The Ex(36)

“There’s one more person we might want to add to the list,” I said. “Max Neeley.”

“The son?”

“Todd’s older brother. He works at Sentry. Just the quick conversation I had with Hannigan made it sound like there were some major issues there. And if the hedge fund was having money problems—”

Don completed the thought. “The son might be eager to take over whatever was left of the family fortune.”

“I know, it’s a long shot.”

“We’ve had stranger theories pay off.”

Max Neeley had experienced his mother’s suicide, his younger brother’s mass murder and subsequent suicide, and now his father’s murder. But we would take him and use him however we needed. “Okay, so we’ll dig a little more on Max.”

There was a knock on the door. Einer popped his head in the conference room. “Hey, not to interrupt, but those plaintiffs are starting to show up. I’ve got them gathered in the lobby, but you’re probably going to want this room, right?”

Don threw his Styrofoam container in the trash and began stacking documents to clear the way for another group of people for us to use as pawns in Jack’s defense.





Chapter 11


I BARELY RECOGNIZED Buckley when she met me in front of the courthouse in the navy wrap dress and modest black flats, as promised. Her messy strawberry blond hair was secured in a tidy ponytail at the nape of her neck. At my request, she came unaccompanied. If Charlotte were there, the judge would start asking her questions about whether she was willing and able to continue caring for Buckley while Jack was incarcerated pending trial, and nothing good could come of that—not only because her answers to both would be yes, but because she was Charlotte, meaning she’d undoubtedly piss the judge off.

When we got to Judge William Amador’s courtroom, Don was waiting on a bench in the hallway outside. “Well done rallying the troops.”

“Thanks.” It had been my idea to gather a group of Jack’s fellow plaintiffs at our firm as potential supporters. After our meeting, Don had escorted the willing participants to the courthouse, while I stayed behind until the last minute, preparing for argument.

“Where’s Dad?” Buckley asked as we walked into the courtroom, her wide eyes scanning the crowd.

“They’ll bring him in when his case is called.” I was doing my own survey. I recognized at least three reporters and nearly a dozen of the Penn Station plaintiffs. Don was right: it was a good turnout. “We’re not the only matter on the docket.”

After three other short hearings, the arraignment ADA, whom I recognized as Amy Chandler—probably six years in the office—called the matter, and an officer walked Jack into the courtroom in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit. His eyes were downcast, and he walked with an arched back, almost shuffling. I had warned Buckley that her father would likely look bedraggled—I had actually used the word “bedraggled”—but she grabbed my hand and squeezed it as Don and I stood.

“Your dad’s stronger than you know,” I whispered, even though I’d never known Jack to be strong. She released her grip, but I gave it one last squeeze before leaving to take my place at counsel table.

Jack took the seat between Don and me. “Are you okay?” I asked. He just shrugged.

Before there was time for further discussion, the state was asking that Jack be held without bail, as expected. I was glad to see Chandler handling the arguments. On the one hand, the fact that Scott Temple hadn’t bothered to appear personally meant the state believed that a no-bail hold was guaranteed. But Temple was better than Chandler. I had a greater chance of reframing the issues with her on the other side of the aisle.

“This was an especially heinous and dangerous crime,” Chandler droned in a high-pitched monotone. There was a reason that Chandler was assigned to arraignments instead of jury trials. “The defendant not only premeditated the shooting of one victim, Malcolm Neeley, age fifty-seven, in cold blood, but also was willing to shoot two other people at random: Clifton Hunter, age forty-one, and Tracy Frankel, age twenty.”

I heard Jack suck in his breath at the mention of the final victim. He turned to look at Buckley, who was staring straight ahead. Tracy Frankel was only a few years older than Jack’s own daughter. Don leaned over and told Jack not to show any reaction, but Jack was obviously shaken.

“Not only was the crime in this case especially cruel and calculating, Judge, but the People have a very strong case against the defendant. We have video of the defendant near the crime scene just before the shooting. The defendant had a long-standing vendetta against victim Malcolm Neeley—”

I half-rose in my seat—“Objection to the word ‘vendetta,’ Your Honor.”

Judge Amador waved me back down. “There’s no jury here, Ms. Randall. But, she’s correct, Ms. Chandler: Enough with the heinous and the calculating vendetta stuff. Facts pertaining to release, please.”

I’d made the objection only for the sake of the considerable number of reporters in the courtroom. I did not want to leave the impression that we were accepting the prevailing narrative about the reasons for this shooting.

“My point,” Chandler said, clearing her throat, “was pertaining to motive.” She went on to describe the fact that Jack was a named plaintiff in a wrongful death suit against Malcolm Neeley that had been dismissed less than a month ago. Of course, she did not mention the basis for the lawsuit, which would have reminded Judge Amador that Jack had been a sympathetic figure until yesterday. “We also have evidence showing the defendant’s obsession—”