Presumption of Guilt (24 page)

“Scoby didn’t actually confirm Bryson was part of it,” Tommy said.

“I know. But if he is, we’ve got to find out.”

“What are you proposing?” Bruce asked.

“Look, we struck out with Tommy trying to squeeze Reynolds and Scoby. Maybe Josh Cosgrove would agree to bring them in to see if he can get more out of them.”

“Have you discussed that with him?”

“Not yet. But what if Cosgrove is willing to make a deal with them? ’Fess up, implicate the judge, assuming it’s true, and they’ll get a reduced sentence. It’s the judge we want.”

Tommy had been tapping his fingers on the table, but now stopped. “If it was me, I wouldn’t admit anything without a demonstration of their proof. And that’s the problem. They don’t have any. If they could find their bank accounts, then they could offer a deal.”

“But they don’t know that the US Attorney’s Office hasn’t found the bank accounts. Maybe Josh can bluff them. It’s probably in the Caribbean somewhere.”

“Okay,” Bruce said. “Ask Josh if he’s willing to bring them in. If the answer is no, or if he can’t get anything from them, then you need to move on to other cases.” Bruce turned to Dani, and with his voice soft, said, “You knew this would be a tough one. You fought hard for Molly, and I know you’d like to free her, but it doesn’t always work out. I’m sorry.”

Dani nodded. Tears welled up, but if she spoke, they would likely overflow. Instead, she picked up her papers and went back to her office.

After a ten-minute conversation with Josh Cosgrove, Dani hung up the phone relieved. He agreed with Tommy that it would be pointless to bring in Paul Scoby and Frank Reynolds for questioning without something solid to hang over them. But he would work with the IRS. They now had authority to require all foreign banks to report to them the existence of offshore bank accounts held by American citizens. Josh felt confident he could convince the IRS that, as part of a federal fraud investigation, they should scour their records first to see if they already had information of large sums held by those individuals and, if not, send out a blanket request to Caribbean banks. It would take weeks, maybe months, but at least Dani felt like there would be movement. She needed to make a trip up to Bedford Hills to give Molly the bad news. Now she had something to temper that news with.

Dani worked through the morning and early afternoon polishing some appeals for different clients. At two, she gathered her files to work on at home and set off for Bedford. She reached the prison in record time, thanks to the rare absence of traffic or accidents, and ninety minutes later was seated in front of Molly.

“I’m sorry. It’s bad news.”

“We lost?”

“Yes.”

Molly blinked. “Are there more appeals?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Molly slumped down in the chair. “So it’s—it’s over.” She paused, opened her mouth to say something, then stopped, as though speaking took a monumental effort. Finally, she said, “I’m going to stay here until I’m old.”

Dani took Molly’s hand in hers. “I’m not going to stop fighting for you. There are some more things we’re trying. Maybe something will turn up from them.”

Molly just hung her chin on her chest and didn’t answer.

“Molly? Don’t give up hope.”

Molly lifted her head. Her eyes looked vacant. When she spoke, her voice was devoid of emotion. “No. I can’t keep hoping. It’s too disruptive. I have to accept this is my fate.”

“But look how things have changed for you. Before, you hadn’t seen Sophie since she was four. Now, she’s come to visit you twice, and I’m sure she’ll continue to see you. Isn’t that something to look forward to?”

Molly shook her head. “It’ll just remind me of what I’ve lost.”

C
HAPTER

42

F
rank Reynolds read the news of the appellate court’s decision with a combination of relief and dismay. Maybe Engles was right. Maybe if a new trial was granted, more would come out about the jail finances. But did he care anymore? He wanted it to be over—the unrelenting guilt that washed over him every time he saw his granddaughter. The excuses he’d used to justify his actions twelve years ago meant little to him now. Then, he thought Molly was guilty. Now he knew better.

He didn’t know who of the others had murdered Molly’s parents, but it had to be one of them. Otherwise Quince Michaels wouldn’t be dead now. Was it Paul Scoby? He’d use every underhanded tactic available to get his candidate elected, but beyond politics he seemed spineless. John Engles? Tougher than Scoby, that was certain. But he’d dedicated himself to a career of law and order. And then there was the judge. Alan Bryson. Frank had never met anyone whose eyes seemed so cold, whose will seemed so strong. He could see Bryson orchestrating the murder of Joe and Sarah Singer. He wouldn’t do it himself. No, he’d never get his hands dirty that way.

He worked late into the night, reluctant to go home and have the conversation with his wife that he dreaded. He needed to have it, though. When he turned himself in, as he’d come to realize he must, everyone would know he was a thief—and a heartless one at that. Betsy had to be told first.

He pulled into his driveway after ten o’clock. The light over the door had been left burning for him, as well as the light inside the foyer. The rest of the house was dark. He knew Betsy often went to sleep before ten. He hung up his coat in the hall closet, then went into the kitchen and poured himself a drink. He brought it into the living room and turned on the television, then switched the channel to the evening news. He sat back, sipped his drink, and let his mind go numb.

He stayed up to watch Letterman’s monologue, then turned off the TV and walked quietly upstairs. He left the bedroom light off, guiding himself by the light from the hallway. After he undressed, then washed up in the bathroom, he slipped into bed next to his wife.

“Frank?” came her drowsy murmur.

“Shh, go back to sleep.”

Betsy stirred in bed. “What time is it?”

“Midnight.”

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

Betsy rolled over to the side of their king-size bed and turned on the lamp. She sat up and looked at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I told you, everything’s fine.”

“Frank Reynolds, we’ve been married almost thirty-five years. I can tell when something’s bothering you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s your tone. It always tells me when something’s off.”

Frank hadn’t wanted to get into it tonight. He knew he’d have to soon, but not yet. He wasn’t strong enough yet.

“Just some county business. Nothing for you to worry about. Go back to sleep.”

And to Frank’s great relief, she did.

Paul Scoby kept waiting for the FBI to show up, an arrest warrant in their hands. When the investigator from HIPP left his store, he knew it would come. At the least, they had him for blackmail. It wouldn’t take much for them to learn he’d gotten seven million dollars for his part in the fraud. Like most Americans, he expected their tentacles were far reaching, including into GBT Bank in the Cayman Islands, where he’d hidden the money. It probably also didn’t matter that the money was in the name of a company instead of his own. They were magicians, the FBI. He was sunk.

It was taking longer for them to come than he’d thought it would, though. And the longer it took, the more frightened he became. He considered walking away from his store and disappearing. But where would he go? He supposed he could fly down to the Cayman Islands, buy a little house with his money there, and live the rest of his life lying out on the beach, with no cares. He’d worked hard his whole life and deserved that. But his daughters and grandchildren lived in Hudson County. He’d never be able to fly back and see them. That would be unbearable. Better than prison, though, he reminded himself.

Once, he would have turned to the judge for advice. He’d called him whenever a wrinkle popped up. Like when Mary Jane said she was going to the police. Her mentor had called Paul that night and told him of Mary Jane’s intentions, begging Paul not to reveal his secret. And then, after her accident, everyone felt safe again.

Only now he was afraid to call the judge. If he told him that the investigator knew about him, about his role, would he be marked for death? Like Quince Michaels? He didn’t know for certain that Bryson was behind it. Or even behind the Singers’ murders. Who else could it be, though? Frank Reynolds wasn’t invested in it the same way as the rest, and although John Engles had the guts, Scoby didn’t think he’d do anything without Bryson’s okay.

He thought about the investigator’s offer. Turn himself in and get a deal. Hand him the others on a silver platter. Then maybe he’d serve a little time, maybe in one of those Club Fed prisons he’d read about. When he came out, he’d be able to live near his family. The money would be gone, though. That was the only thing that kept him from running away—trying to decide which path was worse. And since he hated both choices, he did nothing.

The restaurant he’d chosen was tucked into a hillside on the other side of the Hudson River. Frank had asked Finn to meet him there for lunch and was already seated when Finn walked in the door.

“Hi, Dad,” Finn said when he sat down. “Why’d you pick something so far away?”

“Let’s order first.”

Finn looked through the menu, and when the waitress approached their table, both men gave her their orders.

“So, what’s up?”

“I’ve made a decision, and I want to tell you first. I haven’t even told your mom yet.”

Finn raised his eyebrows.

“I’m going to the FBI. I’m going to tell them about the fraud.”

“You do that, you’ll go to jail.”

“I know. But Molly will be freed. Or at least she’ll get a new trial.”

Finn placed his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands, as though praying. After a few moments of silence, he looked up at his father, his eyes moist.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do. It needs to be done for Sophie.”

“No, Dad.”

“And it needs to be done for me.”

The waitress came to their table with their meals then. When she’d walked away, Finn said, “You’ll be locked up.”

Frank sighed deeply. He pushed the food around on his plate. One day, he hoped Finn would understand. He couldn’t go on, knowing what his actions had led to. Although prison frightened him, the person he’d turned into frightened him more. “I’m prepared for prison, Son.”

Finn looked at him with clear eyes. “If you’re certain about this, I think you should talk to Molly’s lawyer first.”

Frank nodded. They finished their lunch in silence. There was little else to be said.

Instead of returning to the office, Frank went straight home. As soon as he walked in the house, Betsy called out, “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you at work?”

She’d always been intuitive. He’d often wondered if she’d sensed, back so many years ago, that he was about to do something despicable. Probably not. If she’d known, she’d have talked him out of it. He walked into the kitchen where Betsy was busy preparing a pie, pulled her into his body, and planted a big kiss on her lips.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, then confessed the whole sordid mess.

When he finished, she had only one thing to say. “You’re doing the right thing.”

C
HAPTER

43

E
ven without a window in her office, Dani could hear the wind whistling outside. It had been raw this morning. Just the few blocks she’d walked from the parking lot to HIPP’s building put a chill in her that she hadn’t yet shaken, despite two cups of coffee.

She was at her desk, typing a brief on her computer, when Tommy walked in.

“You’ll never guess who I just got a call from.”

Dani turned away from the computer and looked at him. “Who?”

“Frank Reynolds. He wants to come in and talk.”

Dani fell back in her chair and barely contained the whoop fighting its way out of her throat. “Oh my
gosh
, Tommy. This could be the break we’ve waited for. When’s he coming?”

“Today. He’ll be here in two hours.”

Dani buzzed Melanie and asked her to come into her office. When she arrived, Dani told her Tommy’s news. “Let’s think about this. Should we hear him out first, or do you think we should ask Josh Cosgrove to come over?”

“Having a US attorney here might spook him,” Tommy said.

“It might. But if he wants to make a deal, then Cosgrove’s the one to make it happen.”

“Still, we don’t know what he’s going to say or where his head is. I say we wait.”

“Okay. But I’ll give Josh a heads-up. Maybe he can be on standby and come over if Frank is willing to talk to him.”

Tommy nodded. “That makes sense.”

They returned to their offices and Dani turned back to her computer and struggled with just about no success to concentrate on her brief for the next two hours. Finally, her phone buzzed and the receptionist told her Frank Reynolds had arrived.

“Bring him into the conference room and tell Melanie and Tommy to meet me there.”

Dani picked up her coffee mug, now filled with a third cup of coffee, and went to the conference room. She found a tall man dressed in a suit, biting at his lips.

“Mr. Reynolds?”

He stood up and held out his hand.

“I’m Dani Trumball. Thank you for coming in.” As she introduced herself, Tommy and Melanie entered the room. “I believe you know Tom Noorland, and this is my associate, Melanie Quinn.

“Pleased to meet you,” he mumbled as he shook Melanie’s hand.

“Can we get you something to drink? Some coffee or water?”

Reynolds shook his head, then cleared his throat. “I’m set.”

“Okay, then why don’t you tell us why you’re here,” Dani said.

Reynolds cleared his throat again, then rubbed his hands on his thighs. “I, um, I’m here, because, uh, I want to tell you everything, I mean, what I know.”

“We’re listening.”

He leaned forward. “I’m going to go to the FBI after this, you know, to turn myself in. I just thought I should tell you first, so you could get started on helping Molly.”