Injustice (39 page)

“I'm just trying to reach you,” I say to her voicemail, in a voice as full of blame as I can make it.

Chip arrives. Then Rachel Sabin. “Where's Philbin?” I ask.

“Home, I guess,” she says. “He's probably sulking. Monica Brill is calling him as a witness tomorrow. The thing about Philly: He hates court. Hates it. Now twice in the same trial.” She reaches over and taps my hand. “And how are you?”

It was just last night that we sat around talking about Lydia and Mailing and the Christmas number. She drove me home.

Isler takes the lead. “A few things seem to be falling into place,” he says. “Here's the backdrop: A lot of money has gone missing from Subsurface, Inc.; the tax legislation would have cost the industry—and by extension Subsurface—hundreds of millions; Subsurface was paying penny-ante bribes to a few legislators to lock in their votes; and then the anti-gas, pro-environment representative Porter delayed the gas bill two whole years by pushing his environmental amendment.”

“Did any of that five point two mil find its way into Porter's hands?” Upton asks.

“Doesn't appear so,” Isler says. “Here's the foreground: Jimmy Mailing was murdered, and we assume it was because he knew too much. Bud Billman, who was probably the only other person to know the whole story, died in a plane crash a few months ago. The wreckage hasn't been found because it's at the bottom of the ocean. But NTSB is taking a fresh look at radar and radio records.”

“You're thinking sabotage?” Sabin asks.

“Realize we have no actual evidence,” Isler says. “It's just a thought. But if some serious money was changing hands, Billman and Mailing would have been the ones to know about it. We've been sweating Voss, Billman's right-hand man. So far, he looks clean.”

“What does Porter have to say about all this?” Upton asks.

“Yes, well, that's what I want to tell you,” Isler says. “We tried talking with him yesterday, but we haven't been able to find him yet. His wife says he drove home to his district for some constituent events, but he doesn't answer his phone. We're concerned. I've initiated a search.”

“And here's the twist-a-roonie,” I say. “My sister-in-law's illicit lover seems to be the one who lured Mailing over to Rokeby Park the night he was killed.”

Everyone starts talking around the table. We lose focus. I find it hard to concentrate. I liked it better the other night when it was just Upton and me with the puddle shark. Maybe if this isn't solved by tomorrow after trial, I'll try diving into it again with one other person. Upton, probably. Or maybe Sabin. Right now my mind is back in the courtroom. And I'm exhausted. Last night, after drinking a little too much with Upton, I tossed and turned all night. Alcohol has that effect on me. And the night before that, Barnaby was sick and I was up with him for hours.

Sabin puts a hand on my knee. “You okay, Nick?”

“Sure, fine.”

“Bullshit.”

T
his should be the final day of trial. The jury is seated by the time I arrive. Everybody except the judge seems ready to go. I walk to the front bench, where a seat has been saved for me behind Gregory Nations. I turn to see if Lizzy is here. I don't spot her.

I feel good. I finally got a full night of sleep and woke to the smell of coffee and the noise of someone moving around in the suite. It was Sabin.

After leaving the Rain Tree last night, she and I met for a glass of wine at the bar in Friendly City. We talked briefly about Subsurface, but I was too bleary to make much sense. “You're not much of a date,” she said, though her voice didn't ask to be taken seriously. “Do you have an extra key card, Nick?”

I nodded.

She put her hand out. “Give it here.”

I hesitated.

“Relax,” she said. “I'll come for coffee in the morning—make sure you're up and alive.”

This thing with Sabin: If I were single, I'd explore the chemistry she and I seem to have. But what I want—what I'm desperate for—is to be home with Tina and Barnaby. Sometimes I wish Sabin would get bumped from the investigation so I don't have to deal with her. But then I go “home” alone to Friendly City, spending the evening in the cold isolation of that cell, devoid as it is of Barnaby's giggles and hugs, and I climb into bed alone without Tina beside me to talk through the events of the day and to snuggle with through the night. Tina has sent me to Siberia, and out here in these frozen barrens, I have found some guilty pleasure in this new and ill-defined friendship.

The judge enters the courtroom. Monica calls Philbin back to the stand. His contempt for her and his anger at being called as a witness for the defense is palpable. He is more jowly, more hulking, and more surly than usual. The pits of his eyes are darker.

Monica starts right in, asking about his involvement in the investigation of Lydia's murder.

Gregory is on his feet immediately. “Objection. I've been patient about the defense's fishing expedition, but I don't see how Detective Philbin's part in an unrelated investigation has any relevance whatsoever.”

Gregory's objection means that he was happy to let Monica spend a day talking about Lydia's murder, knowing the jury would assume that Henry was her killer. But now he's nervous that Monica might be going someplace with it.

Monica answers the objection by claiming that this is all extremely relevant, and with a bit more latitude, it will soon be clear.

I'm watching the judge. He's intrigued. He was never a prosecutor and is reputed to side with the defense. I get the impression that he's enjoying Monica's bizarre handling of this case and is itching to see where it goes. “Overruled,” he says. “You may proceed, Ms. Brill, but you're on a short leash, understood?”

Monica leads Philbin through the investigation of Lydia's murder. She has him tell us why he was so certain Henry was guilty of Lydia's murder. Point by point, under Monica's scorching questions, all the supposed evidence sounds shallow. Her questions and Philbin's answers sound like the conversation Philbin and Sabin and I had in that coffee shop months ago before the DNA revelation. “He couldn't account for his whereabouts at the time of the murder,” Philbin says, and Monica gets him to admit that Henry did account for his whereabouts—he was working on the brief he and I had due in court the next day. It's just that Henry had nobody to confirm his alibi.

“And he'd been consulting with Aaron Pursley, a known felon,” Philbin says. Monica elicits the explanation that Pursley was an
investigator—albeit an unlicensed one—and that Henry claimed to be looking for his biological family. (Neither side is willing to have Pursley himself testify about this. Gregory Nations doesn't want any witness who might confirm Henry's story about searching for his family; nor does Gregory dare risk triggering the empathic reaction a jury might feel for a quiet and disfigured man who goes hunting for his roots. Monica, conversely, wants to avoid shining a spotlight on Henry's association with someone as shady as Aaron Pursley.)

Monica succeeds in making Philbin's suspicion of Henry look hollow. Hunches may be the engines of investigation, but when the case falls apart and the investigator has to account for it, the hunches sound foolish and the detective's perseverance appears irrational or, worse, like a vendetta.

MS. BRILL:
Despite a total lack of physical evidence, and with nothing more than some flawed circumstantial suspicion, you were still convinced Lydia was killed by her fiancé, Henry Tatlock?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Yes.

MS. BRILL:
So you were worried Henry was getting away with murder?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
I figured we'd get him sooner or later.

MS. BRILL:
And you were committed to making sure that happened?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Yes.

Monica pretends to be discouraged, as if she expected Philbin to admit that his investigation of Henry was ill advised. “Well, let's move on,” she says.

I was fooled by her at first. No longer. Monica is not discouraged. Her hangdog look is an act. She is baiting a trap. I'm worried. I'm intrigued.

“Did you ever have occasion to search Henry's house?” she asks, as if she's curious how thorough Philbin's investigation of Henry was.

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Yes, after the DNA results . . .

MS. BRILL:
But before that, before the DNA. When it was just about Lydia.

Philbin tells us how he and Sabin conducted a search of the house after I found the phone message Lydia left on the answering machine of our unused landline.

MS. BRILL:
And you were involved in the search yourself?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Yes.

MS. BRILL:
And it was thorough?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Pretty thorough.

MS. BRILL:
As I recall, you weren't searching subject to a warrant but, rather, with Henry's permission.

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Right.

MS. BRILL:
And you searched the usual places? Under beds, in the laundry pile, in the bathroom, in trash cans?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Yes. It was a search. You know?

MS. BRILL:
Find anything useful?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
No.

MS. BRILL:
Did you take anything from the house?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
No.

I don't like this. I can see Gregory doesn't like it, either. Philbin, though, is gaining confidence. He's looking up at Monica. I notice him staring at Henry with a satisfied smile.

Gregory gets to his feet. “Your Honor, I think we've let this go on for long enough—”

MS. BRILL:
And just to clarify, Henry Tatlock lived alone?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Yes.

MS. BRILL:
Do you think he was lonely?

MR. NATIONS:
Objection.

JUDGE:
Sustained.

MS. BRILL:
Do you think he missed sleeping with his fiancée?

MR. NATIONS:
Objection. Your Honor—

JUDGE:
Ms. Brill. You've reached the end of that leash. This whole testimony is—

MS. BRILL:
I'm sorry, Judge. I'll wrap up now. I just want to ask the witness who Karen Philbin was.

Gregory objects again, and the judge smacks his gavel. But Detective Philbin is staring at Monica, his mouth half open as if waiting for words to come out.

I think Philbin sees that he has played it all wrong and Monica played him just right. Philbin is not a strategist or a deceiver. That is Sabin's job. Philbin is just who he is: the hulking, obtuse, undereducated, overcompensating “bad cop,” which is why Sabin finds it so easy to play the role of good cop. During the investigation of Lydia's murder, and during this trial, his intention was—as in every other case he is involved in—to bring others around to his point of view through sheer boorish obstinacy. Now he's starting to see that Monica Brill has bested him. She is about to make his certainty look like delusion, his perseverance look like a vendetta, and his diligence look like criminality.

No, I doubt he has thought this through yet, but he senses it coming. It is a storm, a force of nature, and like wild animals that burrow or flock or flee in the advent of cataclysm, Detective Philbin tries to find a spot of safety. But there is none.

“Karen Philbin was my sister,” he says.

MS. BRILL:
And is it true that Karen Philbin was murdered over twenty years ago?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Yes.

MS. BRILL:
And that the killer was her fiancé?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Yes.

MS. BRILL:
And that he killed her in a jealous rage when she split up with him and started seeing someone else?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Yes.

MS. BRILL:
And that he pled to manslaughter and only served eight years?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Yes.

MS. BRILL:
Detective Philbin, isn't it true that when people ask why you chose a career in police work, you refer to this family tragedy?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
I don't know. Maybe I've said that.

MS. BRILL:
And would it surprise you to hear somebody quote you as saying you want to catch every, um, “murdering motherfucker who does to some other woman what that man did to Karen”?

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
I don't know.

MS. BRILL:
Because I can call more witnesses if you like.

DETECTIVE PHILBIN:
Maybe it wouldn't surprise me.

MS. BRILL:
Detective Philbin, you testified earlier that you transported a box of physical evidence from the FBI building to the state crime lab, is that right?