Gospel (46 page)

H
ow much to tell them? How much to tell?

This, Professor Stuart Montgomery thought to himself, was a question of great magnitude. He realised now he had been taking false comfort in a naïve and rather arrogant attitude that he was invincible. For weeks now he had been telling himself that, despite indications to the contrary, there was no way he would be found guilty of this crime he did not commit – and the reasons he gave himself were really quite logical, or at least, they seemed to be at the time.

Firstly his stellar reputation as a God-like healer, a cardiac guru who had worked his magic and saved the lives of hundreds of influential patients, was sure to work in his favour. He honestly believed the gift of life he so kindly endowed on his subjects might come with some accompanying prerequisite for repayment in gratitude. But so far no one – not even those whose lives he had pulled back from the brink – had put up their hands to act as a respected character witness on his behalf, which perhaps was not so strange after all, considering the shallow definition of the words ‘appreciation' and ‘loyalty' in Washington DC.

Secondly, he was foolish enough to convince himself that his innocence – pure and simple – would be enough to assure exoneration. Rubbish of course, a dangerous miscalculation. In reality, it would come
down to what team kicked the most goals on the day, or perhaps more accurately, which side managed to upstage the other with a dazzling array of pre-trial media manipulation, concluding in a crescendo of climactic courtroom pizzazz.

He had certainly underestimated the power of Trial Attorney Adams, and more pointedly that smug, so-called defender of truth, Assistant Director in Charge Antonio ‘Repugnant' Ramirez who, he sensed, was a key driver of the prosecution's case. Stupid of him really, under the circumstances, considering he knew how the game was played and until recently, considered himself a master at the sport. Obviously he was not as clever as he first thought, and this revelation alone was enough to deliver another soul-destroying blow of self-admonishment.

Thirdly came the crux of it. The identity of the true murderer or murderers, as may be the case. He had always prided himself on having a sixth sense when it came to ‘reading' people – a talent which was no doubt one of his greatest political assets, enabling him to boost himself above the less intuitive in his strategic quest for advancement. But with that talent also came a rather unnerving sense of the agendas of similar ambitious beings – in this case those with an insatiable thirst for power and a total disregard to the scruples others honoured to acquire it.

Which was probably why he had more than a fair idea of who might be responsible – and the thought of it scared the hell out of him.

He saw it now – so clear in its simplicity. His execution had always been part of their multi-faceted plan. In effect, two people had been murdered in the Presidential Suite of the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel on Saturday 30 April: Tom Bradshaw and
himself
. It was just that he was taking a little longer to die. If he had any doubts of their dedication to secure his fate, today's tidily targeted bullet had spoken reams. It really didn't matter if the shot was meant for Cavanaugh, it was also meant as a warning to him, of what they are capable of, of the extremes they would go to to assure he kept his appointment with the ‘man in the white coat'.

And so, he also knew if he told the truth now – if he shouted to the world what he had found and how he had reacted on that night of death – that he would not only be laughed all the way to the executioner's chair, but given an extra hiding for daring to concoct such a ridiculous and scandalous defence. No, the time for confessions had past – now there
was only the hope that his attorney could play the game just a little bit better than
them
.

The Professor looked at his watch. Nine twelve. Cavanaugh and his girl would be here any minute and, despite his internal reluctance to face it, he knew there was one more very important issue to consider, for only then could his question be answered:
How much to tell them?

The key issue was ‘
The Fear'
.

There, he had said it – and said it aloud to boot.

The real reason he had been sitting here in this rueful tangerine garb, playing the game, editing his script and telling his lies accordingly, was because he believed his current situation/location was ‘safer' than the alternative. If he were freed, he would no doubt be a major liability to the real culprits' futures – they needed him to stand trial and die on their terms – and any change in said plans could prove catastrophic.

Strangely enough, after all that had happened, he also realised his fear was not just for himself but for her – the woman who had stood by him, despite the years of infidelity. She could have left him, true. Over the years he had certainly given her more than enough opportunities to file for a profitable divorce. But if she ever had a more valid reason to do so, if there were ever a time to walk out and be forgiven,
applauded
even, then this would be it. But she had not.
She had not!
And sitting here now, alone, he could almost abide with what they would do to him. But the prospect of them touching her was completely unacceptable.

And so he came back to it.
How much to tell?

Cavanaugh was not stupid and did not suffer fools, nor liars, so he would have to be as honest as possible without placing himself and his wife in jeopardy. He would have to hope that if he led Cavanaugh and his rather savvy co-counsel to the vault of truth, they would be clever enough to discern the combination themselves and find a way in without him actually giving them the key. In doing this,
they
would be the ones who figured it out – absolving him from what he knew would be the disastrous consequences of simply coming clean.

Bottom line, he needed to beat this, and without Cavanaugh's help he was doomed. Deep in his soul he had a dire need to survive this preposterous calamity; a desperate, heart-felt compulsion to save himself and
Karin along with him, even if she chose another path when all of this was over and done with.

And so he answered his question . . .

If Cavanaugh asked the right questions, he would give him the right answers. He might even direct him towards the correct questions to ask? Yes that was the trick! That just might do it.

Ironically, he knew, it wasn't such a tough case to crack. He was certainly no detective and yet he had worked out how they had done it; and their plan was really quite brilliant in its simplicity – a two-pronged attack – immobilise and kill. He had to admit, Ramirez had done a stellar job at constructing the details of his culpability – which was understandable considering his experience and more pointedly, he suspected, his personal investment in finding an appropriate scapegoat to send to the grave in his stead.

And so, as the guard buzzed the two rather dishevelled looking visitors into interview room three, Montgomery straightened himself in the old metal chair and managed, under the circumstances, a reasonably confident greeting.

Ask and I will tell
, he said to himself again.
Ask and I will tell
.

‘Did you write it?' asked David at last, needing to hear it from him. ‘Did you write that letter to Tom Bradshaw, Montgomery? Does that handwriting belong to you?'

‘Forgive me, Mr Cavanaugh,' said the Professor, now using a monogrammed handkerchief to wipe down the rim of the County-issue coffee mug containing a weak Darjeeling. ‘But isn't this the point where you stop asking questions? The letter exists whether I wrote it or not. The prosecution has been granted permission to enter it into evidence and so, perhaps, from your point of view it would be better if you didn't . . .'

‘
Did you write that letter?'
David asked again, and from the corner of his eye caught Sara jump at the escalating level of his voice.

‘I . . . ,' Montgomery began, replacing his tea on the table and looking his attorney squarely in the eye. ‘Yes. Yes I did write that letter, Mr Cavanaugh. I wrote it in a moment of frustration. But as I have explained before, this was all part of the game Tom and I played together; the tap dance, the to-ing and fro-ing, the nature of our evolving relationship. He
read it and discarded it, knowing it was just me being me. In the end, we would have made up.'

‘Stop,' said Sara, her own voice now rising above David's, the tone tinged with anger and exhaustion. ‘Just stop right there, Professor, because everything you are saying will be torn to shreds by the prosecution before you even have a chance to stir the honey in your God-damned tea.'

David looked at her then, surprised by her outburst, figuring she was still hurt from his heartless lambasting last night. And then he felt that familiar sensation of guilt steal into his consciousness – for she had every right to feel dejected, resentful, enraged – emotions he had no doubt would reach new levels of intensity once he told her about the woman now showering in his apartment . . .

‘Can't you see how this looks?' Sara went on. ‘Handwriting experts will confirm you wrote that letter. The letter contains not one, or two, but several references to the antagonistic nature of your relationship with the Vice President and worse still, it practically spells out how you intended to kill him.'

‘What?' said an outwardly horrified Montgomery. ‘It does no such thing. I had no intention of . . .'

‘Yes it
does
, Professor. Here, look at it,' she said, shoving a copy of the letter in front of his face. ‘You say “Perhaps it is time I reassess my loyalties”. “Do not underestimate my influence”. You call him a fool, a hypocrite, and then you go on to outline the fact that he has been close to death before suggesting you can bring him to that point again.'

‘I wasn't talking of physical death, my dear girl,' said the Professor, obviously mortified. ‘More metaphorical. I was suggesting his career would be . . .'

‘It doesn't matter what you
meant
, Professor,' she said, now on her feet and pacing the small cinderblock interview room. ‘It only matters what the prosecution can convince a jury you meant. Some of the twelve may not even be able to spell metaphorical, let alone know what it means. Just look at how you conclude the letter; with the mention of his past drug habit, by confirming the letter as a threat not to be underestimated, and worse still, with a reference of your intention to put his career “
to bed
”. Don't you see? That is exactly how the man was murdered – by the administration of narcotics in his very own bed.'

They all said nothing. She was right. From this perspective the letter was a pre-planned itinerary of the deadly events to come.

‘Dear God,' said Montgomery. ‘How could I have been so naïve? You must believe me, I had no intention of . . .'

But David was not listening, something else was bothering him – something the Professor had said, or something he was about to say before Sara's outburst.

‘Professor, let's back up a little,' he said, trying to ignore the constant throbbing in his head. ‘Correct me if I am wrong but a moment ago you said this letter was part of your “dance” with Bradshaw, more of the customary to-ing and fro-ing that was part and parcel of the political game.'

‘That's right.'

‘And you also said it was just a matter of time before you would have patched up your differences, that you would have “made up”. '

‘Exactly,' interrupted Montgomery. ‘You're a good listener, Mr Cavanaugh. Do go on.'

‘You said “w
ould have
” made up, Professor,' said David. ‘Are you telling me that this letter was the last communication between yourself and the Vice President, that you
would
have, if you
could
have, but you didn't actually get the chance to “
make-up
” with Tom Bradshaw prior to his death?'

‘Well. Yes. That is exactly what I was saying.'

‘No, Professor. Wrong again,' interrupted Sara. ‘You're forgetting that your last communication with Tom Bradshaw was on the night of his death, when you were called to his suite to examine him, when you came and checked his blood pressure and heart. It was just before he was due to come down to the Grand Ballroom – just before he was killed.'

‘Hmmmm,' said Montgomery, a look of mock confusion on his face. ‘Yes, of course, I did say that, didn't I? It is certainly what everyone would expect me to say and there are no witnesses to the contrary.'

‘
What?
' said Sara. ‘Are you telling us you
lied
, Professor? That on the night of Bradshaw's death, you and he were still at odds? That your final visit was met with antagonism? That you and Bradshaw fought?'

‘On the contrary, my dear, I would say our last meeting was very quiet; exceptionally peaceful, in fact, disconcertingly so.'

Just then Montgomery looked at David as if daring him to see past his anger and make the connection. The Professor had to know he had
betrayed his trust – broken his firm's sacred rule of telling the ‘truth and nothing but the truth', but David sensed he was somehow asking him to understand the reasons why he had lied and, in seeing the depth of his fear, would know that at the time, lying had been his only option.

Their eyes were locked on each other – as if the Professor was willing him to see what he had seen in that oh-so-opulent suite first hand; every living, breathing, dying second of it.

And in that moment, the surge of rage David had been holding on to since he entered the room, suddenly gave way to a new sense of realisation.

Now he saw it, and understood it all.

‘You didn't make up that night,' said David.

Montgomery said nothing, just gave him a look that urged him to continue.