There, I could see the blurred face of Neubauer's platinum Cartier watch as he swung a blackjack at Peter's neck.
And there, while two other burly shapes pinned back Peter's arms, I caught the silver streaks of the buckle on Neubauer's loafer as he kicked Peter's ribs.
There was a face half-hidden in the shadows — but I could tell it was Frank Volpi's. He'd lied about being there, but of course, why wouldn't he lie? Everyone else had.
The last picture was the most hellish. I slapped it up on the wall and watched Molly's lens zoom in. I knew it would be engraved on my retina forever.
At the instant that particular picture was taken, there must have been a break in the cloud cover. As Peter lay broken at the feet of his murderers, his face was momentarily illuminated.
It was like a candlelit face in a Caravaggio, the face of a young man who knew that he was down to his last few seconds and that no one was going to save him. The horror in his eyes was too much, and even though I'd seen the photograph before, I had to look away.
"Is there any end to this shameless grandstanding?" screamed Montrose. "In all of these pictures, you can see only a single face, and that's the victim's."
"The prosecutor will approach the bench," snapped Macklin. "Right now."
When I got there, he was as angry as I'd ever seen him. "Montrose is right. These pictures are useless, and you know it. What the hell are you doing, Jack? Do you have a point to make?"
"Fuck Montrose. And Neubauer. And fuck you." I spat out the words. Then I started to cry. I just lost it. "I don't care whether these pictures have value as evidence. They show Peter getting beaten to death on a beach by Neubauer and two goons, one of whom is Volpi. If I have to see it in my head for the rest of my life, then so do they. Peter didn't kill himself, he didn't drown — he was murdered, Mack. That's what it shows."
Macklin reached up and grabbed my wet face with both huge hands. He squeezed it hard as if it were a bleeding wound he was trying to staunch.
"Jack. Listen to me," he said with a heartbreaking smile. "You're doing a fine job, better than that. Don't let it get away from you now, son. Do you have anything to finish off these bastards? Please say yes, Jack."
Chapter 108
DON'T LET IT GET AWAY FROM YOU NOW.
When Peter and I were kids, our father told us a story about a huge rat that got into his and my mother's apartment in Hell's Kitchen. It was a freezing December morning. He had my mother, who was pregnant with me, sit in a coffee shop across the street.
Then my father borrowed a shovel from the super and walked back up the five flights to face the rat. He found it in the living room at the end of the railroad flat, scurrying along the wall, trying to nose a way out. It was the size of a small cat, at least ten pounds, with a shiny orange-brown pelt.
Brandishing the shovel, my father backed it into a corner. The rat tried to get past, making feints left and right, but when he saw that it was no use, he bared his teeth and waited. When my father cocked the shovel over his right shoulder like a Louisville Slugger, the rat leaped at him!
With a desperate swing, my father knocked it out of the air like a furry, gray-tailed softball. The rat bounced off the wall hard enough to knock over half the books on the shelves. My father barely had time to recock the shovel before the rat was flying back at him. Again the shovel caught it flush. Again the rat crashed into the wall. My father knocked it out of the air two more times before he could kill it.
When I called Barry Neubauer to the stand, he looked at me the way that rat must have looked up at my father that winter morning.
Without taking his beady eyes off me, he twitched and he seethed. His long fingers were white where they clasped the arms of his chair.
And he didn't budge.
I was starting to breathe a little hard.
"You want me to sit on your stage," he hissed. "You're going to have to drag me up there. But that wouldn't look good on television, would it, golden boy?"
"We'd be delighted to drag you up here," said Macklin, stepping down off his platform. "Hell, I'll do it myself."
After making certain his arms and legs were securely tethered to the chair, Mack and I got on either side of him. We hoisted Neubauer into the air.
As soon as his feet left the ground, he struggled against his restraints worse than the Mudman had in his dying moments. By the time we plopped him on the stand, his face and hair were covered with sweat. Behind his expensive wire-rim glasses, his pupils had shrunk to pinpoints.
"What do you have to show us now, Counselor?" he asked in an angry, grating whine that set my teeth on edge. It was the same demeaning tone he used with employees at his house. "More dirty pictures? Proving what? That photographic images can be manipulated by computer? C'mon, Jack, you must have something better than that."
Neubauer's last taunt was barely out of his lips when there was a knock at the door at the back of the room.
"Actually, I do have something else to show you. In fact, here it comes now."
Chapter 109
NERVOUSLY LOOKING AT HER FEET, the way anyone might if she found herself walking through a lengthy room with half of America watching, Pauline slowly made her way to the front. I couldn't help feeling proud of her. She had stuck with this all the way to the end.
When she got to my side, she slipped me a piece of paper. I read it with my heart in my throat. It said, East Hampton, L.A., Manhattan — 1996.
Then, because she felt like it, I guess, she kissed me softly on the cheek and took a seat beside Marci.
"There is one thing you could clear up for me," I said to Neubauer, gesturing toward the pictures on the wall. "Didn't anyone ever ask you to use a condom?"
His thin slits of eyes narrowed even more. "Is this where you turn this whole thing into a public-service announcement? I told them they had nothing to worry about. I have myself tested all the time."
"I see. So, you lied to these people."
Neubauer's eyes grew even darker, and he twisted his neck at me. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about not telling the truth. It's called lying. You lied to these people. Your wife, Tricia Powell, the Fitzhardings. My brother."
"You're crazy. Anyone can see that. This is absurd. You're a madman."
"Remember those blood samples we took when you arrived? We had yours tested for HIV."
"What are you talking about?" Neubauer bellowed.
"You're positive, Mr. Neubauer. We ran it through three times. Your Honor, the People offer this lab report as People's Exhibit D."
"You had no right," he screeched, rocking his chair so violently that it nearly tipped off the platform.
"What's the difference whether we had the right? If you had yourself tested all the time, we just saved you the trouble."
"It's not a crime to be sick," Neubauer said.
"No, but it is a crime to knowingly expose your partners to HIV."
"I didn't know I was HIV-positive until this minute," Neubauer snarled.
"I guess that might have been possible if it weren't for the AZT we found in your blood. Then we got your old pharmacy records. The People offer these records as People's Exhibit E. We had no right to do that, either, but you killed my brother, so we did it anyway. We found you've had prescriptions for AZT in East Hampton, Los Angeles, and Manhattan. Since 1996."
Neubauer's whole body was shaking. He didn't want to hear anymore. Montrose was on his feet, shouting objections that Mack overruled. The Fitzhardings and Tricia Powell were screaming at Neubauer. So was Frank Volpi, who had to be restrained by Hank and Fenton.
"Order!" shouted Mack from his chair. "I mean it!"
"Would it surprise you to learn that in the past two weeks," I continued, "we've tracked down twelve people from the photographs on this wall and in this envelope. Not including my brother, who you also probably infected, seven have since tested positive."
Marci wheeled the camera around behind Neubauer. As I spoke to him,
I was virtually looking into the lens.
"Your Honor, the People now offer seven sworn affidavits by seven individuals who, based on the timing of the results, all believe they were infected by Barry Neubauer. Most important, they state in their affidavits that Neubauer lied to them about his HIV status."
"This is all a lie," Neubauer continued to scream at me. He was shaking uncontrollably in his chair. "Make him stop telling these lies about me, Bill!"
I slowly walked toward Barry Neubauer. He'd always been so smug and controlled. He didn't believe anybody could touch him. He was smart, he was rich, he was the CEO of a major corporation, he owned people. Only now, his dark eyes looked as doomed as Peter's had on the beach.
"In New York State, knowingly exposing someone to HIV is first-degree assault. It's punishable by up to twelve years in prison. That's on each count. Twelve times twelve works out to a hundred forty-four years in prison. I could live with that."
I bent down close to the bastard's face. "My brother was flawed; who isn't? But he was basically a good person, a good brother. Peter never hurt anybody. You killed him. I can't prove it, but I got you anyway, you bastard. How about that?"
I straightened up and addressed Molly's lens for the last time. "The People v. Barry Neubauer," I said, "rest their case. We're out of here."
Chapter 110
IT WAS ALMOST FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON when Fenton and Hank led our guests out the front door and released them. "Go forth and multiply," Fenton said.
For a while we all stood blinking in the golden East End light, not knowing quite what to do next.
The Fitzhardings, Campion, and Tricia Powell drifted off to one end of the porch. They sat quietly together, their feet dangling over the side, their eyes staring vacantly at the unsodded lot. Frank Volpi found his own spot nearby. "Jeez," Pauline said, "they look like day laborers waiting for a lift home. Maybe clothes do make the man, and woman. I need to rethink everything."
Bill Montrose sat alone on the stoop about ten feet away from the others. Still tethered to the old beach chair, Barry Neubauer sat where Fenton and Hank had planted him after carrying him out of the house. His eyes barely moved. No one came over to talk to him, not even his lawyer.
"That's a nice image," Pauline said. "Barry Neubauer alone and broken. I'm going to hang on to it for a rainy day."
We outfitted Marci, Fenton, and Hank with bathing suits, beach towels, and flip-flops. Then we sent them wandering off in separate directions like three more sun-addled vacationers. Since they had never appeared on camera, there was no one to verify their involvement, except for the hostages. We hoped they'd be too distracted with their own problems to worry about the three of them.
Molly dragged her tripod to the driveway and looked for the best vantage point to shoot the big final scene. Pauline, Mack, and I sat down at the end of the porch away from our guests. We were blown away and as exhausted as they were.
We leaned against one another more than against the wall of the house. We soaked up some sun. Late-afternoon rays always seem the most precious, even at the beginning of the summer, but these were even more so. They felt like, I don't know, affection.
"I love you, Pauline," said Mack, breaking the silence.
"Love you back," said Pauline, too tired to lift her head off my chest.
I cleared my throat ostentatiously until Mack added, "Don't get maudlin, Jack. We're quite fond of you, too."
After a while Mack got up with a groan and walked over to where Tricia Powell was sitting. He reached into her tote and pulled out a chrome Nokia. She was too tired to complain. "Don't worry, Trish," said Mack, "it's local."
"Anyone have anything profound to say before the shit hits the fan?" he asked when he returned.
"Thanks," I said. "I couldn't have done it without you. Couldn't have done a thing. I love you both."
"Anyone want to add something we don't know?" replied Mack as he settled back down with us. "Okay, then."
Mack tapped the phone's tiny rubber pads with his enormous splayed fingers, then smiled with exaggerated delight when it started ringing. "Damn thing actually works."
"This is Mack Mullen," he told whoever picked up at the police station. "Me, my grandson, and his beautiful girl are sitting around with the Neubauers, the Fitzhardings, and some of our other favorite people on earth. We were wondering if you wanted to stop by. We're at the Kleinerhunt place. Oh, one other thing. No one's hurt and no one's armed. There's no need to do anything silly. We'll go peacefully."
Then he snapped the little phone shut like a clam, and hurled it off the porch into the sand. "They should ban those things."
Less than five minutes later, about a hundred cops and federal agents roared up Montauk's Main Street in their various marked and unmarked cars amid wailing sirens that sounded like the end of the world.
Because the Coast Guard helicopters got there just before them, we didn't hear a thing as they arrived to arrest us.
EPILOGUE
Chapter 111
IT WAS ALMOST FIVE MONTHS LATER. Pauline, Macklin, and I were sitting in the far corner of a bar near Foley Square. We were sipping muddy Guinnesses. Except for the bartender and a white cat, the place was empty. Most bars are at eleven in the morning, even in boomtown New York.
"May he rot in jail," said Macklin, dusting off his favorite toast since the start of the summer. For the record, it looked as if Barry Neubauer would. His first manslaughter trial had just begun. And there were twelve more lined up behind it like Mercedes and Audi station wagons at a Route 27 traffic light.
And here was the best part. Because of the likelihood of Neubauer's trying to flee the country, he was spending his nights and weekends on Rikers Island until the last verdict was in the books. The stock of Mayflower Enterprises had dropped to under two dollars. Barry Neubauer was ruined.
As for the three of us, that day would probably be our last day of Guinness-sipping freedom for some time. Our lawyer, Joshua Epstein, the same guy representing Molly and Channel 70, refused to have a drink with us before we headed over to court in another few minutes. He'd already prepared us, though — he didn't think our chances were good.
Mack was utterly unfazed. Then again, he was eighty-seven. He said he wanted to throw a Memorial Day party of his own to replace the gaping Beach House hole in the Hamptons social calendar. "I want to throw a real party," said Macklin, wiping the foam off his lips. "Something that will make those Puff Daddy shindigs that everyone gets so bent out of shape over seem like an afternoon tea."
"I feel you, Macklin," said Pauline.
"I don't want to be a party pooper," I told the two of them, "but it's time to go. We have a date in court."
"I prefer this bar," said Mack, and grinned like the madman he is.
"Let's go face the music," I said.
Chapter 112
AS PAULINE, MACK, AND I approached the steps of the U.S. district court in Foley Square, we were met by our nervous-looking attorney, Josh Epstein, and a crush of reporters, their lights and microphones and cameras pushing against the blue-and-white police barricades.
"My clients have no comment," Josh said, waving off the press hordes and throwing a stern stare at Mack and me. Then Josh led us on a brisk ascent of the limestone steps, into the column-lined entryway, through the metal detectors, and onto the elevator.
We rode the elevator to the twenty-third floor in silence. As the doors to the elevator slid open, Mack cleared his throat. "In the words of that old Irishman Benjamin Franklin, 'We must all hang together, or most assuredly, we will hang separately.' "
The courtroom of the Honorable James L. Blake looked not the least like our "people's courtroom" on the cliffs of Montauk. With thirty-foot ceilings, chandeliers, and polished mahogany paneling and benches for the public, it could have been the Old Whalers' Church in Sag Harbor.
We took our seats at the defense table as Josh chatted in hushed tones with the assistant U.S. attorney assigned to our case. Dressed in a plain
gray suit, white button-down shirt, and red and blue silk rep tie, AUSA Arthur Marshall was reasonable yet stern, determined to "exercise his prosecutorial discretion" in accordance with the Department of Justice operating manual.
Three months earlier Mack, Pauline, and I had all entered guilty pleas to a two-count indictment, charging us with conspiracy to kidnap and the actual kidnapping of Barry Neubauer, Campion Neubauer, William Montrose, Tom Fitzharding, Stella Fitzharding, Tricia Powell, and Frank Volpi. There had been no point in going through with a trial; we knew what we were doing, and why. At the time we entered our guilty pleas, we were informed by Judge Blake of the price we would have to pay for the justice that we had gotten for Peter: "At the time of sentencing, you will face a custodial sentence of not less than twenty years."
Today was that day.
"All rise!" commanded the bailiff as the Honorable James L. Blake entered the courtroom.
The crowd in the courtroom "pews" rose as the elderly judge lumbered up the steps to the bench, his black robe dragging on the floor behind him. He looked almost as old as Mack, and just as thorny. He took his seat and glared out at the courtroom.
"Be seated," he barked.
"The United States versus Jack Mullen, Macklin Reid Mullen, and Pauline Grabowski," called out the bailiff. "This case is on for sentencing."
Chapter 113
"IS THE GOVERNMENT PREPARED TO PROCEED?" asked the judge.
"The government is ready, Your Honor," replied Marshall, rising to his feet.
"The defense?"
"We are ready to proceed," said Josh, looking a bit green around the gills.
"Well, then, have a seat, gentlemen," said the judge. "We're likely to be here for some time."
With that, Josh and Arthur Marshall exchanged a quick glance and sat down.
"I have been deeply troubled by the actions of the defendants in this case, as I am in every criminal case," began Judge Blake.