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  ‘Brazilian coffee,’ said Sara as she dragged her feet in feigned exhaustion through the Huntington Avenue entrance of the well-stocked Shaw’s in Copley. ‘I need some pure Brazilian coffee now!’

  Despite their heavy day, David sought comfort in the banality of steering a shaky-wheeled trolley around a busy supermarket – and could tell that Sara felt the same. She took his hand and squeezed it as they moved past the fruit and vegetable section, stocking up on everything from organic Granny Smith apples to fresh, imported kiwi fruit.

  ‘I thought you were going strictly decaf,’ said David, as they rounded the coffee section and Sara moved ahead looking for the finest mountain grown beans that she could find.

  ‘And I thought you had agreed it was more than okay for me to enjoy at least one small shot of genuine caffeine per day.’ She looked back at him with a smile.

  ‘I think you are over-exhausted and I do not have the energy to argue with you,’ he said, smiling in return.

  ‘And I think you are a very perceptive man,’ she said, moving backwards to kiss him squarely on the cheek.

  Just then they were interrupted by a shout from behind, a man’s voice calling David by a nickname only his family and his oldest college buddies still used.

  ‘DC,’ said Tony Bishop, as he moved up the aisle towards them, his arm outstretched. ‘It’s good to see you, man. I heard you didn’t make it this morning either?’ he added, referring to their weekly round of alumni rugby. ‘I was a no-show too – and Negley has already left a message on my home machine ragging us both out for bailing. But well, given the news – about Stephanie . . . I still can’t believe it, DC.’

  ‘I know,’ said David, taking Tony’s hand and patting him on the shoulder. ‘It was a shock to me too.’

  ‘She was always so full of life, you know?’ Tony said, genuine sorrow in his eyes. ‘She was the unstoppable one – the girl who was meant to . . .’ And then he hesitated, Sara stepping forward to fill the void.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Tony,’ she said, reaching out to take his hand. ‘And I am sorry for your loss – David told me you and Stephanie were close.’

  ‘We were,’ he said, taking Sara’s hand with gratitude. ‘In fact once we were more than close. You know, I always wondered if things would have been different if we might have . . .’

  ‘Well, hello there,’ interrupted another voice from behind, this one softer, smoother, with a certain tone that said ‘fancy meeting you here’. Amanda Carmichael was striding up the aisle towards them, a bottle of imported mineral water in her pale, slender hand. ‘It’s good to see you again, Counsellor,’ she said, shifting the bottle to her left hand so that she might extend her arm towards David. ‘And you must be Sara Davis.’ She smiled, nodding at Sara. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.’

  Tony draped his arm around the shoulder of the beautiful blonde prosecutor before them, and Sara’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Of course,’ said Tony. ‘You guys know each other?’

  ‘We do,’ said Amanda. ‘In fact, I’ve been an admirer of David’s for years,’ she said, her eyes flicking briefly towards Sara. ‘Professionally, I mean. In fact, due to the unfortunate nature of our professional responsibilities, we have a date in court tomorrow. How terrible that we should be pitted against each other in a case such as this, David. Tony has told me so many wonderful things about Stephanie Tyler – and I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you to be representing her killer.’

  David said nothing – too floored to even begin to respond.

  ‘Amanda . . .’ began Tony.

  ‘No,’ said David then. ‘Amanda is right. But as my client explained in his statement, his wife’s death was an accident and the Stephanie I knew would want me doing everything I could to make sure the father of her kids was home to look after them.’

  ‘From what I saw, at least one of those kids seems extremely capable of fending for himself.’ It was a surprising statement – almost shocking in its frankness.

  ‘Guys,’ said Tony then.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tony,’ smiled Amanda. ‘You’re right, this is no time to be talking shop,’ she said, lifting her arms at her surroundings. ‘No pun intended.’

  There was an awkward pause, with none of them saying anything until . . .

  ‘You live around here, Miss Carmichael?’ asked Sara.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I have an apartment on the waterfront,’ she added, casually dropping the fact that she resided in one of the most sought after locations in the city. Condos on Boston’s popular harbourside piers went for anything between one and six million and David guessed Amanda Carmichael’s, given her family connections and money, would not be one of the ‘cheaper’ varieties.

  ‘But Tony has offered to cook me dinner and considering I use my oven for extra storage . . .’ She smiled.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Sara, after a second uncomfortable silence, ‘we really just dropped in to find me this special blend of Brazilian coffee.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Amanda, her eyes darting quickly to Sara’s stomach. ‘Is that allowed? I mean . . . super!’

  But Sara had interpreted her comment for what it was, and David knew it.

  ‘If you’re after a good, strong blend,’ said Tony, lightening the mood, ‘I know just the brand. It’s in the South American section – about five aisles down and . . . Here,’ he said, scooping up her hand, ‘I’ll show you.’

  Before anyone had a chance to respond, Tony and Sara were gone.

  ‘So how is your client holding up?’ asked Amanda Carmichael at last, taking the slightest of steps towards him.

  ‘As well as can be expected,’ said David. ‘Like I said before, it was an accident, Amanda.’

  ‘You seem to specialise in those, don’t you?’ she responded.

  ‘The Martin trial was three years ago,’ he said, referring to the high-profile case in which he defended a respected African–American attorney. Rayna Martin had been wrongly accused of killing Christina Haynes, the white teenage daughter of a powerful US senator – a man set on manipulating justice to paint his daughter’s accidental death as murder.

  ‘That wasn’t the accident I was referring to,’ countered Amanda, and David could not believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Oh, come on, David,’ she said, reading the anger on his face. ‘A good Catholic boy like you? If you were serious about this girl you would have married her months ago.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Amanda, that’s none of your business,’ he said, his back now flush against shelves packed with baby food.

  ‘Can you honestly stand here and tell me that she is the one for you?’ she asked, moving forward an inch. ‘I mean she’s very pretty but . . .’ she paused. ‘Besides, if you are so in love with Sara, then why did you come on to me at the Law Society ball last February?’

  ‘What?’ said David, incredulous. ‘I did not come on to you,’ he said, feeling his brow break out in a sweat. ‘If you recall, as soon as Tony went to get you a drink, you walked right on up to me and asked me if I wanted to . . .’

  ‘Fuck – yes,’ she replied. ‘And didn’t you?’

  ‘No! Jesus, Amanda, you have got to get a grip. You’re dating one of my best friends, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Tony’s a distraction,’ she said.

  And David felt a pang of regret for his friend who he sensed was falling for the beautiful prosecutor before him.

  ‘And I’m not interested,’ he countered.

  ‘Then why are you pressed up against me?’ she said.

  ‘Because you have left me nowhere to go,’ he said.

  ‘Hmm.’ She smiled. ‘And I normally reserve that little manoeuvre for work.’ She took a step back and David knew this was all part of her sick little game – unnerving the opposition before she was about to face them in court.

  ‘It was nice to see you, Counsellor,’ she said then, turning her back on him as she headed off in the opposite direction down the ais
le. ‘And you better be careful.’ She smiled, gesturing at the teetering tower of baby food tins behind him. ‘You are about to trigger an avalanche, so consider yourself warned.’

  16

  The Boston Municipal Courthouse, better known as the Edward W. Brooke Courthouse is a tall impressive structure situated on a triangular block on the corner of New Chardon and Merimac streets in Boston’s busy Government Center. The architectural masterpiece, completed in the late nineties and named for the first African–American elected and re-elected to the US Senate, is made almost entirely out of Deer Isle stone, its pale glowing colour adding an aura of brightness to its already impressive façade, its main entrance rising tall and rectangular above the busy pedestrians below, its glass front doors flanked by two flags – one for country and one for state.

  David and Sara arrived early, knowing arraignments were usually scheduled at nine. They moved into the wide open lobby – its four-storey atrium flooding the massive space with bright morning sunlight – and headed towards the courtrooms on level three.

  ‘Is Joe coming?’ asked Sara, as they headed for the stairs.

  ‘He said he’d try,’ answered David. ‘Although, according to what he said on Saturday, he doesn’t expect any surprises. The ADA is hamstrung until the forensics come in.’

  ‘I don’t trust her,’ said Sara.

  David knew this was an understatement on her part.

  ‘Neither do I. But what can she do? Our client confessed. She has to play this out by the letter of the law.

  ‘Arthur,’ said David, waving at their boss who moved to join them at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Our client has arrived and we’re first on the docket,’ Arthur told them quickly, the corridors now filled with legal workers and star-struck voyeurs who were obviously busting to get a ‘good seat’ at the celebrity arraignment of the year. ‘Joe’s inside, back row far left.’

  David nodded.

  ‘And we pulled Judge Kessler,’ continued Arthur, raising his eyebrows. ‘So keep it short and sweet.’

  Judge Marion Kessler, an old Municipal Court warhorse, had been serving on the bench for as long as David could remember. The woman was a short, round bulldog of discontentment, with a keen mind and a sharp temper. She was known equally for her intolerance for hyperbole and her distaste of anyone set on wasting the court’s precious time.

  ‘I thought she’d been elevated to the Superior Court,’ said David, who had heard Kessler’s application to the Judicial Nominating Committee had been approved and passed on to the governor who had successfully submitted Kessler’s name to the Governor’s Council which just recently, after a public hearing, had voted to elevate Kessler to the ‘meatier’ Superior Court.

  ‘She has,’ said Arthur. ‘Which is why we can thank our lucky stars this case will most likely stop here,’ he added, referring to their assumption that, eventually, the charges against Jeffrey Logan would be dropped.

  Ten minutes later they were inside the green-carpeted courtroom, the rather small rectangular room being nowhere near big enough to hold the masses now squeezing through the back doors.

  David, Sara and Arthur took their seat at the minimalist cherrywood desk on the left-hand side of the room, the complementary table to their right still empty bar two fresh-faced Commonwealth attorneys who had obviously been called upon to haul Amanda Carmichael’s notes and set up her desk.

  To the far right of the room, in a space normally reserved for the jury, sat a select number of the press – including David’s friend and Boston Tribune Deputy Editor Marc Rigotti, who acknowledged David with a nod, and the extremely well-dressed Caroline Croft, frontwoman of CBC’s popular Newsline program.

  David had locked horns with Croft before and knew her to be one of the cleverest journalists in the business. She was also shrewd and manipulative and would stop at nothing to trump all other news programs with the most sought-after exclusives of the day.

  ‘Croft has left five messages on my cell,’ said David, leaning into Arthur’s ear.

  ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less,’ said Arthur, who looked particularly uncomfortable in a button-down shirt and tie. ‘My advice is to treat her like a fish on a hook,’ he whispered. ‘We have something she wants, namely the power to negotiate the most controversial celebrity interview of the year. Keep her at bay until we need her – and then we can reel her in, under our conditions.’

  ‘You think Logan talking might help his son’s cause?’ asked David.

  ‘I think we should leave all our options open. Remember, in all likelihood, after this week this case will be out of our hands, but if in the end we agree we want to help Logan score a few points for his son then . . .’

  ‘No harm, no foul,’ finished David.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Moments later, David turned to greet Katherine de Castro who, together with the two Logan children, was being ushered in the back door by their office secretary, Nora Kelly, and a watchful security guard.

  Sara had arranged for the reliable Nora and the prearranged guard to meet de Castro’s car and help the children past the fray. Both David and Sara were still not sure they had made the right decision by recommending to de Castro that the children attend the arraignment, but in the end they decided it was better for the court, the people and the ever-present media, to see the family standing as one in the aftermath of the tragedy that took their wife and mother. When Logan entered the court from a secure side entrance and saw his two children standing there waiting to support him, and when every man and woman in the room saw the smile that spread across his face, David knew that Logan’s loyal fans’ hearts would go out to their ‘hero’ and be rooting for him unswervingly.

  Finally, mere seconds before the clerk moved to the front of the room to announce the judge’s arrival, Amanda Carmichael entered from the back and strode up the middle aisle with purpose. David did not so much hear her entrance as sense it as every head in the courtroom – male and female – turned to watch the striking attorney move confidently towards her desk. She was like a force of beauty, her long blonde hair in a fashionable chignon, her fitted but conservative beige designer suit moving just so as she shifted her weight from her left foot to her right. And in that moment David sensed she had something up her sleeve after all. Something that would give this impatient young prosecutor the ‘wow factor’ she had been craving for. And there was nothing David could do about it but wait.

  ‘All rise,’ said the clerk, as Judge Marion Kessler pushed into the room, her thick, short legs making surprisingly long strides towards the rectangular bench before her, her shoulder-length grey-black hair set in its usual immovable wave, her broad face flushed with the importance of it all.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ said Kessler, surveying the crowd before her. ‘Dear God!’ she responded to the size of the ‘audience’. ‘Am I running a courtroom or a TV studio? This is an arraignment, people – not a side show. There will be no bells and whistles this morning, just the reading of a charge and the tit-for-tat between defence and the Commonwealth regarding the possibility of bail.’

  Kessler was right. In fact arraignments had a threefold purpose – the reading of the charge effectively putting the defendant on notice that he stood accused, the establishment of assignment of counsel and, as Kessler had noted, the hotly contested issue of bail.

  ‘Not boring enough for you?’ asked Kessler, as she shook her head. ‘All right, but a word of warning, one peep from the masses, one sigh or giggle or cough or burp and I’ll call for a closed court which will no doubt seriously dishearten you all. Miss Carmichael,’ said Kessler without taking a breath. ‘You represent the people in this matter?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour,’ said Carmichael, rising slightly from her seat before taking it again.

  ‘And Mr Cavanaugh?’

  ‘We act for the defendant, Your Honour,’ confirmed David. ‘Doctor Jeffrey Phillip Logan.’

  ‘Right.’ Kessler nodded. ‘And th
e charge, Miss Carmichael?’

  ‘Was set at involuntary manslaughter, Your Honour, following a confession from the defendant, but given new information made available to the District Attorney’s Office over the weekend, we have decided to drop said charge altogether.’

  That did it. The crowd wasn’t to be disappointed after all. Noise erupted in the tiny room – the intakes of breath, the outlet of sighs and, finally, the dawning that their dear Doctor Jeff was about to be set free! In fact, within seconds of Amanda Carmichael’s shocking revelation, the audience started clapping, cheering, yelping for joy – until the room actually did appear like one of the doctor’s live shows in process.

  ‘Order!’ yelled Kessler, her big, strong voice emanating from her chest and echoing off the whitewashed walls. ‘Order!’ she screamed again, this time using her gavel as punctuation.

  ‘Members of the gallery, I take great offence at your disrespect for the decorum required by this court. In fact, the next person to offer any expression of gaiety shall be accompanied from this room and to my chambers where I shall deal with them personally at the conclusion of these proceedings,’ she bellowed. ‘Do I make myself clear?’ It was a rhetorical question, answered by the crowd’s almost instantaneous silence. This was too good to miss – and they knew it.

  And in that moment, just as David turned to his client expecting to catch an instinctive expression of relief on his face, he witnessed a complete change to a look of pure horror. Finally, David knew exactly what Carmichael was up to.

  ‘Miss Carmichael,’ boomed Kessler, continuing to rule with volume, ‘you had better explain yourself – and fast. As you might have heard, I am not a big fan of those who manipulate our hallowed system of justice for self-gratification, and while I am sure you would not dare to attempt such brazen egotistical manoeuvring, I feel the court is owed an explanation – quick smart.’