Chapter Three
Cassandra Moúsa waited by the grille until the prison guard closed the gate behind her. She felt the guard’s eyes on her. She was a smart-looking thirty-year-old woman, with streaked blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun. She wore a checked skirt suit and was carrying a brown leather briefcase. The guard was admiring her bottom in the tight-fitting skirt. She pushed her spectacles back up to the bridge of her small straight nose as the gate opened in front of her.
“Please step through and place your briefcase on the table, Ms. Moúsa.”
She said nothing while the guard opened her case and flicked through the pockets looking for anything that could be used as a weapon.
“Who are you here to see today?” asked the guard.
“Avgustin Juniper.”
“Ah. The artist who murdered his model?”
“May I remind you that my client is innocent until found guilty,” Cassandra said.
“Sure. That’s your job, lady. But to us he’s guilty until we’re told otherwise.”
The guard closed her briefcase and passed it behind him to another table beyond the security scanner. Cassandra kept her face deliberately blank. Some of the guards were bigoted and arrogant, but most of the ones she had come across at the vast city jail complex known as Riker’s Island were respectful.
She made a mental note of his badge number. She didn’t like his attitude or his way of looking at her. Sometimes, police officers and prison guards gave off a far more brutal and dangerous vibe than the criminals she represented. She believed that in a few cases, had they not chosen a life of upholding the law, they may well have ventured into crime themselves.
Cassandra had a personal interest in psychology. She had majored in it before she obtained her law degree, and she felt it gave her insight into the human psyche. It helped her to understand her client’s motives and gave her an advantage on some of her colleagues. This was why she took the seemingly impossible cases. Some of them had been career-making when she had won what everyone thought to be a lost cause.
Cassandra enjoyed her work. She understood criminals better than normal people who had no interesting features or particular agenda in life. She had learned that publicity helped her win and for this reason she always made every case she was working on “high profile.” A few leaked and exaggerated truths here, a suspicion of tampered evidence there: such suspicion always reached the jury. Human nature did the rest in raising reasonable doubt.
Sometimes this had gone against her clients, but her contacts were good at hiding “their sources” and, so far, no real stink had returned to haunt her. If it had, though, Cassandra would have weathered the storm. She knew how to manipulate the law to her own advantage. She always had a fail-safe in place: a stooge between her and the leaked evidence—usually a current boyfriend that could be blamed. She never gave the data to the press herself. Nor did she ever admit to previously knowing what had been revealed. But someone close to her always made a believable source with the press, who were far easier to maneuver than people thought. There was always a journalist angling for a great story that could further a career, and Cassandra was an expert at finding them.
She experienced a dull ache in her back and neck as she passed through the scanner and collected her briefcase. It had been a difficult week and she wasn’t feeling that well. Her usual vigor had diminished, and all sorts of aches and pains had been plaguing her recently.
I’ve been working too hard, she thought. But the idea of stopping or slowing down just didn’t occur to her.
She passed through another doorway and into a corridor that was lined with interview rooms. She entered the nearest one.
The room was divided into two with a huge barrier of glass. There was a row of booths on one side and an open space with a chair facing each booth on the other side. Each area had a phone. Cassandra extracted a packet of wet wipes from the pocket of her jacket, and, as the door opened on the other side of the screen, she took out one of the wipes and cleaned the handset before placing it to her ear.
Cassandra looked through the glass to see Juniper shuffling forward in cuffs and leg irons, like a zombie newly risen from the grave. He looked bewildered and terrified. He sat down opposite her and stared through the glass without understanding what he should do. Cassandra waved the receiver at him. He turned glazed eyes towards the phone then reached out like a blind man. His hand waved in the air until it found the target. He placed it to his ear and turned his dull eyes back to Cassandra.
Juniper didn’t look good. He looked as though he were suffering from shock. Cassandra frowned and glared over Juniper’s head at the guard standing by the door. What had those bastards done to the man?
“Mr. Juniper? I’m Cassandra Moúsa. I’m going to get you out of here. Do you understand?”
Juniper didn’t respond.
“Mr. Juniper. Are you all right?”
Juniper met her eyes. She could detect no trace of hope.
“All you have to say right now is that you engage me to act on your behalf.”
Juniper appeared confused.
“Don’t worry. The state-appointed attorney you’ve seen so far won’t mind.”
“I can’t afford a fancy lawyer …” Juniper mumbled.
“I’m going to work your case pro bono,” Cassandra said.
“What do you mean?”
“Charity. I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I don’t think you’re guilty and I want to see justice done.”
“You believe I’m innocent?”
“Yes. I’m going to help you.”
The blank expression left his eyes. He focused on Cassandra as though he were seeing her for the first time. There. The faint spark rose, his face lifted.
“That’s it,” Cassandra said. “Start to believe it because it is going to happen. I’m getting you out of here today. Do you understand?”
“I don’t know what to say … Why are you doing this?”
“Just say you accept my help.”
“Thank you. I do.”
“Good. That’s the formality out of the way. Now, let’s see about getting you bail. It won’t be easy but I know a very friendly judge who owes me a favor.”
Within a few hours Cassandra was standing in front of a podium in her office conference room, Juniper by her side, as a group of reporters and television crews set up their microphones and tripods around them.
“Why have you decided to take this case, Ms. Moúsa?” asked one reporter.
“Because my client is clearly innocent and I aim to prove it.”
“NYPD say that they have overwhelming evidence. How do you intend to prove that Mr. Juniper is innocent?”
“The evidence is purely circumstantial. I have already obtained witness statements to say that they saw Mr. Juniper outside of his apartment at the time of Annabel Linton’s death. Correct me if I’m wrong, but no human can be in two places at once.”
The reporter laughed. Cassandra smiled. She was now wearing make-up and had removed her reading glasses. Her hair was loose over her shoulders and fell in shiny blonde waves. She looked down the lens of the camera and she knew it loved her. She had great bone structure. She was oozing charisma and the reporters were already on her side. The write-ups might be prejudiced against Juniper, but they would praise Cassandra.
“When I passed the bar, I promised to uphold justice. My client is innocent. And I have every confidence that the evidence is going to support that. Now, if you’ll excuse us. Mr. Juniper is very tired and he has been through a lot in the last few days.”
With that Cassandra took Juniper’s arm and led him out of the room. A few moments later they were hurrying down the steps of her office building and into a waiting limousine.
As he sat back against the plush leather, Juniper believed he had been swept away by a whirlwind. It was a force he had never before encountered and he didn’t know whether he was pleased or not to be in the hands of Cassandra Moúsa. She was an anomaly, and he found her both inspiring and intimidating.
Oblivious to her client’s doubts and fears Cassandra pulled open the fridge in the back of the car.
“Champagne is in order,” she said.
Juniper shook his head. “I don’t drink it.”
She poured a clear liquid from a crystal decanter into a glass and added ice. “The champagne is for me. I know that you like vodka. Try this.”
Juniper took the glass and sipped the contents. Cassandra’s fingers momentarily brushed his. Her touch affected him. He lolled back into the seat finally letting the angst and fear of his situation slide away as a feeling of well-being consumed him, even though his conscious mind knew that the emotion was irrational. In the prison, all hope had gradually dwindled away until he experienced guilt for Annabel, even though he knew her death wasn’t his fault. In Cassandra’s presence, he was starting to believe that he would be found innocent and that this nightmare would soon be over.
“Now the detective on this: Jake Chandler. He’s a tough nut to crack. But the thing is his wife died six months ago. An apparent suicide—but Chandler insisted it was murder and he had the whole of his department working to prove it. In the end, his captain sent him home on gardening leave until he agreed to see a shrink. So, he’s not infallible.”
“That poor man,” said Juniper.
“He’s the enemy now, Avgustin. Neither of us can feel sorry for him. He’s the one that found the evidence that could convict you.”
“The spot of blood?”
“Yes.”
“It was on the balcony. Just one spot. Nothing else.”
“I know,” Cassandra said. “He could have planted it. We have to sow that seed of doubt.”
“He would do that?” Juniper said. “I didn’t kill Annabel.”
“I know you didn’t,” Cassandra said placing her hand on his arm.
Her fingers and palm were warm against his cold skin. Juniper couldn’t imagine feeling that warm again. The cold shock of what had happened to Annabel still burned into his heart and soul as clear as the images Chandler had shown him. It was difficult to believe his world would ever be normal again.
“Is there anything more you can tell me about what happened?”
“I’ve already told you everything,” Juniper said.
“Any detail you recall. Let’s look again at when you arrived home.”
Juniper closed his eyes. He didn’t want to remember but something in her voice soothed him, coaxing his mind to slip back into those last few moments before he discovered Annabel’s fate.
“My front door vas open. I thought I had closed it behind me.”
He squeezed his eyes shut harder, concentrating on seeing every detail with his mind’s eye.
“I went in the bedroom, and then I zaw …”
He stopped. He didn’t know what he had seen and it was hard to describe. The only thing he could think of was blackness. A dark stain out on the balcony. It had moved, and he had thought …
“I don’t know …” he said. His voice cracked.
Cassandra took his hand and Juniper’s mind cleared again. It was as though a thick fog lifted. He had to think. His salvation depended on it. Even as he thought these strange words, Juniper couldn’t deny that this was exactly how he felt. This meant more to him than mere imprisonment. It was almost as though his very soul was on the line.
“I saw something …” Juniper said. “I think.”
Cassandra waited.
“A shape. A figure. I thought it vas Annabel, but now I realize she vas already dead.”
Juniper told her every detail. As the words came out of his mouth he thought she would think him totally insane. How would she possibly believe in this dark figure, looming like the shadow of death on his balcony.
“But when I vent out there was no one there,” he concluded. “I didn’t mention it to the police. I knew they wouldn’t believe me. I didn’t even think I had really seen anything. Until now.”
“Interesting,” was all she said.
“You believe me?”
“Yes. But Chandler won’t. You did the right thing not telling him. For example, where did this figure you saw go? No. The truth won’t help you at all right now. So, we are going to keep this completely to ourselves.”
“What do we do then?” Juniper asked.
“In my experience, the way to win this sort of case is to throw doubt on the investigator’s handling of evidence. Discredit Chandler for example. We imply he planted the blood sample to make his case against you easier. The defense in the O.J. Simpson trial used evidence to cast doubt on the investigators’ honesty for example. A synthetic preservative, known as EDTA, was found in the blood smeared on O.J.’s gate. It couldn’t have naturally been in the blood of the victim. We need something like this because reasonable doubt will help you to be found innocent. Or, we find another reason for the blood to have been on the balcony. A nose bleed perhaps.”
“Annabel didn’t have a nose bleed. At least I didn’t zee it.”
“We’ll talk about this again. But we might have to … elaborate a little on the evening you spent with her. In a way that the police can accept.”
“Elaborate?”
“Yes. Sometimes the jury needs to have ideas and information given to them that makes them wonder about the validity of evidence.”
Juniper closed his eyes. It was all too much to take in. All he wanted to do was sleep.
“Anyway. Leave all of that to me. For now, you need to go back and prepare for your exhibition. I’ve been liaising with Joy Awen.”
“Zhe gallery owner?” Juniper said as his memory returned. Yes, there had been a planned life before this tragedy. He opened his eyes and studied Cassandra as though seeing her for the very first time.
“The event is now sold out, but we’ve put it back a few weeks in order to make the most of the publicity. Everyone who is anyone wants to see your work and I guarantee it’s all going to sell. So you see, Avgustin, you might just be able to afford to pay me after all. And I can tell you this, I’ll be worth every penny.”
“Making money on Annabel’s death,” Juniper said. “That is all so cynical. I don’t like it.”
“Don’t kid yourself that by refusing this opportunity now you will be able to bring her back.”
Juniper looked sharply at Cassandra. She was a cold, calculating bitch. But of course! She was an attorney after all. Juniper put his head in his hands to try and dull the ache that had begun again behind his eyes.
“I loved her …” he murmured.
“Of course you did,” Cassandra’s voice softened. “I’m doing this for your own good. We’re going to get you acquitted, but don’t be stupid, Avgustin.”
Juniper didn’t answer.
“She was your muse, right?”
Juniper nodded.
“I know all about muses. My family is Greek you know. I think Annabel would want you to carry on.”
“I … don’t know. It was so new, so soon.”
The limo came to a halt. Juniper glanced up and saw that they had arrived at his apartment. His stomach churned. He hadn’t been here in over a week. The jail had become his asylum. Now he didn’t want to open the car door. He didn’t want to go outside or inside. He had an overwhelming fear of a world where such evil could exist.
“Come. I need you to show me which pieces are to be moved to the gallery and what you need to take with you to continue your work.”
“What do you mean, ‘take with me’?”
“I have already sorted out a studio for you in my apartment. You won’t be disturbed and there will be security around the clock.”
Relief flushed his cheeks, but suspicion soon followed.
“Why?”
“We have to keep you safe, Avgustin. And I want to make sure that you are kept away from the media most of all. They will try to trip you up. Get you to say things or just misquote you.”
“I won’t speak to anyone.”
“Of course you won’t. But you can’t underestimate the power of the press. Some will champion you. Some will make you look guilty. We can’t take the risk that they say anything that we don’t control. Plus, there are the death threats to contend with.”
“Death threats?” Juniper said.
“Yes. Someone sent an anonymous email to my office threatening to send you where you sent Annabel.”
“I did not hurt Annabel!”
“I believe you,” Cassandra took his hand.
Juniper allowed it, but his fingers were as numb as his soul.
“These creeps don’t care. They get off on it,” Cassandra continued. “The only clear future for you is one where you are found completely innocent. That’s why I’m taking you to my place.”
“I don’t want to go inside …” he said.
Cassandra squeezed his hand. “You won’t be doing this alone.”
Juniper fell quiet.
The door opened and he was hurried outside, flanked by two bodyguards in black suits, before he had time to voice any further concerns. The goons were wearing dark glasses and ear pieces, as though they were involved in national security. A group of paparazzi who had made camp outside the apartment sprang into action in an attempt to get just one clear shot of Juniper, but the men blocked him from the cameras as he was bustled into the apartment lobby.
The elevator doors were wedged open and two more men in black waited as Juniper was led inside. He couldn’t even see Cassandra as the men surrounded him. The doors closed and for once the machinery was in full working order.
Inside his apartment he found a team of men waiting for instruction.
“Who are these people?” Juniper asked.
“They are from the gallery. They are here to safely pack up and take the art for the exhibit. Joy has already been here and has put sticky notes on the ones she’s most interested in. You just have to say ‘yes’ and we let them pack.”
Juniper’s eyes fell on the portrait of Annabel. “Not that one,” he said removing the yellow sticker note from the side of the canvas.
Cassandra looked at the painting. “It’s very beautiful, but I’m sure you could improve it still further.”
“No. I can’t. I just want to destroy it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Avgustin. That painting is going to make you at least one million dollars.”
Juniper frowned. He knew that Cassandra was trying to help him, but he didn’t like this mercenary side of her. Taking money for this painting was cold, evil.
“I don’t want to sell it,” he said.
Juniper watched her walk from canvas to canvas. He followed her around agreeing all of the other paintings for the gallery.
“Good,” Cassandra said. “Hold out and it will be worth much more in the end. I have to say you have a great deal of talent … but in some of your work …”
“What?”
“Sometimes it lacks … ambition. But then most artists are like that. You paint for the love of it, don’t you?”
Juniper didn’t know what to respond but then realized that her question was rhetorical.
“Joy will be pleased,” Cassandra said finally when the last canvas was packed and the men began to move them out into the service elevator.
“I hope I don’t need to tell you that you have to cash in on your notoriety right now. Once you’re found innocent, the value of your art will drop.”
Juniper focused on the idea of his innocence but her point went home and he began to realize that this might be his only chance at fame and success. Although it wasn’t what drove him—she had been right on that—it was still important to sell some of his art so that he could pay his bills. Money in the bank would help him in the future. A man accused of a crime that has no money is rarely found innocent. But a man with money could pay for the right help to prove his innocence. He could see the logic even as he resented it.
As the gallery men left, two more men arrived. They looked more like the other bodyguards than removals professionals but still they wrapped Juniper’s canvases, taking great care with the portrait of Annabel, and he told them which of his tools and paints he needed. Then Cassandra led him out of his apartment and to the service elevator.
“The limo’s out back now. We wanted the paparazzi to see you come in but not leave.”
“A ruse,” Juniper said.
Cassandra smiled. “There is always a point to everything I do. You’ll learn to trust me eventually.”
Cassandra pulled the heavy shutters closed behind them, and the descended into the back storeroom of the building where two more men waited for them.
Outside in the alley Juniper found himself looking over to the still cordoned area where Annabel’s body had been found. He was haunted by the memory of their last night together, and his mind juxtaposed images of her in his bed with the photographs of her lying, mutilated in the alley.
“Did you see what that zhat animal did to her? On zhe chudovishche!” he murmured. “He is a monster.”
“What did you say?” asked Cassandra as she pushed him into the back of the car.
Juniper didn’t answer, his mind was elsewhere and he forced it to stay in the happiness of Annabel’s smile. What he had felt for her, given time together, could have been something wonderful. Now he would never know where it would have ended. Those dreams, those visions of a blissful future were gone forever. Juniper couldn’t imagine ever feeling happy again.