The Charity (54 page)

“Damn it!” he said as he threw it into the trash. “How many times do I have to go to bat for a witness that either can’t or won’t show.”

Abbey pulled him back down into his seat. “Don’t be ridiculous. We still have people combing the homeless shelters for anyone who fits the description of Sarge. There’s no news yet on Wyeth. I left word that she was to be escorted to this proceeding as soon as possible if she is apprehended.”

“Do you think that will work?”

“The marshal will serve her the subpoena as soon as possible. Failure to appear or any effort to purposefully prohibit Wyeth from testifying is subject to prosecution—meaning it would be really bad press for the cops to keep her from appearing. They’ve played this game before. ‘Public safety’ will be put to use to gain whatever time they think they need. We’ve done all we can.”

“Right.” He slumped in his chair and put his head down in thought. “But now everybody else knows what our strategy is too.”

“All rise.”

The bailiff entered the courtroom and announced the arrival of the judge in the formal tones of the court.

“In the matter of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts against Magnus Michael Connaught, this court is now in session. The Honorable Cheryl Rivers presiding.” He stood at his version of attention until the black-robed figure of the judge entered the courtroom from her chambers and assumed her seat on the bench.

Abbey leaned toward Shea and raised an eyebrow. “What do you think of the judge assigned?”

“I’ve been before her on many occasions and never had a reason to doubt her motives. She’s a good, honest and hardworking judge with a reputation of fairness. So far, I don’t have any reason to suspect that these proceedings have been tampered with in any way. It’s good we rushed this. It didn’t give them time to put in their own people.”

Abbey arranged her long yellow legal pad and pen in front of her. “You’re up. Good luck.”

Shea stood up and buttoned his suit jacket, taking a moment to look around before he addressed the court. He intentionally wore a fitted dark blue, single-breasted suit. Nothing flashy, just confident. He was very comfortable in this setting. The trappings of the courtroom were often seen as a deliberate attempt to intimidate or frighten the public. Shea saw the raised podium for the judge flanked by the flags of his country and his state and the jury box off to his right as a stage. He was a consummate performer in this theater. If anyone had anything to worry about, it wasn’t him.

He strode easily out into the center of the courtroom and addressed the jury. Since it was not a trial, no opening argument was needed, but he always liked to lay out the outline of his case so that all evidence that followed could be understood within a framework.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I am here before this court today to ask not for your determination of whether Magnus Michael Connaught is guilty of the charges just read against him, but rather to seek your judgment as to whether or not there exists a probability that the defendant, Mr. Connaught, could have committed the crimes so read. I will present you with many facts and documents, which when placed together like pieces of a puzzle, will form a whole picture of a man in control of an evil empire. Regardless of what you think the reasons for his actions are, or whether or not you support his political views, the question before you is legality or illegality of his methods. You will be asked to determine if probable cause exists for the further investigation and prosecution of money laundering, racketeering, and income tax evasion. On the even darker side of the empire, you will be asked whether the defendant was a party to murder and conspired to murder.”

The first charges against Magnus Connaught were highly technical in nature. He laid out the paperwork and the trail of money as best as he could. The bank records, old tax returns and small parade of frightened witnesses he brought before them were presented as briefly and succinctly as possible. The witnesses testified to their business being forcefully taken over by an employee or trusted professional, such as their accountant or attorney. They spoke of the fear they experienced and the family tragedies which coincidentally occurred while they saw the profits from their labors siphoned from their accounts. Sometimes their accounts would have hundreds of thousands of dollars appear and, just as quickly and mysteriously, disappear. All of them recognized the name Unity Green. Some even knew of the involvement of Connaught himself.

The defense objected as strenuously as they could under the circumstances, but the amount of evidence Shea had was compelling. After three hours, he paused. He had completed the presentation of the case on the charges for money laundering, racketeering and income tax evasion. The years he had spent on all of the smaller embezzlement cases paid off. A part of him regretted that this was not the real trial. The session had gone off without a hitch and he felt this jury would have easily convicted him.

Magnus sat at the defense table. Calm. Composed. It seemed as if nothing in the world bothered him. Only once did he betray any emotion. He fidgeted with a shiny object during one witness’ testimony. The proceedings must have really hit a nerve, because old habits kicked in and Magnus patted his coat pockets, produced and lit a polished pipe. The bailiff moved quickly and removed the smoking paraphernalia from the defendant. It was done quickly and with courtesy.

Shea checked with Abbey and the bailiff to see if there was any word about the witnesses he needed for the final round of charges he was to present. He saved the conspiracy to murder and accomplice charges for last since such charges rested, in part, upon the foundation he built for his other charges. Having Sarge or Jessica there now would make his job infinitely easier. There was no word or trace of either of them.

His shoulders heaved back with his sigh. It was going to be a long battle.

Other police cars joined up with them. The scanner in Michael’s car was never silent with constant dispatch notices and bulletins of her capture. By the time they reached the Boston Police Headquarters, the fugitive was escorted to justice by a police force cavalcade.

The two cops from the alley yanked Jessica out of the police car and flanked her. Michael hung back slightly. Their eyes met just for a moment. She might have imagined it, but for a moment a flicker of sadness washed through his eyes. She had never felt such resentment in all of her life.

Jessica had a better idea of the reasons behind all of the delay tactics Michael and the other cops used as soon as the caravan pulled up in front of the station. Her story was more than just local news and the national press was eager to get their fair share of her. She estimated no fewer than seven news vans were set up with their satellite dishes extending from long arms and crews properly positioned. Approximately fifty people waited outside in the blowing snow with cameras and microphones poised.

As soon as they saw her, the tense cold silence erupted into a blast of camera flashes and shouted questions. The two police officers pulled her along with a slightly dramatized air of self-importance, conveying the feeling that they had a hardened criminal under control. Implicit in all they did was the message that the police would continue to use all efforts to ensure the public’s safety.

Jessica used the time in the cruiser to calculate her next move. Plenty of opportunities to kill her had already come and gone. That meant she would be kept alive at least until she got to jail. The reporters waiting for her at police headquarters would be hungry for whatever she had to say for herself and she had no idea how much longer she had. Her primary goal shifted from her own survival to individual goals. Each moment had its own importance, and every minute and opportunity provided its own advantages. At this moment, she had to get some sort of message to Shea and to anyone else who would listen to her.

The reporters shifted their focus from the larger scene of her emerging from the car to the small window of opportunity they had to thrust their questions at her as she was yanked along in the obligatory perp walk. Jessica was stunned at the force of their determination.

“Miss Wyeth! How does it feel to be finally brought to justice?”

She listened to the shouted questions and tried to locate the closest microphone. In just a few more steps she would be inside the police fortress and unable to speak to anyone on the outside again. The reporters were her last chance.

“Jessica! You were hidden and safe for over seven years! Why did you come back to Boston?”

Perfect. She drew in a large breath and shouted as loudly as she could. “I HAVE DOCUMENTS IN MY POSSESSION WHICH MUST GET TO ATTORNEY GENERAL OWEN SHEA. I’M INNOCENT. THEY WILL KILL ME IN H—”

Her arms were pulled back with such force that she could almost feel her shoulders come out of their sockets. The strength of the aggression knocked the words from her mouth. There was such a crush of people that the well-timed assault went unnoticed. The speed of her ascent into the station increased immediately. The doors slammed shut behind her.

The police force was still in the official mourning period for their fallen comrade. When Jessica was finally able to peel her eyes off of the dirty tile floor, she looked up.

A gold framed portrait draped in black shrouds was propped up on an easel in the center of the lobby. Jessica began to scream as she saw the wicked smile of Coogan again leer at her.

“You are an intriguing personality. The public has more than just a passing interest in you.” Colleen Shaunessy-Carillo held the microphone up to Michael’s face, determined not to miss one word of his interview that she had fought so hard to get. Her large dark eyes and black hair contrasted with her pale complexion conveying a cultivated look of reason and determination.

Michael’s guarded manner did little to put her at ease. “I’m feeling a bit out leagued by all of this sudden attention. The commissioner and other officers deftly maneuvered me into this situation. I guess they knew enough to steer clear of you themselves.”

“The police department wants to enhance their public image by providing reporters with access to information about this case. You are the behind-the-scenes hero of the hour and dodging the interview while the cameras rolled would make you and the department look bad.”

“Well, I’m not used to being in the spotlight.”

“I guess they wanted to polish up your image as well or otherwise you might look like an incompetent hick who lucked out. Face it, your southern charm is too subtle for this direct Yankee reporter,” she said with a stiff laugh.

“‘Direct’ is a good word.”

“I’m just voicing the questions and concern of the public.”

Michael studied her forced smile carefully. “’Concern of the public?’ This story means national exposure for you. I heard you received your producer’s support of two research associates to set the wheels of investigative journalism in motion. Or was that ‘tabloid’?”

Her slight frame bristled with professional indignation at the insult. “My sources say you are an incredibly wealthy man. By all accounts, you are self-made, parlaying one successful real estate deal into another. How did you get your start?”

Michael’s eyes flickered downward. “I was privately funded.”

A nerve. She probed further. “You seem to have had an uncanny ability to purchase property with a fortune in mineral rights associated with it for bargain basement prices. Right now, with coal and lumber prices at current levels, you are sitting on a fortune estimated to be in excess of one hundred million dollars. That’s a pretty good amount for a Kentucky sheriff.”

“I’m impressed by the amount of information you have on me in such a short time. You flatter me with your estimates. Yes, I do own some backwater hillside lots deep in the Pine Mountains, but I hardly think they are worth
millions
.” He flashed his most disarming smile.

It didn’t work. “I hardly think that owning land parcels totaling over twenty thousand acres to be ‘hillside lots.’”

He shrugged. “I just hit upon some good luck and good advice. Fortunately, none of this distracted me from my job as sheriff.” He used his body language to indicate he was willing to talk about his job and not himself.

Colleen took the bait. She could come back to the other topics later. “You have a good solid reputation as sheriff. By all accounts, you are well respected and well liked by your constituency. With your normal day dealing with more mundane matters of domestic disputes and drunk drivers, how did you feel when you first realized a murderer moved into your quiet hollow.”

Michael laughed. “Well, I hardly think Perc is a quiet hollow,” echoing her words and tone of voice to gain more power in the interview. He continued, “and the proper term is ‘suspected’ or ‘alleged’ murderer. When Miss Wyeth arrived in Perc, she was not suspected of anything by the townsfolk because of her personal charm and undeniable skill with horses. It seems that it was her mastery with equestrian matters that was her Waterloo.”

“Really? How so?”

“She won a highly prestigious and publicized event, the Harvest Hunter Pace. Her picture appeared with her unsuspecting team members in newspapers all over the state. She was going by the name of Tess White. The horse community is a very small and tightly knit one. I can only surmise that someone began asking questions of her background. In a matter of speaking, she was flushed out of her hiding place. She claims to have returned to Boston to prove her innocence. I guess that’s up to the courts to decide now.”

“She seemed desperate to get some critical documents to Attorney General Owen Shea. What can you tell me about them?”

Michael shrugged. “I have no idea what she was referring to. I heard someone attribute her claim to stress induced delusions. I have no knowledge to support or deny that claim.”

As much as Colleen continued to probe, he frustrated her attempts at describing his role in the capture or in providing any more information about himself than what she had already discovered. Fine. If that was the game he wanted to play, she could play it, too. After another thirty minutes of trying, she allowed him to break up the interview.