The Trials of Max Q, page 8
“She never mentioned anything about being married in her application, and there is no record of it—the DA’s Office does a full background check prior to hire.”
“Hence the term, annulled. But that’s why you hire me—to dig below the surface. You, of all people, know the rich and powerful can erase their mistakes from the public record, kid.”
Shep being married to the son of Anderson’s opponent in the upcoming election is a major conflict of interest. And it surprises me that she hasn’t used it to get off this case, which she appears to want no part of. She must really want to keep it a secret.
George is engrossed in the movie once again. Lou is dying in black-and-white and his beloved wife, Eleanor, is trying to be strong as she watches the once sturdy love of her life wither away to nothing. George begins to cry, wiping away the tears with his big mitt of a hand.
“This is one of the great love stories of all time,” he blubbers.
I pat him on the back. “I didn’t know the Babe was such a big softy.”
As tears drip down his bloated cheeks, I get up and leave the theater.
Chapter 20
I’m standing along Main Street, my eyes still adjusting to the bright July sun. But I can see well enough to notice that members of the media are everywhere, so I do my best to blend into the crowd.
“Jack—there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you,” a voice blows my cover.
I look up to see Shep dashing toward me, which is preferable to a horde of reporters. I’m still trying to register the marriage tidbit George gave me—there’s certainly a lot more to Shep than meets the eye.
She appears to have more pep in her step. Perhaps it was the compliments she received on the national news regarding her bail denial.
“I’ve scheduled a 10:30 meeting with your sister and Metzer at our offices. I think it’s a good idea to feel them out, even if it doesn’t accomplish anything tangible,” she states upon reaching me.
“Sounds like a plan, but first I want to get a bacon, egg, and cheese at Touch ’Em All.”
My craving angers Shep. “You spent the morning fooling around at a baseball museum, and now you want breakfast? You can’t rely solely on your talent on this case, Jack; you are going to have to put in the time. We only have a week!”
“Nice to see you somewhat interested today. I thought you were going to call in sick for a couple months.”
Just as the words leave my mouth, a camera flash goes off, startling us. I can already visualize the headlines: Case Falling Apart—Prosecution Fighting on the Street!
I start walking across Main Street. “What do you say we get that sandwich?”
This time she doesn’t put up a fight. Our cease-fire lasts almost until we get to Touch ’Em All, when she asks, “What were you doing at the Hall of Fame, anyway?”
“Doing a little research,” I reply vaguely. I feel the press following us, breathing down the back of my neck. We pick up the pace.
“Are you holding back on me, Jack? I thought we were partners. If we can’t trust each other …”
I put a smile on for the cameras, and then lead Shep down the stairs to the below-ground entrance.
While Touch ’Em All is best known as a bar, they also make a particularly good breakfast sandwich. And more importantly for us, the owner, Augie, has an “only locals welcome” policy to deal with the overwhelming number of summer baseball tourists. We use it to our advantage to find refuge from the rabid media.
We walk into the dark bar. The room has a Cheers-like mahogany bar centered under a tin roof. It is connected to a hotel named The Carriage, established 1832. On one side of the bar is a huge mural of 19th-century Cooperstown Village, depicting horse drawn carriages traveling Main Street.
Like a clash of cultures, the other side is a typical modern sports bar—pool table, darts, and a large old-fashioned jukebox. The walls are littered with autographed photos of baseball greats. Ruth, Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Ted Williams.
The place is a little bit Ashley, and a little bit Mac, which is part of its charm.
Our presence immediately shuts down the heated local gossip, most of it centered on the Max Q case. And while we don’t receive a Norm Peterson greeting, the vibe isn’t unfriendly. The locals respect our job, even if they aren’t rooting for us.
Safe from outside forces, I decide it’s time to resume our battle positions. “I admit that I met with my investigator, whom I hired with my own funds. But he’s the best in the business and that’s what we need. His rule is that only I know his identity. I’m not holding back on you, and as soon as he provides me with any information I will share it. Are you providing me with all the information I should know, Shep?”
“Of course—what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Ever going to tell me you’ve been married?”
Her glare indicates that if I don’t lower the volume I’m going to get an expensive heel in the groin area. “My personal life is none of your business. You made that quite clear the other night, Jack. Are you checking up on me?”
“It’s only considered your personal life when it doesn’t affect the case. When the press finds out that one of the lawyers prosecuting the potential future governor was once married to the son of the man he might be replacing, they are going to have a field day.”
“It’s nobody’s business. Besides, if we choose to prosecute, we’ll have so much bad PR that it’ll just be another log on the fire. But if you don’t want me on the case, make my day and drop me. I never asked for this!”
The words “One bacon egg and cheese,” breaks up our scuffle. We take a seat at the bar next to Matt the local drunk, who, no surprise, is downing a pre-noon Jack and Coke.
I check the baseball-shaped clock on the wall. It’s 10:26. We’re going to be late for our meeting with Kerri—let her wait. Shep doesn’t see it the same way, and practically drags me out of the place as I scarf down my sandwich.
Back in the sunlight, I head for my bike, while Shep chooses to walk.
“Get on, I’ll give you a ride.”
She declines out of spite.
“Come on, Shep, I don’t want you to scuff your pretty shoes.”
She shoots daggers at me with her eyes. But I can tell she’s weighing her options, which are limited. “Fine,” she grunts, then grudgingly follows me to the bike.
She sits behind me, holding on for dear life around my chest, restricting my ability to peddle. I notice a group of photographers staking us out. This one will be a photo of unity.
We arrive at our office, unwittingly waking up the bored media. We practically run past them, ignoring their rapid-fire questions.
“You have one week, Jack—do you really have time for bike rides?” yells one reporter, to laughter.
I carry the bike inside the building. Our presence stops all conversation. Something we are becoming adept at.
Shep follows me into my office with instructions that Kerri is waiting in the conference room. But first I head for my shower. I have it down to a science and I’m back in my office dressed in a suit in less than five minutes.
I attempt to take a moment to gather myself, before entering the coliseum to face the lions. But I underestimate my control-obsessed sister, whose voice screeches through the phone intercom on my desk, “You can run, but you can’t hide, Jack—now get your sorry-ass in here!”
I unhook the phone and put my feet up on my desk, wondering if a brother/sister relationship can be annulled.
Chapter 21
Shep and I sit at the conference table, facing Kerri and Hal Metzer. Sort of like a mixed doubles match of the legal world.
The national networks have praised Metzer’s legal mind, and more importantly, his experience in the courtroom. Despite her highly touted pedigree, Kerri lacks courtroom experience. The more I think about it, the more I believe her presence is a ploy by LB&G to get under my skin, and throw me off my game.
Kerri opens with predictable gusto, “So Jack, are we done with this charade?”
“Charade?”
“Locking up my client, who has a spotless reputation, even though you have no evidence. Shall I go on?”
“Please do.”
“Okay, let’s start with motive. What did my client have to gain by killing that whore?”
I guess we won’t have to hold our breath to see if the defense is going to use ‘blame the victim’ tactics.
“I’ll tell you what his motive was,” Shep interrupts. “He was having an affair with Laney Bang. She threatened to expose him, damaging his so-called spotless reputation, not to mention ruining his marriage.”
I know Shep isn’t a firm believer in Anderson’s guilt, but I think my sister has sparked her competitive spirit.
I pick up where she leaves off. “Your defense would be much stronger if she hadn’t made that 911 call, upon feeling threatened by your client. And he was obviously unaware that she made it. Because he had a ninety minute head start on the police, yet he didn’t dispose of the body that was in his bed.”
“The reason he wouldn’t know about any 911 call was because he wasn’t present at the time it was made. And she obviously was calling for his help, not accusing him of anything.”
“That would be more believable if he didn’t then lie to the police. Claimed he didn’t even know who Laney Bang was or how she got into his house.” I foresee numerous holes in my theory, but I think it’s more important to look assertive at this early stage.
Metzer gets involved. “Any statements that Mr. Anderson made to police, not knowing he was considered the lead suspect, and without being informed of his right to an attorney, will be inadmissible.”
I hold up the plastic bag containing the tape that Opp finally had sent to our office this morning. “I say we let the judge decide that. But I must say, it sounds real good on tape. I think a jury will be particularly interested in the part where your client admits he fabricated the first story about not knowing who she was, only to make up an even more laughable one about a business meeting. You know, one of those typical business meetings where a porn star spends the night.”
For a microsecond—you had to be looking for it—Kerri and Hal look stunned. But like the pros that they are, they immediately recover and shoot dismissive looks at the tape. It’s to our advantage that at this stage of the process, discovery has yet to occur. So they don’t know exactly what evidence we have.
“My client panicked, which is a natural reaction to finding a dead body in his home, after returning from a morning jog. If by some bizarre twist of fate this actually goes to a trial, I’m sure a jury would understand Drew’s reaction,” Kerri proclaims.
“Let’s get back to motive,” Hal follows up. “The only person I can think of that did not have a motive to kill her was Drew Anderson. Ms. Bang had more enemies than I can list here today. But let’s review the most likely. She was involved in a messy multi-million dollar lawsuit with MaddoXXX Video, which contends that she broke her contract to start her own production company. Her book, Big Bang Theories, has publicly exposed her intimate affairs with numerous rich and powerful men, and women. It’s no secret such revelations ripped apart many marriages, families, and careers. But I would say the biggest motive belongs to one man, James Lansdale, who has created an organization called Smut Cleanser, which lists Laney Bang as its number one ‘Most Wanted’.”
Shep elbows me, not so subtly pointing out that she and Metzer were riding the same wavelength. I’m not so sure—I think this is just the first of many “theories” the defense will be floating. And if we ever advance to the trial stage, I expect their strategy will be to dish up a smorgasbord of semi-plausible suspects, diverting the jury into believing that the prosecution failed to prove the case beyond the reasonable doubt burden. It worked for OJ Simpson at his murder trial.
“I might add that Mr. Lansdale lives locally and has been to Anderson Estate on numerous occasions. Of course this wasn’t a theory that was even considered by the police, yet it makes much more sense than this crazy affair idea you are trying to sell,” Kerri adds.
“Anderson Estate has access by land, air, and sea. It could easily have been penetrated by someone looking to harm Laney Bang,” Hal tosses in, as if discussing war strategy. Once again, the defense and my partner seem to be sharing the same brain.
“Anderson Estate has one of the best security systems in the world,” I try to fight back.
“Yes, Jack—a security system put in by Sheriff Opp. A man that has an obvious grudge against my client, and if need be, I can show evidence to prove it.”
“What was the real reason Laney Bang spent the night at Drew Anderson’s house, Kerri?” I ask.
“And try to do better than the excuses your client provided during his initial questioning,” Shep throws in, I suspect only because she despises my sister.
“It was a business meeting.”
“Was Laney getting into the collectibles business or was Drew going into adult entertainment?” I ask
Kerri looks at me like I’m the snot-nosed little brother she thinks I am. “My client, at no time, had any type of intimate or sexual relationship with the deceased. Any insinuation that there was one is going to land you with a slander suit. Have I made myself clear!?”
“You two have no evidence that our client had any relationship with the victim,” Metzer adds.
I lean back in my chair and grin wryly. “Sounds like a business meeting to me.”
“What about his alibi of jogging—surely you can do better than that?” Shep interjects.
Kerri responds with a crooked smile that I vividly remember from my childhood. It usually appeared right before one of our “Lucy pulls the football away from Charlie Brown” moments. I was normally on the losing end of that smile, so I’m concerned that Shep just walked into a trap.
“I almost forgot,” Kerri says. Then in a seamless orchestration, Hal unzips an expensive leather brief case and pulls out a small stack of papers.
Kerri slides them across the table. “These are three signed affidavits from witnesses who are willing to testify my client was jogging around Otsego Lake, just as he said, at the time of the 911 call.”
Shep performs a quick scan of the affidavits, but won’t go down without a fight. “I’m sure you know that the chance of accurately identifying a moving target at daybreak is slim, so these statements are suspect at best.”
“Suspect is what you don’t have,” Kerri fires back. “At least not the right one. What we have here is a police department that not only failed to properly respond to a 911 call, but also failed to interview witnesses that backed up my client’s alibi. They only saw this event through the prism of the grudge they hold against him. So now there are two victims—Laney Bang and Drew Anderson.”
She is the ultimate front-runner—piling it on when she is winning.
“Drop the charges and let’s get to the business of finding who killed this woman,” Hal Metzer gives his final word, as he tucks the deadly affidavits back in his briefcase.
I stand. “Thank you both for coming. Like I said in the press conference, our investigation will extend until next week. At that time we will make a decision on whether to formally file charges.”
I reach my hand out and we all begin a handshake ritual. “Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame,” Kerri says—she always has to have the last word—before they turn and leave.
Shep slumps back into her chair. “That was embarrassing. Can it be any more obvious that they arrested the wrong guy? We should just go drop the charges and get it over with before we become fodder for the late night talk show hosts.”
Everything they said about lack of motive, evidence, and witnesses to his alibi was correct, but my gut feeling is telling me that Drew Anderson did kill Laney Bang. Although, my job as prosecutor is to prove it, and right now I can’t.
I get up without a word and head for my office.
“Where are you going?” she asks curiously.
“I’m going to my office to catch up on my reading.”
“At a time like this, Jack, how can you even think …”
I enter my office and shut my door. I pull Laney’s book out of my backpack. The cover displays a naked—except for strategically placed fig leaves—Laney Bang, stretched out like Jesus on a wooden cross with an explosion of planets in the background. I’m not sure exactly what statement she was trying to make, but there’s no doubt that she was making one. My initial impression of her is that every action she made was calculated, and I’m guessing that the last night of her life was no different.
I open to the first page. “C’mon, Laney—give me some answers. Who killed you?” I mutter to myself. I’m surprised to find a poem entitled “Baby Doll”.
Sweet dreams they say, and don’t let the bedbugs bite.
Whoever said it never endured my night
Lay still Darby and pray for it to go away
I feel the nightmare closing in and I want to speed to day
The nightmare begins with a creak of my door
Please not tonight. Please no more.
I pray even harder, but then I hear the call
My nightmare begins again—hello, Baby Doll
I don’t dwell on why my fate is so unkind
I know one day I’ll leave it all behind
The nightmare creeps closer and it’s worse if I fight
I’ll leave Baby Doll behind, just not this night
I wasn’t expecting poetry, but so far Laney Bang has been anything but predictable.
There’s a knock on my door.
