The Wrong Man

by John Katzenbach

  Immediately Scott blustered and interrupted, “No, no, no, Ashley, you mustn’t say that. We don’t know that, not at all.”

  Then he stopped, because he realized how ridiculous each word he spoke had sounded.

  For an instant, Scott felt dizzy. It was as if everything that was crazy—that this man might kill Ashley—made sense, and everything that should have made sense was turned upside down. He felt a complete coldness enter him and found himself rising out of his chair.

  “If he comes close again…”

  This threat seemed as hollow as everything else.

  “What?” Ashley suddenly blurted out. “What will you do? Throw history books at him? Lecture him to death?”

  “No, I’ll…”

  “What? What will you do? And how will you do it? Are you going to watch me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?”

  Sally tried to remain even-keeled. “Ashley,” she said quietly, “don’t get angry—”

  “Why not?” she shouted. “Why shouldn’t I get angry? What right does this creep have to ruin my life?”

  The answer to that question, of course, was obvious to all of them.

  “So what do I have to do?” she said, her voice filled with tears, emotion coloring every word. “I guess I have to leave. Start over. Go someplace far away. Hide out for years and years, until something happens so I can come out? It’s like some great big game of hide-and-seek, huh? Ashley hides and Michael O’Connell seeks. How will I ever know I’m safe?”

  “I suppose,” Sally said, still speaking as cautiously as she could manage, “that’s all that we can hope for. Unless…”

  “Unless what?” Scott asked.

  She was choosing her words carefully. “We can think up some other plan.”

  “What do you mean?” Scott demanded abruptly.

  Sally spoke slowly, “What I’m saying is that there are two routes here. One is to work within the legal system. It might be inadequate, but it is what we have. It has worked for some people. But not for others. The law can make one person safe, and kill another. The law guarantees nothing.”

  Scott leaned forward. “There is an alternative?”

  Sally was almost shocked by what she was saying. “The alternative would be working on this problem outside the law.”

  “What would that include?” Scott asked.

  “I think,” Sally said coldly, “you might not want to ask that question quite yet.”

  This reply plunged the room into silence.

  Scott spent what he thought was a long time staring at Sally. He had never heard her sound so cold-blooded before.

  “Why not,” Catherine blurted out, “just invite the bastard over here for dinner and then shoot him when he walks through the front door? Bang! A mess in the front parlor. I volunteer to clean it up. End of story.”

  Again there was some silence in the room. Each of them could feel a certain appeal in this idea. But it was Sally, dropping into her most pragmatic, practiced legal tones, that immediately saw the problem.

  “That might remove one dilemma—Michael O’Connell—but in its stead, a zillion other problems would arrive.”

  Scott nodded. “I think I see what you’re saying, but go on.”

  Sally actually mustered a smile at her ex-husband and Catherine. “First off, what you say—inviting him over and shooting him—is first-degree murder, even if he does deserve it. In this state it is punishable by twenty-five years to life, without parole. And the mere fact that we have all discussed it makes us all conspirators, so none of us, including Ashley, would walk away. I suppose one can always argue for an acquittal—jury nullification is the legal term, where the jury actually decides you were justified in taking the action you did—but that is a rarity. And not something anyone should count on.”

  “There are other problems, as well,” Scott added. “What makes you think that we wouldn’t ruin all of our lives in the process? Our own careers, who we are, all would disappear. And we’d become the fodder for Court TV or The National Enquirer. Every bit of our lives would be exposed publicly. And even if we did this—and managed to insulate Ashley from the event—she would spend the rest of her life visiting us in prison and refusing interviews from Hard Copy, or watching her life turned into some Lifetime network movie of the week.”

  Hope, who had been quiet, interjected, “The way you describe it, it would mean that O’Connell had won. He might be dead, but Ashley’s life—all our lives—would be ruined. And what he said—if I can’t have her—would turn out to be true, in a perverse way. She would be branded forever.”

  Catherine snorted, as if disagreeing, but in actuality she could see the entire scenario, and beyond. She clapped her hands together and spoke out briskly, “Well, there must be some way to remove Michael O’Connell from Ashley’s life before something worse happens.”

  Scott’s mind was churning. The word remove triggered a series of thoughts within him.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “I have an idea.”

  The others looked toward him. He stood up and took a few quick paces back and forth.

  “For starters,” he said carefully, “it seems to me that we should take a page from his own book.”

  “What do you mean?” Sally said.

  “What I mean,” Scott replied carefully, “is that we learn to outstalk the stalker. Let’s find out everything—and I mean everything—we can about the son of a bitch.”

  “Why?” asked Hope.

  “Because he must be vulnerable somewhere. And it is what he would least expect.”

  Catherine nodded her head vigorously. Somewhere in all of them there had to be a mean streak; it was simply a matter of finding it and employing it.

  “All right,” Sally replied, “I suspect we could do that. But to what end?”

  Scott was measuring his words cautiously. “We cannot kill him ourselves, but we must remove him. Who can do this for us? And do it in a way where all of us—especially Ashley—walk away without a scar. In fact, barely a scratch, if we do it right.”

  “I don’t know who you mean,” Sally answered for the rest of them.

  “You said it yourself, Sally,” Scott replied. “Who removes someone from society for five, ten, twenty years right up to life?”

  “The State of Massachusetts.”

  Scott nodded. “It is simply a matter of finding a way to have the state remove Michael O’Connell. They will do this happily and enthusiastically, won’t they? All we have to do is provide one small item for them.”

  “What’s that?” Ashley asked.

  “The right crime.”

  “Do you not see the genius in Scott’s plan?” she asked.

  “I don’t know that genius is the word I would choose,” I replied. “Stupid and risky come immediately to mind.”

  She paused. “All right, fair enough, on first impression. But here is what is unique in Scott’s thinking: it goes utterly and completely against the grain. Just how many tenured history professors at small, prestigious liberal arts colleges become criminals?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Or a guidance counselor and prep-school coach? A small-town lawyer? And Ashley, the art student? What could be more out of character than for that well-heeled group to decide to commit a crime? And to choose something that might lead to violence?”

  “Still, I don’t know…”

  “Who better to step outside the law? They knew better than almost anyone what they were doing, thanks to Sally and her expertise in the court system. And Scott, he was far better equipped to become a criminal than he’d ever imagined, thanks to his military training. He was disciplined. Wasn’t their biggest problem the moral prohibitions against crime that accompany their status in society?”

  “I still would have thought they would call the police.”

  “What guarantee did they have that the system would work for them? How many times have you picked up the morning paper and seen some tragedy unfold, fueled
by an obsessive love? How often have you read of policemen complaining, ‘Our hands were tied’?”

  “Still…”

  “The words you surely don’t want carved into your own headstone are If Only…”

  “I agree, but…”

  “Their position was hardly unique. Movie stars know about stalking. Secretaries in busy offices. Trailer-park, stay-at-home mothers. Television personalities. Obsession can cut across any sort of economic and social background. But their response to it all was unique. And what was their goal? To keep Ashley safe. How much purer could their motive be? Put yourself in their shoes for an instant. What would you do?”

  And there was the simplest, most unanswerable question.

  She took in a deep breath. “In reality the only issue was, could they get away with it?”

  33

  Some Hard Decisions

  Scott was energized, driven to his feet. He looked at the women gathered around him and feverishly began to imagine plots and plans, all fueled by the rage he harbored toward Michael O’Connell. Sally was shifting about, and he could see the lawyer in her starting to gnaw through what he’d said, shredding his words, unraveling his ideas. She will see all the dangers in what I am proposing, he thought. He wondered whether she would see that those dangers might be less than the single threat faced by Ashley.

  But to his surprise, Sally abruptly nodded her head. “Whatever it takes,” she said coldly. “We should be prepared to do whatever it takes.”

  Then she turned toward Catherine and Hope. “You know, I think we are about to step over a line, and perhaps the two of you might want to reconsider whether you want to be involved. Ashley is, after all, Scott’s and my daughter, and our responsibility. Hope, admittedly, you’ve been her second mother, maybe even more, and Catherine, her only real grandparent—but still, you’re not blood, and—”

  Hope snarled at her, “Sally, shut the fuck up.”

  The room was immediately silenced, and Hope rose to stand with Scott. She gathered herself and said, “You know, I have been involved in Ashley’s life, for better or for worse, since the day you and I first met. And even if our last days haven’t been so good, and our future is questionable, that doesn’t diminish my feelings for Ashley. So, to hell with you. I will make up my own mind as to what and what not I’m willing to do.”

  Catherine quietly added, “Me, too.”

  Sally reeled back in her seat. I have screwed everything up. What the hell is wrong with me? she thought to herself.

  “Don’t you understand anything about love?” Hope asked.

  This question floated around the living room. After letting the silence creep around all of them, Hope turned to Scott.

  “Okay, Scott, maybe you ought to outline exactly what you have in mind.”

  Scott stepped forward. “Sally’s right. We are about to cross a line. Things are going to get doubly dangerous from this moment on.” He suddenly saw risk in everything, and it made him hesitate. “It’s one thing to talk about doing something illegal. It’s another thing to actually take that risk.”

  He turned toward Ashley.

  “Honey,” he said slowly, “this is the point where you are to get up and leave the room. I would like it if you went upstairs and waited for Mom or me to call you back down.”

  “What?” Ashley nearly shouted, instantly irate. “This involves me. This is my problem. And now, when you think you’re going to do something, something that involves me intimately, I’m supposed to exit? Forget it, Dad, I’m not being excluded. This is my life we’re all talking about.”

  Again silence gripped all of them, until Sally spoke.

  “Yes, you are. Ashley, honey, listen. We need to know that you are isolated—legally—from whatever we do. So you can’t be a part of the planning. You’ll probably have to do something. I don’t know. But it won’t be part of a criminal conspiracy. You need to be protected. Both from O’Connell, and from the authorities if whatever we come up with blows up in our faces.” Sally used her clipped, efficient lawyer voice. “So, don’t ask any damn questions. Do what your father says. Go upstairs. Wait patiently. Then do whatever it is we ask, without question.”

  “You’re treating me like a child!” Ashley blurted.

  “Precisely,” Sally said calmly.

  “I won’t stand for that.”

  “Yes, you will. Because that’s the only way I will proceed.”

  “You can’t do this to me!”

  “What are we doing?” Sally persisted. “You don’t know what we are going to do. Are you suggesting that we have no right to act unilaterally on behalf of our own daughter? Are you complaining that we shouldn’t take steps to help you?”

  “What I’m saying is that this is my life!”

  “Yes.” Sally nodded. “You said that. We heard it. And that is precisely why your father asked you to leave the room.”

  Ashley glared at her parents, tears forming in her eyes. She felt utterly helpless and impotent. She was about to refuse again when Hope interrupted.

  “Mother,” she said cautiously, “I’d like it if you went upstairs with Ashley.”

  “What?” Catherine demanded. “Don’t be absurd. I’m not a child that can be ordered about.”

  “I’m not ordering you.” Hope paused. “Actually, yes, I am. And I would say the same to you as Scott and Sally just said to Ashley. You will be called upon to do something. I am sure of that. It’s hard for me to act in other ways if I’m constantly worried about you all the time. Simple as that.”

  “Well, that’s nice of you to worry, dear, but I’m far too old and set in my ways to have my only child turn into my guardian. I can make up my own damn mind.”

  “That’s what concerns me.” Hope looked fiercely at her mother. “Why is it that you can’t see that if I worry about you—just as Sally and Scott will worry about Ashley—that we will be constrained by what we might do? Are you so self-centered that you can’t allow me to choose my own path?”

  This question stifled Catherine’s reply. She thought that in her many years with her daughter, it was the same question that had been posed to her over and over. Each time, she had acquiesced, even when Hope was unaware that she had. Catherine snorted and sat back hard in her chair, angry with what her daughter was suggesting, and also angry that she could see the sense in it. She steamed for a moment, then stood up.

  “I think you’re wrong,” she said. “About me. And you”—she pivoted toward Sally—“are perhaps wrong about Ashley.” Catherine shook her head. “We are, both of us, perfectly capable of taking all sorts of chances. Tough chances, I daresay. But this is just the first step, and if you need me to absent myself, right at this moment, I will.” She turned toward Ashley. “That might change. I hope it does. But for now, okay. Come, dear, you and I will go upstairs and trust that these folks will see the light when they see the complete foolishness of excluding us.”

  She reached out and grasped Ashley, half-lifting her out of her seat.

  “I don’t like this. Not at all,” Ashley said. “I don’t think it’s in the slightest bit fair. Or right.” But she and Catherine trudged up the stairs.

  The three remaining behind were quiet, watching them exit. Sally said, “Thank you, Hope. That was a pretty smart move.”

  “It’s not chess,” Hope said.

  “But it is,” Scott said. “Or, at least, it’s about to be.”

  It took a little time, but they were able to hash out the initial division of responsibilities.

  From the bare bones they had acquired in Murphy’s report, Scott was to delve into Michael O’Connell’s past. See his home, investigate where he grew up, uncover whatever possible about O’Connell’s family, work history, education. It would be up to Scott to ascertain who they were really up against. Sally was to spend the weekend examining the law. They did not know what crime they wanted to assign to Michael O’Connell, not yet, although they suspected it would have to be a major felony. They avoided the
word murder throughout their conversation, but it lurked in everything they said.

  Creating a crime out of whole cloth requires some planning, which was Sally’s job. She was to ascertain not merely what the best crime would be—that is, what would remove O’Connell most certainly from their lives for the longest period—but also what crime would be the easiest for the state to prove. What would quickly and efficiently lead to O’Connell’s arrest. What would be least likely to be pled out or result in some sort of bargain with prosecutors. It had to be a crime that he could not trade away by testifying against other, more culpable people. He had to be in whatever it was absolutely alone. And she had to uncover what elements the state would need to prove their case in a court of law, beyond a reasonable doubt.

  Hope, who they believed was the only one of them that O’Connell might not immediately recognize, was given the task of finding him and following him. She was to examine as much of his day-to-day life as she could.

  They assumed that in what each of them was doing were the answers.

  It was hard to see who faced the most danger. Probably Hope, Sally thought, because she would be physically closest to O’Connell. But Sally knew that as soon as she opened her first law book, she was guilty of a crime. And Scott, she recognized, was heading off into the least certainty, because there was no telling what he might find when he first dropped the name Michael O’Connell in the neighborhood where he grew up.

  It was decided that Catherine and Ashley would stay in the house. Catherine, who still regretted not shooting O’Connell when she had the chance, was in charge of designing some sort of protective system, in case O’Connell should arrive at their door again.

  This was Sally’s single greatest fear: that before they had a chance to act, he would.

  She did not use the word race with Hope or Scott.

  She simply assumed they were thinking along the same precise lines.

  She eyed me for a moment or two, as if expecting me to say something, but when I remained silent, she announced, “Have you thought much about the concept of the perfect crime? I’ve been spending a good deal of my time these days considering some questions. What is right, what is wrong? What is just, what is unjust? But what I have come to believe is that the perfect crime, the true perfect crime, is not only the crime that one gets away with—that would be the absolute minimal standard—but also one that results in some psychological sea change. A life-altering experience.”