Guilt by Association

by Kelvin L. Reed

CHAPTER TWO

  Jayson sat in a comfortable, high-back leather chair in his home office. Collectibles from his favorite pastime supplemented the standard office equipment: autographed baseballs encased in glass cubes, framed baseball cards on the walls, two autographed broken wooden bats, and stacks of filled baseball card albums. Jayson stared at a seventeen-inch, flat computer screen. He wore a pair of blue jeans, a Massachusetts School of Law T-shirt and a pair of leather bedroom slippers. He checked the bottom right corner of the screen, then his watch, then the clock on the wall. They all agreed—it was a little after eleven-thirty p.m.

  Jayson’s thoughts drifted back a few hours to his conversation with Judge O’Hare, but he blinked a few times and resumed reading newspaper accounts of his new client’s arrest and subsequent pretrial activities, occasionally pausing to scribble on a legal pad. He glanced at the top of a file cabinet in the corner of the room and winked at a headshot of his wife, Renee. Suddenly, he felt a bit lonely.

  His daughter, Jennifer, had gone to bed promptly at eight, and he hadn’t seen Renee, a respected anesthesiologist at a midsize hospital, since he kissed her good-bye early that morning. She had left a message on his mobile phone at around two o’clock explaining that she had been summoned to work on what was supposed to be her day off. Now, Jayson regretted, he would have to inform her about accepting the potentially volatile Stone case after she arrived home exhausted from a grueling day at the hospital. Unfortunately their parallel driving ambition and demanding jobs kept them away from home—and each other—for many hours.

  Jayson reached for the photograph sitting next to the computer and stared at his daughter. She sported thick, long hair, like Renee’s, but very wavy instead of straight. In the picture, taken during the previous Christmas season, Jennifer sat on Santa’s lap mugging for the camera, no doubt confident she’d receive all the goodies on her wish list. Jayson returned the photo to its spot and judged himself a very fortunate man. He and Renee had found such joy in their little angel.

  They had also been lucky in the purchase of their dream home. Jayson derived much pleasure from the house he shared with his wife, their daughter and their live-in housekeeper. Jayson and Renee had chosen the spacious, five-bedroom home after she had received a tip from a colleague about a group of new homes being built on a quiet cul-de-sac in Belmont. The affluent, suburban town, located seven miles northwest of Boston, consisted of less than thirty thousand residents—over ninety percent of them white. Nevertheless, other than occasional stares from children, the Cooks had never experienced any racial problems in the four years of their residency.

  Jayson blinked again and returned his attention to the computer, clicking on pertinent headlines and reading news stories. The death of Veronica Bradley had been the local news event for virtually the entire month of May two years ago.

  “Church bomb kills 12-year-old girl.…”

  Jayson examined media photos of the crime scene after the blast. The powerful homemade bomb had been planted in the kitchen, and the resulting fire from the explosion had decimated the church, necessitating that it be razed and rebuilt from scratch.

  Jayson also studied several pictures of Veronica Bradley: her last school pose, a photo of her singing in the church choir, and a snapshot of her laughing—he couldn’t tell under what circumstances. According to the police theory, the poor child had probably noticed the object on the floor next to the gas stove only after she had entered the church for the second time. Most likely, the theorists believed, she had bent down to investigate the unfamiliar object when the bomb exploded, killing her instantly. Jayson felt sympathy for her and for her father, who according to one article, would probably be reduced to walking with a cane for the rest of his life.

  Jayson read reports about the subsequent investigation, which had eventually stalled, producing charges from local African American political activists and the girl’s father that the police and the FBI hadn’t devoted enough energy to finding the “conspirators” because of the girl’s race.

  “Authorities defend Mount Calvary bombing investigation.…”

  Jayson noticed most stories about the bombing originated from the Boston Courier, the local black-oriented weekly newspaper. With each passing year the paper seemed to have become more sensational in its coverage and presentation, he assessed. While coverage of the bombing dwindled in the mainstream print and broadcast media about a month after the tragedy, over the past two years a new conspiracy theory had surfaced every few months in the Courier. Jayson skimmed over a few.

  According to one unnamed source, the drunk driver from Texas who had struck the reverend’s wife as she crossed a busy street, and members of his prominent family, were suspects.

  “Killer of minister’s wife questioned.…”

  A later notion receiving some press coverage involved various leaders of numerous white supremacist groups in Texas. Apparently, Reverend Isaiah F. Bradley, a man very fond of conspiracy theories, had floated stories about being targeted by members of hate groups who had followed him from Texas to Massachusetts. He claimed he had made many powerful enemies in the Lone Star State due to his advocacy for black people.

  “Hate groups suspected in church bombing.…”

  In nearly two years of coverage, the Courier had never printed even one story suggesting that the man arrested for the crime had acted alone.

  “Bomber refuses to name accomplices.…”

  Jayson had personally enjoyed a love-hate relationship with the Courier. The hate part had begun when he had represented Gregory Morgan and his white supremacist so-called “Church of the True Savior” in that free speech case. Jayson vividly remembered the Courier headline after Seth Greenberg and he had challenged the City of Boston. The mayor had refused to issue Morgan and his followers a permit to hold a rally at the Boston Common, the oldest public park in the history of the United States, according to the travel brochures.

  “Black lawyer takes side of racist church.…”

  Jayson brought his attention back to the on-line news reports, which were sparse for several months after the bombing with the exception of the Courier. A lucky break in the “Mount Calvary Bomber” investigation had occurred when two police officers flagged down then twenty-three-year-old loner Brian Matthew Stone in a routine traffic stop. They claimed to have discovered a hand-drawn map of the area surrounding the Mount Calvary Baptist Church on the front seat of his vehicle, in clear view.

  Jason scoffed as he picked up his legal pad and wrote, “Incriminating map in clear view?” He dropped the pad back on the desk and continued reading.

  The discovery of the map provided the officers with enough probable cause to seek a search warrant for Stone’s apartment. That search yielded a mountain of evidence against the socially withdrawn, low-level medical records clerk. Authorities discovered several registered handguns, bomb-making books, bomb-making instructions downloaded from various Internet web sites, stacks of anti-black and anti-Semitic literature, numerous pornographic magazines, and other “undisclosed incriminating evidence.”

  “Mount Calvary Bomber arrested.…”

  Jayson perused a few more stories about the investigation. A month after Stone’s arrest, officials from the Boston Police Department, the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office and the FBI issued a statement claiming no evidence existed to indicate that Stone had acted other than alone. This prompted the printing of two stories in the Courier, instigated by Reverend Bradley, alleging that a cover-up existed to protect white terrorist groups targeting black churches.

  “Mount Calvary victim questions police findings.…”

  Two inner city church fires, the first occurring a year after the Mount Calvary attack and the second as recently as March, had been widely speculated to be the ongoing work of this band of homegrown terrorists. Many members of Boston’s black community greeted the fire marshal’s determination that both fires were accidents with skepticism.

  “Questionable findin
g for questionable church fire.…”

  Several state politicians pushed their own agendas, citing the Bradley girl’s death.

  “Conservative lawmakers move to reinstate death penalty.…”

  Through it all, the Courier’s circulation continued to rise.

  The familiar hum and clanking associated with the garage door opening diverted Jayson’s attention. He felt relief upon hearing Renee’s late model BMW slowly roll next to his late model Jaguar. He walked down the carpeted stairs into the dark kitchen and inhaled the residual, clashing scents of baked sole and apple pie. He flipped on the kitchen lights, opened the door leading to the garage and presented a cheerful smile to his wife of ten years as she emerged from her car. She wore a powder blue blouse above a navy blue pleated skirt and had tied her long hair at the back. “Hi, honey,” Jayson said while holding the door open for her. “How’d things go at work?”

  Dr. Renee Barron-Cook climbed the three steps leading to the kitchen and kissed Jayson briefly on the lips as they met at the threshold. She closed her eyes for a few seconds then opened them. “Not good,” she replied, and stepped further into the kitchen. She plopped her purse and briefcase onto the dark wood breakfast table. “I had to fill in because Gill’s flight was delayed. I was about to go home, but we got word that two cars full of high school kids were tearing down Mill Street. One of them wrapped his car around a tree.”

  Jayson stepped closer to her. “Uh-oh. Anybody hurt?”

  “Everyone in the car,” Renee said. She held up her fingers. “Four of them. Two of the four didn’t make it. The other two’ll pull through.”

  Jayson took a deep breath. He put his arms around Renee and squeezed. “I’m sorry, hon. I know you and the team did everything you could.” He tenderly pressed his lips against her soft, very light brown cheek.

  Renee rested her head on his shoulder and hugged him. “Dumb-ass kids,” she whispered.

  Jayson shrugged and pointed toward the semi-dark living room. “You want me to make you a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Renee answered with a soft voice. She kicked off her shoes and made a face revealing pain, then relief.

  Jayson understood. She wanted to close the subject of the hospital. After eight years as a physician, the death of a child still affected her. Sometimes when she became despondent because of such a death, she wanted to make love. They both spent so much time working, their lovemaking had become infrequent, not from a lack of desire but from a lack of energy and opportunity. Sometimes they made love to relieve stress.

  Renee hugged him again and smiled for the first time since arriving home. “How’s Jennifer?”

  Jayson chuckled. “She went right to sleep after I read Mufaro’s Beautiful Daughters.”

  “Oh, I like that one myself,” Renee exclaimed. “And Magda? When I left she was furiously working on dinner.” She sniffed. “Smells good.”

  “It was good. She made dinner, cleaned up and turned in early.”

  “Any word about her kids?”

  Jayson shook his head. “She didn’t mention it and I didn’t bring it up. I didn’t want her to think I was meddling in her business.” His heart filled with compassion as he considered the woman’s plight. “Poor thing. I can’t imagine what’s she’s going through, still not being able to get her children over here after all these years.”

  Renee put her hand on Jayson’s face and lightly stroked it. “I’m glad you were able to help with that lawyer friend of yours, and we were able to help with that car.” She giggled. “She thanked me again.”

  Jayson laughed. “She thanked me again, too.” He peeked down the hall to ensure their privacy, then continued. “She’s had that car for two weeks. I told her it was just a little subcompact, a leftover from last year’s model so it didn’t really cost much. I said we wanted to do something for her since she finally got her driver’s license and because this house would fall apart without her.”

  Renee grabbed her purse and shoes, and started up the stairs. She spoke to Jayson without turning around. “We couldn’t have asked for a better helper. She’s an absolute angel. She works so hard. She takes all those cooking classes, and Jen’s crazy about—” She stopped in the middle of the staircase and turned around. “I’m sorry, Jay. I’ve been so selfish. I didn’t even ask you about you day. How was it?”

  Jayson considered telling her about the Stone case, but he looked into her tired eyes and decided she had suffered enough for one day. “It was okay,” he said. “Nothing that won’t wait for you to hear about until tomorrow.”

  •

  Jayson sat with Renee and Jennifer at the breakfast table in their kitchen. They wore casual clothes and chatted about how they would spend their Saturday. The arched windows over the sink attracted abundant sunlight. Looking out to the garden further enhanced the family’s cheerful mood. They watched a husband-wife pair of blue jays darting in and out of the birdfeeder Renee had erected in the backyard.

  “I’m gonna spend a few hours at the office, then come home and pump some serious iron, then I’ll spend the rest of the day with my favorite ladies,” Jayson declared.

  “Jennifer clapped her hands. “Oh goodie, Daddy. What movie are we gonna watch?”

  Jayson put his hand on his chin. “Hmmm…how ‘bout you and Mommy decide?”

  Renee sipped her coffee then spoke to her daughter. “Finish your breakfast, Jen, or we’ll never make it to grandmommy and granddaddy’s.”

  “Okay,” Jennifer said. She grabbed her spoon and stuck it into her bowl of oatmeal.

  “Um, honey,” Jayson said to Renee, “did I fill that prescription for you last night to your satisfaction?” He grinned and admired his wife. She was still just as beautiful and sexy to him as the day he had married her. At thirty-four, a year younger than he, she looked considerably younger and had the body of a model: tall, with long legs, curvaceous figure and broad shoulders.

  Renee glanced at Jennifer and gave her husband a feigned disapproving face. “Some of your best medicine,” she replied and scooped up a section of grapefruit with a small spoon.

  Jayson glanced at Jennifer, who was obviously unaware of her parent’s veiled message, and laughed. “I may have to give you another dose tonight.”

  Jennifer turned her head back and forth, observing her parents. Her long, wavy pony tail brushed against the back of her pink T-shirt. “What are you laughing about, Daddy?”

  Jayson smiled at Renee and suppressed the urge to carry on further. “Oh, Mommy and I are just so happy because we love each other so much and because we love you so much.”

  Jennifer beamed. “I love you and Mommy so much too.”

  Jayson considered it as good a time as any to break the news to Renee about his new client. He reached for a folded sheet of paper pressed between his thigh and his chair, and presented it to Renee. “Hon, take a look at this, please.”

  Renee took it from him. “What is it?”

  “It’s a newspaper article about a case I’ve just been assigned, kinda.”

  Renee unfolded the paper and skimmed over the article. “This is that man who bombed that church and killed that little girl, right?” She spoke without taking her eyes off the paper.

  “The man arrested and charged with the crime, yes.”

  Renee looked at Jennifer. “Go brush your teeth, then straighten up your room and get your things so we can go.” After the girl left the room, Renee took a deep breath and spoke quietly. “Are you representing this man now?”

  Jayson nodded. “Judge O’Hare asked me to.”

  Renee slid the paper across the table and wiped her hands as if they had been soiled from it. “But you could’ve turned him down, right? I mean, this man destroyed a house of God and murdered a little girl—a little black girl.”

  Jayson spoke quietly. “First of all, I don’t have to tell you that the man is presumed innocent. Secondly, saying no to a soon-to-be-retiring judge who might have an influential voice in selecting his rep
lacement didn’t seem like a good career move. Thirdly, I’ve got carte blanche on billable hours. That’ll more than keep Jennifer in uniforms at that fancy school we send her to.”

  Renee squinted. “Jayson, this isn’t about money and we both know it. This is about you taking a case that’s going to disrupt our lives again.” She stood and began clearing the table. “I’ve got a good shot at becoming head of the department this year. You know how hard I’ve worked for that. Do you know what a plum job that is for a person of color, a female doctor my age?”

  Jayson stood, grabbed his dishes and joined her at the sink. “Honey, we agreed we wouldn’t argue over my work. It’s what I do.”

  “As long as it doesn’t interfere with our lives,” Renee reminded him.

  “Most of my cases never go to trial. You know that,” Jayson said. “I’m going to look over the evidence on Monday, then meet with the ADAs in a few days. It could all be over before too long.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “Then I do my job.”

  Just then, Magdalena Lopez entered the kitchen and put her hands on her hips. “Dr. Cook, Mr. Cook. What you doing?” she asked in her heavily-accented voice. “Make big mess, no?” The stocky, forty-year-old El Salvador native flapped her arms like a bird beginning to take flight, trying to shoo them both away. “Do I tell doctor how to put sleep to someone at hospital?” She paused, apparently searching for the right words for her next quip. “Do I tell lawyer how to, um, ‘cop a plea’ you say? What for you make big mess in my kitchen?”

  Jayson and Renee parted for the woman like the Red Sea for Moses. Jayson raised his hands into the air and laughed. “We plead guilty, Your Honor, but if you’ll agree to probation, we’ll leave forthwith.” He turned to his accomplice. “We better go before Judge Magda finds us both in contempt.”

  Renee laughed. “Magda, don’t spend all day in the kitchen. Get outside and get some fresh air. It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Si,” the woman answered absently while running water and banging dishes in the sink. “Fresh air be same fresh tomorrow.”

  Jayson and Renee reached their huge master bedroom and closed the door. She sat in a wooden chair, kicked off her bedroom slippers and put on a pair of sneakers. “You fulfilled your part of our contract, counselor, and served me with notice,” Renee declared. She stood and ran in place for a few seconds, then pecked him on the cheek. “Good luck.”

  Jayson frowned and sat on the sofa. “Thank you, honey. It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

  “Um-hmm,” Renee muttered and eased out the door.

  Jayson sighed. He didn’t think his wife was going to be in the mood to have that prescription refilled later, after all.

  * * * * *