Keep Them Close(39)

“Then it was Luke’s turn down the hill,” Fin goes on. “When he rode the hill, he rode it fast as anyone. So down he went.” His shoulders lift. “It happened so fast. One second, he’s burning down the hill, probably trying to set the record, then the next, he loses control and goes into the street. And then.” Finley leans forward, pauses, scratches his cheek. “The rest is a blur. We all ran down the hill. Someone—someone must’ve called the police.”

Trinity bows her head, gives him time to continue. When he doesn’t, she says, “So you hadn’t ridden your bike down the hill yet?”

“Um…no.” Fin shakes his head. “I remember running down the hill after the crash. Half of us fell over, trying to sprint down a slope like that. It’s like…I remember running before I even realized what had happened.”

“What about climbing the fence?” I interject.

He looks up at me, eyes narrow. “The fence? The gofer fence?”

“Yes.”

“Was I the gofer that day?” he asks. His head tilts back, eyes at the ceiling. “I was on the other side of the fence when you crashed?”

“You were the gofer,” I say.

“I was? You sure?”

Oh, yes, Fin, I’m positive. Don’t play dumb. It demeans us both.

“You handed me my bike over the fence,” I say.

“I’ve interviewed some of the others who were there,” says Trinity. “Charlie Gennaro. Kevin Galloway. They all remember that you were the gofer.”

“Huh.” Fin throws up his hands. “I honestly don’t remember. It’s been, what, twenty-eight years?” He nods to Trinity. “I guess the stress of it, your memory plays tricks over time.”

Trinity glances in my direction. My eyes drop to the floor.

“That must be it,” I say, my jaw tight. “The stress of it.”





29


Allison

“We need a villain,” I tell Aaron and Vivian, sitting in our war room, a term that has begun to earn its name—legal pads spread across the long table, exhibits and Post-it notes taped to the walls, half-drunk coffees cooling beside stacks of transcripts. Even a calendar on the wall checking off the days until trial—sixty-two days, for the record, from today, March 10.

“I just finished the last of the intercepts,” I say, referring to eighty-seven audio files where the government recorded Congressman Childress or his chief of staff in the investigation. “I’ve read every 302, every grand jury transcript. Aaron, Viv, you’ve done the same?”

They both nod.

“Okay, Aaron—what’s our narrative?”

He blinks hard, clears his throat. “They don’t have direct proof of quid pro quo. He never said he’d trade his vote for a favor. They have to draw inferences from his behavior. It’s not enough to overcome reasonable doubt.”

I get out of my chair. “Whenever I saw the defense do that, just keep their client silent and argue inferences and the burden of proof, I knew I had a winner. The jury will want more than that. We need a story of our own. With a bad guy.”

I walk over to the space on the wall where Vivian taped up a photo of the chief of staff, a diagonal slash across his face. “Willoughby, the chief. He’s our villain. This was all him. His boss was seventy-three, planning to retire soon. Willoughby wanted to take his seat. So everything that helped Congressman Childress helped him, too. He was sucking up to lobbyists and special interests because he wanted them to fund his campaign coffer when it came time for him to run. His boss was an elderly man who wasn’t paying as close attention as he once did to such things, knowing that his time was coming to an end.”

A smile creeps across Aaron’s face. Vivian has been nodding all along.

“We need a story,” I say. “And every good story has a villain.”

My phone buzzes. Luke’s prosecutor, Bruce Ghadiali. I answer on the second ring.

“Hi, Allison,” he says. “The test results came back.”

I walk out into the hallway. The DNA and print results on the contraband! Took them long enough. But the college baseball season is only just beginning. The timing isn’t terrible. Luke could be reinstated as coach within a week if I can convince Bruce to drop the charges.

“Wanna stop by in person?” he suggests. “Worth a face-to-face.”

Sure it is, from his perspective. He’ll want to find a way that we can quietly dismiss these charges without his office looking bad in the media. I’d probably do the same in his shoes.

“I can come over right now,” I tell him.



* * *





I reach Bruce Ghadiali’s office at 26th and California within the hour. He’s expecting me and extends his hand. He’s one of the principal supervisors in the felony trial division. As a former prosecutor myself, I know a sup’s life—answering questions constantly, putting out fires, juggling multiple issues and cases at once, and pining for the days when your only job was to try cases and put away bad guys. Sometimes promotions don’t feel like promotions.

He is in a blue shirt with a navy tie pulled down. His office is standard-issue government, small and square, a cheap wraparound desk, banker’s boxes piled everywhere. The only thing out of place is a Nespresso coffee machine resting atop a file cabinet.