David Rosenfelt - Airtight

You can punch me in the mouth when I get you out.

Keith Hernandez couldn’t carry Don Mattingly’s glove. Mattingly belongs in the Hall of Fame. Hernandez belongs on Seinfeld.

In all the time I was a cop, I never framed anyone.

I’m not just talking about out-and-out frames, where evidence is created and planted to implicate an innocent party. I’m talking about shadings, about things like not aggressively pursuing evidence that might help the accused, when I thought the accused was guilty.

I always prided myself on going after the truth whether or not it might butt up against my preconceived notions; I’d much rather adjust my point of view than adjust the evidence in any way.

I’m not looking for praise in saying this; it’s my job, and I could say the same of every cop I’ve ever worked with, with the possible exception of one or two. Or three at the most.

But I’d never been faced with a situation like this before, and my strategy was evolving. And it was becoming increasingly clear to me that in order to succeed, I was going to have to frame someone for the murder of Judge Danny Brennan.

My victim wouldn’t be going to jail; he or she wouldn’t even be going to trial. The sole judge and jury who would decide the case was Chris Gallagher. I had to credibly make a case to him that someone, other than his brother, committed the murder.

But I couldn’t come up with a perpetrator out of whole cloth. I also needed a motive, and an ability for someone to have committed the crime. And that was basically why I had gotten the information about the Appeals Court cases. I did not believe that anyone involved in those cases had slaughtered Danny Brennan in his garage. But I needed to make Chris Gallagher believe that they did.

I spent a few hours going over the information in the folder, plus additional material that Bollinger, as promised, messengered over. Much of it was legalese, which I only partially understood, but I identified at least three possible cases to pursue. I would bring it to dinner with Julie, since she was far more knowledgeable about this stuff than I was.

We met at Spumoni’s, a casual Italian place in Englewood. I’d eaten there a number of times with Julie and Bryan; sometimes I brought a date, and sometimes I didn’t. I even remember some of their names.

I got there first and took a quiet table near the back. Julie came in a few minutes later, the strain evident on her face. She still looked fantastic; that was a given. But this time she looked fantastic and very, very stressed.

We didn’t kiss hello; we never did. I don’t think I know another woman in the world, outside of work, who doesn’t kiss me hello, but Julie never did. At least not since the night we did a lot more than kiss.

She just about grabbed the waiter and ordered a drink, a favorite of hers called a “Dark and Stormy.” She asked for it the way she might ask for a life preserver on a ship about to go down, but didn’t wait for it to come before handing me the envelope she had brought.

“Everything you ever wanted to know about Christopher Gallagher,” she said.

“Summarize it,” I said.

“No, it’s bedtime reading for you, but you won’t sleep much after you read it. You do the talking.”

I took her through everything that had transpired since we last talked, including showing her printed copies of the e-mails that Bryan and I had exchanged. It was depressing in the telling, as it drove home the reality that we were getting nowhere.

I was getting nowhere.

“Do you think I should bring in the Feds?” I asked.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” she said. “And I don’t think you should.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re a machine, and they will do what they’re programmed to do. They’ll try and catch Gallagher, though I don’t think they’ll be able to. But if they did catch him, it wouldn’t go the way that we want.”

“I’m chasing something that doesn’t exist,” I said.

She nodded. “I know.”

“I’m going to have to fake it,” I said.

She nodded again, and pointed to the folder that I had brought. “Which is why you wanted the case information from Bollinger.”

“Right. I need you to go through it. I saw a few possibilities that we can go after, maybe find a credible villain…”

“So I’ve got my own bedtime reading,” she said.

“Yeah. Julie, is there anything you want me to say to Bryan for you? Or you could e-mail him yourself.”

“I don’t think I should. This is a nightmare for him, and I want it to be as bearable as possible. If he wanted to hear from me, he would e-mail me. You think I’m wrong?”

I nodded. “I think you’re wrong.”

She thought about it for a while. “Tell him I love him. And tell him I’m sorry.”

Chris Gallagher was waiting on my porch when I got home.

He was sitting there, not a care in the world, like he belonged and was thinking of organizing a neighborhood block party. I wasn’t particularly surprised.

“How come you didn’t break in?” I asked.

“No need for the drama anymore,” he said. “You want to talk inside, or out here?”

“Inside.”

We went into the kitchen, and I stopped at the refrigerator. I took out two bottles of beer, and tossed one to Gallagher.

“The gracious host,” he said.

“Hopefully you’re doing the same for my brother.”

“I assume you’re asking him in your e-mails,” he said.

“And I assume you’re reading them.”

He shook his head. “No. I could, but I’m not.”

“You’re full of shit,” I said.

He smiled. “I am many things, but I am not full of shit. I don’t say words unless I mean them.”

“So why are you letting him e-mail?”

“Steven e-mailed me in Afghanistan; it’s the way we kept in touch. I heard from him just six hours before you killed him. Unfortunately, all I did with his e-mails was read them.”

“So Bryan being able to e-mail me satisfies some sense of justice you have?”

He shrugged. “I guess so. I don’t try to figure myself out much.”

“So what are you doing here?” I asked.

“Checking on your progress, assuming you’re making some.”

“It’s been one day,” I said.

“You’ve only got seven.”

“That’s not enough.”

“On behalf of your brother, I’m sorry to hear that. Now tell me where you are.”

I was having a tough time deciding how much to tell him, since at that point I didn’t even know enough to come up with a credible fake scenario. I decided to be as nonspecific as I could get away with.

“There’s an entire task force working on this, though they are not aware of the situation with you and Bryan. We’re taking a two-pronged approach. We’re attempting to establish an alibi for Steven, trying to find out where he was at the time of the murder, and whether anyone can place him away from the scene.”

“How is that going?”

“We’re not there yet. But I have a proposition for you. I am willing to go on national television and say that Steven was innocent, that I shot the wrong man. And when Bryan is released, I won’t go back on that. I promise.”

“No good,” he said.

“Why not? It will clear Steven’s name in the eyes of the world. Isn’t that what this is about? You already believe in him; he doesn’t need to be cleared in your eyes, does he?”

He ignored this. “You said two-pronged approach; what’s the other one?”

“We’re trying to identify other suspects. These could come from defendants in Brennan’s courtroom who might have carried a grudge against him, or people with a reason to fear how Brennan might help decide cases before the Appeals Court.”