The Trials of Max Q, page 15
She has fire in her eyes as she recounts the tale. She subtly wipes a tear, acting as if the rain caused it, unintentionally showing a softer side.
When we arrive at the parking garage, Marissa has got her edge back. She runs her hand over the hood of the BMW in fake admiration. “Wow—can’t get one of these playing for the low-rent team.”
Shep’s anger spills over. “You don’t know me. And you’re the one with the million dollar husband.”
“I always know my competition. And since you are trying to take away my husband, you are my biggest adversary.”
“You’re big on generalization and bluster, but low on facts—just like in the courtroom.”
“You sure you want to test that one?”
Shep turns surprisingly quiet. She angrily turns the key in the ignition and drives onto the busy Manhattan street. Marissa has pierced her nerves like an elite sharpshooter.
As we move through the crowded city streets, Shep opens the questions. “Your husband called your residence at 11:36, the night before the murder. What was the purpose of that phone call?”
“Last minute details on where we were going to toss Laney Bang’s body after we murdered her. Obviously we got our signals crossed—I said throw the body in the lake, but Drew insisted on leaving her in his bedroom.”
“Do you find this funny?”
“The murder—no. This questioning and the bumbling by the authorities in this case—downright hilarious.”
“What was the call concerning?” I repeat the question in a calm tone.
“He calls me every night that we’re apart. He knows I try to be in bed no later than midnight, since I have to be in court early in the morning. I was impressed that he still called me that night, despite his important business meeting. If you two weren’t so busy basking in your newfound fame, maybe you could have taken a moment to check the phone records between us to see the pattern.”
“The call was ten minutes long—that’s a long time to say goodnight. What else was discussed?” I ask.
“We discussed how boring Arleen Scott’s party was and that he owed me for attending in his place. He also went into detail about his polo match and trip to the races on Sunday. But sorry, we didn’t get into a jealous tiff over Laney Bang being there, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
“For such a boring party, you seemed to be having a good time,” I mention.
“I take back what I said, Inspector Clouseau—you actually did do some research. My overindulgence of alcohol was more for survival than entertainment purposes. Not normally my thing, but then again, I don’t usually attend Arleen Scott’s parties.”
“So you were okay with your husband’s meeting?” Shep asks.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“The Goddess of Sex spending the night alone in that house with your husband? The staff abruptly sent home? I’m not sure I would be so trusting.”
“That’s because you have trust issues, Ms. Shepherdson, as does my husband. But his issues are that he trusts people based on his naïve loyalty. He’s appeased that freeloader, Maxon, for years. Lansdale is trying to ride his coattails right to the governor’s office. And now he trusted this Bang woman. That’s the only thing he is guilty of.”
“Was your trust level altered when you found out he lied?” I ask.
“If you are referring to him panicking to the police, I wouldn’t call that a lie. More like a normal reaction to an unthinkable situation.”
“How about when he told me that he was going to join you at the party in Manhattan, yet in reality, he was chilling in Cooperstown with a porn star?”
She looks befuddled. “When would he have told you that? He gave no formal interview with the DA’s Office.”
“He told me at Saratoga Racecourse on Sunday afternoon, the day of the party.”
She shakes her head, as if to pity my desperation. “I’m sure that will hold up in court, Jack. You two can keep trying to drive a wedge between us if you want, but if you attempt to put our relationship on trial, I guarantee you will lose. He’d do anything for me, and you’ll soon learn that I’ll do anything for him.”
Shep pushes ahead, “So after you ended the conversation with your husband, did you go to bed by midnight, or did you make an impromptu trip to Cooperstown?”
Marissa laughs hard. “I say you call ahead to Roddy Opp and have me arrested when we get there. That would mean that Drew goes free. And even if you can somehow prove it possible that I was able to pull a superhero—travel to Cooperstown, kill Laney Bang, and set up my husband in a jealous rage over their alleged affair, then be back in court the next morning looking no worse for the wear—you are still going to face a big obstacle.”
I play along. “Which is?”
“Being the diligent prosecutors that you are, I’m sure you’ve reviewed my pre-nuptial agreement.”
Shep and I look at each other—we hadn’t. Since she’s not even on the radar of being a suspect we’ve done very little research on Marissa. But we don’t want to add to our growing reputation of being morons.
“Of course we have,” I say. “Go on.”
“I only receive money if Drew dies what they term a normal death, while we are legally married, and murder certainly wouldn’t qualify. So while I would benefit financially from Drew having an unfortunate accident, it makes no sense to kill his alleged mistress and set him up to take the fall. If he goes to jail, not only do I kill the cash-cow, but Drew’s a smart guy, and with endless hours in prison he’d eventually figure out what I’d done and would divorce me, meaning I’d get nothing. Even if I wanted Laney Bang dead, it wouldn’t make sense to set up my husband, like somebody obviously did.”
Shep keeps grilling her, “But you just told us that you aren’t about the money. You play for the Pirates, remember?”
“I guess I’ve covered all my bases then, haven’t I?” Marissa replies with a smug look.
Marissa appears bored with the process and sighs. “Please excuse my snark, but the bottom line is you aren’t even in the ballpark of having enough evidence to bring this to trial. You’re making decisions based on emotions, not facts. I don’t blame you for trying to save face—the police put you in a terrible situation. I feel for you, but my loyalty is with my husband.”
I have one last question for her, a little bit off the path. “What did you think of Laney Bang?”
She thinks about it for a moment. “On many levels I admired her. She did whatever was needed to claw to the top. She took control of her destiny, which isn’t easy for a woman in a male dominated world. If you don’t, then you’ll never have a sense of security. David used a slingshot—Laney Bang used her body. I found her very Machiavellian.”
As we continue along the tree-lined New York State Thruway, the concrete jungle of the city is left behind. The conversation turns informal; Marissa and I debate the law in heated terms. Case law, constitutional law, judges we like or dislike, and gossip about my former Manhattan colleagues. Shep remains quiet, obviously not pleased that I have ventured beyond the rules of proper etiquette.
We drop Marissa at Anderson Estate and she sarcastically blows us kisses as we pull away. Shep drops me at the Cirillos’ without a word. She begins to drive away before I’m even fully out of the car.
We didn’t make any grand discoveries on our trip to the city. In fact, we created more questions than we answered. But there is one question in which the answer is becoming clear to me—Drew Anderson was the only one who could have killed Laney Bang. The problem is that the evidence is not backing me up, and with time working against me, I must come to grips with the fact that the likely murderer will probably be set free.
Later in the evening, I settle in and turn on the television. Marissa is holding a press conference on the grounds of Anderson Estate. It’s the Marissa from the courtroom—confident, charismatic, and empathetic. I remain paralyzed by her aura, even though she’s ripping any case we might have to shreds. She warned me she’d do anything for her husband and she’s doing just that.
Chapter 37
I awake Friday to my alarm clock blaring The Cure’s, “Friday I’m in Love.”
I rise off the futon as if empowered by the sharp ray of sunshine that’s streaming into my room; yesterday’s rain is a distant memory.
I have more hop in my step. And I know why. Spending yesterday afternoon with Marissa was in many ways like channeling Reyanne. The aura, the confidence, the way she could always get under my skin—it was uncanny.
I turn on the television, where Marissa’s press conference from the night before is being analyzed. Like the experienced litigator she is, she’s laying the foundation to both free her husband and revive his image. She is a big asset for him.
I switch channels to GNZ cable news. An anchor is holding up a copy of today’s New York Globe. Shep and I are right smack-dab on the front page, along with our lunch-mates from yesterday, including the mayor of New York. The headline is Political Incorrectness. I feel like I just walked in front of a right cross.
The consensus of the panel is that Shep and I are misusing taxpayers’ money and should be fired. Although, one woman takes it a step further. Her belief is that we’re so impressed with our newfound celebrity we are prolonging the investigation to feed our egos, and falsely imprisoning an obviously innocent Drew Anderson in the process. She appears to be personally offended that we aren’t the ones in prison.
On the other side of the spectrum, her fellow panelist is convinced that we’re in cahoots with the mayor and Lansdale to drop the charges against an obviously guilty Anderson, in exchange for high-paying cabinet jobs. You just can’t please everybody.
I begin my daily trek to the office. Usually it’s a time for me to review the case, but today is different. The moment the front tire of my bike hits Route-80, the media pounces. They are shouting questions at me and following me in slow-moving vans, giving the impression that they are actually protecting me. I put on my headphones and ignore them the best I can.
Main Street is packed, which isn’t out of the ordinary since it’s the unofficial beginning of Induction Weekend for the Hall of Fame, but adding to the congestion is a “Free Max Q” rally in front of the courthouse.
I turn it into a positive, using them as interference to elude my friends from the press.
I haven’t been in the office since Monday and receive awkward stares from my co-workers. I make eye contact with Shep, but she looks away and retreats into her office.
I do the same, but when I shut the door I find that I’m not alone. Jana is sitting at my desk.
“Welcome back, Jack—did you enjoy your vacation? I heard Manhattan is nice this time of year.”
“Very funny—why are you in my office?”
“My computer is down. Gifford said the new website should be up today to filter all information about the Max Q case, so I’m checking on it. I’ve been getting about four hundred calls a day, ninety percent of them nonsense.”
I act like I’m up on this, even though I’m completely out of the loop. “Good, I’m glad they got that running.”
“Judge Schanz called about rescheduling a pretrial hearing for Andy Kass. I guess he changed lawyers and needs more time.”
I completely forgot about Kass—a case that only a week ago was dominating my schedule.
“Gifford wants you in his office at ten o’clock, not ten-o-one,” she informs, and then points to the large pile of boxes behind my desk. “These arrived this morning from the search of Laney Bang’s townhouse.”
“Thanks, anything else?”
“Jessica looked upset when she came in this morning. I figure it’s your doing—should I have flowers sent to her?”
“Since the media has us carrying on some torrid affair, I don’t think that would be the best idea.”
“No offense, Jack, but you don’t strike me as a torrid kinda guy. Would you like me to get you extra copies of that New York Globe with your pretty face on the cover—maybe for friends and relatives?”
“I’ll pass,” I say and Jana leaves with a smirk on her face.
I check my voice mail, and the first one makes me wince. “I apologize for my behavior yesterday,” Ethel says, “I was out of line. I can only hope you can forgive an old woman who sometimes loses her sense.”
I am not buying the nicety-nice for one second. In fact, I’m convinced the picture in the Globe was a setup, which means I have the Lawsons scared. Plan-A was for Ethel and Lansdale to intimidate me out of prosecuting. When that failed they went to Plan-B—to discredit me. And by doing so, they are also taking the spotlight off their client, and the murder allegation that hangs over him. They know exactly what they’re doing.
I sift through the boxes taken from Laney’s townhouse. The most intriguing thing I find is a notebook of handwritten poetry that expands on the Baby Doll poem. I never met Laney Bang, but I find her to be a fascinating character full of contradictions. And hopefully as we learn more about her, she will push us in the right direction—to prosecute or not to prosecute?
Jana knocks on my door and pops her head in. “Jack, I got a couple of visitors for you.”
“Not now,” I say, my eyes never leaving the book of poetry.
She sends them in anyway.
Stepping into my office is a Japanese woman named Aso Aoki. Her husband, Kazahiro, accompanies her. They own a village store on Route-31 and are well known throughout the community.
“What can I do for you?” I ask the Aokis, as I show them to seats facing my desk.
Aso does the talking, as her husband speaks little English, “I see on news Drew Anderson claim he jog morning that woman murdered. He jog every day when he in Cooperstown, and every day he come to store and buy bottled water. He come in exactly between 6:30 and 6:35 every time. We joke with him that he like clockwork. He tell us he take exact route every day—say he believe in discipline from his day in military. He say he never break pattern. On day woman murdered, he no come in store.”
I sit back and rub my chin. This is information I can use. When combined with the cell phone dead spot, it looks as if Drew Anderson changed his routine that morning. To return to kill Laney Bang?
I go over that morning in detail with the Aokis for twenty minutes before I get another knock from Jana.
“Gifford says you are late and you need to get your ass into his office now.”
I look at my watch and plead, “I still have a few minutes until ten.”
“You know Gifford—he considers five minutes early to be late.”
I thank the Aokis and head for the office of the Otsego County District Attorney.
Chapter 38
Gifford glares at me. “You actually found your way to the office, Lawson—did that GPS I sent you help at all?”
Glad to see everyone took their wise-ass pills today. I don’t have a chance to respond before he’s standing in the frame of his doorway, shouting, “Shepherdson—get the hell in here!”
Shep enters without looking at me, and we both take a seat.
Gifford begins pacing. “So this is going well, Lawson. First off, I haven’t seen you in days or been able to contact you. That is going to stop or your employment is going to stop—understand?”
As if he could find someone else willing to commit career suicide, I think to myself.
He picks up the New York Globe and shoves it in my direction. “But thank goodness I can keep track of you two in the paper.”
He reaches into his desk drawer, pulls out a cigarette, and lights up. Then begins pacing and puffing again. I go over CPR steps in my head in case he keels over.
“So let’s review. I have protestors marching on Main Street. My prosecutors are hobnobbing at glitzy restaurants. We’ve had to evacuate this office numerous times because of bomb threats. But you are too busy with your touchy-feely.” He fires a copy of the Skeleton Closet tabloid our way with a picture of Shep and me on my motorcycle with headline Puckering Prosecutors—get the real scoop on the steamy love affair between Max Q prosecutors!
Shep is outraged. “That’s total bullshit!”
“Get over yourself—you could do a lot worse than me. And come to think of it, you have,” I shoot back.
Gifford calmly puts out his cigarette, and instructs, “Follow me—we’re going to discuss the case in a place we can get some privacy.”
His Cadillac sedan is waiting for us at the back entrance. We drive down Route-80 in the direction of the Cirillo house. We stop at Sam’s Boat Rentals and a small motorboat is already waiting for us.
“I’m not getting in that thing,” Shep declares.
“You can swim if you’d like, but this meeting is mandatory, Shepherdson.”
After Shep gives in, Gifford captains the boat out onto Glimmerglass. It’s a good idea—allowing us to get away from the circus, and discuss the case without fear that our conversation will end up in the wrong ears. But then I remember who we’re up against, and wonder if we should check the boat for listening devices.
The lake is crowded with boats on this splendid summer morning, but we find a private spot and drop anchor. As is his style, Gifford gets right down to business. “I am sensing a distrust toward me on your part, and I want to set the record straight.”
We’re all ears.
“I’m sure our friends at the Sheriff’s Office have brought up the investigation of Max-Q-Collectibles last year, attempting to question my motives, which they used as their sorry excuse for arresting Anderson without consulting us, in this case.
