The Trials of Max Q, page 35
He patted down the men, and shined his flashlight in each impersonator’s eyes. When he arrived at Gehrig, he seemed to hold the look longer. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
The man shrugged. “I doubt it, I’m from New York City. Don’t get up here that much. Except when I was elected to the Hall of Fame back in 1939.”
Beneke held his stare on Gehrig for a few tense seconds, but moved on.
All supplied their passports to the officer for identification. He returned to his squad car and officially called them in. Beneke then made George open the trunk, which was empty. But just when it looked like they were home free, the flirty Marilyn cooed, “Aren’t you gonna frisk me, officer?”
She didn’t have to ask him twice. She theatrically oo’d and ah’d in a sultry voice, seemingly enjoying it as much as Beneke, who made sure to brush by all the strategic spots. He was completely distracted.
When Beneke’s fun and games were over, he allowed the Packard to pass through the security check.
George drove to Oneonta Air Field, where they boarded the small plane he had chartered for the trip. Shortly thereafter, they took off into the dark night.
George looked at the pilot and smiled.
Ashley Cirillo smiled back at him.
Chapter 96
The first pictures of Drew Anderson hit television this morning. I view them closely.
He is sporting his newly short-cropped hairstyle, as he parties in an upscale bar in the Bahamas. A bunch of tanned tourists surround him, drinking margaritas and he appears oblivious to the fact that he is a hunted man.
GNZ interviewed a couple on their honeymoon, who took the photos. They confirmed that Drew Anderson looked and acted like a man celebrating his release from prison. They had never met him, having only seen him on TV, but their “expert” opinion concluded that it was truly him, not a doubt in their mind. If it’s good enough for the news media, then it’s good enough for me. Max Q is in the Bahamas!
Ironically, his escape has done what a guilty jury verdict couldn’t do—shifting people’s beliefs about his guilt. When I was sure of his guilt, I couldn’t make the public believe it. Now that I’m convinced he’s innocent, he’s been convicted in the court of public opinion. Seems like I’m practicing Murphy’s Law these days.
Law enforcement has descended upon the Bahamas. But Drew isn’t there. It’s like in those Grisham novels where scheming lawyers are transferring money to off-shore accounts. It is important to let it be seen—as Drew was last night—then move it again. Soon the trail will be lost forever.
I ride my bike to the office on a leaf-filled Route-80. November has begun with a cold rain. When I arrive, I perform my daily ritual of walking past the wall of media without giving a comment.
I walk straight to my office and shut the door. I sit silently at my desk. I mentally review the whole case once more. As usual, I drive myself to madness, contemplating where I went so wrong.
A knock on my door returns me to reality. Shep enters and tosses a newspaper on my desk, in case I hadn’t seen the photo of Drew in that bar in the Bahamas.
She swallows some pride—not the easiest thing for her—and says, “I know we’ve had our issues lately, Jack, but I just want to say I’m sorry how this all went down. You are a great lawyer who did an unbelievable job, and I hope people remember that—you had nothing to do with this fiasco.”
I nod lifelessly, and then return to my brooding stare.
“Do you think they’ll ever find him?” Shep asks.
I sure hope not. “I don’t know.”
She is hovering around my desk, and I can feel her studying me. It makes me uncomfortable. “Is there something on your mind?”
“I don’t know, I just feel like there is something you’re not telling me.”
I shrug. “Like what?”
She’s becoming skeptical of my wall of negativity. And knowing Shep, she will keep pounding away until she knocks the wall down. So I change tactics—I will now let her in to keep her at arms length.
With a heavy sigh, I act as if I give in. “I think Andy Kass is behind this explosion. I know his calling card from the school demolition, and this one has Andy written all over it.”
I can tell the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. “Do you think he did this on his own? I don’t see what his motivation was, unless Lansdale’s people got to him.”
“I went to find him last night and it seems as if he has disappeared. His parents moved to Canada without him, and from what I found out, he was living homeless up at Glimmerglass State Park. But when I went to find him, he was gone.”
Shep appears to be contemplating what this means.
“The bottom line, is that when they connect Andy to the explosion, they’re going to come looking for me, and I don’t want you near me. You were adament against cutting any type of deal with him, so you don’t deserve to be connected to it by association.”
“C’mon, Jack, nobody in their right mind would believe you had something to do with what Andy Kass might have done.”
I remain serious. “My concern is that I will come under heavy criticism for the soft deal I offered him—I thought I was helping a kid get his life together. I don’t want you near the fray. I will take sole responsibility.”
Shep’s face tightens with resolve. “Last I checked, we’re still partners, and partners have each other’s back.”
“I appreciate the support, but this isn’t a negotiation, Shep.”
Something holds me back from embracing the moment—that picture. What was she doing at the helipad that morning? My tone firms, “Anything else?”
“Yeah, Jack—I came to tell you that your sister and Anderson’s wife are holding a press conference. I thought it might interest you.”
Chapter 97
The office staff is huddled around a television in the conference room. NBC has just pulled away from its live coverage from the Bahamas to carry Kerri and Marissa’s press conference at Anderson Estate.
A teary-eyed Marissa stands behind a conglomerate of microphones. She is dressed casually in a sweater and jeans, and is visibly shaking. The cold rain could be the culprit, but I think it has to do with the emotional toll this has taken on her. Drew is still in danger, which must be weighing heavily. I recognize the older man holding the large golfing umbrella over her—Lansdale.
She wipes away tears, before looking into the camera. “Drew, I don’t know if you are watching this, but if you are, please listen to me, baby. Please give yourself up immediately. As long as you are out there, you are in danger. Come back and fight these false charges in court. Everybody knows you couldn’t have killed anyone. You couldn’t even bring yourself to kill that mouse in our kitchen.” She pauses for a moment, seemingly overwhelmed, before making one final plea. “Please come home, baby. I need you.”
She takes a step back. Flashbulbs go off, looking like lightning bugs.
Kerri steps to the microphones to assume the role of the unemotional lawyer. “Drew Anderson is my client and I take full responsibility for him not being here. We are fully cooperating with the authorities to bring him back home to us safe and sound. As you can see, Drew, there are so many people that love you. Please turn yourself in. It’s the only way this can have a happy ending.”
Shep looks at me with an envious “she’s good” look. I agree, but for different reasons.
Kerri steps away from the microphone and puts her arm around Marissa. They walk under the columns of Anderson Estate and disappear through the front door. With my current understanding of their relationship, this last part might be one of the great acting jobs of all time.
The rapid-fire coverage moves back to the anchor, who hot-potatoes it to the Bahamas. A split screen shows both the rain-soaked Anderson Estate and the swaying palm trees of the sunny Caribbean. Too bad Drew Anderson is in neither place.
Before we leave for the weekend, Gifford Brown demands my presence in his office. I take a seat before his desk and can tell it’s been a two-pack day, which means I might be in trouble. Could they already know about Andy Kass?
He moves to the door and calls out, “Shepherdson—get in here now.”
She races in and takes a seat beside me.
I brace for the worst, but Gifford surprises, “You two are excellent prosecutors. You did your job and I’m proud of you.”
I see no reason to interrupt him while he’s on a roll.
“Law enforcement has been screwing us over in this case from day one. I just want you two to know that none of this nonsense going on now is your fault.”
He then orders us to “get the hell out of here” and to have a good weekend.
On Saturday morning, I watch a special news report from my apartment. Drew Anderson has just released a video he recorded in front of the Eiffel Tower. He is fully clothed in this one.
Onscreen, a man with a short-cropped military style haircut, claiming to be Drew Anderson, makes a short statement.
He looks into the camera like a pro. “I am innocent of the charges against me. The decision to take this course of action in the face of this injustice was mine, and mine alone. I want to thank all those who supported me during my trial, and promise that I will not let you down.”
A reporter appears with Live from Paris written below her on the screen, her hair blowing wildly in a stiff Parisian wind. “This tape is now in the hands of the FBI. My sources tell me that there are those within The Bureau who believe the tape is real, while other camps believe it to be a fake. It has been sent back to Washington for more testing, but as of now, it is inconclusive as to whether the man on the tape is Drew Anderson.”
An anchor appears on the screen and states, “The office of the French President has released a statement that it will use the full force of the French Judicial Power to help bring Anderson to justice.”
It will be a waste of time—Drew Anderson is not in France.
On Sunday, a similar tape surfaces with Drew Anderson speaking in front of the Colosseum in Rome. GNZ reports that numerous eyewitnesses spotted him there.
I expect police sirens to dash toward my residence at any second, but nothing but silence fills my room.
So far so good.
Chapter 98
I stroll into the office on Monday morning with mountain-bike in hand. It instantly doesn’t feel right. Everything appears normal, but something is wrong.
I see Shep coming out of the conference room with a man in a sharp suit. They shake hands like they just closed a sales deal, but I can tell from Shep’s expression that something’s up. She walks past me without saying a word.
The man approaches me with an extended hand. “Jack Lawson—I’m Special Agent Scott Hawkins from the FBI. I was wondering if I could have a few words with you in the conference room?”
I can tell I don’t really have a choice in the situation. I put my bike down and follow him. We sit on opposite sides of the conference table, intently gauging each other. From the many Lawson functions I’ve attended over the years, I can sense a power-hungry, pompous ass with a sense of entitlement from a mile away.
“I would like to congratulate you on your work in the Anderson trial. You are a fine litigator. What impresses me most is that it seemed you had the deck stacked against you, yet were still able to pull it off.”
I distrust his tone. I knew I would be questioned at some point, but I wasn’t expecting it to be this morning.
“We had some help,” I reply humbly.
“Yes you did.”
I remind myself that normal behavior would dictate that I’m a little upset that after all my time and effort, the man I convicted won a free European vacation. So I choose to go on the offensive, “Are you here to tell me you captured Anderson, or is he still backpacking through Spain?”
Hawkins smiles strangely at me. “You go to the movies a lot, Jack?”
“If you want to make a film about my life, take a number—already got over fifty offers.”
He doesn’t even twitch. “You see, the thing I’ve always found fascinating about movies, is that they always make sense in the end—resolution in a neat package. But things don’t always make sense in real life.”
“I’ll take that as you haven’t found him yet. Do you at least know where he’ll be appearing today—London? Moscow?”
Hawkins’ look is frosted with smug confidence, which concerns me.
“You ever hear the term ‘where there’s smoke there’s fire,’ Jack?”
“I’m a prosecutor. I’m only concerned if I can prove to a jury that a connection exists between the smoke and fire.”
“Then maybe you’re the right guy to talk to. Because ever since I started investigating Drew Anderson’s escape, I’ve come across a lot of smoke. And I have been wondering how it ties to the fire.”
I remain silent, letting Hawkins carry on with his orchestration.
“I keep coming across this one name. A meeting between Kerri Lawson and Drew Anderson took place the day after his conviction. And strangely, the prosecuting attorney, Jack Lawson, was also there. I viewed pictures of Anderson from a bathroom security camera at the Hall of Fame the night of his escape, during an event put on by Mac Cirillo, who happens to be a close friend of Jack Lawson.”
My mouth is a cotton field. I need a glass of water, but there’s none in sight. I will take complete blame for this straight to the electric chair before I allow Mac, Ashley, or George to go down with me.
“A police officer reported that a group leaving the Hall of Fame left on a charter to the Bahamas. Coincidentally, the same destination where Anderson had been spotted that night. Armstrong Airlines chartered the plane, and what do you know, the pilot, Ashley Cirillo lives at the same residence as, you guessed it, Jack Lawson. Do you see the pattern, Jack?”
“The only pattern I see is a consistent failure of law enforcement, who keep trying to cover their asses by attempting to blame others, and tossing wild accusations against the wall.” I surprise myself with the strength of my words.
Hawkins still looks like he is holding a winning lottery ticket.
“We’ve done a lot of talking with Shane King in the last few days.”
“Please let me know when you’re finished, because the Otsego County District Attorney’s Office would also like to have a few words with Mr. King.”
Hawkins ignores me, plowing ahead, “From our discussions, along with witnesses at Glimmerglass State Park, and the Cooperstown Public Library—where he left a trail on the public-access computers—the FBI has enough evidence to conclude that Andy Kass was the one responsible for the explosions. And to stick with our theme, Andy Kass had charges against him conveniently dropped just a week prior by none other than Jack Lawson.”
My arms have gone completely numb. I want to reach to wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead, but I don’t think I physically can. My one salvation is that the Andy Kass accusation is the one I’ve been prepared to answer since the escape. The connection was inevitable.
“We didn’t release Andy Kass, or drop charges. We agreed to a plea bargain with Andy and his lawyer that was approved by the judge in the case. Our budget wasn’t exactly prepared for another high-profile trial after Anderson. And last I checked, Andy was out on bail awaiting his trial, anyway. If he wanted to cause this explosion, then there was nothing the DA’s Office could have done to stop it.”
The key to the plea deal was getting him that community service in which he could plant the explosives. I keep that part to myself.
Hawkins looks at his notes. “That’s an interesting point. Especially since your colleague, Jessica Shepherdson, told me that you wanted to prosecute Kass to the fullest extent, but she was the one who pushed for the plea.”
I try to hide my surprise. Shep lied for me.
“If you’re so sure, why don’t you go arrest Andy? You don’t need my permission—seems like nobody consults the DA’s Office before making arrests in these parts.”
“Andy Kass is missing.”
“Who isn’t? It seems to be an epidemic,” I say with a shrug. “Andy was about helping the downtrodden. He’s a misguided modern day Robin Hood. He fought for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. The last person in the world he would help is someone with a sense of entitlement like Drew Anderson.”
“Maybe he thought Anderson was being railroaded. There was something shady going on during that trial, and maybe Robin Hood was fighting against such injustice. Or who knows, everybody has their price, maybe Andy Kass was hired to do a job for a lot less romantic ideals, and a lot more dollars.”
“I’m hearing a lot of maybes. I shouldn’t have to explain to someone in your position that law enforcement is based on facts, not maybes.”
“The one thing I am sure of is that you know more than you are telling me, Jack. And that’s a fact.”
“Are you accusing me of conspiring to help the man I convicted on murder charges? What possible motivation would I have to do something like that?”
“You know, Jack, I’ve been asking myself the same question.” He reaches into a folder and takes out glossy 8x10 photos. He slides them across the table for my viewing pleasure.
One is of Marissa and me entering her apartment. Another of yours truly leaving the next morning. On the bottom left hand corner of the photos is the time and date. The third photo is a close up of Marissa getting on my motorcycle.
I’m fuming. “Are you following me?”
“Actually, we were following Marissa Anderson. You are just the guest star. Should we have been following you?”
I choose not to say anything. I wonder if Shep would represent me at my trial.
Hawkins is in all his glory. “I couldn’t figure out what your motivation would be. Then I remembered that throughout history, man is motivated by three things—power, money, and a beautiful woman. I think what we have here is door number three, Jack.”
My head is spinning, but I fight to think clearly. Hawkins is tossing a lot of damning coincidences my way, but he still has nothing concrete. He’s not even sure what he’s fishing for.
