Move to Strike (24 page)

‘Talk about blowing an interview,' smiled the boy. ‘I mean, my number-crunching dweeb of a father a drug addict? How ridiculous is that?'

And in that moment she met his eyes again and for once – for ONCE – managed to stare him down, her eyelashes not moving as her son was forced to blink
.

‘Where are you going?' he said then, as she moved past him – in the widest arc she could manage given the narrowness of their house – towards the living room. He pulled the rifle from his shoulder and started turning it over in his hands
.

‘The hospital, of course,' she said, grabbing her handbag from the sofa, before running her chipped manicured fingers through her strawberry blonde hair. ‘They refuse to release him until somebody signs him out.'

‘So, I'll be making my own dinner then,' said the boy
.

‘I expect you'll be doing whatever you please.'

The boy laughed. ‘Well, you're right again, Mother. I'd say I most certainly will.'

Deirdre McCall closed her eyes as her hands gripped the sides of the toilet seat beneath her, the memory finally fading from her brain. She was in the dance hall cubicles, ensconced in the far stall of the old but clean ladies' room that had a pair of scratched pink ballet shoes painted delicately on the outside of the door. She could hear the children at the basin outside, perhaps wondering who had been in the end lavatory for so long, and she had even resorted to lifting her feet and balancing them on the back of the
old wooden door in front of her, in case anyone decided to bend over in curiosity and sneak a peek or two.

It was as she had feared. After the woman named Kelly had called, Deirdre had asked her ‘understudy' to take her class while she ran to the local newspaper vendor for a copy of
USA Today
. She had read the story about the teenage son being arrested, noted the name of his attorney, gone to a payphone, called directories, and was connected to the Boston-based firm of Wright, Wallace and Gertz forthwith. She had answered – the Kelly woman, her accent unmistakable – and Deirdre remained silent, gripping the dirty silver receiver so tightly that her hand had begun to turn blue, only moving when an impatient old lady began banging on the booth's smudged plastic door, a look of pure intolerance on her sour, creviced face.

Of course she had no way of telling exactly how Mrs Kelly had got the information. The article she spoke of was organised by the dancing school headmistress without her permission – a sort of sixty-fifth birthday present which left Deirdre in the awkward (dangerous) position of not being able to say ‘no'. But the story had run over a year ago and she honestly believed that
he
had not seen it, that
she
was safe – that her successful, TV star son still believed that his poor sap of a mother was dead, buried . . . gone. And so she had been forced to make a decision – a decision to which, despite what her current location and physical stature might suggest, she was determined to hold firm!

Sometime last night, when the moon was high and the temperature unbearable, she had realised that, as pathetic as it may seem, she was actually ‘happy' being who she was, and doing what she did, and seeing the joy on the faces of those who conquered a step thanks to Miss McCall's caring and learned instructions. Somehow, she had managed to build a new life independently of the man she once loved and the boy she once bore – finding peace in the knowledge that the intensity of the devotion she received from the former, was (almost) enough to balance the wretchedness the latter had caused.

So she had promised herself that she would not, under
any
circumstances, allow her son to intimidate her again. Thirty years ago she had failed to stand up to him and her weakness had cost her dear husband his life. But that was before she understood that boys like her son would
never be stopped unless someone had the guts to confront them. Which, if it came down to it, she was willing to do – when eventually the time came.

And so, as she finally released her toes from the back of the splintered cubicle door, and as she stood and flushed the lavatory just to allay any suspicion, and as she made her way outside to the basins to stare at herself in the scratched bevelled mirror that stretched the length of the far bathroom wall, she said a prayer for the only other two people in the world who understood exactly where Miss Deirdre Hall was coming from.

Maybe the day will come when I can actually help them
, she thought, imagining her two young grandchildren folding into her arms. But then the image of her son's face overshadowed her and, hands still wet, she hurried from the bathroom to the comfort of the hall beyond, where the music seemed to soothe her – if only briefly – until the memories returned again.

‘H
ey, DC. Over here,' said Tony Bishop, signalling for David to join him at the far right-hand booth at the back of a crowded Myrtle McGee's. It was almost 9.30am and David only had a half-hour before Barbara Wong-McGregor was meeting them at their offices. He had a million things to do – including catching up with Joe and ME Gus Svenson, but Tony had been insistent that they meet up ASAP. And so here David was, one eye on his old college buddy, and the other set firmly on his watch.

‘What's up?' said David as Tony rose to shake his hand.

‘This and that,' said Tony, taking his seat again. ‘I ordered you the eggs and some coffee.'

‘Thanks,' said David. ‘I couldn't sleep last night so I got up early to go for a run, which meant I didn't get time for breakfast and . . . in fact . . .' David signalled for Mick who was passing a nearby table.

‘Hey, Mick, can you add a fresh OJ to my order? And some water, one of the big bottles, ice cold if that's okay.'

‘Well, as you can see I don't have any other customers to look after this morning so why don't I just hop to the orchard and pick those oranges you requested by hand,' said Mick, his words dripping in sarcasm but his grin betraying his jest.

‘That would be great,' smiled David. ‘Just make sure they're ripe – you know, and extra sweet with no pips.'

‘Don't push your luck, Davey boy,' said Mick as he made his way back to the counter.

‘You're busy,' said Tony, stating the obvious.

‘I'm flat out,' replied David. ‘But you said this was urgent and a man's gotta eat so . . .' And then David sensed, by the furrow in Tony's brow, that this conversation was not going to be easy – and for one horrible moment he suspected that his friend was going to ask him about Amanda Carmichael and what, if anything, she and David meant to each other.

‘You're representing Stephanie's son,' said Tony.

Ah
, thought David,
so that was what this was about
. ‘I know what you're thinking, Tony – that Steph was our friend, that I am defending her killer. But . . . the thing is, there is more to this case than meets the eye. You know there is no way that I would ever do anything that went against what I believe Stephanie would have wanted. I would never spit on her memory, Tony. She meant too much to us – to
you
.'

‘That's not it,' said Bishop, instinctively lowering his voice. ‘Although, I have heard some rumours.'

‘What rumours?' asked David, knowing that this was exactly where it would get sticky. David knew that Tony's firm represented the Logan/Tyler family interests and, as such, would never divulge any information he had come across as part of his legal responsibilities to his client. But he also knew that Tony had no direct responsibility for either of their accounts, which made him curious as to why he would be . . .

‘You know that we represent them,' said Tony, reading David's mind.

‘Yeah,' said David. ‘But I also know that you are in corporate and Logan and Stephanie's interests were more familial, or media related.'

‘Did she do what the rumours are claiming, DC?' Tony asked then, unable to help himself. ‘Did she change that much? Did she really abuse her kids to the point where one of them would turn a gun on her and blow her to smithereens?'

‘
Jesus
,' said David, completely in shock. ‘
Where the hell did you hear that?
'

‘Let's just say I have a source close to home.'

‘Shit,' said David. ‘We are trying to keep this quiet until we have a
chance to . . .' But he stopped short, knowing exactly where Tony got his information.

‘Stephanie was not an abuser, Tony,' he said. ‘You knew her. You know she was incapable of such things.'

Tony nodded.

‘So what the fuck else has Logan told you?' asked David.

‘He's our client, David. And the only reason I told you what he told me about Stephanie was because it won't be privileged for long.'

‘He's going to release it?' asked a furious David.

Tony gave the slightest of nods.

‘
Shit
.'

‘Look, David,' said Tony then, leaning into the table, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I am here because . . .' He took a breath. ‘I am here because whatever happens I need you to know that there is more going on than you realise. There is some new information that I obtained via my firm and . . . Amanda is investigating it and . . . it might be a good thing – for your client, I mean, for the kid, Steph's son. It might see him . . .'

‘Jesus, Tony, what the hell are you trying to say?'

But Tony was shaking his head, knowing he had probably already over-stepped the mark. ‘I guess I just needed to know that we were on the same page – about Stephanie, I mean.'

‘She was a good person, Tony, which is more than I can say for her husband.'

‘He's my client, David.'

‘And you rag on me for representing criminals,' said David, rising quickly to his feet. ‘It isn't always about you, Bishop. The world doesn't exist so that Tony Bishop can make his millions and ease his conscience all at the very same time.'

‘I'm sorry,' was all Tony could think of to say.

‘Yeah, well, so am I.'

‘W
ell, first up,' said Barbara Wong-McGregor, falling into the seat across from David and Sara, Arthur having taken top spot at the head of their small conference room table, ‘one thing is for sure, that when you finally decide on your defence strategy for this kid – and I am convinced, that despite what we all might be
speculating
, that is exactly what you are currently doing . . .' and then she paused, as David stole a glance at Sara, realising that Barbara, like Sara, felt the need to stress that the boy was their priority, and perhaps more to the point, that they had nothing concrete against Jeffrey Logan – at least, not yet, ‘. . . you will not make the mistake of going with “diminished responsibility”.'

Barbara went on. ‘I know it seems like the obvious answer, but the boy is very smart, articulate. There was not one suggestion of exaggeration or understatement on his part. He knows exactly what he is saying and does so with confidence and assuredness, and the ADA's experts will find exactly the same thing when they pick him to pieces – which they will, by the way.'

David nodded, not having expected anything less.

‘You have to understand,' Barbara continued after both Sara and Arthur had also nodded, indicating for her to go on, ‘that these observations are only preliminary, and I'll need more time to listen to the recording and
pore over his unusual responses to the great majority of our questions. But, first and foremost, the boy shows classic signs of being the victim of emotional abuse – and if I am right, he has been subject to such abuse since the day he was born.'

‘And you know this because . . .' prompted Arthur.

‘Because his interview was littered with indicators that show us J.T. was under the abuser's continuous control.' Barbara removed her frameless glasses before moving on.

‘First up, there was the thing with the homework times. Not hour blocks or half-hour blocks or even quarter-hour blocks – but shifting allotments scheduled down to the second. This is a classic example of a victim being subject to unusual demands by the abuser purely so that the oppressor might assert their control. The abuser may not gain anything materially from enforcing such demands, but he or she does consolidate their role as the dominant force in the household by dictating the victim's schedule, day in, day out.'

‘So it's a power thing,' said Sara.

‘Exactly. The specific dinner time was another example and the effectiveness of the controller's dominance is evident in J.T.'s complete disregard of the notion that he and his sister might not adhere to guidelines the abuser has no doubt set for them since birth.'

‘They have no concept of rebellion,' suggested Arthur.

‘That's right.' Barbara nodded. ‘Which makes this whole murder thing kind of hokey, don't you think?'

It was an odd question but David could see where she was going. ‘If Stephanie was the abuser as Logan claims, then why would J.T. retaliate now?' he asked. ‘Logan claimed it was because he overheard his conversation with Stephanie requesting a divorce, but J.T. was clear that he was studying the mechanics of the rifle on Tuesday so . . .'

‘Right again. So if we discount Logan's “divorce” theory, why exactly did J.T. choose last Friday night to rebel . . . or
did
he rebel at all?'

No one said anything. Barbara's question hung like an unattainable ‘truth' hidden in a dark and heavy shadow above them, close enough to feel but not clear enough to see.

‘Look,' she said then. ‘First up, J.T.'s approach to the entire murder is very clinical, right down to the extensive knowledge of the specifics of
the rifle and the magazine she was reading when she took a bullet to the chest. He spoke of “intent” rather than desire or need or anger or regret. It was almost like it was a job that needed to be done – another request at his abuser's bidding.'