The Ex (13 page)

“Obviously—”

“No, more than the obvious. The morning of the shooting, it was
snowing. Molly was substituting at a school in Port Washington, so she was reverse-commuting for that. She and Buckley had both been hoping for a snow day, and it didn’t happen. But Buckley wouldn’t wake up, and then she tried playing sick. It’s just a stupid thing kids do in the winter. But Molly spent so much time dragging Buckley out of bed that she missed the early train. She waited twenty minutes to catch the next one. I still remember her joking that she might not get her lessons planned, but at least she had time for oatmeal.” For a second, he was back in that memory, but he quickly pulled himself out of it. “Anyway, the first thing Buckley said when I told her about the shooting was,
I should have gotten up.
”

I started to say that a child couldn’t possibly take the blame for something like that, then remembered Don telling me the same thing about the car accident that killed Owen. Buckley’s reaction to my reprimand for running late the morning of the bail hearing made more sense now. All I said was, “I’m sorry, Jack.”

“So, anyway, that’s why we’ve got all those files. I suppose if it comes to it, you could get Buckley’s therapist to explain—”

“Okay, that’s good. If it comes to that. I know it feels like I’m hammering you with negative information, but I have to ask you one more thing.” I told him that I had met with his civil lawyer, Gary Hannigan. “He says you made some remark when you found out about the dismissal? Something like karma needing to catch up with Neeley?”

“Did I? Maybe. Come on—they can’t possibly be saying that was some kind of a threat.”

“No one’s saying anything yet. But apparently one of the other plaintiffs was there, and that person’s not bound by attorney-client privilege. He or she could go to the police, or the prosecution could try to compel the testimony if they think to start questioning your co-plaintiffs.”

“When we found out about the dismissal, I was in Gary’s office with Jon Weilly. He was there at the bail hearing.”

Weilly told me he couldn’t recall Jack saying anything threatening about Neeley. I hadn’t pressed further, and hoped the police wouldn’t, either.

“Just please find Madeline,” he said. “If she backs me up about why I was there at the football field, maybe this can all go away.”

As I promised I would keep trying to find her, I couldn’t look him in the eye. There was no chance this would
all go away.

T
HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON
, I was adding three witness names to the file, employees at the West Side Range who would testify that Jack had come to their establishment the previous month to research gun aficionados. During my visit to the range, I’d made sure there was no camera footage of Jack wearing something other than the shirt the police had tested for GSR.

Anything that couldn’t be disproved was good enough for reasonable doubt, in my book.

Not to mention, before my trip to the gun range, I’d made yet another phone call to the clerk at the surrogate court, who finally had some news. Max Neeley was about to get the family money without conditions. Only fifty hours after his father’s death, Max had a lawyer commence the probate process for Malcolm’s will. Malcolm had left two hundred thousand dollars to Princeton University, fifty thousand to the Stinson Academy, and the remainder of his estate to Max.

I had just finished writing my interview notes when Einer knocked on my office door and handed me a sheet of paper. “I found out what happened at Princeton.”

THE SHORT NEWSPAPER ARTICLE, PRINTED
from the
Daily Princetonian
website, was dated May 2, 2010:

The Faculty-Student Committee on Discipline has decided not to discipline a senior whose roommate alleged that the student had made threatening comments that made him feel unsafe. According to the complaint, the offending student was screaming repeatedly one night about plans to kill his father while he was sleeping.

After hearing testimony from both students at an open hearing, the Committee announced that, while there was clear and persuasive evidence that the student’s conduct violated University housing regulations, discipline was unwarranted. Among the mitigating factors mentioned in the Committee’s decision were the student’s intoxicated state, the suicide of the student’s mother last fall, and the isolated nature of the incident. The complaining student told the
Princetonian
that he has no plans to pursue the matter further and only reported the incident “just in case something happened.”

Though the article didn’t use names, Einer had managed to convince someone in the office of student housing to “unofficially confirm” that the senior in question was Max Neeley. I pictured him standing over his father’s bed, a gun in his hand. Had he come up with a better plan in the years that had passed?

My direct line rang. I recognized the number as the outgoing one for the district attorney’s office.

Scott Temple didn’t bother stating his name. “I knew I should have handled the bail hearing myself.”

It was the first time we’d spoken since the surprise ruling by Judge Amador. “I’d like to take credit, but I think Amador was just rebelling against the shrillness of Amy Chandler’s voice. She needs to bring it down an octave.”

“I had a meeting with a domestic violence task force, or I would
have been there personally. You’re making me regret helping battered women, Olivia. I think that officially makes you a bad person.”

“You’re a funny man, Scott Temple. And, frankly, I’m surprised you’re not more upset. Did Chandler tell you what the judge said at the end of the hearing? He basically told the press you guys overplayed your hand.”

“So you got one round of the media cycle on your side. You know how fickle the news is. Tomorrow, the wind will blow in the other direction. And don’t ever quote me on this, but a guy like Harris on house arrest isn’t going to make me lose sleep.”

“You’re accusing him of triple murder.”

“I am, but the one person he wanted dead is gone. If he hadn’t taken out two others as collateral damage, I might be worried about jury nullification. With Neeley gone, he’s not going to hurt anyone pending trial, and the bracelet is a pretty good guarantee he’ll show up when the time comes. Nice job, by the way, planting the idea for the gag order.”

I found myself smiling. I literally got in the last word at the bail hearing, right before Judge Amador issued the gag order. Now Temple wasn’t allowed to say anything in response.

“You got my discovery demand?”

“That’s why I’m calling. What’s up with all this surveillance video? The entire waterfront between Battery Park and Chelsea Piers for the day of the shooting and one month prior?”

“Correct.”

One of the great myths about criminal cases is that prosecutors have to give defense attorneys access to all their evidence. Don called it the nonexistent “law of Cousin Vinny.” In reality, prosecutors were generally allowed to keep the defense in the dark until we got closer to trial, but had to turn over “material, exculpatory evidence”—called Brady evidence. They could keep the stuff that hurt us as long as they turned over the big stuff that might help us.

Scott was clearly skeptical. “An entire month of video is Brady evidence?”

“Are you willing to bet it
isn’t
without seeing it?” Evidence that might look unremarkable to a prosecutor could be a gold mine to a defense attorney.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “And by the way, Chandler told me you made it sound like we were stonewalling you on this.”

“You’ve got your job, I’ve got mine. Judge Amador won’t be happy if I don’t get my videos.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

Against my better instincts, I tried again to shoot straight with him. “I know the GSR evidence looks bad, but it was only on his shirt. If he was smart enough to wash his hands, he could have changed clothes. If we sit down and talk—”

“I only called because I respect you, Olivia. You’re backing the wrong horse on this one. The case is tight. I asked around, by the way, after you called me down to the precinct. I talked to Jacqueline Meyers from the drug unit.” I recognized the name from my law school class. “She told me that you and Harris were engaged.”

I saw no reason to hide the truth. “In case you’re wondering, I already checked whether there was an ethical conflict. If you’re even thinking about moving to remove me as counsel—”

“Whoa, stand down, Olivia. I wasn’t going there. My whole point was, maybe you should ask yourself why you’re so sure this guy’s innocent.”

“I know him, Scott. He didn’t do this.”

“No, you knew him twenty years ago.” I let the line be silent. “Just take a fair look at the evidence as it comes in, okay? I have a feeling we’ll be talking about a plea at some point.”

When I hung up, I closed my eyes again and ran through everything I knew about the case against Jack. That damn GSR. I had witnesses who could testify that Jack was at the gun range, but it was a
full month before the shooting, and I had no proof it was for research instead of target practice. And I had seen Jack’s closet; he owned a lot of shirts. At least when I knew him, Jack never re-wore a shirt without washing it.

I had called Scott after Jack’s arrest for a reason. I trusted him.

I wiggled my computer’s mouse and pulled up the Paperfree website’s log-in page. I checked my notes for Madeline’s e-mail address: [email protected]

I had Jack’s standard password committed to memory: jack<3smollybuckley

The account and/or password information is incorrect.

What had I been expecting?

Still, the fact that I had bothered to check whether Jack’s habitual password might open “Madeline’s” e-mail account meant that Scott’s words had gotten to me. So had Ross Connor’s:
It’s like to your face, he’s all honest and thoughtful . . . But there’s a dark side there.

Which brought me to the simplest explanation of all: maybe Jack tested positive for GSR because he shot three people hours before his arrest.

The padded envelope waiting on my desk was two inches thick, delivered by messenger. I could see from the label that it was from Gary Hannigan, the civil attorney in the Penn Station lawsuit.

Inside was a spiral-bound copy of the transcript of Hannigan’s deposition of Malcolm Neeley. The case had not proceeded far enough for Neeley’s lawyers to have deposed the plaintiffs, so I didn’t need to worry about a written record of anything Jack may have said. But I wanted to make sure there was nothing in Neeley’s deposition that indicated any kind of personal confrontation with Jack.

Twenty pages into the transcript, I could see that Hannigan believed in the “what did you eat for breakfast” approach to depositions. Some lawyers—Hannigan clearly included—believed that asking witnesses left-field questions could lead to areas of inquiry the lawyer would oth
erwise have never pursued. As a criminal litigator, I didn’t have the luxury of that kind of meandering. I could only question witnesses in front of the jury, where every answer needed to be one I could predict in advance.

Some topics of the deposition were obvious: Neeley’s knowledge of his son’s increasingly erratic behavior and social isolation, his failures to follow up on numerous suggestions that the boy get mental health treatment, his decision to buy Todd guns and encourage shooting as a hobby. But Hannigan also asked Neeley open-ended questions about his work, occasionally interrupting to ask how he was able to act as a father to Todd and his brother Max while building a successful hedge fund. Though the questions seemed general and conversational, the strategy was remarkably effective. While Neeley’s attorneys had prepared him to give rehearsed and controlled responses to the obvious questions, when he was allowed to go off script and talk about himself as a financier and a father, the results were damning. He was a selfish, crappy parent.

I skimmed over the part Hannigan had recorded where Neeley talked about showing up to the help’s house unannounced, young Max in tow, to teach him to appreciate the wealth he’d been born into. Neeley must have gotten a warning look from his lawyer that made him realize that other people didn’t think much of his great parenting story. When he finished telling it, he immediately began listing more traditional efforts he had made to be close to his sons. I flipped pages as Neeley made himself sound like a regular Ward Cleaver: fishing at a camp in Pennsylvania, golf lessons at the country club in Connecticut, coin collecting, teaching the boys how to spiral the pigskin, spring breaks scuba-diving in the Caribbean. I stopped and flipped back a page, hoping I hadn’t actually seen what I thought I’d just read.

No. No, no, no.

I pulled up Buckley’s cell phone number and she answered immediately. “Olivia, hi. Do you want me to get Dad—”

“No, just a quick question for you. The files that your father had about the civil case—would he have had a copy of Neeley’s deposition transcript?”

“Deposition?”

“When the families’ lawyer, Gary Hannigan, got to ask Neeley questions under oath.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. The lawyer sent us everything he thought was important. He calls it—what did he say? A
client-focused
approach to lawyering or something. Anyway, we kept it all in the file cabinet.”

Right, the file cabinet filled with documents that Jack said he never really paid much attention to.

When I hung up, I looked again at the transcript open on my desk.

A. I met Todd every single Wednesday morning at the park by my office to work on passes. Seven
AM,
like clockwork. No matter how busy I was, we always did it.

Q. You don’t think that was a little rigid that you kept your hobbies with Todd on a timed schedule without exception?

A. Routine was good for Todd. And football was the only sport he ever showed any interest in.

Q. Other than shooting, you mean.

A. I mean physical sport. Todd said he wanted to be able to play football in high school, the way I did, and the way his brother did. I knew Todd wasn’t good enough or strong enough or fast enough to play on any kind of team, but he liked it. And I liked teaching him. Those were probably the best times we ever had. Even now, I still take my coffee to the football field on Wednesday mornings, just to keep the schedule. To take a few minutes and remember the best of my son. I was a victim that day,
too. I know your clients will never accept that, but I lost my boy, just like they lost their families—

Q. Let’s talk next about your son’s move from the Dutton School to the Stinson Academy.

It was the fifth school Todd would attend in seven years, but that’s not what interested me. I wheeled my office chair over to the smaller desk where my computer lived, and then wiggled the mouse to wake up the screen. I typed “Sentry Group” into the search window of the browser, hit Enter, and then clicked on the Map function.

Malcolm Neeley was shot at approximately 7:09 in the morning on a Wednesday, at a football field only seven blocks from the building where his hedge fund occupied the nineteenth and twentieth floors. And somewhere among the four file cabinets of material seized by the police from Jack’s apartment was a piece of paper that proved Jack knew exactly where the man he blamed for the death of his wife would be at precisely that time.

I slapped a Post-it on the side of the page where I had stopped reading, closed the transcript, and threw it across the room.

JACK ANSWERED THE DOOR WEARING
a loose Columbia University T-shirt and cargo shorts. His hair was damp, and his face was unshaven. He looked good—relaxed and healthy, a completely different person from the one I’d seen the previous afternoon. He even smelled good. I remembered how much I used to love tucking myself into the crook of his arm at night. I fit there perfectly, and he always seemed to smell like soap and cedar.

“Hey, if I’d known you were coming, I would have changed. And straightened up the apartment.”

His version of messy was clean for me. “No problem,” I said with a smile. “I’m the one coming by unannounced.”

“Guess you knew I’d be here,” he said, gesturing toward his ankle monitor. “Is everything okay? The judge didn’t change his mind, did he?”

“No, of course not.” It was all the reassurance I could offer.

Once we were seated in the living room, I asked if Buckley was home. She was at a movie with her friends.

“Are you sure everything’s okay? You’re kind of freaking me out, Olivia.”