So, in sum, Detective Hatcher, would access to the financial and business records we are requesting from Mr. Sparks assist you with your investigation? Donovan asked.
We believe so, she said, now looking directly at Judge Bandon. Mr. Sparks is, as we all know, an extremely successful man. A break-in at one of his showcase personal properties would send a message to him. If he has financial or business enemies, we need to look into that.
And to be clear, is Mr. Sparks himself a target of your investigation?
Of course not, Ellie said.
If she were revealing the whole truth, she would have told Judge Bandon that at one point they of course had looked at Sparks as a suspect, but had quickly cleared him.
Is there anything youd like to add to your testimony, Detective Hatcher?
In polite courtroom discourse, ADA Max Donovan referred to her as Detective Hatcher. But this was not the whole truth, either. If courtrooms had anything to do with the whole truth, he would call her Ellie. And one of them might have to disclose the fact that, just that morning, the testifying detective had woken up naked in the assistant district attorneys bed.
No, thank you, Mr. Donovan.
Chapter Four
11: 45 a.m.
Megan Gunther rolled her fingertips lightly over the keyboard of her laptop computer. It was a nervous habit. If her typing fingers were positioned at the ready, she had a tendency to keep them moving tiny little wiggles against the smooth black keys.
She remembered begging her mother to teach her to type at the age of six. Her parents had just purchased a home computer, and Megan would eavesdrop as they sat side by side at her fathers desk, marveling at the wonders on the screen, all attributable to something called the Internet. But Megan had marveled at the speed of her mothers fingers as they flew across the keyboard.
She glanced at the round white clock that hung above the blank blackboard behind Professor Ellen Stein. Eleven forty-five. Fifteen more minutes. Thirty-five minutes of class had passed, and the only words on her laptop screen were Life and Death, followed by the date, followed by a single question: Are all lives equally good?
Megan had enrolled in this seminar because the catalog description had piqued her curiosity: Is life inherently worthwhile, or only if the life lived is a good life? Is death necessarily negative? Is a life not lived superior to a life lived in vain?
Megan was no philosophy major she would declare biology next year, and her curriculum was designed specifically for premed. But that course description had grabbed her attention. She figured that it could only serve the medical profession well if a future doctor took the time to contemplate the larger meaning of life and death in addition to learning the science that could extend one and forestall the other.
She should have foreseen, though, that a philosophy seminar with no prerequisites would devolve into a series of free-floating chat sessions during which unfocused undergrads the ones who would eventually wind up behind a Starbucks counter, or perhaps in law school attempted to show off their mastery of the most reductionist versions of the various branches of philosophy.
Todays class, as was often the case, had held momentary promise when Dr. Stein posed the question that was still staring at Megan from the screen of her laptop: Are all lives equally good?
Unfortunately, the first student to respond immediately played the Hitler card. As in, Of course not. I mean, who here mourns the death of Hitler? After just three weeks of a single philosophy course, Megan was convinced that the quality of the national civic dialogue would be noticeably improved by a voluntary prohibition against all analogies to Nazi Germany.
Poor Dr. Stein had done her best to steer the conversation on track, but then the girl who always wore overalls and patchouli oil had set off another frenzy of mental masturbation by wondering aloud whether the mentally disabled enjoyed their lives as much as regular people.
Megan found herself contemplating her fingers jiggling on the keyboard again. Not her fingers as much as the keyboard itself. The layout. She understood why the Q and the Z belonged to the whim of her left pinky; Hitler analogies were more common than the use of those letters. But what criteria had been used to determine the keys that would qualify for home base, as her mother had called it during her early touch-typing training? A, S, D, L those she understood. But F and J? And the semicolon? How often did anyone use semicolons?
She forced herself to tune back into the conversation around the seminar table. She gathered that the patchouli girls comment about the mentally disabled had set off a larger conversation about the value of knowledge when a guy with a paperboy hat and a beatnik growth of hair beneath his lip retorted, Please, go read more Ayn Rand. Youre asked about lives without value, and you pick on the retarded? Of much more questionable value is a life spent absorbing knowledge but then doing absolutely nothing with it.
At that, Megan thought she noticed a twitch in Dr. Steins left eye. Twenty minutes later, the class was still debating whether knowledge was worthy for its own sake, or merely as a means toward practical ends.
But even to differentiate between knowledge for its own sake and for its pragmatic import is a fiction, the patchouli woman insisted. It assumes an objective reality that stands alone, independent of our own cognitive responses to it. We have no measure of reality other than through our own thoughts, so what precisely do you mean when you say knowledge standing alone? Knowledge is reality.
Only if youre an epistemological idealist, the soul patch argued. Maybe Kant would agree with that kind of logic, or even John Locke. But a realist would maintain that there is an ontological reality that is independent of our own experiences. And if we can set aside our narcissism for thirty seconds and accept that premise, then its not a lot to ask of the privileged elite that they use their knowledge to make a concrete, objective difference in that reality.
This might be slightly off topic
Megan felt her eyes rolling involuntarily away from the speaker, the decent-looking guy who always wore concert T-shirts.
This might be slightly off topic, but has anyone else wondered why John Locke on Lost is named John Locke? It explains the inconsistencies in the various narratives. The writers are telling us to take all those flashbacks and flash-forwards with a grain of salt; they are each filtered through the lens of the characters personal experiences.
Oh, my God. Did he really just say that? The whisper came from the student sitting next to Megan, a guy in a Philadelphia Flyers jersey with a serious case of bed head. I should have saved my trust fund and gone to Penn.
Okay, people, time out. Stein rapped her knuckles against the tabletop to call the class to order. Lets get back to the original question.
Megan wished she had a dollar for every time Dr. Stein had taken them back to the original question. The woman no doubt knew her shit, but she had to stop treating these morons as intellectual equals. If this group could be trusted with the amount of guidance provided by the original question, they wouldnt be talking about Hitler, the mentally disabled, and a television show about island castaways.
She finally caved to temptation and opened Internet Explorer on her laptop. Almost all of the universitys buildings were equipped with wireless Internet access, but a serious professor like Dr. Stein certainly expected her students to refrain from partaking during class time. Barely veiled surfing ran rampant, however, and to Megan it was no surprise. The universitys current regime was, in her view, no different from cutting lines of cocaine on the desktop in front of addicts and telling them not to snort.
She moved her right hand onto the laptops mouse pad and checked her Gmail account while making a point of periodically looking up from her screen to deliver a pensive nod. From there, it was on to Perez Hiltons site for the celebrity gossip. Then to Facebook, where it was her turn in the Scrabble game she was playing with Courtney. She knew that at some point Courtneys decision not to attend NYU would cut back on their socializing, but for now they remained in daily online contact.
Megan noticed that her neighbor with the bed head was eyeballing her computer screen. She was about to deliver her best warning glare when he nudged his notebook an inch in her direction.
Beneath a series of doodled boxes and circles, he had jotted, You missed HAYSEED for a bingo.
She turned to her game and confirmed the mistake. Switching the laptop back to her blank class notes, she typed a sad face a colon, followed by a dash and a left parenthesis.
Her neighbor scribbled another note: campusjuice. com.
Megan clicked back to her browser, typed the Web site name into the address bar, and gently hit the enter key. Campus Juice. White bubble letters against an orange background, followed by a slogan that said it all: All the Juice, Always Anonymous.
In the middle of the screen was a text box, labeled Choose Your Campus.
Megan typed in NYU and hit enter. Up came a message board consisting of a list of posts, each with its own subject title.
Craziest Person in Your Dorm
WTF?!: Did Brandon Saltzburg drop out?
Freshman Fifteen (Plus Another Fifteen)
Whos Sluttier: Kelly Gotleib or Jenny Huntsman?
Hottest profs.
Ive got a sex tape
Michael Stuart gave me the clap
Megan dropped her right hand beneath the seminar table and flashed a thumbs-up at her neighbor, who doodled an exclamation point in the margin of his notebook.
She clicked on the link to pull up the thread concerning Michael Stuart and his supposed STD. The message had been posted an hour earlier, and two people had already responded one alleging that Stuart lived in her dorm and was a rampant meth fiend, the other claiming to be Michael Stuart himself with some not-so-kind words about the original posters cottage cheese thighs.
Megan scrolled through the next three pages of posts. The entire site was devoted to on-campus gossip, insults, and attacks all naming real names, and yet capable of being posted with complete anonymity if the author so chose.
She had just finished perusing one of the more respectable threads speculation about the identity of this years commencement speaker when the title of another post grabbed her attention.
She stared at the two words on the screen:
Megan Gunther.
Moving the cursor to the hyperlink, she could not bring herself to click on the text. Something inside of her whatever instincts humans possess for emotional self-preservation told her that one click would change everything. She didnt want to read whatever had been written there for the entire world to see.
Megan jerked at the sound of a book being dropped on the table. She looked up to see Ellen Steins eyes directed at her, along with nineteen younger, conspiratorial faces smirking at her embarrassment.
Im sorry, Ms. Gunther. Are we interrupting your computer research?
Chapter Five
Noon
Ellie had barely made her way from the witness chair to her seat on a bench behind Max Donovan before Judge Bandon opened the floor to argument. As Ellie had predicted, and as Max had warned, Sparkss lawyer was casting her as some kind of rogue cop on a single-minded anti-Sparks mission: Mark Fuhrman in the O J Simpson trial minus the race stuff.
The lawyers name was Ramon Guerrero. According to Max, Guerrero was a hard-line anticommunist from Miami who had first applied to law school to help other Cubans apply for political asylum but, as lawyers often do, had since forged another and more lucrative path. Now he was one of the few corner-office partners at a five-hundred-plus-attorney law firm who had actual trial experience. He was the charismatic guy the eggheads brought in when the documents had been reviewed, briefs had been filed, depositions were over, and it was time to talk to a judge or a jury.
And on this particular afternoon he found himself in Paul Bandons courtroom, demonizing Ellie Hatcher.
Your Honor, the only reason the NYPD hasnt made more progress investigating the tragic murder of Mr. Mancini is that the lead detectives, most notably Detective Hatcher, decided early on that wherever Sam Sparks appears, Sam Sparks must be the story. Rather than fully investigate the possibility that someone out there wanted to see Robert Mancini dead someone violent, someone whos still at large they want to pursue a fishing expedition through confidential business and financial records.
With all due respect to Mr. Guerrero, Donovan said, rising from counsels chair, this is not the kind of contractual dispute that he and Mr. Sparks are used to dealing with. This is a murder investigation. And, as you and I both know from the myriad of murder cases we have seen, murder victims and the people close to them lose their privacy as a result of the violence directed against them. You have signed countless search warrants for victims homes, offices, cars
As Donovan continued to hammer away at the list, Ellies gaze shifted from the Bic Rollerball braced in his hand to Guerreros Montblanc. Police pore over every document and cookie stored inside a victims computer. We review every bank record, phone log, and credit card bill. And its all a matter of routine, Your Honor. Were only here because Sam Sparks iswell, hes Sam Sparks.
The problem with your analysis, Mr. Donovan, is that Sam Sparks was not the victim of this crime. Robert Mancini was.
Sparks was a victim, Your Honor. It was his eight-million-dollar apartment that was stormed into. It was his apartment that was riddled with bullet holes.
But it was not his body in the bed, Judge Bandon replied.
No, but the police believe it was intended to be.
Precisely. That is what the police believe. And usually when we talk about what the police believe, we subject that belief to a standard of probable cause. I dont see probable cause to search through the personal records of Sam Sparks.
Exactly, Guerrero chimed in.
But, Your Honor, Mr. Sparks is not a suspect. If thats his concern, we can work out an immunity agreement to placate Mr. Guerrero.
Immunity? Guerrero asked. Immunity? The last thing Sam Sparks needs is for some newspaper to report that he has received immunity in a murder case. As the police themselves have acknowledged, he had nothing to do with the events at his apartment on May 27. Because hes at no risk of criminal charges for those events, immunity from prosecution is worthless to him. Guerrero pressed his weight into his hands on counsel table and leaned forward for emphasis. The government fails to appreciate the importance of public opinion and the privacy of information to Sam Sparkss significant net worth. His real estate holdings are valuable, yes. But as we all know, the real value to the industry that is Sam Sparks lies in his reputation as a businessman. The fact that someone was shot at one of his properties is not great PR. But if the police are actually investigating Mr. Sparks even as a potential target then, before you know it, people are speculating about improperly financed debt, the Mafiawho knows what? And of course the risks of disclosure of information regarding pending deals cannot be understated in this kind of market.