James Patterson - The Beach House

How did they know that? Had someone been following me?

"Unlike our prosecutor, I am not irresponsible enough to stand up here and claim that Peter Mullen was a drug dealer. I don't have enough evidence to say that. But based on his background, bank account, and lifestyle, and no other way to explain his wealth, it does beg the question, doesn't it? And if Peter Mullen made his living selling drugs, he would have attracted violent rivals. That's the way the drug world works, even in the Hamptons."

Hearing these phony charges dragged out yet again pushed me out of my seat.

"No one," I said, "claims my brother is a candidate for sainthood. But he wasn't a drug dealer. Everyone in this room knows it. Not only that, they know exactly how two hundred thousand dollars found its way to his bank account. Because it was their money!"

"Your Honor," protested Montrose, "the prosecutor has no right to this kind of grandstanding. Even if he is your grandson."

Macklin sat there and nodded.

"If the prosecutor has something to share with the court," he said, "he should cut the crap and do so. He should also be advised that any further unprofessional behavior will not be tolerated in this courtroom. This is supposed to be a fair trial, and damn it, that's what it's going to be."

AFTER MONTHS OF MY OBSESSING about this trial, studying for it, investigating and gathering evidence, the moment of truth was here. I'd wanted justice for Peter, and maybe I could get it – if I was good enough, if I could keep my temper and indignation in check, if I could actually beat Bill Montrose just this one time. Fair and square.

"I have some crucial evidence to present to the court," I said. "But first, I want to clear up something regarding my brother Peter's drug arrest. It happened in Vermont eight years ago. I was a twenty-one-year-old college senior, and Peter, who was thirteen, was visiting me.

"One night, a local policeman pulled us over for a broken taillight. He came up with an excuse to search the car and found a joint under the driver's seat. That's what happened.

"Knowing that I had just applied to law school, though I wouldn't actually go to Columbia for a few more years, Peter insisted that the joint was his. It wasn't. It was mine. I'm telling you this to set the record straight and to illustrate that while Peter was no saint, he was as good a brother as anyone could hope to have. Nothing I am about to show you changes that.

"Now, if you can adjust the lights," I continued, "the People have a couple of exhibits we would like to share."

Marci scrambled up a small stepladder and refocused a pair of 1,500-watt spots until they flooded a twelve-foot section of the sidewall. Close to the center of the lit area, I taped a large, colorful illustration.

It showed a rosy-cheeked toddler, snug and warm in a reindeer-festooned sweater. The child was surrounded by cuddly stuffed animals.

"This is the cover of last year's Christmas catalog for Bjorn Boontaag, which is now owned by Barry Neubauer. I will read what the catalog copy says: 'Boontaag is the most profitable manufacturer of toys and furniture in the world. The three stuffed lionesses on the cover are the incredibly popular Sneha, Saydaa, and Mehta, sold by the tens of thousands to parents all over the world. Inside this catalog are two hundred pages of children's toys, clothing, and furniture.'

"The People will offer this picture as Exhibit B," I said.

Then I looked around the room like a guerrilla fighter in the eerily serene seconds before firing off his first missile.

"The People will now offer Exhibit C."

"EXHIBIT C, I HAVE TO WARN YOU, is not nearly as wholesome as the Boontaag Christmas catalog," I said. "In fact, if you're watching with your children now, you should have them leave the room."

I walked slowly back to my table and picked up the portfolio-size envelope. As I did so, I peered at Barry Neubauer, holding his glance until I could see the first shadow of panic in his narrowing eyes.

"The images I'm about to put on this wall aren't warm and fuzzy. They're hot and cruel and in razor-sharp focus. If they celebrate anything, it's definitely not children or family."

"Objection!" shouted Montrose. "I vehemently object to this!"

"Let the evidence speak for itself," said Macklin. "Go on, Jack."

My heart was banging as violently as if I were fighting for my life, but I spoke with preternatural calm. "Your Honor," I said, "the People call Ms. Pauline Grabowski."

Pauline briskly walked to the witness chair. I could tell that she was eager to play her part, even if it meant implicating herself.

"Ms. Grabowski," I began, "how are you employed?"

"Up until recently, I was a private investigator employed at Mr. Montrose's law firm."

"How long were you employed there?"

"Ten years, until I quit."

"How were you viewed by the firm?"

"I received five promotions during my ten years. I was given performance bonuses each year that exceeded the target bonus by at least one hundred percent. Mr. Montrose himself told me that I was the best investigator that he had worked with in his twenty-five years of practice."

I couldn't help but smile as Montrose squirmed in his seat.

"Now, Ms. Grabowski, what if any role have you played in the investigation of this case?"

"Well, I've done the usual background checks, talked to potential witnesses, collected documents…"

"Directing your attention to Thursday, the third of May, did you meet with counsel at the Memory Motel?"

"Yes, I did."

"What, if anything, did you find there?"

"I found Sammy Giamalva's private collection of photographs. I examined several dozen black-and-white prints."

Now it was about to begin.

I moved in slow motion… extracting the photographs inch by inch.

"Ms. Grabowski, are these the photographs?"

"Yes."

"Are they in the same condition today as the day you first saw them?"

"Yes."

"Your Honor, the People offer People's Exhibit C, thirteen eight-by-twelve black-and-white print photographs."

Montrose screamed, "Objection!"

Macklin waved him off. "Overruled. This is relevant evidence that has been authenticated by a qualified witness. I'll allow it."

I held the first photograph with its back to the room and carefully examined it. It still made me sick.

Then I walked to the wall and taped the photograph beside the cover of the Boontaag Christmas catalog. Only when I was satisfied that it was securely attached to the wall, and not the slightest bit askew, did I step aside.

I let Molly zoom in and lock off in tight focus.

The first thing that hit anyone who viewed the photograph was the lurid intensity of the lighting. Even in this well-lit room it burned like neon in the night. It was the kind of light that is pumped into operating rooms and morgues. It froze every vein and follicle and blemish in a nightmarish hyperreality.

Matching the harsh intensity of the lighting were the crazed expressions of the two men and one woman, and the heat of the action itself. They were crowded together at the center of the print as if the woman were on fire and the men were huddling around her for warmth.

Only after adjusting to the glare would anyone notice that the woman between the two men was Stella Fitzharding. The man sodomizing her was Barry Neubauer, and the man on his back beneath her was my brother.

THE BLACK-AND-WHITE PHOTOGRAPH jolted the room like a powerfully concussive blast that leaves those in the vicinity damaged but unbloodied. It was Neubauer who broke the silence. "Goddamned bastard!" he shouted.