Gospel (22 page)

‘Okay, so let's see what we have,' Croft began. ‘First up the woman is an amazing surgeon, lifesaver, working class Latin American made good. Secondly, she was once married to David Cavanaugh, a respected Boston attorney who, to my knowledge, despite all the references to him in today's press, has never said an ill word against her. Thirdly, she had the balls to stand up to her husband's idiotic lawyer in open court, challenging the man's approach in an undying gesture of spousal support. And finally, she looks damned hot in a pair of Jackie O sunglasses, which believe me, very few women have the ability to pull off.'

‘Except for you, CC,' said Jefferson laughing.

‘Yes, well, except for me,' she smiled back.

‘I can track down the ex-patients,' said Macy. ‘Maybe some kids? Let's interview some of those lives she saved – hopefully some of the poorer variety, those that she cut up for free.'

‘Good,' said Caroline. ‘And track down some archives, her graduating from BU, receiving some important medical award, anything to give her cred.'

‘What about Cavanaugh?' asked Chris Conroy. ‘How big do you want to play him?'

‘As big as possible without dwelling on the divorce. The trick is to paint
the picture of Karin Montgomery as a strong supportive spouse without binding her to the British Professor. Not an easy call, but I find the man cold and stand-offish and I'm guessing most of our audience feels the same way. If we can get Cavanaugh on record saying something in support of his ex without mentioning the current husband then . . .'

‘Impossible,' said Dole. ‘You know Cavanaugh. We couldn't get jack out of him during the Martin trial last year, and that was when he was lead defence counsel. He has nothing to do with this case and my guess is he'll be avoiding the media like the plague.'

‘Hmmm,' said Croft. ‘That's one to think on then. Leave it with me.'

‘Look out,' smiled Conroy. ‘The “Peppermint Steamroller” is on a mission.'

‘According to
USA Today
, my latest nickname is the “Pastel Piranha”, which I must admit, I quite like.'

‘Peppermint Steamroller, Pastel Piranha, Blonde Barracuda,' said Jefferson. ‘At least you have the competition spending more time thinking up monikers for you than actually becoming competitive by chasing decent stories.'

‘Which is why we rate our pants off and they wallow in mediocrity,' said Croft. ‘This one's a winner folks, I can feel it.'

David was having the week from hell. It had started on Saturday with Karin turning up out of the blue. Next, he had to admit, he made matters worse by lying to those closest to him. Well, not lying exactly, but certainly not telling them the whole truth. He had not told Sara or the others about Karin's outrageous request and for some reason, he felt as guilty as hell about it.

Of course they had asked, and he said something like ‘she just wanted to catch up, clear the air, make amends'. And worse still, Sara kissed him and told him how proud she was ‘that he was man enough to re-build the bridge, get closure and move on with his life'.

Move on? With someone like Karin, that was easier said than done. Lying to Sara had been bad enough, but lying to Arthur was almost unthinkable. He knew his boss/friend/mentor could see beyond the bullshit, but was too damned decent to call him on it.

And then, this morning things got worse. He and Sara got to work to
receive an early call from ADA Roger Katz – an old enemy and current prosecutor in the Hector Gabbit case – basically saying their entire accidental death defence was now down the toilet. Katz claimed he had new evidence which indicated the wheelchair of the deceased, Alfred Mulch, had been ‘
tampered with'
just prior to Mulch's fatal fall down the Bridge Club stairs, and that the prosecution would prove their client was the ‘
tamperee'
. Up until today, they felt they had every chance of securing Gabbit a ‘not guilty' verdict. But now, the District Attorney's office claimed they had evidence which could bury their client and put him away for what remained of his simple, now screwed-up life, unless they could prove someone else had tampered with the brakes on Mulch's chair, which right now seemed impossible.

The truth was, while Sara was next door trying to organise independent testing on the wheelchair's mechanics, David had been sitting here for the past two hours, staring out the window and thinking about the Montgomery case. He hated himself for it, but he couldn't seem to stop. Why the hell did she approach him? Her husband must know hundreds of blue chip attorneys. It wasn't like they couldn't afford the best. Was it some cruel game of emotional torture or did she really believe he had the ability to win a Federal murder case which was, by all accounts, unwinnable. She obviously wanted her husband set free, but then why did he get the feeling there was no love lost between them, why did he pick up a slight shudder whenever she said his name?

What if she was right? What if Montgomery
was
innocent, set up for the murder of the century, as Karin had claimed? Tony Bishop's words came back to him; his comments that there were people who would
gain
from Bradshaw's death, powerful people with political agendas that involved money and position.

And then there was that day on the Harbour with Mannix, who, David knew, had a sixth sense about these things. Something was not sitting right with Joe – despite all the evidence against the Professor, and that worried him most of all.

If Mannix had been right – and he almost always was – then he deserved to know about Karin's claims. Joe was always straight with him, but he had kept this whole thing to himself, simply because he was too damned scared to go ‘there' again.

‘David.'

David nearly jumped a foot when Nora Kelly knocked and poked her head around his frosted glass office door – which he always kept open, until this morning. She had a yellow message slip in her hands and he assumed it was yet another note from the ‘never-give-up' media fraternity . . . ‘
Yeah sure, folks, come on round, have a beer and I'll tell you all the sweet and sordid details about me and the hot lookin' ex
. . .' Yeah right.

‘I'm sorry, lad,' said Nora, who had been concerned about David since Karin's visit on Saturday. ‘It's . . . ah . . . Karin Montgomery just called. Didn't leave a message beyond saying she was hoping to hear back from you.'

Jesus, thought David, it was as if the woman could read his mind. The weight of her request was bearing down on him – the responsibility that, despite all the evidence against her husband, that what she was saying could be . . .

‘Nora,' said David at last. ‘Do me a favour, will you? Call Joe Mannix. Tell him I need to see him, tonight if possible.'

‘Certainly, lad,' said Nora. ‘Is everything all right?'

‘I used to think I knew what “right” was Nora, but lately I . . .'

‘I know, lad,' she said with an understanding smile. ‘My mother used to say you should listen to your heart and then follow your conscience. And I think that's as close a definition to “right” as we are going to get.'

‘Maybe she was spot on,' David replied. ‘And if that's the case you'd better call Joe straightaway – before I have a chance to change my mind.'

The woman had called three times. Her voice was smooth, like silk. Of course she had heard the voice before, in fact she was a fan of the
Newsline
program and had spent many a Friday night watching it alone, with Stuart out at one medical function or another, pumping the right palms or bedding the right woman, whichever, no doubt, seemed the more productive activity at the time.

Caroline Croft was certainly good at what she did. Even her long answering machine messages were persuasive. ‘You are being victimised by the prosecution and their media machine', ‘You are a successful woman who has dedicated your life to improving the wellbeing of others' and
finally: ‘Given this latest “smear campaign”, you deserve the opportunity to be able to defend yourself and your husband'.

Bottom line, Caroline Croft wanted an interview and, judging by her persistence, would do just about anything to get it.

Karin hated the idea. She hated all that media bullshit and had spent most of her career avoiding the kind of attention her husband relished. And besides, what was she supposed to say? That her husband was innocent? That she believed he was being framed by somebody else, someone powerful, who wanted Tom Bradshaw dead?

She had spent the past week holed up in her suite at the four star Regency Park Hotel, looking out over the historical beauty of Boston's Public Gardens, and wondering how in the hell she could convince her ex-husband to represent her current one in the trial of the century. She could not help but laugh to herself. It was ridiculous really, insane. She could just imagine the glee on Caroline Croft's perfectly made up face if she got hold of that little piece of information. Still, she had to admit, the current Karin Montgomery smear campaign had got under her skin and the fire in her gut made her want to speak out and defend herself.

And then there was David. He looked so
good, s
o strong and familiar. She hated to admit it but there was still something there. In fact, she was pretty sure it had always been there and that she had just been too afraid to face it. She was the one who left him after all, and facing the consequences of that huge mistake was soul destroying.

She moved towards the eastern window, took a sip of her freshly served English Breakfast tea from the perfectly crafted Waterford China cup and looked down upon America's oldest botanical gardens. She could just make out a regal General George Washington, resolute and determined upon his bronzed horse. And beyond him the white swan pedal boats, carrying children and their parents, smiling and laughing as they meandered in and out of the cool summer shadows left as a favour by the curtain of deep green weeping willows. Mothers, fathers, girls, boys – she had given up so much, and for what? She wasn't even sure. And now he had found someone else and Dr Karin Vasquez Cavanaugh Montgomery was . . . well, maybe she was getting what she deserved.

With this thought Karin took a deep breath and turned away from the window. The red blinking caught her eye. The message function on her
hotel phone was flashing away, a cruel reminder of the predicament she was in.

And then it came to her. She had seen it on that TV show, the legal drama, the one where the clever, too-good-looking lawyers defended what appeared to be hopeless cause after hopeless cause. They called it their ‘Plan B'. It was all about creating reasonable doubt by providing another alternative to the theory being pushed by the prosecution and, in her husband's case, a notion of guilt held unanimously by a nation who was out for blood.

The idea exploded in her mind, the possibilities considered, the details dropping in. Maybe there was a way to use Ms Croft, suggest this alternative theory and hopefully secure David's services in the process. She did not know what else to do.

It would mean telling a blatant lie, or at least alluding to one. It was risky, manipulative and, she hated to admit it, dreadfully unfair to David. She would have to tell Stuart – an exchange she was dreading – but for this to work he would have to be on board. He would protest, but she held the upper hand and knew that in the end he would be too smart to pass this up.

‘What do I have to lose?' she said to herself before striding across the cream-coloured carpet and lifting the phone off its receiver before she had a chance to change her mind.

‘I'm sorry, David,' she said aloud as she dialled Caroline Croft's direct number and prayed to God what she was about to do would work.

‘Croft,' she said, curt and efficient, bereft of the butter that she used for her ‘pitching' calls. Time was running out and they still were no further ahead with their plans for Friday's night's show.

‘Ms Croft, this is Karin Montgomery.'

‘Dr Montgomery,' back with the butter. ‘Thank you so much for returning my calls, I . . .'

‘I have a proposition for you, Ms Croft, and if you agree to my conditions, my interview is yours.'

‘Of course,' said Croft, sitting up straight in her seat, still in shock that the woman had called and even more excited by the fact that Karin Montgomery was obviously a woman who liked to cut to the chase. ‘What is it, Dr Montgomery? Anything you need.'

‘First up, I want your word that you tell no one bar your immediate team of my intention to be interviewed until the day of said interview.'

‘I . . . all right.'

‘Secondly, I need you to promise me that what I say to you in this telephone conversation will not be discussed with anyone until the evening of said interview.'

‘Well, I may need to discuss the structure and content of the interview with my executive producer prior to . . .'

‘Yes or no, Ms Croft?'

‘Well, I suppose . . . All right Doctor.'

‘I also want final approval of the interview before it goes to air.'

‘Dr Montgomery, I appreciate your candour up front, but I am afraid we have an overall policy not to . . .'

‘That's a deal breaker, Ms Croft. I have messages from NBC, ABC, CNN and Fox on my hotel phone.'

‘You strike a hard bargain, Doctor, but as I said, I appreciate your forth-rightness so I'll agree to show you the filmed material prior to it going to air.'

‘Good. Finally, I need your assurance that when this telephone conversation is over, you will not, I repeat, will
not
harass my first husband for a follow-up story. No phone call, nothing. Up until now his involvement in this mess had been purely due to my past association with him. He is a good man who deserves his privacy. Further, I will not proceed with any interview until both of our signatures are on the bottom of a legal document outlining the above stipulations.'