David Ellis - The Wrong Man

By now silent tears had fallen down Doreen’s cheeks. She turned her head to look out the window, a defense mechanism, while her husband glared at me.

I shrugged. “I’m just trying to paint a picture for myself.”

“You want to smear Kathy,” he said through a clenched jaw. “Is that it? You want to make her look like someone who deserved what happened to her.”

“No, sir,” I protested. “I’m just-”

“You’re trying to get your client off,” he interrupted. “You’ll say whatever you need to say to win the case. That’s your job, isn’t it? You don’t care if what you’re saying is right or wrong. You’ll say whatever you need to say. You’ll say bad things about Kathy, if that’s what it takes. And now you want us to be a part of it?”

“Ray-”

“Are you telling us that your client didn’t kill our daughter?” Ray was growing more upset with every word. “Because that would be the first I’ve heard of that.”

I sighed. I could tell him the truth, that I seriously doubted that Tom Stoller shot her, but once again I had to balance a lot of considerations. If Ray Rubinkowski had something very important and relevant to tell us, then it was worth disclosing my change in defense strategy to Ray, and therefore, inevitably, to the prosecution. But if I didn’t think my odds were good, I was better off not showing my hand.

I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I’d hoped that the Rubinkowskis would just answer a few of my questions and let me be on my way. In hindsight, it was foolish of me. You can’t walk into the home of bereaved parents and expect them to take a loaded question, like the one I asked, lying down.

Plus, I didn’t want to do that to them. I knew what it was like to deal with a loss like theirs. You learn the facts, gruesome and incomprehensible facts, and you try to find a way to process them and ultimately coexist with them. Over time, the repetition, the constant replaying of the sordid information in your mind, has the effect of blunting it. On day one, you couldn’t possibly utter the words- my wife and daughter died in a car accident; my daughter was shot by a homeless man — but over time the wounds scar over. Then someone like me comes along and says, That horrific pain that you’ve managed to store away? Well, it’s all wrong. We have to rip open those scars. We have to reexamine everything. You have to relive this.

“No, I’m not saying that,” I answered. “We’re still pleading insanity.”

Ray and Doreen consoled each other. I waited them out. On the mantel of the fireplace was a shrine to their only child. Photos of Kathy Rubinkowski with a cap and gown at high school graduation, as a toddler sitting atop a horse, at the kitchen table, smiling into the camera with a mouthful of braces.

I looked at Lightner, who motioned toward the door. But I wasn’t ready to go yet.

“Again, Ray, Doreen, I was just trying to get a big picture here. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just have one more question, if I may.”

Finally, Ray composed himself and turned to me again. His jaw was clenched, his face reddening with frustration.

“Did you give anything to the police or the prosecutors?” I asked. “I didn’t see anything in the discovery.”

Ray, who had been ramping up to bawl me out again, was disarmed by the innocuous question. “I–I don’t think so.” He looked at his wife. “Dor, did we give Wendy anything?”

“That legal document,” said Doreen. “From the FedEx.”

“Oh, right. There was one thing,” he said to me. “But I don’t think there was anything to it. Wendy didn’t seem to think so.”

I looked at Lightner. I had nothing to lose at this point.

“Did you keep a copy?” I asked.

Randall Manning smoothed his hands over his oak desk at the headquarters of Global Harvest International. It was the desk his father had when he ran GHI years ago, back when there was no “I” in the initials, when the company was simply selling fertilizer products in a three-state region. The desk was largely empty. There was a computer monitor and mouse, which he considered garish but necessary, and on the right a line of family photographs. His wife, Bethany. His son, Quinn, with his wife and their daughter, Cailie.

Manning prided himself on a clean desk. It gave the impression of control. Sometimes Manning wondered if that was a misimpression.

“Go ahead, Richard,” he said in a calm voice.

“Mr. Manning, it’s Patrick Cahill. Again,” he added. Richard Moore was GHI’s head of security. He was a former state trooper who cashed out after his pension fully vested and took a job with GHI. He was a reliable employee, in Manning’s opinion, but in this case a nuisance.

“Insubordination, in a word,” Moore explained. “Cahill wouldn’t take direction from his supervisor. This particular supervisor is African-American. The supervisor directed Cahill to lock up one of the sheds, and Cahill refused. They almost came to blows, sir. They had to be separated. When it was all said and done, according to three separate witnesses, Cahill was heard saying-this is a quote-‘I’m not taking directions from no…’ and then he used the N-word.”

Manning closed his eyes. He squeezed the rubber stress ball in his hand. Squeezed it until it caused pain. “What’s your recommendation, Richard?”

“One-month suspension, sir. And probation. One more incident and he’s gone.”

“But you’ve not instituted that yet?”

“No, sir. I have your clear instructions on Cahill. No discipline without your approval.”

Manning had personally hired Cahill and had explained to Moore, at the time, about Cahill’s difficult upbringing and the need to give second chances to individuals in life. The background story had been largely false. The justification for hiring Cahill was entirely bogus.

“If I may say so, sir.” Moore cleared his throat. “This will become a morale problem if we let him skate on this.”

“I understand, Richard. I have no intention of letting him ‘skate.’ I only wonder if there are other ways to handle this.”

“Sir, if I-”

“That will be all, Richard. I’m going to speak with Patrick, and I’ll let you know.”

Moore paused, a delay that bordered on insubordination, before he nodded curtly and left the room.

Twenty minutes later, Patrick Cahill was standing at attention in Manning’s office. Cahill was age twenty-seven, built like a truck, with a penetrating stare and a natural scowl to his face. He’d flamed out of the military, failed to qualify as a local cop, and bounced around personal-security firms and gigs as a bouncer at various bars. Virtually all of them had ended badly, insubordination and fighting being the principle causes.

He was an unstable and violent personality. He was a terrible choice for an employee.

But he was a perfect choice for the Circle.

“Patrick,” Manning said, standing face-to-face with Cahill. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Sir-”

“Racial epithets, Patrick? Are you out of your mind?”

Cahill kept his eyes forward, military posture.

“You are never to call attention to yourself. Never. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

Manning shook his head in exasperation. “Now I have to discipline you, Patrick. Because if I don’t, I’ll be calling even more attention to you.” He pointed to the door. “Richard Moore wants to suspend you for one month. But I can’t do that, can I, Patrick?”

No, he couldn’t. Because a one-month suspension would take Cahill out of commission until December 15. And Randall Manning needed Patrick on the fence before then.

“I’m going to dock you a month’s pay,” Manning said. “I’ll have accounting shave it off your weekly wage over six months’ time. And then I’m going to pay you out of my own pocket, so you’re made whole. But Patrick, this is your last chance. If you screw up again between now and the operation, I’m going to be impatient.”