By Blood Written (36 page)

Talmadge nodded. “I don’t think it’s much of a threat. But the blood evidence is another matter. And, of course, the results of the DNA tests are absolutely crucial.”

“I can tell you right now, there’s nothing there for them to find,” Michael said.

“Then we’ll proceed on that premise,” Steinberg said.

“But let’s also assume, for the sake of argument, that the worst-case scenario will prevail and we’ll go to trial. What’s the next step?”

Talmadge sighed. “We have to be prepared for that, although I hope we can cut them off at that pass. But we have to start putting the team together.”

“Team?” Michael asked.

Talmadge nodded. “We’ll need to hire a jury consultant. I know the best one in the business. She’s been on
60 Minutes
, Court TV, the whole package. She’ll start putting together what we need from a jury. And keep in mind, there’s every good reason to think that while we probably won’t get a change of venue, and maybe don’t even want one, that we’ll wind up going out of county to get a jury. Which means Jackson, Memphis, maybe Knoxville. And what we look for will change depending on where we go. Getting a death-qualified jury is a challenge. We want a good one.”

“I don’t know exactly what that means, but I’ll go along,”

Michael said wearily.

“And then we’ll need a good private investigator on scene in Nashville to go over everything the police have done and then some. I’ve worked with a guy in Nashville before, name’s Denton, who’s very good and very discreet.

He knows the cops, has connections inside the department, and is very thorough. And one other good thing: For some reason or other, he’s willing to work cheap.”

Michael smiled. “Well, so far he’s the only son of a bitch who is.”

“And then we’ll want a forensic pathologist to go over the autopsy, from one end to the other. And also a crime-scene expert. Police often, more often than you’d think, mishan-dle evidence in ways that would shock you. If we can catch them breaking the rules, then we can swat them down like a housefly. After all, police screwups are basically how O.

J. was acquitted.”

Michael moaned. “Please don’t mention his case in the same breath with mine.”

“Why not?” Steinberg asked, smiling. “He’s walking around swinging a nine iron. Nothing wrong with that.”

“And then we’ll have to go after the DNA analysis as well.

We need to have the best people we can find to challenge the results if they turn against us. Obviously, if they come out in our favor, we’ll punt on that. But I want them ready.”

“I know Barry Scheck,” Steinberg said. “I’ll call him today and get a referral.”

“Good. And we might even think about bringing in a psych guy.”

“Psych guy?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, a psychiatrist who’s an expert in this sort of crime and in profiling these sorts of murderers. If we can put him up on the stand and he testifies there’s no way you are even psychologically equipped to do this kind of violence, that will carry some weight.”

Michael sighed. “Okay, if you think we need it.”

“We’ll hold off on that decision, but keep it on the back burner. Now the next step,” Talmadge explained, “is the settlement date. The judge has scheduled a hearing not quite ninety days out. Now depending on what happens with the DNA tests, we’ll try to have the charges against you dismissed. The DA may try to broker a lesser charge, but I doubt it.”

“I wouldn’t take the deal anyway,” Michael said. “I won’t plead out on this.”

“Then another sixty days or so later, we’ll have a pretrial conference. At that point, the judge will ask if everybody’s good to go. If everything’s prepared, that’s when we’ll set a trial date. That’s going to be complicated, though, since a capital trial like this is going to be long and involved. Everybody will have to clear a huge hole in their calendar.”

“How long will the trial itself take?”

Talmadge considered for a moment before speaking. “A good month, six weeks,” he said.

“Jesus,” Michael said. “So we’re looking at a good six months or so before we go to trial, and then six weeks or so after that before we know.”

“That’s about it.”

“And the meter will be running the whole time,” Michael said.

Talmadge shrugged. “Cases like this are expensive to defend. I’m sorry.”

“I guess I need to get back to my laptop and start typing,”

Michael said. “I’ve got a lot of books to write if I’m going to keep you guys in the style you’ve become accustomed to.”

“There’s one other duck we need to get in order,” Talmadge said. He looked over at Steinberg, who nodded at him.

“What?” Michael asked.

Talmadge looked back at Michael. “The state of Tennessee employs what’s called a bifurcated trial system. In other words, a two-phase trial. The first phase is the guilt or innocence stage. We have every reason to believe you’ll be acquitted of this if it gets that far, but we can’t assume it. To protect you, we need a mitigator for the penalty phase.”

“A what?” Michael asked.

“A mitigator, an attorney who specializes in convincing a jury that there are reasons why even if you’ve been found guilty, you don’t deserve to die.”

This time the silence between them was painfully leaden.

Finally, Michael spoke in a voice so soft Steinberg could barely hear him.

“You know, if I’m found guilty of this, I’d almost rather be put to death. I don’t think I can stand prison. I just don’t think I could stand it.”

“Everybody says that at first,” Talmadge offered. “But when the reality hits, you realize that even a life in prison is still life.”

Michael shook his head. “Not for me,” he said. “Not for me.”

PART III
?

THE TRIAL
?

CHAPTER 30
?

Monday morning, eight months later, Nashville
Taylor Robinson rolled over in the oversize hotel bed and turned to the windows. The covers were bunched around her, knotted up, her legs cramped under them. She opened her eyes and tried to focus on the window.

Is the sun even up yet?

She rolled back over and kicked the covers off, then stood up shakily beside the bed. Her head hurt, her eyes burning from lack of sleep. If she’d slept at all, it had been only in the last couple of hours. She pulled the heavy drapery aside and squinted at the light filtering through the gauzy thin sheer that covered the window. She looked over at the clock.

Six-fifteen. She groaned and pulled the curtain aside, then stared out over downtown Nashville. The city was just beginning to awaken on a cold but clear late-January morning, the sun looming large and vibrant in the east. From the eighteenth floor, she felt detached from the city, as if somehow she wasn’t really here.

Sleep. All she wanted was sleep.

She walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on her face, then brushed her teeth to get the stale taste out of her mouth. She pulled her robe around her, then sat on the edge of the bed. She typed in a toll-free number from memory, then the twelve numbers of her calling card. Then she dialed Brett Silverman’s home phone.

Brett answered on the fifth ring, barely ahead of the answering machine, her voice thick and groggy.

“Yeah?” she grumbled.

“Oh, God, you’re still asleep. I’m so sorry. I figured with the time difference—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brett mumbled. “The clock was going off in a few anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Taylor said again.

Brett cleared her throat, then spoke again. “How are you?”

“Tired. I don’t think I slept at all last night.”

“Where’s Michael?”

“I guess he’s still in his room,” Taylor answered.

“His
room?” Brett asked.

Taylor felt her shoulders knotting up. “We took separate rooms. I know, it’s kind of weird. But he stays up all night anyway. And the way I’m sleeping these days, it would have been impossible for me to get any rest.”

“Darling,” Brett said, drawing out the word, “why did you even go down there? This can’t be good for you.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Taylor asked. “We’re engaged. He’s my client and my fiance. I have to support him.”

“Even though it’s cost you twenty pounds that you really didn’t have to lose?” Brett said. “You’re skin and bones, girl.

God, I wish I could give you twenty of mine.”

“They’ll come back. When this is all over.”

Taylor sat there for a moment, silently. The silence stretched into awkwardness, and she felt silly for calling her best friend so early.

“At this point, I’m more worried about you than I am Michael,” Brett said. “Whatever’s going to happen to him is going to happen. I don’t want you to go down in the process.”

“I’m okay,” she said. “I just wish this was all over.”

“When do you have to be in court?”

“Nine. A little less than three hours.”

“You’re going to eat something?” Brett scolded. “You’re going to take care of yourself?”

Taylor nodded. “Yes. I’ll be all right. I think I just wanted to hear your voice. You’ve really been a big help these last few months.”

Taylor heard Brett let loose a long sigh. “It’s been the weirdest fucking eight months I’ve ever been through. I’ve always wanted to have a real, for-true
New York Times
best-selling author. I just never imagined him going on
Larry
King Live
to announce that he wasn’t a serial killer.”

“This is crazy,” Taylor said. “Surely a jury’s going to see how crazy this is.”

“Yeah, for sure. Will you call me later?”

“I’ll have my cell phone. I’ll call you every break I can.”

“Good, use my mobile number, too. Keep me apprised.

Part of me wishes I could watch it on TV. Part of me is glad I can’t.”

“Me, too,” Taylor agreed. “I was actually relieved when the judge banned TV cameras.”

“Taylor,” Brett said. “This is going to be okay. Whichever way it goes, you’re going to survive this. Okay? Promise me?”

Taylor smiled. “Okay,” she said. “Promise.”

Carey picked up Taylor and Michael at the hotel and drove them silently to the Davidson County Courthouse. They avoided the news vans and the waiting reporters at the main entrance by using an entrance on the river side of the building.

Carey escorted them up to the third floor of the Davidson County Courthouse, where Talmadge and two other men in suits, carrying heavy briefcases, waited for them.

“There’s a small conference room down here we can use,”

Talmadge said. “We’ve got about ten minutes before we kick off.”

Michael and Taylor followed them to a narrow doorway off the main hallway. One of Talmadge’s assistants held the door open.

“Should I wait out here?” Taylor asked.

“No,” Michael said. “I want you with me, if that’s okay.”

Talmadge nodded solemnly. Inside the room, he turned and faced Michael. “You know my assistants, Jim McCain and Mark Hoffman, right?”

Michael nodded. “Yes, we met a couple of months ago.”

“Jim, Mark, this is Taylor Robinson, Michael’s fiancee and literary agent.”

The two men nodded quickly. “Pleased to meet you,” Taylor said quietly.

“We don’t have a lot of time, Michael,” Talmadge said. “I just want to go over a few last things with you. First, do your best not to react to anything the prosecutor or anyone else says. If you need to say something to me, whisper it very quietly or scribble it down on a legal pad. You don’t have to say anything out loud, and I don’t want you to. Just stay calm, look professional, and let us handle this. You good with that?”

Michael smiled, a look of confidence on his face. “I’m fine, Wes. I’m ready to go.”

“Good. So are we. Now when we get in there, the judge will ask if there are any last-minute motions or questions.

We won’t have anything and the DA probably won’t, either.

Then the judge will seat the jury and we’re on our way. The DA will start with an opening statement. As we’ve already agreed, we’re going to hold off on our opening statement until the prosecution rests. We know what we’re up against and we’re ready for it. Let’s just get our heads in the right places, okay? Everybody with me on that?”

Talmadge looked around the room. Both his assistants nodded, then Michael turned to Taylor. “You okay?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. A little nervous, but I’ll be fine.”

“Outstanding,” Talmadge said. “We’re good to go.”

They exited the room and walked down the long, cavernous marble-floored hall of the Davidson County Courthouse. Taylor expected to have to walk through a throng, but surprisingly, there were few other people in the hallway. As they approached the security checkpoint that barred access to the two massive wooden doors of the courtroom, Taylor saw a line of perhaps ten people waiting to be screened.

She looked nervously at her watch. It was two minutes until nine.

Time seemed to drag. She fought the sense that this was unreal, a dream that wasn’t really happening. Her stomach knotted, and she felt, briefly, the urge to scream.

And then she was at the security checkpoint, handing her bag to a female officer and stepping gingerly through the large frame of the metal detector. She waited at the heavy wooden doors for Michael and the rest to get through, then grabbed the handle of the door and pulled.

The courtroom was packed. A murmur went up as she walked in, followed by Michael and the team of lawyers.

She stopped, and a court officer nodded to her, then motioned toward the far side of the courtroom. She stepped aside as Michael entered the courtroom, then followed him around the edge of the audience and over to the defense table near the large windows. The courtroom seemed smaller than she expected. Cramped, in fact. But the ceiling was easily twenty feet above their heads, giving the room a cavernous feel. The air inside was still, almost stale, and the temperature was already rising from the dozens of bodies packed onto the hard wooden seats.

Michael, Wesley Talmadge, and the two assistant lawyers stepped through a wooden gate and entered the area in front of the bench. They started unloading their briefcases as Wesley pointed to an empty space on the bench right behind their table. Taylor eased in past four people and sat in the middle, placing her purse on the floor next to her foot.