Alibi (71 page)

It had been almost two weeks since the trial—since that shocking day when they had lost and won on so many different levels. And even now they were not sure how they felt about it all—about Sawyer’s death and Mr. Lim’s incarceration, about James’ freedom, and Simpson and Westinghouse’s victory.

It had been Nora’s idea that they have a quiet Christmas—in fact, she had practically demanded they tell their respective families that they were getting away on their own. The past ten days had seen them reeling from the constant barrage of press inquiries and right now, just the idea of their imminent break was enough to make them smile.

They had barely spoken to James. Their client had been holed up in his Brookline mansion, constantly surrounded by cameras and news crews and journalists on a rotating shift. His parents had eventually hired a “manager” to represent his interests—the publicist/protector quickly streamlining James’ interviews to a series of specific exclusives, the main one of which would be airing in seconds.

“It’s starting,” said David, pouring Sara a water as the opening credits for the high-rating
Newsline
flashed across the screen. The anchor, a high-profile journalist named Caroline Croft, who David and Sara knew from previous cases, soon filled the frame, promising an hour of “riveting, exclusive, never-seen-before footage—the real story behind the dignified young man who never lost faith in times of unthinkable despair and grief.”

And then she threw to a special opening sequence—an emotional montage of those moments on the Superior Court steps just after James’ release—the imagery that showed James’ brief statement, where he spoke of his heartfelt thanks to his attorneys, his love for his parents and finally his respect for his two best friends.

The piece, that fell in and out of slow motion and was set to U2’s “With or Without You,” had David and Sara transfixed—the close-ups of James’ smiling face, the obvious magnitude of his parents’ relief, the beaming expressions of his two best friends and the entire group’s eventual descent down the Superior Court stairs with the crowd cheering jubilantly around them.

It was almost like watching the parting of the Red Sea, with James as Moses, literally walking into the sunset, his parents out wide, Westinghouse on his left, Simpson on his right, and an entourage of fascinated citizens shaking his hand and patting his back and offering words of admiration and congratulations and best wishes for the future.

And then the camera swung around at the joyous faces around him, doing a full three-sixty before looping back to James once again, his pale green eyes finally stopping briefly on a pretty young girl who offered the widest smile David had ever seen, lighting up the screen for the briefest of seconds, before . . .

David sat forward in his chair, the rug that was around their legs now falling to the floor.

“What is it?” asked Sara.

“Are we recording this?” he asked.

“No, but Nora is,” she said. “She set the DVD at the office. What is it, David? What did you see?”

“Not what,” he said, turning to her. “Who—the pretty blond girl in the crowd. Joe showed me a photo of her from a Deane University newspaper. I might be wrong, but I could almost swear that the girl beaming at James was none other than his beautiful French alibi—Barbara Rousseau.”

“This better be good,” said Joe as he met David at their front office door. “It’s almost midnight and I just left Marie on the living room floor with at least fifty gifts to wrap.”

“I’m sorry,” said David, shaking his friend’s hand. “Come on up,” he said, pointing to the stairs. “They turn the elevator off at eleven.”

Fifteen minutes later, David switched off the DVD player and turned to look Joe in the eye. “Is it her?” he asked, knowing Joe was the only one who had met Rousseau in person. Barbara had agreed to fly to Boston to give her new statement to the police personally, saying she felt it was the least she could do considering the heartache she had caused.

“It’s her,” said Joe.

“But I thought you said you dialed her internationally on the last day of the trial?”

“I did,” said Joe, running his hands though his thick, dark hair. “But it was an international cell, which means . . .”

“She could have been next door and you still would have registered those international beeps,” finished Sara.

Joe nodded. “But why would she lie about being in Paris?” “Wait,” said David, getting up from his chair to move to the drawer behind his desk. “There’s something else that doesn’t make sense.”

“What’s that?” asked Joe, now staring at the document in David’s right hand.

“A courier delivery bill,” he replied, handing it to Joe. “Marking the delivery of the Australian boys’ statements as Tuesday morning, December eighth.”

“So?”

“So, according to Diane the boys only gave their statements on the Monday—the seventh, which is Tuesday, the eighth Down Under.”

“A courier that delivers from Australia overnight?” asked Joe.

“Not possible,” said David, shaking his head and returning to his chair across from Sara.

“So Diane must have got it wrong,” reasoned Joe. “They must have given their statements the week before,” he added, obviously not sure where this was going.

“But then why did their witnessing attorney date them on the Monday—an attorney by the name of Rebecca Morgan who works for . . .”

“Let me guess,” said Joe at last. “The Australian affiliate of Westinghouse, Lloyd and Greene.” He was seeing it now.

“Yes,” said David. “I just called them and checked. Ms. Morgan works out of the Sydney office but, according to her very helpful assistant, she was in South Australia earlier in the month.”

“The reward money,” said Joe. “Simpson and Westinghouse paid the remainder of their reward to the Australians.”

“That’s our guess,” said Sara. “Don’t forget Professor Heffer did say the boys specified the other million went to an international cause.”

“Jesus,” said Joe. “Their glowing statements were bought.”

“Yes,” said David.

“In an attempt to get Matheson off.”

“Yes,” said David again. “At least that’s what we’re assuming, but we have no proof.”

“We can try to put a trace on the money,” said Joe thinking ahead. “But those Grand Cayman Banks are impenetrable. And even if I was lucky enough to convince a judge to issue a warrant, there is no way it could happen before the holidays.”

“Wait,” said Sara, now shaking her head as if trying to retrieve a memory. “Didn’t the boys’ assignment, the one they gave Heffer, give details of the money transfer. It was part of the assignment brief wasn’t it, to show how the money was made?”

“You’re right,” said David, moving to a filing cabinet in the corner, grabbing the assignment and leafing to the page that outlined the original transfer to the Grand Cayman Island Caribbean Trust and Banking Corporation. “But I don’t think it is going to be of any help,” he said. “These records are too old. They only show the original deposit, not the subsequent withdrawals. They won’t tell us where the money went after it was paid in because . . .”

And then he stopped, Joe and Sara staring at him, seeing the color now drain from his face.

“David?” Sara began.

“What is it?” asked Joe, now getting to his feet. And David finally drew his eyes away from the document in front of him.

“It’s the money,” he said at last. “The two million split equally between Simpson and Westinghouse.” David could feel the chill start in his lower spine and rise up his back like liquid mercury. “It seems that when the accounts were first set up, there was a third one—one that was canceled before the two million was wired and split evenly between the two boys.” He placed his hand on the desk before him, feeling a strange need to steady himself as the reality of what was before him finally became clear.

“David,” said Sara, obviously noting his distress. “What is it?” she said, getting to her feet as well. “I don’t understand.”

But Joe obviously did. “Someone called and told them to get rid of the third account,” said Joe. “Someone who needed to cover their tracks.”

“Yes,” said David.

“And you know who it was,” said Joe.

“Yes,” he replied, now pointing to a contact telephone number beginning with the prefix 714.

“Oh God,” she said, finally getting it at last. “Sawyer was innocent after all.”

The final piece of the puzzle fell into place around 5 a.m., after hours of trying to work out just how Jessica’s shoes ended up in Sawyer Jones’ closet. It was the one question they could not answer, the one mystery with no logical explanation—until David asked Joe to go through the particulars of his search of Sawyer’s dorm room, until Joe happened to mention a tiny detail that would normally have seemed insignificant, until David made the connection with another seemingly insignificant discovery he had come across weeks ago, and eventually forgotten in all the chaos. And in the end they saw it—the incredible, horrible, genius of it all.

As the sun rose on a sunny Christmas Eve, David stood from his chair and headed for the door, Joe and Sara knowing there was no point in stopping him. And then he walked back to his apartment and got into his car, knowing exactly what he had to do.

He was in the water when he found him, doing lap after lap of the heated pool. The steam sat on its surface like a blanket, his arms rising like ghosts in and out of the mist as he pushed gracefully through the water, his stroke slow and long and efficient. David moved to the shallow end around the northern side of the pool house, his feet hanging slightly over its blue mosaic edge. And there he stood, patiently, waiting for James to notice him.

“David,” said James at last, finally stopping to take a break. “God, you scared me. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. I was in the zone you know—all the blue and the fog and, well, I cannot tell you how great it is to be home.”

James jumped from the pool, his body lean and fit and strong. He ran to a deck chair where he grabbed a thick terry cloth robe, putting it on quickly as the cold began to bite at his skin.

“It’s so good to see you, man,” he said, walking back toward David and shaking his hand. “I am sorry I haven’t called, but it has been—well, I guess you guys know how it has been. Did you see the piece last night? I think Caroline did a pretty good job. It was fair and thorough, if not a little over the top.”

“You look good,” said David at last.

“Thanks,” he said, wrapping the robe even tighter around him. “I feel incredible. Everything looks brighter, you know—everything smells sweeter, tastes better.” James considered him then. “But I have to say, David, you are looking a little worse for wear. I suppose you guys have been holed up with the paperwork while I am here having the time of it. I’m sorry.”

“Aren’t you cold?” asked David, noticing the goose bumps now rising on the young man’s skin.

“Nah,” said James. “To be honest, I can’t get enough of the outdoors at the moment. I’ve been practically living in that pool,” he said, gesturing toward the now still water. “It makes me feel alive, you know?”

“Yes.”

And then there was a pause.

“So listen to me prattling on,” said James with that million dollar smile. “It’s Christmas Eve, for God’s sake. You probably have a zillion better places to be than here. You heading down to Jersey for the holidays?”

“No.”

“To Sara’s folk’s in Cambridge?”

“No. We are getting away on our own for a while.”

“That’s great, man. You two deserve a break. Everything I said in that interview last night is true, David. You guys saved my life and I will never be able to thank you enough.” And then James pulled him into an embrace. “Happy holidays, man,” he said.

And then David pulled back, shifting his arm so that he might reach into the left-hand pocket of his Adirondack jacket. He retrieved his hand to reveal a small slip of yellow paper now stuck to his fingers. And then he turned the slip around and stuck it firmly onto James’ white cotton robe.