. The law and the facts were on her side. The outcome of the hearing should be clear—a new trial for Molly. Still, she had a feeling of unease. Especially with Judge Bryson. He’d sentenced Molly to two life terms, unusual even with hardened criminals. Was he simply a tough-on-crime judge? Or did he have some reason to keep Molly behind bars?

  Frank Reynolds stood outside his house, his hand on the doorknob, unable to move. It had been impossible to get any work done at the office today. All he could think about was Molly and the hearing.

  Inside, Betsy waited with dinner in the oven. Like most husbands, he kept few secrets from his wife. They shared the daily tidbits of their lives, how they’d spent their day, who they’d spoken to, what they’d accomplished. They shared their hopes and dreams; they shared their disappointments. But he had kept one secret from his wife—what he had done to become county executive. That secret now felt like a two-ton burden he carried on his back, dragging him down with every step he took.

  Suddenly, the door opened from inside. “What are you doing out here?” Betsy asked. “I heard you pull into the driveway ten minutes ago.”

  Frank put on a smile. “Just checking for any cracks in the foundation. Winter’s not too far away.” Their house was almost eighty years old, as were most in this section of Andersonville. It was a saltbox cape, with two bedrooms on the main floor and two rooms upstairs.

  “Well, come on in. Supper’s almost ready.”

  Frank stepped inside, hung his coat in the closet, then headed for the pantry, where he kept the liquor. He brought a bottle of scotch into the kitchen, retrieved a glass from a cabinet, and poured himself a double. It would make his headache worse, but he needed to numb himself. He massaged his temples, hoping to rub away the pain.

  “What’s going on?”

  Frank turned and found Betsy staring at him. They’d been married close to thirty-five years, and she still looked beautiful to him. Despite the fifteen pounds she’d added over the years, she looked like the teenager he’d fallen in love with so long ago.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Come on, Frank. You haven’t been yourself for two days. Something’s bothering you.”

  “Just work,” he mumbled.

  “What about work?”

  Frank shook his head, but Betsy wouldn’t let it lie.

  “And frankly, it’s not just the past two days. Something’s got you tied up in knots the last two months.”

  He ached to tell her, to confess his sins and seek absolution. His desire for her to guide him, tell him what to do, welled up in him, and he was about to speak when the phone rang. He lunged to pick it up, relieved at the interruption.

  “Hello.”

  “Frank, it’s Alan. Just wanted to let you know. I’m letting the others know, too. I’m denying the motion for a new hearing. It’s over.”

  Frank got off the phone and sank down into a kitchen chair, then dropped his head into his hands and cried.

  Frank didn’t know why that investigator was still bothering him. He’d considered brushing him off, saying he was too busy to see him. But Frank knew the type—the pushy, aggressive, can’t-take-no type. He figured he’d see him one more time and get it over with. When his secretary buzzed, he told her to send him right in.

  “Mr. Noorland,” he said, “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

  Noorland stared straight at him, his eyes unblinking. “No, I don’t think you have.”

  Frank took a breath. No need to be nervous, he reassured himself. He’s just fishing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get to the point or leave. I’m too busy for games.”

  “We know about Mary Jane Olivetti.”

  It felt like his heart had stopped. He forced himself to breathe again, to get control of himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Noorland smiled as though he’d seen r
ight through him and felt the panic emanating from his pores. “Sure you do. Do you want me to spell it out?”

  “I guess you’d better, ’cause I’m in the dark.”

  Noorland stepped closer and leaned across the desk. “We know Scoby blackmailed her into overlooking the excess payments. So tell me, who blackmailed you? Or were you an equal partner?”

  Frank could feel his face go hot. He stood up, pointed his finger at the investigator, and, with his voice raised, said, “Get out of here.”

  Instead, Noorland helped himself to a seat. He stared into Frank’s eyes so long, Frank had to turn away. Finally, he spoke. “I can help you. I know you’re worried if you talk you’ll end up like Singer and Michaels. But there are people who can keep you safe.”

  Frank wanted to believe him. He wanted to unburden himself to this stranger, explain that he hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He wanted him to know that he hadn’t taken any money for himself. He wanted him to know that he prayed Molly would go free, but he didn’t want to go to jail himself. He wanted to return to the day fourteen years ago when Bryson promised him the position of county executive. All he had to do was one thing, one small thing. He wanted this stranger to understand that he’d known he’d be a good county executive and that he’d lived up to that belief. He’d cut back taxes and reduced expenses. He’d lowered crime. He’d expanded low-income housing. Yes, he’d been good for the county. And still, if he could go back to that day, if he could do it all over, he would say to the judge, “No.” Even if it meant the end of his life in public service.

  This stranger promised to keep him safe, but Frank knew no one could. Not from the judge. “I’m sorry. You’re misinformed. And now you really must leave.”

  After Noorland left, Frank stared at the phone. He had a decision to make—call the judge and alert him to this new development, or keep quiet and see what happened. He reached for the receiver, then stopped.