The Ex (4 page)

“To me.”

I’ve pulled some questionable stunts in the name of zealous representation, but I had never—not once—looked an ADA in the eye to vouch for a client’s innocence unless I knew to a certainty that the police had fucked up. So if ADA Scott Temple got a phone call from a homicide detective saying I insisted on speaking with him, the message would be clear. I was spending some hard-earned capital.

The fretting noises got louder. “Why would you do something so reckless?” Don sounded like he wanted to crawl through the phone line and wring my neck personally.

“Don, I have a feeling.”

“A
feeling
? Dear girl, you pick today of all days to suddenly have feelings?”

“Oh come on, I’ve heard you say a cop feels hinky. Or a new client feels like the real deal, truly innocent. This isn’t just me believing an old friend.” I heard Don scoff at the choice of the word “friend,” but I pressed on. “His side of the story is just too bizarre to be fabricated.”

“Are you listening to the words that are coming out of your mouth?
You’re basically saying it sounds too much like a lie to be a lie. You need more than that kind of logic to vouch for a client.”

I could still hear Don’s words as I ended the call.
Why would you do something so reckless?

I’d given him a bogus answer about a gut feeling, but I knew precisely why I was sticking my neck out for Jack. It was the look on his face when he mentioned Buckley. That was when his situation had become real. Neeley was dead. Jack was under arrest for murder. In just one instant, he had realized that life as he knew it would never be the same.

It reminded me of his expression when he’d walked into our apartment and realized we wouldn’t be getting married after all. And that changed everything in ways Don could not possibly understand.

I
HAD TO
hand it to Boyle: the detective had a sense of humor. As I had hoped, he had called Scott Temple at the DA’s office, supposedly only “out of curiosity,” and now Temple was on his way to the precinct. The spot Boyle had selected for me to “cool my heels” was a bench outside the detective squad that already contained two occupants at either end. The gentleman on the left was a man who smelled like pee and bong hits. On the right was a guy telling me that the NSA could upload the thoughts in my brain to a secret satellite station in space. I decided to stand.

It wasn’t long before I heard labored footsteps from the stairwell, slow and heavy. Out stepped a winded Scott Temple. He used the palm of his hand to wipe off a drop of sweat from his cheek. His face looked flushed, though with his blond hair and fair skin, it could have been the fluorescent lighting. “Did you hear we may be sitting ourselves to death?” he said between breaths. “I eat like a baby bird—vegetables, steamed fish, freakin’ quinoa. But I sit in a chair all day. Some fatty stuffing his face with a maple bar just sprinted past me to the fourth floor. A maple bar! I mean, who eats like that?”

“Guys who don’t sit in chairs all day,” I offered. “Thanks for coming, Scott.”

“Been a long time since I got called out to a precinct. It’s usually to hammer out a cooperation agreement, but Boyle seemed to have another impression. You’re trying to stop a guy from being booked? On a triple homicide, Olivia? Come on. Not even you can pull that off.”

“You’re handling the case, though, right?”

He nodded. A shooting in a tourist-popular part of town. At least one powerful victim. Maybe others as well. It was as high profile as a case could get. I had been close to certain which ADA would be assigned. The one with the pretty face and surfer-boy hair, the one who ate like a supermodel to stay attractive for the jury.

And lucky for me, this particular ADA had a special reason to trust me. Seven years ago, Scott’s sister was arrested buying heroin from an undercover police officer in Long Island. Increasing dosages of prescription painkillers had eventually led to street drugs. Scott needed a lawyer who could steer her case through a first-time-offender probation program and make sure that no one ever made the connection between a drug-addicted Long Island housewife and the little brother who was making a meteoric rise through the Manhattan district attorney’s office. In the world of prosecution, a family member with a drug problem meant accusations of hypocrisy and claims of corruption. It was a career ender.

I had kept his secret as if he were my own client.

“He didn’t do it, Scott. Jack Harris is completely innocent.”

“He’s not innocent, Olivia. Jack Harris shot three people this morning.”

I didn’t expect Temple to personally unlock Jack’s handcuffs based solely on my word, but I was sure he’d hear me out. I asked how he could possibly be so certain about his case after only a few hours.

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Come on, Scott. Give me
something
. How did the police even wind up at Jack Harris’s door this morning? Some kind of anonymous tip? You know how reliable those can be.”

“Now that’s a question I can answer. We got surveillance video.”

My eyes widened involuntarily. “Of the shooting?”

He made a don’t-be-stupid face. “No. It’s from the Pier 40 parking garage.”

I confirmed that he meant the big ugly brick building just north of the football field.

“That’s the one. Got a tape of a guy in a blue-and-gray-checked shirt, walking alone, fast, like he’s determined. And he’s carrying some kind of case. Or that’s what we thought at the time. Now we know it’s a picnic basket.”

“And you just happened to recognize him as Jack Harris of all the people in New York? Those are some good cameras.”

He gave me the face again. “Turns out your new friend Jimmy Boyle’s got a photographic memory. By the time he rolled on to the scene, Neeley had already been identified by the ID in his wallet. Even the initial responding officers were saying, ‘Hey, this could be revenge for what his son did at Penn Station.’ Especially with the lawsuit just getting dismissed.”

“Jack Harris isn’t the only person who filed that lawsuit.”

“Do you want information or do you want to argue? We get the surveillance tape from the garage. Boyle sees it and he’s immediately, ‘That’s the teacher’s husband.’ Turns out that if you pull up tape of the presser Harris did with his lawyer right after the civil suit against Neeley was dismissed, he’s wearing the same blue-and-gray-checked shirt. Boyle didn’t miss a beat.”

In another case, I could destroy Temple’s logic. I’d send Einer down to Lord & Taylor to buy eight shirts that looked identical in a grainy surveillance video. I’d call the manufacturers for data on how many were made. But it was all moot given Jack’s admission that he’d been at the waterfront this morning.

“You need more than proximity to the scene to charge someone with murder.”

“Motive, means, and opportunity. Trial summation 101, Olivia.”

“Except I don’t hear anything going toward means. Where’s the gun?”

“That basket he’s carrying in the video seems to me like a discreet way to carry a weapon through downtown. And we already pulled footage from his apartment’s elevator. He leaves at 6:40, basket in hand. Back at 7:25, no basket. Where did it go?”

“Jack told Boyle exactly where he left it and why. Go find it. Check out the note inside. Find this woman he was supposed to meet. Conduct a proper investigation.”

“No jury’s going to buy that ridiculous explanation. His secret soul mate just happens to lead him to a spot right next to the man he’s been consumed with for the past three years? Quite the coincidence.”

“This isn’t some misdemeanor you can wrap up on instinct, Temple. You’re accusing someone this city has come to see as a hero. How’s it going to look when I’ve got this missed-moment woman on the courthouse steps for her first press conference: Madeline and Jack, love at first sight. Then all of New York will sigh wistfully as she explains how she would have shown up this morning if not for—something at work, or a sick child perhaps. It was all just a misunderstanding,” I added dramatically. “I hear people love that shit.”

“It’s not going to happen, Olivia. The girl doesn’t exist. You realize that, right?”

“But if she does? You’ll be apologizing to the Penn Station widower, and the entire country will know that you wasted valuable time that could have been used to find the real shooter.”

“So you’re just trying to help me out now, huh?”

“I’m trying to help my client, who did not do this. Saving his ass happens to mean saving yours, too. It’s a win-win. You know me, Scott. I wouldn’t have asked Boyle to call you if this weren’t legit.”

I held his gaze and then widened my eyes, the facial equivalent of
an exclamation mark. He shook his head. If we were at a bar with martinis, he would have been twirling his toothpick. He was mulling over the evidence and seeing it all disappear, piece by piece. This was good. It meant they didn’t have it wrapped up tight.

They couldn’t, after all. This was Jack. There was no way he had pulled that trigger.

I pushed once more. “Come on, you know Boyle doesn’t have this thing locked and loaded. You really ready for this to hit the news? Do you even have the GSR results?”

“Give me a second.” I could see him pulling out his cell phone as he walked down the hall. He was calling the boss.

He didn’t reemerge for twenty more minutes. When he did, Detective Boyle was walking beside him toward the squad room. They were whispering intensely and the conversation continued next to a desk that I assumed was Boyle’s. They were arguing.

As Temple turned in my direction, Boyle slammed himself hard into his chair, rolling backward a foot.

“We’re going to wait for the GSR results before booking him,” Temple said. “I called for a rush.”

“If he’s clean, you’ll release him?”

“No, I didn’t say that. But I told Boyle to hold off on the transport for now. We’ll take it from there, okay? But, I swear to God, Olivia, if you burn me on this, if we release him today, and he flees—”

“I know, your office will never trust me again.”

“No. My office will never trust
me
again, and I’ll devote every moment of my unemployment to making your life a living hell. That’s how much this matters. Now, I’m heading back to the courthouse until we hear back from the lab. A very upset Detective Boyle will be escorting Harris to a holding cell. Try not to gloat, okay?” Once he was out of view, I allowed myself to smile. The gamble had paid off.

Once those tests were back, Jack could go home. Maybe we’d even sit down and talk after all these years.

THIRTY MINUTES INTO MY WAIT,
I had already ignored three voice mail messages from Don, pleading, imploring, and then pleading once again that I get back to the office immediately. My legs beginning to tire, I finally gave up and assumed a seat on the bench outside the detective squad. By now, the man rambling about the NSA had been led away, and his fragrant neighbor had managed to air out.

I waited until exactly two
PM
and then called the main number for the firm. Don would be at the courthouse by now for a pretrial conference he’d been dreading all week.

“Good afternoon, Ellison and Randall.”

“Einer, have you looked up that computer stuff I called about?” I turned my back to my fellow bench occupant.

“Just finished. I think I’ve got diabetes from reading it all. ‘I’m just a girl, sitting in front of a boy, next to the filthy Hudson River, asking him to love her.’ Cue a shirtless Matthew McConaughey before he lost all that weight and won an Oscar.”

“What’s the gist?”

“Just like you said, there was a missed-moment post that went up on the Room ten days ago. The author of that post was Charlotte Caperton, the Room’s publisher. I’ll send you a link now. A woman named Madeline responds, saying, I think that was me. Charlotte then forwards that message to Jack Harris. Then some e-mails back and forth between Jack and Madeline—typical online dating triteness, not an ounce of sex talk. That’s why Tinder’s more my speed.”

“The e-mails, Einer.”

“Right. Then last night, she suggests meeting at chapter twelve this morning. What’s that, a café or something?”

“No, but what else?”

“He says, see you there. And that’s it.”

“So how do I get hold of this woman?”

“I guess e-mail her.”

“You don’t have a last name? Nothing?”

“No, that’s sort of the point of a certain kind of e-mail account, Olivia.”

“It’s important, Einer.”

“Of course it is. Like everything. By the way, Don was apoplectic when he walked out of here. What’s the deal with this new client?”

I resisted the urge to point out that he’d learned that word from me and still wasn’t certain what it meant. “It’s fine. I’ll deal with Don. Just send me all those e-mails.” I was already picturing how grateful Jack would be once I cleared all this up.

THE FIRST E-MAIL FROM EINER
had no subject line. The body of the message was a link, which I clicked.

The Room

June 7, 2015, 8:07 am

Good morning, Roomers. As you know, we here at the Room try to balance our beloved sarcasm and snark with a healthy dose of heartwarming romance. And ain’t nothing that warms Auntie Charlotte’s heart like a Missed-Moment post. If I took all the hours I spend finding you the best missed connections on the Interwebs and devoted them to my own personal life, I might have someone in my bed other than Daisy the Ugly Pug.

But this morning, I have an extra-special post for you. It’s written in the third person, which I’ll explain below.

Here goes:

He saw her on the grass by the Christopher Street Pier Saturday morning, 6:30 am. He was kicking off the day with his usual morning run. She was barefoot in last night’s party dress, drinking champagne from the bottle. He looked in her direction, and she raised her bottle in a toast. He noticed that in her other hand, she held a book. He wants to know more.

Come on, fellow romantics. That’s a specific time, date, location, and description. We can do this! Are you the woman in the grass? Do you know who she was? Here’s why you should come forward.

The “he” in this post is a catch: an acclaimed novelist, a graduate of Columbia University, and an all-around good guy. He has a huge heart. And I happen to love him more than anyone else in the world (and that includes Daisy).

He may kill me for posting this, but if we Roomers can connect him to this mysterious woman in the grass, maybe the sacrifice will be worth it. Let’s get those e-mails rolling in!

I closed the Room post on my screen and returned to my e-mail account. The subject line of Einer’s next message was “Fwd: What did you DO?” I clicked on the message to open it. The introductory explanation was to me from Einer:

O, here’s the back and forth b/w Jack & Charlotte, publisher of the Room. Read from bottom up to read in order. (Please tell me you would know that without me telling you.) –E

Begin forwarded message:

I did as Einer had instructed, scrolled down to the earliest message, and read from there.

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: June 7, 2015 8:46
AM

Subject: What did you DO?

B just texted me to see if you had another best friend who went to Columbia and writes books. A missed moment? When I figure out a way
to get you back, you will wish that I had killed you. Can I persuade you to take it down?

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: June 7, 2015, 8:58
AM

Subject: RE: What did you DO?

You know I have no other friends. You, Buckley, Dog. Admit it: You wouldn’t have told me about her if you didn’t sort of want me to do something. If we find her, it’ll at least make a great story, maybe more. Besides, think of it as a blind item to get you some free publicity. As for Buckley, she just told me yesterday that she thinks you need a girlfriend!