The Ex(49)

I clicked his Sent folder and scrolled down to the message he sent Charlotte after he first spotted the woman in the grass: “She was carefree, sitting on the grass and reading a book, which reminded me of Molly. And she had long dark hair and was drinking champagne right out of the bottle, which reminded me of—well, you know who, but don’t like it when I mention her name.”

When I’d seen this message the first time, I’d been in Charlotte’s kitchen. I hadn’t had time to parse Jack’s words. Obviously he was talking about me, and not for the first time. If I had broken him, wouldn’t he hate me? Would he still mention me like this—like he missed me?

I flipped through the messages between him and Madeline. After she responded to Charlotte’s missed-moment post on the Room site, Jack sent her a quick note saying he had been mortified when his friend did something so rash, but thought the least he could do was follow up. “I hope I wasn’t staring at you like a weirdo. I really was curious about what you were reading, and why you were doing it in a gown with a picnic basket. As for my attire, the T-shirt was a gift from my sixteen-year-old daughter.”

Madeline’s response: She was the maid of honor at her sister’s wedding. The post-reception celebration continued in the bridal suite at the Gansevoort. When the newlyweds kicked everyone out, she saw the opportunity to watch the sun rise, snagged a bottle of champagne from their VIP bar and a book from her room, and walked over to the pier. “P.S. The book was Eight Days to Die.”

That was when Jack responded with his schmaltzy e-mail about why the book was one of his favorites.

No response for two days, then Madeline explained that she’d been traveling for work. She said she’d started law school then became a social worker.

So she’s like me, I thought, but also a do-gooder like Molly.

I closed the computer, took a few more sips of wine, and scooted down under my covers. As I felt the bed spin beneath me, I thought about all the conflicting thoughts I’d been having about Jack’s case.

I couldn’t just rely on my gut as if it were a Magic 8 Ball. Did Jack hate Malcolm Neeley? Outlook good. Did Jack really see the woman in the grass? You may rely on it. Did Jack murder three people in cold blood? My sources say no. Did someone find out where Jack would be that morning and set him up? Better not tell you now.

No, the only right answer here was the most frustrating of all, Concentrate and ask again. And this time I concentrated not on my instincts, but on the facts. Jack hated Malcolm Neeley. He made a threatening comment about Neeley when the lawsuit was dismissed. He had e-mails from this Madeline person, but there’d been no wedding party at the Gansevoort the night before he supposedly noticed her at the pier. There was, however, ironclad proof—both video and Jack’s admission—that he was near the site of the shooting at the time bullets were fired, and had a way of knowing where Neeley would be at that very moment. Jack’s explanation for being at that location and at that time was borderline fantastical. He left his building with a picnic basket and came back without it—video again, this time courtesy of his apartment building. His shirt tested positive for gunshot residue just a few hours afterward. And Scott Temple, whom I trusted about as much as I’m willing to trust any prosecutor, told me the case was solid.

Things weren’t looking good.

But then I remembered a client I’d had three years earlier who had refused to take what I was pushing as a no-brainer plea deal: two years for involuntary manslaughter in exchange for dismissing a murder charge. I spent half an hour, barely pausing for breath, running through all the evidence against him so he’d see the risks he was facing of a conviction at trial. When I was finished he said, “But I know something no one else knows: I didn’t do it. So please, for one second—just one—imagine that I really am innocent, and then maybe everything you just said will sound different to you.”

We kept digging, and three days later, Einer found a casino security guard who could testify that the state’s principal witness was in Atlantic City when he supposedly saw my client shoot a liquor store clerk in the Bronx.

As much as I had been telling myself and anyone who would listen that Jack couldn’t have done this, I had spent the day entertaining doubts. So, for one second, I imagined that he really was innocent. Yes, Jack hated Neeley, but he wasn’t alone in that sentiment, and the comment he’d made about justice needing to find Neeley was by some standards a remarkably restrained reaction to news that the lawsuit was dismissed. As for Temple’s representation that there was more evidence to come, he hadn’t actually offered up the goods, and prosecutors engaged in early pretrial bluster all the time. If Jack wore that checkered shirt to a firing range and then hung it in his closet until he pulled it out to meet Madeline, it would explain the GSR. Gunshot residues were unpredictable. They could last days, weeks, even longer. They could even remain present on clothing after a washing.

That left the bizarre explanation for being at the waterfront at the same exact time Neeley was shot.

I sat up and opened my laptop again. I copied Madeline’s e-mail address and composed a new message, this one from my law firm account.

To: [email protected]

In the subject box, I wrote, Very important legal matter, then realized I may as well have typed “send me to your spam folder.” From Olivia Randall, Esq. That was better. To the holder of this e-mail address, this e-mail account appeared in the course of investigating a legal matter for a current client. I would very much appreciate the opportunity to discuss the matter with you as soon as possible. Any communications we have would be considered attorney-work-product and would therefore be confidential. I would be happy to compensate you for your time—I deleted that last sentence. I could always offer money later if she did not respond, but didn’t want to open us up unnecessarily to the argument that we were paying this woman for her testimony. It would be better if you reached out to me privately. If I do not hear from you, my client will have no choice but to share the information we have with the police. I provided all of my contact information and then reread the e-mail three times, trying to will my brain into sobriety.