Tom didn’t even have to think twice. Fuck it. He’d worked his ass off on this loser. The mayor had gotten his indictment, but nobody had promised him a verdict. No matter that the Commonwealth had a chance of winning, Tom knew where the pacifiers were. He said without hesitation, “The Commonwealth has no objection to this case proceeding to verdict at this time, Your Honor. The Commonwealth is as interested as the defendant and the Court in bringing this matter to a swift and certain conclusion.”
Judge Rudolph watched himself leaping the last hurdle. Sprinting for the finish line. Leaning into the tape. Splitting it like a spiderweb. The crowd roared. The banner flapped. He had won. It was over. Somebody handed him a flute of champagne.
And a brand-new robe.
61
Marta and Judy churned down the street, racing toward the Criminal Justice Center. Snow whisked from the sky and lay in a thick layer over sidewalks, buildings, and cars, as if someone had tossed a white comforter over Philadelphia. Stores and businesses were shut down. No one was outside. The stillness and silence were complete except for the whistle of the wind, a fluted note blown from the chill gray ether.
Marta panted as she ran in the heavy clothes, struggling to keep up with the younger and fitter associate; she was almost hyperventilating by the time they reached Broad Street. “Judy,” she called weakly, and the associate ran back through the snow. Marta doubled over and braced her hands on her knees, trying to suppress the soreness in her torso. “I have to stop,” she said, gasping. “I can’t keep this up.”
“You have to. We have to keep going.”
Marta felt dizzy. Blood rushed to her head and it throbbed. She couldn’t find the strength to straighten up. “Aren’t there any cabs?”
“No. No cabs, no buses, nothing,” Judy said, scanning the deserted street. She was panting, too, and her breath made large clouds of steam in the frigid air. “We gotta run for it.”
“How much farther?”
“Five blocks.” Judy squinted through the snow at the old-fashioned yellow clock atop City Hall, with its ornate Victorian hands. Her heartbeat quickened. “It’s one-fifteen, Marta. We gotta go. Come on.”
“I’m too old for this.” Marta panted heavily as she stood up. Her chest felt like it would explode. “You go ahead. Take my purse. The evidence is in it.”
“No. They won’t believe me without you, you’re lead counsel. Come on. Straighten up. Move your ass.”
“You just like bossing me around,” Marta said, panting too hard to smile.
“That too,” Judy said, and ran off toward the courthouse.
62
Bennie climbed the snowdrift to Carrier’s stoop, brushed snow off the brass buzzer, and leaned hard on the black button to ring the associate’s apartment. She buzzed and buzzed, but there was no answer. Damn. Bennie hit the buzzer for the ground-floor apartment. It was marked by a card that said HILL-SILVERBLANK, but the Hill-Silverblanks weren’t in either.
Bennie banged on the front door in frustration. Snow shook from the door panels as she pounded. She had trudged all the way here to stop this kid. She wouldn’t be turned away now. She banged harder, hoping Judy hadn’t already done something stupid. She could land all of them in front of the disciplinary board and put Rosato & Associates in the toilet.
She stepped away from the door and looked up at Carrier’s windows. They were empty and dark. Where could she be? Bennie climbed down the stoop and into the snow at the sidewalk. Then she saw them. Tracks in the deep snow, messy footprints that led from Carrier’s stoop and down the sidewalk, then traveled beside a row of buried cars and disappeared around the corner.
Bennie peered through the blowing snow at the tracks. She could follow where they led. The footprints were easy to see in the deep snow. In some places it looked more like legprints than footprints. Bennie smiled. Lawyer tracks. Cloven pumps. They wouldn’t get far on foot.
She clambered down the stoop, careful not to kick snow on the fresh footprints, when it hit her. There were four footprints, not two. Two people had left Judy’s apartment — Judy and Marta. Either that or the Hill-Silverblanks, out for a stroll in a blizzard. Bennie knew in her bones which was more likely. She had a hunch Judy and Marta were heading for the Criminal Justice Center. She bounded after them.
The lawyer tracks ran down Twenty-fourth Street through the residential neighborhoods. Bennie picked up the pace, running directly through them. She hadn’t slept all night, but she always enjoyed a run in cold weather. Her legs felt strong. Her wind came easily. Bennie hadn’t rowed since the storm and she needed to stretch. It was the golden retriever in her. She got rammy when she didn’t get to fetch the ball.
She followed the tracks down the snow-laden sidewalk and fell into an easy stride. Bennie had always been the fastest on her crew, and running the benches at Franklin Field every week since then had kept her in shape. She still regretted not trying out for the Olympics, but there’d been a mother to support.
Bennie checked the tracks as she ran into the snow. Deep trails marked the snowy sidewalk, like slugs. She would overtake them in no time. She had to, before they ruined all of them. Bennie picked up the pace in the next few strides and sprinted down the street.
63
“It’s D day, troops,” Ralph called to the other jurors. “Time to vote.” Ralph was officially the foreman of the jury, but he felt more like an undertaker at a funeral parlor. He strode around the conference table, handing a sheet of legal paper to each downcast juror. They were in a funk since the scene with Christopher. It’d been like a soap opera, with Megan hugging Christopher while he flopped around on the floor like a hooked trout. Christopher kept trying to talk, but Megan had kept him quiet until the ambulance arrived.
Ralph had started pushing for a final vote as soon as the judge ordered them to resume deliberations. If Kenny wouldn’t go with the flow this round, Ralph would get him next round. It was just a matter of time. Ralph handed a piece of legal paper to Megan. “Time to vote now, young lady. The sooner this is over, the sooner you can get to the hospital.”
“Thanks,” Megan said, accepting the paper shakily. She stared at the blank paper. She didn’t want to convict Steere even if it meant disagreeing with Christopher. Poor Christopher. She did want to visit him, at least to make sure he was okay. Megan hurriedly wrote innocent on her paper and folded it up.
Mrs. Wahlbaum bent over her paper, with one last glance at Mr. Fogel, who was writing with a speed that didn’t surprise her. He’d vote not guilty, and Wanthida, who sat beside him, would vote not guilty, too. Mrs. Wahlbaum tried to recall what Christopher had said after he changed his mind, but all she could remember was him writhing in agony on the stretcher. It must have been appendicitis. She wrote not guilty and turned her paper over.
Nick trembled at the lined sheet in front of him. His nerves were shot. Christopher’s stomach attack was the last straw. What if Nick got a stomach attack, too? His belly was already burning him. He gulped down some water and didn’t even care if his thumb showed. He wanted to go home before he caught whatever Christopher had. He couldn’t stain again. Nick grabbed his pencil, clenched it tightly, and wrote INNOCENT.
Lucky Seven hunched over his paper, feelin’ like he used to feel in grade school when they gave tests. Everybody was writing and he wasn’t. He could hear them all, scribblin’ away. Everybody was finishin’ before him, foldin’ up their papers, handin’ them in. It was like they had all the answers. Well, this time he had the answer.
Lucky Seven was feelin’ bad for Isaiah and his girl, and he was gonna stand up for what he thought no matter what Kenny said. Hell, after this case was over, he’d never see the dude again. It wasn’t like they’d be hangin’. Lucky Seven wrote not guilty on the damn sheet just as quick as he could. He wasn’t even the last one finished.
“Everybody done voting?” Ralph asked, taking his seat at the head of the table. He slapped the pad in front of him and casually wrote NOT GUILTY. Like it wasn’t worth $100,000 to h
im. Then he looked up.
“I didn’t vote yet, man,” Kenny Manning said evenly, at the opposite end of the long table. All the jurors looked at Kenny, except for Lucky Seven, who looked pointedly away.
“That’s okay,” Ralph said. “Hold your papers, people. Don’t pass ’em in yet. Kenny’s entitled to take his time.” He glanced at his watch. 1:25. “Take all the time you need, friend.”
Kenny picked up his pencil and looked out the window. He didn’t need their shit. He could take his own goddamn time. Didn’t need no Ralph Fuckin’ Merry to tell him that. Didn’t need no go-ahead from that pig face. Kenny made them all wait, lookin’ out the window and watchin’ the goddamn snow. Takin’ his own damn time.
At a hospital across town, Christopher lay agonized on a gurney as it sped down a corridor. He kept trying to tell the doctors to call the cops, but the nurse and an emergency room doctor ran with the gurney on either side, ignoring his grunting. Pain ripped through Christopher’s bowel but he kept trying to talk.
“Nuh … grr … stop,” he managed to say, but they hustled the gurney into a cold white room. Everybody was rushing around in half-masks and gowns. The gurney lurched to a stop under a blinding beam of light.
“No … wait … whoa,” Christopher grunted. He put his arms up to shield his eyes. A doctor held his wrist and started to put a plastic mask over his face. No. They couldn’t put him to sleep. He had to call the police. He had to save Marta.
“I said whoa!” Christopher shouted, and marshaling all his strength, grabbed the startled doctor by his white lapels and wrestled him onto the table beside him. Nurses gasped in shock as the two men fell to the cold tile floor and Christopher screamed in the doctor’s face, “Call the police! Now!”
64
Marta got her second wind as soon as she spied the Criminal Justice Center through the driving snow flurries. The building was modern with Art Deco touches, trimmed in gray marble and tan. Fresh snow outlined its geometric ledges and decorative windowsills. It was a beautiful building and she’d take it by storm. Marta panted with exertion and excitement as she ran.
Judy knew without a word what Marta was thinking. They were on the same page. They had the evidence against Steere. They would turn it over to the court. Judy ran faster. The ethical problem nagged at her, but every time she felt a doubt she thought of Mary lying in the snow. Bleeding almost to death. Mary might not survive, and Judy couldn’t even be with her at the hospital because of Elliot Steere. She owed him exactly zip. Judy hugged Marta’s purse under her arm and kept her legs churning.
But something was wrong. Odd. The heart of town should have been deserted. City Hall and the Criminal Justice Center were closed because of the blizzard, except for the Steere case. The street should be as dead as the rest of town, snowed in for the duration. But it wasn’t.
Bennie squinted through the snow as she ran. She had lost their tracks when she reached the business district and followed her hunch the rest of the way. Three blocks ahead of her, two figures were running down the sidewalk past Market Street toward the Criminal Justice Center. Judy and Marta. Bennie recognized Judy’s bright yellow shell. The associate was a rock climber with a full wardrobe of pricey gear. Besides, who else would wear a color like that?
Bennie took it up for a few strokes, running hard. Power strokes, at the beginning of a race. Cranking up the stroke to launch the scull smoothly, then taking it into full stride, full bore. She narrowed the gap between them. Two blocks, then one. She watched Judy and Marta reach the Criminal Justice Center and the fringes of a crowd collecting there. There was activity. Commotion. Oh, no. Bennie took up the stroke until the scull began to fly.
Judy was aghast as she ran. People were collecting at the mouth of Filbert Street. Something was happening at the Criminal Justice Center. News vans with colorful logos had parked crazily in the plowed snow. Blue-and-white police cars thronged at the corner of Filbert Street. “We’re not too late, are we?” Judy asked anxiously, panting as she ran. She looked over at Marta, whose expression showed strain and alarm.
“No. We can’t be.”
“The TV stations are here. The cops. Maybe it’s the verdict.”
Marta shook it off. “It could be the jurors, arriving from the hotel.”
“But it could be the verdict. They could have delivered it already.”
“No!” Marta shouted hoarsely. “We’re not too late! Now run!” She gritted her teeth and ran harder. She wouldn’t be beaten by Elliot Steere, not after last night. Not after the guards, and Mary.
Judy peered through the snow flurries at the scene. The crowd got closer and closer. They dashed past the shadow of City Hall and rushed down the block to Filbert. At the back of the mob stood black-jacketed cops and reporters in green parkas and snow ponchos. The noisy crowd was dotted with black police hats, baseball caps, and golf umbrellas. A hundred people filled the narrow street, talking excitedly, their breath making a collective cloud in the cold air.
“I can’t see anything, can you?” Marta shouted, out of breath. She was at the edge of complete exhaustion.
“No. The crowd’s too big.” Judy peeked from behind an overweight cop. “Officer, what’s happening?”
“Just got here myself, lady,” the cop said. His nose was red and leaky. “They called for crowd control.”
Marta yanked down her hood so she wouldn’t be recognized and shoved past a reporter in her way.
Bennie dashed the last hundred feet to the crowd. It was the final kick. She gave it all she had. Her legs hurt. Her lungs ached. She reached the Criminal Justice Center just in time to spot Judy’s yellow hat disappear midway through the crowd, with Marta pushing ahead of her.
65
Marta stood near the front of the crowd, riveted at the sight. Elliot Steere was free. He stood joking with reporters on the sidewalk in front of the Criminal Justice Center. Cameras snapped his fake grin. TV lights bleached his features white as a cadaver. He was free. She was too late.
Judy pushed next to Marta from behind. “Oh, God,” she moaned, instantly sick at heart. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her body sagged with defeat. Steere had gotten away with murder. Judy wiped her eyes with a wet, snowy mitten.
Marta was too horrified to speak. She could see only her own fury. The man had used her. Used the court. Killed people. She seethed as he smiled for the press and raised his arms in victory. Steere would go free and prosper. It couldn’t happen. It couldn’t be permitted. Then Marta remembered.
The pritchel. A long iron spike with a tip as lethal as a dagger. Did she still have it? She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the cold metal. The pritchel. She held it, feeling its heft even through her glove. It struck Marta as the perfect solution. She was already ruined. She had already killed. She had nothing more to lose. She stepped forward in a sort of trance, leaving Judy and the world behind.
Back at the middle of the crowd, Bennie began pushing harder. “Excuse me!” she said, elbowing past a cop. She spotted Steere at the front of the crowd, being interviewed by reporters on the sidewalk. So he’d been acquitted. At least Marta and Judy hadn’t been able to interfere with the trial. But where were they?
Bennie scanned the crowd and spotted Judy’s yellow ski cap among the black police hats. Where was Marta? She would be furious at seeing Steere walk. Bennie felt panicky without knowing why. She jostled her way forward from the right side where the reporters were fewer.
Marta stopped two rows from Steere. Snow fell on his fine overcoat and sprinkled his padded shoulders. She was so close she could see the hand stitching on his lapels. She gripped the pritchel in her pocket. Her heart pumped in her chest. Adrenaline pounded in her ears, drumming behind Steere’s voice.
“I always knew the jury would find me innocent,” Steere was saying to a TV reporter holding a black bubble microphone. “Never doubted it for a minute.”
Bennie pushed through the crowd and finally spotted Marta. There. Right near Steere. Marta was standi
ng still, a faraway look in her eyes. What was she doing? Bennie would have shouted to her but the crowd was too loud. “Comin’ through!” she said, pushing her way to Marta.
Marta stood a foot from Steere, her face obscured by her hood. She imagined the pritchel piercing his chest. Staining his camel-hair topcoat with hot red blood. She waited for the right moment. The TV reporter was still in the way. Marta inched forward, the drumming louder in her ears, waiting for the reporter to move.
Bennie saw it then. What was happening. Marta was closing in. She must have a weapon. Would she really kill Steere? Oh God. She had to be stopped. She couldn’t do that. Bennie couldn’t let her. She bulldozed through the crowd.
The TV reporter moved suddenly aside. Steere looked around for the next interview, smiling. The path in front of him was momentarily clear. Marta’s world froze. The crowd stood still. The reporters fell mute. The motor drives stopped whirring. The only sound was the drumbeat pounding in Marta’s ears. She stepped into the breach and drew her hand from her pocket.
“MARTA, NO!” Bennie shrieked.
The scream broke Marta’s trance. The world came screaming back to life. What had she been thinking? Was she crazy? Strong arms grabbed her. It was Bennie, alarmed. She wrenched the pritchel from Marta’s hands and searched her eyes for sanity.
Suddenly sirens blared at the edge of the crowd. Cops shouted. Reporters yelled. Cameras clicked. Video cameras whirred. A phalanx of cops and detectives charged through the crowd toward Steere. “Mr. Steere!” shouted one of the detectives, pointing. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”
Steere started to edge away, but a ring of black-jacketed cops blocked his path. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, at least for the time being. His expression remained composed as they shackled him, and the cacophony of the reporters drowned out his requests for his lawyer.