Gospel (63 page)

It was after eleven by the time they got home, Sara opting to stay the night at David's.

They entered the elevator together, exhausted, contemplative and still unsure as to how they would proceed tomorrow given Ryan's ‘disappearing act' and the legal and moral responsibility they held to their client and to the court.

And then, as they reached the apartment door and moved inside, it was David who noticed him first – his long, unfamiliar shadow frozen against the far wall. He wasn't making an attempt to hide himself, rather just standing there, stock-still in the dark as if he had been there for centuries, patiently awaiting their return. David instinctively hit the lights which, despite still being set on dimmer from the previous evening, provided enough illumination for Sara to gasp at the intruder before them – their missing ‘instructor', CIA Director Richard Ryan.

‘Jesus, Ryan,' said David. ‘What in the hell do you think you are doing?'

‘Good to see you too, Cavanaugh. Miss Davis,' said Ryan, nodding at Sara. ‘Sorry I'm so late. Well, actually it is you two that are late. I've been here since nine and there is nothing but crap in your fridge.'

But David had had enough.

‘Shove it, Ryan. How dare you break into my home. You have no right to . . .'

‘We need to talk,' said Ryan, now blatantly ignoring Sara.

‘
No
. That's it Ryan. I have done everything you asked. I have tried to slow things down, play it cool while I wait for your God-damned green light, even kept the whole big fucking story from my client and the detectives who have put their lives at risk by working this case.'

‘Look, I'm sorry,' said Ryan consolatory. ‘It's just . . . ,' he hesitated before going on. ‘It's complicated.'

‘Right,' said David. ‘And I thought it was child's play.'

They paused then, the air thick between them, David stealing a quick glance at Sara who was still standing near the doorway, no one moving, as if unsure as to how this should play out.

‘The problem is, Cavanaugh,' Ryan began, obviously choosing his words carefully. ‘That sometimes things are better left unsaid – stories not told, evils not revealed. Sometimes the world is a better place if Mr and Mrs Joe Average aren't exposed to what really happens in the world of pure iniquity.'

‘So what are you saying?' asked David. ‘Are you asking us to pull back, to risk my client's future so that the American people can be protected from the truth?'

‘Yes and no. I am not saying you can't work to exonerate your client – the Vice President will reveal himself and you will get your dismissal. But I am telling you that exposing the truth – about GIV and their intentions – makes the government vulnerable.

‘How do you think the good people of America will react when they find out four senior government officials managed to start up an exclusive drug cartel with clients, or relatives of clients, being voting members of Congress? How do you think they will respond when they find out the drug thing was just a means to an end so that they might rise to power and manipulate our system of government? What will they say when they realise we were on the brink of becoming a dictatorship – because that's what would have happened, if John had ascended to the Presidency.

‘Bottom line,' he said, pausing before going on. ‘We have discussed this – President Latham, Vice President Bradshaw, Chief of Staff Bryant and I – and we have agreed on a course of action. You can have Ramirez, nail him for the attempted murder of the Vice President and for manipulating an investigation to cover his tracks. Bradshaw reveals himself and your client goes free, his reputation still intact – embellished even, given he was the one that administered the drug that saved the Vice President's life.

‘But GIV – their narcotics operation and John – I am afraid they are a “no go”. We need to handle those issues separately, privately, in our own way.'

David stood there, saying nothing, his breathing deep, his muscles tense. He could not believe what he was hearing, could not believe what he was being asked, or more accurately
told
to do.

He looked at Sara then, as if her face might indicate which way he should go, and in that moment he knew. For in her wide aqua eyes he
saw an unfailing faith that he would make the right decision – a complete confidence that he would do what he needed to do, despite the consequences and regardless of the cost.

‘Ryan,' he said at last. ‘Don't you see what you are doing? You think you are serving this country by telling lies and half truths. You think the people need “protecting” when really they deserve the reassurance that justice wins out overall. No, I'm sorry, Ryan, but we're out. You can tell the President, no offence intended, but I am doing this my way. Now if you'll excuse us,' he said, standing clear of the doorway. ‘We need to get some sleep. Something tells me tomorrow is going to be a very busy day.'

‘Are you sure about this?' she asked at last, moving towards him, the moonlight from the far window casting her long narrow shadow across the apartment floor. Ryan had left a moment earlier and David still stood in the middle of the room.

‘No,' he said, managing a smile and knowing it could be no other way.

‘If we go down this road they will try to stop us.'

‘Then we'll go down fighting.'

‘But we still don't know who John is,' she said.

‘Maybe not but we . . .' And then it hit him – just like that, the reason Ryan and company were so keen to keep this quiet. The reason Bradshaw was willing to stand aside and let his killer walk free.

‘What, David? What is it?' she asked, taking both of his hands in hers.

‘John,' he said.

‘John . . . I don't . . . ?'

‘We don't need Ryan and his merry band of politicians,' he said. ‘We never really did. We already know who John is and, ironically,' he said pausing to shake his head, ‘it's been staring us in the face for weeks.'

‘David, please. You're not making any sense.'

‘Hector Gabbit,' he said, referring to their previous elderly client. ‘Hector Gabbit and Stuart Montgomery – polar opposites and just the same. Don't you see Sara? The answer has been with good old Hector all along.'

H
e had called Charles Adams at six and asked him to meet him at a quiet downtown café known as Rise by seven. At that hour the café's only clientele were banker types drinking lattes with their heads buried in the business section of the
Tribune
. Adams assumed David wanted to negotiate a plea and thus had agreed to the early get together only to have his entire world turned upside as David told his incredible story.

Strangely enough, the Trial Attorney had said nothing – just sat there, sipping his double espresso, listening to everything David had to say and eventually nodding when asked for his help. David even registered a half smile across his wide, strong features as Adams offered to raise the arrest warrant for one FBI Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez – and serve it personally – when David gave his cue.

By 7.30am they were shaking hands – and David thought it was funny how justice worked sometimes. In effect, he had started down his road of exposition – defying the President and enlisting the help of the Trial Attorney in making sure justice was served. Adams was a dedicated prosecutor motivated by the same principles after all – and as such, by 7.30am, had effectively become the tenth member of their team.

And so now, as he sat behind the defence table on what was to be the
last day of the case known as the United States v Montgomery, he felt strangely calm, at ease.

It was as if this hearing, and everything that had led up to it, was part of his destiny. So much had happened in the past few months. He had rebuilt a relationship with the woman he once lost – and gained respect for the man who stole her from him. He had jeopardised the trust of his one true love and discovered that nothing was more important than the truth. He had watched his friends put their lives on the line and learned that justice was not an ideal but an obligation, and he had seen a man rise from the dead only to be constrained by politics, cover-ups and lies.

He saw the clerk enter the room, indicating Donovan's arrival was imminent and took this last opportunity to turn and look at the crowd behind him – elbow to elbow, knee to knee, silent, at attention and ready to begin. He made an effort to make eye contact with the people who had made this happen – with his unbiased confidant Marc Rigotti and the cool conspirator Caroline Croft, with his long-time buddy Tony Bishop and across to his FBI friend Leo King. He looked at Nora his protector and Arthur, his champion and Sara, the woman who had re-opened his heart.

And finally he looked at her – and she at him, and in that moment they said nothing and everything as all the years of pain and regret and loss and guilt were washed away with one simple dedication – to set things right.

‘T
he defence calls FBI Washington Field Office Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez.'

Ramirez had anticipated as much. He may have even felt a small, slick sliver of fear slip down his spine as Cavanaugh called his name, but he knew there was no way the man could prove any of his grandiose accusations. They had been meticulous, scrupulous in their procedure. There were no witnesses – at least none in the land of the living.

True, the Boston attorney had done a reasonable job in building a case for his client's innocence, but now he was allowing his freakish run of luck to fill him with a dangerous degree of over-confidence. Not a wise move. Cavanaugh was greedy. He was not satisfied with just exonerating the Professor, he wanted to find the real killers as
well
. It was like he was reading from the script of some ‘B' grade legal drama following some erroneously predictable plot where the ‘bad guy' gives it all up in the end. Tidy for TV sure, but this was real life, and in the end, Cavanaugh didn't have a leg to stand on.

He started just as Ramirez expected he would, asking him to tell the court about his status at the FBI and his responsibilities on the night of 30 April. He asked about the security measures, the order of procedure, the inhabitants of the fifth floor and even Bradshaw's demeanour on the night – which Ramirez described as considerably ‘up beat'.

Completely true of course, up until John had injected the Vice President with the small syringe of succinylcholine – the miniature needle so long and slim that it fit ‘just so' inside John's beaded rectangular designer purse. She'd injected him at the back of his neck and Bradshaw swatted at it as you would a mosquito who had arrived for dinner uninvited. Of course, it wasn't long before he realised the truth and by then he was no longer able to do anything about it.

‘Are you a good investigator, Assistant Director?' asked Cavanaugh, refocusing Ramirez on the task at hand.

‘Mr Cavanaugh, I would suggest you do not get to the position I am in without being a capable investigator. I do work for the Federal Bureau of
Investigation
, after all.'

‘Come now, Assistant Director, we appreciate your modesty but truth be told, you answer only to the Director of the FBI do you not? In fact, rumour has it you could well be next in line for the top job when Director Delgado moves on.'

‘If you say so, Mr Cavanaugh,' said Ramirez with a half smile. ‘However, I have never viewed my position from a perspective of rank, more from a stance of responsibility. I am honoured to hold the position I do. I have great respect for the laws of this country and work hard to make sure they are upheld. If I am rewarded for that with promotion through the Bureau then that is my superior's prerogative, not mine.'

‘Fair enough,' said David. ‘So, I suppose you won't mind if we call on your assistance to “uphold” the law today. You are the lead investigator on this matter, after all, so who better to lead us through the evidence than the man who collated it in the first place. Am I right, Assistant Director?'

But Cavanaugh did not wait for his reply, just moved to his desk to retrieve those two pesky video tapes. Well, they could easily be explained, thought Ramirez. And if that was all Cavanaugh had – this was going to be a walk in the park.

‘Let's start with what we know then, shall we?' said David, stacking the two tapes in front of the witness, their hard plastic surface making contact with the wooden platform with a ‘thwack'. ‘Two tapes: with the second – or the original – a good four minutes longer than the first. Any idea how this could have happened, Assistant Director?'

‘No idea whatsoever.'

‘You didn't edit the original?'

‘Of course not. Why would I waste my time playing “cut the tape” when the four minutes in question had nothing of interest on them? Yes, I reentered the Vice President's suite to check on security. Yes, Vice President Bradshaw asked me to make sure he was given a few moments' peace. Yes, I told Chief of Staff Bryant as much. And
no
– despite your obvious enthusiasm to suggest otherwise – there was nothing untoward about any of these occurrences.

‘I was just doing my job, Counsellor,' smiled Ramirez. ‘Perhaps you should be asking the hotel manager as to why he did not supply us with an unedited copy. Perhaps
he
is the one who should be up here answering such questions.'

‘Good idea, Assistant Director.
Mr Capon?
' David called across the room loudly, prompting everyone to jump. He pivoted to face a dapper man in a cream linen suit with small round glasses perched on the end of his nose. The man had just risen from a seat in the far right hand corner of the room.

‘No, Mr Cavanaugh. I am certain I gave Assistant Director Ramirez a full, unedited copy of the original,' said Capon. ‘I do not wish to offend the Assistant Director but I would never deign to alter what I knew might be important to those investigating the Vice President's passing.'