The Trials of Max Q, page 7
Once Jack found his sea legs, he made a brief statement about the case, overusing the words truth, evidence, and justice. He then engaged the media in the frivolous exercise of them asking him questions that he was unable to answer at this time.
Jessica was befuddled by the absence of questions about the two lead attorneys being siblings. And when a few questions pertained to whether Jack believed Anderson would get bail, it became obvious to her that word had yet to travel—a little strange in this era of instant news. She briefly smiled, thinking that something good finally came from the crappy cell phone service in Cooperstown. She could hear the muffled complaints about smartphones being rendered useless.
Before the press conference concluded, Gifford made one final statement. He announced that for the good of all parties involved, he and Jack had agreed a decision would be made on whether to prosecute by the following Tuesday.
Jessica muttered, “A week from tomorrow? What the …”
Eight days in this case would be like a minute, and putting a deadline on it made no sense—there was a big difference between “not go on for months,” as Gifford had requested, and “next Tuesday.”
By his astonished look, she could tell that Jack was thinking the same thing. That’s the thing about ambushes—the guy being ambushed is always the last to know.
This brought Jessica back to the core problem, which was the police not following the proper procedure of coming to the DA’s Office for a warrant request. They would have reviewed the facts and sent it back to the police, encouraging further investigation. And not just to find probable cause for arrest, but to gain enough evidence to prove it in court. Unfortunately, the police chose to act unilaterally, and now she and Jack were paying the price in front of a worldwide audience.
Jessica didn’t believe Anderson committed the murder, and wanted no part of being connected to the case in any manner, but she was steamed that she and Jack were getting sold up the river, and felt her competitive side awakening from its slumber.
Following the press conference, Jessica found Jack and Gifford meeting behind closed doors. She’d never seen Jack so mad. The normally calm, cool, and collected prosecutor was reiterating what she’d been muttering at the press conference, except he was using more colorful language.
She remembered Roddy Opp’s words about Gifford having an agenda, which included his friendship with Drew Anderson. She walked into the office and her entrance put a stop to their screaming match.
“What is it, Shepherdson?” Gifford asked with irritation.
“I just wanted to inform you that Anderson was denied bail.”
Gifford looked as if he’d never really considered the possibility.
Jack slumped down in his chair. He ran his fingers through his hair and grumbled, “Great. Anderson never should have been arrested in the first place, my own boss sandbags me with a bogus deadline, and now we’ve turned him into a martyred hostage.”
He sighed deeply, looking toward the ceiling as if it might have the answers. After a long pause, Jack seemed to summon the last ounce of energy to ask the ceiling, “Are there any more bombshells anybody would like to drop on me?”
“Yes, Jack,” Jessica said. “Drew Anderson is being represented by your sister.”
Chapter 18
I awake to Mick Jagger singing goodbye to Ruby Tuesday, and quickly realize that yesterday wasn’t a bad dream. The only positive I can muster is that the case overshadowed the visions of Reyanne that normally haunt my nights, and I actually got some restful sleep. I almost forgot what it feels like.
I move out onto the deck to witness another prototypical summer day in upstate New York. The lake is rippling, the smell of pine is in the air, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. I watch Ashley backing her van into the driveway and then begin unloading piles of newspapers.
When she spots me, she shouts, “Hey, Superstar—you’re on the cover of every newspaper in the county!” She holds up the New York Times and the Washington Post with the look of a proud parent.
Suddenly the enormity of this whole thing hits me. There have been huge cases before with the world watching—Lindbergh baby, Nuremberg, OJ. But never before has there been a famous person accused of killing another (in)famous person. This is unprecedented. Well, at least since society started frowning on men solving their differences with a good old fashioned duel like Hamilton and Burr. I also begin to grasp the social context. Drew Anderson and Laney Bang were opposing five-star generals in the ongoing cultural war.
My eyes wander to Otsego Lake, focusing on a lone sailboat. What seconds earlier seemed innocent now has my antenna up. I think of those paparazzi with the long camera lenses always trying to get a photo of some pop star on vacation, so they would conceivably go to great lengths to get a picture of the unknown lawyer who has the fate of Drew Anderson in his hands.
I shake off the paranoia and return my thoughts to Ashley. I can’t help but smile at her. She will probably have a completed scrapbook for me by dinnertime. After a last glance at the sailboat, I stroll back into the house.
I click on the television. The arrest of Max Q is all that is being talked about. I start with the cable news. Legal “experts” are debating the precedent of brother and sister going up against each other as dueling lawyers.
“Legally there isn’t a problem and there are numerous precedents—just not in this type of high profile case,” says a dapper looking man, whose title is listed as CNN legal analyst.
I begin flipping channels. The perky host of The Today Show is interviewing a husband and wife who once went against each other in court. An older gentleman on FOX says, “If siblings could fight against each other in the Civil War, then I see no problem in a courtroom.” By the look of this guy, he might have been an eyewitness.
I feel uncomfortable being center of the story, so I desperately surf channels seeking an escape hatch. On GNZ, a bespectacled legal analyst is praising Shep’s work in denying bail. I, on the other hand, am getting panned for placing a deadline on our investigation.
“It shows Jack Lawson’s inexperience,” grumbles the famed lawyer Barney Cook. “He is giving into public pressure for a deadline. He should admit he made a mistake and take his time in deciding whether to prosecute Anderson.”
“They might have won the battle with the bail, but they are losing the war. Kerri Lawson and Hal Metzer already got word out to the jury pool that the police screwed up, and now they’re covering their rears. Jack Lawson is already swimming in a polluted jury pool,” states a frizzy haired, female television-lawyer.
“In cases of he said—she dead, you need hard evidence—and my sources tell me the prosecution has none,” retorts Cook. Again, more people with sources.
They claim I will need a miracle, but I just got a panel on a cable news network to agree on a subject, which has to rank just a notch below turning water into wine. I flip channels, determined to change the subject. I pass Sesame Street and I swear I hear Big Bird and Elmo discussing the case. I decide that I’ve lost my mind, and move on.
Finally my channel surfing rides a wave to Good Morning America where the female host is calmly interviewing Drew Anderson’s wife, Marissa Torres-Anderson.
She is dressed in professional business attire and her long tresses of dark hair are tied in a ponytail. I am drawn to her flawless olive skin and magnetic green eyes, but what really stands out is her composure in such a troubling moment in her life. It matches her reputation. While I have never met her, I am aware of her work as a defense lawyer from my time in Manhattan.
“My husband is being set up for this crime,” she states, not a hint of doubt in her voice.
“Who would be setting up your husband, and for what reason?”
“I can’t get into the specifics, but after talking to his lawyer last night, I am confident she has evidence that Drew wasn’t present at the time of the murder. As his wife, I didn’t need proof of Drew’s innocence, but as a lawyer, such evidence is always comforting.”
“You mentioned your unbending belief in your husband, which leads me to my next question—the one that is on the tip of tongues across the world this morning. How can you not question his fidelity, when a woman like Laney Bang spent the night at your residence while you were back here in New York City?”
Marissa doesn’t give an inch. “I was fully aware of his meeting with Ms. Bang last night, which was business related, although I am not authorized to go into the details of that meeting. But I can assure you it was not a scandalous affair, as the tabloids are reporting.”
She is impressive, to say the least. And when I mentioned that she’s a New York defense lawyer, I didn’t mean she works for a place like LB&G with a swanky corner office and a view of the Manhattan skyline. She is a public defender in her native South Bronx, which means she doesn’t deal with the easiest of characters. And in the case of public opinion (i.e. the jury pool), she just landed one hell of an opening argument on the national airwaves.
This isn’t the first time she’s fought an uphill battle against rumors and innuendo. When American hero Drew Anderson turned away a long line of Hollywood actresses and socialites in favor of a poor-born public defender without pedigree, the media tried to paint her as a “gold digger.” But when she refused to marry him without an ironclad prenuptial agreement, she won over another jury. Marissa was probably too busy to be worried about such public opinion, having continued in her low paying/long hours job at the Bronx public defenders’ office. But everything changed yesterday morning when her husband was arrested. Now the opening round of his trial is being fought in the all-important court of public opinion, and I get a sense she is fully aware of the fact.
I halfheartedly eat a bowl of cereal, pull on my biking outfit, and head out. As I pedal toward Main Street, I think to myself that an idyllic summer day like this in Cooperstown was probably the inspiration behind the invention of the sport of baseball. To find out for sure I head toward the Baseball Hall of Fame.
Chapter 19
I arrive at the Baseball Hall of Fame, a classic redbrick building that anchors the east end of Main Street. About 300,000 visitors a year visit the historic museum, which is filled with archived memorabilia of the national pastime.
I chain my bike outside and follow a shrubbery-lined walkway to the front entrance. I avoid the cover charge by displaying the “year round” pass Mac provided me, and stroll unnoticed into the museum. The thick summer crowd swallows me up. I hang a right by the gift shop and slip into the spacious Plaque Gallery—a cathedral-like room with walls lined with the bronzed plaques of the chosen few baseball immortals who have been inducted. The plaques are displayed in an atrium in which rays of sunlight shine down on them through a skylight, as if the baseball gods are showing their approval. For a baseball worshiper like Mac, this room is sacred.
At the front of the room is a life-size statue of Babe Ruth, arguably the greatest baseball player ever to have lived, and certainly the most famous. The Babe is standing in his trademark left-handed batting stance, gripping his heavy maple bat. Even in bronze he looks like he could hit a couple of home runs today. And more importantly for my purposes, he’s the man I’m here to see.
I leave the gallery and take the elevator to the second floor, the location of Mac Cirillo’s office.
As the Assistant Director of Marketing, he’s in charge of the many programs the museum offers—tours, stories and activities for children, and author book signings, to name a few. But this time of year Mac and his team are like Santa and the elves the week before Christmas. So my visit will be brief.
“All we ask for is one weekend out of the year and you have to steal our thunder, Jack,” Mac greets me with a chuckle, sitting behind his small desk.
I remain serious. “This is going to get worse before it gets better. So if you and Ashley want me to move out, just give me the word. I won’t be offended.”
“You aren’t going anywhere. First of all, with the Max Q murder circus in town, and the induction ceremonies less than a week away, there isn’t a place to stay within a hundred miles of here. And more importantly, Ashley is smitten that she’s living with a celebrity, and she would kill me if I let you move out.”
“I think I’m more infamous than famous at the moment. And after trying to put away Drew Anderson, my next trick will be to take down the Easter Bunny.”
“Well Jack, the good news is that they’re still making movies about Pontius Pilate.”
“That’s comforting.”
Now it’s Mac’s turn to put the serious face on, his voice lowering to a whisper, “It’s blasphemy to say it around here, but the guy is a phony and we both know it. I don’t know if he killed her, but he’s not perfect like they say.”
My gut feeling is that the more I look into Drew Anderson, the more I will find things that I won’t like. But I’m going to need more than that to prosecute him.
Mac’s smile returns, this time a mischievous one. “Why don’t you go see a movie, it’ll help you relieve some stress. Pride of the Yankees is playing in the Bullpen Theater.”
That’s the cue I came here for, and with a nod of appreciation toward my grinning friend, I’m on my way to meet my contact. I head back to the ground floor, passing numerous exhibits until I find myself at a small movie theater with an old-time looking marquee. The Bullpen Theater is dedicated to the hundreds of films that have been made about the sport of baseball, and original movie posters line the walls of its entrance—The Natural, Field of Dreams, Cobb. Today’s showing is Pride of the Yankees, starring Gary Cooper as tragic Yankee legend Lou Gehrig.
I open the theater doors and locate George Herman sitting in the back row. He’s hard to miss. As my eyes adjust to the dark, Cooper is delivering Gehrig’s famous dying words, Today—I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth …
The small theater is almost full—summertime always brings out the tourists. And this is nothing compared to the induction ceremonies next weekend, when thirty thousand visitors are expected to invade Cooperstown.
George Herman is a Babe Ruth impersonator by day. He is hired for everything from business conventions to wedding receptions, and Mac often summons his services for Hall of Fame events. Who better to give groups a tour of the Baseball Hall of Fame than the Babe himself? Until I moved to Cooperstown, I would never have guessed in a million years that there was such a demand for an impersonator of a dead baseball player.
He’s a dead ringer for Ruth, featuring the same pug nose, bowling ball head, booming voice, and a thick head of hair. Like Ruth, his torso is heavy, but his legs are like sticks. He has the same passion for the Babe that I do for the law. And his parents must have known something when they named him, because Babe Ruth’s real name was George Herman Ruth.
It seems like everybody in the small community knows him, and most just refer to him as Babe. But what they don’t know is that George also happens to be one of the best private investigators in upstate New York, his persona serving as a great cover. Nobody expects him, or sees him coming. Mac was one of the few to whom he confided his secret, and he introduced me to him when I took the job at the DA’s Office.
We have a traditional investigator on staff, but I use my own funds to hire George. Even so, we are behind the eight ball in this case. I’m sure Kerri and LB&G have a whole team of investigators digging for dirt and witnesses, leaving no stone unturned.
“I’ve already started my investigation, kid,” George informs me, before I can properly greet him. He calls everyone kid because the Babe called everyone kid. Although, I think Ruth did it because he couldn’t remember names. George points to the screen, informing me that Ruth played himself in Pride of the Yankees.
“The sad thing is that during the filming the Babe was sick himself, and would be dead within three years from throat cancer,” George educates in a booming whisper.
Normally I enjoy George’s “Babe-isms,” but I’m too busy obsessing on some of the strange looks we’re receiving. Although, they’re understandable. George is wearing a wool New York Yankees uniform in the summer and I’m still in my biking outfit. We look like we are the construction worker away from a Village People reunion.
I have to make this fast. “I need to know who else was in the house that night.”
“Done, kid—already working on it.”
“Also, why was Laney Bang there? They are trying to claim it was business related, but I’m not buying it. The answer to that question will lead us to a motive.”
“The Babe has a pretty good idea what she was doing there,” George responds in character, then swipes his hand into a bucket of greasy popcorn. He offers me some, but I decline.
“Basically, this case is top priority. Everything else, including Kass, is on the back burner for now.”
George smiles. “Speaking of other cases, I’ve done some research on your girlfriend. Consider it free of charge.”
“Girlfriend?”
“That pretty little ADA, Jessica Shepherdson.”
“Shep? She’s just my co-worker.”
“That isn’t what Mac and Ashley told me. But if you don’t want to know what I found out, it’s your call.”
He has me hooked. Angel on one shoulder—devil on the other. The devil wins again. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
“She’s actually pretty boring, except I thought it was interesting that she was married to the son of the soon-to-be former governor for the state of New York. The marriage was annulled.”
Shep was married? And to Brad Chapman. I knew him as a hotshot Manhattan prosecutor back when I played for the other team—defense—but he is much better known for his latest job, which is chief legal counsel for the current governor of New York—his father. And since his father seems to be attracted to scandal—the reason why Anderson likely would have beat him handily—he has spent much time in the news lately.
