Gospel (16 page)

‘Welcome to Boston, Mr Adams. I take it you are representing the people in this case?'

‘Yes, Your Honour,' said Adams, the gravel timbre in his voice already commanding authority as he stood to address the court. ‘Professor Stuart Montgomery has been charged with the murder of United States Vice President Thomas Wills Bradshaw and the government recommends the defendant remain . . .'

‘Hold your horses, Mr Adams,' said Donovan, raising his large calloused hand in protest. ‘First things first. The defendant has not yet had the opportunity to enter his plea. We'll get to the question of bail in a minute.

‘Dr Montgomery,' Donovan turned to the defence table, taking it step by step, allowing no room for discourse or error. He was aware of the need for precision, of the mammoth weight that he carried as Judge of these proceedings, and was determined to do things by the book.

‘You have been charged with . . .' the Judge went on, before the unthinkable happened.

‘Excuse me, Your Honour.' It was Chilton-Smith, the pale-skinned attorney who now stood to reveal a frame so slight, Donovan believed a good breeze might blow him all the way back to England.

‘You have something to say, Mr Chilton-Smith?' asked Donovan.

‘Yes, Your Honour. It's Professor Montgomery, Your Honour,' he said.

‘I beg your pardon?' said the Judge in disbelief.

‘“
Professor
”, not “
Doctor
”, Your Honour. My client is a respected member of the international medical fraternity and I would request that his correct title be used during the course of these proceedings.'

Donovan was not known for his patience and spent most of the day interrupting the lawyers who stood before him in his busy courtroom where backlogs were stacked like mountains and time was a commodity not to be squandered.

‘What did you say?' Donovan was incredulous, he wanted to make sure Chilton-Smith had thrown down the gauntlet before he picked it up and threw it straight back at him directly across the room.

‘With all due respect, Your Honour, I strongly believe this is a point we must make from the onset. The courtroom has the deepest respect for your title as Chief Justice, I am simply asking my client be rewarded the same courtesy in return.'

‘Mr Chilton-Smith . . . It is
Mr
Chilton-Smith, isn't it?'

‘Yes, Your Honour, Howard Chilton-Smith Esquire actually, and for the court's records, I represent the defendant.'

‘Right,' said Donovan, trying to control his temper. ‘Well, Mr Howard Chilton-Smith Esquire, I know we have just met, but based on first impressions, would you say I was a patient man?'

There was no right answer to this one. Chilton-Smith was arrogant, but Donovan guessed he wasn't stupid, he most likely knew when a lie was called for and this was one of those times.

‘Yes, Judge, certainly.'

‘Well you were wrong, Mr Chilton-Smith. I am not, and as Chief Judge of this court that is my prerogative.'

Chilton-Smith was starting to sweat, his pale skin now turning a sickly shade of grey.

‘Forgive me, Your Honour, I was simply trying to establish my client's . . .'

‘Your client has been charged with the first degree murder of the Vice President of the United States of America, a very serious charge Mr Chilton-Smith, serious enough to carry the potential penalty of death. I therefore suggest that we attend to the matters at hand and do not waste any more time squabbling over semantics. Is that clear?' Donovan went on, without waiting for an answer. ‘Now Mr Chilton-Smith, how does your client plead?'

‘Not guilty, Your Honour.'

Donovan turned to his client. ‘
Professor
Montgomery, I take it you understand the seriousness of the charges made against you.'

Montgomery rose to his feet. ‘Yes, Your Honour.'

‘And that you are . . . ah . . . comfortable in your choice of representation.' This open dig at Montgomery's attorney may have seemed callous at face value, but Donovan wanted to get Montgomery's affirmation as a matter of record. He had seen clever defendants deliberately choose inappropriate representation, largely as an attempt to later secure appeal on the grounds of inadequate counsel. Donovan was determined to block any covert strategies for manipulation before they had the chance of getting off the ground. This case would be a historical documentary in the making and he was the director. There was no room for any crap in his courtroom, from either side of the legal fence.

‘I am, Your Honour,' said Montgomery, his brisk British brogue bouncing off the walls in a clarity so crisp it appeared to carry an echo.

‘All right then,' said Donovan, pushing against the bench with his right hand and swivelling his too-stiff chair slightly back to his left, the seat giving a small squeak in protest. ‘Mr Adams, I am gathering the people oppose bail.'

‘Yes, Your Honour,' said Adams, obviously suppressing a smile. He had barely said two words and no doubt already felt one hundred yards in front. ‘As you have correctly ascertained, the charge is an extremely serious one with widespread repercussions. Professor Montgomery is an American citizen, but he has strong ties with the international community and we feel the . . .'

‘Your Honour,' Chilton-Smith was up again, his voice a high-pitched melody against Adam's hard-edged tones. ‘Professor Montgomery understands the limitations imposed by bail and would be happy to surrender his passports. He . . .'

‘Passports?' said the Judge. ‘He has more than one?'

‘Yes, Your Honour. Two in fact. He is a dual citizen of Great Britain and the US.'

‘Bail is denied,' said Donovan, ignoring Chilton-Smith's distant squeaks of protest. ‘I expect both parties to comply with Federal Rule of Criminal Procedure 16 and Local Rule 116 and provide written requests for all disclosure of relevant material within five days of this date. I also want both parties to make recommendations for a potential trial date before the month is out.'

Donovan now turned to the group of men and women huddled in a long, overcrowded partition to his right, trusting his chair to stretch that few inches further.

‘Ladies and gentleman of the press, I know you understand the weight of your burden in this matter and I respect your right, your duty, to report what you see and hear within these four walls. But I will not, under
any
circumstances, tolerate any abuse of such privilege or manipulation of proceedings in an effort to turn what is a representation of fact into the subjectivity of sensation. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Yes, Your Honour,' obeyed the gallery, who were used to such warnings and still overjoyed at the colourful nature of this morning's proceedings.
This stuff was selling papers by the second, and it was only up from here.

‘All right then. Mr Adams, Mr Chilton-Smith, I expect a full list of discovery items made available to the court as a matter of priority. I also want a list of all pre-trial motions to be tabled by the end of the month. If necessary I will schedule a pre-trial hearing to consider such motions and I suggest you have evidence and witnesses at the ready. Let's agree to talk again, say in two weeks' time, to discuss your progress. Court is adjourned.'

And with that Donovan stood, and left the way he had come, his cloak blazing behind him like that of a caped crusader, mission accomplished – at least for today.

Maxine Bryant knew that now the Judge had left the room, the press' attention would return to her and her daughter and thus took the opportunity to give Melissa a reassuring smile, whisper encouragement in her ear and support her arm as they stood to leave the courtroom. But a quick glance towards the gallery revealed the reporters were
not
in fact looking at them. They were looking at the olive-skinned woman now speaking with her husband's attorney, a look of stern admonishment on her face. Karin Montgomery was obviously not happy with Mr Chilton-Smith, and she was making no attempt to hide her displeasure.

The look on the reporters' faces said it all. Montgomery's wife was magnetic. She had finally removed her sunglasses to reveal large brown eyes, now ablaze with a dark tenacity. The gallery was mesmerised, Maxine and her daughter completely forgotten.

‘Mother,' said Melissa, her voice low but firm. ‘It is time to leave. What is it?'

‘I'm sorry darling, it's . . .' managed Maxine, still frustrated by the media's lack of attention. ‘It's nothing my dear,' she said as she shifted her glance, made the perfunctory gesture of supporting her daughter at the elbow once again, and started back down the courtroom's centre aisle. ‘It's absolutely nothing.'

‘This is perfect,' said the meticulously coiffed Caroline Croft, host presenter and investigative reporter from the popular prime time news
magazine program
Newsline
. Croft was talking to her researcher, Macy Dole, a small, masculine-looking woman with mousy brown hair and crooked teeth.

‘The wife is giving the lawyer an earful,' said Dole with a smile.

‘No, not that, I mean, yes that, but not just that. Look at them, Macy, look at the two women, look at the two wives.'

Dole's eyes moved back across the room to Melissa Bryant Bradshaw. ‘You're right, they're chalk and cheese.'

‘Fire and ice more like it, but both incredibly beautiful,' said Croft. ‘We could have something here, Macy, something big.'

Caroline knew her weekly program was up against it when it came to breaking news. This case would be covered minute by minute by the newspapers and the electronic bulletins, let alone the wall-to-wall coverage on CNN. A program like
Newsline
, which only ran once a week, needed a fresh angle and when Caroline surveyed the two women, their images immediately transformed into ratings.

‘The press is obsessed with Melissa Bradshaw – and rightly so, she is a political princess with the looks of an Ivy League super model. But the other one, Karin Montgomery, there's something dangerous about her. Something raw. She reminds me of a Latin American Angelina Jolie. In other words, she's ratings personified.'

‘She's not talking, Caroline. Word has it in the gallery they couldn't even get a “no comment” out of her.'

‘But I haven't made the call yet, have I? I want her Macy – and I want her exclusively.'

N
ora Kelly was a traditional woman who lived her life by a set of rigid moral codes – the main two being a general intolerance of nonsense and an unwavering loyalty to those she cared for. Her demeanour was calm and efficient, if not a little brusque, but it was rare she extended her emotional extremes to beyond content at one end of the scale and irritable at the other. In other words, Nora didn't rattle easily, unless one of those she cherished came under attack.

‘What is it, Nora?' asked Sara as she emerged from David's office, the morning sun now flooding through the eastern windows and catching the reflection in Nora's oval tortoiseshell reading glasses.

They had started early on the Gabbit case, trying to find evidence that Bridge Club President Mulch, who was in a wheelchair recovering from recent hip replacement surgery, died after his chair took a wrong turn down a set of newly constructed stairs at the Club. The prosecution, buoyed by the motive of jealousy, claimed the recently scorned Gabbit pushed his Club President down the stairwell, while they were out to prove the death was accidental. In their favour was the fact that Mulch, decked out in Hawaiian shirt and purple chinos at the time of his death, had just downed fifteen cups of pineapple punch at the Club's tropical-themed dance party – and that his high blood alcohol reading could well explain
his turning left towards the old elevators, forgetting they had recently been replaced by a new set of stairs (ironically at his own request).

‘Nora?' said Sara again. ‘Is everything all right?'

‘Oh, yes dear,' said Nora, hiding a small piece of yellow message paper from Sara's view and burying it quickly beneath a large pile of similar message notes all in David's inbox.

‘It's okay Nora. I know the press have been calling for David. He used to be married to her, we knew this would happen.'

Yesterday's arraignment and a subsequent new focus on Professor Stuart Montgomery's striking wife Karin, had led to a fresh fervour of investigation into the enigmatic Dr Montgomery. The discovery that Karin's ex was none other than respected Boston attorney David Cavanaugh was seen as an unexpected bonus for the insatiable ladies and gentlemen of the media who were falling all over each other for ‘the next big angle' in the circulation cash cow case of the century. As such, the calls to David's office had started late yesterday with Nora arriving early this morning to find twenty-six messages on the office voicemail. They varied from faux civility to downright rude – and had continued steadily throughout the morning.

‘Well,' said Nora, uncomfortable at hiding something from Sara. ‘If you ask me it is criminal. David has nothing to do with this case, you people are busy enough without being interrupted by matters of irrelevance. And besides all that, you and David deserve to be . . .' Nora caught herself, not wanting to intrude, but also needing Sara to know how much she cared for her, for David, and their newfound relationship.

‘Journalists get paid to dig, Nora. It's their job.'

‘Hmmm, which explains the amount of mud they fling in the process. I'm fine with them getting down and dirty themselves, lass, it's when they attempt to sully the reputation of others that it bothers me.'

‘Sully, who's sullied?' said David from his office door. ‘You off to the Friday night mud wrestling again, Nora? You know, you really should get another hobby. Maybe I could get Hector to teach you how to play bridge?'

‘I would say Mr Gabbit has found bridge to be a far more treacherous pastime than mud wrestling, lad. I was just discussing your popularity amongst the members of the press.'