CHAPTER 28
Manhattan, NY Thursday, July 1, 2021
EVER SINCE LEAVING EMMA’S HOUSE AVERY HAD BEEN HAUNTED BY Victoria Ford’s voice. Each night as she settled in her hotel room, Avery considered listening to the answering machine recordings again. So far, she hadn’t gotten up the nerve. They were too haunting. A junior high student when the September 11 attacks occurred, Avery knew that each generation dealt with the tragedy in their own way. She had been enrolled in private school in Manhattan, which closed its doors for the week after the attack. When she and her classmates returned, rumors circulated through the hallways about more attacks on the city and that schools would be the next target. Avery still remembered the fear and apprehension she had felt, waiting for an airplane to take down the walls of her school. The morning of 9/11 and her experiences in the days that followed had always been viewed through the prism of a teenager. Until now. She was about to approach the topic, not as a wide-eyed adolescent, but as a journalist. It had her both buzzing with excitement and filled with anxiety.
Listening to Victoria Ford’s message to her sister had been personal and emotional, but it hadn’t been the first time Avery heard such recordings. Mack Carter had done an American Events special for the ten-year anniversary of 9/11. In it, Mack interviewed survivors who had escaped the towers and documented the life and death decisions they made that morning. Many of them, like Victoria, had called home as they tried to navigate their way out of the towers. Avery was about to speak with one of them.
Emma Kind had created a list for Avery of everyone in Victoria’s life at the time of her death. It included friends and family, bosses and coworkers, and Roman Manchester—Victoria’s defense attorney and the man she had gone to see on the morning of September 11, 2001. Someone who, unlike Victoria, had made it safely out of the crumbling building.
Roman Manchester was seventy-one years old and still a practicing defense attorney today. The list of clients he had represented over the years was long and distinguished, if not infamous. A few notables included his consultation on the O.J. Simpson trial in the nineties, his involvement with John Ramsey, father of JonBenét, and his brief representation of Scott Peterson. Manchester had agreed to meet with Avery when she called, and now she pushed through the entrance of the building in the financial district and rode the elevator to the eleventh floor. She pulled open the glass door on which was stenciled MANCHESTER & PARTNERS, gave her name to the receptionist, and was ushered into the attorney’s office.
“Roman Manchester,” the man said with a smile as he approached Avery and extended his hand.
“Avery Mason. Thanks for taking the meeting.”
“Of course. Have a seat.” He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. The attorney took his own seat behind the desk. “No American Events cameras?” he asked with a laugh.
In the last twenty-four hours, Avery had watched dozens of videos of Roman Manchester in front of news cameras. Some were formal news conferences during which the man proudly stood behind a podium and opined about his client’s innocence. Others were of Roman Manchester on the courthouse stairs, wheeling boxes of research and courtroom notes behind him, and taking a moment out of his oh-so-busy day to answer reporters’ questions about his client. The man, it seemed, never missed an opportunity to be in front of the camera. Avery had watched footage from the nineties, when his hair was black and his face was wrinkle free. She’d also watched footage from his most recent trial earlier this year, when he stood behind the podium with silver hair and droopy jowls. Through the transformation of age, the man’s skin carried a perpetual tan and his eyes always looked sharp. The years had mixed gravel into his voice, but it still boomed in the latest video, certain of his client’s innocence.
Avery smiled. “No cameras. Just me. I’m trying to get my arms around this story before we start shooting footage. But if the network goes ahead with the special, I’ll be back for a formal interview. The cameras will be with me then. If you’re willing, of course.”
“Absolutely. I’ll admit I was intrigued when you called. Victoria Ford was a long time ago, but still so vivid in my memory.”
“I’m sure she is, and that’s what I was hoping to speak with you about. Victoria’s remains were recently identified by the medical examiner’s office here in New York, and that started me onto her story. The rest of her history came as a surprise.”
“I hadn’t heard about the identification until you called. It certainly brought back a flood of emotions.”
Avery nodded, and could only imagine what those recollections entailed. Roman Manchester had been in the World Trade Center when the first plane flew into it. He must have terrifying memories of that day.
“Can you tell me about your relationship with Victoria?”
“She initially contacted me to represent her in the Cameron Young murder investigation. We hadn’t gotten too far into her defense before she died. I knew the case better than I knew the client.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“I’m seventy-one now, and still active on high-profile cases. Although today I’m extremely selective. Back then I was everywhere and in high demand. Victoria Ford reached out to me in the summer of 2001. I reviewed the case, and as soon as I understood the gravity of the charges against her, I agreed to help. I had back then, and still do today, a personality flaw. The more challenging a case, the more likely I am to take it on.”
“And Victoria Ford’s case was challenging?”
“Extremely. It became quite a fiasco because of the victim’s notoriety. I was working through the details when . . . well, 9/11 happened right in the middle of it all, as you know. But prior to that point, I was collecting my initial documents on the case. Discovery hadn’t yet come to me from the district attorney’s office, so at the time of 9/11 I was advising Mrs. Ford on her options more than I was preparing an actual defense. It was just too early.”
“What was your advice?”
“To find a lot of money so she’d stay out of jail while we prepared a defense. Maggie Greenwald, the district attorney who was running the prosecution, had compiled a substantial case against Victoria and had convened a grand jury to determine if the case had merit. It did. The grand jury was just a formality. I was working with Victoria to figure out if she had the funds to post bail.”
“The case was that strong?” Avery asked.
“For that stage in the process, yes. It was strong enough to secure an indictment and justify formal charges and an arrest. I hadn’t gotten into the weeds or rooted through the details to determine if any of the evidence was challengeable. I only knew what they had, not how they had obtained it or how credible it was. On the surface, though, it was solid.”
“Can you go over some of that information?”
Manchester opened a folder and thumbed through a few pages before he found what he was looking for.
“The crime scene was the DA’s biggest weapon. It contained Victoria’s blood, fingerprints, and urine. DNA analysis confirmed the match and placed her at the scene of the crime. Evidence collected from the Catskills mansion included a home video of Victoria and the victim, which showed them to be involved intimately. A length of rope recovered from Victoria’s vehicle matched the rope used to hang the victim. All together, it all made for a very strong initial case.
“Now, I never got into the specifics about how this evidence was recovered, and I never had the chance to scrutinize the forensic science behind any of it. At the time of September eleventh, I was simply gathering facts about my client and the case against her. But what I told Victoria at the time was that the DA’s case was substantial, and she should prepare for an arrest. I planned to mount a formidable defense but knew it would be easier if my client was not in jail while I did so.”
“How much money did she need?”
“All told, she was likely looking at a million dollars initially to post bond and another hundred thousand to pay my retainer.”
Avery took some notes on the pad that rested on her lap.
“Did she have it?”
“The money? She was going to look for it from friends and family. She didn’t have it by herself.”
Avery made more notes.
“So the physical evidence, on the surface, was damning. How about circumstantial evidence? What motive did the prosecution offer for why Victoria would have killed her lover?”
“That was strong, as well,” Manchester said. “The investigation revealed that Tessa Young was pregnant. Just pregnant, about a month or two at the time her husband was killed. Subpoenaed medical records also revealed that a few months earlier Victoria Ford had undergone an abortion.”
Avery looked up from her notes. “It was Cameron Young’s child?”
“Yes. I spoke with Victoria about it, and she confirmed it.”
“So the theory was that she killed Cameron Young because he wouldn’t have a child with her, but got his wife pregnant?”
“Partly, yes. Jealousy was a large part of the prosecution’s circumstantial case. Cameron Young promised his lover that he’d leave his wife, but never did. And then got his wife pregnant. But there’s more to the argument. The subpoenaed medical records also showed that Victoria had experienced a complication during the abortion that left her unable to bear children in the future.”
“Christ,” Avery said. “That would be a compelling argument to any jury.”
“Like I said, the circumstantial evidence was solid.”
“The case sounds so overwhelming. Why did you take it on?”
“Like I said, I have an affliction. The more challenging a case, the more tempted I am by it. But there’s something else you need to know about the Cameron Young investigation and the district attorney who was behind it.”
“Maggie Greenwald?”
“Yes. She was disbarred many years ago.”
“Why?”
“Maggie Greenwald had a bloodlust, of sorts, for quickly resolving homicides and adding them as notches on her belt. I’m afraid it’s a common syndrome among prosecutors. They’re like sharks who can’t help themselves after they smell blood in the water. A few years after the Cameron Young case went up in smoke, some folks in her office started complaining that she was cutting corners in order to quickly close cases.”
“What sort of corners?”
“Let’s just say that Maggie Greenwald was making square evidence fit into round holes. After she left the DA’s office and started her campaign for governor, a whistleblower came forward about one particular case and an investigation was launched. It was discovered that she suppressed evidence that might have exonerated the defendant. Nothing happens quickly in the court system, but when new DNA evidence turned up, it proved the defendant was innocent. The conviction was overturned. In the months that followed, two more of her cases were overturned.”
“By new DNA evidence?”
“Not new, but suppressed.”
“She hid the evidence?”
“Tried to. But the whistleblower knew a lot about Maggie Greenwald’s tactics. Rumors were that it was her ADA who came forward, and likely only to save his own ass by promising the truth in exchange for immunity. There’s a saying around these parts that if you want all your secrets uncovered, run for public office. Anyway, I thought it was worth mentioning that Maggie Greenwald’s career went down the drain. I had heard all these rumors that Maggie cut corners and had a tendency to manipulate evidence. So when you ask why I would take Victoria Ford’s case when it looked so unwinnable, it was because Maggie Greenwald was the DA and I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the evidence and see it for myself. The case against Victoria Ford was very strong on the surface, but I never got the chance to scrutinize or challenge any of the evidence. Had I, things might have been different.”
Avery made notes about Maggie Greenwald, and then paused before she asked her next question. “Can you tell me about the morning of September eleventh? What transpired with Victoria that day? I learned from her sister that Victoria placed a series of phone calls that morning after the North Tower was struck. Can you give me any insight into what happened with you and Victoria that day?”
Manchester nodded. Avery could see his mind spanning the decades, reaching across the years for details he may have tried to forget.
“Victoria arrived that morning at about eight-thirty. I don’t have any notes about the meeting for obvious reasons. But I’ve retold my recollection of events many times over the years for other documentaries that told the story of survivors who made it out of the towers before they collapsed. So I know that I had a meeting with a client that morning at eight-thirty. The client was Victoria Ford. We reviewed the case against her and discussed the implications of the grand jury that was convening that week. We talked about how she might secure the money she was going to need. We’d been talking for about twenty minutes when the first plane hit.”
“Where was your office located?”
“On the eightieth floor of the North Tower. Victoria was sitting in front of my desk when an enormous explosion happened. The best way I can describe it is a concussion. The building rocked and thundered. It actually leaned to the side and for a moment I thought the tower was going to topple over. Everything broke and shattered. Pictures fell from the walls, items on my desk rattled to the floor, ceiling tiles came down, and the overhead sprinklers turned on. The fluorescent lights went dark and the emergency lighting came on. I remember the sudden darkness outside. It went from a bright sunny morning to midnight. And, of course, the smell. I wasn’t able to identify the smell, which was everywhere, and didn’t put things together until that night after I had made it safely home. It was then, while I watched and rewatched the footage on the news, that I realized the odor I smelled had been jet fuel.”
Avery waited, not wanting to push too hard.
“It’s funny how the memories come back to you,” Manchester finally continued. “I remember going over to a window and looking out once the dark smoke had dissipated. I remember papers floating through the air like confetti. I remember looking down to the street and seeing the regular crowd of lower Manhattan but noticing something strange. Only later did I figure out what it was. The crowd and the cars and the buses and the taxis, they weren’t moving. Everything outside the building had stopped, as if God himself had pointed a remote control at New York City and pressed pause. Then I remember seeing this clear sludge slowly running down the window. It looked like gel, thick and soupy. Again, in that moment I had no idea what I was seeing. It was only later that night that I realized it was the jet fuel that was coating the outside of the building.”
Avery remained silent. A chill ran through her at the thought of what this man had gone through.
“Anyway,” he continued, “after the initial explosion I made sure all my employees and partners were okay, and then we began to evacuate. It was early for us. Some of my partners didn’t come in until after nine, so there weren’t many of us at the office. We all knew that in case of fire, the elevators were off limits, so we headed to the stairwell and started down.”
Avery pinched her eyebrows together. “You started down?”
“Yes. Eighty flights of stairs was a daunting task, and we didn’t know which part of the building was on fire, so we prayed we could make it through the floors below us.”
“You started down?” Avery asked again, almost to herself this time. “Was Victoria with you?”
Manchester shook his head. “You know, I’m ashamed to admit that I checked on my people—my employees and partners—and we all sort of took a quick head count before we entered the stairwell.” He shook his head and momentarily closed his eyes. “I don’t remember seeing Victoria Ford after the chaos began. I . . . forgot about her.”
There was a sorrow in his voice that was nearly palpable. A survivor’s guilt, Avery assumed, that came from cheating death during an event that took so many lives.
“I listened to a recording of an answering machine message Victoria left her sister. In it, she said that she was with a group of people who decided to go up the stairwell, not down. Up to the roof where they believed they might be rescued. Do you remember that?”
Manchester nodded his head. “Yes. There were probably a hundred people on my floor and we were all in the hallway and stairwell at the same time. No one person was in charge and things were hectic. There was a lot of confusion and misinformation being shouted, as you might imagine. It’s hard for me now, twenty years later, to differentiate what I knew in those moments from what I’ve learned since. It all sort of mixes together to form its own reality. But for sure, in that moment, none of us knew that a plane had struck the building. We thought it was just some sort of explosion. The idea that a plane had struck the building started being thrown around only after people began calling home. In that chaos, no one knew what to believe or who to listen to as far as a strategy to get out of the building. As soon as the crowd started an orderly descent of the stairs, it was like a vacuum and nearly everyone followed. We made it down twenty flights or so before we ran into congestion. For a long time we barely moved. Just one step every minute or so. Then we heard the second explosion, which I later learned was the second plane hitting the South Tower. When that happened, people started panicking. There was talk about the stairwell being blocked below us, and some people peeled off. Some went back up, some headed to the other set of stairs on the other side of the building.”
“What did you do?”
“I stayed put. I didn’t stray from that first stairwell. Eventually, the bottleneck ended and we started moving again.”
“How long did it take you to get out?”
Manchester shook his head. “I’m not sure. I don’t remember looking at my watch that morning, but I’d guess forty minutes to an hour. It was before ten o’clock, I know that. And it’s documented that the first plane struck at eight forty-six. When I made it outside, I took in the apocalyptic scene and then started my hike uptown. The subway was not working, so I walked. I’d made it to Washington Square Park when the South Tower came down.”
“So after the initial impact, you never saw Victoria Ford again?”
“I saw faces. I had conversations with people but can’t remember what was discussed or who they were. After I checked on my coworkers, I hardly remember being with any of them. Victoria could have been one or two heads in front of me but I don’t remember. I only remember people shuffling down the stairs.”
“When did you find out about Victoria?”
“Not for a while. My law practice was gone—every client, every file, every computer. I don’t remember hearing that Victoria Ford had died for weeks. It took that long to salvage the practice, and Victoria was a new client. I hadn’t started the process of defending her. She hadn’t paid me a retainer. I had more urgent clients to attend to, and court dates to prepare for, once the dust of 9/11 settled. It was some time before I heard that Victoria had died.”
Avery nodded. “Well, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. Thanks so much for recounting what I’m sure are difficult memories.”
“Of course.”
“Would you mind if I called you another time, perhaps later this summer, if I get this story off the ground and start formal interviews? By then I will have had the chance to look at all the evidence against Victoria and I would love your opinion on it, and what sort of defense you might have constructed had you been given the opportunity.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
A few moments later, Avery was outside. She looked in the direction of where the Twin Towers had once stood. She couldn’t kick the thought that kept popping into her mind. Roman Manchester and everyone else in his office had gone to the stairwell and started down. Victoria Ford had gone up. Had she simply followed the crowd, would things have been different?