The Ex(43)

I started to say that a child couldn’t possibly take the blame for something like that, then remembered Don telling me the same thing about the car accident that killed Owen. Buckley’s reaction to my reprimand for running late the morning of the bail hearing made more sense now. All I said was, “I’m sorry, Jack.”

“So, anyway, that’s why we’ve got all those files. I suppose if it comes to it, you could get Buckley’s therapist to explain—”

“Okay, that’s good. If it comes to that. I know it feels like I’m hammering you with negative information, but I have to ask you one more thing.” I told him that I had met with his civil lawyer, Gary Hannigan. “He says you made some remark when you found out about the dismissal? Something like karma needing to catch up with Neeley?”

“Did I? Maybe. Come on—they can’t possibly be saying that was some kind of a threat.”

“No one’s saying anything yet. But apparently one of the other plaintiffs was there, and that person’s not bound by attorney-client privilege. He or she could go to the police, or the prosecution could try to compel the testimony if they think to start questioning your co-plaintiffs.”

“When we found out about the dismissal, I was in Gary’s office with Jon Weilly. He was there at the bail hearing.”

Weilly told me he couldn’t recall Jack saying anything threatening about Neeley. I hadn’t pressed further, and hoped the police wouldn’t, either.

“Just please find Madeline,” he said. “If she backs me up about why I was there at the football field, maybe this can all go away.”

As I promised I would keep trying to find her, I couldn’t look him in the eye. There was no chance this would all go away.





Chapter 13


THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, I was adding three witness names to the file, employees at the West Side Range who would testify that Jack had come to their establishment the previous month to research gun aficionados. During my visit to the range, I’d made sure there was no camera footage of Jack wearing something other than the shirt the police had tested for GSR.

Anything that couldn’t be disproved was good enough for reasonable doubt, in my book.

Not to mention, before my trip to the gun range, I’d made yet another phone call to the clerk at the surrogate court, who finally had some news. Max Neeley was about to get the family money without conditions. Only fifty hours after his father’s death, Max had a lawyer commence the probate process for Malcolm’s will. Malcolm had left two hundred thousand dollars to Princeton University, fifty thousand to the Stinson Academy, and the remainder of his estate to Max.

I had just finished writing my interview notes when Einer knocked on my office door and handed me a sheet of paper. “I found out what happened at Princeton.”

THE SHORT NEWSPAPER ARTICLE, PRINTED from the Daily Princetonian website, was dated May 2, 2010:

The Faculty-Student Committee on Discipline has decided not to discipline a senior whose roommate alleged that the student had made threatening comments that made him feel unsafe. According to the complaint, the offending student was screaming repeatedly one night about plans to kill his father while he was sleeping.

After hearing testimony from both students at an open hearing, the Committee announced that, while there was clear and persuasive evidence that the student’s conduct violated University housing regulations, discipline was unwarranted. Among the mitigating factors mentioned in the Committee’s decision were the student’s intoxicated state, the suicide of the student’s mother last fall, and the isolated nature of the incident. The complaining student told the Princetonian that he has no plans to pursue the matter further and only reported the incident “just in case something happened.”

Though the article didn’t use names, Einer had managed to convince someone in the office of student housing to “unofficially confirm” that the senior in question was Max Neeley. I pictured him standing over his father’s bed, a gun in his hand. Had he come up with a better plan in the years that had passed?

My direct line rang. I recognized the number as the outgoing one for the district attorney’s office.

Scott Temple didn’t bother stating his name. “I knew I should have handled the bail hearing myself.”

It was the first time we’d spoken since the surprise ruling by Judge Amador. “I’d like to take credit, but I think Amador was just rebelling against the shrillness of Amy Chandler’s voice. She needs to bring it down an octave.”

“I had a meeting with a domestic violence task force, or I would have been there personally. You’re making me regret helping battered women, Olivia. I think that officially makes you a bad person.”

“You’re a funny man, Scott Temple. And, frankly, I’m surprised you’re not more upset. Did Chandler tell you what the judge said at the end of the hearing? He basically told the press you guys overplayed your hand.”

“So you got one round of the media cycle on your side. You know how fickle the news is. Tomorrow, the wind will blow in the other direction. And don’t ever quote me on this, but a guy like Harris on house arrest isn’t going to make me lose sleep.”

“You’re accusing him of triple murder.”

“I am, but the one person he wanted dead is gone. If he hadn’t taken out two others as collateral damage, I might be worried about jury nullification. With Neeley gone, he’s not going to hurt anyone pending trial, and the bracelet is a pretty good guarantee he’ll show up when the time comes. Nice job, by the way, planting the idea for the gag order.”