The Charity (57 page)

“None of that really matters, you know. All that’s important to know is why you are here.” He reemphasized his point, “Blood ties tighter than love.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You’re here.”

Michael controlled himself by turning his back to his father. In a steady voice he said, “You don’t have to kill her.”

Magnus raised his eyebrows, surprised at this change in the topic of conversation. Yet, he knew it could not be avoided “Of course I do. I can’t let her actions and testimony go without retribution. Besides, you know that by her death, you’ll be seen as strong enough to hold the Charity together. Without a strong leader, it will fall apart. But, of course you know all of this.”

“I want to know who’s trying to kill her.”

“A very loyal and trusted soldier. My closest aide.”

“He’s an animal.”

A deep chuckle rumbled in Magnus’ chest. “Yes. Indeed he is. You will find him quite useful to you.”

Again there was a long pause. “They’ll find out who he is, you know.”

“It won’t be the first time the police have tried to track him down. They might find out who he is, but never where he is. He’s a bit of a master at that, you know.”

“Owen Shea is very good. It won’t take him long to find out.”

“You’re right. And when he does, it will be at the point of a dagger.”

Michael looked at the old man as if he was seeing him for the first time. “I want you to promise me you will stop the killing. Now.”

Again, the study was filled with a chuckle followed by a spasm of coughing. “It’s not my job anymore. It’s yours, remember?”

Shea had spent two sleepless nights in his office. It wasn’t that the couch in his office was uncomfortable—it was just that he could not get the image of Jessica out of his head. He was encouraged when news arrived at his office this morning that the grand jury had finally reached its decision. It was not even eleven o’clock, but it could have been midnight for all he knew. He and Abbey sat in the courtroom and waited.

Judge Rivers addressed the defendant. “Will the defendant please rise and face the jury.”

Magnus complied with heavy movements.

“In the matter of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Magnus Michael Connaught, what say you, the jury, on the following counts?”

The jury foreman, a round woman in her mid-fifties, stood up and faced Judge Rivers. Shea sunk back in his seat as he waited for their decision. The findings of whether or not probable cause existed were read one at a time, each to correspond with a count in the complaint. This was going to take a while.

“On the matter of count one for income tax evasion, what say you?”

“We the jury find sufficient probable cause on count one.”

Shea had filed nearly twenty of them. He counted backwards in his head. The indictments he was most interested in would be last. The jury dutifully read each count and responded with their decision.

“In the matter of count three for embezzlement, what say you?”

“We the jury find insufficient probable cause on count three”

One hit. Survivable, but a hit. Then the racketeering charges. Seven. Shea could barely keep still. He had his head slightly bowed as he concentrated on the words echoing off the walls of the court. Four. His jacket breast pocket pulsed in time with his pounding heart.

Finally. “In the matter of conspiracy to murder and accomplice to murder counts one and two?”

“We the jury find sufficient probable cause on all counts.”

He threw his head back as he heard the words. If he had any doubt as to what he heard, he merely had to look over at the defense table to know what happened. The team of hotshot lawyers and their client stood stone-faced. Magnus Michael Connaught and the as yet unidentified ‘John Doe’ were indicted for the murder of Gus Adams.

Judge Rivers performed the additional matters of the court, but Shea could not focus on her words. She was addressing most of her statements to the defendant and his counsel, remanding the case to trial. Shea could only focus on one thought.

Jessica Wyeth was a free woman.

Now he wanted to go to her. To tell her the news. He could not get out of the courtroom fast enough.

He stood up as the judge adjourned the session and retired to her chambers. He glanced at his watch. The session that morning lasted little more than one hour. The bulk of the time was spent just trying to enter the courthouse without being stampeded.

Shea and Abbey looked at one another. “Good job, Counselor,” she said.

“Abbey. Thank you. Your help was invaluable to me.”

They gathered their papers from the desk and shoved them into the huge valises they had lugged to the courthouse through the snowdrifts.

“No problem. It was kind of fun.”

“Well, then, if that’s your idea of a good time, consider this case your next full time assignment as of right now. You’ve got to be out in front bringing this to trial. This is only step one, remember.”

Abbey nodded her head. Her stringy hair swung in emphasis. “Yup. That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

They exited the courtroom and were swarmed by photographers and reporters. “Attorney General Shea! Did your secret meetings with the Murdering Heiress provide you with information against Mr. Connaught?”

Shea shot back. “I suggest you call her by her name, Jessica Wyeth. According to the grand jury, they found probable cause that it was Mr. Connaught and a yet unnamed associate who murdered Gus Adams. She has never been and is no longer to be considered the Murdering Heiress.”

He looked over at Abbey. She had a slightly stunned expression on her face. This was all still pretty new to her and she was trying to get used to it. Being at the center of a reporting maelstrom was a unique experience. It was not for everyone.

“There have been rumors about charges being levied against you for harboring a fugitive. How do you respond?”

Shea looked the reporter directly in the eyes. “It was always my understanding that a fugitive was a person who had broken the law. Miss Wyeth did not break any laws nor was she the subject of any current proceeding, therefore, she should never have been considered a fugitive.” He was laying the groundwork for the reasoning behind his involvement with the case without going through the proper channels. He could use the press as well as the press used him. The way this was playing in the media so far, he realized he had little to fear. The press would soon treat him as a hero, not a viper.

“Is it true that there is more than just a professional bond between you and Miss Wyeth?”

Shea smiled at the thought. “No comment.”

The two attorneys fought their way outside. The day was incredibly bright and crisp. No storm threatened, and the weather was providing them a jewel of a day. Huge piles of snow lined the walks and the ever-present plows and dump trucks groaned away at removing the frozen obstructions. The day was sunny but cold, and the drifts were not going to disappear quickly. Shea remembered it had been a long time since he enjoyed a day like this. He thought of going cross-country skiing. Maybe Abbey and Jessica would like to join him? No, just Jessica.

He had been answering the questions being blasted at him mechanically, without really noticing the dynamics of the crowd. The day was too perfect and the questions too predictable to grab his entire interest. Suddenly, the shift in the direction of the questions brought him back to the business at hand. The reporters were busy snapping away at their new villain, Magnus Connaught.

The brief lull left Abbey and Shea alone for a moment on the steps. They were saying their good-byes when Shea noticed Abbey looking over his shoulder. He turned and saw immediately who Abbey was looking at. Michael Conant was standing off in the distance, trying not to be seen by either them or the mass of reporters devouring his father’s defense team.

Shea and Michael locked eyes for just a moment. Under different circumstances, they might have liked one another. Shea watched as the defendant was led down the steps to a waiting car. He noticed that father and son barely acknowledged one another.

What he did not know was that they had already tended to business.

Harsh voices hurtled profanities against the cavernous cinder block walls. A word would be spit out and its fragments would reverberate for seconds. The crooks and jags of the unforgiving chambers would break and change the sounds, then fade them away. Threats, cries of fear, and protestations cascaded over one another. The cacophony punctuated only by the clank of metal doors slamming or the distant intermittent buzz of a warning signal. The discord built to a crescendo and then faded, leaving eardrums ringing in unaccustomed silence.

Jessica placed her cheek upon the cool wall of the cell as she lay curled in its farmost corner. She closed her eyes in an effort to hear one complete sentence, any sentence, before it was ripped apart by the chaos in the air. Minutes were filled with this game she used to keep herself focused, to keep herself sane. Panic attacks rolled over her like tidal waves. Concentrating on the vibrations that softly thudded against her cheek, the minutes slowed into hours. Each hour that she was aware of meant she remained rooted in reality and had not lost her grip on it. The time of day was marked only by the smells that crept along the corridors and into the cells. It was always long after the aroma of cheap food faded away that flimsy cardboard trays bearing the likeness of hard, cold meals would be pushed through the small door into her isolated chamber. She had stared at six such trays so far. That would mean she had been there for over a day and a half. Each tray was returned, untouched.

When she spoke with Shea, she had only been in her solitary cell for a few hours. At first, just being protected by thick steel reinforced walls felt comforting. She had even found humor in temporarily outwitting her pursuers. They had her where they wanted, but she was still untouchable. Her screamed statement to the press, as she was being marched up the steps of police headquarters, placed too hot a glare of attention on her for harm to befall her, yet. She was more than just slightly unhinged, so it was easy to assume she was a threat to herself. Smugness pulled at the corners of her mouth as uniformed police led her from confinement to the heavily guarded interview rooms and back again. It was only after spending the longest nights of her life in a cage surrounded by true insanity that the price of ‘safety’ bore down on her. She could hear nothing, learn nothing, about what was happening to her at Shea’s hands. The vacuum pulled at her brain and her heart pounded with anxiety.

The small metal door slid shut as the tray disappeared again. Splices of voices that reverberated against the walls were quieter now. The air was not as jammed with discord as it was earlier. Another day was closing behind her and Jessica was filled with dread at having to face another sleepless night in her shrinking cell. She replayed her conversation of last night with Shea in her head. He had said that she would know by now what the grand jury decided on the theory of Gus’ murder. If they believed Shea, then she would be free. If not, then she would be removed from her holding cell and transferred to another facility. The thought caused her chest to tighten. Shea said too much could happen during the actual transfer and settling into the larger jail. There were too many possibilities for problems.

Muffled footsteps shuffling along the cement floor trudged beyond the metal door at the end of the corridor. The blasts of profanity that escaped the mouths of other prisoners splintered past her ears, sounding louder in the growing stillness. It was time for them to be transported to the Charlestown jail for further holding. This ‘transport line’ is what she feared most. Her breath escaped in thin streams from pinched nostrils as her heart beat the air from her lungs. She pressed her ear against the hard wall for any more information the vibrations of sound would give her. The deep rumble of a transport van engine laboring up the garage’s ramp would tell her she would remain in that cell another night. Curled into a ball, the only movement on the small cot was a pulsing temple, keeping time to a pounding heart.