Steve Martini - Shadow of Power

In every case you look for something to fix the attention of jurors. If they can’t actually see it or touch it, they must, at a minimum, be able to hear about it. It can be virtually anything-another possible perpetrator, a business dealing that offers the prospect of an alternative motive to the one your client had, the hint of a love tryst out on the margins along with the rumor that it went bad. It helps if you can believe in this, though it is not entirely essential. Depending on the candlepower and its mesmerizing qualities, this, the golden idol, is used to dazzle the jury, while the defense flies figure eights over the box, dusting them with the magic powder of reasonable doubt.

Harry and I stand on the corner and talk, toting heavy briefcases that hit us about the knees every few seconds like the gongs in cathedral bells. We dance all around it without actually saying the words: “the letter.”

Given what we know-the information from Bonguard and Trisha Scott, the e-mails from Scarborough to Ginnis requesting the “original,” and the rectangular shadow in leather, the item missing from the scene-you might think that the gods had reached down to give us precisely what we needed, an idol of platinum with a nuclear-powered laser light. But there is a problem.

Without hard evidence, someone who actually saw the Jefferson Letter or the copy in Scarborough’s possession and who can testify to its existence, or better yet its contents and potential value, we have nothing.

Everything-the conversations with Bonguard, the agent, and Trisha Scott, both of whom claim they never saw the letter, as well as the e-mail missives between Scarborough and Ginnis’s office-it’s all hearsay. In a word, all inadmissible. As far as the law is concerned, without a solid evidentiary foundation, the Jefferson Letter becomes the product of pure speculation. Bottom line, we cannot mention it in court, not in the presence of the jury.

“So what we do have,” says Harry, “is a pregnant question. We have a shadow in blood on a leather portfolio and a concession from one of Tuchio’s witnesses that something is missing from the crime scene. It’s a start,” says Harry. “At least we have their attention. You can bet that the jury is wondering what the item was.”

“Yes, but without more we can’t connect the dots for them, and if there’s anything worse than no play at all, it’s one that has no second act. If the jury goes in to deliberate and we haven’t told them what that item was that’s now missing, they’re going to wonder why. Of course, we know the answer: because the court wouldn’t allow us to tell them. But they don’t know that.”

“So other than sign language, how do we give them the answer?” says Harry.

“As far as we know, there are only four possible sources for information to lay a foundation for the letter.”

“Ginnis, Bonguard, Scott…and who’s the fourth?” says Harry.

“Scarborough’s editor. I can’t remember his name.”

“James Aubrey.” Harry’s magnetic brain. “Herman talked to Aubrey and got the same business you did from Bonguard and Scott. He heard about the letter, but he never saw it. Strange how everybody went blind whenever the letter came out,” says Harry.

“It’s human nature,” I tell him. “If one of the goals in life is to stay free of entanglements with the law, it is often best to be blind,” I tell him.

“So you think they’re lying?”

“I can tell you that Trisha Scott didn’t want to testify.”

“And she lied about Jefferson’s letter,” says Harry. “Remember? First she told you she knew nothing about it. Then she recanted over dinner later and told you another lie.”

Harry’s right. According to Scott, Ginnis couldn’t be involved, because he hated Scarborough. Not enough to kill him, mind you, but on a professional level. The only problem is that all this ill will did not run deep enough to prevent the two men from exchanging e-mails, even if Ginnis refrained from pushing the “send” key on the computer with his own finger.

“Maybe it’s not a question of who lied as much as who told the biggest lie. The whopper,” I tell him.

Harry puts his briefcase down on the sidewalk and looks at me, a question mark.

“Bonguard.”

You would have to be Snow White to buy into the fable that the agent had tried to run past Sarah and me in New York.

“Claimed he knew nothing about the particulars of a letter that according to his own words on Leno’s show would have been the basis of another zillion-dollar book, if only the golden author hadn’t been killed.”

“I’ve been thinking about him since we saw the tape.” Harry smiles.

“On top of that, Bonguard was superglued to his client on a book tour that rivaled Sherman’s March to the Sea. This included the burning of Atlanta in miniature, according to the newspapers,” I tell him, “with torched cars, broken windows, and flaming trash cans through…what? Six states and thirteen cities? The fact that he knew about the letter, enough to attribute its origins to Jefferson, and given what he told Leno, has to make you wonder-if he didn’t know what was in it, he must have been burning with curiosity.”

“You know, the thought has crossed my mind,” says Harry, “that Bonguard wouldn’t look bad dressed up in killer clothes.”

What Harry means is in a plastic raincoat and brandishing a hammer.

“If we can’t find the letter or some way to talk about it, to get it into evidence,” says Harry, “Bonguard gets my vote for runner-up in the ‘golden idol’ awards.”

“Except why would Bonguard kill the client who was filling his coffers?”

“Maybe the letter was worth more than his fifteen percent on book sales,” says Harry.

“Even if it was a copy?”

“Okay, I’m still working it out,” says Harry, “but think about it. If the shadow on the leather portfolio means anything, it means that the Jefferson Letter was in Scarborough’s possession at the same time Bonguard was bird-dogging him out on the tour. To believe that the agent never saw it when he must have been in the same room with it on countless occasions is to believe in the tooth fairy.”

Harry has a point. Aside from Scarborough, Bonguard would have had the best access to the letter.

He reaches down, picks up his briefcase, and starts shuffling toward the garage. “What was it Scarborough called it? Then I gotta run,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“The letter. According to Scott, he had a name for it.”

“You mean the ‘infamous Jefferson Letter’?”

“Yeah. Damn,” says Harry. He’s smiling. “Forget Bonguard. Anything with a name like that, we gotta find a way to get it in. Almost begs you to fly it in front of the jury, just out of reach, keep ’em wondering what’s in it,” he says.

My partner is starting to believe in paper dragons.

“That’s a dangerous trip,” I tell him, “seeing as we don’t know what’s in it. It could be a story with no punch line.”

“You gotta have faith.” Harry is moving away from me toward the garage. “Trust me, we want to fly ‘infamous Jefferson.’ I’m betting one or more of them-Bonguard, Scott, or Aubrey-saw the copy and knows what’s in it. There’s our foundation. Of course, it’s just a guess.”

“Don’t stay in the office too late,” I tell him. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

Just when he gets to the door, he stops and turns.

“One thing is certain, though,” he says. He’s no longer smiling. The look on Harry’s face is stone sober. “Scarborough’s e-mails. If we’re tracking, if those mean what we think they do, then Ginnis has the McCoy, the real item, the original letter.”