“But what?”
“But on my way in, Murphy said to me, ‘Don’t waste your time on this one, Pressman. The case is a slam dunk.’ So I say, ‘Why’s that?’ And he starts blabbing about things he probably shouldn’t be blabbing about.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the consent search you gave them for the laptop. And the evidence they found linking you to a sexual relationship with Lindsey Wells.”
“Lindsey Wells?”
“Apparently, they found a number of pictures of naked girls from Shilo on your computer, Tom. Including pictures of the girl you described to Rich Fox at that meeting. Murphy said ten are from Shilo and about thirty they couldn’t ID. He was being sarcastic when he said he’d ask your help with that.”
“Which I can’t do,” Tom said.
“Of course you can’t. But they think you recruited other people, kids probably, to help you obtain these images, which you then allegedly sold on the Internet.”
“And they found all this on my school-issued laptop?”
“Well, according to the forensic report—and again this is what Murphy told me—there is no sign of any tampering with the machine. No viruses. Nothing. It’s clean.”
“What about my home PC? They searched that, too.”
“I don’t know,” Marvin said. “But they also found alleged correspondences between you and Lindsey Wells. They got a search warrant, and a computer forensic team is over at Lindsey’s house right now, working on her machine.”
“But you told me Jill is staying there.”
“That’s why I said it might not be so good that Jill’s staying there. Murphy also showed me a printout of a Facebook message spreading around. Apparently, a Facebook user calling himself Fidelius Charm made a new profile after the company deactivated his old one. This person sent out a bunch of new friend requests and more messages after your arrest.”
“What did the message say?” Tom asked glumly.
“The secret is out,” Marvin said, reciting what he had read. “Coach Hawkins is sleeping with Lindsey Wells.”
Tom groaned and rubbed his manacled hands vigorously through his hair.
“My guess is the police are going to find out that it was Lindsey who made the initial blog posts about you. It’s one way to link you to the naked images of hers they found on your school computer. Don’t ask me how they’ll try and link you to the images of the other girls.”
“If Lindsey says anything to the police about our having a relationship, she’s lying. What does Jill know?”
“Tom, I haven’t spoken to Jill about it,” Marvin said. “But what I do know is that at your arraignment on Monday, you’re going to plead not guilty.”
“That won’t be a problem. Can I get out of here now?”
Marvin appeared glum. “The bail commissioner came down. Murphy sent him away. Bail commissioners almost never go against a police officer if they recommend you be detained until your arraignment.”
“What happens at my arraignment?”
“You’ll hear the charges against you. Bail will be set. You are presumed innocent. The judge should give you personal recognizance bail. They’re not supposed to bootstrap the current charges to your bail condition.”
“That sounds positive,” Tom said.
“But these are very serious charges,” Marvin said, “and just because a judge isn’t supposed to bootstrap current charges to bail conditions doesn’t mean they don’t. The prosecutor is probably going to argue that you’re a flight risk given your extensive military contacts and training. Bail could be high.”
“How high?”
“Fifty thousand,” Marvin said. “Maybe even a hundred.”
Tom’s mouth fell open. “I don’t have that kind of money. What happens if I can’t post bail?”
“You’ll sit in jail until your trial.”
“How long will that be?”
“Your case could come up for trial a year from now. Even longer.”
Chapter 30
Woonsocket County was home to five district courthouses. The morning of Tom’s arraignment, a team of three officers entered his tiny cell to secure their prisoner for transport to the closest courthouse, in the bordering town of Millis. Sergeant Brendan Murphy oversaw the transport effort, with an expression, Tom thought, more appropriate for a big-game hunter than a police officer. Then again, Tom Hawkins was the biggest game in town, as evident from the hordes of media types, from Boston to southern Maine, closing around the disgraced coach as soon as he exited police headquarters. They shouted their questions and blinded Tom with camera lights, which they used despite the bright, cloudless morning.
Tom decided not to conceal his face from the onslaught of photographers and TV news crews documenting his every step. Whenever he’d seen people hiding their faces under hoods or jackets, Tom always thought they looked guilty of something.
On the short walk to the waiting police car, Tom’s thoughts drifted back to Kip Lange and what he had done to protect Kelly and Jill almost sixteen years ago.
Had Kelly told Lange that he’d been the one to hide the drugs?
Tom felt certain the man in the woods that night was Kip Lange. But that certainty left him with two vital questions he couldn’t answer. What did Lange want? And what did Lange know?
Marvin had some friends, former cops who did investigative work for him from time to time. To help ease Tom’s worry about Jill, Marvin had coordinated a 24/7 watch over his daughter until after his arraignment. No way would Tom be able to afford to keep up that watch if he didn’t make bail. According to Marvin’s report, the PIs hadn’t seen anybody lurking around Cathleen Wells’s house. They’d been watching it nonstop for the last forty-eight hours. No prowlers. No strange cars. Nothing. If Lange was going to make a move on Jill, it would have been while Tom was locked up. Soon he’d be out on bail, ending what would have been Lange’s best opportunity to get to his daughter.
Why didn’t Lange take a shot?
Tom could think of only one answer to that question. Lange’s plan wasn’t to kidnap Jill.
He was going to blackmail Tom.
Tom’s police escort drove to the back of the Millis District Courthouse. The parking lot was unusually full, even for a Monday morning. If the police didn’t have designated spots for cruisers, they might not have had a place to park. Tom didn’t know the type of car Marvin Pressman drove, but felt certain that his lawyer was among the early arrivals.
Murphy and another police officer took hold of Tom’s arms and together hoisted him out of the patrol car. After checking the handcuffs on Tom’s wrists, they ushered him inside, through the security checkpoint, and into a locked room. They pushed Tom down by his shoulders until he sat on the only chair in the otherwise empty waiting room.
“What’s next?” Tom asked. Murphy pretended not to hear Tom’s question. “I said, what’s next?” Tom repeated.
Murphy grunted and pointed to another door on the opposite wall. “Your name gets called by the state. You walk through that door. You sit. You get arraigned.”
“Sounds simple enough.”
“Yeah, simple.”
They waited. Two police officers, one prisoner, silent as could be. Body heat and poor circulation turned the air inside the room thick and oppressive. The longer Tom waited, the more his nerves fired. Sweat dotted his forehead.
In those anxious moments, Tom pondered his fate.
