Unauthorized Access (18 page)

But they never got their chance. Two days before the trial was to begin, Bruce McGrath helped his children out the door to school, kissed his wife as she left for work, left a suicide note just inside the front door of their split-entry bungalow, went downstairs and blew his brains out.

Lesley saw the note when she opened the front door.

Dear Rose, Lesley and Michael:

I am so ashamed of what my life has become, and even more ashamed that I couldn’t admit to you the truth.

I love you all. Please forgive me.

Lesley immediately understood the reason for the horrible smell in the house. Moreover, those words forever altered her perception of her father.

Children need to have faith in their parents. It’s part of life’s safety net. I trust you Dad. I know you’ll keep a roof over my head. I know you’ll feed me, that there must be an Easter Bunny because you said so, that you’ll be there to pick me up after my tennis lessons.

That’s good enough for me, Dad. I believe it. I
know
it. Because you said so.

She lost that when she read the note.

Lesley had told Rob about her father’s suicide. She had even explained why her mother had moved them to Worcester after therapy failed to quell the nightmares. But she didn’t tell him about the note and her loss of faith.

On the day of her father’s arraignment, fourteen-year-old Lesley cried all afternoon and most of the evening, not wanting to believe what was going on. Her father tucked her into bed that night. He sat on the side of her bed and swore he had not done the awful things the policeman talked about. Lesley heard him say the same words the next day to her brother Michael, and to her mother. In fact, he told everyone who would listen.

“I don’t know why this is happening. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

As she sat in the courtroom and listened to the discussion of Rob’s future, those words echoed in Lesley’s mind.

Over and over again.

Only this time the voice belonged to Rob.

* * *

Steeves took the stand and outlined the evidence gathered by the FBI. The reporters lowered their heads en masse and scribbled while he talked. He was calm and self-assured, a veteran of the witness stand. Rob had to admit he told a convincing story.

Rob noticed the sketch artist was now focused on him. He felt as if he was on display for the entertainment of the masses.

When Steeves was done, Pettigrew declined his opportunity to question him.

Rob leaned over and whispered, “What are you doing? He made me sound guilty as anything.”

Pettigrew shushed him. “Not now.”

“This is my life we’re talking about,” Rob said. “Talk to me.”

“I have no way to refute the evidence, so I’d just be wasting the court’s time and angering the judge.”

“For goodness sake, at least try.”

“I’ll poke and prod and introduce as much doubt as I can when we go to trial,” Pettigrew said, “but there’s no point in doing that today.”

Perfect, Rob thought. Sticking up for me is apparently a waste of time.

With much consulting of calendars and schedules, all parties agreed on a mid-December trial date. All parties except Rob, of course. Once again he was irrelevant to the proceedings.

This opened the way for a discussion of bail. Giordano rose to make her recommendation.

“The defendant is unmarried, your Honor,” she said. “He has no children and in all probability no job to lose at this point, given that the bank in question is his employer. In addition, the losses from this incident are certain to climb into the millions of dollars. Thousands of businesses and citizens have been affected and the damage to the reputation of the First Malden Bank could be irreparable, with potentially disastrous consequences. An offense of this nature could result in a sentence of ten to fifteen years. These factors combine to form a significant risk of flight. Moreover, the financial exposure of the victim in this case will grow significantly if the accused disappears and is subsequently unavailable to help the bank repair its electronic data records. To protect against this, we recommend bail be set at three hundred thousand dollars.”

“Mr. Pettigrew?” the judge said.

Rob’s lawyer rose to his feet.

“Your Honor, my client has no prior criminal record and poses no risk to the public if released on bail. Mr. Donovan is engaged to be married, has lived his entire life in Massachusetts and has significant ties to the community. He also hopes to retain his job with the bank by showing he is innocent in this matter. Mr. Donovan has much to lose by flight. The defendant requests the court consider setting bail at a significantly lower amount than that recommended by the State.”

In the end, the judge pronounced the amount to be two hundred thousand dollars, plus the condition that Rob stay away from all premises of the First Malden Bank.

“But frankly,” the judge said, “I’m surprised this case is even going to trial. Has every effort been made to settle this matter?”

“It has, your Honor, with no success,” Giordano said.

Rob leaned in to whisper again. “Why is he surprised?”

“That’s his not-so-subtle way of wondering out loud if I’ve done my job,” Pettigrew whispered back. “The evidence seems cut and dried to him. He figures we should have worked a deal and pled guilty.”

* * *

Lesley, of all people, should have been prepared for the crush of microphones and video camera lights that greeted her and the rest of Rob’s entourage when they stepped out of the courtroom after Rob’s hearing. After all, she often joined the throngs of reporters trying to catch the words of some local notable on their way into or out of court. The first query was aimed at Rob’s lawyer.

“Can you comment on the charges against your client?”

“No comment,” Pettigrew said.

Sensing a brick wall, the microphones swung immediately in Lesley’s direction.

“Has your boyfriend said anything to you about the charges against him?”

Lesley recognized the reporter asking the question; she worked for one of the local newspapers. Lesley couldn’t remember which one.

Pettigrew turned to Lesley. “For Rob’s sake,” he said, “I’d advise you not to say anything.”

Lesley looked back at the earnest faces of the reporters and thought of how recently she had been one of them. The experience was certainly different on this side of the microphone. She felt exposed and fragile.

“Why don’t we all go in there,” Pettigrew said, pointing to a doorway a short distance down the hall. “We can talk for a minute.”

The lawyer led the way, followed by the Donovans, Stan Dysart, Lesley, her mother and Tim. The door led into a plain room with a medium-sized wooden table and a few straight-backed wooden chairs. Rose and Tim hung back in the hallway. Once everyone else was in, Pettigrew shut the door on the hubbub in the hallway and addressed Owen Donovan.

“I assume Rob will require some assistance raising the bail money. I can recommend a bail bondsman. ”

“We’ll find a way,” Owen said, “even if it means putting up our house.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Dysart said. “I’ll put up the bail.”

Lesley stared at her uncle in disbelief.

“That’s … well … you don’t need to do that,” Owen said.

“Rob is my employee and my friend,” Dysart said, “not to mention Lesley’s fiancé. The least I can do is make sure he doesn’t have to stay in jail any longer than is absolutely necessary. I’m sure you could handle it without me, but I can make the money appear quickly and easily.”

“Still,” Owen said, “given the circumstances, what they’re saying Rob did to you.”

Dysart made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Innocent until proven guilty, right?” He looked at Pettigrew. “How soon can Rob be released?”

“If you can write a check, I can have bail processing start right away. It shouldn’t take long.”

Dysart pulled out his checkbook and before long the group was ready to brave the media gauntlet again.

* * *

A couple of hours later Rob and Lesley sat on a bench by the Charles River Basin while seagulls wheeled lazily overhead. Pigeons squabbled and searched the paved walkway for tidbits.

The late-morning sun struggled to provide the heat it would so easily dispense during the afternoon. Lesley hugged herself to stay warm but Rob knew this was not the right moment to slide over and put an arm around her. The walk from the courthouse had been a silent affair.

Rob had never truly understood what freedom meant before. The on-again, off-again breeze felt fresher on his face than he could ever remember. The walkway stretched off into the distance along the river and he was free to walk the entire length of it if that was what he felt like doing. He could choose. No bars or guards prevented him from standing up and walking off. The simple fact of it was intoxicating.

He looked to his right, toward where the Charles River met the Atlantic. He pictured himself on the water, rowing. Long, effortless strokes that propelled him further and further east with each pull. Spray from the bow splashed on his back, soaking him, cleansing him. Freeing him. He could just keep going, never look back.

Or a quick plane ride. But to where? South America, maybe. Which countries had extradition treaties?

Right. As if.

No, in two short months he had to go back in a courtroom and face the possibility—the strong possibility it seemed—of going to prison. He felt a cold shiver shake his shoulders and run down his back.

Lesley interrupted his thoughts. “It was nice of your parents to give Mom a lift back to my place.”

“They’re heading back home to Worcester, and it was right on their way.” Rob shrugged. “And I think they could tell we wanted to be alone.”

She took a deep, raggedy breath.

“This is a nightmare,” she said without looking at him. “The whole thing. The engagement, Uncle Stan, the mess at the TV station. Even my mother. It feels like the whole world exploded and the pieces landed on us.”

“What’s wrong with your mother?”

“She’s upset,” Lesley said. “Doesn’t want me to get hurt.”

Rob felt himself deflate even more. “And she thinks I’m some big criminal.”

Lesley didn’t deny it, which was answer enough.

“Figures,” he said.

The hardening of Lesley’s jaw and the sharp flash of her eyes should have been a warning to Rob of what was to come. He was in no mood to read the signs, though, even those the size of billboards.

“It really ticks me off that everybody assumes the police are right about me,” he said. “This is hard enough without people jumping to conclusions.”

“Don’t lay your problems on her. She didn’t cause them.”

Rob scowled at her. “Oh, and I did, right?”

Her nostrils flared as she returned his glare. “You think this is easy for me?” she said. “I feel like I’m being ripped apart by chains pulling in ten different directions.”

“You’re not the one they want to throw in prison.”

“No? Yesterday the FBI accused me of being an accomplice. They asked about Monday night. Wanted to know if you used your computer while I was in the bathroom or if I helped you do it.”

Rob’s temples started to throb. “I didn’t go near the computer.”

“Somebody did, and nobody else was there.”

Rob leaned his head back, grabbed his hair with both hands and shouted at the sky.

“Great. This is just … perfect.”

A tiny dog happened to be walking by. It jumped and skittered away at the sound of Rob’s outburst. The elderly lady holding the leash quickened her pace and scuttled away, looking back at them over her shoulder.

Lesley crossed her arms and legs and looked away. Her foot started pumping in agitation.

“Do you think I’d create all these headaches on purpose?” Rob said. “Is that who you think I am?”

“No, but—”

“But what? But the FBI has a fingerprint. That should be enough to wipe out everything we’ve been through together, shouldn’t it?”

She turned her head away from him. He could see her jaw working from side to side in tiny, jerky movements.

“If I really did want to mess with the bank’s computers,” he said, “why would I be stupid enough to leave behind all that evidence pointing at myself?”

Rob felt the hurt sting his eyes when she didn’t respond. He stood up abruptly, took a few steps, and stood with his back to her, arms crossed, looking toward the water but not seeing. A vast emptiness seemed to open up in his gut.

“You don't believe me, do you?” he said.

He waited, wanting to look at her but afraid of what he might see. No answer came.

“Fine,” he said, and started to walk upriver. He had no idea where he was going, only that he didn’t want to stay where he was.

Rob felt Lesley’s hand on his elbow. He stopped and turned back to face her. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“I want more than anything to believe you,” she said. “If someone had asked me a week ago if you were capable of this sort of thing, I would have laughed in their face. But how can you explain all the stuff that FBI guy talked about in court today? It just doesn’t seem possible.”

He wrenched his arm out of her grasp.

“I shouldn’t have to explain anything,” he said. “We’re going to be married, for crying out loud. You should trust me by now.”

Lesley raised her hands in exasperation. “How can we make wedding plans with all this going on? Oh, I know, we’ll get invitations made. Ceremony at three, reception to follow—if the groom isn’t in prison, that is. And we can tell the guests about the night we slipped the ring on me and the handcuffs on you.”

“If it’s such a problem for you, maybe we shouldn’t bother.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I want someone who believes in me,” Rob shouted.

“I did,” Lesley shouted back, “and look where that got us.”

“Fine. Just forget it.”

Rob turned and started to walk away again. Something small hit his back and landed with a tinkling noise on the walkway. He swung around to see Lesley running in the opposite direction.

The diamond ring lay at his feet.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN