Move to Strike (36 page)

While Amanda was certainly not one disposed to unnecessary consideration for the defendants in the cases that she prosecuted, there was something about Harrison's offer, and Logan's approval of it, that did not sit easily with the learned ADA. Amanda was all for winning, but she was still her father's daughter and this one was . . . well . . . she found it quite a stretch that the two young people in question would have agreed to the proposal that their lawyer and only remaining parent were proposing on their behalf.

‘They understand their situation,' said Logan. ‘And to be honest with you, Ms Carmichael, they are both extremely distraught. I am trying to shelter them as much as possible from the incredibly stressful nature of these legal proceedings. They know what they have done, Ms Carmichael – and first and foremost we need to get them some help.'

Amanda nodded, not missing the colour now rising in Bishop's cheeks. ‘Let me think about it,' she said. And if she was expecting an argument from Harrison she didn't get one – for the lawyer simply nodded at Logan, who subsequently flicked his finger at Tony to follow as they all rose to leave.

‘Thank you, Ms Carmichael,' said Logan, offering his hand. ‘I am so sorry about . . . well, you know, all of it.'

‘Ah,' said Carmichael, who in that second found herself highly tempted to say ‘
not as fucking sorry as your wife'
. ‘I understand, Doctor Logan, and I can assure you I shall give Mr Harrison's offer my every consideration.'

Five minutes later, her secretary at lunch, her door closed and her phone diverted to voice mail, Amanda Carmichael was up and pacing.

How dare they
, she thought.
How dare they waltz in here and surrender like a trio of dickless halfwits
.
How dare they throw in the towel, a mere two weeks before trial, with such gutless inanity and leave me with the ultimate of career anti-climaxes. This isn't a win, it's a forfeit. What kind of victory is it when the opposing team is too spineless to even show the hell up and fight?

Worse still, she knew there was no solution. Even if she rejected their offer – an offer she would never have been stupid enough to put on the table if the shoe were on the other foot – Harrison could still advise his clients to plead guilty and pray for the leniency of the court. On the other hand, if the rejection of their offer saw them do another about face and stick with their original plea of not guilty . . . sure she would get her day in court, but beating Harrison would be like taking candy from a baby, like kicking the walking stick out from under a man who already had one foot in the grave and was too damned past it to know which way in the hell was up.

No
, she thought.
This is not good
. In fact, it was worse than not good, it was a massive opportunity missed, a once-in-a-lifetime chance squandered – a bona fide professional disaster. Truth be told, she knew why she was so pissed. (And it was
not
, she told herself, because of her earlier suspicion that the Logan children were being ‘swayed'.) It was not just the exposure of this high-profile trial that she craved, but a chance to face off against David Cavanaugh – the only man to have refused her, the only one insolent enough to turn her down! The very thought of it made her blood boil, made her want to strike out and slap him
straight across the face
.

But given the impossibility of that no doubt satisfying retaliation at present, she compensated by kicking off one high-heeled shoe and bent to take off the other so that she might throw it – hard – against the far office wall. And that was when she saw her office door open quickly and the most unexpected of visitors stride determinedly into the room.

‘Jesus, Tony,' she said with a start. ‘What in the hell . . . ?'

‘I forgot my briefcase,' he said, his face flushed. And in that moment she sensed that Bishop, whose brown leather case was indeed sitting by the visitors' chair leg, had left it there on purpose – that he had come back for more than just a piece of luggage, that he had come back to . . .

‘My God,' she said. ‘You left it here deliberately so that you had an
excuse to come back.' She shook her head. ‘For God's sake Tony, grow some balls. It's over between us, has been for months, and I have no intention of . . .'

‘Jesus Christ, Amanda, for once in your life stop assuming that everything in this Goddamned universe revolves solely around you. Logan and Harrison are downstairs waiting for me, which means I don't have much time, so I need you to shut the fuck up and listen.'

And with that she caught her breath and nodded. She was dumbstruck – for the second time in less than an hour – but this time something told her it was in her best interests to do exactly as Tony had asked.

‘Harrison is an idiot,' he started. ‘He is tossing this case away and you know it. The man is a senile fool who thinks he can score some points with the media by settling this case for the big TV star and his mentally disturbed kids, but that is a load of crap and I am pretty sure you agree.'

Amanda said nothing, so Tony went on.

‘The kids deserve decent representation, Amanda – for no matter what the hell went down in that Logan “House of Horrors” over two months ago, those two young people have the right to their day in court. Their father is steamrolling them. I can feel it. And no matter
which
side of the legal fence you sit on, that is not how our system of justice is meant to work.'

Amanda hated him then, for making her pull at her conscience once again.

‘So here's the thing. I know you are pissed – seriously pissed – at not getting the opportunity to strut your stuff in front of a national, hell, an
international
, audience. You are good, Amanda – brilliant, in fact. And the fact that this rare opportunity is being snatched from you by a savvy psychologist and his fool of a lawyer is eating you up inside. And don't try to deny it because I can see it in your eyes.'

Amanda blinked, but did not protest.

‘So what if I told you I have a way for you to take it back – for you to get your day in court and play your best shot at prosecuting one of the most groundbreaking, high-profile cases this Commonwealth has seen in decades? What if I told you I could give you a way out – or “in” for that matter – which, as you and I both know, is exactly what you want.'

‘For God's sake, Tony,' she said at last. ‘I am not stupid – and I know
what you are going to say. You are about to tell me that you can convince Harrison to bail on the plea and take this case to court. But in all honesty, I have no desire to face off against a man who is probably wearing diapers under his $3000 suit. It doesn't interest me, Tony – and you
know
, when something fails to interest me I . . .'

But then he was in front of her, and lifting his hand to her mouth so that she could not say another word.

‘Shut up,' he said, before finally lowering his hand. ‘There is another way.'

She met his eye and slowly but surely got a sense for what her clever ex-lover was proposing. And in that moment she knew, without question, that Tony Bishop could well be her lucky charm, after all.

I
t had not taken long for their high to crash and burn. Logan may be Golan and Nagol and a myriad of other characters for all they knew, but in the end, they had no concrete proof of the connection and, even more importantly, no solid evidence that he was behind his wife's death.

Worse still, while Garretson's admission that Stephanie did not pick up the rifle in person certainly helped validate their suspicions, it did not provide any direct link to Logan as the buyer. If anything, they realised the ADA could argue that Stephanie, given her devious and abusive nature, was indeed the one who offered Garretson junior the $5000 to deliver the weapon personally – a tactic Carmichael would say she adopted to keep her ‘birthday purchase' secret. It was Stephanie's email address (albeit a new one she had supposedly created on Webmail – explaining why the email would not have been found on Stephanie's home computer's Outlook), credit card and FIC linked to the purchase, after all – which meant that in reality Logan's ‘fingerprints' were nowhere near the gun purchase, whether they liked it or not.

‘There has to be a way we can tie Logan to these other characters – Golan or Nagol,' said David.

‘But how?' asked a tired-looking Sara who had moved to a straight-backed chair in an effort to relieve the ache in her shoulders. She was over
eight months pregnant and, David knew, feeling more uncomfortable by the day. In fact, while he was selfishly excited at these new revelations, he had noted the immediate disquiet on her face the moment the name ‘Logan' had been uttered.

‘Even if we do find a link,' Sara went on, ‘what can we do about it besides going to the ADA. And who is to say she would even
believe
what we were claiming, given she is the last person wanting to cut us a break. Don't forget, there is still the matter of those dual restraining orders against us, which means we can't take this to the children – which means we have no hope of . . .'

‘Sara's right,' said Arthur, taking an icy cold water from Nora before she rushed from the room to monitor their calls. ‘The 209A is a problem. And besides all that, our evidence is sketchy at best.'

‘So we have to find the link,' said Joe. ‘Golan is a long shot, but in the very least we know someone who knows Nagol – and if at some stage Nagol came in to buy his guns from Blackmore's outfit personally, then we might be able to get an ID and match it with the smarmy Doc Hollywood himself.'

‘But you said it yourself, Joe,' said Sara. ‘The gun laws in Nevada don't require you to front up in person, and if anything we can assume Logan has been super careful when it comes to hiding his multiple identities.'

‘Sure,' said David, picking up on Joe's tack. ‘He's careful now, but what about years ago before he became so famous. Blackmore told Rigotti that Nagol had been a customer from way back. Maybe he wasn't always as cautious as he is now.'

Before he had a chance to change his mind, David rose from the sofa and moved towards Arthur's desk, picking up the phone before pressing four digits and waiting for the operator to pick up.

‘Nevada, please,' he said, when the operator asked him for the state before enquiring if the number he wanted was residential or commercial. ‘It's a business. Hunting Rifles Inc in Las Vegas.'

‘Jesus,' said Joe, rising from his seat. ‘What in the hell are you doing, David? I thought we all agreed we can't alert Blackmore to . . .'

But it was too late.

‘Mr Blackmore?' asked David, and the others in the room immediately picked up on his accent. Marc Rigotti was a born and bred New Yorker
and thus had the tendency to speak in that edgy, punctuated dialect that those from the Big Apple favoured.

‘This is Marc Rigotti. I am sorry to bother you again.' And in that moment David switched the phone to speaker, hoping beyond all hope that Blackmore would not notice – or, even worse, protest.

‘Honestly, Mr Rigotti,' said an obviously exasperated Blackmore. ‘Your calls are now verging on harassment. I have spoken to Mr Nagol and he has assured me he has spoken to you. I have a business to run, sir, and I . . .'

‘I am sorry, Mr Blackmore,' said David. ‘There is just one more thing – and I am happy to say it has nothing to do with the Logan case. It's just that after all of our conversations another idea came to me. Mr Nagol seemed like a very nice man and I was kind of in awe of his shooting accomplishments. And I thought that maybe he might make a good subject for a character piece – you know, man against elephant – that sort of thing.'

Silence . . . as Blackmore took a breath and all in the room waited anxiously for his response.

‘Well, that sounds more like it,' said Blackmore. ‘We have been supplying him with rifles for years, you know. He must have a tremendous collection by now. I would be happy to talk about our business and how we go out of our way to supply our loyal customers and – as in Mr Nagol's case – lifelong gun enthusiasts with the pieces they desire.'

‘So you've obviously known Mr Nagol for some time then? It's funny, I have been sitting here trying to imagine what kind of man takes on the most powerful animals on the planet – I mean, the guy must be pretty big to have the guts to . . .'

‘Oh no, sir,' said Blackmore.

‘He's of average size then,' said David, barely able to hide his excitement. ‘Is he tall or slim or . . . ?'

‘My “no” didn't refer to Mr Nagol's stature, Mr Rigotti.' And David felt his heart begin to sink. ‘But to the fact that I have never seen him. He orders most of his guns by email or telephone and we send them to various places around the country, depending on where he is at the time.'

It wasn't much better.

‘But Little Willie has seen him,' added Blackmore.

‘Excuse me, Mr Blackmore?' asked David, lifting his head to meet his colleagues' eyes.

‘Little Willie – or more specifically William Dukes, my second-in-charge. Willie used to compete against Jason Nagol when they were teenagers – you know, at local shooting competitions, target rallies and the like.'

‘And is Mr Dukes available to . . .'

‘Well sure,' said Blackmore. ‘In fact, if you hold on a moment Willie is just finishing up with a customer. He could call you back if you like. I have your number at the
Tribune
.'

‘No!' protested David, almost a little too enthusiastically. ‘I mean, I can hold if that is okay.'

‘Well, all right then.'

Moments later, Dukes was on the line.

‘Jason Nagol was the best damn shot I ever come across,' said Dukes after their introductions. ‘I'm a darn fine shooter, Mr Rigotti, but my talent comes from hours and hours of practice. Jason, on the other hand, could well have been born with a gun in his hand. With Jason, the ability to shoot come natural, the gun was like an extension of his arm.'