Presumption of Guilt (26 page)

“Really? You didn’t murder them. Seems like it’d be real easy for you to hand me over to them as the one who killed all those people and cut yourself some sweet deal.”

“You forget. I asked you to take care of Quince. That makes me just as culpable.”

Engles spotted the bottle of scotch on the dresser, walked over, and poured himself a drink, then took a long draw on it.

“If we remain firm, we won’t be convicted,” Bryson said, his voice stern. “But you raise an important issue. They’re going to tell each of us that the other has made a deal and squealed, implicating the other. Don’t believe them. It’s a trick.”

“And how will I know if it’s not a trick?”

“Because I’m telling you right now. I will not talk to them. I will not give them any information. About the money or the murders. Can you promise me the same thing?

Engles took a second swig, then placed his glass down. “Sure.”

“Say it.”

“What is this, kindergarten?”

“Just say it!” Bryson felt like he might literally explode.

“Okay. Okay. I promise.”

Bryson sat back and studied Engles. “You know, we can ensure our acquittals. In fact, we can ensure that we never even get to trial.”

Engles took another swallow of his scotch. “How’s that?”

Bryson smiled and his coal-black eyes almost seemed lively. “Without Scoby and Reynolds they have no case.”

“So?”

“So, why don’t you take care of that problem like you took care of the other problems?” Bryson had thought about this all through the wait leading up to his arraignment. He wished it hadn’t come to this, but he’d been backed into a corner—by two political flacks, no less—and so they’d brought it on themselves. Sure, there was a risk. The spotlight was bound to be on him and Engles. But he’d make sure they had plenty of alibi witnesses. Hadn’t they pulled it off with Quince? The coast guard may have had their suspicious, but they hadn’t proved anything.

Engles stood up and began pacing. He started to speak, then stopped and paced some more. “Before they didn’t know anything about the money, about our involvement in that. If I off them, they’ll know it’s us.”

“They may suspect it, but they’ll have no proof. Do it carefully and they won’t get any.”

Engles sat down on the bed and gulped down the rest of his drink. “I’ll think about it.”

The sheriff walked up Thirty-Fourth Street toward Macy’s. He’d told Kathy he’d meet her there in an hour, and it was almost time. He knew the only way to get her to leave him alone was with the promise of shopping. As he walked, he kept his eye out for one of the numerous electronics stores that popped up every few streets in Manhattan. At the first one, he ducked in and purchased a burner cell phone. He couldn’t make the call on his own cell phone—for all he knew, it was being monitored by the feds. No, he needed secrecy for this call. Once he’d activated the phone, he tapped out a number and, when the call was answered, said, “I have another job for you.”

“I still haven’t collected on the last one. And from what I hear, you’re not going to be in a position to deliver.”

“Do these jobs for me, and I’ll be back as sheriff before you know it. And ready to deliver on our deals.”

The silence on the other end lasted only a minute, but Engles held his breath for what seemed an eternity.

“Okay. Same arrangement as before, right?”

“Right.”

“Tell me who.”

“Paul Scoby and Frank Reynolds.”

“Shutting down the leaks, I see.”

“That’s right. And it needs to happen
now
. No later than tomorrow morning. After that, I expect they’ll be buttoned up in protective custody.”

“Consider it done.”

Engles breathed a sigh of relief. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the phone clean, then dropped it in the first trash receptacle he passed.

C
HAPTER

45

Hudson Valley Dispatch

February 18

Arraigned

Byline: Shannon Evans

Judge Alan Bryson and Sheriff John Engles were arraigned yesterday afternoon in the U.S. District Court in lower Manhattan before the Honorable Judge Edwin Gleeson for theft of government funds, bribery and RICO violations. Both men entered pleas of not guilty. Although Joshua Cosgrove, the assistant U.S. attorney prosecuting them, requested that they be held without bail, arguing that they each had at least $7 million secreted in an offshore bank account, Judge Gleeson released them on bail of $250,000 and ordered them to turn over their passports.

Frank picked up his cell phone on the first ring. He’d just finished reading the morning newspaper and had broken out in a sweat when he learned Bryson and Engles were free. Shaking, he said, “Hello.”

“Frank, this is Josh Cosgrove. I wanted to let you know the judge allowed them to post bail. They did and were released late yesterday.”

“I just read that.”

“I want to put you and your wife in protective custody. We’ll do the same for Paul Scoby.”

“What does that mean?”

“We’ll put you up in an obscure hotel room and post an FBI agent outside around the clock.”

Frank’s stomach was doing somersaults. “How long can that go on?”

“I’m going to convene a grand jury in the next few days. Once your testimony there is on record, they’d have no incentive to harm you. If they did, we’d still be able to read your testimony at the trial. And I’ll make sure they know that. Where are you now?”

“I’m still at home.”

“Stay put. Don’t go outside. An agent will be there in two hours.”

Frank started to breathe more easily. It would be okay. He would come out of this.

Two hours later, right on cue, a black SUV pulled up in front of Frank’s house. Betsy had packed a suitcase for both of them and placed it in the front foyer. Frank watched through the glass at the top of the door as a tall, muscular man exited the passenger side and walked up to his house. When the doorbell rang, he was about to open it when Betsy tugged on his arm.

“Make sure he’s the FBI first,” she whispered.

“Let me see your ID first, “Frank said. “Hold it up to the window.”

Frank watched as the man opened his jacket. Instead of pulling out a badge, the man whipped out a gun that had been slipped inside his pants and raised it quickly toward the glass. Frank had just grabbed Betsy and pulled her to the floor when the gun and window exploded, raining glass upon them. A volley of shots rang through the wooden door as they crawled madly along the floor into the main hall.

“What’s happening?” Betsy cried. Frank could feel her body shaking.

“Stay down. I’m going to try to get to the phone.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Shh. It’ll be okay.”

Just then, they watched in horror as a gloved hand pushed out the remainder of the glass and reached inside for the doorknob.

Frank yanked Betsy to her feet and shouted “Run!” as he led her toward the back door. As they neared it, they saw the face of another man, gun in hand, standing outside. Frank knew he could do nothing but pull Betsy into his arms and hold her tight, prepared for the inevitable. He could offer no words of solace. He’d aligned himself with a killer, and his silence had led to this. He couldn’t bear the thought that he’d put his wife’s life at risk.

They heard a loud gunshot outside, and someone shouted, “Freeze! Move away from there.” Then footsteps running, the sound of car tires squealing, more shots, and finally, a knock on the front door.

“It’s Agent Hawkins, with the FBI. You okay in there?”

Betsy burst out crying and stayed close to Frank as he walked back to the front door, where they found the agent holding his badge open through the empty window.

With wildly shaking hands, barely able to operate the deadbolt, Frank opened the door.

Hawkins looked them over as he pocketed his badge. “You folks sure you’re okay?”

“I think so,” Frank said. He turned to Betsy. “You all right?”

“Oh sure,” she said, her voice wobbling, then held out her hand so they could see it shaking. Frank lifted his quaking hand beside hers, and they shared a choked laugh.

“Plenty of reason for that,” Hawkins said. “That was way too close. Those guys were sent to silence you. Permanently. I wounded one of them. They took off and my partner’s gone after them.”

Hawkins quickly took out his cell phone and punched in some numbers. “We just had an attempted hit here,” he said. “Be careful picking up your package.” When he hung up the phone, he turned back to them. “They’re moving quickly. Here’s hoping they stopped here first instead of Scoby’s.”

“What now? For us?”

“If my partner catches the shooters, he’ll bring them in to the police. Then he’ll come back and pick us up.”

“And if he doesn’t catch them?”

“Then it’s a good thing we have you under protection,”

Two minutes later, Hawkins’s cell phone rang. He looked at the number, then answered. “All okay?”

Frank saw the agent’s lips clench, then heard him say, “Understood,” before he ended the call. Hawkins turned to Frank and shook his head. “They hit Scoby first. He’s dead.”

The two men met in a diner an hour north of town. The judge was dressed in a neatly pressed suit, as he wore every day going to work. Only he had no job to go to. Of course he’d been suspended pending the trial. With pay, fortunately. Engles showed up in ragged jeans and a flannel shirt. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. He, too, had been suspended pending the trial. Without pay. If he were acquitted, he could apply for back pay. Maybe he’d get it, maybe not.

“What went wrong?” Bryson asked, fingertips tapping on the Formica table. “I thought you could handle this. I told you it had to be done quickly.”

Engles glowered at him. “Scoby’s dead enough, isn’t he?”

“This isn’t a baseball game,” Bryson said. “Batting .500 won’t win you a trophy.”

Muttering unintelligibly, Engles turned his scowl on his coffee.

“Any idea where Reynolds is now?”

Engles shrugged. “Protective custody somewhere.”

“You have sources. Can’t you find out where?”

“I’ve tried. I’m a pariah now. And besides, what are you going to do, order in an air strike? Short of that would be suicide.”

Bryson picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. This wasn’t good. It left them vulnerable and that was not acceptable. Still, at least Scoby was out of the picture. He was by far the more dangerous of the two. Unlike Frank, Scoby had been a full partner in their endeavor and privy to more details. With him gone, as long as the feds didn’t find the money, it was the word of just one man—Reynolds—against theirs. He felt confident he could find an accountant who’d testify that the excess payments only amounted to twenty-one million, not the thirty-five million claimed by Ms. Singer’s forensic accountant. And during the months leading up to the trial, he would come up with some reason why Reynolds fabricated a story against him and Engles. It might work—as long as the money stayed hidden.

“We’ve got to move our accounts,” Bryson said.

“Why?”

“Because the others were found in some Caribbean islands. The feds have got to be all over the other islands looking for ours. We need to get it someplace else.”

“Have any ideas where?”

“Dubai.”

Engles looked at him with a blank stare. “Where the hell is that?”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s safer than Switzerland. But we’ll need an agent to go there, present a passport and visa, and set it up.”

“So who’ve you got in mind?”

“Someone I trust. Who can’t be traced back to us. I just need to know if you’re in.”

“Is there any choice?”

“Not really.”

Engles nodded.

“Then I’ll take care of everything. Just remember, we’re innocent and have nothing else to say.”

C
HAPTER

46

“D
id I hear you right?”

Dani smiled broadly. “Yes. It may only be temporary, but you’re getting out.”

“When? How?” Molly asked. Her heart was hammering, and she put a hand to her chest as though that could slow it down.

“The judge granted our new 440 motion. With the indictment of Judge Bryson, and the allegations of his involvement in a criminal enterprise with your father, there was really no choice. The judge ruled that even if a conviction didn’t result, the claims of Reynolds and Scoby, especially since they were against their own interests, were credible and warranted a new trial. Unless the DA decides not to retry you.”

“Is that possible?”

Dani nodded, then added, “But unlikely.”

“In the meantime, the judge said I could go home?”
Thump, thump
—it felt like her heart was singing with joy at this impossible news.

“He said you would be released on bail of one hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

That quieted her heart. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Your sister does—or at least her husband. They’ve already posted it.”

“When? When can I leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my God. I can’t believe it,” she said. She pinched the flesh on the back of her arm, hard. Nothing. “It must be a dream, but if it is, don’t wake me up.”

“No dream. I’ll be here tomorrow morning to pick you up.”

“But where will I go?”

“To Donna.”

She sank in her seat as though the room’s gravity had just been reactivated. “I guess I don’t have any choice, do I? I have no money, no job, no home.”

“No, not really.”

Despite twelve years of shutting her sister out of her life, Molly recognized that Donna’s home was the only workable solution. She had no other family nearby, and with the possibility of a new trial starting soon, she couldn’t leave the county.

“It’ll work out,” Dani assured her. “You’ll see.”

Molly looked at Dani skeptically. Her sister was a virtual stranger to her.

The next morning, Molly walked outside the gates of the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for the first time in twelve years. The sun shone overhead and the temperature had warmed up to a balmy forty-eight degrees. She was dressed in a pair of jeans, a pullover sweater, and a wool jacket, all purchased for her by Donna. None of her old clothes had been saved, and if they had, wouldn’t have fit her anymore. She had gone into prison a child and was now a woman. Her eyes, unused to much time outdoors, burned from the brightness.