Gospel (44 page)

‘I must say you take the cake,' Donovan went on. ‘I have had all sorts of people do all sorts of things to avoid an audience before me and you have, shall we say, taken avoidance to a whole new level.' Donovan's sarcasm was tempered by a look of concern on the older Judge's face. ‘Having said that, I trust you are well enough to be here and not playing hero to win you some brownie points on my behalf, because I can assure you, I do not . . .'

‘I'm fine. Thanks, Your Honour.'

‘All right then,' nodded Donovan, before getting down to business by gesturing towards the two other men in the room. ‘I believe you know Trial Attorney Adams and FBI Assistant Director in Charge Ramirez?'

‘Charles,' said David, before turning to Ramirez with nothing but a cold and empty stare.

‘Your Honour,' said David, still not averting his gaze from Ramirez. ‘As you have probably heard, my tardiness this morning was due to an unscheduled detour to Mass General following an incident involving a bullet and its unfortunate collision with my head. Forgive me for getting straight to the point, but given this meeting is already running two and a half hours late, I would like to begin by stating the obvious.' David paused there, wondering if Adams or Ramirez had the audacity to interrupt at this point – which, luckily they didn't.

‘I have no idea of knowing if this morning's fortunately less than accurate fire was meant for me or for my client. Either way, one thing is clear. This attack was prompted by the prosecution's unashamed disregard of the sanctity of legal process – or more specifically, their staging of a twisted, illegal publicity stunt involving the pre-emptive release of a yet to be authenticated piece of so-called evidence to the mainstream media.'

‘Mr Cavanaugh,' began Charles ‘Grizzly' Adams, his normally subtle demeanour already discarded for his more true-to-form, deep-timbred stance of attack. ‘While we sympathise with you and the obvious distress this morning's events have caused the defence as a whole, I might suggest that it was your determination to stage your own little “show” on the front steps of Suffolk County Jail that lead to this unfortunate incident.

‘Our release of the evidence, or more specifically the handwritten
admission of guilt penned by Professor Montgomery, may not have been standard practice, but it certainly was not illegal. If you would permit me, Your Honour, I would like to explain.'

At this point Adams stood from his seat on the right hand side of Donovan's desk and moved easily towards the centre of the room. There was no doubt about it. The man was compelling. His very presence, that domineering physique combined with an almost contradictory smoothness of style, oozed such charisma that the very thought of questioning his logic became almost sacrilegious. David was sure he was in for a well-rehearsed monologue of clever legal wizardry – and he was right.

‘For starters,' began Adams, placing himself in the weak but noticeable ‘spotlight' of muted midday illumination now filtering through the still thick cloud cover and into Donovan's north facing windows, ‘I realise Mr Cavanaugh only inherited this ah . . . situation . . . four days ago, but the prosecution are yet to receive a formal request for disclosure from defence counsel. Legally we require such a request to proceed with the release of all relevant items of discovery. When this request is lodged, Mr Cavanaugh will “get the goods” so to speak. That's just how it works.

‘Secondly, while I know Mr Cavanaugh is experienced in State criminal legislature, perhaps he is unaware that the procedural rules for discovery are dramatically different in the Federal Court. As much as Mr Cavanaugh would like it, the prosecution is not required to lay out its case for the opposition. We are required to make available all statements made by the accused while in custody, the defendant's prior record as known or available to the government, and the results of any tests, reports or examinations that are material to the case. And we shall provide all of the above as soon as we receive the aforementioned request. I think Mr Cavanaugh will find that . . .'

But David had heard enough. The man was trying to bamboozle him with his blue chip knowledge of Federal Law, but two could play at that game.

‘Thanks for the lesson in Federal Law 101, Charles. I appreciate your trying to teach us state-based hicks a thing or two, but I believe you are quoting from Rule 16 of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure, and if so, you are forgetting one very important point. Under US Federal Law the prosecution are also obliged to make available any documents and
tangible objects that are material to either the prosecution case or the defendant's – and, forgive me if I am wrong, but I believe this
letter
falls into this category – unless you guys don't want to use it in court and just released it for a lark?'

David was right and a quick glance in Judge Donovan's direction told him the cantankerous Irishman was not pleased. Adams had been caught trying to edit Federal jurisprudence to his advantage, and in Donovan's book that was one big mistake, stellar record or not.

‘He's right, Mr Adams,' said Donovan. ‘You may be Mr High and Mighty back in DC, but here in Massachusetts you cannot cherry pick legal procedure at will. I'm listening, Mr Cavanaugh,' he said, turning to David. ‘Go ahead and make your point.'

‘Thank you, Your Honour,' David went on. ‘Given the nature of this so-called evidence and the way it was released to the public, I would like to request this letter be ruled inadmissible.'

Donovan said nothing, just sat back in his shiny olive green leather chair taking in the people before him, the weight of the decision obvious on his shoulders. On one hand David knew the Judge would be furious at the way the evidence had been made public prior to court disclosure; on the other, he also knew the Judge would be weighing up the fact that denying admission of the letter could ultimately result in the prosecution finding grounds for a mistrial – or worse still, accusing the Judge of being pro-defence. But more importantly, in the end, David guessed Judge Donovan would be thinking about the law – realising that his opinion was actually of no consequence. David hoped he was wrong, but if he wasn't, the next words that would most likely come out of Judge Donovan's mouth would be . . .

‘Request denied. I am sorry, Mr Cavanaugh, as much as I agree with you that the prosecution has been highly negligent in their treatment of this discovery, the evidence was not withheld from your possession, simply released to a more widespread audience prior to your knowledge. While I may personally find these antics,' said Donovan glaring at Adams, ‘beyond reproach, it is not enough to rule the letter inadmissible. I do forewarn the prosecution however, that any further displays of such media manipulation shall be met with sharp disapproval on my part.'

At that point Donovan stood, his own physical presence now
dominating the room. Unlike many Judges David knew, this man didn't need a black robe to assert his authority. It was enough for him just to look at you from across his court appointed desk – it was in his eyes and the determination of his voice.

‘I know you're not in Washington, Mr Adams, and that my Boston-based ass may not be planted on the hallowed benches of the country's capital, but Federal Court is Federal Court and as anyone will tell you, pissing off Judge Donovan is not a very clever thing to do. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Yes, Judge.'

‘All right then. If there is nothing else I would suggest the defence lodge their precious formal request and the prosecution get busy with providing Mr Cavanaugh and his team with the relevant items of discovery. Mr Cavanaugh, might I also suggest you cooperate with the local police in regards to locating the source of that wayward bullet which so rudely upset my morning's agenda.'

‘I gave them a statement just prior to leaving the hospital, Your Honour,' said David, the very mention of the shooting sending a fresh sensation of sharp pain across his forehead.

‘Good. And . . .' Donovan paused here, relaxing his shoulders and looking David square in the eye, ‘look after yourself, for God's sake. The last thing your client needs, the last thing
I
need, is another change of defence counsel. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Yes, sir,' said David, who despite the words of encouragement, felt totally defeated.

‘Right. Then, get out, the lot of you.'

And so they filed out of Judge Donovan's office; the wet mottled glass panes before them all distorted and full of promise, exposing the blur of the Harbour, its silver expanse so substantial and endless.

And then David felt him – a smothering presence from behind, his cool breath like that of a predator hovering, gloating above his wounded prey before moving in for the kill.

‘You got something to say, Ramirez?' said David, pivoting quickly to face the tall, dark agent, eye to eye, toe to toe. ‘Is this how it works? You do Grizzly's dirty work and follow up with some “B” grade performance of physical intimidation?'

‘Not at all, Counsellor,' said Ramirez with a smirk. ‘I was just going to
enquire as to the status of your injury, and if the FBI could do anything to help.'

‘You like to pray, Ramirez?'

There, he said it.

It was not enough to expose what he knew, but enough to set some doubt in Ramirez's Machiavellian mind. By this stage Charles Adams had turned to notice the tension between the two, and moved closer to hear the nature of the confrontation.

‘I
said
. . .' David went on, half knowing what he was about to say was a dangerous mistake but unable to stop himself. ‘Do you pray? Do you believe in God? Do you read the Bible, have faith in a higher being?'

The FBI Agent said nothing, just stood his ground, but there was something in his face, some essence of understanding.

‘Yes, I pray,' said Ramirez who, obviously realising he now had an audience, seemed to be choosing his words carefully, adding to the drama by shaking a concerned Charles Adams' hand from his arm and moving a fraction closer to David to say, ‘I pray every night. I pray that the man who killed Tom Bradshaw gets what he deserves. I pray that he is damned to hell, and I thank God for blessing me with the honour of helping him on his way.'

‘Funny,' said David, now turning his back on the smug FBI agent. ‘That's exactly what I pray for too.'

L
ater that evening, David sat on his comfortable sofa, propped up with pillows and wincing at the antiseptic Lisa was now re-applying to his forehead. Despite his claims to the contrary, his head really was aching, but he wasn't sure if it was the injury or the events of the day – or the fear that the bullet that came within inches of taking his life, was not from the gun of a fanatical protester firing a poorly aimed pot shot at his client, but that of a more skilled assassin who had almost made his mark.

‘That was Nora,' said Sara, hanging up the phone and moving towards them from the kitchen with three cups of milky coffee. ‘She said Joe heard the news and has been calling from pay phones all day. He's on his way back, says he needs to see you ASAP. He told Nora he'll have to check in at work first thing but should be able to get away around lunch time.'

Pay phones
, thought David. Joe wasn't using his cell. He must be worried about his calls being traced back to Washington, which probably means he is also worried about their safety – and the possibility that Ramirez might . . .

‘I called King earlier,' Sara went on. ‘He must still be with Joe. He called in sick to work today so . . .'

‘You
what?
' said David a little too loudly.

‘I called Leo King, to see if he was in. I thought that if he was back, he could tell us what happened with Ryan and . . .'

‘Sara, Simba is sharing an office with Ramirez. What's Ramirez gonna think if he finds out the defence is calling FBI Special Agent Leo King whose job it is to see our client is injected with enough poison to kill an elephant. Please tell me you didn't leave a message.'

‘I . . .' said Sara, the corners of her eyes now starting to sting with tears. ‘David, I was just trying to help. You were hurt. In hindsight I can see it wasn't the smartest thing to do.' She took a breath then, and swallowed the silent sob that sat visibly lodged in her throat. ‘But I was just trying to keep on top of things. You can't do everything on your own, David. You asked me to take this on, despite how hard . . .' She took another breath, as if trying to calm herself down. ‘The answer to your question is, no, I did not leave a message.'

David tried to feel empathy, but all he felt was pain, and frustration and worry that Sara might have unwittingly tipped off Ramirez to Leo's involvement with the defence – putting King, and Sara, at even greater risk from . . .

‘Did you call from your cell?'

‘Yes.'

‘If Ramirez gets suspicious about Simba, he can trace it.' David knew he should stop, but his concern for her safety overrode his sense of discernment and he found himself unable to control the anxiety that was growing to a new level of terror inside of him.

‘Hey,' interrupted Lisa. ‘What the hell is going on here? Who is this Ramirez? Has this got something to do with the gunshot this morning?'

‘Sara,' said David, brushing his sister's hand from his face and standing to confront his girlfriend. ‘I'm sorry, but you have to realise this is no game. This is no Hector Gabbit charged with wheeling his Bridge Club President down the stairs. Not thinking puts us all at risk. These are evil, powerful people who will stop at nothing to . . .'

‘I'm sorry,' she yelled, the tears now flowing freely. ‘It was a mistake, a stupid mistake. You know I couldn't live with myself if I put anyone in danger of . . .' And then she fell forward into his arms, the trauma of the day's events now releasing themselves in series of long, violent sobs.