Move to Strike (21 page)

And so Amanda Carmichael had settled on a degree in media arts and sciences with the full intention of then attending Columbia's famous graduate school of journalism. Her plan was to begin her career as a TV news reporter and then do some serious fast-tracking to become one of those reputable network anchorwomen – a sort of Katie Couric minus the cheese, with a salary and profile to match.

She enjoyed the course, for the first semester or two, until she discovered that, as much as she liked the idea of becoming a national icon, she had a greater desire to
make
the news rather than just report it. She was born to be a doer, not an observer and as such, by the end of her first year, had transferred out of media and into political science and legal studies where she revelled in courses such as courts, politics and law.

Having graduated Wellesley with distinction, she took up a place at Boston University School of Law – following in the footsteps of her father who,
sans
an Ivy League law degree, had gone on to ‘conquer the world'.

‘A J.D. is a J.D.,' her Supreme Court Judge father used to tell her, referring to the abbreviation of
Juris Doctor
– the US's reference to a professional degree in law. ‘It is not where it came from, but what you do with it that counts.'

And he was right, Amanda knew, as she sat back in her olive green leather chair and surveyed the perfectly arranged surrounds of her slightly larger than average Government Center office. Amanda Carmichael, twenty-nine, beautiful and with an IQ of 142, may have looked like her mother but she thought like her dad – clearly, calmly, always assessing the information at hand, devising the best way to deal with it and timing any move with precision.

Tony Bishop may be good in bed but, as it turned out, he was also an incredibly fruitful source of information. Amanda knew how much it would have pained him to divulge such ‘news' – knowing full well that his old college buddy would be on the receiving end of the wallop she would inevitably deliver thanks to Tony's willingness to ‘share'. But in all honesty, as much as Tony amused her, she had other less altruistic priorities and not enough time to give a damn.

Prosecutors were not hired to be fair, they were hired to win. Her father had taught her that little nugget of wisdom too. ‘Laws were made to be kept, not to be negotiated,' he used to say. ‘Speculating on a defendant's innocence is not your job – but proving their guilt is.' And so, with that incredibly sound piece of advice now forefront in her mind, Amanda closed her eyes and allowed the elation, the excitement, the pure unadulterated joy that accompanied Tony's ‘news' to wash over her, just once, before she set her mind to the task.

Just as her father had taught her, she needed to follow the three-step strategy of ‘accessing' the information, ‘devising' a plan to use such information in an effort to reach set goals and then, and only then, ‘moving' with a determination so swift and so strong that it smacked her opposing counsel straight in his ‘
I do not want to fuck you
' ruggedly handsome face.

She needed to verify the change-of-will recording, confirm the second, even more spectacular piece of information with the company involved, and then, she needed to plan quietly and thoroughly before timing the move that would slam this case onto the front page of every newspaper in the country – and her professional success with it.

Moments later, just as Amanda Carmichael was picking up her phone to arrange a meeting at Tony Bishop's office, and as David and Barbara
Wong-McGregor were taking the lift to the ground floor of Plymouth Juvenile Detention Unit, and Marc Rigotti was making his umpteenth call to Carleton Blackmore, General Manager of Hunting Rifles Inc., Nora Kelly was undertaking a small but rewarding task of her own, trying to connect one lonely old soul with another.

She had no idea why the clipping and accompanying (and seemingly unrelated) brochure had arrived at their offices. The envelope had been made out simply to the firm's street address with no name called to attention. It was a local stamp, mailed last Friday and, considering it had no return information, Nora figured she might as well use the interesting little article for good.

‘Ms McCall?' she said as the phone picked up almost immediately. She could hear music in the background – mixed with sounds of laughter, joviality, life.

‘This is Deirdre McCall,' returned the voice.

‘I am sorry, Ms McCall, you do not know me, but my name is Nora Kelly. I am a legal secretary from Boston and I am ringing to ask your advice.'

Then . . . silence, not a single word.

‘I, ah . . .' Nora went on. ‘You see I received a copy of an article in the
Las Vegas Weekly
. It was a lovely piece written last year about your dancing school and it mentioned that you taught people of all ages – little ones to, well, people more my age.'

‘Mrs Kelly,' began McCall, ‘is this some sort of trick, because if it is, I know nothing about anything. I have never even been to Boston, let alone know anyone who lives there.'

‘Oh no, dear,' said Nora, concerned she had frightened the poor woman. ‘I am sorry. I am not explaining myself. You see, I work for a small law firm which once represented a lovely elderly gentleman by the name of Hector Gabbitt. Without going into too much detail, Mr Gabbitt is a gentle man who lost his wife to . . . well . . .' Nora hesitated. She did not know how to summarise Gabbitt's situation as an elderly gent whose wife had tried to frame him for murder. ‘He has moved to Las Vegas, Ms McCall, but as he has no children nor friends in the local area, I thought that maybe if he joined your class for the over-fifties that . . .'

‘You are ringing to enrol a friend in my “Follies for over-fifties”.'

‘Yes. That's right.'

‘Then why isn't this Mr Gabbitt calling me himself?' she asked.

Nora could not help but be somewhat taken aback by the obvious suspicion in McCall's tone.

‘Well, it is not the type of thing Mr Gabbitt would do without a . . . ah . . . a little push. He is a little shy, you see?'

There was more silence. ‘How did you get the article, Mrs Kelly?' asked McCall at last. ‘And where did you get my number?'

‘It was sent to me – I mean to us, at our firm – obviously by mistake. And then I called directories and . . . In fact, you didn't send the article, did you, Ms McCall? Goodness me, of course you did, you simply addressed it incorrectly. I am so sorry, how rude of me.' Now Nora understood the woman's somewhat curt responses. Deirdre McCall had obviously sent the article and brochure – on a holiday resort in Cape Cod – to a relative in Boston . . . but no, that could not be right. The letter was postmarked locally and the woman just said she knew no one back east so . . .

‘I am sorry, Mrs Kelly, but the class is full,' McCall said then, and Nora could have sworn she heard a trace of what sounded like fear in the woman's voice.

‘Oh . . . I . . .'

‘And please,' said McCall, ‘
please
. . . do not call me here again.'

The first thing David noticed when he and Barbara Wong-McGregor rounded the corridor and re-entered the entrance area of Plymouth Juvenile Detection Center, was the look of pure anger on Doctor Jeffrey Logan's face. The man was beside himself, his entire body knotted in a fit of controlled fury – his knuckles white, his jaw clenched, his brown eyes burning with barely contained rage.

‘What the hell is going on?' he said, bounding towards them. ‘I want to see my son.'

‘Jeffrey,' said David, his arms already up in a ‘slow-down' motion. ‘I'm sorry, but the morning got away with us and I believe there was some glitch in J.T.'s processing yesterday meaning he has to be . . .'

‘Glitch?' said Logan. ‘What glitch?' he added, lowering his voice. The man had obviously noticed the small group of spectators in the lobby now staring his way – and he had an image to protect so . . . he took a breath and managed to relax his shoulders.

‘I'm sorry. It's just that I am very worried about him, David,' he said, his eyes flicking towards Barbara Wong-McGregor with the slightest trace of recognition. ‘What did he tell you? Does he remember what happened? He has not wanted to talk about it so I was afraid he might have blocked it out or . . . I am dreadfully concerned about his emotional and psychological welfare. He needs me, David. I think I should be sitting in on any interviews you conduct in the future so that I might . . .'

‘Doctor Logan,' interrupted Barbara with her hand outstretched. ‘My name is Barbara Wong-McGregor and I specialise in the psychological evaluation of juvenile offenders.'

If Barbara had intended to hit a nerve she got what she wanted. The implications of having an independent psychologist probe into J.T.'s head were written all over Jeffrey Logan's face.

‘I know who you are,' said Logan, lowering his voice even further. ‘And as much as I respect the fact that you have a job to do, Ms Wong-McGregor, J.T. is only fourteen and as the person legally responsible for him, I have not agreed to having him examined by . . .'

‘I am afraid, as much as I understand your desire to protect your son, Doctor Logan, that it is really not your call. J.T. has been charged with murder and will be tried as an adult in the Superior Court. The court will require a psych assessment whether you agree to one or not, and as much as I respect your obvious experience in the business, this one is really beyond your control.'

Logan was speechless, his eyes darting to David in an expression that said, ‘
You work for me – now earn your fucking money and put this woman in her place
'.

But David was at the ready. ‘I am afraid Barbara is right, Jeffrey. But if it is any consolation, I can assure you that Barbara is the best. If anyone can give us a true indication of J.T.'s motives psychologically, then I can promise you Barbara is it.'

There was silence, as David met Logan's eye, almost hearing the cogs of his brain turning over in double time as he tried desperately to find a way out.

‘I see,' said Logan. ‘I am sorry. Forgive me, Ms Wong-McGregor. I know you by reputation, of course,' he said, now offering his hand to Barbara who hesitated, only slightly, before taking it in her own.

‘And I you,' she replied with an appropriate smile on her face.

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘For helping us.'

‘No problem,' said Barbara. But if Logan was expecting any postscript of sympathy for his situation, it was not forthcoming.

‘I'm sorry, Jeffrey,' said David then, looking at his watch. ‘But I have to head back to the office.'

Logan nodded. ‘But when can I see J.T. ?'

‘I'll give you a call,' said David, already moving towards the door. ‘Get you in as soon as possible.'

And then, as they were almost at the door, Logan called after them, ‘Caroline Croft has been calling me on the hour, David. She's been onto Katherine too, via the network CEO, and we are both under a lot of pressure to . . .'

David stopped in his tracks, knowing that this at least was the truth. Croft had been calling David's offices just as regularly, her eyes set on the ‘prize' of the first post-murder interview – a Doctor Jeffrey Logan exclusive.

‘Just stay away from her, Jeffrey,' said David. ‘I know Croft, and as much as I admire her tenacity, her motives are almost always one hundred per cent selfish. We need to discuss the way we are going to handle the media as a whole – but until that is done, you and Katherine have to hold off and sit tight.'

Logan nodded. ‘I can't hide forever, David,' he said, just as David reached the door.

‘No, Jeffrey,' said David, without even breaking his stride. ‘You're right. You can't.'

I
t was only mid-May but the evening was already thick with a humidity that suggested spring had given up early, making way for a summer of bright blue mornings, long, hot days and cool nights that brought a fresh salty breeze to chase the mugginess away. They were in Arthur's office, the windows yanked up to their horizontal constraints, the last few rays of sun now thick with particles of floating dust, the atmosphere in the room one of focus, determination, intent.

David had asked Barbara to cancel her appointments for the rest of the day – and despite her ensuing speech about how she could barely afford to squeeze lunch into her already overcrowded schedule, she had eventually agreed to give him an hour back at his office to go through J.T.'s interview in a little more detail. But when she arrived to hear Sara's account of her morning with the obviously terrified Chelsea, the dedicated child psychologist pulled out her cell phone and asked her assistant to
blow everyone off until at least until midday tomorrow
, leaving David and his team extremely grateful for her commitment and Barbara immersed in what she described as one of the most ‘complex abuse cases she had ever had the misfortune to be involved with'.

‘You're sure you were being recorded?' asked Barbara of Sara, the four of them now sitting around the coffee table in Arthur's office, their eyes set on the ink-covered whiteboard before them.

‘Yes,' said Sara, getting to her feet to approach the board to point at the list of notes she had written under the half of the board headed with the name ‘Chelsea'. ‘She practically told me as much, which is why our entire conversation was held in some form of one-way code, with Chelsea trying desperately to feed me clues and me being too stupid to . . .'

‘Don't, Sara,' said David, just as Nora re-entered the room with a fresh round of coffees. ‘She didn't exactly make it easy for us. I mean the universities and Anne Frank references are easy, considering the kids are obviously prisoners in their own home and desperate to escape as a twosome – but the Tiffany necklace, the hat stand . . . ? Maybe she was just blurting out things that made her think of her mother, or her father's lack of respect for her.'