The Trials of Max Q, page 28
Just when the “great dig” begins to appear hopeless, something is found. Speculation and rumors spread like wildfire. An agonizing hour later, Sheriff Opp and an FBI agent named Hawkins hold a triumphant press conference. I think they might hurt themselves patting each other on the back. Opp dramatically holds up a plastic bag that contains a knife. I expect the self-promoter Opp to compare his finding to the discovery of Zinjanthropus at Olduvai Gorge and try to eloquently put it in its correct historical perspective. Hawkins downplays, mentioning lab tests that are required to link the knife to the murder, but everyone knows it’s the murder weapon.
A quarter past midnight, Shep bursts into my office, exclaiming, “The tests just came back from the lab. Drew Anderson’s prints are all over the knife. And so is Laney’s blood. He is going down!”
I fake a smile. “That’s great,” I say, but my heart isn’t in it.
Chapter 72
I walk into the movie theater in the Baseball Hall of Fame and slide into the seat next to George Herman.
The secluded movie theater is a relief from the media frenzy that has surrounded me since court broke yesterday afternoon. The loudmouth experts have spoken—the discovery takes our case from a long shot to the driver’s seat.
On the screen is the movie Eight Men Out. It’s based on the story of the 1919 Chicago White Sox, who conspired with gamblers to rig the World Series. A conspiracy headed up by Arnold Rothstein or Meyer Wolfsheim, depending on whether you get your information from history books or The Great Gatsby.
A deep feeling inside is telling me that I might be involved right in the middle of a grand event being “rigged” in the 21st century.
“I looked into this Tony Rivotti character you asked me about and I got nothing,” George informs in a booming whisper. The theater is empty, except for one older couple out of hearing range, even for George.
I nod my head, continuing to listen.
“The guy is like a ghost. No history, no pictures, not even a driver’s license or a school photo. Stating the obvious, Tony Rivotti is most likely an alias. Talked to all the collectors who had come in contact with him during the height of his forging, but got mostly anecdotes that border on urban myth. Nobody at Max-Q-Collectibles knows anything, or won’t admit it if they do. If he did work for them, he probably dealt directly with Anderson. I guess I could try to put together a composite sketch from those few who came in contact with him.”
I was skeptical that the Tony Rivotti investigation would shed any light on this case, so the news doesn’t faze me. It was a long shot. I tell George that the sketch won’t be necessary, and let him move on to the main reason he summoned me to the movies this morning.
He reaches into his knapsack and pulls out a handful of glossy photos. “We got these from the security camera at the heliport on West 30th Street. It’s the woman Lansdale had flown in from his yacht that morning.”
I look at the shapely woman wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, with a flowing mane of blonde hair streaming from the back of the cap. I don’t know if she doesn’t want to be seen because she’s having a no make-up morning or because she’s Lansdale’s married girlfriend.
“Why doesn’t he just get a private helipad on his building to avoid snoops like us looking into him?” I ask.
“No helipads allowed on buildings in Manhattan, kid. The one on West 30th Street is the closest to him when he stays at the Four Seasons, which is on East 57th Street.”
So that’s why my family didn’t have choppers landing on top of the LB&G building. “Because of 9/11?”
“No, goes way back to the accident at the Pan Am building back in 1977.”
He hands me more photos. “We also got shots of her moving down 30th Street and then up 12th Avenue. It’s amazing how many private security cameras there are in New York City store windows. You could probably trace someone’s whole day on film without putting up a camera yourself. Big Brother is here, kid.”
“The woman checked out as Lansdale’s girlfriend, mistress, or whatever you’d call it, right? Not some hit-woman he hired to get rid of Laney Bang, then hid out on his yacht?”
“Nothing new. Lansdale always had his ‘girls’ stay on the yacht, and the logbook confirms numerous similar flights over the past year—the neighbors jokingly call it the Lansdale Shuttle. But I still went to double-check with the pilot to see if I could get an ID on the pics.”
“And?”
“He’s vanished. Got a case of Rivotti disease.”
It’s interesting, but I don’t know what it means. And honestly, all of this became background noise when Maxon dropped the bomb about the knife.
George observes me closely, looking concerned. “What’s the matter, kid?”
“The way this whole thing is going down—it seems a little choreographed.”
“I agree that it doesn’t smell right, but you’ve done your job, kid. It’s all you can do. You presented the evidence you were given. Ultimately the jury will decide Anderson’s fate.”
“I’d feel a little better if the evidence had been provided in a different manner.”
“Lansdale and Anderson are both really powerful, so it makes sense that whoever gifted you the evidence would want to remain anonymous. Same deal with Maxon—he only gave up that murder weapon because he was forced into a corner. He didn’t do it willingly.”
“That, or Maxon killed her and is framing Anderson.”
“He did seem to have a thing for her. I’ll keep digging on Maxon, maybe something will come up,” he says with a shrug.
I look at my watch—I have to be in court in fifteen minutes. “Got anything else for me?”
George pauses for a moment, as if not sure he should proceed, then says, “There have been a lot of leaks in this case, and sometimes it’s hard to tell who plays for which team.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Just to be safe, I think I should do a scouting report on the home team. How well do you really know your teammates?”
I’m taken aback by the insinuation, but respect his instincts. George doesn’t do frivolous. “I don’t think that will be necessary. It’s basically Shep and me, and I trust her.”
“What do you know about her boyfriend?”
As I ponder this, I glance at the screen and watch Shoeless Joe Jackson hit the only home run of the Series. He got a bad rap in the scandal. I wish I could have represented him in his case. Then he would be enshrined here at the Hall of Fame like Mac tells me he should be.
I’m about to reply that Shep doesn’t discuss her personal life, but catch myself, thinking how naïve it would sound. “No investigation is necessary,” I say, trying to sound confident.
George nods his pudgy face. “Just wanted to cover all our bases,” he says, never lacking for baseball clichés.
I check my watch again, thank George for the info, and head to court.
Shep meets me on the court steps and looks perturbed. “Where were you?” she asks.
“I went to the movies. Then hit the showers at the office.”
This is where she would normally chastise me, but we are on the verge of winning the law Super Bowl and even I can’t dampen her spirits.
“Why the long face?” she asks. “If you haven’t checked the scoreboard today—we’re winning.”
“Doesn’t it bother you, Shep, how this whole thing went down? It’s too scripted for my taste.”
Shep shakes her head at my skepticism. She lowers her voice as we enter the courtroom, “Anderson is the only one who could have killed her. Simple Lizzie Borden, remember?”
I don’t respond.
“You and Gifford Brown have always told me that the obvious is the obvious for a reason. Trust your instincts, Jack.”
She smiles at me as court begins.
I’m a sucker for a great smile.
Chapter 73
The courtroom looks the same, but the mood is much different.
I view the Max Q supporters. They all have the same glazed-over look the Lawsons sported when Attorney@Lawson was overtaken at Saratoga, ironically, by Laney Bang’s horse.
I look toward Marissa, but she avoids eye contact. I recall her words of the other night. Open your eyes, Jack. Figure out who really did this. Somebody is setting up my husband.
My eyes are now open, but I fear that I might be too late. I can’t fight off the wild theories that fill my mind, and Ryan Maxon is at the forefront of those thoughts. Was he involved in manipulating the trial to set up Max Q? Perhaps, but I don’t believe he’d ever kill the one he loved. Those who claim to kill in the name of love are obsessed, not in love. I’m convinced that Maxon truly loved Laney.
What’s undeniable is that Maxon had a knife in his possession that contained both Drew Anderson’s fingerprints and Laney Bang’s blood. So if Maxon didn’t kill her, and Drew is being framed, then there was someone else in the house that morning. My mind wanders to Amber Jazz.
“Mr. Lawson, are you with us today?” Figliomini wakes me from my daydream. Crazy theories, I tell myself. Drew Anderson is the only person who could have killed Laney.
I scramble to my feet and join the judge and the other lawyers in chambers. Kerri argues for a mistrial and is immediately shot down. When she seeks a continuance, Figliomini reminds her that she is the one who wanted to fast-track the trial, and denies her again. He does agree to allow a couple of experts to examine the fingerprints and blood found on the knife.
When we return to the courtroom, Kerri puts a plethora of witnesses on the stand who attack the competence and motives of Ryan Maxon. I know she doesn’t like to lose, especially to me, but her anguish and despondency strikes me as unusual. She normally is a master of masking emotions.
At this point, the only thing that will save Drew Anderson is for him to take that stand, declare his innocence, and fight off all of the accusations. The third prong of our case has always been our most vulnerable area—it just doesn’t make sense that he would commit such a crime. After Maxon delivered the murder weapon, getting a conviction should be a fait accompli, but it’s a credit to Anderson’s stature that it is still in doubt.
My cross-exams consist of five words. “No questions for this witness.” It makes us look strong. We have a knife with the victim’s blood and the defendant’s fingerprints. But when Drew takes the stand, all bets are off, murder weapon or no murder weapon.
A blur of witnesses come and go over the next two weeks. “Put Drew on the stand. C’mon Kerri, put him on the stand,” I keep repeating to myself under my breath.
But she doesn’t. “The defense rests,” Kerri announces and I cringe.
Our summations are bland. Kerri focuses on the alibi of jogger witnesses. He couldn’t have done it. She paints Ryan Maxon as the jealous assistant who is framing her client. He had the access and motive to do so. Most of all, she summarizes the highlights of the life résumé of Drew Anderson.
I want to call time-out to delay the inevitable. But I do my job. Drew Anderson is a mere mortal. Drew Anderson had an affair with Laney Bang and we have the video footage to prove it. Laney Bang was blackmailing him, seeking revenge for events that went back to their college days. Drew Anderson was the only person who could have committed the crime. And oh by the way, we have a knife that contains Laney Bang’s blood and Drew Anderson’s fingerprints.
They are the same points I’ve made throughout the trial—but this time I’m not quite as sure as I originally was. Why didn’t you put him on the stand, Kerri?
After Figliomini sternly instructs the jury, they are herded like cattle to begin deliberations. They give the defense their forty-five-minute charity deliberation. As a tribute to the stature of Max Q, it lasts five hours.
I return to the courtroom full of gut-wrenching nerves. The jury foreman stands. Figliomini asks if the jury has reached a verdict. The foreman answers in the affirmative. You can feel the tension.
The jury foreman states that they agreed Drew Anderson has been a great role model who has given endless hours and dollars to charitable causes. He speaks of their admiration for his courageous service to his country. They conclude he is a loyal friend and loving husband. They even believe he was the victim of a blackmail plot. But in the end, they have no choice but to convict him of murdering Laney Bang.
“Guilty!” the foreman’s voice echoes throughout the old courtroom. One word that rocks the foundation of a society obsessed with celebrity and hero-worship.
Marissa cries out and falls to the ground in a partial fainting spell. Lansdale helps her to her feet and attempts to comfort her, but she is inconsolable.
Gasps fill the courtroom. The unimaginable has just occurred.
Figliomini bangs the gavel and informs, “Mr. Anderson will be remanded to the Otsego County jail to await sentencing, which will occur two weeks from today.
I check my calendar. October 31. Halloween—how fitting for this trial.
Anderson looks strangely calm as he is led off to prison. But he can’t take his eyes off Marissa, who in turn, can’t stop wailing.
Shep turns to me, and is bewildered by my appearance.
“Jack, are you okay? You are white as a ghost.”
My legs feel wobbly, so I sit. “I’m fine, just verdict-nerves.”
She accepts my answer without much thought, and returns to her euphoria.
I sit motionless and ask myself, “Did I just send an innocent man to prison?”
The Tribulation
Chapter 74
Following the conviction heard round the world, I have become known in what can only be described in complicated legal terms and jargon as “The Man!”
By dusk, Shep has already appeared as a guest on GNZ, CNN, and FOX, and is scheduled for Good Morning America tomorrow.
I have as much use for the media now as I did before. None. They’re now acting like my best buddy, trying to latch onto a “winner.” The feeling is not mutual.
One event I do feel obligated to attend is the party being thrown for us at Touch ’Em All. I fight my way through all my new “friends” in the media, who are staking out the entrance as if this is a Hollywood premiere, to find Shep waiting for me.
“Where have you been?” she asks, sounding irritated.
“I walked. I needed to clear my head.”
“I don’t understand you, Jack. Most people work their whole lives and never reach the pinnacle of their profession, yet you are acting like you’re a prisoner of war.”
“I’m a lawyer, not a press secretary.”
“It’s our obligation to talk about the case—it’s part of our job.”
“If Gifford wants a media-hound he should hire Kerri—I’m sure she will be out of a job soon. One thing my family is better at than the law is the blame game.”
“You’re impossible, Jack. We’ve been beaten down for months. Now you have a chance to take your bow and deliver some ‘I told you so,’ but you choose to be your usual brooding self.”
We enter the bar and our squabble is ended by a loud “Congratulations!”
We wave in acknowledgment.
Gifford seems to be emceeing the event, while my co-workers, who for the most part can’t stand me, look like they are being held at gunpoint. A bunch of county bigwigs are mingling, and even the defense’s star witnesses, Opp and Beneke, are present.
Gifford comes through on his promise, and toasts us with champagne.
I need some sanity, so I ditch Shep. Actually, she runs off to work the room like she is running for office. Maybe she is.
I find the definition of sanity—Mac Cirillo. He and Ashley greet me with grins and hugs.
“What is wrong, Jack?” Ashley asks, reading my mood.
“It’s nothing,” I beg off with a shrug. I can’t fool Ashley that easily, but she doesn’t push it.
Augie wheels out a large cake to the center of the bar. It features a frosting photo of Shep and me. Besides the obvious disturbing thought of eating my own face, my desire for answers outweighs my craving for dessert. I turn and head for the door.
The minute I hit the cool autumn air, I begin to jog uncomfortably in my suit. About a minute into my run, I am wheezing and forced to stop for a moment. That’s when I feel the headlights beaming onto my back.
It’s the county-issued Lincoln Navigator with Shep behind the wheel. “Where the hell are you going, Jack?”
“Go back inside, Shep. Or go do another television interview.”
I begin to run again. Shep trails slowly behind me in the SUV, shouting at me from her open window. “That’s not fair, Jack.”
I say nothing.
“I thought we’re partners—we are supposed to be honest with each other.”
I’m tempted to bring up her mystery boyfriend and identity change, but I choose to keep moving without a word.
Shep presses, “C’mon, Jack, get in.”
I debate my options, and they are limited. So I cut my losses and climb in the passenger side. I have no time to lose in the name of pride.
“Where are you headed?” she asks.
“Take me home,” I instruct like she’s my cab driver.
“You stormed out of a party in your honor to go home?”
I start to get out of the car.
“Okay, okay,” she gives in. “Home it is.”
We sit in silence during the ride, until Shep tries to break the ice with a smile, “If you desperately want to get home to catch the replay of my appearance on GNZ, you can stop worrying—I recorded it.”
It doesn’t work. For the remainder of the short trip neither of us utters a word. A concerned Shep drops me at the Cirillos’, but before she leaves, she offers, “Can I do anything to help, Jack?”
“Yes, I need to find Amber Jazz,” is all I say, before disappearing into the house.
Within minutes, I buzz out of the garage on the F-41, headed for Anderson Estate.
I roar up the driveway, avoiding the guardhouse by taking a wooded area to its right. I swerve around thick maple trees and proceed toward my answers.
