Molly, Tom and Martin watched speechlessly as the off-screen director orchestrated what was ultimately a ménage à trois. Then the tape abruptly ended. The three of them sat without speaking while Vail rewound the tape. Vail turned to Molly. “Will you excuse us for just a minute, Molly,” he said.
She didn’t seem perturbed by the request.
“How about a drink?” she asked. “We could probably all use one after that.”
“Good idea,” Goodman said.
She went into the kitchen.
“Okay, where’d you get the tape, Tom?” Vail asked when she was out of the room.
“Look, what you don’t know—”
“Where’d you get the fucking tape?”
“The bishop’s bedroom. It was in the closet with the rest of his taped sermons.”
“You lifted evidence from the scene of the crime?”
“I just borrowed it.”
“Christ, they have an inventory list of those tapes.”
“I took a blank tape and switched them.”
Annoyed but impressed, Vail didn’t know whether to laugh or be angry.
“For all we know, they’ve already seen it,” he said.
“Not a chance. It would be in the evidence room. They wouldn’t leave something like that lying around.”
“If Venable finds out about this your career will end before it starts. We’ll probably both be doing paralegal work in Bolivia.”
“So …I’ll go over and switch it back.”
“I didn’t say to do that either,” Vail said. “It’s a hell of a hit. Now we’ve got to figure out what to do with it.”
Molly returned to the room carrying the drinks on a small serving tray. As she put them on the table, Vail said, “Molly, I don’t want you to discuss what you just saw with anybody, not even the Judge or Naomi unless I say so.”
“Not even Aaron?”
Vail thought for a minute, then said, “Don’t tell him you saw the tape, just tell him what Tom reported. Aaron’s not in it anyway. Do we know who the others are?”
“The tall boy is Billy Jordan,” Goodman said. “The short one is a kid named Peter. And the girl is Linda.”
“Aaron’s Linda?”
Goodman nodded.
“Jesus!” Vail said. He looked at Molly. “Bishop Richard Rushman, the Frank Capra of child porn. No wonder the kid’s screwed up!”
“So how do we handle it?” Goodman asked.
Vail did not answer. Instead, he stood up and started pacing the room. “He’s thinking,” Goodman told Molly.
“Martin, the implications here are enormous,” said Molly. “Religious and sexual disorientation are leading causes of mental disorders. So first Reverend Shackles damns Aaron to hell. Then his father takes him into a living hell, the hole. He’s seduced by his teacher. The bishop not only perverts his sexual experiences, but tells him he’s ridding himself of the devil doing it. And his girlfriend is a sexual victim! It seems to me—”
Vail held up his hand and stopped her. He turned to Goodman. “How are we going to prove it?” he asked.
“Prove what?”
“That the ominous voice in the background belongs to Bishop Rushman? We never see the bishop. Without ironclad corroboration, the prosecution can claim that voice could belong to anybody. You said yourself Alex won’t testify.”
“My guess is that Alex is probably on his way to Alaska by now,” Goodman said dejectedly.
“How about Peter or Linda?” Vail asked.
“We’ll have to find them first—and convince them to go on the stand.”
“So it’s Aaron’s word against the unseen—and dead—director.”
“That’s right.”
“Was anyone else in the church involved?” Molly asked.
“I don’t think so,” Goodman said. “From what I can piece together from Alex, Rushman recruited these kids under the guise of proselytizing them. The altar boy thing was just a front for his private porn club. I believe Aaron met Linda when she was brought in as the ‘mascot.’ She was fourteen at the time and they all lived at Savior House.”
“Which is another reason they were afraid to blow the whistle on the bishop.”
“Possibly,” said Molly. “But I should think the real reason is humiliation and embarrassment They’d fear censure from the public more than from their peers.”
“And there’s the power of the bishop in the community,” said Vail. “A bunch of teenage runaways and ex-junkies attacking the bishop? Forget it.”
“Unless we can prove that’s Rushman’s voice on the tape,” said Goodman.
“Would you swear to a jury that the man speaking is Bishop Rushman?”
“Hell, I didn’t even know him. But we can get the voice analyzed. We can’t cover this up!”
“We’re not covering anything up, Tommy,” said Vail, still pacing. “We’re considering what’s best for our client. We’re in the same boat those kids are in. If we introduce that tape, use it in any way to discredit Rushman, we’ll be accused of trying to destroy the so-called Saint of Lakeview Drive to save Aaron Stampler. And if the whole story comes out—that these kids were in a sex club for two years and never said anything about it—it could provide Venable with a perfect motive for the murder—jealousy—and make everyone look bad but Rushman.”
“You can’t ignore it.”
“I can if it’s going to help bum my client,” Vail said, whirling on Goodman and stabbing his finger toward him. “Forget your anger toward the bishop, Tommy, he’s dead and his problem died with him. Our job is to keep Aaron Stampler alive.”
“And what if Aaron brings it up?” Molly asked.
“I’ll worry about that if it happens.”
“A very hot potato,” the Judge was saying over breakfast at Butterfly’s the next morning. “If either side introduces this evidence into the trial, it is risking serious backlash from the public and the jury.”
Vail did not show the tape to either Naomi or the Judge. But he had filled them both in and Goodman had given them a complete report of his conversation with Alex. Molly had left before dawn, anxious to get back to Daisyland and further sessions with Aaron.
“What if the prosecutor finds out about it?” said Goodman.
“She doesn’t have to use it,” the Judge answered.
“Why not?” Naomi asked.
“If I were the prosecutor, I’d pass on it,” the Judge answered. “The only reason to use it would be to establish a motive for the murder. Even if Venable suspects the voice belongs to His Excellency, the tape itself isn’t proof of anything. It’s three kids screwing. She would claim the evidence is inconclusive and choose to ignore it.”
“But we could get it in discovery, right?”
“If we asked for it, yes. They would have to turn it over to us. You know, I find it difficult to believe that somebody doesn’t know about this except those five kids and us.”
“None of the altar boys or the girl would talk about it, they’d be afraid to and probably ashamed. Look at it from their point of view: Rushman’s one of the most powerful men in the city. Are five kids going to squeal on him? I don’t think so.”
He laid the torn slip of paper on the table and Vail stared down at it.
“This is how I got the lead. It was stuck under my windshield at Savior House.”
“So,” Vail said, “is the whistle-blower one of the group or somebody on the outside who knew about it?”
“I don’t know,” Goodman answered. “I talked to several of the kids at Savior House. The way I put it to them, I was looking for character witnesses for Aaron, kids that would stand up for him. I didn’t know about the altar boys at the time, I was just fishing. Maybe some of them do know about it. I could go back…”
“Not yet,” said Vail. “Let’s not tip our hand until we know how we’re going to use the information.”
“You mean we’re really going to protect Rushman after what he did?” Goodman said.
br /> “That’s not the point, Thomas,” the Judge said.
“Well what the fuck is the point? You once said that facts don’t cease to exist just because they’re ignored,” Goodman said, an edge in his voice.
“Right, m’ boy,” the Judge answered. “I’ve also said that sometimes people don’t want to hear the truth because they don’t want their illusions destroyed. This isn’t a philosophy debate; a boy’s life is at stake here. If Rushman was a pederast, the man on the street—or the jury—may not want to hear about it.”
“I always thought truth and justice went hand in hand,” said Goodman.
“Very noble,” said the Judge. “But naïve. Unfortunately truth has nothing to do with justice.”
“It’s perception,” Vail said. “In photography it’s called selective focus. You show the viewers only part of the picture, but the image is so strong they perceive it to be the whole truth.”
The Judge smiled rather sadly, and said, “Truth is what the jury thinks.”
That afternoon, Vail had a copy made of the tape and gave the original to Goodman, who returned to the bishop’s apartment and switched it for the blank. If Stenner and Venable discovered the tape, it would be their problem. If they did not use it, Vail would have the option.
Vail wrapped the copy in a plain brown envelope and mailed it to himself from the downtown post office. When it arrived two days later, he put it in his safe-deposit box.
TWENTY-ONE
It was Friday the eleventh, well into the middle of March, and Martin Vail was on his way to have lunch with Roy Shaughnessey.
The day Guido Signatelli became an American citizen he celebrated by opening a restaurant three blocks from City Hall called Avanti! The name included the exclamation point. It precisely expressed Guido’s exuberant perspective on life. Handsome, debonair, the perfect host, and master of the best Italian kitchen in the state, Signatelli had but one flaw: hopelessly tacky taste. Plastic grapes and dusty Chianti bottles dangled from phony grape arbors that crisscrossed the ceiling, and the booths that lined the walls were shaped like giant wine barrels. But Guido and Avanti! had survived on the strength of personality, discretion and dazzling cuisine. Through the years, Guido’s (the regulars never referred to the place by its name) had become the lunchtime county seat. And on Fridays, the legal profession dominated the fake landscape. The pecking order was obvious and predictable. On the bottom rung of Guido’s ecological chart were the lobbyists, their mouths dry and their palms damp as they paid homage to everybody. They were followed by young lawyers eager to be seen as they cruised the room, hoping for a handshake. Next came the assistant prosecutors, huddled over out-of-the-way tables and whispering strategy. Then came the kingmakers, the politicos who greased the wheels of the city from behind closed doors in what was jokingly called “executive session”—to avoid the state’s sunshine laws. Many a shady executive decision had been made in the quiet of one of Guido’s booths. Finally there were the judges, the emperors of justice, each at his own preordained table, each patronized by his or her own table of mewing sycophants, and each pandered by the rest of the room. And lording over it all from his booth near the bar was Roy Shaughnessey, his power impervious to change or political climate. Even the judges stopped by to kiss his ring.
When Vail came in, Guido greeted him with a bear hug. “Where you been, Marty? You gettin’ ta be a big shot, win all those cases?”
“You been reading the newspapers, Guido? Watching television?”
“So, they hand you a hot potato, you still gotta eat,” he said, leading him to Shaughnessey’s booth. Heads followed their journey across the room like waves in the wake of a boat.
Vail, Roy Shaughnessey’s guest? Could a deal on the Bishop Rudman case be simmering?
“We’ll probably make the columns, Roy,” Vail said as he sat down. “The executioner and his victim, breaking bread-sticks at Guido’s Friday lunch.”
“Come on,” Roy said with a wave of his hand. “That was Harry’s choice. He wanted the best so he got you.”
Vail laughed. “Roy, Hangin’ Harry calls you every night to get permission to go to bed.”
“Watch your step, he’s in the room.”
“Of course he’s in the room,” Vail answered as the waiter approached. “He needs his weekly fix of bondage from the peons, he doesn’t get enough in court.” He looked up at the waiter. “I’ll have a draft beer, a glass of tomato juice, and an empty frosted mug.”
“Si,” the waiter said, and hurried away. Guido’s waiters, all of whom were related to him in some way, many of them recent arrivals from Sicily, always hurried. In eighteen years, nobody had ever complained of waiting too long for their food or drink at Avanti!
“So? How’s it going?” Shaughnessey asked, buttering a breadstick.
“How do you think? I go to trial in a month.”
“A month and fifteen days to be exact,” Shaughnessey said. “Everybody’s going to breathe a sigh of relief when this one’s over and we can get back to business.” He chewed off half the stick in one bite and washed it down with a glass of red wine, then dabbed his lips with his napkin.
Vail leaned across the table and said softly, “What is this, Roy, my last meal? Some kind of public humiliation?”
“No, no!” Shaughnessey said seriously. “Nothing like that. I thought it was time we broke bread together. Got to know each other. Drinking brandy in the back seat of a limo’s no way to get to know a man. By the way, you like oysters? The oysters are superb today. Guido sent a sample by.”
“Where are they from?”
“What difference does it make? I told you they’re superb.”
“I want to know if they come from polluted waters. You don’t want your defense attorney to get hepatitis, do you?”
“You never did get over that case, did you?”
“You do a lot of homework, Roy.”
“So do you, son.”
“That’s what lawyers are for.”
“Speaking of which, how’s your case coming?”
Vail smiled and handed him one of the business cards with the embossed “No comment” printed across the center.
“Cute,” Shaughnessey said. “I heard about these business cards of yours.” He filled his wineglass and added, “I hear Venable’s looking under beds for a motive.”
“It always helps to have one in a murder case.”
“She’s got Abel Stenner doing handsprings trying to establish something.”
“Smart police work, smart lawyer work,” Vail said. “What else do you hear?”
“This and that. What’re you eating?”
“Guido’s fettuccine on the appetizer. Veal and lemon. Why don’t we start with ‘this’?”
“Okay. The state shrinks are gonna give your boy a clean bill,” Shaughnessey said, waving over the waiter to give him the order. Shaughnessey was a man who savored food. He pried the meat from an oyster and laid it on his tongue like a pearl, then closed his lips around it, drew out the fork, and sucked the juice from it before swallowing.
“The grand jury will indict. Murder one and they’re going to max him out.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
Shaughnessey smiled. “Everybody expects you to put on a super show. I think Venable’s a little nervous.”
“Venable thinks it’s an open-and-shut case. Why should she be nervous?”
“So much for ‘this’; you wanna know about ‘that’?” Shaughnessey said.
“I’ll take anything you’re willing to give.”
“They hear maybe you got a motive under wraps.”
An alarm bell went off inside Vail’s head.
Was this just a rumor or did somebody break security?
Perhaps Venable and Stenner had copped the altar boys tape and figured he had it, too.
Was that what it was all about—who’s going to burn the bishop first?
Vail laughed. “Hell, I haven’t even heard that one yet.”
> “You’ve got no idea why he did it?”
“Who?”
“Stampler, for Christ sake,” Shaughnessey growled.
“I got an idea he didn’t do it.”
“You still grabbin’ that straw, Martin?”
“Roy, I could probably make the Guinness Book of World Records for all the straws I’ve grabbed.”
“You understand you’re not only dealing with one of the most well-liked men in town, he was one of the most powerful.”
“Really? I didn’t know saints were into power trips.”
“Hell, you know what I mean. He’s got … had … his own agenda. His charity works, abortion, censorship, the school situation, capital punishment.”
“You know, I’ve always wondered about that. Since when is capital punishment a Catholic thing?”
“It was a personal thing with Richard, deterring crime and what have you.”
“Personal or Catholic, that is bullshit, is what it is. People who premeditate murder plan to get away with it—the consequences never occur to them. In fact, I’ve never met anyone who broke the law who didn’t think he’d get away with it.”
“Talking about some of your clients? You know what they say about you up in the governor’s office?”
“No, what do they say?”
“That you put more felons on the street than the parole board.”
“You know what else they say? Everybody’s guilty of something.”
“You talking about anybody in particular?” Shaughnessey asked with a scowl.
The waiter arrived before Vail could answer and put a mug of beer, a glass of tomato juice and the frosted mug in front of him. Vail poured half the beer into the mug, topped it with tomato juice and salted it.
“What the hell do you call that?” Shaughnessey asked, turning up his lip.
“I call it a Bloody Joe. Some people call it a San Francisco Bloody Mary. Excellent for the digestion.”
“It looks disgusting.”
Vail smiled and held the mug up in a toast. “Skoal,” he said, smacking his lips after his first sip.
“What do you mean, everybody’s guilty of something?”