Matter of Trust (58 page)

‘Bullshit,' said David, loud enough for half the media and at least a handful of the jury to hear him. ‘This is a set-up, Judge – how do we even know this document is legitimate?'

Marshall handed the statement to the judge and David could see it certainly looked real. It appeared to be in the customary statement layout, with the logo for Bank of America in the corner.

But then, as Judge Jones handed David the statement for him to observe first hand, David finally understood just how damaging this old piece of paper actually was. For not only did it show the $10,000 deposit, it also gave the cheque number and the name of the account from which it was drawn – an account belonging to Christopher Daniel Kincaid.

‘A
re you fucking crazy?' David hissed at his client.

He had demanded a moment with Chris before the correctional facility security personnel transported him back to the jail for the night. He had also grabbed Gloria Kincaid by the elbow and insisted she too be part of this post-nightmare meeting being held in the now familiar congested conference room just down the hall from the courtroom.

‘Did you know about this?' David turned his attention to Gloria.

‘Of course not!' she exclaimed, a look of pure fury on her face. She turned to her son. ‘You idiot. You gave that drunk another $10,000 six months after the matter had been put to bed. And you used a
personal cheque
– for God's sake, you
stupid, stupid
boy.'

Chris swallowed, his jaw clenched in anger. ‘I felt sorry for her,' he said. Just then a knock on the door temporarily distracted them. Sara moved to open it. It was Mike Murphy – and David nodded for him to enter, and close the door behind him.

Chris turned back to David, ignoring the woman who had raised him. ‘I had been away at college. I knew that Mother had paid off Eva Stankovic, but . . . that didn't absolve my guilt. I'm not sure if I was responsible for that girl's – for
Mike
's girl's – death, DC,' Chris glanced at Mike before returning his attention to David, ‘but I played a part in it. So as soon as I
got back home, I wrote Lorraine's mother a cheque. I went round to her place – she was drunk. I said I hoped she could get on with her life and I left the cheque on her dresser under an empty bottle of bourbon.'

There was silence until Mike Murphy spoke up. ‘I'm glad you did it,' he said.

‘And I'm sorry I had to,' returned Chris, the first time he had said it.

BANG
! Gloria Kincaid had obviously had enough. She had slammed her designer handbag on top of a corner filing cabinet before turning to address the room.

‘What the fuck do you people think this is?' she said, her eyes narrowing, her cheeks flushed. ‘My son is on trial for murder and you three,' she gestured at Chris, Mike, David, ‘are playing this out like some sickening Boy Scouts' reunion.' She stepped toward David, pushing a stunned Nora Kelly aside to meet him face to face. ‘You and this pathetic excuse for a priest,' she waved her hand toward Mike. ‘You were never good enough for Chris. I was wrong, you and your minority wife and your geriatric crew of also-rans have no place defending a Kincaid.'

‘No, Sara,' said David, gesturing for his now advancing angry wife to move back.

‘You're a joke,' Gloria went on. ‘Chris's case is imploding and there you sit with your Boston attitude and your politically correct wife, pretending that you have the ability to see this thing through.'

Gloria took another step toward him, as the rage inside David rose.

‘My offer to give testimony about offering the whore the $100,000 is rescinded,' Gloria said bitterly, ‘as at this point, it will make no difference in any case. And I do not want you coming anywhere near my home – or my son's home, for the duration of this trial and beyond. I would fire you if I could, Cavanaugh – but unfortunately the time for that has passed. So I will have to put up with sitting mere feet from you and holding my tongue while I watch you screw my son's chances at freedom – and then I will do what I have to do, to save his undeserving skin.'

Gloria took a breath as the room fell into silence – but David could tell by the look in her eye that she had one more thing to say.

‘I blame myself really,' she continued, her face now mere inches from David's own, ‘for thinking a Cavanaugh could carry through on a commitment. I should have known that you would be just like your father – a
coward who hides behind a facade of righteousness and responsibility – a man who dips in and out of people's lives and leaves nothing but frustration and disappointment in his wake.'

And in that second, as David's hand rose in reflex, he heard two things – Sara screaming ‘
No, David,
' and another voice, from a time past, telling him that striking a woman was not what a Cavanaugh did.

But in the end it didn't matter, for another force – this one more physical – was making the decision for him. Chris Kincaid had grabbed David's arm and tugged him aside, before turning back toward his mother once again. And then he slapped her so hard that the sound reverberated like a single gunshot – a shot fired by a man who finally could take no more.

D
avid closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of his youth. It was the combination of the hum of the refrigerator, the gurgle of the coffee maker, and the first cars of the morning idling slowly down their narrow Down Neck street.

The early sounds of Newark weren't of birds or trees whistling in the wind, they were the man-made sounds of routine or progress or struggle, sounds of life and every person's attempt to make their own way through it.

‘You want some privacy?' asked his mother. She was standing in the kitchen doorway, a basket full of laundry in her hands.

‘No,' he said, gesturing for her to enter. ‘Actually, I could use some company. I'm a little on edge,' he admitted.

‘Who's your first witness?' she asked, putting down the basket before moving to pour herself a coffee and top up his own.

‘Rebecca. She can't give Chris an alibi but she can testify to seeing her car at the top of the street both late on the night of the twelfth and early on the morning of the thirteenth. She can show her faith in him, stress her commitment.'

Patty nodded. ‘She'll make a good impression,' she said, before her forehead knotted as she read the apprehension in David's eyes. ‘It's okay to
be nervous, David. You've always done better when you're nervous. You remember when you were in the finals of your fourth grade spelling bee, and you put your face near the heater to feign a fever so that you wouldn't have to go through with it?'

‘It didn't work,' he said.

‘Of course it didn't. You're not a quitter.'

‘It wasn't the actual bee that freaked me out, Mom. It was going up against the Cunningham kid who swore he'd beat me up if I won.'

‘But you won anyway.'

‘I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.'

‘And he didn't beat you up.'

‘Well, actually I think he was going to, but Sean warned him off.'

‘Your brother had his eye out for you then,' she said, searching his face for some indication of where her two sons currently stood with one another. David and his mother had not spoken about his and Sean's recent altercation, Patty Cavanaugh perhaps sensing that David would come to her when the time was right.

‘He still does,' said David.

Patty nodded. ‘I'm glad.'

‘We're coming, you know,' she added after a time. ‘Me and Sean. We are coming to court today, and for the rest of the trial until the verdict comes in.'

David felt an unexpected wave of gratitude. ‘I'd appreciate that,' he said.

They sat in silence for a while, until David couldn't hold back any longer. ‘Is it true?' he asked, not wanting to hurt her, but knowing that if he didn't ask now, he never would.

‘I believe so,' she said.

‘Does Lisa know?'

‘No,' answered his mother, the look in her eye telling him that she had spent a lifetime trying to protect her two younger children, and intended to keep doing so when it came to her only daughter.

David nodded. ‘And you forgave him?' he asked, referring to his father.

‘Your father was a good man.'

‘He made mistakes.'

‘The burden of which he carried for most of your life.'

And David understood it then – the reason his father had been the way he had been.

‘Was he different before I was born?' he asked, needing to know.

‘Not different – lighter. He loved you, DC, more than anything. Sean might have been more like him – and Lisa was his precious baby girl, but in you he saw everything he wasn't, and if he seemed standoffish, it was only because he was not sure how to deal with such overwhelming feelings of pride.'

‘I never thought he understood me,' said David. ‘Sean began filling Dad's shoes as soon as he was able to walk – but as for me, they never seemed to fit.'

‘That's because you outgrew them.'

David took her hand and smiled, grateful for her insight, her understanding, her love.

‘I'm not sure I can do this, Mom,' he said after a time.

‘Then you must trust me when I say that you can.'

He nodded. ‘There's a reason I could never be like him, you know – it was because I was too much like you.'

‘And would it be selfish of me to admit that I was glad of it?'

‘No,' he said, before meeting her eyes and saying it once again, ‘No.'

T
he long narrow windows on the east-facing wall of the Essex County Veterans Courthouse building were shaped like slots. They punctured the walls like cut-outs designed for oversized quarters. This morning they let in long, narrow fingers of light that cut across the courtroom in stripes – the airconditioning barely managing to cope with the numbers, the anticipation, the suspense.

‘Your turn, Mr Cavanaugh,' boomed an already shiny-browed Judge Jones, indicating it was time for the defence to present their case. ‘Are you ready to call your first witness?'

‘Yes, Your Honour,' replied David. He nodded to Chris, ran his eyes briefly over his fellow defence attorneys, and turned quickly behind him to offer a smile of encouragement to his client's three kids. ‘The defence calls Mrs Rebecca—'

‘Your Honour.' It was Marshall, stunning the entire room with an early interruption.

‘Mr Marshall,' responded the judge with a hint of frustration. ‘Law 101, Sir – you do not object until there is something to object to.'

‘I appreciate that, Your Honour,' said Marshall with a smile. ‘But I am afraid there is one more matter the prosecution needs to deal with before Mr Cavanaugh introduces his first witness.'

‘What matter?' asked the judge, the sweat on his forehead now beading.

‘A final witness for the prosecution, Your Honour.'

‘
Judge
,' objected David without hesitation. ‘Permission to approach.'

Judge Jones gestured for both David and Marshall to join him at the bench. ‘What's this all about, Mr Marshall?'

‘I'm sorry, Your Honour, but this witness, a tradesman Mr Peter Hogan . . . the information he has to provide, well . . . at first, I was not aware of its significance.'

Marshall twitched, and David was sure the man was lying.

‘But I believe Mr Hogan might be able to shed considerable light on the events surrounding Ms Maloney's death,' the FAP continued. ‘Mr Hogan was at the Kincaid house on the day of the murder, Your Honour – and as such, observed the family's movements. He was later able to make further relevant observations relating to the period during which the murder took place.'

‘The tradesman spent the night? Judge,
seriously,
' began David. ‘I could stand here all day and list a million reasons why this stunt is a breach of legal responsibility – unfair surprise, failure to provide the name of proposed witnesses, failure to provide discovery, false representation of—'

‘Your Honour,' a jittery Marshall cut in.

He wants this witness – and he wants him badly, thought David.

‘Investigations, criminal trials – they are
fluid
not static beasts,' the FAP went on.

Jesus.

‘We cannot always control the timing of when new and relevant information comes to light. I understand Mr Cavanaugh's concerns, but he will have more than enough opportunity to question this witness on cross. And if Senator Kincaid has been honest with his friend . . .' Marshall shot David a quick glance before correcting himself, ‘I am sorry, his
counsel
regarding his whereabouts on the night of January 12, then I would suggest Mr Cavanaugh has nothing to worry about. You do believe your client, don't you, Mr Cavanaugh?' asked Marshall then, addressing David directly.

‘Of course I do,' countered David, inevitably boxing himself in, just as Marshall had intended.

‘Then I'll allow your witness to take the stand, Mr Marshall,' interjected Jones. ‘But I warn you, if I get any hint that his presence is not due to circumstance, but rather to design, I shall cut you off at the knees and hold you in contempt.'

Marshall stretched in his platform shoes. The man was lying and it did not come naturally. In fact, David was sure this was the first time Marshall had pulled such a low stunt at trial. He wanted this so much that he was willing to compromise his by-the-book reputation, which made David worry all the more.

‘I understand, Your Honour,' said Marshall.

And David shook his head in disgust as the judge ordered the two sparring lawyers to step back.

Obviously relieved with what he had gotten away with, and not wanting to fuel Judge Jones's discontent, Marshall got straight to it. He began by asking the tall, tanned witness his name and occupation and followed through with some questions about the nature of his work.