The Sand Bar looks like an Irish tavern that got lost, found itself in downtown Honolulu, and tried too hard to fit in. Look to your left and find a leprechaun on a surfboard. To your right, a statue of a beautiful hula girl wears a T-shirt that reads KISS ME, I’M IRISH. Behind you on the shelves are Polynesian tiki gods covered in four-leaf clovers. And in front of you, behind the bar taking drink orders, stands a man named Seamus adorned in a lei and grass skirt.
“Aloha, gents,” says Seamus in his thick Irish brogue. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya. What can I get for you today?”
I ask Seamus to turn up the volume on the television, and Jake orders us two Jameson Irish whiskeys on the rocks.
“Isn’t it a little early, Jake?” I ask.
“Hell, you’re from New York. It’s six hours later over there. You’ve got to take into account the time difference, son.”
Seamus turns up the volume on one of a half dozen television sets over the bar. Gretchen Hurst fills the screen, touting what is still to come on her national cable news show, All Ears. She began her career on radio, but was later given her own cable news show, on which she demonstrated a knack for shamelessly exploiting the families of victims across the country in return for healthy ratings. She clearly gets her jollies from giving local officials, suspects, and their lawyers a faceful of microphone in front of millions of viewers, who prejudge the issue of guilt in reliance on her slanted views and purported expertise in the field of investigative journalism.
Today, she says, her guest is Carlie Douglas. Live via satellite from Honolulu.
Carlie Douglas is Shannon’s mother. A picture of her flashes on the screen. She is attractive, as her daughter was, younger than I would have expected. Early forties, I would guess. She was a single mother, that much I knew. Hurst also tells us that Carlie has traveled to Hawaii from her home in Knoxville, Tennessee, seeking justice for her daughter.
Gretchen Hurst goes to commercial and I turn my whiskey upside down till the ice hits my teeth. The case of State versus Joseph Gianforte Jr. has just gone national.
The national news media have been hungry for island murder after a missing-girl fiasco on an island in the Ca ribbe an. This case has all the necessary ingredients: sex and violence involving a beautiful young woman, a tropical-island setting, and a white man accused of murder. Sure, they have the body, which takes away some of the mystery and intrigue, but the Caribbean case is growing stale. Aloha, Waikiki.
I don’t watch television. I don’t have one in my home. I get my news from newspapers and the Internet. So this is the first I’m seeing of this. All Ears returns with the large words at the bottom of the screen: slain in paradise.
Hurst gives some background on the case. The body of a beautiful law student was found five days ago on the world-famous Waikiki Beach in Honolulu. She had been bludgeoned to death and left on the sand. Charged with her murder is her ex-boyfriend, a New Jersey man with a history of domestic violence against the victim.
“I realize this is a very difficult time for you, Carlie, and I thank you for taking the time to talk to me,” says Hurst.
“Thank you for having me, Gretchen.”
Carlie Douglas has the moist eyes of a grieving mother, the voice of someone who has spent the past few days crying, the southern accent emphasized by the strain in her voice. She wears little makeup, and she needs none. She has green eyes and auburn hair, wears a flower behind her right ear and a tiny smile, a likely look for someone’s first time on camera.
“Carlie, can you tell us why you have gone to Honolulu?”
“My only child is gone,” she says, her first sentence no doubt as difficult as any she has ever spoken. “After the funeral, I knew I had to come here to Oahu to seek justice for Shannon. She was a law student, she wanted to go into law enforcement. She believed in justice and the American criminal justice system. She would’ve wanted me here.”
“Are you satisfied with the police investigation into your daughter’s death?”
“I am satisfied, Gretchen. They have the killer behind bars and they tell me they have all the evidence they need to obtain a conviction. Unfortunately, Hawaii does not have the death penalty, so true justice can never be achieved for my daughter.”
“The man they have behind bars awaiting trial is Shannon’s ex-boyfriend, Joseph Gianforte Jr., isn’t that right?”
“Yes, it is, Gretchen.”
“They were in a relationship for almost two years as I understand it. Did you know Mr. Gianforte, Carlie?”
“I knew of him. I had never met him. She never brought him home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I only knew about him through my conversations with Shannon.”
“Had you known he was convicted of domestic violence due to an incident involving your daughter?”
“Yes, I did, Gretchen. The incident occurred the night I told Shannon something about her boyfriend that she had not known about him. She wouldn’t tell me exactly what happened that night, but I’m sure Shannon told him what I told her, and he struck her.”
“What is it you discovered about Shannon’s boyfriend? What did you tell her that would cause him to strike your daughter?”
“I’m sorry, Gretchen. I’m not at liberty to say right now. I was told by the police and prosecutors not to discuss issues that may directly relate to the case.”
“I understand. But you’re convinced that the police have the killer behind bars, that it was Joseph Gianforte who murdered your daughter, isn’t that right?”
“Absolutely. I know it was him.”
“How long do you plan to remain in Hawaii, Carlie?”
“I have no immediate plans to return home to Knoxville. As far as I’m concerned, my business is here, helping ensure that some semblance of justice is brought to Shannon’s killer.”
“Thank you, Carlie. We’ll be watching this story very closely as it unfolds. We hope you’ll join us again soon.”
“Thank you, Gretchen.”
“When we come back, we’ll go to local correspondent Mike Oliver in Honolulu with the latest on the case against Shannon’s accused killer, Joseph Gianforte Jr.”
I start in on my second whiskey and wonder what the weather is like in New York. I can check it out on the Internet when I get back to my apartment if I’m not too drunk to work the computer. Who am I kidding? I’m going to make sure I’m too drunk to work the computer. I drain my glass and order up another.
“Easy, cowboy,” says Jake. “It’s not yet noon. You’re gonna wake up tomorrow with the brown-bottle flu and you’ve gotta question that doorman in the morning.”
“It’s almost six in New York, Jake. Remember?”
Seamus is quick on the trigger. My third drink hits the bar as Mike Oliver comes on.
Oliver tells us that Joey has been indicted on first-degree murder. He’s being held in lieu of $3 million bail and he’s likely to plead not guilty when he’s arraigned on the charges in the indictment next week.
“Mike Oliver,” Gretchen says, “we’ve spoken a bit about the defendant in this case. What do we know of his attorney, Kevin Corvelli?”
“We haven’t yet been able to reach him for comment, Gretchen. We’re told he’s actually very new to the islands, having been admitted here just over a week ago, coming by way of New York. He’s a young attorney, a former protégé of Milt Cashman of the Cashman Law Firm in Manhattan.”
“Would that be Not Guilty Milty, the criminal attorney who represents all those rap artists?”
“That’s right, Gretchen. Since then, Corvelli has been in private practice in Manhattan. He ended his career there on a very sour note, a fairly high-profile murder case, which he lost in spectacular fashion.”
“Tell us what happened, Mike.”
“Well, Gretchen . . .”
I ask Seamus to mute the volume and change the channel. The image of Mike Oliver is replaced with that of Jon Stewart, a journalist with real integrity and a show even I could watch.
The Irish whiskey has lost its flavor, which is a good thing for someone who prefers Scotch. I drink it down and order another.
“Jake, do you know a good investigator?” I ask.
“Of course, I do. A good fella. His office is just down the block.”
My head is swimming. I should eat, but nothing on the board looks appetizing. Corned beef and cabbage with a side of poi? Kalua pig and Tater Tots? I don’t think so. I’ll eat my ice.
I think back to three days ago when I first met Jake. I think back to what he warned me about. I have placed myself in a position to repeat the mistake that led me here, this time on a national scale. Thanks to Gretchen Hurst and Mike Oliver, that which I escaped from has followed me here to Oahu. Now, with four whiskeys soaking my mind, I am about to forget where I am. Malihini or not, I want to run the table.
“Would you mind calling your investigator, Jake? Having him meet us here if he’s available?”
“Of course not, son. May I ask what for?”
“Carlie Douglas is here to help the prosecution try Joey in the press,” I say. “I intend to level the playing field.”