The Beach House

I riffled through the photographs, then slapped them up on the wall with the others. They were probably the last seven shots Sammy had ever taken, and in a terrible way they were his masterpieces.

Each was printed horizontally on nineteen-by-twenty-two paper and was as black and murky as Sammy's pornography was bright. Taped to the wall in a dark jagged row, they looked less like photographs than expressionist paintings swirling violently with rage and fear and death.

Like so much of the pornography, the action was three-on-one. But the lust was now replaced by fury, the pelvic thrusts by whaling fists and feet.

There, I could see the blurred face of Neubauer's platinum Cartier watch as he swung a blackjack at Peter's neck.

And there, while two other burly shapes pinned back Peter's arms, I caught the silver streaks of the buckle on Neubauer's loafer as he kicked Peter's ribs.

There was a face half-hidden in the shadows – but I could tell it was Frank Volpi's. He'd lied about being there, but of course, why wouldn't he lie? Everyone else had.

The last picture was the most hellish. I slapped it up on the wall and watched Molly's lens zoom in. I knew it would be engraved on my retina forever.

At the instant that particular picture was taken, there must have been a break in the cloud cover. As Peter lay broken at the feet of his murderers, his face was momentarily illuminated.

It was like a candlelit face in a Caravaggio, the face of a young man who knew that he was down to his last few seconds and that no one was going to save him. The horror in his eyes was too much, and even though I'd seen the photograph before, I had to look away.

'Is there any end to this shameless grandstanding?' screamed Montrose. 'In all of these pictures, you can see only a single face, and that's the victim's.'

'The prosecutor will approach the bench,' snapped Macklin. 'Right now.'

When I got there, he was as angry as I'd ever seen him. 'Montrose is right. These pictures are useless, and you know it. What the hell are you doing, Jack? Do you have a point to make?'

'Fuck Montrose. And Neubauer. And fuck you.' I spat out the words. Then I started to cry. I just lost it. 'I don't care whether these pictures have value as evidence. They show Peter getting beaten to death on a beach by Neubauer and two goons, one of whom is Volpi. If I have to see it in my head for the rest of my life, then so do they. Peter didn't kill himself, he didn't drown – he was murdered, Mack. That's what it shows.'

Macklin reached up and grabbed my wet face with both huge hands. He squeezed it hard as if it were a bleeding wound he was trying to staunch.

'Jack. Listen to me,' he said with a heartbreaking smile. 'You're doing a fine job, better than that. Don't let it get away from you now, son. Do you have anything to finish off these bastards? Please say yes, Jack.'

Chapter 108

DON'T LET IT GET AWAY FROM YOU NOW.

When Peter and I were kids, our father told us a story about a huge rat that got into his and my mother's apartment in Hell's Kitchen. It was a freezing December morning. He had my mother, who was pregnant with me, sit in a coffee shop across the street.

Then my father borrowed a shovel from the super and walked back up the five flights to face the rat. He found it in the living room at the end of the railroad flat, scurrying along the wall, trying to nose a way out. It was the size of a small cat, at least ten pounds, with a shiny orange-brown pelt.

Brandishing the shovel, my father backed it into a corner. The rat tried to get past, making feints left and right, but when he saw that it was no use, he bared his teeth and waited. When my father cocked the shovel over his right shoulder like a Louisville Slugger, the rat leaped at him!

With a desperate swing, my father knocked it out of the air like a furry, gray-tailed softball. The rat bounced off the wall hard enough to knock over half the books on the shelves. My father barely had time to recock the shovel before the rat was flying back at him. Again the shovel caught it flush. Again the rat crashed into the wall. My father knocked it out of the air two more times before he could kill it.

When I called Barry Neubauer to the stand, he looked at me the way that rat must have looked up at my father that winter morning.

Without taking his beady eyes off me, he twitched and he seethed. His long fingers were white where they clasped the arms of his chair.

And he didn't budge.

I was starting to breathe a little hard.

'You want me to sit on your stage,' he hissed. 'You're going to have to drag me up there. But that wouldn't look good on television, would it, golden boy?'

'We'd be delighted to drag you up here,' said Macklin, stepping down off his platform. 'Hell, I'll do it myself.'

After making certain his arms and legs were securely tethered to the chair, Mack and I got on either side of him. We hoisted Neubauer into the air.

As soon as his feet left the ground, he struggled against his restraints worse than the Mudman had in his dying moments. By the time we plopped him on the stand, his face and hair were covered with sweat. Behind his expensive wire-rim glasses, his pupils had shrunk to pinpoints.

'What do you have to show us now, Counselor?' he asked in an angry, grating whine that set my teeth on edge. It was the same demeaning tone he used with employees at his house. 'More dirty pictures? Proving what? That photographic images can be manipulated by computer? C'mon, Jack, you must have something better than that.'

Neubauer's last taunt was barely out of his lips when there was a knock at the door at the back of the room.

'Actually, I do have something else to show you. In fact, here it comes now.'

Chapter 109

NERVOUSLY LOOKING AT HER FEET, the way anyone might if she found herself walking through a lengthy room with half of America watching, Pauline slowly made her way to the front. I couldn't help feeling proud of her. She had stuck with this all the way to the end.

When she got to my side, she slipped me a piece of paper. I read it with my heart in my throat. It said, East Hampton , LA., Manhattan -1996.

Then, because she felt like it, I guess, she kissed me softly on the cheek and took a seat beside Marci.

'There is one thing you could clear up for me,' I said to Neubauer, gesturing toward the pictures on the wall. 'Didn't anyone ever ask you to use a condom?'

His thin slits of eyes narrowed even more. 'Is this where you turn this whole thing into a public-service announcement? I told them they had nothing to worry about. I have myself tested all the time.'

'I see. So, you lied to these people.'

Neubauer's eyes grew even darker, and he twisted his neck at me. 'What are you talking about?'

'I'm talking about not telling the truth. It's called lying. You lied to these people. Your wife, Tricia Powell, the Fitzhardings. My brother.'

'You're crazy. Anyone can see that. This is absurd. You're a madman.'

'Remember those blood samples we took when you arrived? We had yours tested for HIV'

'What are you talking about?' Neubauer bellowed.

'You're positive, Mr. Neubauer. We ran it through three times. Your Honor, the People offer this lab report as People's Exhibit D.'

'You had no right,' he screeched, rocking his chair so violently that it nearly tipped off the platform.