The Trials of Max Q, page 39
I swell with anger. “You could have gone to the authorities, Kerri—you’re an officer of the court. You would have taken a hit for being involved in a conspiracy that got a woman killed, but you could have stopped this.” And Drew would still be alive.
“My goal was to protect Drew. He wouldn’t believe the truth when I came clean about the plan, and the more I went against Marissa, the more headstrong he got. When I told him my suspicions that she was having an affair with Lansdale, he accused me of trying to come between them out of jealousy. I had to back down—he threatened to fire me—and whether I liked it or not, I was his best chance to survive. I was convinced that I was going to get him off, and once he was free, I could blow the whistle on Marissa. But I first had to get Drew to safety.”
“That was until Maxon decided to fight back.”
“Maxon became convinced he was going to be the fall guy. That’s why he reacted so aggressively when I interrogated him on the stand. All I was doing is what you accused me of in court. What did you call that again?”
“Semi-plausible OJ smorgasbord strategy.”
She looks like she wants to roll her eyes at me, but can’t summon the energy. “Obviously he felt backed into a corner and came out fighting. Once again, what I tell you today has the advantage of hindsight. Drew had informed me that he had hid a knife as insurance to protect Marissa, but at the time I had no idea that Maxon was the one who knew where it was. I guess his loyalty to Drew was conditional.”
I understand her frustration. The worst type of client a lawyer can have is one that doesn’t tell you everything.
“Why do you think he gave me that video of you and Drew?”
“We weren’t conspiring, or putting on an off-Broadway play, as you put it. Quite the opposite. I think Maxon detected that something fishy was going on, and believed that I was at the center of it, which I can’t deny. Obviously, once he knew Laney had been murdered, he understood that Drew had lied to him, and was on edge. He must have thought that you were the one who could get to the bottom of it, Jack. Since he had access to Drew’s video library, and likely was the one responsible for filming us—I had no idea the video even existed until you showed it to me—he was able to gather any incriminating material to protect himself.”
My thoughts return to the getaway. “So as Maxon heading across the lake toward Anderson Estate after the 6:19 call, Marissa was already on her way to Lansdale’s yacht. There, a helicopter was waiting to bring her to Manhattan, just in time for her first case. That was her in that security footage with a blonde wig—Lansdale didn’t lie, it was his girlfriend. And it didn’t seem out of the ordinary—the Lansdale Shuttle to Manhattan was a normal occurrence.”
“She arrived home from the party the night before, made a scene outside her building, appearing to be fall-down drunk for her neighbors to see—then took the predictable call from Drew just after 11:30. The minute she hung up, she was out the fire escape, undetected.”
I fill in the blanks, “Jordan Kelly was waiting for her in a car. Since he worked as his father’s assistant, he often loaded luggage onto the helicopter. But this time the luggage in an oversized duffel bag was Marissa, and she stowed away. When they arrived at Anderson Estate to pick up Lansdale, Marissa got off, undetected, and hid in the mansion.”
“I couldn’t reveal any of this during the trial. Whenever Drew felt that a suspicious eye might look toward Marissa, he threatened to plead guilty, and we both know he wasn’t bluffing. When evidence began randomly falling into your lap, it fueled his paranoia that someone was onto them.”
“And it turned out that ‘someone’ was his own wife. And she was skilled at keeping people off balance.”
“I talked him down off that ledge numerous times, but after his insurance policy was revealed by Maxon, he made the decision to fall on the sword by refusing to take the stand.”
“That is why he wouldn’t pursue a new trial.” Not a dirty judge. “And also the reason you feared for his safety in jail.”
“He was an eyewitness to a coldblooded, premeditated murder. The killer was a lawyer, and a good one, so she knew that the only witnesses that don’t talk are dead ones. And she’d come across many unsavory characters through her job that had connections in prison to take him out,” Kerri’s voice trails off, still not seeing how it was always more advantageous to Marissa to have him out of jail.
I lean back in my chair and take a deep breath. “The man was willing to go to jail for the rest of his life to protect someone who was plotting his own murder,” I utter in disbelief.
Kerri begins to tear up. I try to comfort her. This really is new territory for us.
“He is such a fool, but I still love him. You have to believe me, Jack, that I would never have intentionally hurt him. I just wanted to scare him a little bit, that’s why I went along with it.”
I do believe her. That doesn’t change the fact that her behavior was reckless, abhorrent, and illegal. But I’m not in any position to be judging the actions of others.
The Notre Dame game is down to the final play and the bar is bubbling over with excitement.
“Thank God, Jack, that you got him out of here and away from her. She was planning to kill him, I just know it.”
I just look blankly at her.
She reads my look. “What are you saying?”
I continue staring straight ahead, avoiding eye contact.
“No, Jack. We agreed that …”
I say nothing.
“Tell me that she is nowhere near him. Tell me, Jack! Tell me!”
A sudden burst of cheers fills Nellie’s. Notre Dame has just scored the game-winning touchdown. Kerri and I stare straight at each other like we’re on our own little island. My silence speaks volumes.
“Tell me!” she screams out at the top of her lungs. The crowd noise swallows up her scream, and only I can hear the terror in her voice.
Day 366
Chapter 109
The ferry chops over the crystal clear waters of the Hauraki Gulf. The wind whips my hair as I look out at the battalion of sailboats. I overhear a middle-aged couple mention that Auckland, New Zealand has the highest per capita boat ownership in the world.
I return to my copy of today’s Auckland Herald that has turned damp in the mist. The wind makes it difficult for me to steady the paper. I look at the rippling front page and notice that I am once again front-page news, despite being halfway around the world. Fortunately, my eight months without a haircut helps conceal my identity from those around me.
It’s July 24, the anniversary of the Laney Bang murder. To me it’s just Day 366.
The article is a retrospective. A detailed analysis of the Trial of Max Q and its cataclysmic aftermath, including Anderson’s now mythical escape, in which he has beaten great odds to elude a worldwide manhunt.
I don’t need a newspaper to tell me the outcome. I lived every gory detail. My conclusion is that there were no winners, just degrees of losing. What all the pundits, prognosticators, and historians have missed, is that the trial was about Max Q and not about Drew Anderson. Perfection was on trial.
The verdict is that there is no perfect beginning, middle, or ending in this life. Life’s not a destination, but a continuous roller coaster ride in which glimmers of hope are replaced by feelings of doom, and then if you’re lucky, an angel shows up to revive the hope.
All we can do is just hang on to the people we love as long and hard as we can and LLF. By doing so, we open our hearts to their most vulnerable position, which is the only way that we can find a sense of peace and fulfillment when the ride is over. On the other hand, the cost of a ticket to ride the train of perfection is expensive. Your soul becomes an empty vessel going from port to port with no home.
There are no such philosophical musings in the Auckland Herald, so I discard it on the wet ground. I begin my own reflection. Sometimes when you near the end it’s important to look back to see how it all began.
Following the Thanksgiving getaway, I shifted to autopilot. I was becoming more distant and numb by the day, but I continued to win cases with ease. I was able to hide it from most people, but not Ashley. My excuses of post holiday blues, or inability to adjust to such a mundane life following the adrenaline-filled trial, just didn’t hold up with her. But she didn’t push it.
I did no interviews and made no public comments on the case. The only time it came up was when I would get an impromptu visit from Agent Hawkins. He would imply that I knew more than I was letting on—if only he knew.
Then on a cold February day in Cooperstown, Agent Hawkins and Sheriff Opp held a joint press conference. They had concluded the investigation, and their verdict was that Andy Kass was the “lone gunman” behind the Halloween explosions. According to Hawkins, Andy’s motive was to make a name for himself at the expense of the system that tried to send him to prison, just as he had taken revenge on the school. So basically, they concluded that Drew Anderson just got really lucky and took advantage of the chaos and confusion from the explosions to escape. Hawkins was just as lucky, in that he didn’t have to try to sell that cockamamie to a jury like a prosecutor would have to.
I’m convinced that Hawkins didn’t believe it either, and likely succumbed to the pressure to bring resolution to the case. Yet he stood before the world and called the conclusion a “no brainer,” and released handwritten notes by Andy Kass—confirmed by the FBI handwriting specialists—in which Andy confessed to the crime. This juror wasn’t buying it, and would want to bring in an independent handwriting specialist to look at those letters.
Gifford Brown thought “no brainer” was a fitting description of both Opp and Hawkins, but he also doubted that the case against Andy Kass was. Gifford always likes to say, “The shoo-in doesn’t always fit.” Hawkins ended his press conference by guaranteeing the capture of Kass and Anderson for their separate crimes. I could have saved them the time and money. I knew his chances of finding them alive was less than zero percent. The only question that remained was—were they on the bottom of the Atlantic or the Pacific?
After the FBI announcement about Andy Kass, my once adoring fans turned on me. They now looked upon me as if I paroled Manson, for what the “experts” called the “gift plea deal” I gave Andy. I attempted to use it as an excuse to leave my position, but Gifford Brown refused my resignation.
Then on the first week of March, George Herman requested my presence at the Bullpen Theater. I thought it was about another case that I was prosecuting at the time, but he surprised me by handing me a folder relating to the Trial of Max Q.
“It’s a John Doe they found in the East River, kid,” George boomed in the empty theater. I viewed the contents within the folder. Staring at me was an autopsy photo of a boy who matched the helicopter license photo of Anthony Forge. The missing helicopter pilot who transported Marissa to and from the crime scene.
The photo inspired me to bring some semblance of resolution to the case. I returned home, searching for a connection. In the purgatory between late night and early morning, I grew hungry, and moved my operation to the Cirillos’ kitchen table, seeking some leftover pizza. As I tossed another crumpled piece of yellow paper toward the garbage, my adrenaline rush ran out. I put my head down on the table for what I told myself would only be a minute. The next thing I remember was a very pregnant Ashley tapping me on the shoulder the next morning.
“I didn’t mean to look at your stuff, Jack, but I know that guy,” she said, pointing to the before and after shots of Anthony Forge that were lying on the table.
“You do?”
“Yeah, a couple years ago I gave him flying lessons. I remember him because I couldn’t believe how young he looked. He was really interested to learn how to fly a helicopter, so I sent him to someone I know who could help him.”
Mac appeared behind Ashley. He reached his hands around his wife’s pregnant waist and gave her a good morning kiss. Then he caught a glimpse of the photos. “I guess he finally pissed off the wrong people,” he stated, matter of fact.
“You know him, too?”
“Any collector in the area knows of him. That’s Tony Rivotti.”
I stared sadly at the photo. They were the same guy.
Drew met Lansdale when his wife defended Lansdale’s son, and they became close. So when Drew had financial troubles, his new friend Lansdale sent Rivotti. This allowed him to infiltrate his business. But I now understood that it wasn’t the first business deal in which Drew was indebted to him. Lansdale had provided him the important service of removing Jordan Kelly from Marissa’s life, by taking custody of his son after the arrest, and banishing him to his farm in Saratoga.
This was still a better fate than the one Rivotti/Forge received. When Lansdale needed a pilot to escort Marissa to and from the scene of the crime, he once again called on the kid to do his dirty work. But as soon as Rivotti/Forge ceased to be useful, he was sent up the river. I saddened, thinking of Andy Kass.
My newfound inspiration led me to resign my position, and this time Gifford couldn’t talk me out of it. Resolution was not to be found in Cooperstown.
Before leaving, I checked my mail one last time. Following the trial, it arrived in large bins instead of the traditional mailbox. They were usually filled with a combination of offers that ranged from the bizarre to the sublime, hate mail, and mug shots of Max Q that the mailer requested me to autograph—you can’t make that stuff up. But this time I was drawn to a letter postmarked from Sierra Leone, Africa with no name or return address.
Jaaack!
And you thought we’d never speak again. I read that I am now the number one suspect. Remember to never believe anything you hear and only half of what you see. I’m already caught.
Your friend, DA, and his wife were so grateful for my help that they booted me out of the plane when we arrived at the first stop at some lake outside of Nova Scotia. Now some advice—if you are ever a suspect in a worldwide manhunt, don’t try to cross the border without any identification. But luckily for me, it seems that the CIA was quite impressed with certain skills I demonstrated while creating my masterpiece, and overruled the FBI, who wanted to interrogate me and have me spill the beans on others involved, in exchange for a shorter prison sentence. That is what the fabricated press conference was about with that fake confession they made me write. Everybody got what they wanted. Kind of a plea bargain between the FBI and CIA—who says they can’t work with each other?
They had no clue who was really behind the escape. One day KL, the next day JL, sometimes it was you and DA’s wife conspiring together. But I kept my promise, I didn’t say a word to anybody. You can trust me. I’m playing for the good guys now. Well, I’m not sure the CIA is really the good guys, but you get my point. I’m not sure spy is what you had in mind, but I think I kept my promise.
Your friendly neighborhood CIA explosives expert,
KANDY ASS
PS. This note will self-destruct in five seconds. But just in case it doesn’t, I would put it through a shredder.
Chapter 110
The news of Andy’s demise being greatly exaggerated filled me with relief, as I headed on my journey toward resolution. A journey that first took me where I always go when I need answers—Reyanne.
It was late March and spring had arrived early in Louisiana. I walked through the muddy cemetery under sharp early morning rays of sunshine. As I approached Reyanne’s headstone, I noticed a woman. Her hair was a little grayer than the last time I saw her, but outside of that she seemed to be her normal quirky self. It was Reyanne’s mother.
“Jack!” she called out. We embraced and I could tell she thought she’d never see me again.
She held a dark green garbage bag and had been unloading objects and mementos onto Reyanne’s headstone like gifts under a Christmas tree.
“I try to surround her with the things she always loved. I put them in storage in the winter and then bring them out in the spring. And I also want to let her know about anything new going on.” She holds up a picture of a small infant. “Reyanne’s an aunt. Her sister Jocelyn had a baby girl the day after Christmas.”
I smiled with mixed emotions, barely able to force out a choked-up, “Congratulations.” I couldn’t get the vision out of my head of Aunt Reyanne and Uncle Jack getting off a plane from New York, carrying more gifts than Santa could cram into his sleigh for their beloved niece. Instead, I was standing at Reyanne’s grave, watching her mother decorate her headstone with memories she’d never get to have. Forget perfection, some days I’d settle for life being less cruel.
With another reach, her mother pulled out the Newsweek magazine that followed the trial last fall, featuring Shep and me on the cover. She stared long and hard at Shep, then proclaimed, “I know that Reyanne would approve.”
I got the message as if Reyanne delivered it herself. Maybe she did.
“So you’re really leaving,” were Shep’s words, as I packed boxes in my office last March, about to embark on my journey.
I looked up from the boxes and it hit me how much I missed her. Keeping with my vow to shield her from any possible fallout, I had put up the equivalent of the Great Wall of China between us. And since she had gained direct knowledge of what I did, I thought it was important to keep my distance during the winter. It’s a painful penance, but I was not fooled by the FBI press conference; I know that a watchful eye is still cast in my direction.
“I heard you got an offer from EKG. Congratulations—it’s your dream job.”
“Thanks, but I am not taking it. I decided to take the position as Chief Assistant District Attorney of Otsego County instead,” she stated proudly. “The job just opened up.”
