The 3rd Victim (38 page)

77

That night

J
udge Isaac Stein's small but comfortable Superior Court chambers were dark and mellow. The drapes were partially drawn, restricting the lights from the busy Government Centre traffic below.

David sat across from him, his coat and tie discarded. He was slumped in his chair like a man defeated, understanding the Judge had probably called him here for some form of conciliation, but knowing it made little difference given the irreparable state of their case.

‘The law isn't justice,’ said Stein after a time. He was sipping at a glass of whisky, lukewarm in the palm of his hand. ‘It's a very imperfect mechanism. If you press exactly the right buttons and are also lucky, justice may show up in the answer. A mechanism is all the law was ever intended to be.’

‘You're quoting Raymond Chandler,’ said David, not really in the mood for a lecture.

The Judge nodded.

‘Chandler wrote fiction.’

Stein shrugged. ‘Since when did that make a difference? I have come to the conclusion that what takes place in our courtrooms has come to model itself on entertainment's take on reality – books written by Grisham, TV shows with acronyms for titles, judges named Judy.’ The Judge smiled before his face settled into an expression of earnestness. ‘What's going on, son?’ he asked. But then he held up his hand. ‘And be careful how you answer. We are mid-trial, after all.’

David knew what the Judge was saying, that this conversation had to be conducted with an eye to neutrality. ‘The DA is giving me a flogging is what is going on, Judge. And with all due respect, I can't help but feel you've blocked your ears to the crack of his whip.’ He could not help himself, the day had been nothing short of disastrous.

Stein took a breath. ‘Calling Agent Jacobs and Professor St John was Mr Katz's prerogative. I can't interfere with a line of questioning that –’

‘Once again,’ interrupted David, ‘with all due respect, Your Honor, close to every one of my twenty-odd objections were overruled.’

‘Because your objections were not legally sound.’

‘Katz used Jacobs – an FBI profiler whose job it is to
find
the right perpetrator, not make a call on one who's already been framed – to paint my client as a modern-day Jack the Ripper. And then St John …’ David shook his head. ‘The man was a stooge. He never met my client, he spoke of some bullshit to do with her grandfather, who Sienna hasn't seen in years.’

‘Professor St John may be a stooge but he has the degrees and the experience and the research to back up his arguments.’

David met his eye. ‘You can't be serious.’

Stein took a breath. ‘My personal opinion of the witness does not rate here, David.’

‘But the jurors do – and it's your job to help them distinguish a valid argument from a load of shit.’

David knew he was pushing it, but he had known the Judge for a long time – even thought of him as a sort of wise old uncle, and the Judge's lack of support today had disappointed him, professionally and personally.

‘It's your prerogative to introduce your own psychological expert,’ offered the Judge after a time, his lack of repudiation telling David that perhaps he was feeling a little disappointed in himself as well.

But David was shaking his head. ‘I'll call my own consult, Judge, but the damage is done.’

‘What about the grandfather? Perhaps, if he is well and able to support his granddaughter?’

David knew what the Judge was suggesting, that David find and fly in the man Katz and his cohort accused of being some sort of homicidal maniac. But that was not an option for so many reasons he did not know where to start. ‘No one has seen him for years, Judge. No one knows where he lives or what he's like or …’ David hesitated. ‘My client won't have a bar of it. The DA used her family, her flesh and blood, he …’ David swallowed. ‘I thought I knew how low Roger could go, but today he outdid himself.’

Stein gave him an almost imperceptible nod as they sat in silence for a while.

‘The DA – did he really send you that altered witness list?’ the Judge asked after a time.

‘No,’ replied David.

‘You did not consider filing a motion of complaint?’

‘I found out about St John a few days ago,’ replied David, knowing the Judge respected him enough not to ask how he came about such information. ‘But filing a motion would have been pointless. I knew Katz would lie about sending me the list. I knew I would look cantankerous to the jury if I forced the issue. I knew, given the short time left to us, that filing such a motion would be a complete waste of our precious resources and … maybe I thought, obviously wrongly so, that I could blow St John's testimony out of the water on cross.’

Stein nodded, too much of a friend to condescend. ‘Your cross was … scant,’ he said.

‘My client didn't want me to cross at all. She said her grandfather had no part in this picture and that to argue St John's testimony would pay homage to it.’

‘Perhaps she was right,’ said Stein.

But David just shrugged, knowing the opportunity was lost in any case.

‘Your opening,’ said Stein after a time. ‘You promised you'd –’

‘I know what I promised,’ said David.

The Judge nodded. ‘I may not be the decider of the outcome, but this case, David, it is my responsibility to make sure all alternatives are considered.’

David sighed.

‘If you know something you must stop procrastinating.’

Silence.

‘David?’ urged Stein.

David met his eye. ‘My client is innocent,’ he said, not knowing how else to say it.

Judge Stein nodded again. ‘Will you be ready to start your case?’ he asked. ‘After the DA calls his last witness tomorrow?’

Tomorrow
, thought David, at this point knowing that if today was bad, tomorrow could well be worse.

‘Davenport is a liar,’ he said, simply because it was true.

‘Then prove him one.’

‘It is not that easy, Judge.’

‘It rarely is, son.’

David shrugged yet again. ‘I'm losing her,’ he said then.

‘Excuse me?’ said Stein.

‘Sienna. She's been so brave, so strong, but this trial – my lame promises to protect her … she's slipping away, Judge, into a fog of fear.’

Stein sighed, knowing there was no point in correcting him.

‘It's funny,’ he said after a time. ‘I've always thought Chandler was talking about you.’

David shook his head. ‘What – when he said the law was imperfect?’

‘No, when he said that motivation determines what you do, and attitude determines how well you do it.’

‘And once again, Judge, Chandler wrote fiction.’

‘Perhaps, but every story – even the true ones – have to end in one way or another, son, and this one … well, we've all heard about that fat lady, son, and she isn't singing yet.’

*

That night David got home late – so late that he found Sara, still dressed in her work clothes, sound asleep on their bed next to a similarly sleeping Lauren. He stood in the doorway for a while, watching them breath in unison, their faces close together, the beauty of the sight making time stand still.

He took off his tie and his shoes and moved quietly toward them, lying down on the bed on the other side of Lauren, resting his head on the pillow and allowing the peace of the moment to take him.

‘How did it go?’ Sara's voice was low, the room so still it was almost as if the three of them were frozen in time.

‘I woke you,’ he whispered.

‘That's okay.’

‘Stein feels sorry for us.’

‘Doesn't say much for the state of our case,’ she said.

David did not reply.

‘Madonna called,’ Sara continued. ‘You know Joe missed the couple?’

‘Yes,’ said David, having spoken to a disappointed Joe earlier in the evening.

‘Madonna hasn't heard from Sophia.’

David was not surprised.

They lay in silence for a time.

‘I like her,’ said Sara a moment later, obviously referring to Madonna.

‘Me too.’

‘She said she wishes she could come up with a way to scare him.’

‘Davenport?’

‘Yes.’

‘She said he deserves to know how it feels – how she feels, how Sophia must feel – and Sienna.’

But David did not reply because Madonna's insight had planted a seed of an idea in his now exhausted brain. ‘Maybe there's a way we can,’ he said after a pause.

‘Scare Davenport? How?’

‘You're going to think I'm crazy,’ he said.

‘You are,’ she smiled at him. ‘That's why I fell in love with you in the first place.’

He returned the smile. ‘Let's go to the kitchen. I don't want to wake her.’

Sara looked at Lauren. ‘We're so lucky, David,’ she said.

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I know.’

PART SEVEN

78

9 am

‘T
he Commonwealth calls Dr Richard Davenport.’

David felt the words rush over him. This morning he had woken with a new surge of enthusiasm. It was his crazy idea that had done it, the one they had put into action at 6 am when they woke Madonna from her sleep. If it worked it might just be enough to at least rattle the slick-looking physician now taking the witness stand before them while he waited for the rest of their case to come together.

His entire case was running on hope – hope that they would find one of Madonna's elderly couples, hope that Esther Wallace would return one of their repeated emails, hope that Joe would find Marco De Lorenzo, who would shed some light on Jim Walker's death, hope they would locate the girl named Sophia and that Daniel Hunt's DNA would tie him to the victim. And he knew he needed close to all of these things to come off for him to save his client, and bring Daniel Hunt to justice, for all that he had done.

‘I want to thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to join us here, Dr Davenport,’ the Kat began, his smile one of pure appreciation.

Davenport nodded, as if too humble to accept the thanks.

‘If you don't mind I'd like to start from the beginning, from when you first made the acquaintance of the defendant and her late husband Jim Walker, whom I believe was a very close friend.’

‘That's correct.’

‘He was a talented man with a good job and a wife he loved, and … well, I suppose you might describe him as a man who had everything any man could hope for,’ led the DA.

‘Except for the child he craved,’ added Davenport.

‘Which was where you came in,’ said Katz.

Davenport smiled. ‘It's what I do, Mr Katz, and as such I consider myself the lucky one.’

‘Because you give childless couples hope?’ said Katz.

‘Because I make their dreams a reality, Mr Katz.’

And so it began.

9.35 am

‘This is Mannix,’ said Joe. He and Frank were in his office. Joe was pissed. He had just hung up from a call to Davenport's Dorchester Clinic having failed to strongarm the Director into handing over their patient lists. The Director refused to do so without a warrant, something Joe knew would be impossible for him to raise, given it would need to be signed by their asshole of a DA.

‘It's me,’ said the voice down the line.

‘Susan,’ said Joe, shooting a look at Frank to shut his office door. ‘You got something?’ He put the call on speaker.

‘Not something, someone. Marco De Lorenzo is currently in his beat-up Buick heading south on the Interstate 93 toward Plymouth.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He used a credit card at a service station just outside of Braintree.’

‘How much gas did he put in?’

‘Only ten dollars.’

‘Won't get him far,’ said Joe.

Susan agreed. ‘You want help on this?’

Joe considered it.

‘Jesus, Chief, you never know when to accept assistance. I'm working a night shift, which means I am free until seven. I'll meet you outside HQ in fifteen.’

Joe was grateful. ‘Okay,’ he said.

‘Ask McKay what his wife packed in that Tupperware dish of his. I haven't had time for breakfast.’

‘It's leftovers from last night's dinner,’ said Frank. ‘Chicken liver stew.’

‘Stuff that. I'll grab a coffee on the way.’

‘Make it two,’ said Joe.

10.07 am

Lisa Cavanaugh shoved her hair away from her bright green eyes before pushing through the door to Lucas Cole's tiny but efficient research lab. ‘Jesus, Cole, you ever sleep?’ she asked, knowing her doctor friend had been in the lab when she left her last shift in the busy ER sometime after 11 pm last night.

‘I could ask you the same question,’ he smiled.

Lisa smiled back. ‘I got you a coffee,’ she said, shoving aside some paperwork to place the Starbucks latte on his desk. ‘Double shot,’ she said.

‘Thanks.’ He grabbed for the brew and gulped it down.

‘How's it going?’ she asked, sidling up to him. He was seated at his computer, DNA molecules turning in spirals on his multicoloured screen.

‘I'm close,’ he said. He looked up at her before gesturing at the copy of the
Tribune
under her arm. ‘What does it say?’ he asked.

‘That my brother is stuffed,’ she said. She went to smile but couldn't manage it. ‘Seriously, I don't know how he does it.’

‘Does what?’

‘Goes to work every day knowing no matter how hard he tries there are no guarantees of success.’

‘Isn't that what we do?’ asked Lucas.

She shrugged. ‘I guess you're right.’

She leant toward the computer then. ‘Is that his DNA – you know, Hunt's?’

‘Yes. But comparing father to daughter is not as easy as you think. First up, I can't use mitochondrial DNA because that is only valid in maternity testing, and we're talking about a female, not a male, child so I can't use Hunt's “Y” chromosome to make a direct comparison.’

‘So what exactly
do
you do?’ asked Lisa, who knew a little about DNA fingerprinting but not nearly as much as her friend Lucas.

‘Basically I am using Sienna Walker's DNA in a process of elimination. By comparing the DNA profiles of the mom to her daughter I can determine which half of Eliza Walker's DNA came from her mother. The other half then obviously comes from Eliza's biological father – so if I compare Hunt's profile to the remaining DNA in Eliza's …’

‘You either come up with a match or not.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And this is what – ninety per cent accurate?’ asked Lisa.

‘Ninety-nine point nine five actually.’

Lisa nodded. ‘You don't get much better than that. So how much longer?’

‘I'll be done by the end of the day.’

‘You plan on sleeping any time soon?’

‘No. But another coffee in an hour or two might help,’ he smiled.

Lisa smiled back. ‘Come find me,’ she said. ‘The caffeine is my shout.’

‘But you bought the Starbucks.’

‘Nah, the guy at the Cambridge Street Starbucks has a crush on me.’

‘Of course he does,’ smiled Lucas. ‘Now I feel like your pimp.’

‘It's just a free coffee, Cole,’ she winked, before shoving that stray hair behind her ear once again and bounding out the door.

11.27 am

Dick Davenport took advantage of the morning recess to make a call. All was going to plan. He was selling out Sienna with just the right degree of remorse. Somewhere deep down he hated himself for doing it – even more so given the pleasure his lies were obviously bringing that pig of a DA. But it was necessary if he was to get what he wanted – or more to the point, make amends for all the mistakes he had made.

‘It's me,’ he said when the phone picked up.

‘I heard the newsflashes. It's going well.’

‘Yes.’

‘How much longer?’

‘Another half an hour or so with the District Attorney, and then whatever Cavanaugh can manage on cross.’ He took a breath. ‘What about your end?’

‘Our timetable has moved up. The clients want to leave the city tonight.’

Davenport inhaled. This was not what he'd expected. ‘That's too soon. There is no way I can secure the package by then.’

‘I know, which is why you get a reprieve. I am going to take care of it.’

Davenport swallowed. ‘Personally?’

‘Personally.’

‘When?’

‘This afternoon.’

Davenport hesitated. ‘How?’

‘Does it make any difference?’

‘I suppose not,’ replied Davenport before, ‘This is new for us,’ he ventured. ‘Normally we have total control, but this …? You need to be careful.’

‘Listen to you. Somewhere along the line you lost your balls, Dick.’

But Davenport knew that in reality he had found them, the moment he'd made the decision to move.

‘The clients want you to do the exchange,’ said his friend then, dishing up another ‘inconvenience’. ‘They know you, Dick, they trust you – hell, they think the sun shines out of your Beacon Hill ass.’

This was true, thought Davenport, a new surge of what he knew was guilt pushing at the sides of his stomach.

‘Don't worry,’ his friend continued, perhaps sensing the ‘castrated’ Davenport was having another crisis of confidence. ‘It's all been arranged. I've booked a room at The Eliot. The clients will meet you in the lobby at three. All you have to do is go to the room, retrieve the package and hand it to them. They have deposited half the fee in our private account and will transfer the remainder as soon as the package is in their possession.’

Davenport swallowed. ‘What if the package is …?’

‘It won't be,’ replied his friend, and Davenport understood perfectly.

‘I'd better go,’ he said.

‘I'll text you with the room number and leave a key in your name at reception.’

‘All right.’

His friend started to laugh. ‘Don't sound so worried, my friend. This is a big day for us.’

Davenport did not doubt it. ‘I'll talk to you soon,’ he said, before ending the call and checking the time on his Rolex.

Five minutes
, he told himself, before deciding he had no time to hesitate. And then he pressed in the number he had committed to memory, and put the wheels in motion, so that he could finally get the hell out.

11.58 am

‘Dr Davenport,’ Katz continued.

David knew the DA was close to wrapping up his case, and despite David's fresh sense of hope, he also knew that the Kat had presented an almost flawless prosecution.

‘I appreciate your testimony has been difficult, as I understand you were friends with the victim's father and indeed the defendant herself, but given all you have told us this morning – about Jim Walker's enthusiasm to become a father, about Sienna Walker's controlled anger at being steered toward motherhood – was there a moment after Jim Walker's death that you were worried about the safety of little Eliza?’

It was a good question. Katz was consolidating the previous three hours of Davenport's detailed testimony. The DA had cleverly painted a picture and was now asking the witness to step back and view it as a whole.

‘There was a moment,’ Davenport replied. ‘Actually, it was before Eliza's birth, on the morning Sienna told me she had made the decision to seek the services of a midwife.’

‘Yes, you must have thought it strange – even been offended – at your patient's decision to abandon your care at this all-important time.’

‘Oh, it was never about my ego, Mr Katz, I understand many women prefer their child to be delivered by a female, but it was something Sienna said to me, something regarding her resentment at her husband – for ever having wanted a child.’

The DA nodded. ‘Go on, Doctor. Tell us, what did Mrs Walker say?’

‘She said that in many ways the timing of her husband's death was a blessing. And while I thought this strange, I assumed she meant that Jim had died before he got to see his daughter, that if he
had
set eyes on her, the loss of never being able to see her again would have made things all the worse.’

Sienna took a breath beside David.

‘But this is not what she meant?’ a now confused-looking Katz continued.

‘No,’ replied Davenport. ‘She said that … that if he was still alive, Jim would have preferred her to be a stay-at-home mom and that she … well, that was not something she felt she was capable of.’

‘And did you reassure her, Doctor, that many new mothers fear the overwhelming responsibilities of motherhood? That looking after someone you love so much can seem like an incredibly daunting task?’

‘Of course, but then she looked at me as if I was … stupid.’ Davenport swallowed. ‘She said that that was not what she meant by “capable”, she said that she wasn't made for motherhood and that … that Jim, he was the one who …’ Davenport shook his head.

‘Doctor, I know this is hard,’ the Kat interjected, no doubt just as he had rehearsed, ‘but you need to tell us word for word what the defendant said to you.’

Davenport took a breath. ‘She said the child belonged with her father – always had done and always would.’

‘And you replied?’

‘That I was sorry, that Jim would have made a great father, but that I was afraid that that was impossible.’

‘And she replied?’

‘That nothing was impossible.’

‘That nothing was impossible?’ repeated Katz.

Davenport nodded. ‘That nothing was impossible and that anything could be arranged.’

‘And in the end she did arrange it, didn't she, Doctor?’ asked Katz.

‘Yes, I suppose she did.’

12.29 pm

‘There,’ said Susan Leigh. ‘In front of the red Ford pick-up.’

Joe saw it – the pale blue Buick with the dented back fender.

‘What's the play, Chief?’ asked Frank McKay, leaning in between the two front seats.

‘We tail him. He has to run out of gas sooner or later.’

‘We could attempt to pull him over,’ suggested Susan.

‘Too risky,’ replied Joe.

They fell silent as they kept an easy distance between themselves and the light blue sedan, following De Lorenzo for another eight miles before Joe saw the Buick's right indicator light begin to flash.

‘He's turning off,’ he said.

‘There's a Caltex station up ahead,’ said Susan. She pulled out her revolver and stuck it in her waistband. ‘Just in case,’ she said.

Joe nodded. ‘Hold tight,’ he said as he changed lanes to follow the Buick, which did just as they expected, pulling off into the gas station fifty or so yards up to their right.

12.36 pm

‘Are you okay?’ David placed Sienna in a seat at the small conference room table. He got down on his knees, put his hand on her shoulders and attempted to look into her eyes.

‘Sienna?’ he said. Her face was so pale it looked translucent.

‘She needs some cold water, lad,’ suggested Nora, who had been waiting for them in the conference room with two new companions who were now sitting quietly in the far corner. ‘I'll find a vending machine,’ she said, grabbing her handbag before moving toward the door and nodding at Arthur, who was standing sentry just outside.

Sara moved toward the far wall to open a window. ‘Maybe some fresh air will help,’ she said.