The Beach House Page 17

  Chapter 89

  "THE PEOPLE'S COURT OF MONTAUK," said Macklin in a calm and assured voice, "obliged to nothing but the truth, and having zero tolerance for bullshit, is called to order."

  Then he brought down his gavel with a resounding smack.

  My grandfather and I acknowledged the sweet significance of the moment by exchanging a quick glance before I called Tricia Powell to the stand. I think she understood the significance of appearing on TV, but maybe not what was about to happen to her. Once she had been sworn in, I began.

  "Ms. Powell, I understand you arrived at this season's party in style."

  "I guess you mean my new Mercedes."

  "It's been quite a turn of events, hasn't it? One summer you're an executive assistant at Mayflower. The next you're stepping out of a forty-five-thousand-dollar sedan."

  "I've had a good year," said Tricia Powell with some indignation. "In February I was promoted to director of special events."

  "Forgive me for prying, but what were you making last year?"

  "Thirty-nine thousand."

  "And now?"

  "Ninety," she said proudly.

  "So, months after you lied at the inquest about seeing my brother dive out into deadly cold waves at Neubauer's party, you're promoted and your salary more than doubles. Perjury served you better than a Harvard MBA."

  "Your Honor," barked Montrose.

  "Sustained," said Macklin. "Knock it off, Jack."

  "Excuse me. Months after you testified that you saw my brother dive into fifty-degree water in the middle of his shift parking cars, your salary increased by fifty-one thousand dollars. Is there anything other than your testimony that made you so much more valuable to your employer?"

  "There is, but you wouldn't want to hear about it," said Powell. "After all, it doesn't fit in with your conspiracy theory."

  "Please, Ms. Powell. Give me a chance. The court wants to hear your version of things."

  "I worked fifty- and sixty-hour weeks. There was no way I was going to stay an assistant for long."

  "I believe that's correct," I said, opening the manila folder I held in my hand.

  "Ms. Powell, I'm showing you what has been marked People's Exhibit A." I handed her the document.

  "Do you recognize it?"

  "Yes."

  "What do you recognize it to be?"

  "That's my six-month evaluation at Mayflower Enterprises. How did you get it?" she demanded.

  "That's not relevant just now," I said. "Do you recognize the signature on the bottom of the last page?" I asked, pointing to her signature.

  "It's mine."

  "Your Honor," I said, looking up at Mack, "at this time, the People offer People's Exhibit A in evidence."

  Mack turned to Montrose. "Any objection?"

  "I object to these entire proceedings," said Montrose.

  "Overruled," snapped Mack. "People's Exhibit A is admitted. Go ahead, Jack."

  "I'm going to skip right past the opening section that documents the days you managed to be late or sick, and read from the section titled 'Conclusion — Next Steps.' I think it should give us all a fair idea of the impression you were making on your employer before my brother died.

  "Asked to rate your performance from zero to ten in attitude, effort, and overall competence, your three supervisors gave you no score higher than a six," I said. "Here is the final paragraph: 'Ms. Powell has been given a written warning. If her work doesn't improve dramatically in the next few months, she will be terminated.' "

  "Well, I guess I made a dramatic improvement," said Tricia Powell.

  Chapter 90

  BILL MONTROSE was out of his seat in a flash. With his shock of white hair, sturdy body, and abrupt, confident movements, Montrose looked a little like a maestro at Lincoln Center. He stood very still at the front of the room. He evoked the concentration of a conductor waiting for his orchestra to settle down.

  "Ms. Powell," he asked when he emerged from his spell, "were you compensated in any way for your testimony at the inquest last summer?"

  "Absolutely not," said Powell. "Not a penny."

  "Were you promised anything by Barry Neubauer or anyone else acting on his behalf?"

  "No."

  "Was a promotion, a raise, a window office, a personal trainer, or even a new pair of shoes dangled in front of you?"

  "No!" said Powell even more indignantly.

  "Ms. Powell, Jack Mullen seems to be under the delusion that there's something scandalous about an ambitious and talented person coming to the attention of the CEO. There isn't. You've done nothing to feel the slightest bit apologetic about."

  "Thank you."

  I rose from my seat. "Does Mr. Montrose have a question?"

  "I certainly do. Ms. Powell, let me ask you how it is that you came to be in this courtroom this afternoon. You're not here voluntarily?"

  "Of course not," said Tricia. "None of us are."

  "Could you tell us how you got here?"

  "I was driving home," said Powell, "when a man sprung up from my backseat. He threatened me."

  "Were you afraid?"

  "Wouldn't you be? I almost drove off the road."

  "Then what?"

  "He directed me to a house, where I was forced into the back of a smelly milk truck with you and the Fitzhardings."

  "How long were you in the truck?"

  "Almost seven hours."

  "And are you free to leave now?" Montrose asked.

  "No."

  "If Mr. Mullen will allow it, Ms. Powell, you may return to your seat."

  "Thank you."

  After Tricia Powell retreated, Montrose turned to face the camera. He was about to make a speech when a look of alarm swept over his face. His jaw actually dropped.

  Chapter 91

  MONTROSE'S ANXIOUS EYES followed Jane Davis as she strode across the stone floor, her footsteps echoing in the room.

  Jane wore black dress slacks and a black blouse, and she didn't appear nervous or afraid, as she had at the inquest. She stared at Montrose, then turned to look directly at Barry Neubauer.

  To show his lack of concern, Neubauer flashed a smug smile. To show hers, Jane smiled back serenely.

  "The People call Dr. Jane Davis," I announced, and she walked to where Fenton was waiting with his family's Gideon Bible. Whereas at the inquest her hands had trembled, now she seemed perfectly calm. She placed a hand on the Bible's red leatherette cover and swore "to tell the truth."

  "Dr. Davis," I said as she was seated, "we appreciate the potential consequences of your testifying today. We're grateful."

  "I want to be here," she said. "No one has to thank me." Then Jane leaned back and took a deep, calming breath.

  "Dr. Davis," I began, "could you please review your education for the court?"

  "Certainly. I graduated first in my class from East Hampton High School in 1988, and was a National Merit Scholar. I believe I was the first person in over a decade to be admitted to Harvard from East Hampton High, but I couldn't afford the tuition, so I went to SUNY Binghamton."

  "Where did you receive your graduate education?"

  "I attended Harvard Medical School, then did my residency at UCLA Hospital in Los Angeles."

  "How are you presently employed?"

  "For the past two years, I have been chief pathologist at Long Island Hospital and also the chief medical examiner for Suffolk County."

  "Your Honor," I said, looking up at Mack, "the People offer Dr. Jane Davis as an expert witness in pathology and forensic medicine."

  Mack turned to Montrose, who was still in a state of agitation. "I'm sure Mr. Montrose has no objection to Dr. Davis's testimony, as he called her as an expert witness before the inquest. Correct, Counselor?"

  Montrose nodded distractedly and mumbled, "No objection."

  "Dr. Davis," I continued, "you performed the autopsy on my brother?"

  "Yes."

  "Dr. Davis, before you came into the courtroom, Ms.

&n
bsp; Powell described her abduction before the start of this trial. I was hoping you could share your own experience before the inquest?"

  She nodded. "The night before I was to testify," she said, "a man broke into my home. I was in bed, asleep. He woke me and put a gun between my legs. He said he was concerned about my testimony going well. He had been sent to 'coach' me. He said if I blew any lines at the inquest, he would come back and rape and murder me."

  For the first time since she'd entered the room, Jane lowered her head and stared at the floor.

  "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Jane," I said.

  "I know."

  "What did you do in court the next day?" I asked. "At the inquest."

  "I committed perjury," said Jane Davis, loud and clear.

  She continued, "In the course of completing your brother's autopsy, I took twenty-six sets of X rays. I performed half a dozen biopsies and did extensive blood and lab work. Peter had nineteen broken bones, including both arms and both wrists, eight fingers, and six ribs. His skull was fractured in two places, and he had three cracked vertebrae. In several cases the welts of his body showed such perfect fistprints and footprints, they looked like they had been traced on.

  "On top of that, Peter's lung tissue was not consistent with drowning. The level of saturation was in keeping with someone who was dumped into the water after he'd stopped breathing. The evidence that Peter had been kicked and beaten to death, then dragged into the water, was overwhelming. That Peter Mullen was murdered is as irrefutable as that I'm sitting here right now."

  Chapter 92

  MONTROSE ROSE FROM HIS CHAIR. The enormous strain was evident by the set of his jaw. I could almost hear him reminding himself that he was the great Bill Montrose.

  "Is there such a thing as a fair trial that isn't quite fair?" he asked. "Of course not. But our abductors would have you believe otherwise. 'I know it's not exactly accepted legal procedure,' Mr. Mullen suggests with an apologetic shrug, 'for defendants to be dragged at gun-point out of their cars in the middle of the night. But give us a chance, we're just ordinary people like you. We've been driven to this because the system is broken, the system is unfair.'

  "But that's not how justice works. Certainly not how it's supposed to work according to the Constitution and the laws of our country." Montrose flinched as if he felt a threat to the Constitution as keenly as a physical blow.

  "Justice," he continued, "is not about being slightly fairer than your expectations. It's about being fair. Period. And how can there be a fair trial when the prosecution can ambush the defense with a surprise witness like Jane Davis?"

  I had heard more than enough of Montrose's rhetoric. If Macklin was going to allow speeches, I was going to give one of my own. "Everyone in this room understands your frustration," I said, rising from my chair. "We were in the courtroom last summer when Dr. Davis, after being terrorized all night, said she believed my brother's death was accidental. Just like you, the young prosecutor, Nadia Alper, was so taken aback, she wasn't prepared to cross-examine.

  "But although the tactics you're facing today are almost identical to the ones she faced, there's a fundamental difference," I said, feeling my face redden. "At the inquest, the prosecutor was ambushed by a lie. You've been ambushed by the truth, a truth you've probably known all along.

  "You love to go on about what a mockery this trial is, Mr. Montrose. What really galls you is that it's almost fair. After tirelessly defending the rich and powerful for twenty-five years, you've become so warped that anything even resembling a level playing field is offensive. I suggest you get over it."

  "All right, that's enough," Mack finally said from his chair. "This court is adjourned for the evening."

  Chapter 93

  THIS TIME WHEN The People v. Barry Neubauer adjourned, the newsmaking machinery was stoked and ready to crank. "The Siege on Long Island" was the most ratings-friendly story in years. And it was convenient. Half the reporters and producers who filed stories that evening were already in the Hamptons when the day began.

  The instant Channel 70 went black, the dueling anchors began addressing the nation. They rolled out the profiles their networks had thrown together in the past two hours. The country learned how Barry Neubauer had married into one of the East Coast's most prominent publishing families and extended its reach into radio and cable, theme parks, and the Internet. They heard respectful assessments of his vision from rivals like Ted Turner and Rupert Murdoch.

  They also learned that his Yale-educated lawyer, William Montrose, hadn't lost a case in seventeen years. Montrose had cemented his reputation in a Fort Worth courtroom nine years before with his defense of a wealthy rancher who'd killed a tennis pro he wrongly suspected of sleeping with his mistress. Colleagues said Montrose so outlawyered the prosecutor that the state, which had pushed hard for second-degree murder, was grateful to get a thousand-dollar fine for possession of an unregistered firearm.

  Then came the deluge about the Mullens. Interviews with prominent townspeople touched on the death of Jack's mother and father and revealed how little the pair conformed to a terrorist profile. "The only reason I'm the mayor of Montauk," said Peter Siegel, "is that Macklin didn't run. And Jack is our homegrown golden boy."

  "They're the working-class Kennedys of Montauk," pronounced Dominick Dunne, who arrived in town on assignment for Vanity Fair. "The same good looks and charisma, the same Irish Catholic blarney, and the same tragic curse."

  The reporting showed how quickly the story had polarized the East End. When a sunburned investment banker getting out of his Porsche in front of an East Hampton wine shop was approached by a reporter, he said, "I hope they get life." He was expressing the prevailing sentiment of the oberen Klassen.

  The locals saw it differently. They may have couched it in neutral-seeming sound bites like "I just hope everyone gets home safe," but the only ones whose safety they were concerned about were the Mullens and their friends.

  "If you know what's happened to this family in the past few years," said Denise Lowe, a waitress at PJ's Pancake House, "you'd understand that this is an American tragedy. It's just so sad. We all love Jack and Macklin."

  But it wasn't until nearly midnight, when the news-readers went home and the cable pundits took over, that the first truly sympathetic editorial commentating began to seep out. As has been the case quite often, the voice ahead of the curve belonged to Geraldo.

  That night, he broadcast from the bar of the Shagwong restaurant. Moderating the show like a town meeting, Geraldo drew out the locals. He encouraged them to gush and reminisce about Mack and Jack.

  "One reason that Macklin might be so comfortable in his new role," said Gary Miller, who owned a nursery, "is that unofficially he's been the town judge for twenty years. As a matter of fact, we're sitting in his favorite court right now."

  Geraldo also set up a live remote with Chauncy Howells, dean of Columbia Law School. "Jack Mullen was not a good law student, he was a brilliant law student," said Howells. "One of the sharpest I ever taught. Nevertheless, he didn't apply for a single legal job. That suggests he was planning this for some time, and appreciated the consequences. I have no doubt that for Jack Mullen this was a moral and ethical — and well-considered — decision."

  "Make no mistake," said Geraldo in closing, "Jackson and Macklin Mullen are not fanatics or radicals, or even nut jobs. They are people who, not unlike you and me, were fed up by the transparent inequities in the criminal justice system. The only difference is that those injustices hit a lot closer to home for them than for us. They decided to do something about it. Our prayers go out to everyone caught up in this tragedy. Good night, my friends."

  And as the networks and cable stations turned The People v. Barry Neubauer into more grist for the mill, the FBI poured into the Hamptons. In their styleless rubber-soled brogans, bad haircuts, and generic domestic sedans, they looked as out of place as someone on food stamps.

  Chapter 94

  "IF I'M
NOT REAL CAREFUL, I could get used to a place like this," said Macklin, running one long, bony finger along the aged mahogany wainscoting that made the room seem as if it had been lifted from a stone manse in some British PBS miniseries. We were sitting in the corner library, just off the more austere space we'd turned into our courtroom. Mack and I parked ourselves on the polished oak floors and sat facing the long, tall window that looked out onto the empty beach. I felt as if I'd just lived through the world's first hundred-hour day.

  "I've been thinking about Marci and Fenton and Hank," I said. "We shouldn't have let them get involved."

  "It's a little late for that, Jack. Besides, they wanted to be here," said Macklin impatiently. "And I hope you've more in your hand than you showed today."

  "How about Jane's testimony?" I asked him.

  "It was the best you had. But it didn't implicate Neubauer. Not in the least. Where's the hard evidence, Jack?"

  "You can't skip steps, Mack," I told him. "As Fenning, my old trial tactics instructor, put it, you got to 'build the boat.' "

  "Well, build the frigging thing already, and make sure it floats. Now help me up, Jack. I've got to get into my sleeping bag. I shouldn't be talking to you anyway."

  I grabbed a huge gnarled hand and pulled hard. While I had him there, I gave him a long, stout hug. I felt I was grabbing a bag of bones.

  "Don't get old on me, Macklin," I said. "I need you too much."

  "I feel like I've aged ten years in the last ten hours. That's not too good when you start the day at eighty-seven."

  Chapter 95

  THE LIBRARY HAD ITS OWN BALCONY, and once Mack hobbled off, I slid open the glass door and stepped outside. I knew I shouldn't be out there, but I needed to clear my head. I wanted to think everything through one more time, especially the main reason I hoped we might actually get away with it.

  The deck was angled out from the corner of the house. Whether you looked east toward the lighthouse or west toward town, you didn't see another man-made structure. In its vast cold-blooded beauty, a Montauk night can make you feel as insignificant as a fly jammed up on the wrong side of a windowsill. But that night the dwarfing scale was comforting. And the stars were dazzling.