Dead Even Page 36

  “Exactly,” Guff said with a smile. “And that cellmate is…” Guff held up the faxed mug shot of a prisoner. It was blurry, but it was definitely Sunken Cheeks. Sara’s eyes went wide.

  “That’s him!” Sara said, grabbing the fax out of Guff’s hands. “That’s the guy who threatened me.”

  “Unbelievable,” Conrad said. “You may get employee of the month for this one.”

  “I’m shooting for the whole year,” Guff said.

  “So who is he?” Sara asked, still studying the picture.

  “His name is Elliott Traylor. That’s all we have right now, but give me an hour and we’ll have the rest.”

  “Here we go,” Guff said, reading from a file folder as he stood in the middle of Sara’s office. “The life and times of Elliott Traylor. He was born in Queens, New York, to Phyllis Traylor, who raised him on her own.”

  “What happened to his father?” Sara asked.

  “There’s no mention of a father,” Guff said. “The family grew up relatively poor in Queens, and Elliott’s mother used to work as both a secretary and a waitress. Here’s the interesting part, though. According to their tax records, Elliott’s mother used to work for a company called StageRights Unlimited. And that was the original name for—you guessed it—”

  “Echo Enterprises,” Conrad said.

  “Are you kidding me?” Sara asked.

  “Wait, it gets better. When she was at StageRights, Phyllis Traylor was the personal secretary for Mr. Arnold Doniger. But according to her unemployment records, she was fired from StageRights a few months before Elliott was born.”

  “That was at least twenty-five to thirty years ago,” Sara said. “Is she still alive?”

  “No, she died seven years ago from lung cancer. Elliott went to high school in Queens and then won an engineering scholarship to Brooklyn College. His test scores say he was quite the boy genius, but he apparently had a hard time when his mother passed away. He was only a sophomore in college at the time.”

  “What was he in prison for?” Conrad asked.

  “Aggravated sexual abuse and aggravated assault. Seems he had a difference of opinion with a woman he was courting. She started screaming it was rape; he punched her in the face and broke her jaw. Luckily, someone heard and called the cops. From the file we have on him, he’s a brutal bastard. Smart, too.”

  “That engineering degree might explain the fingerprints,” Sara said.

  “I still don’t understand one thing,” Conrad said. “What the hell does Elliott have to gain if Kozlow is found guilty?”

  “Maybe he’s holding a grudge from when his mom was fired all those years ago,” Guff suggested.

  “Too corny,” Sara said. “And not strong enough to make him take all those risks.”

  “Maybe he’s been hired by someone else who hates Kozlow and Rafferty for some other reason.”

  “No, now you’re getting off track,” Conrad said. “If Elliott is involved, he must have something to gain. There’s a fifty-million-dollar business on the line here.”

  “Then let me ask you this,” Guff said as he joined Sara on the couch. “If they take the money away from Rafferty, who gets it?”

  “According to the will, it goes to Arnold Doniger’s heirs.”

  “So Claire does get it?” Guff asked, confused.

  “No, the will specifically states that Claire takes nothing, and since she waived everything else in the prenup, it goes to his other surviving relatives. First, they’ll look to see if he has any children, then they’ll—”

  “Stop right there,” Conrad said. “What if Arnold Doniger has a son he doesn’t know about?”

  “How do you have a son you don’t—” Suddenly, a cold chill ran down Sara’s back. “Oh, my God. You think Elliott—”

  “Why not? It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Hold on a second,” Guff said. “You think Elliott is Arnold Doniger’s son?”

  “Actually, I do,” Sara said. “Look at the facts: Elliott’s mother spends five years working as Arnold Doniger’s secretary. Over time, a little office romance develops and Arnold starts having a little fun behind his first wife’s back. Then the bad news hits—Elliott’s mom is pregnant. Six months before the baby’s due, Arnold tells her to hit the road. He may have tons of money, but he can’t let an illegitimate child ruin his marriage, his reputation, and his lifestyle.”

  “I’m with you,” Conrad said. “Six months later, Elliott is born. His mother has no job, no money, and, as the birth certificate says, no husband. When Elliott is old enough, his mother tells him the story of his father, and for years, Elliott harbors nothing but hatred for the man who won’t acknowledge his existence. So when the opportunity comes to get Dad’s money—his rightful inheritance—Elliott wants to make sure he’s first in line.”

  “See, I think he’s more involved than that,” Sara said. “Elliott has way too much information to just be showing up at the reading of the will.”

  “You think he took part in the murder?”

  “That’s the only way to explain how he knew about the wine cellar,” Sara pointed out. “He and Rafferty could’ve plotted Arnold’s death together. Rafferty would get the money; Elliott would get revenge. But when Kozlow got arrested and the plan fell apart, Elliott realized that he had even more to gain than the resolution of his I-hate-Daddy complex. At that point, he switched sides, turned on Rafferty, and pushed me to win.” As the logic of her own argument registered, Sara slumped back in disgust. “Which means Elliott plotted the death of his own father.”

  “I know it’s hard to fathom, but it happens all the time,” Conrad said.

  “But it’s his father,” Sara said, disgusted. “How do you kill your own parent?”

  “By hiring Tony Kozlow to give him an overdose of insulin.”

  “There’s only one problem,” Guff said. “If Elliott’s involved with the death, isn’t he also covered by the slayer statute?”

  “Of course,” Sara said. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not a greedy little scumbag. Besides, the only way to prove Elliott was involved with Arnold’s death is if Rafferty rats him out. And if he does that, Rafferty will be admitting his own involvement.”

  “Which he’ll never do, because if he does, he’ll never see a dime of Arnold’s money,” Conrad said.

  “Exactly,” Sara added.

  “You think?” Guff asked skeptically. “It seems a little far-fetched to me.”

  “I disagree,” Sara said. “You’d be surprised what people will do when their family’s involved.”

  “Or what they won’t do,” Conrad said. “Like keep their mouths shut.”

  “But a bizarro Electra complex? What’s the likelihood of—”

  “Either way, it doesn’t matter,” Sara interrupted. “Regardless of what you believe, Elliott’s clearly the man we’re looking for.”

  “So what do we do now?” Guff asked.

  “That’s easy,” Sara said. “Have you ever heard of a prisoners’ dilemma?”

  At nine o’clock that evening, Sara, Conrad, and Guff packed up their belongings. “You really think it’ll work?” Guff asked as he put on his jacket.

  “It can’t miss,” Sara said, stuffing two legal pads into her briefcase.

  “Of course it can miss,” Conrad said. “If you tell Jared, and Jared tells Victor…”

  “Don’t start with that.”

  “Then don’t tell him. The plan only works if everything’s kept quiet. That means no one should know about it—especially your husband.”

  “Why’re you so convinced that Jared’s involved with Victor? Why would he possibly do that to me?”

  “I told you before, maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do. What if he and Victor are running this case-burying business together? Assuming Victor does it for money, he still needs some good way to find the richest defendants—and as an up-and-comer in a big-name law firm, Jared’s the perfect scout. That’s why he
doesn’t have any clients; they’re all off the books.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Is it? Are you sure? Think about it, Sara. Think carefully. People have lapses of strength all the time. All he needs is the tiniest push: He’s not satisfied at work; he’s sick of living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment; he needs the money; he’s having trouble making partner—”

  “I don’t want to hear this,” Sara said as she struggled to stuff a file folder in her briefcase. Realizing it wouldn’t fit, she added, “Dammit, what the hell is wrong with this thing?”

  “Take it easy,” Guff said as he helped her with the folder.

  “Sara, if you tell Jared, and he’s on the other side, this thing’ll blow up in our faces. We’ll be sitting there thinking it’s all going to work out, and then, out of nowhere, BOOOM!” Sara jumped at Conrad’s sound effect. “Next thing you know, we’re finished.” Conrad let the silence of the room drive home his point.

  “But if Jared doesn’t know—”

  “He’ll be fine, Sara. It’s not like I’m asking a lot. I don’t need you to lie to him; I just want you to keep it quiet. Otherwise, we risk watching all our hard work slip away.”

  Sara turned to Guff. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I see Conrad’s point, but part of me keeps thinking that once you doubt Jared, there’s no going back.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic,” Conrad said. “It’s just one little secret—nothing more. Now what do you say?”

  “I’m not sure,” Sara said. “Let me see how tonight goes.”

  A half hour after she arrived at home, Sara was sitting in front of the computer, staring at a blank screen. When she had first walked in, she had expected to find her husband cooking in the kitchen or typing in the bedroom. But as she made her way to the back of the apartment, she was surprised to find neither. Determined to take advantage of Jared’s absence, she’d quickly exchanged her business suit for sweatpants and a T-shirt, and pulled a chair up to the computer. Now was the time to decide, she thought. Before he gets home.

  Carefully weighing each of the arguments in her head, she tried her best to reach a solution. Deep down, she wanted to believe him. It was the only choice. But the longer she sat alone in the silent apartment, and the longer she looked down at her watch, wondering where Jared was, the more she started to doubt him. And the more she started to doubt him, the more she saw the strength of Conrad’s argument. She didn’t have to lie to Jared—she just had to keep quiet.

  Sensing the arrival of rationalization, Sara wondered what Pop would do in the same situation. He’d tell the truth, she thought. What about Jared’s parents? They’d lie. What about her own parents? What would they do? Sara walked over to the row of pictures on her dresser, picked out the photo of her parents, and sat down on her bed. It was an old picture, taken on the day Sara got accepted to Hunter College. Her father was so proud that when they went out to a small nearby restaurant to celebrate, he brought the acceptance letter and showed it to the waiter. Then he took a picture of Sara with the letter. And his wife with the letter. And even the waiter with the letter. Finally, Sara grabbed the camera and said, “How about we get some people in the next one?” Within an instant, Sara’s father had wrapped his arm around his wife and placed his hand so confidently on her shoulder. On the count of three, Sara snapped the picture.

  Over a dozen years later, Sara loved the picture not because it was a great one, and not because it made her parents look beautiful. She loved it because every time she looked at it, she remembered that day—the acceptance letter, the pride, the waiter, the food, and most important, the people there.

  The click of the front door locks jarred Sara from her memory. Jared was finally home. Brushing her thumb across the glass that covered her parents’ image, she knew it was time to move past the lessons of death and to pay attention to the ones about life.

  When Jared burst into the room, she could tell that he had already prepared his excuse. Racing to the computer, he was ready to type out why he was late, and where he’d been, and why she had to believe him about Victor. But before he even passed the bed, Sara stepped in front of him. Jared was biting at his bottom lip. He looked anxious, almost nervous. It would definitely be easy to keep the secret, she thought. Just don’t say a word. She sat down at the computer, unclenched her fists, and fought her hesitation. Don’t look back, she told herself. Only forward. And as her fingers danced across the keyboard, Sara Tate took her leap of faith. Over her shoulder, Jared read the words, “Here’s the plan…”

  Sitting on a discarded milk crate in the basement, he stared intensely at the monitor. It was propped up on two other crates, and it bathed the dark room in the artificial glow of blue light. When he saw the first few words flicker across the screen, he smiled at his own ingenuity. It hadn’t been difficult to put in the splitter, but it did take some time to find the exact location of the gas furnace’s vent pipe. Once he had that, though, he just dropped a plumb line from the hole in their wall down to the basement. That’s what it took to get the wire down there: a washer on a string. All he’d had to do was make sure no one was home, which, for him, was as easy as finding out about their meeting in Brooklyn. He just had to know where to look. And who to speak to. Slowly, the screen was filled with Sara’s plan. And as he read every word, Elliott nodded to himself. There was nothing to worry about. Sara, Rafferty, all of them—they’d never know what hit them.

  Chapter 18

  AT SIX-THIRTY IN THE MORNING ON THE DAY OF THE trial, Sara and Jared sat at their kitchen table, staring silently at each other. Although Sara had made herself her favorite breakfast, a giant bowl of Apple Jacks and a tall glass of orange juice, she’d barely touched it. No matter how well prepared she was for this day, no matter how much thought she’d put into it, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to be done. As Conrad had warned her the night before, there was nothing like the anxiety of opening day. No amount of experience could appease it; no amount of preparation could allay it.

  Sitting across the table from his wife, Jared was consumed by the same fears. Ten minutes ago, he had toasted two slices of rye toast without the crust. He still hadn’t taken more than a bite. Since the day he’d arrived at Wayne & Portnoy, he’d been involved in at least twenty different trials. He’d personally been first chair on seven of them. And while he had already expertly faced dozens of doubting jurors, opening day was always the same: no appetite, upset stomach, striking pain in the base of his neck. That was the way every trial started, and that was what he felt as he stared across at his wife.

  After shoving aside her cereal and orange juice, Sara pulled out a pen and scribbled a quick note on the corner of Jared’s newspaper: “Good luck, my love. See you in court.” Then, as silently as she could, she gave him a tender kiss on his forehead. A minute later, she was gone.

  As Jared stood up to throw out his toast, the phone rang. “Hello,” he said.

  “She looks good today,” Rafferty said. “Sharp coat, nice shoes, no jewelry. Clearly, she’s dressed to impress.”

  “Stay the hell away from her,” Jared warned.

  “Don’t make threats—they piss me off.”

  “Where are you?” Jared asked.

  “In my car. Right outside your front door. I’m here to give you a ride to the courthouse.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “It’s not an offer, Jared. Come downstairs. Now.”

  Jared quickly put on his overcoat and grabbed his briefcase. He’d expected Rafferty to offer a final bit of advice before the trial, but he hadn’t thought it’d be this early.

  Outside, the morning was typical for a New York winter: bitter cold, no sun, gray skies. When Jared opened the door to Rafferty’s car, he saw both Kozlow and Rafferty waiting.

  “Big day, boss,” Kozlow said. “How do I look?”

  “It’ll do,” Jared said, eyeing the suit they’d bought for the grand jury. “Make sure to wea
r the glasses.”

  “I got them right here,” Kozlow said, patting his breast pocket. “Safe and sound.”

  As Jared took a seat in the back of the car, he could feel Rafferty staring coldly at him. Attempting to ignore the nausea that was dancing in his stomach, Jared asked, “Everything okay?”

  “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “Then you’ll be happy to know that I hit pay dirt last night. I saw her questions for Doniger and Officer McCabe, I read her opening statement, and I got a look at her evidence list. We’re in good shape—we’re now prepared for everything she’s bringing up.”

  “What about jury selection?”

  “Do I look like a complete novice to you? I know exactly who I’m after: female, white, college educated—hopefully liberal. They take it easy on defendants. And they hate female attorneys.”

  “What about Sara? Who’s she after?”

  “Don’t worry about Sara. She’s never even done her own jury selection. I’m sure Conrad will have coached her, but she’ll still be up there alone.”

  “So you think you’ve got it under control?” Kozlow asked. “You think the odds are you’ll pull out a victory?”

  “There are no odds in criminal-defense work,” Jared said. “Either the jury buys your bullshit, or they see what you’re selling and send you on your way.”

  “Well then, they better buy your bullshit,” Rafferty warned.

  “Listen, I don’t need your—”

  “No, you listen,” Rafferty shot back. “I don’t want to hear that you can’t give us odds. And I don’t want to hear that you’re not sure of the outcome. The only thing I want to hear out of your mouth is that you’re going to win this waste-of-my-time case. In fact, that’s what I want you to do. In your own words, I want you to tell me, ‘Rafferty, we’re going to win this case.’”

  Jared was silent.

  “Say it. Repeat after me,” Rafferty said. “‘Rafferty, we’re going to win this case. Without a doubt, I’m going to win this case for you.’”