Presumption of Guilt (13 page)

Immediately after taking a seat, Dani said, “As I told you over the phone, my office is representing Molly Singer. You were her boyfriend when her parents were murdered, right?”

Finn nodded.

“It surprised me that you testified against her at her trial.”

She didn’t waste any time. Right for the jugular. Finn didn’t know what he’d expected, but not this. Maybe some small talk, something to warm him up, put him at ease. Instead, the first comment she made was the one he’d feared. Did he tell this woman the truth, that he’d testified against the girl he loved to protect the father he loved?

He needed to slow things down, to think some more, despite having agonized over the meeting all morning. He blinked rapidly and cleared his throat before answering. “I only told the truth. The district attorney asked me questions, and I answered them.” Finn looked down at his hands. They felt clammy; he looked for something to wipe them with, then brushed them against his pants.

Dani smiled. “I’m sure it was a very confusing time for you. You were only nineteen yourself then, right?”

“That’s right.” He felt unnerved by the way the lawyer looked at him, as though she knew what he was thinking.

“Did you think Molly murdered her parents?”

“Of course not. She loved them. Even when she got angry at them I knew she was just blowing off steam.”

Dani’s eyes seemed kindly, her smile warm. Finn wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to admit that he’d picked up the phone one evening, anxious to speak to Molly even though he’d just left her fifteen minutes earlier. He wanted to tell this woman who sought to free Molly that he hadn’t hung up when he heard his father on the extension. He wished he had. He wished he hadn’t heard Alan Bryson tell his father that if Joe Singer talked, it would ruin things for everyone. “Convince him to shut up or someone will shut him up,” Bryson said to his father. “You’re in as deep as all of us.”

Those words were ingrained in his memory, as though deeply etched with a burning stylus. When he heard that the Singers were killed, he knew his father was involved in some way. And he knew he had to protect him.

“It just seems surprising to me,” Dani said, “especially since you knew Molly was pregnant by the time of the trial, that you offered up information about your private conversations to the DA.”

Finn shrugged. “He asked me, and I answered truthfully.”

“No one but you and Molly would know what you discussed. So if you said nothing to him, he wouldn’t know about those conversations.”

“I suppose.”

“I wonder if your testifying had something to do with your father.”

Finn blanched. What did she know? Could she have found out his father was involved in something terrible? Even he didn’t know what it was—only that it was something that needed to be kept quiet, at any cost. It was time to make a decision. Tell this woman who was trying to help Molly about the conversation he overheard, or continue the silence he’d kept for twelve years.

“What do you mean?” Finn asked, cringing inside, aware that he once again was betraying the mother of his child.

Dani shuffled through some papers in a folder, then pulled out one and placed it on her lap. “When your father was a legislator, he approved payments of more than thirty-five million dollars over budget for the construction of the Hudson County jail. That money went into the pockets of several people. We know Quince Michaels was one of that group. We believe your father was another.”

Was that the big secret? Finn wondered. Was his father a thief? He was ambitious, that much Finn understood. But steal money from the county? It didn’t seem like his father. Still, he’d been involved in something bad, something so wrong that it couldn’t come to light. And this would be something to hide.

“What makes you think he took money? Do you have any evidence?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. But isn’t that why you testified against Molly? To protect your father?” Her voice was soft, a siren luring him into her confidence, inviting him to reveal what he knew.

Finn understood this was his chance to right a wrong, to take the first step in bringing Sophie’s mother back to her. Still, he hesitated. Life had seemed uncomplicated when he was a teenager. Sure, raging hormones often heightened the importance of every act, big or small, and sometimes left him confused. Even so, his parents had instilled in him the importance of a moral compass, the need to differentiate right from wrong. And, without their saying so, he understood that loyalty to the family trumped everything. When Molly was on trial, his family was his mother and father. He had his own family now, Kim and Sophie and Graham. What would happen to them if he told this lawyer the truth? Would they escape the fallout from his father’s culpability or be tainted by it, as Sophie had always been tainted by Molly’s conviction? He didn’t know the answer. He couldn’t take a chance.

“I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time, coming here,” he said. “I testified at the trial because the DA subpoenaed me. He asked me questions and I answered truthfully. I wish Molly wasn’t in jail, and I don’t believe she killed her parents. But I had nothing to protect my father from. As far as I know, he’s never done anything wrong.”

The door to Frank Reynolds’s office swung open without a knock. When Frank looked up from his desk and saw Finn standing in the doorway, he smiled and motioned his son to come in. Finn entered the room and closed the door behind him.

“This is a nice surprise,” Frank said. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Finn’s face was set in a rigid mask. He sat down in the chair opposite the desk and began to wring his hands. He’d debated coming to his father’s office. The secrets in the family had lasted more than twelve years, and the unspoken words had allowed them to live harmoniously. Now he’d come to ask questions he should have asked a long time ago. And he knew the answers would likely change his relationship with his father forever.

“Molly’s lawyer came to visit me today.” Finn let his words sink in as he examined his father’s face. He saw no reaction.

“Well, I suppose that’s to be expected. You were Molly’s boyfriend back then.”

“She told me Quince Michaels and others pocketed millions from the jail project.” Now Finn saw the reaction he’d expected. It was just the tiniest perceptible narrowing of his eyes, tightening of his lips, but Finn saw it. His father remained silent. “You approved the money for the jail, didn’t you?” Finn continued.

“Not just me. Mary Jane Olivetti did as well. All the paperwork we got justified the extra payments.”

“Her lawyer thinks you took money as well.”

“I hope you told her that’s ridiculous.”

“I did, Dad. That’s exactly what I told her. I’m just not sure I told her the truth.”

Frank got up from his chair, walked around the desk and sat on its edge, next to his son. “Why would you say that? You know me.”

“I do know you. I’ve known about you for twelve years and let my girlfriend be railroaded because I’ve known you.”

Frank stood up and walked over to the window. He paused there with his back to his son, looking outside without saying a word. Finn let the silence fill the room. The soft tapping of a keyboard could be heard from outside the office. Finally, Frank turned around. “What do you know?”

“I heard you—on the phone with Alan Bryson. Before the Singers were murdered.”

“What? What did you hear?”

“I heard him tell you that Joe Singer had to be kept quiet. That if he talked if would be bad for everyone, including you.” Finn’s voice grew louder. “You took money, didn’t you? You lied about the cost of the jail construction and pocketed the extra money. For all I know, the bunch of you killed the Singers to keep them quiet.”

Frank came back to the desk and sat down in the chair next to Finn’s. He reached over and took Finn’s hand in his own. His face looked drawn, his eyes weary. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I did a terrible thing back then, but I had nothing to do with the Singers’ murders. I swear to you, I know nothing about that.”

Finn wanted to believe his father, this man he still loved and had revered, so much that he’d pushed away his memory of that phone call. “I need to know everything. I need you to tell me the truth.”

Frank hesitated. “Okay. I owe you that,” he said, then proceeded to tell his son everything he knew.

C
HAPTER

24

T
ommy drove up to Hudson County with an affidavit in his briefcase for Ellen Michaels to sign. He hadn’t called in advance to set up an appointment. He didn’t want to give her time to think it over. Present it to her, get her signature, then leave. He thought he might drive over to the county jail next, take a look at it. After all, the jail was supposedly the catalyst for the murders.

Unlike his own town, where remnants of color remained on the trees, the leaves were already dying as he got closer to Andersonville. He pulled into Ellen’s driveway, hoping he’d catch her in. He was prepared to wait as long as necessary if she wasn’t. Waiting was often the essence of good investigative work. Boring as hell, but necessary.

A car was in the driveway. A good sign, he thought. He parked, got out of his car, then rang the bell when he reached the door. After a few moments, a gray-haired woman appeared. She looked him up and down, then said, “Can I help you?”

“Is Ms. Michaels in?”

“And you are?”

“Tom Noorland.”

“Is she expecting you?”

“No, but she knows who I am.”

“I’m sorry, she’s not seeing anyone now.”

This was an unexpected wrinkle. He’d been prepared to wait, but not to be turned away. “Is she ill?” Tommy asked.

“She’s fine. Now, really, I have to ask you to leave.”

Persistence was another essential for investigators. Tommy rarely gave up easily. “Would you at least let her know I’m here? It’s urgent that I speak to her.”

The woman hesitated, then said, “Wait here.” She closed the door on Tommy and left him outside for almost ten minutes. When the door opened again, Ellen Michaels stood inside. Her eyes were red and puffy. It looked like she’d quickly applied makeup in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal the signs of recent crying.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Are you okay, Ellen?” Tommy asked, with genuine concern.

At his question, Ellen began crying again. She motioned for Tommy to come in, and he followed her into the living room.

“What’s upset you?” he asked softly.

“Oh, it’s too awful. I shouldn’t be so torn up. I mean, we’ve been divorced for so long. But we were married twenty-two years.”

“Is it Quince? Did something happen to him?”

“He’s dead. An accident.” Ellen began crying harder, and Tommy put his arm around her shoulder. He stayed beside her, silently, for several minutes, until she composed herself. Finally, she said, “I shouldn’t burden you with this.”

“It’s okay. My shoulders are big enough to cry on. How did it happen?”

“His boat. He was on his boat and it exploded,” Ellen said, then began crying again. In between sobs, she added, “The coast guard said it was a gas leak in the fuel line. Oh, it’s so awful.”

Tommy stayed awhile, consoling Ellen. It would be fruitless to ask her to sign an affidavit now; she was too distraught. He wasn’t even sure whether it could still be used, now that Michaels was dead. Dani would have to answer that question. As he got ready to leave, he turned to her and asked, “Did you tell anyone about our conversation last week?”

“Just Quince. I thought he ought to know.”

As he walked to his car, Tommy wondered if it really had been an accident that killed Quince Michaels.

His next stop was the Hudson County jail. Inside the entrance, he showed his identification, mentioned his cred as a former FBI agent, and asked if Sheriff John Engles was available. Five minutes later, Tommy was led to his office.

“Thanks for seeing me,” Tommy said as he took a seat across the desk from Engles.

“No problem. I like to extend courtesies to other law-enforcement people and hope they do the same for me. What can I help you with?”

Tommy wasn’t really sure. He just wanted to get a feel for the place. “Were you sheriff when the jail was being built?”

“Nah. I was chief deputy sheriff then.”

“So, what did you think about the whole thing? You know, deciding to build a new jail, all the expense that went into it.”

“I didn’t think anything about it. That was up to the politicians.”

“The newspapers had a field day with it.”

Engles picked up a paper clip from his desk and began twisting it. “When newspapers have nothing to write, they make up stuff. I’ll show you what we have here. All top rate. Other counties send their prisoners to us and we make money from it. It was worth every penny.”

Maybe he was just being a good front man, putting a positive spin on it for an unknown visitor, or maybe he meant what he said. Or maybe he had a hand in the pot. The last anonymous letter had made Tommy suspicious of everyone in high places.

They chatted some more, then Engles led Tommy on a tour of the jail. They walked past the cell blocks, all of them occupied, then entered the dining room, which was immaculate. A library was filled will law books on one side, fiction and nonfiction titles on another. The place wasn’t a country club, but there was an auditorium for weekly movies and a gym to work out in. The sheriff was right—it was all top-end. Tommy might have appreciated it more if he hadn’t known that two people were likely killed over it.

C
HAPTER

25

L
et’s go over what we have,” Dani said to Tommy and Melanie as they pulled their chairs close to the conference-room table.

“We have confirmation that Quince Michaels padded the bills for the jail project,” Tommy said. “That’s from his wife. We don’t have an affidavit from her, but she gave me the name of the bank in Belize where he’d stashed it twelve years ago. It’s Allegiance Bank.”

Dani frowned. Belize was a country that adhered to secrecy laws. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to confirm Michaels’s account there or the amount of funds in it. “What’s happening with the forensic accountant?”