Page 124 of The First Gentleman
“Yes, sir. I was a staff photographer.”
Pope is back behind her desk, rocking in her leather office chair. “And what did that job entail?”
“I basically shot behind-the-scenes stuff. Not for publication, just for organization records. I shot practices, trips, celebrations, charity visits, you name it.”
“And now?”
“Oh, I retired ten years ago. Moved up here to be near my daughter.”
“So why did you ask for this meeting, Mr. Donovan? What was so important that you had to see me right away?”
Donovan looks down at the envelope. “Watching the trial has been bringing back memories. Everybody knew Cole and Suzanne, but not the way I did.”
“You knew Cole Wright and Suzanne Bonanno?” asks Bastinelli.
“Sure I did,” says Donovan. Then he seems to backtrack a bit. “Let me explain. I knew them the way a photographer does. I took pictures of them. I’d talk to them, get them to move this way or that for a shot, that kind of thing.”
“You photographed both of them?” asks Pope.
“Yeah, but not together. I’d usually shoot the cheerleaders when they were rehearsing their routines or when they made appearances at community events. And the players, like I said, I’d shoot mostly during practices and around the facility. And at team celebrations. Like parties after a win.”
Bastinelli glances at the envelope in Donovan’s hands. He’s holding it so tight, the edges are crinkled. “So what’s in the envelope, Mr. Donovan? What is it you couldn’t wait to show us?”
“Look,” says Donovan, “you gotta understand. I liked ColeWright. He was always polite to me. Never gave me any attitude. But when I heard that lady on the witness stand, the doctor…”
“The medical examiner?” says Pope. “Dr. Woods?”
“Yeah,” says Donovan. “Her.”
“What about her?” asks Bastinelli.
“Something she said about Suzanne being strangled,” says Donovan. “It reminded me of some pictures I took back when Cole was playing, and I found this.” Donovan fingers the clasp on the envelope and opens the flap. He pulls out an eight-by-ten color print and lays it on the desk.
The photo appears to have been taken in the harsh fluorescent lighting of a sports facility—in a locker room or training area. A bunch of male athletes are in towels or workout gear. A few have their arms raised. Others are pumping their fists.
Bastinelli’s heart lifts.
At the right side of the image is Cole Wright—with his hands around the neck of a cheerleader.
CHAPTER
113
Rockingham County Courthouse, New Hampshire
Early the next morning, long before the trial is scheduled to begin, opposing counsel are gathered in Judge Walter Dow’s chambers just behind his courtroom.
The former Patriots photographer’s photo is between Dow and Tess Hardy on a conference table. Since leaving the attorney general’s office, Hugh Bastinelli hasn’t slept. He rubs his eyes.
“Your Honor,” Hardy says, “this is inflammatory—a last-minute desperation play on the part of the prosecution. You can’t allow it.”
Dow is in his dress pants and shirtsleeves. His black robe is hanging on a hook behind the closed door. “Calm down, Ms. Hardy. I haven’t had my coffee yet.” He turns to Bastinelli. “Could this have been Photoshopped?”
“The photographer can produce the digital file, Your Honor. I wouldn’t have brought it in if I didn’t think it was authentic.” He looks at Hardy. “I’m not that stupid.”
“And the photographer checks out?” asks Dow. “Craig Donovan?”
“We made some calls this morning, Your Honor. He’s no crackpot. He was on the Patriots organization payroll at the time the photo was taken. He retired on good terms. I’ve got two former executives so far who will vouch for him.”
