44

It was not the first time in American history that a dead candidate’s name was listed on the ballot, and it was certainly not the first time an arrested candidate had stood for election, but search as they might, the political historians were unable to find both on the same day.

Nat’s one call that the chief permitted was to Tom, who was still wide awake despite it being three in the morning. “I’ll get Jimmy Gates out of bed and join you at the police station as soon as I can.”

They had only just finished taking his fingerprints when Tom arrived, accompanied by his lawyer. “You remember Jimmy,” said Tom, “he advised us during the Fairchild’s takeover.”

“Yes, I do,” said Nat as he continued to dry his hands after removing the traces of black ink from his fingers.

“I’ve talked to the chief,” said Jimmy, “and he’s quite happy for you to go home, but you’ll have to appear in court at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to be formally charged. I shall apply for bail on your behalf, and there is no reason to believe it won’t be granted.”

“Thank you,” said Nat, his voice flat. “Jimmy, you’ll recall that before we began the takeover bid for Fairchild’s, I asked you to find me the best corporate lawyer available to represent us?”

“Yes, I do,” said Jimmy, “and you’ve always said that Logan Fitzgerald did a first-class job.”

“He certainly did,” said Nat quietly, “but now I need you to find me the Logan Fitzgerald of criminal law.”

“I’ll have two or three names for you to consider by the time we meet up tomorrow. There’s a guy in Chicago who’s exceptional, but I don’t know what his schedule’s like,” he said as the chief of police walked over to join them.

“Mr. Cartwright, can one of my boys drive you home?”

“No, that’s good of you, Chief,” said Tom, “but I’ll take the candidate home.”

“You say candidate automatically now,” said Nat, “almost as if it was my Christian name.”

On the journey home, Nat told Tom everything that had taken place while he was at Elliot’s house. “So in the end it will come down to your word against hers,” commented Tom as he pulled up outside Nat’s front door.

“Yes, and I’m afraid my story won’t be as convincing as hers, even though it’s the truth.”

“We can talk about that in the morning,” said Tom. “But now you need to try and get some sleep.”

“It is the morning,” said Nat as he watched the first rays of sunlight creeping across the lawn.

Su Ling was standing by the open door. “Did they for a moment believe…?”

Nat told her everything that had happened while he was at the police station, and when he finished, all Su Ling said was, “Such a pity.”

“What do you mean?” asked Nat.

“That you didn’t kill him.”

Nat climbed the stairs and walked through the bedroom straight on into the bathroom. He stripped off his clothes and threw them in a bag. He would dispose of the bag later so that he would never have to be reminded of this terrible day. He stepped into the shower and allowed the cold jets of water to beat down on him. After putting on a new set of clothes he rejoined his wife in the kitchen. On the sideboard was his election-day schedule; no mention of a court appearance on arraignment for murder.

Tom turned up at nine. He reported that the voting was going briskly, as if nothing else was happening in Nat’s life. “They took a poll immediately following the television interview,” he told Nat, “and it gave you a lead of sixty-three to thirty-seven.”

“But that was before I was arrested for killing the other candidate,” said Nat.

“I guess that might push it up to seventy-thirty,” replied Tom. No one laughed.

Tom did his best to focus on the campaign and try to keep their minds off Luke. It didn’t work. He looked up at the kitchen clock. “Time for us to go,” he said to Nat, who turned and took Su Ling in his arms.

“No, I’m coming with you,” she said. “Nat may not have murdered him, but I would have, given half a chance.”

“Me too,” said Tom gently, “but let me warn you that when we get to the courthouse it’s bound to be a media circus. Look innocent and say nothing, because anything you say will end up on every front page.”

As they left the house, they were greeted by a dozen journalists and three camera crews just to watch them climb into a car. Nat clung to Su Ling’s hand as they were driven through the streets, and didn’t notice how many people waved the moment they spotted him. When they arrived at the steps of the courthouse fifteen minutes later, Nat faced the largest crowd he’d encountered during the entire election campaign.

The chief had anticipated the problem and detailed twenty uniformed officers to hold back the crowd, and make a gangway so that Nat and his party could enter the building without being hassled. It didn’t work, because twenty officers weren’t enough to control the phalanx of photographers and journalists who shouted and jostled Nat and Su Ling as they tried to make their way up the courtroom steps. Microphones were thrust in Nat’s face, and questions came at them from every angle.

“Did you murder Ralph Elliot?” demanded one reporter.

“Will you be withdrawing as candidate?” followed next, as a microphone was thrust forward.

“Was your mother a prostitute, Mrs. Cartwright?”

“Do you think you can still win, Nat?”

“Was Rebecca Elliot your mistress?”

“What were Ralph Elliot’s last words, Mr. Cartwright?”

When they pushed through the swing doors, they found Jimmy Gates standing on the far side, waiting for them. He led Nat to a bench outside the courtroom and briefed his client on the procedure he was about to face.

“Your appearance should only last for about five minutes,” Jimmy explained. “You will state your name, and having done so, you will be charged, and then asked to enter a plea. Once you’ve pleaded not guilty, I shall make an application for bail. The state is suggesting fifty thousand dollars at your own recognizance, which I’ve agreed to. The moment you’ve signed the necessary papers, you will be released and you won’t have to appear again until a trial date has been fixed.”

“When do we anticipate that might be?”

“It would normally take about six months, but I’ve asked for the whole process to be speeded up on account of the upcoming election.” Nat admired his counsel’s professional approach, remembering that Jimmy was also Fletcher Davenport’s closest friend. However, like any good lawyer, Nat thought, Jimmy would understand the meaning of client privilege.

Jimmy glanced at his watch. “We ought to go in, the last thing we need is to keep the judge waiting.”

Nat entered a packed courtroom and walked slowly down the aisle with Tom. He was surprised by how many people thrust out their hands and even wished him luck, making it feel more like a party meeting than a criminal arraignment. When they reached the front, Jimmy held open the little wooden gate dividing the court officials from the simply curious. He then guided Nat to a table on the left, and ushered him into the seat next to his. As they waited for the judge to make his entrance, Nat glanced across at the state’s attorney, Richard Ebden, a man he’d always admired. He knew that Ebden would be a formidable adversary, and wondered who Jimmy was going to recommend to oppose him.

“All rise, Mr. Justice Deakins presiding.”

The procedure Jimmy had described took place exactly as he predicted, and they were back out on the street five minutes later, facing the same journalists repeating the same questions and still failing to get any answers.

As they pushed their way through the crowd to their waiting car, Nat was once again surprised by how many people still wanted to shake him by the hand. Tom slowed them down, aware that this would be the footage seen by the voters on the midday news. Nat spoke to every well-wisher, but wasn’t quite sure how to reply to an onlooker who said, “I’m glad you killed the bastard.”

“Do you want to head straight home?” asked Tom as his car slowly nosed its way through the melee.

“No,” said Nat, “let’s go across to the bank and talk things through in the boardroom.”

The only stop they made on the way was to pick up the first edition of the Courant after hearing a newsboy’s cry of “Cartwright charged with murder.” All Tom seemed to be interested in was a poll on the second page showing that Nat now led Elliot by over twenty points. “And,” said Tom, “in a separate poll, seventy-two percent say you shouldn’t withdraw from the race.” Tom read on, suddenly looked up but said nothing.

“What is it?” asked Su Ling.

“Seven percent say they would happily have killed Elliot, if only you’d asked them.”

When they reached the bank, there was another hustle of journalists and cameramen awaiting them; again they were met with the same stony silence. Tom’s secretary joined them in the corridor and reported that early polling was at a record high as Republicans obviously wished to make their views known.

Once they were settled in the boardroom, Nat opened the discussion by saying. “The party will expect me to withdraw, whatever the result, and I feel that might still be my best course of action given the circumstances.”

“Why not let the voters decide?” said Su Ling quietly, “and if they give you overwhelming support, stay in there fighting, because that will also help convince a jury that you’re innocent.”

“I agree,” said Tom. “And what’s the alternative—Barbara Hunter? Let’s at least spare the electorate that.”

“And how do you feel, Jimmy? After all, you’re my legal advisor.”

“On this subject I can’t offer an impartial view,” Jimmy admitted. “As you well know, the Democratic candidate is my closest friend, but were I advising him in the same circumstances, and I knew he was innocent, I would say stick in there and fight the bastards.”

“Well, I suppose it’s just possible that the public will elect a dead man; then heaven knows what will happen.”

“His name will remain on the ballot,” said Tom, “and if he goes on to win the election, the party can invite anyone they choose to represent him.”

“Are you serious?” said Nat.

“Couldn’t be more serious. Quite often they select the candidate’s wife, and my bet is that Rebecca Elliot would happily take his place.”

“And if you’re convicted,” said Jimmy, “she could sure count on the sympathy vote just before an election.”

“More important,” said Nat, “have you come up with a defense counsel to represent me?”

“Four,” responded Jimmy, removing a thick file from his briefcase. He turned the cover. “Two from New York, both recommended by Logan Fitzgerald, one from Chicago who worked on Watergate, and the fourth from Dallas. He’s only lost one case in the last ten years, and that was when his client had committed the murder on video. I intend to call all four later today to find out if any of them is free. This is going to be such a high-profile case, my bet is that they will all make themselves available.”

“Isn’t there anyone from Connecticut worthy of the shortlist?” asked Tom. “It would send out a far better message to the jury.”

“I agree,” said Jimmy, “but the only man who is of the same caliber as those four simply isn’t available.”

“And who’s that?” asked Nat.

“The Democratic candidate for governor.”

Nat smiled for the first time. “Then he’s my first choice.”

“But he’s in the middle of an election campaign.”

“Just in case you haven’t noticed, so is the accused,” said Nat, “and let’s face it, the election isn’t for another nine months. If I turn out to be his opponent, at least he’ll know where I am the whole time.”

“But…” repeated Jimmy.

“You tell Mr. Fletcher Davenport that if I become the Republican candidate, he’s my first choice, and don’t approach anyone else until he’s turned me down, because if everything I’ve heard about that man is true, I feel confident he’ll want to represent me.”

“If those are your instructions, Mr. Cartwright.”

“Those are my instructions, counselor.”

By the time the polls had closed at eight P.M. Nat had fallen asleep in the car as Tom drove him home. His chief of staff made no attempt to disturb him. The next thing Nat remembered was waking to find Su Ling lying on the bed beside him, and his first thoughts were of Luke. Su Ling stared at him and gripped his hand. “No,” she whispered.

“What do you mean, no?” asked Nat.

“I can see it in your eyes, my darling, you wonder if I would prefer you to withdraw, so that we can mourn Luke properly, and the answer is no.”

“But we’ll have the funeral, and then the preparations for the trial, not to mention the trial itself.”

“Not to mention the endless hours in between, when you’ll be brooding and unbearable to live with, so the answer is still no.”

“But it’s going to be almost impossible to expect a jury not to accept the word of a grieving widow who also claims to have been an eyewitness to her husband’s murder.”

“Of course she was an eyewitness,” said Su Ling. “She did it.”

The phone on Su Ling’s bedside table began to ring. She picked it up and listened attentively before writing two figures down on the pad by the phone. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll let him know.”

“Let him know what?” inquired Nat.

Su Ling tore the piece of paper off the pad and passed it across to her husband. “It was Tom. He wanted you to know the election result.” Su Ling handed over the piece of paper. All she had written on it were the figures “69/31.”

“Yes, but who got sixty-nine percent?” asked Nat.

“The next governor of Connecticut,” she replied.

Luke’s funeral was, at the principal’s request, held in Taft School’s chapel. He explained that so many pupils had wanted to be present. It was only after his death that Nat and Su Ling became aware just how popular their son had been. The service was simple, and the choir of which he was so proud to be a member sang William Blake’s “Jerusalem” and Cole Porter’s “Ain’t Misbehavin’.” Kathy read one of the lessons, and dear old Thomo another, while the principal delivered the address.

Mr. Henderson spoke of a shy, unassuming youth, liked and admired by all. He reminded those present of Luke’s remarkable performance as Romeo, and how he had learned only that morning that Luke had been offered a place at Princeton.

The coffin was borne out of the chapel by boys and girls from the ninth grade who had performed with him in the school play. Nat learned so much about Luke that day that he felt guilty he hadn’t known what an impact his son had made on his contemporaries.

At the end of the service, Nat and Su Ling attended the tea party given in the principal’s house for Luke’s closest friends. It was packed to overflowing, but then as Mr. Henderson explained to Su Ling, everyone thought they were a close friend of Luke’s. “What a gift,” he remarked simply.

The headboy presented Su Ling with a book of photographs and short essays composed by his fellow pupils. Later, whenever Nat felt low, he would turn a page, read an entry and glance at a photograph, but there was one he kept returning to again and again: Luke was the only boy ever to speak to me who never once mentioned my turban or my color. He simply didn’t see them. I had looked forward to him being a friend for the rest of my life. Malik Singh (16).

As they left the principal’s house, Nat spotted Kathy sitting alone in the garden, her head bowed. Su Ling walked across and sat down beside her. She put an arm around Kathy and tried to comfort her. “He loved you very much,” Su Ling said.

Kathy raised her head, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I never told him I loved him.”