James Patterson - The Beach House

Montrose continued with the charade. He was sickening, too. "As you know, I asked you to bring some pictures of previous victims to illustrate this point. Could you share these with the court, Dr. Jacobson?"

Jacobson held up two pictures, and Montrose, as if he hadn't seen them before, winced. "Both of the surfers were approximately the same age as Mr. Mullen," he said. "As you can see they are almost as badly bruised as Mr. Mullen, and as I recall, the conditions were not nearly as severe."

Montrose carried the photographs to the judge, who placed them beside the statement he had received from Alper.

"Is there anything else you found in the records that could shed light on his tragic death?" asked Monty.

Jacobson nodded. "The autopsy revealed significant traces of marijuana in his bloodstream, as if he had inhaled one or maybe two marijuana cigarettes shortly before entering the water."

"Your Honor," interrupted Alper, "this shameless effort to taint the reputation of the victim has been going on since he died. When does it stop?"

"Please, Ms. Alper," said the judge, "sit down and wait your turn."

"Why might this marijuana be relevant, Dr. Jacobson?" asked Montrose.

"Recent studies have shown that immediately after using marijuana, the risk of heart failure increases dramatically. Add to that a water temperature in the low fifties, and it becomes a real possibility. I believe that's exactly what happened here."

"Thank you, Dr. Jacobson. I have no further questions."

THIS WHOLE THING was suddenly too much for me to take. If I had been the DA, I would have cross-examined Dr. Jacobson until he was bleeding from every orifice. I would have asked him to tell the court how many days of expert testimony he had billed Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel in the past five years (forty-eight), what his daily rate ($7,500) and per diem ($300) were, and to name his favorite restaurant in New York (Gotham Bar Grill, most expensive entree, veal esplanade, $48).

To belabor the point, I'd ask if those forty-eight days qualified him for Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel's pension plan (no), if he got to keep his bonus miles (also no), and if he had ever delivered an expert opinion other than the ones he was paid for (of course not).

Nadia Alper chose not to pursue this hard line of questioning. Maybe she assumed that Lillian would have cut her off. Perhaps she thought that the sooner we got our own expert on the stand, the better. Whatever the reasons, the gym swelled with righteous indignation when she called Dr. Jane Davis to the stand.

At last we were going to listen to testimony that hadn't been bought, and Montauk would hear from one of its own. This was why we had come to this inquest – to hear the truth for a change.

Even Nadia Alper looked in better spirits as she asked, "Dr. Davis, please tell us your role in this investigation."

"I am the pathologist for Huntington Hospital and chief medical examiner for Suffolk County," Jane said.

"So, unlike Dr. Jacobson, you actually examined Peter Mullen's body, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"How many hours did you devote to his examination?"

"Over sixty."

"Is that more than usual?"

"I grew up in Montauk and I know the Mullen family, so I was particularly thorough," said Jane.

"What evidence did you consider?" asked Alper.

"In addition to an extensive physical examination of the corpse, I took multiple X rays, and sampled and compared lung tissue."

"And according to your report, which I have in my hand, you concluded that Mr. Mullen did not drown at all but was beaten to death. To quote from your report, 'Peter Mullen's death was the result of multiple blows to the neck and head with fists, feet, or other blunt instruments. X rays show two completely severed vertebrae, and the level of saturation of the lung tissue indicates the victim had stopped breathing well before he reached the water.' "

"Those were my findings," said Davis, who seemed nervous and now drew a deep breath. "But upon further consideration and soul-searching, and the benefit of Dr. Jacobson's extensive experience, I've concluded that those initial findings were incorrect, that the evidence does point toward drowning. I realize now that my judgment was compromised by my closeness to the family of the deceased."

As Jane Davis delivered this last bit of devastating testimony, her voice was paper thin and she seemed to shrivel up on the stand. She left Alper standing there twisting in the wind. She was speechless. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard, either. Neither could the crowd in the gym. Heads were swiveling everywhere.

"How much did they pay you, darling?" asked a woman whose son had been in Peter's class.

"I hope it was more than they paid Dr. Jacobson," shouted Bob Shaw, who owns the deli on Main. "He didn't have to sell out his friends."

"Leave her alone," Macklin finally spoke from his seat. "They got to her. They threatened her. Hell, can't you see that?"

Lillian pounded his gavel and yelled for quiet, and when that had no effect, he announced a one-hour recess.

In the near riot, Jane Davis had already left the stand. I ran after Jane, but her car was tearing out of the rear lot.

MACK AND I STAGGERED out of the gym for the recess. At the side parking lot we took refuge on a small bench. I felt as if I'd just taken another beating, only this was worse than the others.

"You've probably learned more in the last two hours than in two years at your Ivy League law school," said Mack. "Unless they're offering tutorials on witness tampering, bribery, and physical intimidation. Maybe they should."

Mack looked out at the lovely August morning and spat between his shapeless black brogans. In a lot of ways this was an idyllic scene. A nice, well-maintained little school, green playing fields up the wazoo. It was the kind of spot TV stations like to send camera crews to on election mornings. Capture the picturesque machinery of democracy at work. Film the local people filing into their small-town gymnasium in their heavy work boots, stepping behind the curtain to cast their votes.

When you come to the same gym on a morning like this, you realize something is going on that isn't pretty, isn't idyllic, and certainly isn't democratic. It's the Big Lie, the White Noise, the Matrix.

Marci spotted us on the bench and came over for a smoke. "Those New York City folks don't take any prisoners, do they?" she said, holding out her pack. I shook my head. "Sure? It's a great day for a life-shortening habit," said Marci.

When I was a student looking out at this same parking lot, it was usually empty except for a modest row of cars belonging to the teachers. As I looked now, a Mercedes sedan slowly circled the blacktop. Long and silver with blacked-out windows, it finally stopped twenty yards from us.

Burly, dark-suited men hopped out of the front. They hustled to open the rear doors.

In a flash of long white legs and blond hair, Dana stepped out. She was tugging on her dark dress, and I have to admit, she looked as good as ever. Around the other side of the car came her father. He looked great, too. All-powerful and all-knowing. He took her hand, and with the bodyguards deployed front and back, the two walked toward the gym.

"Why, it's your old girlfriend," said Mack. "I must have pegged her wrong, because here she is to show her support for you and your brother."

MARCI STUBBED OUT HER CIGARETTE, and we followed the Neubauers and their bodyguards back into the gym. Judge Lillian was attempting to call the room to order. He banged his gavel several times, and the Montauketeers cut off their bitter discussions and trudged back to their metal chairs.