Gospel (59 page)

‘I know, son. I can only begin to imagine how difficult this has been for you. But if you give me a moment, I'll be happy to at least try to explain,' the President went on. ‘But first, perhaps,' said the President, stealing a glance at Ryan who nodded almost indecipherably. ‘There is someone I think you should meet.'

Just then, as if on cue, a third person, another ‘inhabitant' of this highly ‘loaded' suite, appeared at the bedroom door, a man in a dark blue robe, his strawberry blond hair slightly askew, his walk slightly hesitant, but his expression pure calm.

‘Mr Cavanaugh,' said the man. ‘It's a pleasure to meet you at last.'

The man moved forward, limping on his left leg. He extended his arm, revealing a crisp white shirt cuff protruding slightly from the rim of its navy silk cover.

‘I . . .' David began, and he could feel the colour rushing from his face. ‘You . . . You're . . .'

‘Vice President Bradshaw,' said Tom Bradshaw, taking David's hand in both of his own. ‘But I think, given everything you and your friends have been through, you have more than earned the right to call me Tom. Please,' Bradshaw went on, now gesturing at the sofa chair in front of him. ‘Take a seat, Mr Cavanaugh, for as you may have already guessed, we have a few things to discuss.'

I
n the US Federal judicial system, pre-trial hearings for criminal cases come in several different forms. In the early stages of the case there may be detention hearings, bail hearings, identity hearings, removal of process hearings and others recommending the ‘moving' of a trial to a less ‘biased' location. Change of plea hearings are regular occurrences as ninety per cent of all Federal criminal cases are resolved without going to trial – a ‘bargaining system' between prosecution and defence whereby the already stressed court system is not further burdened with unnecessary trials, the defendant secures a lesser sentence and the Department of Justice and US Attorney's Office carve another conviction notch in their already decorated belts. In other words, a win, win, win all round.

But not today.

Today David had other plans – which he had no doubt would come as one big surprise to the two men he had called barely twelve hours ago to tell them his client wanted to file a new motion regarding his plea. Ramirez expected it, of course, and Adams took it as just another guilty defendant trying to quit while they were ahead. In fact, both men were so secure in their positions that neither actually asked David exactly what he intended to change his plea to. A dangerous
oversight, David knew – and one that was about to hit them straight between the eyes.

‘Your Honour,' began Charles Grizzly Adams, his powerful voice acting as an immediate silencer to the whispering masses.

Pre-trial hearings were open to the public, and David's quid pro quo call to Marc Rigotti late last night alerting him to the last minute scheduling of the change of plea hearing this morning, had resulted in a late edition ‘drop in' in this morning's
Tribune
. This, coupled with what David suspected had been a Ramirez inspired ‘leak' to other press, had resulted in a courtroom now filling by the minute – just as David had hoped.

Judge Donovan, canvassing the growing crowd in front of him, including the White House Chief of Staff and her equally as famous daughter, had barely rested his posterior on the cushioned brown leather chair before Adams was on his feet taking control. ‘As you are aware, this pre-trial hearing has been scheduled as a matter of priority following a communication between the Department of Justice and defence counsel late last night,' he said.

The Judge knew exactly why he was here, as no doubt did everyone else who picked up this morning's papers or listened to the news flash reports. Adams was stating the obvious, but David knew the Trial Attorney was spoon-feeding the press and playing to the crowd so that what he was about to say had the desired clarifying effect – not to mention some good clean sound bites for the day's hourly bulletins.

‘In short,' Adams went on. ‘Defence counsel has approached us with their intention to change their plea – from “not guilty” to “guilty” and we are prepared to engage in further conversations with said counsel regarding the implications of their new situation. Following such discussions we shall be happy to make further communications to the court regarding any recommendation in reduction in sentencing.'

In other words, Adams was saying that once they had their ‘guilty' verdict neatly packaged and tied up with string, they were willing to take the death penalty off the table and exchange it with ‘life without parole'.

‘Mr Cavanaugh,' said Donovan. ‘Is what Mr Adams says correct?'

At that point David nodded at his client before standing, looking directly at the Judge, and responding. ‘Not exactly, Your Honour. We
would
like to file a motion regarding the status of our plea – but not to change it as the Trial Attorney suggested. I am afraid Mr Adams must have misunderstood me last night. We still adhere to our client's innocence and as such would like to file a motion for dismissal.'

And that was enough to do it.

The courtroom let out a simultaneous gasp of disbelief. Heads turned left and right and behind and in front as if seeking some form of clarification from other spectators who were obviously just as clueless as their disbelieving neighbours. The press, squeezed into the media box on the far left hand side of the room, pencilled madly while others spoke into dictaphones at what seemed like a ridiculously rapid rate.

David glanced across to Marc Rigotti in the back row, far corner, his slight nod of encouragement saying it all. Then he linked eyes with Caroline Croft, centre, front, a curious half smile on her face.

‘Your Honour,' yelled Adams, trying to be heard over the crowd.

‘Order,' barked Donovan, his Irish lilt now strong, his face flush and his gavel raised in an arc on the ready to descend. His voice commanded silence and the crowd followed suit, not so much in obedience, but more out of a determination not to miss a single word.

‘Mr Cavanaugh,' said Donovan. ‘I have seen many an optimistic counsellor in my courtroom but none quite as positive as you.'

‘I understand, Your Honour,' said David. ‘I realise this motion is a little left of centre and I acknowledge the court must resolve a number of questions of fact before making its ruling. But if Your Honour will allow me some latitude, and the opportunity to introduce some witnesses to help decide this matter, I believe I can clear things up once and for all.'

Donovan considered him then, David knowing his almost compulsive need for balance had been seriously disturbed. The Judge turned to the prosecution just as Adams got to his feet.

‘Your Honour, this is nothing short of preposterous.'

‘I tend to agree with you, Mr Adams, but Mr Cavanaugh is within his rights. He is entitled to an evidentiary hearing to support his motion.'

David looked across at Adams, knowing he was trapped. He did not want this evidentiary hearing to continue but he also did not want to appear intimidated by what defence counsel might be about to propose.

‘All right, Your Honour. But we would like to maintain the right to
question any witnesses and we request a half-hour recess to consider the unexpected change to this morning's proceedings.'

‘Granted,' said Donovan before turning to David.

‘All right, Mr Cavanaugh, I am all for clearing things up. But I warn you, you have already proven to be a seriously unsettling influence in my courtroom this morning and if I feel you are wasting the court's time with unfounded attempts at grandstanding,
I will shut you down
.'

‘Understood, Your Honour,' said David.

And with that, his final words drowned in another wave of ‘spectator delight', David turned his head slightly to the right to look Antonio Ramirez directly in the eye.

‘
Fuck you
,' his expression said in no uncertain terms, to which Ramirez mouthed almost imperceptively, ‘
You're dead
'.

Ramirez was not afraid of him. In fact he had found his ‘dressing down' quite pathetic. Adams was not his boss and far from his mental superior, but he understood the Trial Attorney had to blame someone for his gross miscalculation. Adams was sure Cavanaugh had said ‘change of plea' and Ramirez was sure of it too. But Ramirez knew Cavanaugh had simply been playing his next move in their ongoing face off. A dangerous move on his part – and one he would live to regret.

But now was not the time to ponder such things, not with ‘her' sitting across from him in the lounge area of this VIP restroom. He had never failed to be amazed by the power of those three little letters F.B.I., one flick of the badge and the world was his or, in this case, the Circuit Executive's private wash room on the third floor of the John Joseph Moakley Courthouse.

‘I must be brief,' said John. ‘As suggested, I told my agents I needed a quiet moment to freshen up, but if I stay too long they will become concerned and, we do not want to explain why the 2IC of the FBI was awaiting me for a private rendezvous in a restricted bathroom.'

He had expected, in the very least, some display of concern, but she looked cool, relaxed, energised even. For in the morning's disappointments she had seen an opportunity and it was truly quite inspiring.

‘The thing is, Matthew,' she said. ‘We must be practical and realise there is the possibility he could pull this off. Cavanaugh is nothing if not
resourceful. He is smart, charismatic, and if he serves up enough reasonable doubt, the Judge may well grant his audacious motion to dismiss.'

She paused then, as if making another mental note to herself.

‘But, having thought about it as I watched the surprisingly adept defence team turn Mr Adams' pre-determined victory into defeat, I realised one clear and profound truth. Win or lose,
it really doesn't matter
.'

At first Ramirez did not see it, but then it came to him – they had come so far, been so successful in their efforts that now they were beyond reproach. Even if the defence managed to secure their precious dismissal, Montgomery would always be seen as Washington's OJ – the one that got away thanks to an over-confident prosecutor and an exceptionally clever defence. There would be no need to further investigate the Vice President's death simply because it was widely accepted the killer had played the game and scored his ‘get out of jail free' card. He'd taken on the justice system and won – lucky, lucky him.

Of course his reputation would be damaged beyond repair and Ramirez's post trial ‘chat' with the Professor and his lovely wife would silence them for eternity. And Cavanaugh would have his mini-victory and sail into the sunset a happy subordinate who did not even know he had been played. John was right, whatever happened they could not lose and her foresight in this instance was nothing short of . . .

‘Now,' she said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘We still might win, which is also well and good, but in the event Montgomery's lawyers pull off a miracle, we simply make it clear we abide by the court's decision and I offer Montgomery my personal regrets. If anything the move will soften my image, show I have full faith in our system of justice and the compassion to apologise to a man wrongly accused of the Vice President's murder.'

She stood then, rising from her velvet-covered chair to pace the silver-hued carpet, checking her reflection in the gold-plated mirror at the far end of the room.

‘Whatever happens,' she said, as her perfectly manicured pinky finger corrected a slight smudge on her upper lipstick line, ‘I will still be elected Vice President and Latham's retirement will soon follow. Then, our position is secure and we become untouchable.'

‘Yes,' he said.

‘Perhaps it would be better if we
did
lose after all,' she turned to him with a smile. ‘If only I had thought of it sooner.'

She walked back towards him then, stopping at a water cooler along the way. She took two of the upturned glasses standing on the crisp white towel on the black marble counter and poured them both a drink before gliding across the room, extending her long slender arm and handing him his water.

‘Don't you see, Matthew, we have effectively become invincible. In fact, we deserve a mini celebration. Don't you think?' she said, lifting her tumbler in the air.

‘To us,' she said.

‘To us,' he replied.

‘And to Tom – for slipping from this world and bequeathing to us his beautiful, bountiful, brilliant estate – the United States of America.'

None of the courtrooms in the John Joseph Moakley Courthouse had windows. It was ironic really, considering its breathtaking Harbourfront location, but the area facing the huge conical glass façade, which acted like one massive window on the Harbour side of the building, was reserved for public purposes only, symbolising an intention to provide the greatest aspect of the construction – its amazing water view – for everyone who chose to enter its doors, eat, drink, walk, meet, peruse and partake in its daily determination of equality and justice for all.

Each of the twenty-seven courtrooms did, however, take up two floors in height – allowing four large domed pendulum lights to hang like equidistant man-made suns casting clarity on the all important proceedings below. However, within the last half hour one of the magnificent light pieces in courtroom one had seemed to have literally gone on the ‘blink' as it flashed on and off every few moments or so, the effect inside the now crammed courtroom one of a rhythmic strobe – light, dark, light, dark, forcing the inhabitants to adjust their eyes to the continuous shift in illumination.

And so, when Judge Patrick Donovan re-entered the room to see this floating spotlight creating a disco effect on the front right hand corner of the crowd below, he ordered the clerk to notify an electrician forthwith while wondering how in the hell this hallowed house of justice could,
within minutes, transform itself from a sanctity of law to a ‘no cover charge' nightclub.