Eddie Flynn 02-The Plea

by Steve Cavanagh

  He pulled a memory stick out of his laptop, ‘This program can trace every cent of the firm’s money as fast as the algorithm moves it. It can even tell us which account all of the money will pool into when the cycle ends. There’s just one thing – we can’t use it.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ‘He’s been working on that thing since we got here,’ said the Lizard. I turned and watched the big man checking the windows.

  Holly got to her feet, wiped at the sweat on her forehead, and asked if I wanted coffee.

  I did.

  ‘Why can’t we use it?’ I asked.

  David pursed his lips and set the memory stick on the table. He lowered his head and looked at me over the rims of his designer glasses.

  ‘When you tricked your way into representing me, you wanted to make me plead guilty so you could get a deal for your wife, right?’ said Child.

  He’d been thinking more clearly since he’d gotten out. The panic had left his voice, and he seemed calm and assured. I’d been waiting for him to drop that bomb, waiting for my less-than-ethical methods of becoming his lawyer to be debated. He didn’t shout, or sneer, or even look mildly pissed off. It seemed like a neutral question, like he was just putting it out there on the table, matter-of-factly, like he put the memory stick on the table – there it is.

  ‘As soon as I realized you were innocent, I came clean. I didn’t have to tell you anything, David. In fact, I still can’t quite believe that I told you any of it. It’s not like me to be so up front with people.’

  Shifting my weight between my feet, I suddenly felt uncomfortable. So I dragged a chair out from the table and sat down. The memory stick lay inches from my reach.

  ‘I’ve been as honest as I can be with anyone. Don’t forget, the only reason you’re sitting here and not lying dead in the morgue is because of me and Popo.’

  He nodded, shifting his gaze to the memory stick. He touched the cushioned speakers on the earphones that hung around his neck, then rubbed his fingers together. A pack of antibacterial wipes were beside the laptop. Peeling off a couple of sheets, he carefully wiped down his fingers.

  ‘I don’t know if I can trust you,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe not, but I’m not the one trying to kill you.’

  A heavy sigh and a shake of the head.

  ‘But you lied to me,’ he said.

  ‘I did, and if I hadn’t lied, you wouldn’t be alive right now. I want my wife cleared, but she was just attacked, and now I’m more worried about her staying alive. They’re targeting her because they don’t want me to represent you, so they can control the situation and make sure you don’t turn state’s witness against them in exchange for a small-time sentence.’

  ‘My God, your wife, is she all right?’

  ‘She’s safe. For now.’

  A white coffee mug appeared in front of me, steam rising off the jet-black brew.

  ‘Cream or sugar?’ asked Holly.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said.

  She looked at David, and he shook his head. They knew each other well enough that she didn’t have to ask him if he wanted anything. Their understanding passed between them, unspoken.

  The coffee tasted good, rich, and had enough caffeine to wake up a marine platoon. David refilled his glass from a can of energy soda. The liquid looked almost toxic; it was bright blue and fizzed like a science experiment when it hit the ice at the bottom of the glass. I could smell the sugar from it a mile away. He drained half of the soda, smacked his lips, and leaned forward.

  ‘I’m … ah, I’m struggling here,’ he said, his voice betraying the facade that he’d put up for my arrival. ‘I don’t know who I can trust. I need help. What I’m saying here is, I want to trust you, but I can’t. How do I know you’re not just using me to save your wife?’

  I considered this for a moment, sighed. Right then I couldn’t think of anything better to tell him than the plain God’s honest truth.

  ‘Something happened to me a couple years ago,’ I began, and David folded his arms, tilted his head. He was curious but guarded.

  ‘I represented a guy accused of attempting to kidnap a young woman, Hanna Tublowski. I got him off. Before the jury came back with the “not guilty,” I realized that my client did try to take that girl. During my cross-examination of the victim, I saw my client’s face light up with hate, with excitement, and I knew then that this guy was guilty. Listening to that seventeen-year-old crying as she testified gave my client immense pleasure. It was almost as if watching her fall to pieces made some part of him come alive, a part of him that he kept hidden. He couldn’t hide it from me. I did my job and he got off. Later I found the same girl tied to his bed. She’d been beaten and … well, you don’t want to know what he did to her. By the time the cops arrived, I’d almost killed the guy. I broke my hand on his face.

  ‘I failed that girl. I didn’t owe her anything and it wasn’t my job to care about her; it was my job to destroy her on the witness stand.’

  Child’s arms fell by his sides, and he shook his head.

  ‘I promised myself that I wouldn’t let that happen again. That I would play the justice game my way, no matter what. I could no more send you to jail for something you didn’t do than let that guy walk free again. In my eyes, that’s just as bad.’

  ‘But you don’t get to decide what happens in a case,’ said David.

  I took another sip of coffee, replaced the cup on the table, and said, ‘The poet Robert Frost once said that a jury is twelve people chosen to decide who has the best lawyer. I believe there’s some truth in that. The prosecution evidence is very strong, and I’m not going to promise you that I’ll get you off, but I can try, and I’ll fight harder than any other lawyer in this city.’

  ‘What are the chances of an acquittal?’

  My rhetoric sounded good up to that point. ‘Once you walk into court, it’s Vegas time. Anything can happen, but I’m not a miracle worker.’

  ‘Are you saying I need a miracle if I’m going to win?’

  Pausing, I noted the expectation in his eyes. His open mouth, he’d leaned forward to hear my answer.

  ‘The evidence against you is massive. They have the murder weapon in your car and you’re soaked in gunshot residue. You told the detectives you’d never even fired a gun. How do you propose to explain away the fact that when you were arrested, you were covered in GSR? And the security cameras show no one apart from you entering or leaving your apartment at the time of the murder. There’s no killer blow here, David. Trying to persuade a judge there isn’t enough evidence for your case to even make it to trial is one hell of a long shot. And if we do persuade the judge, the DA gets another chance for an indictment in front of the grand jury.’

  His shoulders sagged, and his gaze seemed to disappear into nothing, like he’d become blind.

  I’d lied about it being a long shot. From the evidence I’d seen, it looked to be damn near impossible. But I’d been in bad situations before. There was always an angle, I just had to find it.

  ‘Too bad, for both of us,’ said David.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He picked up the memory stick and held it in front of his gaze.

  ‘I believe everything you’ve told me. I really do. But there’s too much at stake. People only see me for what I can give them. Clara was the only one who didn’t care about the money. I want to see whoever killed her behind bars. I’ll pay you to do that. But all I can tell you is that it wasn’t me and I need you to defend me.’

  He handed me the memory drive.

  ‘This USB drive contains software. The FBI can access Harland and Sinton’s mainframe and they can use it to trace the money.’

  The little black device was about an inch long. It still amazed me that so much information could be stored on such a small, insignificant-looking thing.

  ‘The stick’s yours. If the FBI insert this drive into the Harland and Sinton system, they’ll be asked for a password to start the trace. As
soon as the charges against me are cleared, I’ll give them the password.’

  ‘That’s what the feds were offering, a way—’

  ‘No, it’s not. They want me to plead guilty to Clara’s murder. I can’t do that. I won’t do that. You get me clear of the charges and I’ll give you the firm.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  This was David’s play. He’d been running this scenario through his mind for a little while.

  ‘Sell it to the FBI. I want all charges dropped and my name cleared. That’s my bottom line. I won’t plead guilty even if it means I don’t do any time in jail at all. Pleading is not an option. I didn’t do it. If I plead, I’ll lose Reeler. I spent forty, fifty hours at a time, at my computer in my little dorm room at college, dreaming that someday I would make it. I had a stroke at sixteen. Did you know that? A seventy-three-hour coding marathon for the launch of Reeler. One minute I’m really blasting it on my laptop, and the next – I wake up in the hospital and I can’t feel my right leg. When the paramedics brought me in, I had my life savings in my pocket – twenty-three dollars and seventy-eight cents and a forty-thousand-dollar bank loan that I couldn’t repay. Three days later I launched Reeler from my hospital bed. A couple weeks after that I’m out of the hospital, fully recovered, Reeler’s got nine hundred thousand users, and it’s the fastest-growing social network in history. I risked everything, my health, my money, my sanity. And it paid off. I … I can’t lose that.’

  He took off his glasses and set them on the table. From a case in his pocket, he produced a silk cloth and began cleaning the lenses. Quick, almost frantic strokes.

  ‘The problem is that the evidence says you killed Clara. Given time, I can work on it. My wife doesn’t have that kind of time, David. Help me, and I’ll give you my word I’ll help you.’

  ‘If this goes to trial, my reputation is ruined anyway. I need this kicked out now. Make the deal.’

  ‘Believe me, I want this case dead just as much as you do. But what if I can’t do it? And making a deal – you know, the city doesn’t let murderers walk, even if they are helping the FBI bust the biggest money-laundering operation in US history. They think you’re guilty, and they have the evidence to prove it. I can’t get a deal that lets you walk.’

  ‘Then prove I’m innocent at the preliminary hearing.’

  I let out a long sigh and rubbed my temples.

  ‘The prelim’s in two hours. All the prosecution has to do is prove that there’s an arguable case against you. We’d have to damn near prove that you’re innocent. And there’s no jury; a single judge decides.’

  Child folded the silk cloth, placed it carefully into his glasses case, and snapped the lid shut.

  ‘Nothing’s impossible. I’m innocent; we just have to show that.’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ I said. The pain behind my eyes spread over my skull and dived into my neck muscles.

  ‘But it is that simple.’

  I got the impression that for David, things were very black and white, clean or dirty, guilty or innocent; gray lines didn’t enter into his consciousness. He had a literal thought process that was cast in stone, or green hooded tops, gray sweatpants and red Nikes.

  ‘You don’t believe I’m innocent, do you?’

  Always the easiest question for a lawyer. The answer is that it doesn’t matter what the lawyer believes; it’s not our job to believe anyone – all we have to do is represent the client and make the jury believe in the client. David needed more than a stock answer – he needed to trust me – so I told him what he wanted to hear.

  ‘I don’t think you’re a killer, David,’ I said.

  My gut told me he was innocent. My mind found it hard to ignore the evidence.

  He looked confused.

  ‘If you don’t think I’m a killer, then prove it in court. You said we’ve only got two hours before this thing starts. Shouldn’t you be researching case law, or something?’ said David. He hadn’t listened to a word I’d said. Even so, I admired him. The strength of his belief in his innocence kept me open-minded.

  ‘No, I don’t need to do any legal research. I just need to read everything again, watch the DVDs, and find a way in.’

  ‘A way in to what?’

  ‘A way to prove that you were set up,’ I said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Holly slotted the first DVD into the player. I stood, the Lizard took a knee, and David sat on the armchair. Leaning forward, fingers steepled over his mouth, he watched the graphic of a disk spinning as the video loaded.

  The screen filled with an image of the lobby of Central Park Eleven – home to more of Manhattan’s millionaires than any other. Huge potted plants and small trees lined the peach-colored marble lobby. The camera must have been mounted over the reception desk. In the corner of the screen it read CAMERA 1, but there was no date or time stamp visible on-screen.

  A skinny kid in a green hooded sports top, gray baggy pants, and red sneakers came into the lobby. The hood was down. It was David. He was holding hands with a young blond woman wearing blue jeans and a short navy jacket over a white blouse – Clara. I turned away from the TV and glanced at David, leaning so far forward he was barely perching on the armchair. In the flickering light from the plasma screen I saw a tear on his cheek. This was the last footage of Clara before she was murdered.

  The couple breezed past reception and the camera view changed. Now we were looking at an elevator camera. The doors opened, and Clara and David entered the elevator. From the pocket of his hoodie, David produced a fob, which he swiped at the elevator panel. He then selected a floor, turned, and embraced Clara. I glanced at Holly – her eyes shifted to the floor and then back to the screen, and when she saw the video, her hand closed over her open mouth.

  I looked back at the TV, and Clara Reece was in the corner of the elevator, her eyes on the floor. David moved toward her and she raised her hand. He stopped. She looked awkward, unhappy. Maybe even a little afraid. When the doors opened, she stepped out fast.

  I noticed that this footage was date and time stamped MARCH, 14, 19:45.

  The view switched again. This time we got the feed from camera fifty-three, which displayed a landing with two doors, fifty feet apart. Clara came out of the elevator first, followed by David, this time with his hood up. He took her in his arms, and they walked toward his apartment. Beside each apartment was a standing mirror, an umbrella stand, and a small table. He used the fob again at the door on the right, then used his keys to open the door.

  I paused the video and rewound. One minute they were hugging, and the next she didn’t want him near her. I said, ‘What was that, David? Clara looked pretty uncomfortable in the elevator. Did you have an argument?’

  ‘God no. She was claustrophobic. Clara struggled being in the elevator with other people, even me. She was forcing herself to do it, trying to overcome that fear.’

  David began sobbing uncontrollably into his hands. He turned away, went into the kitchen, and splashed water on his face.

  The DA would sell the elevator footage as a fight between David and Clara. It could certainly look like a fight. The prosecution just got their motive.

  The screen turned black, fuzzed, and then the same image reappeared, this time of the empty landing. The figure of David, now with his hood up and a gym bag slung over his shoulder, exited the apartment and closed the door. He hesitated for a second, turned back toward the door. It was almost as if he’d forgotten something. Then he fished in the belly pocket of his sweater, removed an iPod or a phone with a pair of inner earphones dangling from it, placed them in his ears, and called the elevator. Around sixteen to seventeen minutes had elapsed from the time he and Clara had entered the apartment; the clock on the camera read 20:02. He waited for a time, then got into the elevator. There was no footage of the downward journey. The last image was a still-hooded David exiting the elevator at the lobby and leaving the building. The DVD ended with a police serial number and an exhibit cata
log reference RM #1 – RM #5.

  The cop who’d compiled the footage said he’d watched the camera outside David’s apartment. Nobody went in after he left. Nobody came out. The next living soul to enter the apartment was the building security officer, who found Clara Reece dead on the kitchen floor and no one else in the apartment. It was simple – if the cop was right, and nobody went near David’s place after he left, then he was the only person who could’ve killed Clara.

  Not a good start.

  A buzz as the DVD ejected. I handed Holly the next one, and she fired it up. David was still in the little kitchen, leaning on the worktop.

  ‘David, you need to watch this,’ I said.

  His face was still wet with tears. He was sniffing and wiping his nose with a wet wipe. He turned toward the TV.

  I looked back at the screen and saw a busy intersection in Manhattan. The time stamp from the New York Department of Transport traffic camera read 20:18. Around twelve minutes had elapsed between the footage of David leaving the apartment building and this camera picking him up.

  ‘What are you driving again?’ I asked David.

  ‘Bugatti Veyron,’ he said.

  I saw the distinctive, 1.3-million-dollar car slow at the traffic lights. The Bugatti was facing the camera. Cars pulled out at the cross section for Central Park, moving left to right across the screen. Then they stopped and a few pedestrians crossed the street in front of David’s car. Once the last of them had crossed the street, there was a ten-second delay before I saw David’s car taking off. He moved quickly, just a touch of the throttle on the thousand-bhp supercar would be enough. The Bugatti took off at speed, and somehow a Ford, going in the opposite direction, veered into the Bugatti’s path at the last moment. Such was the force of the impact that I saw the Ford’s rear suspension leap off the ground, back tires airborne, chassis buckling with the impact. Steam billowed out from the Ford’s radiator almost instantly. Both vehicles remained stationary. The driver of the Ford got out of the car first. The police statement said this guy, John Woodrow, was subsequently charged with DUI and reckless driving. He didn’t look too steady on his feet. He wore a white button-down shirt, half tucked into his jeans. As he moved around the car, I could see that he was limping badly.