Matter of Trust Page 2

  The priest was not surprised; he knew that both Marilyn and Chris clung to the old days in their own way – which brought him back to the matter at hand.

  ‘Marilyn,’ he said, so softly he could barely hear himself, ‘I’m not sure that it’s my place to offer you any advice here. I’ve become pretty good at playing priest, but you’re asking me this as your friend, and I am afraid, the boy that I was, the man that I am . . . I’m not sure I’ve earnt the right to tell you what to do with your life.’

  ‘You earnt the right the moment we met at that stupid school thing,’ she said. ‘The moment you fell in love with me.’

  And there it was, the first time either of them had voiced it.

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ he said.

  ‘I know. But as far as I am concerned, love is love, and I haven’t had enough of it in my pathetic excuse for a life to reject it, however it comes. I believe you still love me – not in the same way that you used to – but there is love there, just the same. And that’s why I am here, because besides you and our old friend in Boston, I have no-one else to ask.’

  The priest sat there – silent, unmoving – the shadow of his friend’s perfect profile cast against the thin screen that separated them.

  ‘Please, Father,’ she said, before referring to him again – this time using his given name – effectively stripping him of the comfort of detachment the religious robes offered, and leaving him vulnerable, bare. ‘I need to know what you think I should do. I have been smart enough to make one decision in regards to this, and that is that whatever you say, I’ll follow.’

  ‘That’s not what priests are for, Marilyn.’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, not needing to explain that the role of an old friend was different.

  ‘Tell them to go fuck themselves,’ he said then, knowing there was no other way to say it.

  ‘You think I should throw away a hundred thousand dollars for the sake of my pride?’

  ‘I think you threw away a lot more than that, years ago, when you decided that being in his life was more important than being in his life.’

  ‘You’re calling me foolish,’ she said.

  ‘I’m calling you courageous.’

  She nodded. ‘You’re right, Father. The money can sit forever on my living room dresser for all I care. What do I need with a hundred grand in any case? I already have that Park Avenue penthouse he puts me up in,’ she said, her tongue firmly in her cheek. ‘Even if I am talking 5 Park Avenue, Newark, not Manhattan.’

  ‘He doesn’t own you, Marilyn, never has. But if you take the money . . . they will.’

  She nodded again, before leaning into the screen one more time.

  ‘I love you, Father,’ she said. ‘Always have, always will.’

  And despite himself he answered, ‘Me too, Marilyn. Me too.’

  2

  Boston, Massachusetts; nine days later

  ‘This was a really bad idea,’ said David Cavanaugh as he crawled out from underneath the scrum and picked himself up off the snow. ‘I’ve lost all feeling in my entire body, which might explain why I keep dropping the goddamned ball. Sorry guys.’

  ‘No problem,’ said his team mate and fellow Boston College Law School grad Tony Bishop, hanging his head and placing his hands on his thighs in an effort to catch his breath. ‘That lack of feeling might explain why you haven’t complained about the gash on your right cheek, which is going to need at least eight stitches by the way.’

  ‘Great,’ said David, touching his cheek to feel the gaping cut just below his right eye. ‘At least I can take a dive on the anaesthetic. At this point, I don’t think I’d feel it if they operated with a chainsaw.’ He grabbed Bishop by the arm and dragged him toward the ref who was calling for a line-out ten yards into the opposition’s half.

  ‘I always knew you were one of those “grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it” men, DC,’ grinned Bishop.

  And David could not help but return the smile, as he slapped his friend on the back and glanced toward the sideline where his wife and baby daughter were waving in encouragement.

  It was early January and the boys from BC and Northeastern were undertaking their annual ritual of insanity which included a New Year get-together on the BC rugby field. The official old boys’ season did not start until April, but this midwinter match had become something of a tradition – a sort of run-yourself-stupid-so-you-didn’t-freeze-to-death tackle-fest which also gave the gang of old law school buddies a chance to catch up after Christmas and the busy New Year break.

  And it had been busy. In the past five months, David had become a first-time father to the most beautiful little girl in the world, and husband to his aqua-eyed partner, fellow criminal defence attorney Sara Davis. The first event assuring that he would not sleep more than three hours a night at least until the spring, and the second giving him the courage to get through it.

  Lauren’s birth had given David a new perspective on life – one that was full of promise. It had made him realise just what a huge responsibility being a parent was; a responsibility he’d taken on gladly, making a commitment to himself that his tendency to sometimes neglect those closest to him, to live solely for a case, would now be a thing of the past. He would never forget how he had put his life – and, as a consequence, Sara’s and that of his unborn child’s – at risk while trying the Logan case last year. And he had no intention of doing anything like that again, even if it meant knocking back cases he felt compelled to take on.

  Moments later, Northeastern won the line-out and made the most of their advantage by driving the ball a further ten yards toward their line. Then David got lucky when the Northeastern half-back allowed the ball to slip through his fingers, giving him the opportunity to scoop up the icy piece of pig skin and run it hard back toward the halfway line. After breaking the tackle of a broad-shouldered full-back, and beating the cross-defence from a red-faced prop whose large wet hands luckily lost their grip on his ankles, David weaved around the last of the Northeastern defenders to score in the far-right corner – his fellow team mate Jay Negley topping off his victory by converting his try and securing the BC team a solid seven-point lead.

  Soon after, the ref blew the whistle for half-time and David and his buddies left the field for a much-needed drink before returning for another forty minutes of self-inflicted torture.

  ‘David, your face!’ said Sara as soon as he reached them.

  David smiled to see the roses in her mocha-coloured cheeks and the equally crimson face of his blonde-haired, green-eyed, five-month-old daughter who looked like an Eskimo wrapped in her pale pink snow gear. ‘I’m fine,’ he told Sara. ‘Tony here says the cold will freeze it in place until I can get stitches.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ said Bishop reaching down to take a bottle of water from the cardboard box at their feet. ‘Your husband said he wanted the wound to look as gruesome as possible so that he could impress you by refusing anaesthetic before the stitches.’

  ‘David thinks I’m impressed by stupidity?’ asked Sara.

  ‘Well, you married him, didn’t you?’ Tony replied.

  They all laughed.

  Despite the cold and the almighty gash in his cheek, David felt that for the first time in his life, he had finally found some form of contentment. He could not remember a time when he had not been subconsciously looking for an elusive ‘something’ – when he did not feel the need to keep moving, learning, to bury himself in work.

  He’d left the family home in Newark immediately after high school, choosing to study law at Boston College rather than go to Rutgers or follow his older brother’s footsteps into their father’s shipping business. He had married his college sweetheart, gotten his heart broken when she left him for somebody else, and basically spent most of the next decade ploughing through case after case with his boss, mentor and friend Arthur Wright and their irreplaceable office assistant Nora Kelly.

  In fact, it was not until he’d met Sara, almost four yea
rs ago, that he’d discovered there was more to life than arraignments and motions and lengthy trial depositions. Sara had shown him that no matter how tough a case got, they always had each other – which was the best lesson he had ever learnt – that, and the one that said if you loved somebody unconditionally, only good could come of it – good in the form of the smiling ball of pink now pulling at the collar of his snow-soaked jersey.

  As for his family, he was pleased that his mother had remained in the family house in Newark after their father’s passing some eight years ago, but he no longer thought of their Down Neck four-bedder as home. The old place was close to his heart, but it was the people he’d grown up with that had made him the man that he was – never willing to settle, always pushing for the way it should be, rather than the way that it was.

  ‘Lisa’s here,’ said Sara, waving at David’s younger sister who was making her way toward them, her long black hair whipping around her shoulders in the bitter, late afternoon wind.

  ‘Hey,’ said David, bending to kiss her. He knew she’d just finished a shift at Mass General’s busy ER unit where she was a nurse. Lisa pulled her niece from David’s grasp, and used her other gloved hand to push her brother a good two feet away.

  ‘Hey! What kind of greeting is that for your favourite brother?’

  ‘Who said you’re my favourite?’ she replied. ‘And besides, your face is a mess.’

  ‘It’s okay, sis.’

  ‘I know it’s okay, you idiot,’ she grinned. ‘I just didn’t want you kissing me with all that blood and dirt on your face. And if you are about to ask me to stitch you up, big bro,’ she added, now enfolding her niece in a big bear hug, ‘you can forget about me going back to the hospital to grab the analgesic.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ cut in Tony, obviously unable to stop himself. ‘DC was just telling us he was more of a “bite-down-on-a-stick” guy in any case.’

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ said David. ‘I don’t know why I bother.’

  3

  Newark, New Jersey; later that night

  ‘Jesus! What the hell, Monroe? I don’t know why I bother.’

  She could just make him out at the top of the stoop to her University Heights apartment building. He was wearing that same scummy red robe he wore every fucking night – the one he never did up at the front, so that his hairy, fat belly was permanently on display.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Super,’ Marilyn said, saluting him with one hand while knocking over a fourth trash can with the other. ‘It’s not me, it’s the fucking mutt.’

  ‘Bullet is not a mutt, Monroe,’ said the apartment building’s round-faced superintendent, Paul Sacramoni, trying to find a balance between keeping his voice as low as he could and being heard above the dog’s incessant barking. ‘He’s a guard dog paid for by the concerned residents of this building – a pedigree Doberman no less, and he’s just doin’ his job.’

  ‘He’s a waste of goddamned money. Bullet wouldn’t know an intruder if he fell over one,’ she slurred. ‘’Sides, I said we’d be better off putting in for a security camera, but nobody wanted to listen to me. Our beloved landlord wanted a puppy so he got the building to pay for it, which is why I never put in for him, by the way.’

  ‘You don’t put in for your rent, Monroe,’ said Paulie, still referring to her by the moniker he had given her when she was just a kid. ‘So not helping out with the dog was a given.’

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ she said, pushing her white-blonde hair behind her right ear as she stumbled up the stairs and reached out to give the now placid Bullet a pat. ‘For once I got the money to pay for things like this fucking pussy of a mutt and I make a decision not to use it.’

  ‘You win the lottery or something, Monroe?’ asked Paulie, humouring her.

  ‘No sir, Mr Super. This was a loser’s fee.’ She made an ‘L’ on her forehead with her finger and thumb. ‘I should have married money.’ But then her brow furrowed as she gestured toward the apartment on the building’s top floor. ‘Not that that always works either. Our rich landlord is a piece of shit and treats his poor wife like crap.’

  ‘You’re a good friend to her, Monroe,’ said Paulie. ‘You and Bullet here, the two of you make her smile.’

  ‘She should have got out years ago. But once a whore, always a whore.’ And she gestured at herself. ‘Am I right, Paulie?’

  ‘You’re not a whore, Monroe,’ said a sympathetic Paulie.

  ‘Well, if I’m not, then maybe I should be. I believe it pays. Hey,’ she said, stumbling toward him now. ‘What’s say I fuck you and you cover me for a month or two’s rent in return?’

  Paulie frowned. He had never seen her as down as this, and she could tell the sight of it frightened him. ‘I’ve known you since you were a kid, Monroe, and saying things like that is, well . . . it’s not right is all.’

  And in that moment, despite her inebriated state, Marilyn Maloney could have grabbed the fat super and hugged him. ‘You’re a good man, Paulie,’ she said as he helped her up the steps and into the building, the heavy glass doors doing their best to close against them as Paulie ploughed inside and Bullet licked affectionately at his feet.

  ‘That’s enough now,’ he said to Bullet, giving him the gentlest of kicks. ‘It’s almost one am and this little lady needs to get some sleep.’ He used one arm to support Marilyn while pressing the elevator button with his free hand so he could take her up and make sure she got inside her apartment safely.

  ‘My dad was an asshole,’ she said then. ‘In fact, all men are assholes, Paulie, except maybe for you. I think it’s time I got out of this shithole, found myself a better life – away from here, away from him.’

  And Paulie nodded, like he’d heard this all before. ‘Go to bed, Monroe,’ he said as he fished into her handbag to retrieve the key to her fourth-floor apartment.

  ‘Sure,’ she said as she staggered through the door, unzipping her left black boot as she walked. ‘And don’t worry, Paulie, I’ll be better in the morning. I used to be a big Matt Dillon fan. Did I ever tell you that, Paulie? But not anymore.’ She took off her left boot and looked at her watch. ‘I told him I’d be at the Airport Hilton at midnight. But he can wait for me in that fancy suite all he wants.’

  Paulie nodded. ‘Dillon’s loss,’ he said.

  ‘You got it,’ replied Marilyn, stumbling on her one high heel. ‘It’s time I made a fresh start, Paulie, started looking after myself for a change. Tomorrow I’m gonna get my life together – and, you can believe me when I tell you, this’ll never happen again.’

  4

  Boston, Massachusetts; twelve days later

  In everyone’s life there is that one person who rings only when they have news of their own advancement. This is not necessarily a bad thing. On the surface it might seem like this person feels the need to gloat or cast a shadow over your lack of accomplishments, but most of the time, at least the way David saw it, it was simply a case of an old buddy poking his head in to let you know he was doing okay – which had always been the case with Chris Kincaid, or, as he was better known as these days, the US Senator from New Jersey.

  ‘DC,’ said the familiar voice down the line after Nora had put the call through to his office, and David could not help but smile. No matter how much time had passed between phone calls, it was always good to hear his childhood friend’s voice.

  ‘Hey Chris, Happy New Year . . . or should I be calling you Senator? I know we haven’t spoken since November but, seriously, Chris. That win was amazing.’

  Chris Kincaid had called David when he won the senatorial seat for his home state in the previous November’s mid-terms, but David had missed his call. He had, however, sent Chris and his wife Rebecca a bottle of champagne and a bunch of flowers in congratulations.

  ‘You can call me Senator just as long as I can call you Dad. Mike told me the news, man. A little girl – they’re the best, aren’t they?’

  David wondered how Mike knew about Lauren. He and Mik
e had not spoken in years. But then he guessed maybe his mom had run into Mike and told him of the news of Lauren’s birth, which was highly likely given they worshipped at the same parish.

  ‘The best,’ said David – meaning it. ‘Seriously, Chris, she’s the cutest kid on the planet.’

  Chris laughed. ‘Third cutest, DC,’ he said. ‘Maddy and Gracie are cuteness personified.’ Chris was talking about his twin six-year-old daughters.

  ‘We could argue about this all morning,’ replied David with a smile.

  ‘Hmmm, an ex-county prosecutor and a criminal defence attorney having an argument,’ replied Chris with a tone of mock bewilderment. ‘Now, that’s a turn-up for the books.’

  David laughed. Chris Kincaid was an ex-Essex county prosecutor and a good one. David had read of his crime-fighting policies and courtroom victories in the various law journals that circulated the national legal fraternity, and David’s mother Patty had sometimes made comments about high-profile cases Chris was prosecuting.

  ‘How are Rebecca and Connor?’ he asked. Rebecca and Chris had been married since their early twenties – a wedding everyone knew, but never acknowledged, had been prompted by the conception of their eldest son, Connor.

  ‘Rebecca’s great. She’s the perfect senator’s wife, DC, the best political companion I could have asked for.’

  And David sensed this was the easiest way for him to compliment the girl they had both known since they were teenagers.

  ‘As for Connor,’ Chris went on, ‘he’s all facial hair and hormones. The experts call it teenage angst. I call it pain-in-the-butt.’

  ‘Not that we ever caused said pain in our parents’ posteriors,’ said David.

  ‘Jesus, no – my mother never broke a sweat.’

  David smiled – at least Chris could make light of his mother’s hands-on approach to parenting.