CHAPTER FOUR
Jayson joined his daughter on the floor in her bedroom and watched as she arranged her plastic tea set. The unexpected call he had received from Leslie two days before briefly surfaced in his mind, but he chased the thought away by focusing on his surroundings.
He recalled he had disagreed with Renee’s decorative choices for Jennifer’s room: lilac-colored walls sprinkled with yellow butterflies and flowers, forest green carpet, ensemble cast of dolls and stuffed animals perched on the built-in shelves, white furniture, and so on. Too prissy and soft, he had argued; having a girl didn’t mean she had to be a girlie girl. He expected her to excel at sports, climb trees and punch a boy in the mouth if he ever got too fresh. His opinion notwithstanding, he had chosen not to press the issue about Jennifer’s room. Being an attorney had taught him to only expend energy fighting important battles.
Jayson returned to the present-day and to his hostess. She spoke over a ballet selection by Beethoven playing on her portable music player, recounting the numerous difficulties of the day: She had been subjected to the indignity of sharing a computer with a boy during science class. Her draw-and-read group had been last to put away its crayons, so she didn’t get a front-row spot on the carpet when the teacher read a story. She had gotten her favorite blouse dirty during recess while playing tag. To make matters worse, Mommy, the absent Princess Renee, unaccustomed to packing her meals, had neglected to put a box of raisins in her lunchbox. As a result, Jennifer had suffered the embarrassment of being the only child in her class without a dessert during lunch.
Jayson nodded, acknowledging that being in the first grade indeed entailed numerous challenges. “Tough day, huh?”
“Yes, but we will forget all about that now and just enjoy our tea,” Jennifer said, her voice throaty and regal.
Jayson nodded. “Very good, Milady. We’ll do just that.”
Earlier that morning, he had been reminded personally by “Duchess Jennifer Nicole Cook” that she would be delighted if he would join her for tea later that evening before her bedtime. The Duchess had informed Jayson, who had broken two previous engagements due to unexpected work responsibilities, that she expected him to keep their appointment this time. Before dashing off to the office he had kissed his hostess on the forehead and apologized profusely for having been so remiss. He had reminded the Duchess that he had called both times and advised her of his absence. Nevertheless, he had promised that he would be happy to be her guest at seven-thirty p.m.
“How’s your tea, Daddy?” Jennifer asked. With the help of her loyal chambermaid, Magdalena Lopez, she had adorned herself with an assortment of costume jewelry the housekeeper and her mother had loaned her for the occasion. She also donned her “little princess” Halloween costume from the previous year and a pair of white gloves.
Jayson brought the empty teacup to his lips and set it back on its plate. “Oh, it’s absolutely marvelous tea, Milady,” he gushed. “The best I’ve ever had, but you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”
Jennifer smiled. “Oh, it was no trouble. I’m just so glad you could make it.”
Jayson clasped his hands together. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Thank you ever so much for inviting me.”
“You’re very welcome,” Jennifer said. She reached for the tiny kettle and dangled it in the air. “Would you care for some more tea, Daddy?”
Jayson grabbed his cup and saucer, and held them underneath the kettle. “Don’t mind if I do.” He watched with pride and abundant love as Jennifer tilted the kettle. “Thank you. You are such a lovely and charming hostess.” He noticed the hint of perfume in the air. “And you smell good, too!”
Jennifer drank from her empty cup then set it down. “Daddy…”
“Yes, Milady?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, Milady.”
“Why is Granddaddy white and Grandmommy black?”
Jayson arched one of his eyebrows. “What makes you ask that?”
“Well,” Jennifer said, “Megan saw them at my ballet recital and asked me. She told me all of her grandparents are white. Well, Grandpa and Grandma—the ones you gave me—are both black. But Granddaddy and Grandmommy—the ones Mommy gave me—are white and black. Why?”
“Megan didn’t say anything mean about them, did she?” Jayson inquired.
“No. She just asked why Granddaddy was white but Grandmommy was black.”
Jayson leaned on his left side to stretch out on the carpet and rested his face on his balled-up hand. “Remember at Sunday school when you learned that God creates people all kinds of different colors, but He loves them all just the same?”
“Yes,” Jennifer said.
“Well, even though people look different, anyone can fall in love and get married,” Jayson explained. “The grandparents Mommy gave you have loved each other for many years. Because they loved each other they had Mommy, and because your Mommy and I loved each other we had you.” He sat up again. “Remember Mr. and Mrs. Carter at church? The couple who just had their baby dedicated? He’s black and she’s white.”
Jennifer smiled. “They’re nice.”
Jayson nodded. “Yes, they’re very nice.”
A knock on the door halted their chat. “Oh your hiiii-ness!” sang the voice with a thick Spanish accent.
“You may enter,” the Duchess answered.
Magdalena opened the door and addressed Jayson. “I hate to interrupt but it’s time for the Duchess to get ready for bed.”
Jennifer frowned. “Already?” She gave her father a pleading look.
Jayson glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid so,” he replied and slowly got to his feet. “I had such a wonderful time, Milady,” He took her hand in his and kissed it. “I shall definitely inform my wife, the Princess Renee, that she missed a fabulous tea party.”
Jennifer threw her arms around his neck and squeezed. “Thank you, Daddy,” she whispered.
Jayson wrapped his arms around her and gently lifted her, then kissed her and lowered her back to the floor. “My pleasure,” he said, then turned his attention to Magdalena, who smiled with both joy and sadness. Once again, Jayson’s heart filled with compassion for his longsuffering housekeeper. He knew she certainly missed her own children terribly. “I’ll be up later to tuck the Duchess in.”
Magdalena lowered her head. “Si. I get her ready.”
Jayson patted the woman on the shoulder and walked down the hall. He entered his office and checked the wall clock: seven forty-five. Renee had gone to church choir rehearsal and wouldn’t be home until nine. The look on Magdalena’s face had reminded him how much his family meant to him. He reflected on the sermon the associate minister at church had preached the previous Sunday. She had admonished the congregation not to let the pursuit of material gain turn their hearts away from God and family. “No one on his or her deathbed will exclaim, ‘I wish I had spent more time at work!’” she had advised. Her declaration had elicited several spirited “Amens” from members of the congregation, including Jayson.
Jayson took the familiar position in front of his computer and turned it on. He watched the screen flicker and waited for the machine to start up. Meanwhile, he recalled his visit to Judge O’Hare’s chambers and resolved to take care that the Stone case didn’t cause undue hardship to his family. But the judge had advised him wisely: If he aspired to the bench, he—and they—would have to learn to live with some inconvenience.
He grabbed the mouse and clicked on his e-mail. One message had sneaked past his spam-blocking software. He deleted the generous offer for reduced-price tablets guaranteed to enlarge his penis and considered whether to disclose to Renee how much a soft, seductive voice he had heard on the telephone two days before had upset him. He mentally rehearsed several scripts but decided against them all. He saw no need to share the secret he had kept from his wife for several years. It would only upset her. He had made a mistake years ago, a lapse in judgment, and now it had co
me back to haunt him. His indignant rebuke to her notwithstanding, he knew he would surely hear from Leslie again.
•
Two weeks after Jennifer’s tea party, Jayson bent over his conference table and leafed through the discovery items for the Stone case. Connie had done a good job initially sorting the material, he remarked to himself, but he wanted to review the information alone. Her incessant chatter could be distracting.
He scanned arrest reports, search warrant documents, investigative reports, witness statements, police reports, crime scene photos, autopsy results, motions by the public defender, motions by the prosecutors, and so on. Three weeks after he had met privately with Judge O’Hare, he had officially been assigned the case. His client hadn’t even been present in the courtroom when the judge had made the transfer from the public defender to him. In fact, he and Stone still hadn’t met face-to-face. The wheels of justice do indeed turn slowly, Jayson admitted.
He checked the stacks on his conference table. Although the entire harvest appeared to be quite voluminous, he had expected there would actually be more. He suspected he hadn’t seen all the available—and legally required—information. The material constituted only what the public defender had been given by the Suffolk county assistant district attorneys; certainly not everything the ADAs had in their possession.
Jayson wondered what kind of person would firebomb a church. As an attorney, he had encountered all kinds of evidence testifying to how horribly human beings could treat each other. He had seen photos of domestic violence victims with black eyes, blood running from their noses and mouths, and x-rays revealing broken bones. He had read psychiatric reports of rape victims who had attempted suicide after their ordeals. He had examined photos of corpses: people who had been beaten, stabbed, poisoned, shot, run over by a car, and thrown off a six-story building.
The victims had been someone’s child, someone’s parent, someone’s spouse, someone’s brother or sister, someone’s best friend. Jayson had watched defendants in court lower their heads and sob like babies upon hearing how a loved one had been murdered. He had also watched defendants listen to such testimony calmly, displaying as little emotion as one would exhibit while watching paint dry.
Jayson took a seat and read Stone’s background information. The man had spent most of his early life in Arkansas. His alcoholic father had run out on his mother shortly before his second birthday. His alcoholic mother had given birth to him shortly after her fortieth birthday. He had been her fourth child. Each of his siblings had a different father, each one willing to buy his mother drinks and give her a place to stay. The woman had eventually been put out of her woefully unhappy existence by a fatal bout with the flu after Stone had turned three.
Following their mother’s death, Stone and his half-siblings had been placed in various foster homes. Stone had bounced from one foster home to the next and from one county to the next until his eighteenth birthday. He worked odd jobs in Arkansas, then moved to Tennessee. No reason was given for his relocation. Eventually, he moved to Massachusetts, again with no reason given. The fact that in spite of his unfortunate upbringing he had no previous criminal record surprised and impressed Jayson.
He opened the folder containing the report from the Boston Police Explosives Ordnance Unit, referred to in the department as E.O.U., but still commonly called the Bomb Squad by the public and the news media. The gist of the report indicated the powerful bomb had been constructed with ingredients easily attainable at hardware and home improvement stores. A gallon-sized glass bottle containing gasoline had been placed inside the box containing the explosive device for the purpose of ensuring a fire. A battery-powered digital timer had been used, set to go off precisely at midnight.
Jayson shook his head. Had Veronica Bradley not forgotten to turn off the light in the church’s kitchen, or had Reverend Bradley not forgotten a book he needed for his sermon, his daughter would still be alive. He wondered if the reverend tortured himself with guilt.
Jayson reasoned that by setting the bomb to detonate at midnight the culprit hadn’t intended to cause death or bodily harm. Therefore, a case could be made for second degree felony murder rather than murder in the first degree.
Next, Jayson picked up a list revealing the results from the search of Brian Stone’s drab apartment. Apparently, Stone had amassed a huge assortment of ugly racist literature and media. All of his books, pamphlets, position papers, videos, DVDs and CDs collectively decried how America had lost its way during the 1960s after the law had forced decent, Christian whites to integrate with blacks and other undesirable and inferior races. According to much of the literature and media Stone had absorbed, a long-standing, dastardly plot existed, funded primarily by American Jews, to destroy the United States so Israel could become the next superpower. Jayson shook his head again. Twelve citizens of the Commonwealth serving on a jury would surely loathe a man who endorsed or even entertained such views. His client should definitely not testify on his own behalf.
Jayson looked over a rather damaging acquisition from the search warrant. Stone’s hand-drawn map of the church did present a problem. Jayson laughed out loud as he envisioned arguing before a jury that his client had planned to visit Mount Calvary Baptist Church for religious reasons. Better to simply argue that the existence of the map proved nothing.
Another piece of evidence presented the biggest problem for the defense. The police had retrieved a copy of Mount Calvary’s church bulletin from Stone’s apartment, dated the day of the bombing. Reverend Bradley had informed the police that seventy-five copies of the church bulletins for Sunday had been printed the Friday before the bombing and placed on his desk. He also stated that none of the bulletins had been distributed. Forensic evidence indicated the church had burned to the ground, reducing everything in the reverend’s office to piles of ashes. How then, did Stone get a bulletin unless he had been in the building?
“Dumb ass,” Jayson whispered. Some stupid criminals just couldn’t resist taking a souvenir. It wasn’t uncommon for rapists and murderers to cut off a piece of a victim’s clothing and hide it in their homes. They’d take out the memento and relive their crime, deriving sick pleasure from doing so. Some even kept journals detailing their acts. More than one criminal had been convicted because of the existence of a “trophy room.” Such evidence could be next to impossible to challenge. Next to, but not entirely impossible, Jayson thought. His client might have entered the church and taken a bulletin—perhaps as a prank—but that didn’t mean he had planted the bomb.
Jayson reviewed copies of a few bomb-making documents taken from Stone’s apartment. It surprised him that even after the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, and the passing of subsequent anti-terrorism laws, almost anyone with a computer and a credit card could obtain ample information on how to make a bomb. Jayson read through a copy of the three-page table of contents for one book. It featured an arsenal of homemade explosives recipes: pipe bombs, grenades, napalm, smoke bombs, bomb launchers, detonators, the works. Well, Jayson reasoned, a loner’s fascination with explosives didn’t mean he had acted on it.
Jayson took a deep breath, stood, and finally reached to the far side of the table for the pile he had been avoiding for two hours. He opened the coroner’s report and felt his heartbeat accelerate and his palms become sweaty. He forced himself to look at the first picture.
There it—or she—was, on the medical examiner’s table—the blackened corpse of twelve-year-old Veronica Bradley. She looked like a match after it had burned itself out.
Jayson closed his eyes. “Lord Jesus, give peace to that poor child’s soul,” he prayed. For a few seconds he thought of his precious daughter and how he would feel if her body lay on that cold, stainless steel table. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath and reminded himself that his loyalty rested with his client, not the victim.
He read the report. No surprises. Death had been instantaneous. The girl never knew what hit her. He closed the file and toss
ed it back onto the other side of the table. Nothing there that would help but plenty that would hurt. Fortunately for his client, the judge would allow the coroner’s written report to be seen by the jury, but not the photos. Too inflammatory—pardon the gallows humor.
Jayson returned to his seat and lowered his head. It would be a difficult case in more ways than one. The prosecution had gotten an eighteen-month head start. He had a very unpopular client due to his racist views. The story had received a great deal of pre-trial publicity. Finally, from what the judge and both previous public defenders had told him, his client could be uncooperative.
Jayson checked his watch and the clock on the wall, then threw a few papers into his briefcase. Time for the main attraction. He walked to the door and opened it. “Connie, can I see you, please?” He leaned against the door to keep it open.
His always-ebullient paralegal strutted into the room. As usual, her skirt hung a bit shorter than he thought it should for a law office; and, as usual, he said nothing about it. “You rang?” she asked.
Jayson pointed at the table. “You did a good job of sorting the stuff the PDs sent over.”
“Thanks.”
“I rearranged things just a bit, nothing serious. Pile everything back into the boxes, keep them organized and,” he lowered his voice, “make sure Tenika doesn’t see those pics.”
Connie grimaced as if she had just sucked on a lemon. “I know,” she whispered. “They’re terrible, aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” Jayson said. He stepped away from the door and spoke to Connie as it slowly closed. “I’m off to the County Jail to meet Brian Stone.”
* * * * *