Eddie Flynn 02-The Plea

by Steve Cavanagh

  People believe what they can see.

  I hit fast-forward, skipping ten minutes of camera time for every second. If no one was on the floor for an hour, the lights dimmed. An energy-saving system. So it was easy to see when someone stepped out of the elevator, as the lights went up. I stopped the footage at seven thirty p.m., when David and Clara came to the apartment together. Again at nine fifteen p.m., when Gershbaum came to his apartment. No movement after that until the morning, when Clara and David left around nine a.m. and Gershbaum a little before. Nothing until that evening. As Gershbaum got out of the elevator, I paused, rewound, and then let the footage play until he entered his apartment, then hit fast-forward again until David and Clara got out of the elevator for their final visit to the apartment.

  ‘Detective Morgan, from this footage, the female we saw enter the apartment the day before is still in there.’

  A huge intake of breath let out in a slow, angry sigh.

  ‘Yes.’

  Judge Rollins leaned forward, staring at the footage intently, like I’d just shown him a magic trick and he was trying to figure it out. I ejected the DVD and replaced it with another.

  ‘Your Honor, this is footage that the FBI obtained last night from Central Park Eleven. The camera view you can see is from a small camera hidden in the vent on the east wall. This camera covers the stairs.’

  The footage played of David and Clara entering the apartment, and I wound it forward until 20:00, when the front door opened.

  ‘First thing you’ll notice is the clock. The time signature on this camera has the defendant leaving the apartment a full two minutes before the call from Mr Gershbaum to security. And in case you were wondering, this clock is in sync with the security log clock. I’m going to play this footage, Detective Morgan, and I want you to watch carefully.’

  I hit play. The entire room was perfectly silent. I could hear the disk churning in the player, the creak from Rollins’s chair as he strained forward, the tap of Zader’s pen on his lips, the faint electric burr of the cameras. Maybe two hundred people watched in silence.

  All except one.

  At the back of the court, Dell watched me.

  On the screen, David hesitated, turned toward the door, then stopped, swung around with his earphones on, and made his way out of shot toward the elevator.

  ‘Did you see it?’ I asked.

  ‘Did I see what? I’m not sure what you’re referring to,’ said Morgan.

  ‘Let’s watch again. This time I can slow it down.’

  I played it again. On this occasion I heard the news cameraman gasp, and one of the ADAs put his hands up, then remembered where he was and folded his arms. He couldn’t keep the surprise from his face though.

  ‘I’m still not sure what you’re referring to,’ said Morgan.

  ‘Nor am I,’ said Judge Rollins, but with no indignation in his voice – only curiosity. I gave them both a heads-up.

  ‘Detective, Your Honor, don’t watch the defendant. Look beyond him. Look in the mirror.’

  The DVD played again, still on slow motion. They couldn’t miss it this time.

  David closed the door behind him, took a few steps, then stopped, and I wondered if he was resisting the temptation to turn around and make sure the door was locked. But no – he stopped because he’d sensed something. Before he turned, the standing mirror in the hallway, beside the little table, held a reflection of the door. It was there, just for a second. The door handle moved. Down, then up. Somebody on the other side of the door making sure it was locked.

  With all eyes on the screen, I took a moment to look over at Zader. He met my gaze – he knew that was game over.

  ‘Detective, door handles don’t move on their own. Someone is alive and kicking in that apartment.’

  Morgan couldn’t answer. Instead he looked at Zader apologetically, raising his hands palms up. Sorry, we missed that one.

  ‘Detective Morgan, we know from this camera footage that David Child left that apartment at twenty oh two precisely. A full two minutes before Mr Gershbaum heard the shots and called security?’

  ‘If the time stamp on this footage and the nine one one call time is accurate, then yes.’

  ‘That’s more than enough time for the perpetrator to drag the body from the panic room, where, from the residual bloodstains, we now know she was shot in the back, take her into the kitchen, and fire the head shots?’

  Teeth gritted, Morgan hissed a ‘yes.’

  ‘The perpetrator then had additional time before security entered the apartment – a full four minutes – to shoot through the window, toss the gun into the park, and get into the panic room.’

  ‘That’s one theory.’

  I had one last roll of the dice. One final piece of evidence to throw into the mix.

  ‘Detective, as investigating officer, you ordered an independent expert to conduct gunshot residue tests on samples taken from the defendant’s face, clothes, and hands?’

  He looked at Zader, terrified in case he said something that he shouldn’t.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And the result of those tests is contained in this report from Dr Porter?’ I said, holding up his paper.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The prosecution is not seeking to rely on this report in this hearing, correct?’ I said.

  His mouth moved like a fish that had suddenly leaped out of the bowl and into the fireplace. Zader stood and addressed the judge.

  ‘Your Honor, that report is not relied upon.’

  ‘I’d like to enter this report into evidence, Your Honor, along with this academic article.’

  ‘Let me get this straight. You want to rely on a prosecution report?’ said Rollins.

  I handed copies to the clerk, who stamped them and gave them to the judge.

  ‘Detective Morgan, the prosecution had previously sought to rely on this evidential report from Dr Porter, which concludes that the defendant was found to have a large amount of gunshot residue on his person?’

  ‘We did, but we don’t seek to rely on that anymore.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked the judge.

  ‘Because Dr Porter conceded that the material was probably not GSR, but the remnants of material deposited on the defendant from the explosion that fires the air bags in the defendant’s car.’

  I almost had him; just a little more.

  ‘At first, Dr Porter believed that the material was GSR, correct?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s what he said in his report, until you got at him. Then he changed his mind,’ said Morgan.

  ‘Detective, if someone wanted it to look like they were covered in GSR, being in a car crash where the air bags deployed might be enough to fool an expert like Dr Porter?’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘In all fairness to Dr Porter, he had not read the scientific study on air bags and GSR comparison, which the defense discovered, had he?’

  ‘No, he had not.’

  ‘If someone had that knowledge and engineered a car accident, they could make it appear that the driver of the vehicle had GSR all over them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Kennedy gave me the copies of the security pass he’d obtained from the Interpol conference; copies had been e-mailed to him. I distributed the copies and watched Zader turn white. Neither Morgan nor the judge had yet made the connection.

  ‘This security ID was obtained from the Interpol conference where this paper was presented. This ID was presented by a delegate who attended that lecture. Do you recognize the person in that photograph?’ I said.

  ‘I can’t say that I do,’ said Morgan, but he didn’t sound at all convincing.

  ‘Let me help you; look at exhibit fourteen.’

  Rollins found the relevant exhibit in the bundle of papers. Morgan did likewise.

  ‘The ID is for a Sarah Callan. Compare the photo on the ID to the picture of Clara Reece in exhibit fourteen, the profile picture of Clara Reece taken from her Reeler account. It i
s clearly the same woman in the footage who accompanies the defendant to his apartment, and it is without doubt the same young woman in the photo ID for Sarah Callan, correct?’

  Silence. The judge answered the question meant for Morgan.

  ‘It is the same woman. Clara Reece and Sarah Callan are one and the same,’ said Rollins.

  No experienced detective handed his ass in the witness stand is going to argue with the judge.

  ‘It would appear so, Your Honor,’ said Morgan.

  ‘Detective, the checking account, the library card, the driver’s license all issued on the same day last year could be someone creating a history for a false identity?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Of course. You’re NYPD. The police department has never created a false identity for an undercover police officer, have they?’

  Even Judge Rollins smiled at that one.

  ‘It’s possible,’ he said.

  ‘You had no DNA or fingerprint matches for the body in the apartment, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the victim’s face had been obliterated, so you couldn’t ID the body?’

  He nodded.

  Rollins interrupted me. ‘What does this mean, Mr Flynn?’ he said.

  This was the moment. This was my shot. I took a breath, put down the document and placed a hand on David’s shoulder. He was rocking back and forth in his chair, shaking his head, his eyes filled with tears. I steadied him.

  ‘Your Honor, the defense believes that Sarah Callan assumed a false identity in order to frame David Child for murder. Her murder.’

  ‘What?’ said Rollins.

  I changed DVDs, found the image of the figure in the hazmat suit leaving the apartment just as whoever it was climbed through the crime scene tape.

  ‘Your Honor, the person shown in that video is the person who committed murder in that apartment. It is the same person who attended a lecture in Paris during an Interpol conference on the similarities between air bag deployment residue and GSR under the name Sarah Callan, the same person who would three months later assume the false identity of Clara Reece, the same person who three weeks later met and began dating the billionaire David Child, the same person we saw entering the apartment with a similar-looking young female and then leaving that apartment alone the day before the murder. We do not yet know the identity of the real victim, but I believe that Clara Reece – or Sarah Callan – is still alive, as she was the one with the obscure expert knowledge to know how to produce a convincing false positive for GSR, and I believe she orchestrated the car accident to load the defendant with that false evidence. The real victim was shot in the panic room. That room is soundproof, and a person could easily be hidden there. The real victim had her face obliterated by gunshot wounds so that she could not be identified. The time signature on the vent camera matches the timings on the building’s security log, which means the defendant was not in the apartment when the shots were fired. And we know someone was alive and moving around in the apartment after Mr Child had left – the door handle moved. We all saw that. There she is on the screen, leaving the scene of the crime. This was a highly sophisticated but ultimately failed attempt to frame Mr Child for murder.’

  ‘To what end?’ said Rollins.

  ‘Your Honor, Mr Child is one of the wealthiest men in this city.’ I left it at that, let Rollins fill in the blanks. Let him believe the lie. David had been set up all right, but blackmail had nothing to do with it. The ID for Sarah Callan listed her as a civil servant, which could mean anything, but librarians are unlikely to wind up attending Interpol lectures.

  Morgan had been staring at the ceiling, trying to take it all in. He soon snapped out of his contemplative mood when the judge addressed him directly.

  ‘Detective, I don’t need to hear anything further. Mr Zader, I take it the detective was your final witness?’

  The DA was on his feet, ready to mount a rescue mission. He realized that Rollins was going to rule against him. The footage of the door handle moving had proven to be the final straw.

  ‘Yes. Judge. This is simply ridiculous. The defendant could have arranged this elaborate scheme just as easily as any supposed …’

  ‘Do you have evidence of that, Mr Zader?’ said Rollins.

  ‘No, Your Honor, not at this time, but …’

  ‘Then I suggest you go and investigate. There seems to have been a lot of evidence, which Mr Flynn has presented, that either the police ignored or simply overlooked. And I am not impressed by Officer Jones and his blatant attempt to mislead this court. Given the footage that undoubtedly proves there was someone walking around in that apartment after Mr Child left, and considering the inconsistent time signatures on the nine one one call and the security log, and having regard to the unchallenged testimony of Gershbaum, I am of the view that at present there is insufficient evidence to prove that the defendant was in the apartment when the shooting occurred. There is insufficient evidence to hold the defendant on the current charge, and accordingly, I find in favor of the defense. Mr Zader, if you are sure of these charges, you always have the grand jury. I am not convinced – case dismissed.’

  The sound of Judge Rollins pushing back his chair as he rose, closing his notebook, and leaving the court, was lost in the sensational roar of the crowd. What had promised to be a celebrity murder trial and fodder for a few months of news had now turned into a conspiracy-fueled celebrity murder mystery that the journalists knew would haunt the country for years – or more precisely, the media would haunt the public with articles speculating on the identity of the real murderer.

  I almost didn’t hear David crying. Holly held him close. His shoulders bucked with the ecstasy of release, of freedom, of escape and loss. He’d lost her all over again, because the life he’d had with Clara had been a lie. Clara Reece didn’t exist. The life that lay before him was frightening and uncertain, but at least he could make something of it.

  ‘David, don’t mourn Clara. The night of the murder, she told you she was freaking out in the elevator because she was claustrophobic. You saw the elevator footage from the day before. She wasn’t claustrophobic. She was setting you up: making it look like you scared her, giving you motive.’

  He nodded, straightened up.

  I heard Zader approach me from behind.

  ‘Get ready for round three,’ said Zader.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘Believe it. We’ve got a grand jury on standby. In twenty minutes’ time I’ll be leading the same witnesses through their testimony. Pity we don’t have time to wait for the transcript from this hearing. None of your cross-examination will get as far as the grand jury. I’ll get my indictment. There’s no reason for you to even be there – you can’t ask questions or make a speech. Just leave it to me. I’ll be sure to call you and let you know what happened.’

  ‘The grand jury won’t give you an indictment. I know that. But you’re right about one thing – I won’t be at the hearing. He will,’ I said, pointing to Cooch.

  ‘Pity he can’t cross-examine any witnesses,’ said Zader.

  ‘He won’t have to,’ I replied, and with that, Cooch approached the bench, retrieved a CD-ROM from the clerk, and joined my conversation with Zader.

  ‘Mr Coucheron here,’ I said, laying it out for Zader, ‘suffers from poor hearing. He wears a hearing aid. The live feed from that aid is digitally recorded and made available to Mr Coucheron at any time. He can’t question your witnesses or make a speech – you’re right about that – but he can play this recording. It’s court certified.’

  I threw the disk at Zader’s face. He reacted quickly and caught it.

  ‘I just served the disk on you in open court in front of the cameras. Mr Coucheron will tell me if you don’t play it. If I hear you didn’t, I’ll have you indicted for prosecutorial misconduct and misuse of public office. Good luck getting an indictment with that.’

  ‘Goddamn it,’ said Zader. He tur
ned to his entourage and said, ‘Pull the grand jury for a month.’ I walked away, Cooch, Holly, and David behind me. I heard Zader calling after me, ‘This isn’t over yet.’

  I checked my phone; one message from the Lizard:

  FBI cleared the building. 2 agents inside with Christine. She’s ok.

  It was all I could do to hold it together, to keep walking and not collapse in relief. Still, this wasn’t over yet.

  The solid wall of reporters didn’t seem to budge as I approached. The cameras were blinding, the fastball questions lost in a shower of voices, and the pleading hands and thrusting microphones and voice recorders all melted into a single, hungry boiling mass. Something was happening at the rear of the pack; the reporters parted, and two men in suits forced their way through the back of the crowd. One of them held out a pair of handcuffs. I had seen these men before – they both wore dark suits, both in their thirties, fit and with an air of authority in their gait. They were the same men who’d brought Christine to court. One was Latino and the other was an asshole; the asshole wore aviators and looked like he was enjoying himself. I almost held out my hands for the cuffs, but they walked past me and the Latino slapped them on David. With every click and ratchet of the cuffs tightening on David’s wrists, the noise and camera flash multiplied in intensity. David was shaking his head, pulling away, his world crumbling before him like a rotten floorboard being sucked into the earth.

  ‘Hey. That’s my client and the judge just released him. What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Dominguez, United States Treasury officer. I’m arresting him.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Grand larceny,’ he replied, and proceeded to recite David’s rights.

  ‘What? This is bullshit,’ I said.

  The explanation came from behind me. It was Dell, whispering it in my ear.

  ‘I told you not to be taken in by this guy. You messed up. He conned you, Eddie. Your client just stole seven point nine billion dollars.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  As we sped through Manhattan in the back of a black SUV, I went through every piece of evidence in my head, every play made by Gerry Sinton, and everything I’d been told in the last forty-eight hours. David was chewing on his lip, at once angry and scared. I found it hard to look away from him. Over and over, a single thought rang loudly in my head.