Move to Strike (44 page)

‘You irritate who?'

‘Amanda Carmichael. I unnerve her simply because I have what she does not.'

‘I think falling pregnant is the last thing on that ambitious woman's mind, Sara.'

‘I am not talking about the baby, silly,' she said. ‘I am talking about you.'

David was already shaking his head. ‘The only thing that woman wants to do it kick my ass.'

‘And the only thing I want to do is kick hers back.'

They could not help but smile at each other.

‘I'm not saying yes,' David said then, wrapping his arms around her.

‘But you
are
saying maybe,' Sara replied, before lifting her chin to kiss him. ‘And that is good enough for now, Mr Cavanaugh – that is good enough for now.'

I
n the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, jurors are empanelled according to a process known as the One Day/One Trial system. First trialled in Middlesex County in 1980, the system expanded the number of those eligible to sit for jury duty by eliminating many of the usual exemptions. It was also designed to make jury service less cumbersome by promising those selected that they would either serve one day or, if the proceedings were likely to run over that one day – one trial only. Prospective jurors are selected at random from the lists of residents supplied annually to the Office of Jury Commissioner by each of the 351 cities and towns within Massachusetts. In the case of the Logan trial, an unusually high 400 summonses were sent out before a final list of 150 were requested to attend the Suffolk County Superior Court for the meticulous selection process. That process, which began in the massive, high-ceilinged jury pool room before moving to a specified courtroom, would eventually see the large group reduced to sixteen, twelve of whom (the other four would eventually be named as alternates) would go on to decide the fate of the two defendants.

It was a long, generally exhausting process, during which both the Commonwealth and the defence would call on specialists to help them use their sixteen peremptory strikes (one for each potential juror) to
maximum effect. And in David's case that expert came in the form of the brightly dressed Phyllis Vecchio, a large, garrulous woman with a mouth like a sewer and a mind as sharp as a tack.

‘You're fucked,' said Phyllis, just as the judge called for the luncheon adjournment and she and David followed the group of sixty remaining potential jurors now moving excitedly from the courtroom. Arthur had gone back to the office to return some calls while David and Phyll planned to do some more brainstorming over lunch.

‘Jesus, Phyll,' said David, whispering in the woman's ear. ‘Selection has barely started. How can we be fucked already?'

‘For Christ's sake,' said Phyll with a roll of her eyes. ‘Have you learned nothing from my years of unparalleled advice?' And despite her undeniable self-confidence, David knew Phyll's tongue was firmly in her cheek.

‘Look at the . . .' she began, but then held that thought as they reached the elevators and, taking note of the small placard near the now opening doors which reminded all that cases should not be discussed inside the confined space of an elevator, remained silent until they reached the ground floor.

‘Look at the high ratio of women to men,' Phyll went on, her fuchsia stilettos clicking on the tiled lobby floor. ‘Look at their ages, their dress code, the huge fucking stars in their bright fucking eyes. That's the Doctor Jeff fan club right there, David,' she said, as they hit the front doors and moved outside into the sunshine. ‘You saw the looks on their faces this morning. These woman are greasing their pants to get on this jury for one reason and one reason only – they want to get close to their favourite shrink, the same George Clooney lookalike they dream about fucking every night after they put their children into bed and their slob of a husband lies snoring like a hippo beside them.'

And, at least on this point, David knew she was right.

‘The thing is, David,' Phyll continued, directing him towards a café at the bottom of the steps that led up to Pemberton Square, ‘these women are going to believe everything the TV star tells them. If he says his wife was the devil incarnate then they are going to swallow it whole.'

‘But we've already discussed this, Phyll. I have no intention of calling
Logan and there is no way he will ruin his reputation as the concerned father by appearing as a witness for the prosecution. So Logan doesn't get a voice in this trial – at least not until I am ready to destroy him.'

Late last week David and Arthur had brought Phyll into their confidence – a necessity considering her role in the jury selection process. And given they trusted her 100 per cent, and given her mind worked as well as that of any lawyer David had ever come across, they knew she could also be an asset in their plans for the days that followed.

‘Bullshit Logan has no voice in this trial,' said Phyll. ‘He doesn't need a courtroom to express his views, David. He is a national hero, for fuck's sake. He can open his trap any time he likes and the masses will walk into it willingly with sweet smiles of surrender on their perfectly made-up lips.'

‘He will be sitting on our side of the room, behind his children,' countered David.

‘And you think that will be enough for the jury to want to acquit them?' Phyll was shaking her head as they took a seat in a sunny corner of the busy café.

‘Look at me, David, and read my lips:
You are going to go after him
– maybe not at first but when you get your chance you are going straight for the charismatic counsellor's jugular. Those women are going to hate you – they are going to think you are launching an attack on Saint Jeff simply because you have no other way of defending your clients.'

Phyll signalled for the waitress who took David's order of a club sandwich and Phyll's request for a mega burger with the lot, before taking a breath and moving on.

‘From what you tell me, that bastard is one smart fucker and as soon as you go on the attack, he will play the poor, distressed father who is caught between a rock and a hard place. Don't forget he
confessed
to the murder in the first place, so the entire nation believes he will do everything to help his kids.'

‘He wants them incarcerated,' said David.

‘Sure, so all he has to do is insinuate to his friends in the media that he believes his kids need help – lots and lots of long-term help in the appropriate psychiatric institution. No,' she said then as she tapped her long pink acrylic nails on the red formica table, ‘. . . we need
men
, David, young
men who have never watched
The Doctor Jeff Show
in their lives and so couldn't give a flying fuck what the hallowed psychonut says.'

‘But the women will have more sympathy for the children.' It was David's turn to shake his head. ‘By nature they tend towards leniency.'

‘True,' said Phyll. ‘But if the ADA manages to convince them that the kids' motive for murder was not just one of self-preservation but of greed, then those big-hearted moms won't blink an eye before committing your junior jackals to a life behind bars. And even if they
do
feel sorry for them, that doesn't mean they won't vote to have them committed to a mental facility for long-term treatment. And is that what you want for your clients? A life in a loony bin filled with psychos who kill for fun?'

David let out a sigh, pausing to collect his thoughts as the waiter placed their meals in front of them. The past few days had been exasperating. While he was confident the children were now stronger, united, as prepared as they could be for the tough weeks that followed, they still had no concrete evidence against Jeffrey Logan, nor any word on the whereabouts of the missing Deirdre McCall. Nora's enquires at the Chatham Bars Inn had come up blank, and Sara had had no luck with reaching the increasingly evasive Katherine de Castro.

‘I see what you are saying, Phyll,' said David after a time. ‘But aiming for a jury of close to all male jurors . . . isn't that a little extreme?'

‘Let me help you out here,' she said, leaning into the table, the strength of her perfume now filling the space between them. ‘You think any woman with half a heart is gonna wanna see those kids walk after Miss Barbie Doll ADA holds up pictures of the crime scene? You think any woman is gonna look at J.T., no matter how cute the kid happens to be, and let him skip happily into the sunset after she sees how he turned his mom into a bona fide carcass?' Phyll took a breath. ‘No, David, it will be the violence that disturbs them, and given you will
not
be arguing that they acted in self-defence then . . .'

And there they were, Phyll's true feelings on the matter. The woman was a realist and made it very clear that she thought they were mad for not going with self-defence. She understood that Jeffrey Logan might be the abuser from hell but she did not think they had a chance of proving it.

‘Bottom line, kiddo,' she said, perhaps reading the despondency on David's face, ‘you've made your bed on this one – and don't get me wrong, I certainly admire your chutzpah. But not everything they teach you in law school is correct, my friend.' She took his hand and patted it. ‘And Clarence Darrow was lying when he said the truth will set you free.'

D
eirdre McCall popped another two super-strength Advil into her cracked, parched mouth and swallowed. She had run out of water hours ago, being careful to ration her money considering all she had was the $287 that she had luckily left in her faux leather purse.

She was on a Greyhound, travelling east. The bus had just passed Denver, which meant there were still two days to go on this close to three-day trip. The idea had come to her a few days ago, when she was staying at a filthy roadside inn just outside of Boulder City. And once she thought about it – once she felt, in her gut, that what she was guessing was correct – she used her ATM card to purchase the $204 ticket and worked out a $15 a day budget to tide her over. Even if the police or whoever else might be looking for her traced the transaction, she would be a long way from Nevada when they finally ‘came to collect'.

When she hit Boston she would immediately jump a ferry to take her within shouting distance of her final destination and then . . . well then, she would sit down and wait.

He would come
, she thought to herself, as the pain in her head throbbed to the beat of some dull, persistent drum. It had been a long time since she had seen him, but something told her, something way down deep inside, that if he ever found himself in trouble that he would not be able
to stop himself from seeking out the one thing that he had always loved the most.

He would go for the guns. He would take leave from his new identity – if just for a little while – so that he might go to them, feel them, and make a decision as to which weapon would suit his purpose best. And considering she guessed she was the only living person who knew where they were stored, she would seek them out also, so that she might do what she should have done all those years ago, and finally put an end to the bloodshed.

P
rospective juror number 51 was a forty-one-year-old from Brookline. Her name was Betty Baker and she looked like something directly out of an episode of
Desperate Housewives
. She had listed her employment as ‘home-maker' and her interests as baking and charity work, and she was president of the local elementary school PTA.

‘So you have two children, Mrs Baker?' asked Amanda Carmichael, as she read from the woman's questionnaire and moved towards her with the prettiest of smiles on her face.

‘Yes,' smiled Baker. ‘Sheldon and Kiara – Sheldon is eleven and Kiara is eight – and they are both absolute delights.'

‘And your husband?'

‘Bob is managing director of an office works company called The Golden Staple. They sell everything from rubber bands to computer ink.' Another smile.

‘And do you watch a lot of TV, Mrs Baker?'

‘Well,' said Baker with a guilty little smile. ‘I must admit I do like that
Dancing with the Stars
and I supervise the children's viewing, of course.'

Carmichael smiled. ‘And what about daytime TV, Mrs Baker. Have you seen
The Doctor Jeff Show
?'

‘Well, of course I have
seen
it.' Baker smiled again. ‘And I do like
Oprah
.
But my time during the day is limited, Ms Carmichael, especially on Thursdays when the housekeeper has a day off.'

At this last comment David bent to whisper in Phyll's ear. ‘You want me to strike her?'

‘Does a bear shit in the woods?' returned Phyll. But then Phyll shook her head. ‘Try to get rid of her without using one of our challenges,' she whispered. ‘There are several June Cleavers left in the pool,' she said, gesturing at the remaining, mainly female group behind them, ‘. . . and we only have one challenge to play with.'

David nodded.

‘Finally, Mrs Baker,' Carmichael went on, ‘do you think that, despite your knowledge of Doctor Logan's program, you could make unbiased decisions when it came to assessing the facts presented to you in proceedings involving the activities of his two children?'

‘Well, of course,' said Baker. ‘That would be my moral obligation, Ms Carmichael.'

Carmichael smiled again. ‘I have no objection to this juror, Your Honour,' she said, before moving to resume her seat.

‘Mr Cavanaugh,' called Kessler then, and David noted the judge had attempted some ‘self-renovation' for her debut in the Suffolk County Superior Court – her usual brown ‘nest' of hair having been coiffed into a bowl-like helmet which sat awkwardly on top of her head.

‘Thank you, Your Honour,' said David, getting to his feet. ‘While we do not wish to use one of our challenges, we feel that Mrs Baker may have some sort of affinity with the victim given Stephanie Tyler was also a PTA representative when her children were younger.'