No one seemed to take any notice.
Lesley could feel Tim’s warmth against her arm as they sat packed together on the wooden pew-style bench. Despite this, she couldn’t stop trembling as she listened to the charges. Then Rob said “Not guilty,” which jolted her mind back to the scene that had haunted her nightmares for years.
Trails of dried liquid ran down the wall and met a puddle soaked into the carpeting. The pistol was lying beside the body, having fallen from the hand that had jammed it into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Lesley didn’t know much about guns but to her eyes this one looked huge.
The blood had had most of the day to dry and permeated the McGrath’s basement family room with a coppery smell. Her strongest memory of her father’s suicide would always be of the smell that assaulted her when she arrived home from school and found him dead.
That and the cuckoo clock on the wood-paneled wall of the family room. The wooden bird emerged with a single “Cuckoo!” to announce the arrival of three-thirty just as Lesley walked into the room. It was as if the thing was saying a cheery “Surprise!” to Lesley. The clock’s metronomic ticking reverberated in her head as she took in the scene, like a bizarre sound track to a horror film.
She stopped the clock that afternoon. It was still hanging on the wall with its hands pointing to three-thirty-four when the movers came six months later to remove the McGrath’s belongings from the house.
Lesley’s mother had realized for some time before her father’s death that his problems were growing. Lesley, however, had her adolescent radar firmly locked on boys, tennis and school, in that order. She knew her parents fought more and more frequently, but gave little thought to the reasons.
The reasons turned out to be her father’s newfound loves. He had fallen hard for the duo of gambling and cocaine, excitement personified. When his salary as manager of a building supply store failed to adequately feed his twin mistresses, the grocery money paid for wagers on everything from horse races to video lottery games.
Sports were his favorite vices — basketball in the winter, baseball in the summer. The heady days of early fall and late winter were especially joyous when the seasons overlapped and the occasional mortgage payment would follow the groceries out the door and off to the bookies. And what could make the anticipation of the final score any more delicious than another type of score — the white powder that bolstered his optimism and kept his pulse racing.
One night the police showed up at their home and arrested her father. A few of the neighbors watched as a policeman led him to the patrol car in the driveway and put him in the back seat.
The charges included embezzlement of operating funds and skimming profits from large sales to contractors. At the arraignment Lesley watched a stocky policeman with an atrocious comb-over recite the evidence against her father. Apparently several people could verify what her father had done and they were scheduled to testify at the trial.
But they never got their chance. Two days before the trial was to begin, Bruce McGrath helped his children out the door to school, kissed his wife as she left for work, left a suicide note just inside the front door of their split-entry bungalow, went downstairs and blew his brains out.
Lesley saw the note when she opened the front door.
Dear Rose, Lesley and Michaeclass="underline"
I am so ashamed of what my life has become, and even more ashamed that I couldn’t admit to you the truth.
I love you all. Please forgive me.
Lesley immediately understood the reason for the horrible smell in the house. Moreover, those words forever altered her perception of her father.
Children need to have faith in their parents. It’s part of life’s safety net. I trust you Dad. I know you’ll keep a roof over my head. I know you’ll feed me, that there must be an Easter Bunny because you said so, that you’ll be there to pick me up after my tennis lessons.
That’s good enough for me, Dad. I believe it. I know it. Because you said so.
She lost that when she read the note.
Lesley had told Rob about her father’s suicide. She had even explained why her mother had moved them to Worcester after therapy failed to quell the nightmares. But she didn’t tell him about the note and her loss of faith.
On the day of her father’s arraignment, fourteen-year-old Lesley cried all afternoon and most of the evening, not wanting to believe what was going on. Her father tucked her into bed that night. He sat on the side of her bed and swore he had not done the awful things the policeman talked about. Lesley heard him say the same words the next day to her brother Michael, and to her mother. In fact, he told everyone who would listen.
“I don’t know why this is happening. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
As she sat in the courtroom and listened to the discussion of Rob’s future, those words echoed in Lesley’s mind.
Over and over again.
Only this time the voice belonged to Rob.
Steeves took the stand and outlined the evidence gathered by the FBI. The reporters lowered their heads en masse and scribbled while he talked. He was calm and self-assured, a veteran of the witness stand. Rob had to admit he told a convincing story.
Rob noticed the sketch artist was now focused on him. He felt as if he was on display for the entertainment of the masses.
When Steeves was done, Pettigrew declined his opportunity to question him.
Rob leaned over and whispered, “What are you doing? He made me sound guilty as anything.”
Pettigrew shushed him. “Not now.”
“This is my life we’re talking about,” Rob said. “Talk to me.”
“I have no way to refute the evidence, so I’d just be wasting the court’s time and angering the judge.”
“For goodness sake, at least try.”
“I’ll poke and prod and introduce as much doubt as I can when we go to trial,” Pettigrew said, “but there’s no point in doing that today.”
Perfect, Rob thought. Sticking up for me is apparently a waste of time.
With much consulting of calendars and schedules, all parties agreed on a mid-December trial date. All parties except Rob, of course. Once again he was irrelevant to the proceedings.
This opened the way for a discussion of bail. Giordano rose to make her recommendation.
“The defendant is unmarried, your Honor,” she said. “He has no children and in all probability no job to lose at this point, given that the bank in question is his employer. In addition, the losses from this incident are certain to climb into the millions of dollars. Thousands of businesses and citizens have been affected and the damage to the reputation of the First Malden Bank could be irreparable, with potentially disastrous consequences. An offense of this nature could result in a sentence of ten to fifteen years. These factors combine to form a significant risk of flight. Moreover, the financial exposure of the victim in this case will grow significantly if the accused disappears and is subsequently unavailable to help the bank repair its electronic data records. To protect against this, we recommend bail be set at three hundred thousand dollars.”
“Mr. Pettigrew?” the judge said.
Rob’s lawyer rose to his feet.
“Your Honor, my client has no prior criminal record and poses no risk to the public if released on bail. Mr. Donovan is engaged to be married, has lived his entire life in Massachusetts and has significant ties to the community. He also hopes to retain his job with the bank by showing he is innocent in this matter. Mr. Donovan has much to lose by flight. The defendant requests the court consider setting bail at a significantly lower amount than that recommended by the State.”