Move to Strike (55 page)

‘Your Honour,' David began. ‘Stephanie Tyler's autopsy gave no evidence of any neurological disease or malfunction.' But David knew he was cornered – especially since he never intended to argue Stephanie was the abuser in the first place. Worse still, Carmichael had obviously anticipated this argument as well, and was already at her desk retrieving some sort of document to counter David's attack.

‘Your Honour,' she began. ‘Ms Tyler's driver's licence indicated she wished to be an organ donor after her death, and as such, her brain, as
well as some of her other major organs and body tissue were harvested only hours after she was killed – for transplant and research purposes.'

David knew this, of course, but had never considered it relevant given the cause of death had been irrefutable.

‘Regardless of her donor status, Your Honour,' David continued, ‘Professor Hinds' comments are based on pure speculation. The professor herself pointed out that she never had the opportunity to examine the victim.'

‘That's true, Mr Cavanaugh, but the witness has every right to make speculations based on her expert opinion.'

David could see nowhere to go.

‘Forgive me, Your Honour,' offered Carmichael then. ‘But Mr Cavanaugh has every right to explore further reasons for Ms Tyler's abusive nature in his cross-examination. But until that time . . .'

And she had him again. Carmichael knew very well that David had no intention of portraying Stephanie as a tyrant – but she was forcing him into a corner, telling the jury that the defence knew very well that Stephanie Tyler was the mother from hell and that the only reason they weren't pushing it was because it gave the kids a motive.

‘True, Miss Carmichael,' said Kessler. ‘You'll get your turn on cross, Mr Cavanaugh, but for now you can retake your seat. In fact, I might suggest that before we go any further we watch this video known as exhibit twelve. I for one would like to consider Professor Hinds' comments in light of the aforementioned recorded material and I am sure seeing the material would help the jury in their understanding of the witness' testimony.'

And David, his eyes flicking over his two terrified clients before swivelling past those of the press and towards the hallowed sixteen on the other side of the room, knew that every person present, bar the two children sitting beside him, were on the verge of applauding the serious-faced Judge Kessler before them – for her suggestion meant that at long last, the oh-so-patient spectators were about to be shown the much anticipated ‘main feature' – the show that everyone had come to see.

And just as Carmichael asked the court clerk to lower the lights, and as the television was wheeled in and set up front and centre, another pair of eyes found David's – a dark, glistening pair alight with satisfaction. And even after they were long swallowed by the shadows David could still feel Logan's gaze upon him – and it spoke of jubilance, of triumph, of victory.

T
he air was thick with salt, the sun high, the clouds thin, and her fine grey hair whipping in the cool summer breeze around her. She was on the beach – the white sandy expanse that stretched in front of the historic five-star resort known as the Chatham Bars Inn – and her dress was loose and her feet were bare and in that moment she felt free.

Her head had finally stopped pounding and, despite her dire predicament, Deirdre McCall felt an unexpected surge of optimism, as she filled her lungs with the brackish sea air and allowed the view before her to swallow her whole. She loved the ocean – felt at peace in its presence, which was ironic really, considering she was a desert girl born and bred. But there was something about its endlessness, about the power and beauty of the eternal expanse of blue which soothed her fears and made her feel – well,
capable
– a sensation she had not felt since the day that her son had been born.

Jason had stolen it all – her confidence, her contentment, her self-esteem. And from what she could tell, she and her beloved husband were mere understudies for those who would follow. Those dear children, his poor departed wife, who had been worn away, slowly, carefully, filed down to bits of nothingness until he was satisfied with their debility and ready to move on. And move on he would, she was sure of it, unless she could end things now.

I have one advantage
, she reasoned to herself,
the element of surprise
. Jason had no idea that she knew the exact location of his ‘store', and was certain as to what it contained.

Years ago, while she was still in rehabilitation after the first attempt on her life, someone had sent a letter to Jason at their old home address. That letter, among others addressed to herself and her husband, had been collected by a loyal and devoted neighbour who, not knowing where to redirect their mail (she had been told both parents had been killed in a dreadful highway accident), nor the whereabouts of the young man who had never returned, decided to forward said correspondence to Deirdre's old place of employment, hoping her ‘show business' colleagues might know of a suitable next of kin to forward them to.

This mail then ended up in the possession of a lovely man named Jackie ‘Tingles' L'hoy, Deirdre's former stage manager who, out of pure respect to ‘Lovely Legs McCall', had kept said letters for many years until one day when a certain article in the
Las Vegas Weekly
had widened his eyes and sent his seventy-five-year-old heart aflutter.

Just days later, and much to Deirdre's surprise, dear Tingles had visited her at her dance school and, after a teary reunion, delivered Deirdre's mail – some twenty years after it had been posted. And that had been when she had opened the letter addressed to her son. The one sent by Chatham Reality as a notification of purchase. And that had been how she had discovered her son had bought a beach house just across the way from the Chatham Bars Inn. And that had been when she realised Jason was operating under at least two separated aliases – that of the famous Doctor Jeffrey Logan – and Chatham real estate owner, Mr Jeremy O'Glan.

‘J
.T.,' said a voice out of frame
.

‘Yes, Mother,' replied J.T
.

‘Did you finish your biology project?'

‘Yes, Mother.'

‘And the DNA bases – are you sure they were in the right order?'

‘Yes,' replied the boy, his eyes flicking towards the front of the room
.

David was holding J.T. Logan's hand while breathing slowly, deliberately, trying to remain calm and transfer such strength in composure to the poor shattered young boy beside him. But he did not need to look at J.T.'s shaking hand to realise the hairs on its back were rising, a cool sweat breaking in his palm, as the video progressed in all its ugly finality.

‘
Are you trying to lecture me?'
asked the ghost that was Stephanie – the extra large LCD screen Carmichael had organised blowing the whole horrific image up into cinematic proportions. ‘
I was dux of my high school, you know, and could have just as easily chosen medicine over law – if I had so desired
.'

David heard the short, sharp breaths of Chelsea Logan crying at the other end of the defence table, her own fingers now clutched in Arthur's large, weatherbeaten hand. The tears in her blue eyes reflected the sickly
green light from the recorded image before them, as the next voice to speak sent a visible shiver through her entire body.

‘
Stephanie, really
,' said the flat screen Logan – the ‘director' having placed himself in the starring position of centre stage. ‘
Is this really necessary? It is my birthday, for Christ's sake. I have no doubt J.T. has done a stellar job as always. Just for once do you think you could sit down and behave civilly? Just tonight could you try to . . . ?'

As the on-screen argument progressed, and despite David's knowing it was his duty to pay attention, he felt an overwhelming urge to block out the sickly drama before him and think of nothing but Sara and their unborn child.

And in that moment, as the muted colours of the murderous Jeffrey Logan production danced like devils across the faces of the now captivated audience around him, David's mind floated to another memory – to the morning just weeks ago when he and Sara had watched in wonder at the ultrasound pictures of their thirty-seven-week-old child. And he recalled the pure happiness they had felt as the reflection of those images had played out across their own awestruck faces – their little one's movements casting intermittent light and shadow over its two besotted parents who . . .

And then he saw it. It was almost as if his own child had directed his eyes to the detail.

The gravy boat.

The shiny silver gravy boat glistening with intermittent sparkles of green.

Logan had placed it in the centre of the table so that it might act as an innocent hiding place for his pistol. But in doing so it had also captured the full intensity of the autocue's light. And now that it was on the big screen David realised its significance.

And despite the fact the video now showed Stephanie Logan pointing that kick-ass rifle at her son, David was overcome with an overwhelming sensation of hope. For the gravy boat was performing a dual function – neither of which was originally intended.

It was hiding a weapon and it was reflecting the truth.

And David knew – right then and there – that Jeffrey Logan, in his sadistic determination to place one of his beloved weapons right in the middle of the action, had unwittingly yet undeniably shot himself in the foot.

T
he tape, the tape, the tape. It was all Carmichael could talk about. She was having a field day with it, following Professor Hinds' testimony with that of not one but two audio/video experts – one from the FBI (but not Special Agent Bond, who, despite running the unit concerned, had been unceremoniously dumped from the ADA's list of credible witnesses after yesterday's debacle), and one from an independent forensics laboratory in Philadelphia who spent a good hour explaining how she had enhanced the video for playback in court.

The technician, a small, mousy-looking woman by the name of Lindsay Farris, explained that she agreed with the FBI expert that the video was indeed ‘authentic' and she had not altered or compromised its content – merely improved its viewing quality by using a software program which ‘applied appropriate algorithms to sharpen, enlarge, enhance, edit and correct visual details'.

Secretly, David could have kissed her.

Carmichael also got the judge's permission to re-run sections of the video – specifically, the more aggressive sections at the end of the ‘show', making sure that every single juror would be dreaming about it tonight.
Hell
, thought David,
they would probably be able to recite the damned thing for years to come
. Which, despite how it may appear to the rest of the
universe, including Arthur who was obviously more than just a little confused as to his co-counsel's lack of ‘objections', did not worry David one bit.

David had not yet had a chance to tell anyone about what he had seen in that all-revealing gravy boat given he spent the entire lunchtime recess in conference with his two clients who were obviously terribly distressed at the courtroom screening of the video. Arthur had gone back to the office to check on Sara's motion to exhume Malcolm Tyler's body and David had made the decision that there was no point in giving his two teenage clients any sense of false hope until he was certain he could read the words on the autocue from their reflection.

And so, as the third day of testimony in the Commonwealth Vs Logan and Logan came to a close, the entire room was abuzz with the amazing progress of the prosecution – and more to the point, the lack of intervention from the increasingly lacklustre defence.

As the crowd fell out into the corridors, the elevators, the lobby and Pemberton Square beyond, David felt an all-encompassing need to shout to the hills that nothing was as it seemed – and that finally he had a way to prove it.

‘Mr Cavanaugh, Mr Cavanaugh,' called a reporter at the front entrance of the building, one of many who had obviously been waiting for the main players to emerge. ‘Do you have any comments on the significance of that video? Is there a reason why you did not . . . ?'

But David, with Arthur's assistance, was waving them away. He had asked the security personnel to hold his clients in the DYS transferral vans so that he might have one last word to them before they headed off to their separate detention units for the night, and he needed to hurry if he was going to make it before their 5pm departure.

‘But, Mr Cavanaugh.' One particularly determined hack persisted. ‘The general consensus is that you are dying in there.' This one didn't beat around the bush. ‘Some are even speculating that you have no choice but to negotiate a plea bargain.'

‘There will be no plea,' said David, whose upbeat mood was taking a rapid dive as he and Arthur tried to push through the throng.

‘But how on earth do you expect to come back from . . . ?' But then the
reporter turned his head, perhaps sensing the movement of the masses around him. And David realised he was about to be upstaged by a more media-friendly Jeffrey Logan, who had just emerged from the court's front doors, a look of pure satisfaction on his smarmy, famous face.

‘Jesus, Arthur, they're like moths to the flame,' said David, turning to watch the action.

‘He had a good day,' said a still confused Arthur, perhaps needing to make the point.

‘Not as good as you think,' said David, lifting a hand towards Logan in a gesture which told Arthur that an explanation of this last comment would have to wait.

‘Doctor Jeff, Doctor Jeff,' they screamed. ‘Can you comment on the day's events? How did it feel to see that video once again? Do you feel like your children betrayed you by taking the road of violence instead of . . . ?'