The Trials of Max Q, page 6
Shep and I are about to jump out of the car, kill Beneke, and then drag his corpse into court to indict it for obstruction of justice. But cooler heads prevail. At least for now.
We drop the Beemer at a circular driveway in front of the seven columns and are whisked inside by another young policeman—this one I don’t know.
“Sheriff Opp wants to see you immediately,” he says, which almost sets us off again. He wants to see us? Au contraire, we want to see him. We stroll through the front entrance, into a large room with a vaulted ceiling that has a cold, museum-like feel to it.
We follow the officer up a staircase that looks like a swirling diagram of DNA, and then through a billiard room that is an ode to Max-Q-Collectibles—framed jerseys of famous athletes lining the walls like paintings in an art gallery.
We pass an exquisite dining area that features large windows that look out at the front balcony. Why not just push her over and claim she had too much to drink? Seems easier, I think to myself.
We are led down numerous corridors until we reach a yellow-tape factory, better known as the master bedroom.
Investigators are furiously taking photos. Bustling police officers move in and out of the room.
Roddy Opp looks up from an inspection of the floor.
I start, “What the hell were you thinking, Opp?”
“You obviously weren’t,” Shep adds.
Opp looks annoyed. He barrels toward us and physically pulls Shep and me into another bedroom. He shuts the thick wooden door and latches the lock.
“We did this by the book and any attempt by the DA’s Office to say otherwise will be met with a strong response from our office,” Opp asserts.
“Was coming to a call for help ninety minutes late by the book?” Shep fires back.
Opp is no rookie, he knows it doesn’t look good. “Do you have any idea how many false alarms we received this weekend with Laney Bang in town? If we replied to all of them, with all the overtime, the county wouldn’t be able to pay Gifford Brown’s fat salary. Since it originated from a cell phone that was unidentifiable at the time of the call, we chose not to give it the highest priority.”
“But you sure made it a priority when you decided to make a high-profile arrest without consulting the DA’s Office,” Shep retorts. “Not to mention that you have nothing but circumstantial evidence. Now we are stuck trying to clean up your mess.”
She is actually spitting as she talks—I’ve never seen her so pissed.
“We did what we had to do. We aren’t the enemy. Perhaps you should take a look at your own office.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shep confronts him.
I hate to admit it, but we’re going to need his cooperation, so I try to mediate, “What’s done is done. There will be plenty of time for finger pointing when this is over. They had a call to make and they made it, and even though it doesn’t always seem like it, we are on the same team. But now it’s our turn to make a call, on whether to prosecute Anderson. And to do so, I’m going to need to know everything that went down here last night.”
Opp looks smugly at Shep. “It’s all in our report.”
“I want it from you,” I state.
He looks tired—the day is taking a toll on him and it’s not yet lunchtime. “Roger Beneke took the call, and like I said, it wasn’t a high priority. When he arrived he came across suspicious elements that changed his alert level.”
“No staff were present, except Scurry at the gate, and the front door was open,” I recall from the reports.
“As isolated incidents, neither of them met the standard to enter the home. But when combined with the 911 call, Officer Beneke had reasonable suspicion, and was correct in entering. He went in with intent to help, not arrest anyone, and loudly announced himself. Nobody answered.”
“But he wasn’t alone,” I say.
Opp nods. “He found Drew Anderson standing in an upstairs hallway, looking out of sorts and sweating profusely. Beneke began asking him questions about the 911 call, and Anderson’s answers raised further suspicion. Beneke drew his gun, pushed past Anderson, and began a sweep of the home. He found Laney Bang in Anderson’s bed, dead, three stab wounds to the chest and enough blood to fill Otsego Lake.”
“How did Anderson respond?” Shep asks, her tone calmer, following my lead.
“He lied—told Beneke that he just returned from jogging, which explains why he’s dripping with sweat, and why the door was open. He claimed he had no idea who the woman in his bed was, or why she was dead.”
“How did you know he was lying?” I ask.
“Because the Otsego County Sheriff’s Office gave Ms. Bang an escort onto the grounds last night. Something about a business meeting.” He rolls his eyes. “He knew exactly who she was. And I think we all know what her business was.”
“I really hope you’ve got more than that,” I say.
Opp holds up a plastic bag containing a cassette tape.
Chapter 15
“We have Anderson’s lies on tape,” Opp says smugly
“Why isn’t that in the evidence report?” I respond. Now I’m the one getting pissed.
“Our report isn’t complete, but we thought it would help to have an initial report sent to our good friends in the DA’s Office so they can get a head start before this becomes CNN-city.”
As I seethe, Opp continues, “Beneke pushed Anderson about the escort the night before, and he miraculously recollected his meeting with the woman he initially had no knowledge of.” Opp raises a sarcastic eyebrow. “According to Anderson, the meeting ran late so she slept over in one of the guestrooms. He went out for a morning jog and he returned to find her dead.
“Beneke wasn’t sure what to do, so he sought my advice. When I arrived, I learned that the front guard hadn’t seen Anderson leave for a jog, and he had sent the entire staff home the night before, which was unusual. We had probable cause, got the warrant, and made the arrest.”
“What about his wife?” I ask.
“First person we inquired about—Murder-101. Maybe she caught her hubby screwing around with Laney Bang, so she thought he’d find her less attractive with three large holes in her chest. But she was in Manhattan and accounted for. Numerous witnesses put her at a party in the city until 11:00, and she was also spotted returning to their home, afterward. A neighbor claimed she was so inebriated from the party that he had to help her in, and doubted she could have made it to bed, much less a murder scene hours away. She was at work bright and early the next morning, probably with a nice hangover, which is where we contacted her.”
“Don’t you find it odd that Anderson had a dead body in his home, and likely knew the victim called 911, yet he left his front door open?” Shep wonders aloud.
“Maybe he was too preoccupied with getting rid of the murder weapon—we haven’t found it yet—it’s been my experience that those who have just committed murder tend to make large mistakes. But we’ll find it, and when we do, this will be the easiest case you two have ever prosecuted.”
“Were other people present this morning, or at the supposed meeting last night?” I ask.
“His personal assistant, Ryan Maxon, lives in one of the guesthouses on the property. We have it confirmed that he was not on the property at the time of the murder. The only people present were Drew Anderson and Laney Bang. If he wasn’t a celebrity, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Could someone else have gotten in and out of here?” Shep asks. “This place has access by land, sea, and air. We passed a helipad on the way in.”
“He has the best security system going. I should know—I’m the one who installed it,” Opp remarks boastfully.
“Then I guess that makes you a suspect,” Shep zings.
Opp holds up the tape once more. “Anderson confirmed on tape that he was the only one home, besides the victim. The guard, John Scurry, said in his statement that nobody came in or out during the time in question. John isn’t exactly the lying type.”
I reach to grab the tape, but Opp snaps it back. “When the evidence is officially registered we will turn it over to the DA’s Office. We do things by the book in our office—not the politics that I’m sure you two are familiar with.”
“If you have something to say then say it!” Shep comes back at him.
Opp obliges. “Off the record, Drew Anderson isn’t the squeaky clean character he’s made out to be, and he has a very good friend in your office. Last year we were involved in an investigation into Anderson’s business practices with Max-Q-Collectibles and were ready to make an arrest. We cooperated fully with Gifford Brown, only to have him squash it out of the blue. You draw your own conclusion as to why. Your office gets huge funding from supporting the S.A.F.E program, and Anderson was one of the main reasons why Brown got re-elected. When he becomes governor, my guess is your beloved DA will go with him.
“We had probable cause—we made the arrest—end of story. Sorry if that put you two in a bad position, but the arrest is not disputable. Although, I’m sure there’s someone in your office who will try.”
Opp gives another pendulum swing of the bag containing the tape. As I watch it sway from side to side, I realize that the evidence is starting to swing toward Max Q.
Chapter 16
Jessica arrived at the historic building off of Main Street where the arraignment was to be held. She had made the walk numerous times over the last year, for what normally was a brief formality. But this time it had a different feel.
Once all parties were standing before Magistrate Engler, the case was announced—the State of New York versus Andrew Christian Anderson.
He entered through a side door, looking disturbingly out of place in an orange Otsego County Corrections issued jumpsuit, and handcuffed. Anderson joined his lawyers in front of the magistrate.
His fair-skinned lawyer had the stylish look of Park Avenue—blue tailored suit and diamond earrings. Her briefcase was leather and expensive, as were her shoes. She appeared to be the lawyer that Jessica dreamed of becoming, and just this morning the possibility seemed to be in her sight.
The woman’s partner, standing in her shadow, had ruffled gray hair. His suit was also pricey, but he lacked the polish of the woman.
The magistrate looked over the charging documents, then spoke in a gritty voice, “Mr. Anderson, you are being charged with the murder of Darby Kelleher. The crime took place on the morning of July 24 at your estate in Cooperstown Village. Do you understand the charges against you?”
Before he could speak, the woman lawyer interrupted, “A rush to judgment has occurred in this case. We motion for the charges against my client to be dismissed.”
The magistrate looked annoyed. “I was just about to inform Mr. Anderson of his right to counsel, but I see counsel is in place.” She strummed through a stack of papers until she found what she was looking for. “Mr. Hal Metzer will be assisting, while lead counsel is Ms. Kerri Lawson of Lawson, Baird & Gentry.”
Jessica was caught off guard. Without thinking, she turned toward her adversary and blurted, “As in Jack’s sister?”
“Once again, I see that when the going gets tough my brother sends someone to do his dirty work for him. Typical Jack—always running away from responsibility,” she responded.
The magistrate announced that she had no time for childish sniping, before proceeding, “By law, your client has the right to a preliminary hearing. You can make any requests for dismissal at that time. Before I get interrupted again—representing the Otsego County District Attorney’s Office is Jessica Shepherdson. Now I need an answer from Mr. Anderson about those charges.”
“I understand the charges against me,” Drew Anderson spoke for the first time, in a low but confident tone.
“Good—let’s get to bail. Ms. Shepherdson, you first.”
Jessica’s voice trembled, “The defendant brutally murdered a woman who willfully came to his residence …”
“I know the allegations, please tell me why I shouldn’t grant him bail,” the magistrate interrupted.
Jessica made eye contact with the gloating Kerri Lawson, whom she already found great distaste for. Jack’s unflattering description seemed quite accurate, and possibly understated.
“The defendant has vast wealth, homes around the world, and is a trained pilot from his time in the military. He once survived on the land for a week in Bosnia with no food or water. Facing a life prison sentence, he has the motivation to flee. He is the definition of flight risk.”
“Vast wealth is not necessarily connected to flight,” the magistrate countered.
“My point was that he has the means and the ability to do so. Bail is rarely granted in capital cases and it is the state’s position that it shouldn’t be awarded in this case.”
The magistrate tilted her head toward the defense. “Ms. Lawson?”
“My client is a luminary of this community. He is an American war-hero, and gives more time and money to charity than most small cities. The evidence against my client is weak and circumstantial. He has no reason to flee, because that would be the only indication of guilt the prosecution would have. He is not a flight risk.”
“Bail denied,” the magistrate barked. “The case will be assigned to Judge Patricia Schanz’s part. All parties should contact her court for future court dates.”
Chapter 17
Jessica left the room in a daze. She never believed for a moment that Anderson would be denied bail.
Kerri Lawson gave her a final smug look, not appearing overly concerned that her client was headed back to a prison cell for the foreseeable future.
Outside, the media had dwindled to just a handful. This surprised Jessica, who had braced for their onslaught. As she watched Kerri Lawson enter a long stretch limo, Jessica couldn’t help but think about the road that brought her to this defining moment.
She had fought her way out of Rome, New York, leaving behind the dysfunctional parents and the haters at school who despised the fact she wanted to better herself.
She worked four jobs to pay her way through Syracuse—undergrad and law—and then just as she had prayed each night as a child, her prince came to sweep her away to a better place. But Brad turned out to be more like her father than a prince—both men wanted to be anywhere but with their wife, and when they were home, frankly, they were a little scary. But she dusted herself off and resumed her climb to the top. The ADA program that sent her from Albany to Cooperstown was just a small step on that climb, or so she had thought.
It was in Cooperstown where she met Jack Lawson. For a brief moment in time it wasn’t about where she was going—being around him made her savor the present moment. But Jack turned out to be nothing more than another mirage that steered her off course. A painful reminder that the only person she could rely on was herself, which was the reason she was late this morning. And as she stood watching Kerri’s limo pull away, she never felt so alone in her life.
That’s when she came across a familiar face. Ira Montini, the crime-beat reporter for the Cooperstown Crier newspaper.
“Where did all the big boys go?” she asked.
“Thanks a lot.”
“That’s not what I meant, Ira.”
“If you have your big moment and nobody is around to cover it, is it really your big moment? It’s kind of like that tree falling in the forest stuff.”
“I hope my big moment in life isn’t jailing the messiah,” she replied. She could eradicate world hunger and the first mention in her obituary would be that she was the one who tried to take down the great Drew Anderson.
“I think the mass exodus occurred because your cohorts are giving a press conference at the other end of Main. Once you sent Max Q back to prison there was no longer a story here. I think everyone expected Anderson to be free on bail.”
“A lot of faith in me, huh?”
“Faith, maybe not, but Jack did leave you his mountain-bike to get over there. It’s wall-to-wall cars on Main and he mentioned how slow you walk in those ‘success heels’ you’re always wearing.”
“Why did you stay behind?”
“I figured an unknown lawyer winning the first battle in the latest trial of the century was the story that history would smile upon, not some boring press conference shrouded in ‘no comments’.”
Jessica climbed on Jack’s bike, smiling for the first time in days. “Thanks, Ira, I’ve got a boring press conference to get to. And for the faith,” she yelled back. She peddled away, muscling through the thick crowds by displaying her DA badge. Nobody seemed to recognize her.
She passed TJ’s Grill and an old-style brick bank, and then crossed the street. The Cooperstown streets buzzed with the hum of gossip. Reporters circling like sharks had replaced the usual throng of children in Little League uniforms clutching their fathers’ hands.
She passed Doubleday Café, Cooperstown Books, where Laney Bang had been signing books less than twenty-four hours earlier, and the Max-Q-Collectibles shop. Lines were out the door. Murder must be good for business, she thought.
Arriving at their offices, she dropped the bike and pushed to get a good view of Gifford and Jack. They stood on the steps behind a podium displaying microphones with familiar names on them—NBC, CBS, ABC, CNN, FOX, and GNZ. Normally, Otsego County DA press conferences consisted of Ira Montini and a few other local reporters. Afterward, they would join Gifford and the crew at Touch ’Em All for a couple of beers. This was different … much different.
Gifford began the press conference by distancing himself from the case, citing his relationship with Anderson. He stated that he had talked to the governor and attorney general of New York, and all were in agreement. He then introduced Jack, highlighting his 98% conviction rate.
She watched as Jack took the podium. His confident persona of the courtroom seemed to be missing, as it often was when Jessica would do stuff away from work with him, like their fishing trips. As painful as his words to her were the other night, watching him stumble all over himself as he attempted to deliver them was equally agonizing. It was a quirky dynamic about him that she found strange, but intriguing.
