Alibi (45 page)

“And that’s it?” asked Stein. “Your counter motion to a request for a speedy trial is based entirely on the ADA’s supposed ambitions?”

David paused. He had too much respect for the man in front of him to lie, but too much riding on their secret investigations to tell him the truth.

“I see,” said the judge when David failed to elaborate. “Son, I like to think I know you better than most, and therefore trust that what you have put to me today is not just some veiled attempt to buy some time so that you might clutch at some very thin straws.”

David went to open his mouth, but Stein raised his fork, signaling that he was not finished.

“My eyes may not be as good as they used to be, but ironically, I have found that as the years of experience weigh upon you, your ability to see is replaced by your ability to
see.
Do you understand?” he asked.

David nodded, urging the judge to go on.

“ADA Katz is a man hell-bent on getting ahead, and on the surface, there is nothing wrong with that. However,” he went on, “my elderly sense of vision allows me to look beyond the obvious and perhaps see things that bring a sour taste to my mouth.”

The judge was at least acknowledging Katz’s motives, and for this alone, David was grateful.

“But,” Stein continued, “I am, as you know, a judge of the Suffolk County Superior Court and, as such, cannot even consider a counter motion based on the opinions of two like-minded men who sit here, surrounded by various garden foods, agreeing on matters of conscience. What you or I think of ADA Katz is of no consequence. What matters is that the path I carve allows
both
sides to follow the letter of the law in regards to the process of justice—for if I fail in that, I do a monstrous disservice to you, to your client, and most of all to myself.”

David looked at him, knowing what he was saying was true.

“Judge . . .” David began at last, realizing the only way to play this was straight down the line. “The truth is, we—”

But he was interrupted by the rumble of his cell, which he had placed on the table between them after muting it to vibrate so that its shrill might not intrude upon this all-important conversation. He reached across the table, determined to shut it off. But before doing so, he saw the incoming number, which sent a new sense of concern through his now exhausted body. It was Sara, who should be with James. Sara who would not be interrupting his meeting with Stein unless something untoward had happened, something unexpected and urgent and . . .

“I’m sorry, Judge. It’s my co-counsel. She’s with our client and wouldn’t be calling unless . . .”

Stein nodded, gesturing for him to pick up the call.

The conversation was largely one way as David, head down, shoulders collapsed, was forced to confront the latest nightmare in this escalating journey of horrors. He looked up at Stein, the judge’s expression now one of deep grooves of unease. His wizened face a canvas of gullies and ridges carved by decades in a chair that carried the weight of justice and the destinies of the thousands of lives that had stood in judgment before him. David realized that no matter how much time they thought they needed, their client was crying out for someone to help him, and it was their job, their
duty
, to do so as quickly as possible. He whispered something to Sara, hung up the phone and placed it once again in the middle of the table before looking up to Stein once again.

“There will be no counter motion, Judge. If Katz wants his speedy trial, as far as we are concerned, he can have it.”

“But I thought you . . . ,” a confused Stein began, only to be met by a slight shake of David’s head as he lifted his forefinger to his lips in a plea for silence.

And then, as if on cue, his cell vibrated again. David snatched it from the table, pressed several buttons and then, slowly, carefully rotated the phone so that the screen sat mere inches from the elderly Judge’s nose.

“Is that close enough?” asked David.

“Dear God,”
said Stein at last, first squinting, then leaning in, then instinctively pulling away from the shocking image before him.

“Another inmate,” said David.

“Is he . . . ?”

“All right?” finished David. “For now.”

And then David removed the phone as Stein rested back in his seat, his face an ashen shade of gray.

“Judge?”

“All right, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Stein at last. “You’ve made your point. I will give Mr. Katz’s motion my immediate attention.”

And despite it all, David nodded in gratitude.

Sawyer was nervous as all hell. Nervous—but exhilarated, excited, buzzed. He felt like that girl on the TV show, the one where the CIA conscripted a university student to become an undercover agent and the girl lived this double life as an average college kid on one hand and a kick-ass super sleuth on the other. And then his mind went off on another tangent where he imagined himself as Matt Damon’s character in the Jason Bourne films—with twenty passports and fifty different forms of currency hidden away in some hard-to-find safety deposit box where . . .

Cut it out,
he said to himself, chopping this chain of unrealistic internal banter before his lack of focus threatened to distract him from the all-important task at hand. And so he took a breath, reorganizing his thoughts to take in the scene before him.

The law school common room was a large rectangular space, cluttered with plush, comfortable lounges covered in what looked to be some sort of rich red velvet. He moved diagonally from the front entranceway, negotiating the couches and various coffee tables along the way, trying to look as casual as possible, walking slowly but with purpose toward the bulletin board where he started to peruse the mess of colorful posts. Once there, he took the opportunity to shift some of the obscured Solidarity Global brochures to the front of the board, moving a “bike for sale” Post-it and a “shared accommodation wanted” ad carefully to the side. Then he shifted his feet, before turning slowly, deliberately, diverting his eyes left toward the red-haired young man who sat next to the fireplace at the far right-hand corner of the room, his head lowered in concentration above a pile of heavy texts.

He looked at his watch. 2:55 p.m. He was sure Simpson was due in Professor Elliot’s elective on professional responsibility at three. And if that was the case, he should be gathering his books by now. He should be glancing at his own timepiece, shaking his head and realizing he had less than five minutes to . . .

Simpson looked up toward the antique clock just above the mantelpiece. He shut his texts, closed his laptop, took another sip of his water and gathered his notes before running his hand across his slick ginger hair and getting to his feet. He ignored everyone around him, which was not unusual considering the room was now almost full of first years. And then he picked up his books and the . . .

Shit,
said Sawyer to himself.
He wasn’t meant to take the glass
!
Why the hell would he do that?
The glasses were meant to be left on the tables so the students who worked part-time cleaning the common room for some measly handful of change could collect them at the end of each day and take them to the cafeteria to be cleaned in the industrial-sized dishwasher.

But then he saw Simpson shake his head, as if he had realized he had picked up the glass by mistake. And then he let it drop on the nearest table—on its
side
for God’s sake—with no regard for the poor sods who would have to clean up the mess in his wake.

Simpson walked toward the exit. Sawyer waited by the bulletin board. Simpson pushed his way out the door. Sawyer gave a sigh of relief.

And then Sawyer “Undercover” Jones did some breezing of his own. Well, not so much breezing, but definitely some fancy footwork, in and out of the furniture toward that upturned water glass, which sat on the now wet coffee table just ripe for the taking.

And then he went to retrieve the pen—the one Lieutenant Mannix had given him, stressing he was not to touch the glass no matter what. He was meant to scoop it up—like a hoop on a stick, but he had . . .
Shit, where the hell was that pen?
It wasn’t in his pocket. Where he had put it? It must have fallen out, but when, where?

And so, knowing opportunities such as these only came along every once in a while, and telling himself that Jason Bourne would think on his feet without hesitating, Sawyer inserted his thumb into the glass like a hook and lifted it from the table, immediately dropping it into the plastic evidence bag provided by Detective Frank McKay.

He took a breath. He felt his heart finally starting to slow, and then he smiled ever so slightly as he gave himself a mental pat on the back and headed out the back way toward the main quadrangle. He was meant to meet them by the doughnut stand, just outside the main gates, where no doubt McKay would be devouring his umpteenth Krispy Kreme as he and Mannix waited with anticipation for their “deputy” to deliver them the evidence.

And he would—deliver it, of course, with all the humility he could muster. All the time knowing they could not have done this without him, and feeling damned fine about the whole thing, now that it was done.

The water fell down her back in a cascade of miniature rivulets, her long brown hair now drawn straight against the force. She turned to face him, her aqua eyes now blinking against the stream, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close, kissing her deeply.

“David, I . . .”

“Shhh,” he said, kissing her again, this time lifting her up so that she might wrap her legs around him. He turned his back on the water, moving forward so that she might rest her back against the cool tiles of the shower recess. And then they made love slowly, deliberately—their hearts beating as one, their breaths long and deep until any trace of the past twenty-four hours was a vague and distant memory.

And finally, as he released her, David made a promise to himself that he would never forget that this was what life was about—the ability to love and be loved, to have faith in a future and someone to share it all with.

Hours later the moonlight was drifting through their bedroom window—on, off, on, off, as it sneaked its way between the intermittent clouds that surged across the midnight sky as if determined to get somewhere by morning. Sara lay awake, nestled into David’s shoulder, his breathing slow and regular, telling her that he was most likely asleep, or close enough to it.

“David,” she said in a whisper, not knowing exactly why she felt the need to talk about this tonight, especially after the day that they had had, and considering the grueling months she knew were sure to follow. “David, are you awake?”

“Yeah,” he said, although he sounded anything but. “What is it?” he asked, as he shifted slightly, pulling her even closer to him, his arm now wrapped around her shoulders.

“I was thinking,” she began, not knowing exactly how this was going to come out. “No, not so much thinking, more like questioning what this all means—to us, and what we believe.”

“Come again?” he asked, tilting his head so that he might look into her eyes.

“Well, to be honest, it has been on my mind since the arraignment, since Katz raised the whole feticide issue, the argument of when a pregnancy becomes valid, when a promise becomes a person and when an unborn child becomes a life.”

“What are you trying to say, Sara?” he asked, and she could see his brow furrow in the muted white light.

“I don’t know, it’s just that . . . I know our client is innocent and I know Katz’s grandstanding is ultimately just that. But I can’t help but think that two weeks, ten, thirteen, twenty-three—to that child’s parents, in this case James and Jessica, that potential life became a person the minute they made love.”

David said nothing, but she sensed the trace of a nod.

“I am not saying I agree with Katz legally, but morally, personally . . . I mean, if my mother had disregarded me before I became ‘viable,’ if she had chosen to abort me instead of adopting me out . . .”

“Sara,” he said at last, now rising up onto his elbow to look her direct in the eye. “It’s all right to feel angry, confused. Hell, if we didn’t question this issue, what kind of potential parents would we be?”

He stopped there and she wondered if he had meant to say what he had. They had never discussed the issue of children before, at least not like this; alone, exposed, in an atmosphere that demanded openness and sincerity and truth.

“But don’t you see,” he went on. “As sad as this might be, the reality is, the minute we make that child legally viable, the minute we allow our own sensibilities to enter that courtroom, we hand Katz his double homicide on a platter. This child should not be used as a bargaining chip. To me that is even more reprehensible than fighting to dismiss the charge.”

He took a breath before going on.