Alibi (25 page)

Sara looked at Sawyer who gave a short nod in response.

“Agreed,” she said, shaking Joe’s hand across the table. “You have his word on it, Joe, and you have my word on it too.”

“He is just so refreshing, David,” said Sara, taking a sip of her merlot, the subtle light of the table lamp casting shadows across her high cheekbones. “He is young and wealthy but unaffected by all the trappings that go along with that sort of existence. He is completely dedicated to helping people less fortunate than himself. He lives and breathes it, David. He is smart and intuitive and devoid of any of the usual pretense that goes along with being one of the Ivy League elite.”

David said nothing. They were facing each other from either end of the sofa, she with her legs crossed “schoolgirl fashion” underneath her, he relaxed with a wineglass in his hand, socks on his feet and his beautiful, enthusiastic girlfriend sitting mere feet in front of him. He could not believe it was just over a year since Sara had agreed to move in with him—transforming his neat but characterless bachelor apartment into a home—the first real one he had known since he left Jersey all those years ago. Everything around him now “breathed” of Sara—the minimalist limestone-based lamp, the dark grain, low-set coffee table, the whitewashed walls, the black-and-white photography and the comfortable but stylish slate-colored lounge on which they now sat. And he loved every piece of it, because everything reminded him of . . .

“David . . . ?” she asked, smiling. “Are you listening to me? I know I am going on about this kid but he was kind of inspiring—a breath of fresh air in a generation supposedly reared in the ethos of self-advancement and personal satisfaction.”

“He made an impression on you,” he said at last, pulling one of her feet out from under her to massage it gently on his lap.

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess he did.”

David knew he wasn’t showing the enthusiasm he should. He knew Sara was on a high after the Sanchez ruling and the subsequent newspaper article, which was read by one Sawyer Jones who had immediately concluded Miss Sara Davis was the smart, determined, humanitarian lawyer for him. But he couldn’t help but think this Jones was, if nothing else, a little on the dramatic side. He still wasn’t sure why he engaged Sara as his attorney in the first place, given he had nothing to do with the Nagoshi girl’s murder. For some reason this Jones seemed intent on implicating himself by association—and in the process managed to exonerate himself of the actual deed by suggesting two possible alternatives for Jessica’s demise.

If David was a skeptic, he might even come to the conclusion that the kid was orchestrating this whole “woe is me” charade on purpose—to divert Joe and Sara and everyone else from the real course to the truth. That was Joe’s gut feeling, or at least what he alluded to in his private call to David’s office late this afternoon.

“Sara,” he said at last.

“Yeah?” she said, taking another sip of her wine.

“This kid is smart, right?”

“Sure.”

“His father is a lawyer and he’s pre-law at Deane so you have to assume he is pretty clued up when it comes to judicial process.”

“Don’t worry, David, if you think I am taking this one on pro bono you’re wrong. Sawyer has already offered to pay me. I told Arthur I wanted to contribute to the firm financially, and while I won’t be asking Sawyer for a huge fee, it will be more than enough to cover my time and expenses.”

“No,” said David. “That’s not what I meant. What I am saying is . . .” David paused then, knowing that as much as he and Sara were committed to a relationship based on honesty, it would really knock her confidence to know that he and Joe had been discussing her vulnerability mere hours before. He could see she was overwhelmed by this boy and feared that perhaps the kid could see it too—enough to take advantage of her and use her as a pawn to divert any possible suspicion on his part.

“This Jones was obviously in love with the Nagoshi girl—he admitted as much himself. He also knew she was in love with somebody else and no matter how strong and optimistic you are, at nineteen that kind of rejection has got to . . .”

“What are you saying, David?” she said, slowly retrieving her foot to curl it neatly back underneath her.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Sara,” he said, knowing she probably already was—or more to the point, wasn’t. “I am not suggesting he had anything to do with the girl’s death but you have to admit, if you take a step back, that his story could be seen to be somewhat contrived.”

“I don’t believe this,” she said, the previous energy and enthusiasm now completely drained from her face. “You spoke to Joe. He called you and the pair of you sat and gossiped and concluded that poor little Sara was naive enough to be tricked by a teenager who was playing me for a fool.”

“No, Sara,” said David, now sitting up straight and placing his wineglass on the coffee table. “That’s not it. We just don’t want you to . . .”

“So you
did
speak to Joe?”

“I . . . yes. But . . .”

“What is it, David?” she interrupted. “Is it the Matheson boy? I have no idea why you seem so convinced of his innocence, especially since you have only met with him a couple of times over coffee.

“Do you see yourself in him, David? Is that it? Because if that’s the case, I just don’t get it. He may be enthusiastic about his studies but his upbringing, his lifestyle . . . in many ways he is nothing like you, or at least not the David I know. He has lied to the police, surrounds himself with friends who are described as conceit personified and according to your good friend Joe is the number one suspect in the homicide of the year. Why can’t you see it, David? Why is it so hard for you to believe that he did this?”

“Why is it so easy for you to believe that Sawyer Jones did not?” David asked, regretting his question the moment it came out of his mouth.

And he saw it then—the anger, the resentment, the hurt at his seeming determination to hijack Sara’s night of victory and turn it into a blistering pit of self-doubt.

“I’m going to bed,” she said at last.

And he wanted to say something to make it better, wanted to turn back the clock and have them sitting here, peacefully, happily together. But in the end he said nothing. Because, if truth be told, he knew she was right. He did feel an affinity with James Matheson, he did “sense” that the kid was innocent of the heinous crime everyone was so keen to claim he committed, he did hope that Matheson was not about to become the third victim in a crime that already taken two innocent lives and above all else, if that was to be the case, more than anything he wanted to be the one to defend him.

Maybe he was frustrated. Maybe he missed the adrenaline of a seemingly unwinnable high-profile case—a rush he had not felt since defending Stuart Montgomery over a year ago. Maybe he was jealous of Sara’s latest high, maybe he wished it was he who pulled off the 1.5 million dollar settlement and was dragged into a murder investigation unwittingly or not.

But he knew that wasn’t the case. Admittedly he relished the chance of taking on Roger Katz again, but this had little to do with ego and more to do with his gut. What that would mean for Sara and her new client he did not know, but he sensed, if he got what he wished for, he was about to find out.

“Gabe, honestly, you look fine,” said an exhausted Marie Mannix, pushing a stray blond lock away from her tired blue eyes. It was late and she was kneeling on her sons’ bedroom floor surrounded by a myriad of Halloween costumes that had been worn and re-worn by the four Mannix boys for over a decade.

“I’ll paint the lightning bolt on your head tomorrow night. Stephen said he’d lend you his old glasses, and if you carry the garden broom you’ll be a dead ringer for . . .”

“But
everyone
goes as Harry Potter, Mom,” said Gabriel, the third of the four Mannix sons. “And most of them have capes or Quiddich robes from Toys ‘R’ Us, not cutouts from their moms’ old dresses.”

“But the skirt looks just like a cape, Gabe, and . . .”

“Gabriel,” said Mannix, who had heard the ongoing banter all the way from the downstairs living room of their much-loved if not slightly weatherbeaten West Roxbury Colonial and decided it was time for a Halloween reality check for his nine-year-old son. “Do you know how much those costumes cost?”

“No, sir,” said a sheepish Gabe.

“They cost one million and twenty-five dollars,” said six-year-old Michael who was happy to sit on his top bunk and watch the drama play out beneath him.

“Shut up, doofus,” said Gabe.

“Gabriel!” said Joe, walking into the room. “You apologize to your little brother and hightail it into bed right now. At this rate you’ll be grounded from trick-or-treating for the next twenty years. Your mom has been kind enough to make you a costume so the least you can say is ‘thank you.’ ”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” said an obviously overtired Gabe. “But Henry Bosco is always giving me shit for wearing Joseph or Stevie’s hand-me-downs, so what’s he gonna say if he finds out I am wearing my mom’s dress?”

“Don’t say ‘shit,’ ” said Marie Mannix, now clearing the bedroom floor of Halloween debris. “Your father’s right. One more complaint and you can stay home while your brothers are out filling their bags with candy.”

“Okay,” said a stubborn Gabe at last, crawling into the lower bunk with a look of pure disgust on his olive-skinned face. “Thanks, Mom—but I’m still not wearing the dress.”

“Up to you, Gabe,” said Mannix. “Totally up to you.”

“He’ll get over it,” said Joe as he turned out the younger boys’ light before moving down the hall to check on his two older sons, Stephen and Joe Junior, who were sitting up in their own single beds playing some form of handheld computer game, which Joe was convinced was turning them slowly into zombies.

“Lights out in five minutes, boys,” said Marie as she took her husband’s hand and headed for the stairwell.

“Maybe I should have bought him the new costume,” she said as she moved across the living room and into the kitchen to get Mannix a beer and pour herself a glass of Sangiovese. The room was still warm from the family’s home-cooked dinner, the air thick with the comforting scents of tomatoes, garlic and Parmesan.

“Nah,” said Joe. “Gabe’s a good kid. He’ll be okay. Back in my day all we needed was a sheet with two holes cut out and . . .”

“Back in
your day
,” said his wife. “Stores weren’t marketing Halloween to a generation of kids brought up on consumerism.”

“Yeah,” said Joe. “And we could roam free on the streets for hours without our parents fearing we might be abducted, assaulted, raped.”

“They’re going to be fine, Joe,” she said, smiling at him as she shook her head.

He could not help but marvel at the woman who stood before him—her flaxen hair, pale eyes and rich olive skin still glowing with the youthfulness those of Northern Mediterranean descent seemed blessed with.

“Rough day?” she said, moving some draining dishes to the side so that she might lean against the counter and face her husband head-on.

“I guess,” he said.

“You’ll work it out, Joe,” she said taking his hand. “You always do.”

“With this one I am not so sure,” he said. “There is just too much riding on it. The pressure is building, Marie. Katz wants an arrest and I may not have the power to . . .”

“What does your instinct tell you?” she asked, looking directly into his eyes.

“That’s half the problem. I can’t seem to get a read on it. Things are happening too slow and too fast all at the same time.”

She put down her glass of wine then, leaning forward to reach her arms around him. “Just don’t let them railroad you, honey. It’ll come. You just need time to think it through.”

But she was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone, the long piercing sound sending a shiver up Joe’s spine. He was on edge, he knew.

Marie let go of him then, making some brief comment as to the lateness of the call before reaching to her far right to grab the old red wall phone from its cradle.

“Mannix residence,” she said. And then a pause, until: “Yes, he’s here. Can I ask who’s calling?”

She looked up at her husband and Joe saw it in her eyes. Trouble, he knew. Trouble in the form of . . .

“It’s ADA Katz,” she said. “And he says he needs to speak to you—now.”

Saturday, October 31—Halloween

 

There were five other men in the room, observed Joe Mannix as he perched himself on the edge of the low bookcase just inside the door. Or more specifically one man—John Nagoshi; two assholes—Roger Katz and the lawyer; and two boys who, despite their obvious attempts to appear humble, looked more like a matching set of spoiled brats than ever.

Nagoshi sat opposite the two boys in the same seat he had occupied at their last meeting. He was silent, calm, dignified, while Katz was still running the show up front and Gordon Westinghouse had spread himself out in the now single space, where Joe and Frank had squeezed previously, at the other end of the table.

“Right,” said the impeccably dressed Katz, signaling for his sour-faced assistant Shelley to finish pouring the ice waters and leave.

“We all know why we are here so, out of respect to Mr. Nagoshi,” he said, and Joe could have sworn he took a slight bow, “I suggest we get to it.”

“Mr. Katz,” said Mr. Westinghouse. “As you are aware, my son Heath and his friend Mr. H. Edgar Simpson have some information relevant to the murder of Jessica Nagoshi, which took place a little under two months ago on the night of Friday, September 11 of this year.

“Messrs Westinghouse and Simpson are willing to divulge such information but not until a reasonable set of circumstances can be met.” Westinghouse paused there for effect, tapping his Mont Blanc pen on his leather-bound legal pad before moving on.