The Beach House

Chapter 73

FOR THE AVERAGE single-digit Hamptons millionaire, the start of another summer in paradise is marked by gridlock on Ninety-sixth Street, then a slow crawl on Route 27 and an hour's wait for a twenty-five-dollar pizza at Sam's. For those who fly over the traffic in private planes and helicopters, it starts with the party at the Neubauers' Beach House.

According to friends of Marci's and Hank's who were part of the vast army of suppliers, Barry Neubauer had written his party planner a blank check. With a week to go, she had already dropped a million dollars. Among other niceties, that buys you David Bouley to stir the sauce, Yo-Yo Ma to scrape his Stradivarius, and the inimitable Johan Johan to cut the flowers and fluff up the bouquets. And there's still enough left for champagne served in chilled, ten-ounce crystal stem glasses; a dozen different kinds of oysters; the deejay of the moment, Samantha Ronson; and a wooden dance floor constructed on the back lawn.

Pauline and I had spent a little cash, too. To find out who was coming this year, Pauline got back in touch with her old hacker pal. He reinvited himself into the party planner's hard drive and plucked out the guest list.

Placing last year's list and this year's side by side offered a peek into the interaction of celebrities and socialites. Among the anonymous rich who made up the bulk of the guests, virtually everyone was invited back. But among the boldface celebs, the turnover was 100 percent. Last year's hip-hop emcee had been replaced by this year's Oscar winners. Last year's fashion designer was supplanted by a more current fashionista. Even if you were an artiste whose stock had managed to soar for another twelve months, you still weren't coming back. Invite the riffraff two years in a row and they might start to feel as if they actually belonged. They don't. To the seriously wealthy, celebrities are only a notch above the help.

As far as I was concerned, the only difference between last year and this year that mattered was that my brother, Peter Rabbit, wouldn't be in the front yard parking cars.

Chapter 74

BUT FENTON GIDLEY WAS.

A week before the party, I sat beside Fenton as he called our fellow townie friend Bobby Hatfield. Bobby has held down the Neubauer party parking franchise for years, so when Fenton told him he hadn't snagged a decent swordfish in months and could use the cash, Bobby gladly added him to the crew.

On that warm but rainy evening at the end of May, Fenton stood alertly beneath the elegant gold-striped awning that had been hastily erected to offer Barry and Campion's guests dry passage from car to door.

For Fenton, he was highly presentable. He wore his dress shoes, his best pair of jeans, and one of the two shirts he owns with a collar. He was also freshly shaved, showered, and deodorized. He looked so good, I was tempted to take his picture and send it to his mom.

In addition to guidance on wardrobe and grooming, I'd given Fenton a quick tutorial on kissing up to the rich, something I'm ashamed to admit I'd shown an innate talent for. It's not so much how quickly you jump to open their doors or how competently you perform your lackey tasks, I explained. Generally, the superrich aren't looking for excessive subservience or even gratitude. That's embarrassing to them. "What they want," I told Fenton, "is for you to be excited. They want to see that your little brush with money is turning you on."

When Gidley checked in punctually with Hatfield at 7:15 p.m., the first thing he did was examine the guest list. He wanted to make sure that it was the same one he'd studied with me and Pauline and that there were no last-minute cancellations.

At 8:05 the parade of Audis, Beemers, and Benzes started rolling in. Within an hour most of the 190 guests had made their way through the stately oak doors and out to the lovely tented and lantern-lit flagstone terrace.

There, waiters and waitresses in fuchsia blazers designed by Comme des Garcons dispensed sushi and vintage champagne. With their elongated, surly good looks, they could have been moonlighting runway models.

Among the first to arrive was Tricia Powell. Since her perjury at the inquest, Trish's career at Mayflower had taken off. She stepped out of a black Mercedes E430 in a little black Armani dress, stared through Gidley as if he were a smudged pane of glass, and walked inside on Manolo mules.

Neubauer's lawyer and my former mentor, Bill Montrose, was in the second wave. When Montrose's dark green Jaguar rolled to a stop, Gidley wasn't at the head of the line of valets, but he cut to the front.

After giving Montrose his ticket, he steered the car off the driveway and down a gentle slope to one of the two moonlit clearings designated for parking. He tucked the car safely in the far corner.

Before he and his fellow valets took a break, Gidley noted the arrival of several men and women from Sammy's pornographic portfolio. He couldn't help thinking that they looked a lot better with their clothes on.

Chapter 75

SARAH JESSICA AND MATTHEW were in attendance. So was Bill, who was staying at Steven's place, without Hillary. Richard was there holding his new baby. It looked as if babies were the hot summer accessory again. Allen was there, and so was Kobe , but not Shaq. Caroline, Patricia, and Billy were there, as well as four principals from The Sopranos.

At about eleven, just as the festivities began to lose a bit of their magic, Bill Montrose tracked down his hosts. One last heartfelt hug (Barry) and affectionate peck (Campion), and he beat his retreat.

He worked his way through the resplendent crowd to the rear doors of the house. As soon as Montrose stepped outside, Fenton hopped off the black cast-iron bench beside the driveway and unhooked key number 115 from the board.

Montrose was still fishing for his half of the parking chit as Gidley approached.

"No worries, sir," he told him. "Green Jag, right?"

Montrose winked. "You're good."

"I try, sir."

Gidley hustled back to where he'd parked the Jag only hours before. Whistling the old Johnny Carson show theme, he slid behind the walnut wheel and drove it off the lawn to the front of the house.

"Lovely car," he told Montrose as he climbed out and accepted his five-buck tip. "Have a terrific night."

Relieved to be out of there at last, Montrose yanked off his Hermes silk tie. He punched in a number on his car phone. After a short delay of gentle ringing, the voice of his assistant, Laura Richardson, poured from the speaker.

"Who is it?"

"Laura, it's me," he said. "I'm leaving the Neubauers' right now. Believe me, you didn't miss a fucking thing."

"Bullshit, Monty. You're a bad liar, especially for a professional. Everybody was there, right?"

"Well, I did stand next to Morgan Freeman."

"Don't tell me. He's five-six and smells funny."

"Six-three and fragrant."

"Anyone else?"

"No one you'd know. Listen, Laura, I can't make it tonight."

"Big surprise, Monty. What now?"

"In terms of the divorce settlement and the custody and everything, it's going to look real bad if I'm gone this weekend."

"You mean it's going to look really bad if they find out you've been screwing your black assistant for three years."

Montrose held back a yawn. "Laura, do we really have to do this now?"

"Nope," said Richardson. "You're still the boss."

"Thanks," said Montrose, "because I can't tell you how shot I feel."

When he heard the click, he slapped the dashboard in a rage. "Don't you dare hang up on me!" he yelled. "I don't need this shit."

I took that as my cue to pull off the blanket, sit up in the backseat, and press the barrel of a gun to his neck.

"I guess this isn't your night, Monty," I said when our eyes met in the mirror.

Chapter 76

I GAVE MONTROSE ONLY a couple of seconds to get over the shock. Then I jabbed the barrel of the pistol into his neck one more time. It felt good.

"Turn right at the stop sign," I instructed. "Do exactly as I say, Monty."

He slowed to take the turn and met my eyes in the mirror. It was amazing how quickly he'd managed to wipe the panic from his face and realign his Big Man in the Big World mask. In thirty seconds he'd convinced himself that everything was still essentially under control.

"You realize what you've just done is a kidnapping, or could be construed as such. What the hell do you think you're doing, Jack?"

"Take a left," I said.

Montrose obediently turned onto Further Lane, the moon pursuing us through the branches of the colossal overhanging elms. Amazingly his confidence was growing. It was almost as if he were back in his long, black-windowed office and all he had to do was push a little buzzer for Laura Richardson to trot in with Security.

"I offered you a view of half of Manhattan," he reminded me. "You screwed everything up. You just don't get it, Mullen."

"You're absolutely right, Monty. I remember it well." I pulled the gun away from his neck, stuck it in his ear, and pulled back the trigger until the hammer caught with a click.

"It's a nasty old gun. If I were you, I'd concentrate all my energy on avoiding potholes. Make a right."

Montrose flinched and squeaked, and when I looked in the mirror, he had transformed again.

"Another left," I said, and we turned toward the water, onto DeForest Lane.

"The third driveway on the right."

He dutifully turned the car into the driveway of a low-slung cottage and parked. I gave him a blindfold and told him to tie it himself. His hands trembled about as badly as Jane Davis's had at the inquest.

"Nice and tight," I said. "I want this to be a surprise."

I walked him into the house, spun him around a few times in the kitchen, and took him out back to a raised redbrick patio. Just beyond it, a tall, vintage milk truck was parked on the grass.

I opened the back door of the truck and shoved Montrose in with the three other bound, blindfolded hostages. One was Tricia Powell, a star at my brother's inquest; the other two were Tom and Stella Fitzharding, the Neubauers' very best friends.

I slammed the milk-truck door, leaving the four of them completely in the dark.

Chapter 77

I GOT BACK INTO MONTROSE'S SEDAN, slid back the seat, and readjusted the rearview mirror. I imagined how he must have felt when he looked into it and saw my face. Glad you're enjoying yourself, Jack.

I drove Monty's Jag along the back roads until I saw the gates of the Beach House gleaming through the rain-soaked windshield. I lowered the window to inform the gatekeeper that I was picking up a guest. He'd already figured as much and waved me through.

A quarter of a mile short of the house, I turned off the drive and disappeared behind some hedges. I made my way to the field where the car had originally been parked. I backed it into its old space and dropped the keys under the front seat.

There was only one car left in the field. Leaning against it was Fenton. When I got out of the Jag, he clapped me on the shoulder and looked me in the eye.

"It's showtime, Jack," he said. "You ready?"

"Close enough. At least it's a good cause."

"The best."

Fenton slipped out of his red parking jacket. I put it on along with a black baseball cap. I pulled the hat low on my brow, then hurried to the service kitchen, where a swarm of workers were helping themselves to leftover nouvelle cuisine. The room was full of people I'd known since grade school. But in the feeding frenzy no one looked up as I passed through.

Without stopping, I hurried down a dark hallway and up a stairwell to another long corridor, off which were half a dozen well-appointed guest bedrooms.

Dana may never have been my girl, but for almost a year I was definitely her boy. During family functions we'd sometimes slip away to one of those guest rooms. I ran to the end of the hallway and pulled down an aluminum ladder from a trapdoor in the ceiling.

Then I climbed into the attic and pulled up the ladder.

There was a stack of extra mattresses in the corner. I settled down on one, with my backpack as a pillow. I set my watch for 3:15 and tried to get some sleep.

I was going to need it.

Chapter 78

YOU COULDN'T HAVE CREATED a less suspicious scene if you tried. Barely had the sun peeked above the horizon when an old-fashioned, top-heavy milk truck puttered down a gorgeous country lane. It was an image sweetly evocative of an America long gone.

Every half mile or so, the truck would turn into a driveway and roll up to another expensive house. As the motor idled peacefully, Hank hopped out in his blue overalls with the white patch of the East Hampton Dairy sewn on one shoulder. He crossed the dewy grass and went round to the back. He fetched the empties from the tin container by the kitchen door, then returned with three or four cool, perspiring bottles.

The whole thing was a homogenized joke, of course. At the end of the week, nearly every drop of milk got poured down the drain.

But there was something about the waxed cardboard origami caps and the widemouthed glass bottles with the etching of a cow on the face of each bottle that made the elite clientele feel as down-home as Iowa farmers.

For the next hour the milk truck slowly made its appointed rounds. As it dropped off precious lactic fluid all along the East Hampton shore, it barely kept up with a Rhodesian Ridgeback out for its morning romp.

Finally, in the early-morning light, the truck turned into Bluff Road. Three stops later, Hank drove it through the open gates of the Neubauer compound.

Chapter 79

THREE-FIFTEEN a.m.

My Casio went off in sharp, persistent beeps, and my eyes flipped open on a splintery beam slanting down from the ridge of the roof.

I slid to the end of the mattress, set my feet on the loose plywood floor, and breathed deeply.

There's nothing like waking up in the attic of a house you've entered illegally to get the blood flowing. Oh, man, Jack, I thought once again. Is this the only way to get this done?

When my heart rate slowed, I laced up my sneakers and pulled a flashlight from my backpack. Then, with one hand aiming the light and the other holding on to the overhead beams for balance, I made my way rafter to rafter across the attic.

The huge two-story house, built in the 1930s, faced the water and was laid out like a staple whose sides bulged a little past ninety degrees. When I reached the end of the guest wing, I wriggled through a thicket of beams, turned right, and set out across the main body of the house, which contained the kitchen and living and dining rooms. Just below where I was walking, a forty-eight-seat screening room.

Huge industrial-strength air-conditioning units had been wedged into that part of the attic. I had to maneuver around the metal casings and the thick tangle of plastic tubing piping chilly air into the rooms below.

Up there, however, it was as steamy and airless as a subway platform. By the time I'd crossed over the center part and turned right again over the bedroom suites, sweat was dripping off my nose, splattering softly on the baking wood.

I kept walking until I reached the tiny window cut into the gable of the attic at the end of the house.

It was 3:38. I was five minutes ahead of schedule.

From the window I could see ocean waves hitting the beach in the eerie light. I could see the spot where Peter's broken body had washed ashore.

It was good to be reminded of why I was in that attic.

I counted off fifteen strides, to where I estimated Dana's bedroom would be. When I couldn't find the sliding sheet of plywood I was looking for, I expanded my search three strides in each direction. Finally, I spotted the sliding plywood flooring that opened down into her closet.

Squatting low, I stuffed my flashlight into my backpack and mopped my face and neck with my T-shirt. When I slid the plywood sheet aside, a jet of cool air blew into my face.

Supporting my weight with my palms, I slowly lowered myself into the chilly darkness of Dana's room.

Chapter 80

I FOUND MYSELF in the back of a deep closet between scented rows of designer blouses, dresses, and slacks. I used my flashlight to see. Each shelf was labeled with a designer's name: Gucci, Vera Wang, Calvin, Ralph Lauren, Chanel. I pushed my way through the thicket of Dana's linen, silk, and cashmere to the edge of the slightly open closet door. Fifteen feet away on the bed, Dana lay asleep.

It was time for a judgment call, and I had to make it. The question was whether Dana was directly involved in Peter's murder. By now I knew a fair amount about that night a year ago. I knew Peter had received a perfumed note on stationery that looked like Dana's, and maybe it even was hers. But I was pretty sure that whatever relationship she'd had with Peter had been over before the night he died. She'd lied for her father at the inquest.

So I made the call: Dana was more a victim than a true accomplice. She might not be the best person, but she wasn't a murderer. She'd been sexually abused by her own father. Let sleeping dogs lie, I told myself.

Keeping my eye on the rows of expensive shoes and jeans scattered about, I slid out of her closet, then out of the bedroom. I was in a wide gallery that led to the separate bedrooms her parents had maintained for decades. It was lined with paintings by Pollock and de Kooning and Fairfield Porter, all of which had been done in the Hamptons. The tiny red lights of their alarms blinked in the darkness.

A toilet flushed to my right. I froze against the wall.

Then a dark-skinned young guy in boxers stepped out of the bathroom. Who the hell is this? What is he doing in this part of the house?

He looked to be about nineteen, Indian or Pakistani, and at least as handsome as Peter was. In a postcoital cocoon, he padded dreamily toward the guest wing. Peter's goddamned replacement.

A few more steps and I was at the threshold of Barry Neubauer's bedroom. The last day – the whole last week, really – had passed like an endless nightmare. Every few hours I found myself doing something, or committing to something, that I knew I shouldn't. I could still turn back. It wasn't too late. It was like one of those suspense-movie scenes where we want to yell, Don't do it. Don't open that door, Jack.

I didn't listen, of course.

I took out my starter pistol and nudged open Neubauer's door. My heart was thundering inside my chest. I'd never set foot in the room before. Even in the Dana months, it was off-limits.

The room was spare and loftlike with irregular white floorboards. By a bay window was a sitting area with a flat-screen TV, a black leather couch, and matching armchairs.

It was another five paces to the huge wood-and-steel sculpture of a bed. I could hear Neubauer breathing heavily. It sounded as though he was chewing something in his sleep.

In a kind of a trance, I cautiously crossed the floorboards. He lay sprawled on his back, his hands instinctively shielding his black silk briefs. A ribbon of drool trickled out of the corner of his mouth. Even in my disembodied state it occurred to me that it had the makings of a wonderful portrait of the CEO at rest.

I was afraid that if I watched him any longer, he would sense a presence and open his eyes, so I dropped to a crouch below the level of the bed. I removed a roll of silvery electrical tape from my backpack. My heart was exploding.

Still crouching, I peeled off about a half-foot strip of tape. This was it. I counted three, took a deep breath, and brought the tape down on Neubauer's mouth before he could make a sound. Hard. I pushed down so hard against his whiskery cheeks that the back of his head sank deep into the pillow. I brought my free hand around and pressed the barrel of the pistol to the bridge of his nose.

For a long, hard beat, we were locked in a kind of negative harmony – his shock and rage matched perfectly by mine.

Suddenly, he grabbed for the gun, setting off a struggle. But I was in a much better position. I was also stronger. I ripped the gun away, reared back, and slammed it hard into his ear. Neubauer didn't offer any more resistance. Only his dark eyes showed his anger and hatred. How fucking dare you?

I rolled Neubauer over onto his stomach and handcuffed him. Then I yanked him to his feet and looped more silver tape around his thighs, limiting his movement to small, hair-plucking hops.

"Good morning," I finally said. "At the inquest you said you had gone out of your way to offer your condolences about Peter. That discussion wasn't very satisfying to me or my family. I've come back to continue it."

Chapter 81

OUTSIDE CAMPION'S BEDROOM, dim light trickled from under the door. I pushed Barry onto his stomach and added another circle of tape above his ankles. I was afraid my scuffle with her husband might have awakened her. It helped that they didn't sleep together.

When I opened the door, I saw that the light was cast by the flickering flames of some two dozen small butter lamps burning at the base of a painting of a multiarmed Krishna. Campion's bedroom looked more like an ashram than a bedroom.

But all the deities invoked couldn't spare Campion from being abruptly awakened by the rip of electrical tape I was about to place across her mouth.

"Good morning, Campion," I whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Okay" was all she said. She seemed strangely calm, and I realized she was probably sedated.

I let her pull on a terry-cloth robe over her silk nightshirt and grab a pair of sneakers. Then I handcuffed Campion and led her to where her husband lay struggling on the floor.

I pulled Barry to his feet and prodded the couple down the circular staircase to the ground floor.

Halfway there, I heard the sputter of the East Hampton Dairy's only milk truck.

"Your chariot," I told the Neubauers.

We left the estate, but we still had one more stop closer to town. We picked up Detective Frank Volpi.

Chapter 82

THE MILK TRUCK MOSEYED down the glistening country lanes like a squishable, anthropomorphic vehicle in a Saturday-morning cartoon. Look, boys and girls, it's the friendly East Hampton Dairy milk truck. There behind the steering wheel is Mr. Hank, the handsome, courteous milkman.

I thought that I might get into the flow after a while, but it hadn't happened. I was feeling numb and withdrawn, and the queasiness in my stomach wouldn't go away. There was a dreamlike quality to the morning. It was hard to believe this was even happening.

Turning left at the end of Bluff Road and right onto 27, the truck drove through a still-dormant Amagansett. Past the closed restaurants and shops, and the battened-down farmers market.

Then it motored through the flat, lunar dunes of Napeaque and into Montauk. Except for a couple of fishermen eating their egg sandwiches at John's Pancake House, it was also deserted.

The engine strained against its heavy load as it climbed the hill out of town. We rattled past the library and the familiar cutoff to my house on Ditch Plains Road.

About a mile short of the lighthouse, the truck turned right. It bounced over a heavy chain that lay unlocked in the dirt between unkempt hedges.

After hopping out to secure the chain behind us, Hank continued up the long, sandy drive until we could see white-capped waves dancing in the early light.

Only after topping the crest did we catch our first glimpse of a dream house nestled in the dunes at the very edge of the cliff. It was as if Max Kleinerhunt, CEO and founder of everythingbut.com, had been determined to ensure that the sun shined on him before anyone else in North America.

Unfortunately for Max, his stock, which at one time had been selling for $189 a share, had settled in at 67¢ a share. Although he'd already sunk $22 million into his summer house, Kleinerhunt was now far more preoccupied with saving his butt than tanning it. For the past six months the only visitor was the occasional surfer or mountain biker who climbed up from the beach at sunset to catch the view from the endless balconies.

The hot real estate phrase that spring was BANANA, which stood for "build absolutely nothing anywhere near anyone." Max Kleinerhunt had succeeded in that.

Hank pushed a button on the remote control clipped to his visor. A burnished steel door rose out of the dunes, and the truck rolled into an immaculate, subterranean twelve-car garage.

Even before we pulled to a stop, Pauline came running up and hugged me through the open window of the truck. "These were the longest twelve hours of my life," she whispered.

"Me, too," I whispered back.

Behind her stood Fenton, Molly, and Marci.

Chapter 83

MY OLDEST FRIENDS crowded around the back of the milk truck like kids around the tree on Christmas morning. I opened the creaky rear door and hopped inside. I began to remove the tape, though not from around anyone's wrists.

"How dare you treat us like this!" Campion said when I pulled the tape off her lips. "You were a guest at our house."

"And now you're our guest," I told her.

Tricia Powell was next to vent, pointing at the creases and smudges on her black velvet evening gown. She hissed, "This is Armani, you animals." Barry Neubauer remained silent after I removed his tape. I looked into his steely eyes and knew he was too busy plotting to say a word.

Frank Volpi offered up that I was "dead meat," and I found the threat convincing coming from him.

While Fenton and I helped them out of the truck, Marci opened up some beach chairs. Hank wheeled out a serving cart bearing two translucent piles: one, disposable, prewrapped syringes; the other, 100ml plastic vials.

Barry Neubauer continued to glower at me as I shared some good news and some bad news. "In a few minutes, you'll be able to go inside and make yourselves comfortable. But first, this man, who is a trained medical technician, is going to draw blood from each of you, except for Mr. Montrose. I'm not going to explain any of this, so please don't ask."

It didn't go down well.

"Anyone who touches me with a needle is going to be sued!" yelled Tom Fitzharding. I remembered the pictures of him and his wife with Peter, when my brother was sixteen or seventeen years old.

I slapped Fitzharding across the face. It made a loud noise and shut everybody up. It felt good, too. I didn't like Fitzharding and his wife, and I had good reasons.

"Once this unpleasantness has been taken care of, you can go inside," I repeated. "You can shower, change, and lie down for a nap. But whether you cooperate or not, no one is going in until this is done."

"You little snot," said Stella Fitzharding.

I leaned in close to her. "I know all about you and Peter. So shut the hell up."

"I need a shower. You can start with me," offered Tricia Powell, sitting down on one of the chairs. She wearily held out her arm.

After that, things went surprisingly smoothly. Hank and Marci carefully drew and labeled 90ml from everyone in the garage. Then the hostages were brought inside and led to the almost completed sports entertainment wing. Foam mattresses were lined up on the floor. There were bathrooms, of course. We even had coffee and rolls. And lots of organic milk. "Try to get some sleep," I advised. "It's going to be a long day."

Chapter 84

EARLIER IN THE WEEK Marci had gone to the K-mart in Riverhead and rummaged through the discount tables looking for garments to clothe our guests. When the Neubauers and Fitzhardings, Volpi, Tricia Powell, and Montrose lined up for breakfast, they were dressed, well, modestly and inexpensively. The food and sleep had improved their spirits, but their faces were marked by confusion and anxiety. Why are we here? What now?

We had given a lot of thought to security and decided to keep it simple. Every door in the wing we were using was padlocked. A few were double-padlocked. Everyone was told they would be gagged and tied down the first time they gave us any trouble, or even made us suspicious. So far, the threat had worked. It also helped that Marci, Fenton, and Hank carried stun guns at all times.

Shortly alter breakfast Macklin arrived with a petite, gray-haired woman. The group exchanged more puzzled looks and seemed buoyed by the hope that this would be over soon.

Then, as Macklin and I huddled in the corner, Bill Montrose appealed to my grandfather's better judgment.

"Mr. Mullen, it's very good to see you," said Montrose. "I think you realize that if we're released before anyone is hurt, those involved are likely to fare much better. I can almost promise it."

"You'd know more about that than me," said Macklin as he turned his back on the lawyer.

Nevertheless, the six hostages saw some reason to be hopeful until they were led into a vast oceanfront living room, whose slate floors and redwood beams and jaw-dropping view were the focal point of the house.

That morning, however, the drapes were pulled across the entire expanse of glass. The room was lit by powerful lights that Marci and Fenton had hung from the ceiling.

Montrose muttered, "Oh, Jesus, no."

The sparsely furnished room held a pair of long wooden tables and several beach chairs. Facing them from a foot-high plywood platform was a black leather office chair.

Between the elevated chair and the tables were two more chairs. One held a Bible, the other fronted a small desk. On it was an archaic contraption that looked like a typewriter with a few working parts chopped off.

Behind the raised chair hung two shimmering flags – the Stars and Stripes, and the green, orange, and white of Ireland.

In the midst of the furniture was a rolling tripod holding a TV camera. eh70 was stenciled on the side.

Molly aimed it at our guests as they filed into the room, handcuffed and grumbling, and sat in the row of beach chairs behind the tables. Each of them looked in shock. Next, the door to the room was locked. Hank stood beside it with a stun gun and a Louisville Slugger.

Then Molly spun the camera around to track Macklin as he walked the length of the room. He stepped warily onto his little stage and sat in the leather chair.

At about the same time, his friend and court stenographer, Mary Stevenson, took her seat in front of the old machine.

To Macklin's right, a homemade sign had been taped to the otherwise pristine white wall.

Molly focused on the simple block letters: the people v. BARRY NEUBAUER.

Chapter 85

THE FIRST REAL DISTURBANCE CAME, not surprisingly, from Volpi. He stood up and yelled at the top of his voice, "This is bullshit!"

Hank ran over from the door with the stun gun held out like a sword. He zapped Volpi, who dropped to the floor, writhing in pain. I thought it was a good lesson for the group to see. I knew that the camera was still focused on the handmade sign. Hank's crowd control was not being broadcast.

"Frank, keep your mouth shut," Hank yelled. "That goes for the rest of you scum, too." I think they all got the point.

Without warning, Molly spun her camera again, this time to aim its merciless eye at me. I stood to my full six foot one, took a deep breath, and stared straight into the lens.

Ever since the cold-blooded murder of Sammy in Chelsea, I had applied myself in ways I never could have at Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel. I just hoped I was doing the right thing. I had been cramming for this my whole final year at Columbia. And not just by obsessing about Peter's murder and the injustice that followed. I had read and reread Fundamentals of Trial Techniques and The Art of Cross-Examination, a classic published in 1903 that still held up.

"We're on," said Molly, tapping the red light on the camera. "We're broadcasting. Go, Jack."

"My name is Jack Mullen," I began, my voice cracking slightly and sounding as if it belonged to someone I barely knew. "I was born and raised in Montauk and have lived here my whole life."

No one in the room was half as uptight as I was, but I put my faith in the steady, measured cadence I'd practiced so diligently during lawyering clinics at Columbia. Everything about my tone and bearing attempted to communicate that I was sane, basically reasonable, and worth hearing out.

I also knew that the time was ripe for this. I was pretty sure that a lot of people were angry and upset about what they considered courtroom injustices in the recent past: the Simpson trial, the Diallo verdict in New York City, the botched Jon-Benet Ramsey case, and others in their own cities and towns.

"A year ago yesterday," I continued, "my brother died at a party held at a Hamptons beach house. He'd been hired to park cars. The next day his body washed up on the beach below the property. The inquest held at the end of that summer concluded that my brother, who was twenty-one, died accidentally. He didn't. He was beaten to death. In the next few hours I will prove not only that he was murdered, but why and by whom.

"Sitting at the end of the table to my left is the man who owns the house and hosted the party. His name is Barry Neubauer. He's the CEO of Mayflower Enterprises. You've probably watched his cable channels or visited his web sites or taken your children to one of his theme parks. Maybe you've read about his bigger-than-life exploits in a business magazine or seen a picture of him taken at a celebrity charity gala. But that doesn't mean that you know the real Barry Neubauer.

"You will, though. Far better than you want to, because Barry Neubauer is about to stand trial for the murder of my brother."

"Jack Mullen is going to prosecute me?" shouted Neubauer. "Like hell! Turn that fucking camera off! Turn it off now!"

His outburst was followed by so many others that Macklin had to crack his black walnut gavel for quiet.

"This trial will begin in a few minutes," I finally said to the camera. "We're broadcasting live on Channel Seventy. This short break will give you a chance to call your friends."

Chapter 86

MOLLY TURNED OFF THE CAMERA, and I motioned to Fenton and Hank. We walked over to Neubauer. He held up his handcuffed wrists. "Take them off!"

I ignored the demand as if it had come from a spoiled child.

"It doesn't make any difference to me whether you all participate in the trial or not," I told Barry flat out. "It changes nothing."

He huffed like a self-important CEO. "We're not going to cooperate. So what will that look like on TV? You'll look like a complete fuckup, Mullen, which is what you are."

I shook my head at Neubauer, then took a manila envelope out of my briefcase.

I showed him what was inside, and I showed only Barry.

"This is what it will look like, Barry. And this. And all of these," I said.

"You wouldn't dare," he snarled at me.

"Oh, yeah, I would. As I said, it's your choice. You can offer your side of things. If you don't, that's fine, too. We're going back on the air."

Molly started filming again, and I repeated my introductory remarks. This time a little more calmly and cogently.

"Before this trial is over," I continued, "you'll understand that Barry Neubauer is a killer and that everyone sitting in these chairs contributed to either the crime or its cover-up. Once you've seen what they've done, you won't have an ounce of pity for them. Believe me, you won't.

"The People will show that Barry Neubauer killed my brother himself or hired someone else to do his bloody grunt work. We will also show that along with the means and opportunity to kill Peter, he had one hell of a motive. When you hear the motive, you'll understand everything.

"I fully recognize these aren't ideal circumstances to determine a man's innocence or guilt," I said.

"Oh, really," said Bill Montrose. "That's the first intelligent thing you've said so far, Mullen."

I ignored Montrose. I knew the crucial thing at that point was to keep plowing ahead and not allow myself to be sidetracked. My mouth had become too dry to continue. I stopped and picked up my water glass. My hand trembled so badly, I almost dropped it.

My voice was steady, though.

"If you bear with me, I believe you'll see that this trial is at least as fair as any you might have followed lately. Fairness is all we're looking for here.

"For one thing, Mr. Neubauer will have the benefit of counsel. And not an overworked, underpaid green defender like those assigned to the many indigent defendants who end up on death row. He's the eminent Bill Montrose, senior partner and management committee chairman at a large New York law firm. And since Mr. Montrose is Mr. Neubauer's longtime personal attorney and recently represented him with such success at the inquest, he's extremely well versed in all the particulars. When you consider that Mr. Montrose's adversary will be me, a twenty-nine-year-old barely out of law school, it is, if anything, a mismatch in the defendant's favor.

"Acting as judge in this courtroom will be my grandfather, Macklin Reid Mullen," I said, setting off another round of outrage from Montrose. "The stenographer is Mary Stevenson, a court reporter in New York City municipal courts for thirty-seven years.

"Once again, I realize this is more than a little unusual. All I can say is, watch the trial. Give us a chance. Then make your own judgments. My grandfather came to this country from County Clare, Ireland. He has spent the past twenty-five years working as a paralegal, and he cares more about the law and justice than anyone I've ever come across, including my law professors.

"In any criminal trial, the judge is there not to determine guilt or innocence, but to rule on differences between the lawyers regarding evidence or procedure and to keep the process intact. In this case," I said, staring intently into the camera, "you will be the jury. Macklin is not here to issue a verdict, just to administer the proceedings. And he'll do a great job. That's all I have to say right now. Mr. Montrose will speak next,"

Chapter 87

BILL MONTROSE WAS THE ONLY ONE of our guests not wearing handcuffs. He sat there, lost in thought. Then, like any good poker player, he turned to read my face.

I did everything I could to seem oblivious to the crucial importance of the next few seconds. If he was genuinely concerned about the welfare of his client, his course would be clear. But like many highly successful yet relatively anonymous attorneys, Montrose had reached a point in his life where he yearned for some fame and glory to stack beside his cash and real estate. I knew that much about him from my time at Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel. According to colleagues, he'd proclaimed himself a far better trial lawyer than Johnnie Cochran or Robert Shapiro. Bill Montrose had the largest ego of anyone I had ever met. I was counting on it.

I sucked in a breath as Montrose stood. He faced Molly's East Hampton Channel 70 camera. This was his big moment, too. He wasn't about to sit it out.

"Please don't misunderstand or misinterpret," he began. "Just because I'm standing in front of you for the moment doesn't mean that this proceeding has a shred of legitimacy. It doesn't.

"Make no mistake," he continued after a dramatic pause. "This is not a trial. This is not a courtroom. The elderly man behind me, no matter how spry and avuncular, is not a judge. This is a kangaroo court.

"You should know that justice has already been served in this case. Last summer an inquest was convened to look into the drowning of Peter Mullen. In a real courtroom presided over by a real judge – the Honorable Robert P. Lillian – my client was found to be blameless.

"During that inquest the court heard a witness who saw the deceased dive into a dangerous ocean at high tide, late at night.

"Not one but two medical examiners presented evidence to support their conviction that there had been no foul play. After weighing the testimony, Judge Lillian, in a decision available to anyone who wants to take the time to read it, concluded that Peter Mullen's death, however sad, was no one's fault but his own.

"Apparently, his family is unable to accept this. By taking this unfortunate action, Peter Mullen's brother and grandfather are turning an accident into a crime."

Once again, Montrose paused as if to gather his thoughts. I had to admit that the guy was very good. Maybe it was a mismatch. "Now they are asking you to watch. Please don't! Turn off the set, or turn the dial. Do it right now. Do it if you believe in justice. I trust that you do."

Montrose sat down, and I wondered if we would ever get him to speak again.

Macklin tapped his gavel on the plywood platform below his chair.

"This court," he said, "will recess for ninety minutes to allow the prosecution and defense to ready their cases. I suggest you both get busy."

Chapter 88

FOURTEEN MINUTES INTO THE RECESS, ABC interrupted its coverage of the L.A. Open from Riviera Country Club and cut to Peter Jennings in the Lincoln Center studio of World News Tonight. A bold breaking news was superimposed over the screen.

"ABC News has just learned," said Jennings with the most discreet warble in his deep voice, "that media billionaire Barry Neubauer, his wife, and at least three guests were abducted last night following a Memorial Day party at their Amagansett, Long Island, summer home. According to a transmission just broadcast live on East Hampton Channel Seventy, the abductors plan to try Neubauer for the murder of a twenty-one-year-old resident of Montauk. The trial, at an undisclosed location, is set to begin in less than an hour."

As Jennings continued in his clipped Canadian accent, a red square appeared in the upper-right-hand corner of the screen. It showed a simple outline of the end of Long Island and in bold red type, crisis in the hamptons.

Within minutes, the anchors, or substitute anchors, for both CBS (the siege of long island) and NBC (hostages in the hamptons) had tightened their ties and joined the fray. Like Jennings, they would spend the next forty-five minutes authoritatively treading water as their reporters scrambled to catch up with the breaking story.

ABC's first remote was an interview with Sergeant Tommy Harrison in the parking lot behind the East Hampton police station. "Jack and Macklin Mullen," said Harrison, "are well-known, longtime residents of Montauk who seemed to have acted out of frustration about the outcome of an inquest into Peter Mullen's death last summer."

"Does either have a criminal record?" asked the reporter.

"You don't get it," said Harrison. "Except for one minor incident that Jack Mullen was involved in after his brother died, neither has ever been arrested. Not even a speeding ticket."

ABC then cut to the Justice Department in Washington for a live briefing that had just begun with a spokesman. "…of the hostages seized in Long Island last night. The five who have thus far been identified are Barry and Campion Neubauer, Tom and Stella Fitzharding, who own a home in Southampton, and William Montrose, a prominent New York attorney."

When the spokesman looked up from his notes, he was peppered with discordant queries: "Why were the hostages taken?" "Why can't you track the source of the broadcast?" "What do you know about the kidnappers?" He made just one more short statement, then brought the briefing to a close: "The abductors are employing a scrambling device that so far has prevented us from pinpointing the source of the broadcast. To say any more at this point would be counter to our efforts to resolve this situation as quickly as possible."

Then ABC cut away again to the offices of Channel 70 in Wainscott. The twenty-four-year-old station manager, J. J. Hart, stood beside the station's lawyer, Joshua Epstein. Hart stated that he had no intention of complying with the government's gag order. "Our reporter, Molly Ferrer, has pulled off one of the great scoops in television journalism. We have no intention of not sharing it with the public."

"The injunction is blatantly unconstitutional," said Epstein. "Monday I'm going to have it thrown out of court. Unless something happened last night that no one's told me about, we still live in a democracy."

"To summarize what we know so far," said Jennings, "we have five hostages, maybe more. The grandfather and grandson kidnappers were apparently unhinged by the controversial death of a family member. And a most unusual murder trial is about to begin. We will have more soon, but right now we're going to pick up the feed from Channel Seventy in East Hampton, where the live broadcast of the murder trial is about to start."

Chapter 89

"THE PEOPLE'S COURT OF MONTAUK," said Macklin in a calm and assured voice, "obliged to nothing but the truth, and having zero tolerance for bullshit, is called to order."

Then he brought down his gavel with a resounding smack.

My grandfather and I acknowledged the sweet significance of the moment by exchanging a quick glance before I called Tricia Powell to the stand. I think she understood the significance of appearing on TV, but maybe not what was about to happen to her. Once she had been sworn in, I began.

"Ms. Powell, I understand you arrived at this season's party in style."

"I guess you mean my new Mercedes."

"It's been quite a turn of events, hasn't it? One summer you're an executive assistant at Mayflower. The next you're stepping out of a forty-five-thousand-dollar sedan."

"I've had a good year," said Tricia Powell with some indignation. "In February I was promoted to director of special events."

"Forgive me for prying, but what were you making last year?".

"Thirty-nine thousand."

"And now?"

"Ninety," she said proudly.

"So, months after you lied at the inquest about seeing my brother dive out into deadly cold waves at Neubauer's party, you're promoted and your salary more than doubles. Perjury served you better than a Harvard MBA."

"Your Honor," barked Montrose.

"Sustained," said Macklin. "Knock it off, Jack."

"Excuse me. Months after you testified that you saw my brother dive into fifty-degree water in the middle of his shift parking cars, your salary increased by fifty-one thousand dollars. Is there anything other than your testimony that made you so much more valuable to your employer?"

"There is, but you wouldn't want to hear about it," said Powell. "After all, it doesn't fit in with your conspiracy theory."

"Please, Ms. Powell. Give me a chance. The court wants to hear your version of things."

"I worked fifty- and sixty-hour weeks. There was no way I was going to stay an assistant for long."

"I believe that's correct," I said, opening the manila folder I held in my hand.

"Ms. Powell, I'm showing you what has been marked People's Exhibit A." I handed her the document.

"Do you recognize it?"

"Yes."

"What do you recognize it to be?"

"That's my six-month evaluation at Mayflower Enterprises. How did you get it?" she demanded.

"That's not relevant just now," I said. "Do you recognize the signature on the bottom of the last page?" I asked, pointing to her signature.

"It's mine."

"Your Honor," I said, looking up at Mack, "at this time, the People offer People's Exhibit A in evidence."

Mack turned to Montrose. "Any objection?"

"I object to these entire proceedings," said Montrose.

"Overruled," snapped Mack. "People's Exhibit A is admitted. Go ahead, Jack."

"I'm going to skip right past the opening section that documents the days you managed to be late or sick, and read from the section titled 'Conclusion – Next Steps.' I think it should give us all a fair idea of the impression you were making on your employer before my brother died.

"Asked to rate your performance from zero to ten in attitude, effort, and overall competence, your three supervisors gave you no score higher than a six," I said. "Here is the final paragraph: 'Ms. Powell has been given a written warning. If her work doesn't improve dramatically in the next few months, she will be terminated.' "

"Well, I guess I made a dramatic improvement," said Tricia Powell.

Chapter 90

BILL MONTROSE was out of his seat in a flash. With his shock of white hair, sturdy body, and abrupt, confident movements, Montrose looked a little like a maestro at Lincoln Center. He stood very still at the front of the room. He evoked the concentration of a conductor waiting for his orchestra to settle down.

"Ms. Powell," he asked when he emerged from his spell, "were you compensated in any way for your testimony at the inquest last summer?"

"Absolutely not," said Powell. "Not a penny."

"Were you promised anything by Barry Neubauer or anyone else acting on his behalf?"

"No."

"Was a promotion, a raise, a window office, a personal trainer, or even a new pair of shoes dangled in front of you?"

"No!" said Powell even more indignantly.

"Ms. Powell, Jack Mullen seems to be under the delusion that there's something scandalous about an ambitious and talented person coming to the attention of the CEO. There isn't. You've done nothing to feel the slightest bit apologetic about."

"Thank you."

I rose from my seat. "Does Mr. Montrose have a question?"

"I certainly do. Ms. Powell, let me ask you how it is that you came to be in this courtroom this afternoon. You're not here voluntarily?"

"Of course not," said Tricia. "None of us are."

"Could you tell us how you got here?"

"I was driving home," said Powell, "when a man sprung up from my backseat. He threatened me."

"Were you afraid?"

"Wouldn't you be? I almost drove off the road."

"Then what?"

"He directed me to a house, where I was forced into the back of a smelly milk truck with you and the Fitzhardings."

"How long were you in the truck?"

"Almost seven hours."

"And are you free to leave now?" Montrose asked.

"No."

"If Mr. Mullen will allow it, Ms. Powell, you may return to your seat."

"Thank you."

After Tricia Powell retreated, Montrose turned to face the camera. He was about to make a speech when a look of alarm swept over his face. His jaw actually dropped.

Chapter 91

MONTROSE'S ANXIOUS EYES followed Jane Davis as she strode across the stone floor, her footsteps echoing in the room.

Jane wore black dress slacks and a black blouse, and she didn't appear nervous or afraid, as she had at the inquest. She stared at Montrose, then turned to look directly at Barry Neubauer.

To show his lack of concern, Neubauer flashed a smug smile. To show hers, Jane smiled back serenely.

"The People call Dr. Jane Davis," I announced, and she walked to where Fenton was waiting with his family's Gideon Bible. Whereas at the inquest her hands had trembled, now she seemed perfectly calm. She placed a hand on the Bible's red leatherette cover and swore "to tell the truth."

"Dr. Davis," I said as she was seated, "we appreciate the potential consequences of your testifying today. We're grateful."

"I want to be here," she said. "No one has to thank me." Then Jane leaned back and took a deep, calming breath.

"Dr. Davis," I began, "could you please review your education for the court?"

"Certainly. I graduated first in my class from East Hampton High School in 1988, and was a National Merit Scholar. I believe I was the first person in over a decade to be admitted to Harvard from East Hampton High, but I couldn't afford the tuition, so I went to SUNY Binghamton."

"Where did you receive your graduate education?"

"I attended Harvard Medical School, then did my residency at UCLA Hospital in Los Angeles."

"How are you presently employed?"

"For the past two years, I have been chief pathologist at Long Island Hospital and also the chief medical examiner for Suffolk County."

"Your Honor," I said, looking up at Mack, "the People offer Dr. Jane Davis as an expert witness in pathology and forensic medicine."

Mack turned to Montrose, who was still in a state of agitation. "I'm sure Mr. Montrose has no objection to Dr. Davis's testimony, as he called her as an expert witness before the inquest. Correct, Counselor?"

Montrose nodded distractedly and mumbled, "No objection."

"Dr. Davis," I continued, "you performed the autopsy on my brother?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Davis, before you came into the courtroom, Ms. Powell described her abduction before the start of this trial. I was hoping you could share your own experience before the inquest?"

She nodded. "The night before I was to testify," she said, "a man broke into my home. I was in bed, asleep. He woke me and put a gun between my legs. He said he was concerned about my testimony going well. He had been sent to 'coach' me. He said if I blew any lines at the inquest, he would come back and rape and murder me."

For the first time since she'd entered the room, Jane lowered her head and stared at the floor.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that, Jane," I said.

"I know."

"What did you do in court the next day?" I asked. "At the inquest."

"I committed perjury," said Jane Davis, loud and clear.

She continued, "In the course of completing your brother's autopsy, I took twenty-six sets of X rays. I performed half a dozen biopsies and did extensive blood and lab work. Peter had nineteen broken bones, including both arms and both wrists, eight fingers, and six ribs. His skull was fractured in two places, and he had three cracked vertebrae. In several cases the welts of his body showed such perfect fistprints and footprints, they looked like they had been traced on.

"On top of that, Peter's lung tissue was not consistent with drowning. The level of saturation was in keeping with someone who was dumped into the water after he'd stopped breathing. The evidence that Peter had been kicked and beaten to death, then dragged into the water, was overwhelming. That Peter Mullen was murdered is as irrefutable as that I'm sitting here right now."

Chapter 92

MONTROSE ROSE FROM HIS CHAIR. The enormous strain was evident by the set of his jaw. I could almost hear him reminding himself that he was the great Bill Montrose.

"Is there such a thing as a fair trial that isn't quite fair?" he asked. "Of course not. But our abductors would have you believe otherwise. 'I know it's not exactly accepted legal procedure,' Mr. Mullen suggests with an apologetic shrug, 'for defendants to be dragged at gunpoint out of their cars in the middle of the night. But give us a chance, we're just ordinary people like you. We've been driven to this because the system is broken, the system is unfair.'

"But that's not how justice works. Certainly not how it's supposed to work according to the Constitution and the laws of our country." Montrose flinched as if he felt a threat to the Constitution as keenly as a physical blow.

"Justice," he continued, "is not about being slightly fairer than your expectations. It's about being fair. Period. And how can there be a fair trial when the prosecution can ambush the defense with a surprise witness like Jane Davis?"

I. had heard more than enough of Montrose's rhetoric. If Macklin was going to allow speeches, I was going to give one of my own. "Everyone in this room understands your frustration," I said, rising from my chair. "We were in the courtroom last summer when Dr. Davis, after being terrorized all night, said she believed my brother's death was accidental. Just like you, the young prosecutor, Nadia Alper, was so taken aback, she wasn't prepared to cross-examine.

"But although the tactics you're facing today are almost identical to the ones she faced, there's a fundamental difference," I said, feeling my face redden. "At the inquest, the prosecutor was ambushed by a lie. You've been ambushed by the truth, a truth you've probably known all along.

"You love to go on about what a mockery this trial is, Mr. Montrose. What really galls you is that it's almost fair. After tirelessly defending the rich and powerful for twenty-five years, you've become so warped that anything even resembling a level playing field is offensive. I suggest you get over it."

"All right, that's enough," Mack finally said from his chair. "This court is adjourned for the evening."

Chapter 93

THIS TIME WHEN The People v. Barry Neubauer adjourned, the newsmaking machinery was stoked and ready to crank. "The Siege on Long Island " was the most ratings-friendly story in years. And it was convenient. Half the reporters and producers who filed stories that evening were already in the Hamptons when the day began.

The instant Channel 70 went black, the dueling anchors began addressing the nation. They rolled out the profiles their networks had thrown together in the past two hours. The country learned how Barry Neubauer had married into one of the East Coast's most prominent publishing families and extended its reach into radio and cable, theme parks, and the Internet. They heard respectful assessments of his vision from rivals like Ted Turner and Rupert Murdoch.

They also learned that his Yale-educated lawyer, William Montrose, hadn't lost a case in seventeen years. Montrose had cemented his reputation in a Fort Worth courtroom nine years before with his defense of a wealthy rancher who'd killed a tennis pro he wrongly suspected of sleeping with his mistress. Colleagues said Montrose so outlawyered the prosecutor that the state, which had pushed hard for second-degree murder, was grateful to get a thousand-dollar fine for possession of an unregistered firearm.

Then came the deluge about the Mullens. Interviews with prominent townspeople touched on the death of Jack's mother and father and revealed how little the pair conformed to a terrorist profile. "The only reason I'm the mayor of Montauk," said Peter Siegel, "is that Macklin didn't run. And Jack is our homegrown golden boy."

"They're the working-class Kennedys of Montauk," pronounced Dominick Dunne, who arrived in town on assignment for Vanity Fair. "The same good looks and charisma, the same Irish Catholic blarney, and the same tragic curse."

The reporting showed how quickly the story had polarized the East End. When a sunburned investment banker getting out of his Porsche in front of an East Hampton wine shop was approached by a reporter, he said, "I hope they get life." He was expressing the prevailing sentiment of the oberen Klassen.

The locals saw it differently. They may have couched it in neutral-seeming sound bites like "I just hope everyone gets home safe," but the only ones whose safety they were concerned about were the Mullens and their friends.

"If you know what's happened to this family in the past few years," said Denise Lowe, a waitress at PJ's Pancake House, "you'd understand that this is an American tragedy. It's just so sad. We all love Jack and Macklin."

But it wasn't until nearly midnight, when the newsreaders went home and the cable pundits took over, that the first truly sympathetic editorial commentating began to seep out. As has been the case quite often, the voice ahead of the curve belonged to Geraldo.

That night, he broadcast from the bar of the Shagwong restaurant. Moderating the show like a town meeting, Geraldo drew out the locals. He encouraged them to gush and reminisce about Mack and Jack.

"One reason that Macklin might be so comfortable in his new role," said Gary Miller, who owned a nursery, "is that unofficially he's been the town judge for twenty years. As a matter of fact, we're sitting in his favorite court right now."

Geraldo also set up a live remote with Chauncy Howells, dean of Columbia Law School. "Jack Mullen was not a good law student, he was a brilliant law student," said Howells. "One of the sharpest I ever taught. Nevertheless, he didn't apply for a single legal job. That suggests he was planning this for some time, and appreciated the consequences. I have no doubt that for Jack Mullen this was a moral and ethical – and well-considered – decision."

"Make no mistake," said Geraldo in closing, "Jackson and Macklin Mullen are not fanatics or radicals, or even nut jobs. They are people who, not unlike you and me, were fed up by the transparent inequities in the criminal justice system. The only difference is that those injustices hit a lot closer to home for them than for us. They decided to do something about it. Our prayers go out to everyone caught up in this tragedy. Good night, my friends."

And as the networks and cable stations turned The People v. Barry Neubauer into more grist for the mill, the FBI poured into the Hamptons. In their styleless rubber-soled brogans, bad haircuts, and generic domestic sedans, they looked as out of place as someone on food stamps.

Chapter 94

"IF I'M NOT REAL CAREFUL, I could get used to a place like this," said Macklin, running one long, bony finger along the aged mahogany wainscoting that made the room seem as if it had been lifted from a stone manse in some British PBS miniseries. We were sitting in the corner library, just off the more austere space we'd turned into our courtroom. Mack and I parked ourselves on the polished oak floors and sat facing the long, tall window that looked out onto the empty beach. I felt as if I'd just lived through the world's first hundred-hour day.

"I've been thinking about Marci and Fenton and Hank," I said. "We shouldn't have let them get involved."

"It's a little late for that, Jack. Besides, they wanted to be here," said Macklin impatiently. "And I hope you've more in your hand than you showed today."

"How about Jane's testimony?" I asked him.

"It was the best you had. But it didn't implicate Neubauer. Not in the least. Where's the hard evidence Jack?"

"You can't skip steps, Mack," I told him. "As Fenning, my old trial tactics instructor, put it, you got to 'build the boat.' "

"Well, build the frigging thing already, and make sure it floats. Now help me up, Jack. I've got to get into my sleeping bag. I shouldn't be talking to you anyway."

I grabbed a huge gnarled hand and pulled hard. While I had him there, I gave him a long, stout hug. I felt I was grabbing a bag of bones.

"Don't get old on me, Macklin," I said. "I need you too much."

"I feel like I've aged ten years in the last ten hours. That's not too good when you start the day at eighty-seven."

Chapter 95

THE LIBRARY HAD ITS OWN BALCONY, and once Mack hobbled off, I slid open the glass door and stepped outside. I knew I shouldn't be out there, but I needed to clear my head. I wanted to think everything through one more time, especially the main reason I hoped we might actually get away with it.

The deck was angled out from the corner of the house. Whether you looked east toward the lighthouse or west toward town, you didn't see another man-made structure. In its vast cold-blooded beauty, a Montauk night can make you feel as insignificant as a fly jammed up on the wrong side of a windowsill. But that night the dwarfing scale was comforting. And the stars were dazzling.

One of the many happy side effects of perspective and clear thinking is that it helps you sleep. I stretched out on the cedar planks, and in seconds I was out.

I was jarred from sleep by footsteps at the end of the deck.

It was too late to run. I sat up and stared blindly into the dark. Maybe the FBI. Some deep, scary voice about to order me to roll over on my stomach and put my hands behind my back.

We had made it clear, I hoped, that we weren't going to harm any hostages. There was no need to shoot me on sight. I almost said out loud, "No need to shoot."

I smelled Pauline's light perfume before I saw her. "Coming back here was insane," I said when she stepped out of the darkness.

But I didn't say it with much conviction. I figured she'd been thinking the same thing I had, that it might be our last night together for a long time.

"So, I'm insane," she said.

"Well, you've come to the right place."

Pauline lay down and leaned into me, and for a few minutes I forgot about everything except how right she was for me. The thought filled me with anguish.

"I didn't mean it, Paulie girl. I'm really glad you came back from New York."

"I know, Jack. So give the girl a kiss."

Chapter 96

AN HOUR OR SO LATER, Pauline and I were still out on the deck beneath the canopy of a thousand glittering stars.

"Did you get the blood work back from Jane?" she asked softly. For a second I was somewhere so far away that I didn't know what she meant.

"Not till tomorrow. Early, I hope. How about you? How'd it go out there in the big, bad world?"

"I did good," said Pauline with her loveliest cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin. "Real good, jack. You're going to be happy."

"How many could you track down?"

"Twelve," she said, "out of twelve."

"And how many signed?"

"All of them. Every single one, Jack. They hate that son of a bitch Neubauer as much as we do."

"Looks like I hired the right investigator," I said, and kissed her again.

"You have an eye for talent. Oh, by the way, Jack, you're famous."

"Good famous? Or bad famous?"

"Depends on the channel, and the commentator. The guy on Hardball says you and Mack should be dragged into the town square and hanged."

"It would make powerful television."

"Ten minutes later Geraldo compared you to heroes in the American Revolution."

"I always felt Geraldo never got the respect he deserves."

"Since when?"

"Since tonight."

"And this weatherwoman on Fox, I think she wants to have your baby."

"Someone should tell her I'm taken."

"Good answerback. You're learning."

"It's true. If there's any baby-making involving me, it's going to be done with a non-weatherwoman with the musical name of Pauline Grabowski."

There was a sweet pause.

"Pauline?"

"What's that, lawyer boy?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too. That's why I'm here," she whispered. "It's probably why we're all here, Jack."

"I love you more than I ever thought I could love anybody. I worship you, actually. You surprise me, in good ways, just about every day we're together. I love your spirit, your compassion, that sweet, funny laugh of yours. I never get tired of being with you. I miss you terribly when you're away." I stopped and looked into her eyes. Pauline stared back, didn't blink. "Will you marry me?" I whispered.

This time the silence was frightening. I was afraid to move.

I finally propped myself up on one elbow and leaned over her. Her face seemed to be broken into a million shimmering pieces. She looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

When she nodded through her tears, the riddle of my life was solved.

Chapter 97

TWENTY-NINE-YEAR-OLD Coast Guard Lt. Christopher Ames sat tall behind the tapered windscreen of his jet-powered Blackhawk 7000 helicopter and felt as if the night were his own private video game. He was on duty, searching for the missing millionaires, but his heart wasn't in it. He didn't much like any of the millionaires he'd met. All three of them.

Eighteen miles northeast of Montauk was Block Island. Ames had spent the day flying back and forth over every square inch. Zilch. He wasn't really surprised.

Now he was racing back to Long Island, hotdogging it slightly, but nothing to get court-martialed for. He took a glance at the speed indicator: 280. Hell, it felt twice that. He was flying less than fifty feet above the cement-hard whitecaps.

At the Montauk lighthouse, Ames juked left and followed the steep, jagged coastline. In the moonlight, it seemed to be crumbling into the surf.

He figured he'd ride the cliffs for a few miles before tacking inland to MacArthur Airport. That's when he spotted the dark, low-slung mansion in the dunes.

He'd been scoping out multimillion-dollar vacation homes all day, but this one was over the top, even by the lofty standards of waterfront real estate in these parts. Sleek and serpentine, it went on forever along the cliffs.

Still, on the first big weekend of the summer, there wasn't a single light on. Strange, and a goddamned waste. Somebody ought to be using this spread.

He pulled hard on the stick, and the big bird seemed to screech to a stop in midair. It made him think of a cartoon character who realizes a beat too late that he's just run off the side of a cliff. Then, for the umpteenth time that day, Lt. Ames banked toward the mansion.

In close, he could see that the place wasn't quite finished. He spun around the grassless site like a stock car circling a quarter-mile track. His turbine engine hacked up a dirt cyclone that would settle over everything in its path – from the front porch to the big yellow steamroller at the end of the driveway.

He was about to swerve back and head for the airport when he noticed the mountain bike leaning up against one of the few trees.

He hit it with his 8,000-watt spotlight, and saw a lock hanging open from a back tire.

What have we here?

More slowly now, he circled the place again. He hovered at roof height and beamed his lights along the row of blacked-out windows.

That's when he saw the couple literally under his nose on the deck. Both of them buck naked.

Ames was about to reach for the two-way radio when the woman stood up and turned to face the lights. She was beautiful, and not in a pouting-model sort of way.

For about ten seconds she stood with her hands on her hips and stared up as if she were trying to tell him something important with her eyes. Then she raised both hands above her shoulders and flipped him the bird with each one.

Ames started to laugh, and for the first time all day remembered why he liked America.

I must have something better to do, he thought, than bust a couple of trespassers for making love in one of the most beautiful spots in North America. He put the handset back on its cradle, then swung the big bird back toward MacArthur Airport.

He was still smiling about the pretty girl who had flipped him the double bird.

Chapter 98

PAULINE AND I WERE LOST in our own little world, holding hands and watching the surf, when Fenton burst through the French doors to the deck.

"Jack, Volpi's gone!"

"I thought you were doing ten-minute checks? The doors were double-locked?"

"I was, Jack. I swear. He can't be gone more than a few minutes."

Fortunately, Pauline and I were dressed by now. We followed Fenton out onto the beach. We looked up and down the shoreline. Nothing.No Volpi.

"He would have headed west, toward the Blakely place. It's the only way that makes any sense," I said.

The three of us sprinted toward the garage and Pauline's car. With Pauline driving, we raced down the long dirt driveway, then turned left toward town.

"It can't end like this," I said.

Pauline, who was already going faster than I would have, put the pedal to the floor. It was a little before two in the morning, and the road was empty. After half a mile she took a hard left toward Franklin Cove.

"Pull over here," I told Pauline. "The shoreline is just over that dune. Either we've beaten him here, or we're fucked."

We jumped out and clambered hand over hand to the top of the dune. My heart was pounding as we topped the crest.

We were too late. Volpi was already a hundred yards past us, chugging through the sand toward a cluster of big houses at the bend.

We took off after him anyway, and quickly began closing the gap. But Volpi, who had just noticed us, was running for his life, and we weren't going to catch him before he got to the first house.

As I struggled through the sand, a gun went off behind me. Fenton and I turned to see Pauline with her Smith Wesson held out in front of her. Then she fired again at Volpi.

The second shot must have barely missed him.

He stopped in his tracks and raised his hands. "Don't shoot!"

We kept running. Fenton got there first. He lowered his shoulder and 240 pounds into Volpi's chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. In a second we were on him, all the anger and frustration of the past year pouring into our punches.

"That's enough," said Pauline. "Stop it."

But Fenton wasn't through. He grabbed a fistful of sand and shoved it into Volpi's mouth. Volpi gasped for breath, spat, and sputtered out a few words.

Now I grabbed a handful and pushed it in.

"What happened to Peter?" I shouted in his face. "You were there, right, Frank? What happened?"

He was still spitting out sand and gasping. "No… no," he managed.

"Frank, I just want to hear the truth. It doesn't matter what you tell us out here! Nobody will know but us."

Volpi shook his head, and Fenton pushed another handful of sand into his mouth. More gasping and spitting and choking followed. I was almost feeling sorry for him.

This time we gave him a minute to breathe and focus.

Gidley couldn't leave him alone, though. "Now you know how I felt when I got a visit from your friend. He tried to drown me. I couldn't breathe! I was spitting up salt water. How's the sand taste, Frank? Want some more?"

Volpi held both hands in front of his face. He was still choking, trying to clear his mouth.

"Yeah, Neubauer had his goons kill your brother. I still don't know why. I wasn't there, Jack. How could you think that? Christ, I liked Peter."

Jesus, it felt good to hear that – to finally get the truth out. Just to hear it.

"That's all I wanted, Frank. The truth. Stop blubbering, you piece of shit."

But Volpi wasn't finished. "You still don't have anything on him. Neubauer's too smart for you, Jack."

I hit Volpi with a short right hand, definitely the best punch of my life, and he went face first into the sand. "I owed you that, you bastard."

Fenton put his hand on the back of Volpi's head and ground his face in the sand. "Me, too."

At least I knew the truth. That was something. We dragged Volpi's sorry ass to Pauline's car and took him back to the house.

Chapter 99

A FEW HOURS LATER, after Pauline, Molly, and I made eggs and coffee for the group, we all filed back into the courtroom. I wasn't feeling too chipper, but then the adrenaline kicked in and I was okay.

After Macklin smacked his gavel and called the room to order, Montrose rose and launched into another of his pompous speeches, something he must have been working on all night.

I objected, and Mack called the two of us to the bench.

"You know better than this," he said to Montrose. "You should be testifying to the facts, not philosophizing, or whatever the hell it is that you're doing. You, either, Jack. But because of the other restrictions put on you, Mr. Montrose, and in the interest of fairness and getting at the truth, you go right ahead and make your speeches. Just keep 'em short, for God's sake. I'm not getting any younger."

I shook my head and returned to my seat. Montrose took center stage again.

"Our would-be prosecutor delights in recklessly tainting the reputation of my client," said Bill Montrose, glancing my way. I had the sense that he was just warming to the task. "Till now, we haven't retaliated by drawing attention to the sad details of his late brother's life. It seemed inappropriate and, I had hoped, unnecessary.

"Now," said Montrose as if he'd spent the night wrestling with his oversize conscience, "we have no choice. If, in fact, Peter Mullen's death wasn't an accident, which is doubtful, there are people far more likely to have done him harm than Barry Neubauer.

"When Peter Mullen died at the end of last May," said Montrose, clearing his throat, "the world did not lose its next Mother Teresa. It lost a high-school dropout who, at the age of thirteen, had already been arrested for drug possession. You should also know that despite having never held a regular job in his life, Peter Mullen had almost two hundred thousand dollars in his bank account at the time of his death. Two months earlier he paid for a nineteen-thousand-dollar motorcycle with an envelope of thousand-dollar bills."

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."

Chapter 100

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."

Chapter 101

"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.

Chapter 102

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.

Montrose bellowed, "Objection! Objection! Objection!" as if his client's cry had tripped a mechanical alarm in his throat.

Their ruckus set off Macklin. He was mad, and it showed. "I'll gag the whole room if you don't pipe down. This is evidence, and it's certainly relevant. I'll allow it."

Only when quiet had been restored did I return to the painstaking task of hanging more photos. Reminding myself to take my time to "build the boat," I spent the next five minutes taping up pictures of Peter and various partners. All together I put up thirteen, a pornographer's dirty dozen and just about the saddest family album I've ever seen.

Although there were occasional cameos by unidentified guests, the core troupe remained constant: Barry and Peter, Stella and Tom – the Neubauers' best friends. We definitely had the right people in the room. They had been doing my brother since he was a kid.

There's no denying the disconcerting power of hard-core pornography. After each photograph was secured to the wall, Molly zoomed in for a close-up. She held it for a full ten seconds.

"Turn off the camera!" screamed Neubauer. "Stop it now!"

"Could the prosecutor and I approach the bench?" asked Bill Montrose after speaking to Neubauer. When Mack waved us forward, Montrose said, "Mr. Neubauer has a proposal he believes could end these proceedings. He's asked me to pass it on."

"The People aren't interested," I said flatly.

"What is it?" asked Macklin.

"My client insists on presenting it himself. In private."

"There is nothing of value he can offer this court," I told Macklin. "Let's move on."

Montrose repeated his request to Macklin. "All he wants is ninety seconds, Your Honor. Surely you can spare us that – in the interest of fairness, or whatever the hell this is supposed to represent."

"This court is recessed for two minutes," announced Macklin. "Give the networks a chance to sell some beer."

He motioned for Gidley, then led all four of us into a library equipped with a running track and a ladder to get to the high shelves. Of course, there were no books.

Being in the same room with Neubauer, even with his hands cuffed, was unsettling. He was close to a rage state. He wasn't used to not getting his way. His eyes were dilated, and his nostrils flared. He gave off a feral, vinegary odor that was hard to take.

"Ten million dollars!" said Neubauer as soon as the door shut behind him. "And none of us will cooperate in any criminal proceedings against you, your grandfather, or your friends."

"That's your proposal, Mr. Neubauer?" asked Macklin.

"Ten million dollars," he repeated, "in cash deposited into an account in your name in Grand Cayman in the Bahamas. Plus, no one in your group spends any time in jail. You have my word on it. Now would somebody take off these cuffs? I want to get out of here. You got what you wanted. You won!"

"We aren't interested in your money," I said flatly.

Neubauer flicked his head at me dismissively. "A couple of years ago," he said, "some of my guests got a little carried away. A hooker fell off my yacht. It cost me five hundred thousand dollars. Now another whore has died, and I want to settle my account again. I am a man who pays his debts."

"No, Barry. You're a murdering scumbag. Frank Volpi was good enough to confirm that last night. You can't buy your way out of this, asshole!"

I realized I had gone over the edge. Neubauer's face twisted into the same pre-ejaculatory grimace recorded in some of the pictures. Then he spoke in a freaky whisper. "I liked fucking your brother, Jack. Peter was one of my all-time favorite pieces of ass! Particularly when he was thirteen, okay, Mullen?"

I was leaning on the ladder and Neubauer was straddling the metal track in the floor less than two feet away. The track led straight to his groin. All I had to do was grab the ladder and push hard, but I grabbed control of myself. I wasn't going to let him return to the courtroom looking beaten-up or abused.

"I already know what you did to my brother," I finally said. "That's why we're here. And it's going to cost you a lot more than money, Barry."

"Let's get back to work," said Mack. "It's not polite to keep a hundred million people waiting, and if nothing else, we Mullens have our manners."

Chapter 103

STELLA FITZHARDING didn't fit the profile of a third wife of a New York-Palm Beach billionaire. She was not young or blond or augmented. She was a former professor of Romance languages at the small midwestern college to which her husband had given millions to get his name on the library. If she was embarrassed by her appearance in the graphic display on the wall, she didn't show it. The first time she had screwed my brother, he was fourteen years old.

"Mrs. Fitzharding," I said once she'd been sworn in, "I have the feeling you've seen these photographs before. Is that true?"

Stella Fitzharding frowned but nodded.

"Peter had been using them to blackmail us for two years," she said.

"How much did you pay him?" I asked.

"Five thousand dollars a month? Seventy-five hundred? I forget exactly, but I remember it was the same amount we pay our gardener." She seemed bored by my questions. Bear with me, Stella. It will pick up soon.

"Didn't you complain to Barry Neubauer?"

"We might have, except that we found the whole experience of getting blackmailed so deliriously theatrical and, I don't know… noir. As soon as the pictures got dropped at our back door, we'd grab them and rush into the den, where we'd pore over them the way other folk look at themselves smiling in front of Old Faithful. It was a game we played. Your brother knew that, Jack. It was a game for him, too."

I wanted to go after her, but I held everything inside.

"Who did you make the payments to?" I asked.

She pointed to the witness table. "Detective Frank Volpi was the messenger boy."

Volpi sat there very calmly. Then he gave Stella the finger.

"So you paid the monthly fee to Detective Volpi?"

"Yes. But when the merger of Mayflower Enterprises and Bjorn Boontaag was announced, Peter suddenly realized how damaging the pictures could be. Instead of a few thousand, he wanted millions."

"So what did you think when my brother's body washed up on the beach?"

"That he had played a dangerous game – and lost," said Stella Fitzharding. "Just like you are, and just like you will."

Chapter 104

"I CALL DETECTIVE FRANK VOLPI."

Volpi didn't move. I wasn't surprised. In fact, I had expected it to happen with more of the witnesses.

"I can question you from here, Detective, if you would prefer?"

"I'm still not going to answer your questions, Jack."

"Well, let me try just one."

"Suit yourself."

"Do you remember the talk we had last night, Detective?" I asked.

Volpi sat there impassively.

"Let me refresh your memory, Detective. I'm referring to the conversation in which you said that Barry Neubauer had two of his goons murder my brother on the beach a year ago."

"Objection!" yelled Montrose.

"Sustained!" yelled Mack. "Mrs. Stevenson, please delete these last two questions from the record."

"I apologize, Your Honor," I said. "The People have no further questions."

"Nice work, Jack," said Volpi from his seat.

Chapter 105

WE BROKE FOR LUNCH and returned promptly after forty-five minutes. I couldn't eat, mostly because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to keep anything down.

The witness I was about to call represented the kind of risk any really good trial lawyer is cautioned not to take. I felt I had no choice. It was time to find out if I was a good judge of human nature, and also if I was any kind of lawyer.

I took a deep breath.

"Campion Neubauer," I said.

A hush fell over the room. Campion slowly got up and walked forward. She looked back at the other witnesses, as if expecting one of them to throw her a lifeline.

Bill Montrose immediately rose from his seat. "Absolutely not! Mrs. Neubauer is currently undergoing treatment for chronic depression. She's been unable to take her medication since this ordeal began."

I looked at Campion, who had already sat down in the witness chair. "How are you feeling?" I asked her. "You okay with this?"

She nodded. "I'm fine, Jack. Actually, I want to say something."

"Not that it means anything to you," shouted Neubauer from his seat, "but the law prohibits forcing a wife to testify against her husband!"

"The so-called spousal privilege," responded Macklin, "can be asserted by either spouse for their own protection. But the privilege only protects statements made by one spouse to another, not the underlying facts. You may testify, Mrs. Neubauer."

A thin smile broke across Campion's lips. I had known her for a long time and had seen her change from a beautiful, free-spirited woman to an extremely bitter one. That was part of the reason I was taking a chance with her now.

"Not to worry, darling," she said to her husband. "No one's forcing me to testify against you. I'm here of my own free will."

After Gidley swore in Campion, I asked if she would go with me to examine a few of the photographs on the wall. She did as I asked.

I pointed to a woman apparently reaching climax in the third picture in the row. "Who is that?" I asked.

"Stella Fitzharding. She's a freak."

"And this younger woman on her knees?"

"Tricia Powell. The young businesswoman doing so well in Special Events at my husband's company."

"And poured between the two of them, my brother, Peter, who was certainly no saint."

Campion shook her head. "No, but he never hurt anybody. And everyone did love Peter."

"That's comforting," I said.

I walked her down the line of photos. I pointed.

"Peter again," Campion said.

"How old would you say Peter was when this picture was shot?"

"I don't know – maybe fifteen."

"No older than that?" I asked.

"No. I don't think so. Jack, you have to believe this – I had no idea this was happening in my house. Not at first anyway. I'm sorry. I apologize to you and your family."

"I'm sorry, too, Campion."

We proceeded down the row. "In each of these next half dozen shots spanning five years, my brother, who in the earliest pictures is no more than fifteen, is being mounted by a much older man."

"That would be my husband, Barry Neubauer," she said, and pointed to the man grabbing the arms of an old beach chair as tightly as he held Peter in the photos.

We skipped several shots, then stopped together in front of the last photograph in the series.

In it Peter and Barry were joined by a third middle-aged man, wearing a studded dog collar hooked to an industrial-strength leash. "The man on all fours," I said. "I'm almost positive I've seen him before."

"Undoubtedly," said Campion. "He's Robert Crassweller, Junior, the attorney general of the United States."

Chapter 106

I ESCORTED CAMPION back to the witness chair. Suddenly she looked younger and more relaxed. She'd even stopped glancing over at Barry for approval, or disapproval. Or whatever it was she got from him.

"You still okay?" I asked.

"I'm fine. Let's keep going."

I gestured toward the wall of photographs.

"Other than the faces and bodies, Campion, is there anything else you recognize in the pictures?"

"The rooms. The pictures were all shot at our house. The house I grew up in. The beach house my family has owned for nearly a hundred years."

"Different rooms or the same one?" I asked.

"Mostly different."

"One thing I can't quite figure out," I said, "is where the photographer hid."

"It depends on the shot, but there are any number of places. Lots of nooks and crannies. It's a huge old house."

"But how would the photographer know where to hide and be able to get himself there again and again without being detected?"

There was a crash behind me, and when I twisted to face it, Neubauer, having destroyed the card table with his full-stretch lunge, was crawling across the floor toward his wife. As Fen-ton and Hank pounced on him, a black tomahawk flew across the room, leaving a nasty black mark on the wall six inches from Campion's head. It was Stella Fitzharding's left shoe.

"Your husband and friend seem quite certain you were the one helping the blackmailers, Mrs. Neubauer," I said. Unscathed by either attack, Campion sat on the stand as calmly as when she arrived.

"I was," she said.

"You were blackmailing your own husband, Mrs. Neubauer?" I asked. "But as controlling partner of Mayflower Enterprises, you had more to lose than he did."

"I guess we would have to agree, Jack, that there are some things more important than money. At first I merely wanted to document it," Campion explained. "Have a record of what was going on in a house that has been in my family for a century. But then I couldn't resist the thought of watching my husband squirm."

"Peter didn't know about the blackmailing, did he?"

"He never would have gone along with it. He didn't hate Barry enough. Peter didn't hate anyone except himself. That was his loveliest flaw."

"Wouldn't it have been easier to simply divorce your husband?"

"Easier perhaps, but definitely not safer. As you've noticed by now, when Barry gets upset, people start washing up onshore."

I covered my mouth with a hand and took in a breath. Then I asked my next question, a big one. "Isn't that why you needed pictures even more incriminating than the ones up on the wall, Campion?"

Her back stiffened. "I'm not sure I follow," she said, nervously fingering the black crystal amulet on her necklace.

I moved in closer to Campion. "I think you do. It's one thing catching Barry having illicit sex with young boys and girls. But if, for example, you had pictures of him committing murder? Isn't that why you set up Peter?"

"I didn't know Barry was going to kill Peter that night. How could I?"

"Of course you did. You just told us – 'when Barry gets upset, people start washing up onshore.' In fact, you sent Sammy to cover the murder."

"But there are no pictures!" she pleaded. "I don't have any pictures!"

I held up an envelope.

"But I do, Campion. I have the pictures right here."

Chapter 107

ALL OF THE COURTROOM TECHNIQUES I'd tried so hard to master through the winter and spring deserted me in a frantic, anxious rush. I quickly opened the envelope instead of milking the moment for what it was worth. My heart was pumping. All my senses were razor-sharp. I held several photographs from the envelope in my fist.

I riffled through the photographs, then slapped them up on the wall with the others. They were probably the last seven shots Sammy had ever taken, and in a terrible way they were his masterpieces.

Each was printed horizontally on nineteen-by-twenty-two paper and was as black and murky as Sammy's pornography was bright. Taped to the wall in a dark jagged row, they looked less like photographs than expressionist paintings swirling violently with rage and fear and death.

Like so much of the pornography, the action was three-on-one. But the lust was now replaced by fury, the pelvic thrusts by whaling fists and feet.

There, I could see the blurred face of Neubauer's platinum Cartier watch as he swung a blackjack at Peter's neck.

And there, while two other burly shapes pinned back Peter's arms, I caught the silver streaks of the buckle on Neubauer's loafer as he kicked Peter's ribs.

There was a face half-hidden in the shadows – but I could tell it was Frank Volpi's. He'd lied about being there, but of course, why wouldn't he lie? Everyone else had.

The last picture was the most hellish. I slapped it up on the wall and watched Molly's lens zoom in. I knew it would be engraved on my retina forever.

At the instant that particular picture was taken, there must have been a break in the cloud cover. As Peter lay broken at the feet of his murderers, his face was momentarily illuminated.

It was like a candlelit face in a Caravaggio, the face of a young man who knew that he was down to his last few seconds and that no one was going to save him. The horror in his eyes was too much, and even though I'd seen the photograph before, I had to look away.

"Is there any end to this shameless grandstanding?" screamed Montrose. "In all of these pictures, you can see only a single face, and that's the victim's."

"The prosecutor will approach the bench," snapped Macklin. "Right now."

When I got there, he was as angry as I'd ever seen him. "Montrose is right. These pictures are useless, and you know it. What the hell are you doing, Jack? Do you have a point to make?"

"Fuck Montrose. And Neubauer. And fuck you." I spat out the words. Then I started to cry. I just lost it. "I don't care whether these pictures have value as evidence. They show Peter getting beaten to death on a beach by Neubauer and two goons, one of whom is Volpi. If I have to see it in my head for the rest of my life, then so do they. Peter didn't kill himself, he didn't drown – he was murdered, Mack. That's what it shows."

Macklin reached up and grabbed my wet face with both huge hands. He squeezed it hard as if it were a bleeding wound he was trying to staunch.

"Jack. Listen to me," he said with a heartbreaking smile. "You're doing a fine job, better than that. Don't let it get away from you now, son. Do you have anything to finish off these bastards? Please say yes, Jack."

Chapter 108

DON'T LET IT GET AWAY FROM YOU NOW.

When Peter and I were kids, our father told us a story about a huge rat that got into his and my mother's apartment in Hell's Kitchen. It was a freezing December morning. He had my mother, who was pregnant with me, sit in a coffee shop across the street.

Then my father borrowed a shovel from the super and walked back up the five flights to face the rat. He found it in the living room at the end of the railroad flat, scurrying along the wall, trying to nose a way out. It was the size of a small cat, at least ten pounds, with a shiny orange-brown pelt.

Brandishing the shovel, my father backed it into a corner. The rat tried to get past, making feints left and right, but when he saw that it was no use, he bared his teeth and waited. When my father cocked the shovel over his right shoulder like a Louisville Slugger, the rat leaped at him!

With a desperate swing, my father knocked it out of the air like a furry, gray-tailed softball. The rat bounced off the wall hard enough to knock over half the books on the shelves. My father barely had time to recock the shovel before the rat was flying back at him. Again the shovel caught it flush. Again the rat crashed into the wall. My father knocked it out of the air two more times before he could kill it.

When I called Barry Neubauer to the stand, he looked at me the way that rat must have looked up at my father that winter morning.

Without taking his beady eyes off me, he twitched and he seethed. His long fingers were white where they clasped the arms of his chair.

And he didn't budge.

I was starting to breathe a little hard.

"You want me to sit on your stage," he hissed. "You're going to have to drag me up there. But that wouldn't look good on television, would it, golden boy?"

"We'd be delighted to drag you up here," said Macklin, stepping down off his platform. "Hell, I'll do it myself."

After making certain his arms and legs were securely tethered to the chair, Mack and I got on either side of him. We hoisted Neubauer into the air.

As soon as his feet left the ground, he struggled against his restraints worse than the Mudman had in his dying moments. By the time we plopped him on the stand, his face and hair were covered with sweat. Behind his expensive wire-rim glasses, his pupils had shrunk to pinpoints.

"What do you have to show us now, Counselor?" he asked in an angry, grating whine that set my teeth on edge. It was the same demeaning tone he used with employees at his house. "More dirty pictures? Proving what? That photographic images can be manipulated by computer? C'mon, Jack, you must have something better than that."

Neubauer's last taunt was barely out of his lips when there was a knock at the door at the back of the room.

"Actually, I do have something else to show you. In fact, here it comes now."

Chapter 109

NERVOUSLY LOOKING AT HER FEET, the way anyone might if she found herself walking through a lengthy room with half of America watching, Pauline slowly made her way to the front. I couldn't help feeling proud of her. She had stuck with this all the way to the end.

When she got to my side, she slipped me a piece of paper. I read it with my heart in my throat. It said, East Hampton , LA., Manhattan -1996.

Then, because she felt like it, I guess, she kissed me softly on the cheek and took a seat beside Marci.

"There is one thing you could clear up for me," I said to Neubauer, gesturing toward the pictures on the wall. "Didn't anyone ever ask you to use a condom?"

His thin slits of eyes narrowed even more. "Is this where you turn this whole thing into a public-service announcement? I told them they had nothing to worry about. I have myself tested all the time."

"I see. So, you lied to these people."

Neubauer's eyes grew even darker, and he twisted his neck at me. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about not telling the truth. It's called lying. You lied to these people. Your wife, Tricia Powell, the Fitzhardings. My brother."

"You're crazy. Anyone can see that. This is absurd. You're a madman."

"Remember those blood samples we took when you arrived? We had yours tested for HIV"

"What are you talking about?" Neubauer bellowed.

"You're positive, Mr. Neubauer. We ran it through three times. Your Honor, the People offer this lab report as People's Exhibit D."

"You had no right," he screeched, rocking his chair so violently that it nearly tipped off the platform.

"What's the difference whether we had the right? If you had yourself tested all the time, we just saved you the trouble."

"It's not a crime to be sick," Neubauer said.

"No, but it is a crime to knowingly expose your partners to HIV"

"I didn't know I was HIV-positive until this minute," Neubauer snarled.

"I guess that might have been possible if it weren't for the AZT we found in your blood. Then we got your old pharmacy records. The People offer these records as People's Exhibit E. We had no right to do that, either, but you killed my brother, so we did it anyway. We found you've had prescriptions for AZT in East Hampton, Los Angeles, and Manhattan. Since 1996."

Neubauer's whole body was shaking. He didn't want to hear anymore. Montrose was on his feet, shouting objections that Mack overruled. The Fitzhardings and Tricia Powell were screaming at Neubauer. So was Frank Volpi, who had to be restrained by Hank and Fenton.

"Order!" shouted Mack from his chair. "I mean it!"

"Would it surprise you to learn that in the past two weeks," I continued, "we've tracked down twelve people from the photographs on this wall and in this envelope. Not including my brother, who you also probably infected, seven have since tested positive."

Marci wheeled the camera around behind Neubauer. As I spoke to him, I was virtually looking into the lens.

"Your Honor, the People now offer seven sworn affidavits by seven individuals who, based on the timing of the results, all believe they were infected by Barry Neubauer. Most important, they state in their affidavits that Neubauer lied to them about his HIV status."

"This is all a lie," Neubauer continued to scream at me. He was shaking uncontrollably in his chair. "Make him stop telling these lies about me, Bill!"

I slowly walked toward Barry Neubauer. He'd always been so smug and controlled. He didn't believe anybody could touch him. He was smart, he was rich, he was the CEO of a major corporation, he owned people. Only now, his dark eyes looked as doomed as Peter's had on the beach.

"In New York State, knowingly exposing someone to HIV is first-degree assault. It's punishable by up to twelve years in prison. That's on each count. Twelve times twelve works out to a hundred forty-four years in prison. I could live with that."

I bent down close to the bastard's face. "My brother was flawed; who isn't? But he was basically a good person, a good brother. Peter never hurt anybody. You killed him. I can't prove it, but I got you anyway, you bastard. How about that?"

I straightened up and addressed Molly's lens for the last time. "The People v. Barry Neubauer," I said, "rest their case. We're out of here."

Chapter 110

IT WAS ALMOST FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON when Fenton and Hank led our guests out the front door and released them. "Go forth and multiply," Fenton said.

For a while we all stood blinking in the golden East End light, not knowing quite what to do next.

The Fitzhardings, Campion, and Tricia Powell drifted off to one end of the porch. They sat quietly together, their feet dangling over the side, their eyes staring vacantly at the unsodded lot. Frank Volpi found his own spot nearby. "Jeez," Pauline said, "they look like day laborers waiting for a lift home. Maybe clothes do make the man, and woman. I need to rethink everything."

Bill Montrose sat alone on the stoop about ten feet away from the others. Still tethered to the old beach chair, Barry Neubauer sat where Fenton and Hank had planted him after carrying him out of the house. His eyes barely moved. No one came over to talk to him, not even his lawyer.

"That's a nice image," Pauline said. "Barry Neubauer alone and broken. I'm going to hang on to it for a rainy day."

We outfitted Marci, Fenton, and Hank with bathing suits, beach towels, and flip-flops. Then we sent them wandering off in separate directions like three more sun-addled vacationers. Since they had never appeared on camera, there was no one to verify their involvement, except for the hostages. We hoped they'd be too distracted with their own problems to worry about the three of them.

Molly dragged her tripod to the driveway and looked for the best vantage point to shoot the big final scene. Pauline, Mack, and I sat down at the end of the porch away from our guests. We were blown away and as exhausted as they were.

We leaned against one another more than against the wall of the house. We soaked up some sun. Late-afternoon rays always seem the most precious, even at the beginning of the summer, but these were even more so. They felt like, I don't know, affection.

"I love you, Pauline," said Mack, breaking the silence.

"Love you back," said Pauline, too tired to lift her head off my chest.

I cleared my throat ostentatiously until Mack added, "Don't get maudlin, Jack. We're quite fond of you, too."

After a while Mack got up with a groan and walked over to where Tricia Powell was sitting. He reached into her tote and pulled out a chrome Nokia. She was too tired to complain. "Don't worry, Trish," said Mack, "it's local."

"Anyone have anything profound to say before the shit hits the fan?" he asked when he returned.

"Thanks," I said. "I couldn't have done it without you. Couldn't have done a thing. I love you both."

"Anyone want to add something we don't know?" replied Mack as he settled back down with us. "Okay, then."

Mack tapped the phone's tiny rubber pads with his enormous splayed fingers, then smiled with exaggerated delight when it started ringing. "Damn thing actually works."

"This is Mack Mullen," he told whoever picked up at the police station. "Me, my grandson, and his beautiful girl are sitting around with the Neubauers, the Fitzhardings, and some of our other favorite people on earth. We were wondering if you wanted to stop by. We're at the Kleinerhunt place. Oh, one other thing. No one's hurt and no one's armed. There's no need to do anything silly. We'll go peacefully."

Then he snapped the little phone shut like a clam, and hurled it off the porch into the sand. "They should ban those things."

Less than five minutes later, about a hundred cops and federal agents roared up Montauk's Main Street in their various marked and unmarked cars amid wailing sirens that sounded like the end of the world.

Because the Coast Guard helicopters got there just before them, we didn't hear a thing as they arrived to arrest us.