"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 ThePeople 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."