By Blood Written (43 page)

You haven’t done your job. You can’t do this. It’s not right and we won’t let you.’ My client’s fate and life is in your hands. Treat it as you would your own. And I, too, thank you for your service.”

As Talmadge sat down, a silence as heavy and as thick as fog descended on the room.

“General Collier,” Forsythe said after a moment, “do you have any rebuttal?”

“Just one quick comment, Your Honor,” Collier said, rising. He walked to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, I only want to emphasize one last point, and that is that the bloodstains in the car are directly linked to Sarah and Allison, and the night they were murdered, as the evidence has clearly indicated, that car was in the sole possession of the defendant.”

Collier sat down. “Any motions before I begin the charge to the jury?” Forsythe asked.

Talmadge rose. “Your Honor, the defense moves for a directed verdict of acquittal.”

“Motion denied. Anything else?”

Talmadge shook his head. “No, Your Honor. Nothing at this time.”

He sat down as the words were coming out of his mouth, as if the last thing he expected was for the motion to be granted. Taylor sat there, watching, as the judge swiveled in his chair and faced the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “at this point in the trial, the evidence has been presented, and both the state and the defense have had the opportunity to summarize the points in their cases. It is now my responsibility to instruct you in the law and how you are to apply it in your deliberations …”

Taylor settled back as the judge droned on. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, silently. It was out of their hands now.

The judge’s charge lasted almost an hour, and then court was dismissed right before noon. The jury went straight into the deliberations room, their midday meal delivered by court officers.

Michael and Wes Talmadge, with the two younger lawyers, remained behind in the courtroom. Taylor walked over and stood next to them as they spoke in lowered, hushed voices.

“—just a waiting game now,” she heard Talmadge say.

Michael turned to Taylor, his eyes meeting hers, and cracked a slight smile. She found herself suddenly feeling sorry for him, despite everything, despite the scenes her imagination had created over the past weeks, the scenes that were even more horrible than the actual crime-scene photographs. If he had done the things they said he had done, and she was almost certain that he had, then hidden beneath the surface of this intelligent, driven, gifted, and even beautiful man was a monster.

And yet he seemed at that moment supremely human.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

She had to think a moment on that. “I’m not sure. But we probably need to try and eat.”

Michael turned, faced Talmadge. “What are our options?”

“The court clerk has my mobile number, so as soon as the jury is ready, she’ll call. We ought to try and go someplace quiet, someplace where we can be left alone.”

“Do you want to get a bite together?” Michael asked. “I mean, after this morning I’d understand—”

“We should stay close by each other,” Talmadge interrupted. Then he smiled, reached out and touched Michael’s arm. “And don’t worry about this morning. People say and do things in the heat and stress of a trial they sometimes don’t mean.”

“I appreciate that, Wes,” he said. “I really do.”

Carey walked down the hall toward them. “I’ve got the car out front in a loading zone. If we hurry, we can get out of here without drawing too much attention.”

Outside, they waded their way through the herd of media, dodging microphones and questions, and hurried away in the car. Carey drove like an expert, weaving in and out of traffic, skating across two lanes of oncoming traffic and disappearing down a side street. They drove a few blocks into North Nashville into an area called Germantown, an older section of the city that had become trendy and fashionable over the past decade. Nestled in an old building across from a Catholic church was a small restaurant, dark and intimate inside, with exposed brick walls and an open fireplace in the middle of the room. Talmadge had arranged a table at the back of the restaurant, tucked away in a corner where they could eat unnoticed.

Taylor ordered a glass of wine and a bowl of French onion soup. The men all ordered drinks and steaks, as if celebrat-ing the victory they had yet to win. Or perhaps it was the liberating sense of it all being over, out of their hands. Taylor didn’t know, but she found her own spirits buoyed by the conversation and the wine. She ate the soup, marveling at the fact that her sense of taste had come back.

Only rarely did anyone make reference to the trial. “How long will the jury take?” Michael asked at one point.

“It’s impossible to tell,” Talmadge said.

“The usual expectation,” Mark Hoffman said, jumping into the conversation probably as a result of his second bourbon on the rocks, “is that if they come back quick in a criminal trial, that’s often bad news for the defendant. If deliberations take a long time, that means it’s up in the air, anybody’s game.”

Talmadge looked down at his watch. “They’ve already been in over an hour. That probably means they’ve had time to eat lunch and take a preliminary poll. If we don’t hear anything in the next half hour, then we know they weren’t unanimous.”

Taylor, on the back side of the table, next to Michael, her back to the exposed brick, picked up her wineglass, finished the last of the Merlot, and signaled for another. Taylor almost never drank during the day, but this was one day when it simply felt right.

Two hours later, they were all full and buzzing slightly from the alcohol. There had been no word from the court.

Carey, who had indulged in nothing stronger than iced tea, drove them back to the courthouse, dropped them off, then headed for the parking garage.

Inside the courthouse, their footsteps echoing off the floor, their voices muted by the cavernous hallways, the group went back up to the third-floor courtroom. Inside the courtroom, a lone court officer was sitting at a table reading a newspaper. Talmadge looked at him, questioning. The officer shook his head and turned back to the paper.

“Holding pattern,” he said to Michael and Taylor. “No word yet.”

Taylor sat down on the hard wooden bench, the place where she’d spent more time than she ever imagined or intended the past few weeks.

“I’m so tired,” she said absentmindedly.

“Me too,” Michael offered. He sat down next to her.

“When this is all over,” he said, “when this is behind us, let’s go back to Bonaire. Back to where we started. We can make a fresh start.”

Taylor looked at him. “Does life give you that kind of do-over? Ever?”

“It can if we make it,” he said. He reached over and brushed his fingertips across her cheek. “I want you very much. As much as I always have. And I’ve missed you.”

She instinctively drew back. “Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t.”

He nodded, then turned away from her. A few seconds later, he stood up and walked back over to Talmadge and the other lawyers, who were huddled around the defense table.

Taylor felt as if she were dragging time behind her like a ball and chain. She looked at her watch—two twenty-five.

An hour later, she looked at it again and only ten minutes had passed. The soup and the wine in her belly washed around like waves pounding sand in a hurricane. She thought for a moment that she might be sick, but then took a few deep breaths and steadied herself. She realized her hips and legs were going numb; she couldn’t sit on this damn wooden bench any longer.

She walked out of the courtroom, pacing up and down the hallway, stopping and looking out the tall windows at the traffic and the milling crowds below. The news vans were parked bumper-to-bumper, all awaiting the verdict.

Michael and Talmadge walked out into the hallway and stood next to her. “How long will this go on today?” she asked.

Talmadge shrugged. “Forsythe’s a slave driver,” he said.

“He’ll make them go at it until dinnertime, anyway. My guess is he’ll keep ‘em here until they’re too tired to work anymore, then he’ll send them back to the hotel.”

Suddenly, a group of people hurried past them. Reporters, hangers-on, spectators. Talmadge, Michael, and Taylor turned.

“What’s going on?” Michael asked.

Talmadge shook his head. “I don’t know—”

Then his cell phone went off. Talmadge jerked it open.

“Yeah? When? Yeah, okay. We’re on our way.”

He snapped the cell phone shut. “Let’s go.”

“They’re done? The jury’s back?” Taylor felt her gut tighten.

Talmadge nodded. “Yeah.”

Michael suddenly looked flushed, his face tense, his breathing rapid.

“You okay?” Taylor asked.

“Look,” Michael said, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.

No matter what happens in there, I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

“Okay,” Talmadge offered. “I’ll go with you.”

“No,” Michael said. “This’ll only take a minute. You go with Taylor.”

“Are you all right?” Taylor asked again.

“I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute.”

Talmadge turned and started down the hallway. “Don’t dawdle,” he said over his shoulder. “We don’t want to do anything to piss Forsythe off.”

Taylor hurried to follow him. At the courthouse doors, Taylor pulled up behind him as they stood in the crowd trying to get in. She reached out and touched his arm. He turned, a serious look on his face.

“I’m scared,” she said.

Talmadge looked directly into her eyes. “Me, too.”

Once inside the courtroom, she fought her way to her seat and jammed herself in between two other people. The room seemed stifling. Talmadge and the other two attorneys sat at the defense table as Collier and his assistant, Jane Sparks, paced around the prosecution table. Court officers buzzed around, the clerk taking her seat at the table in front of the judge’s bench. There was a din of background chatter and the shuffling of bodies vying for seats.

A court officer came over to Talmadge and said something. Taylor read his lips as he answered, “In the men’s room.”

Minutes passed, the energy in the room seeming to build by the second. Talmadge looked around nervously. A court officer came in through the doors to the judge’s chambers.

He looked over at the defense table, his face stern, almost angry, and crossed quickly over to Talmadge.

“Where’s your client, Counselor?” he demanded. “The judge is waiting.”

“He’s in the men’s room, damn it, the man had an attack,”

Talmadge said, his voice tense.

“Get somebody down there to check on him. Quick, or you’ll have some explaining to do to the judge.”

Talmadge turned and nodded to Hoffman. “Go get him,”

he said, his voice low.

Hoffman wove his way through the crowd quickly and disappeared through the doors. Taylor felt a lump growing inside her. She swiveled her head around, scanning the crowded courtroom. In the back of the room, standing against the wall, stood Agent Powell. Their eyes met and locked for a few moments, then Powell raised his left arm to his waist, pulled back his coat sleeve, and checked his watch.

Hoffman pushed through the crowd back to the defense table. He leaned down and whispered something in Talmadge’s ear. The lawyer sat up straight, his body almost stiff, as he glared at Hoffman. Taylor stood up, leaned over the rail, and motioned to the defense table. Hoffman saw her and stepped over to the rail.

“What’s going on?” she whispered into his ear.

He turned to her and cupped his mouth around her ear.

“We can’t find him,” he said over the courtroom din.

“Oh my God,” she said out loud. Hoffman shushed her, turned back to the table as the court officer came in once again from the judge’s chambers. He bent down into a huddle at the defense table, his face darkening. Collier and Sparks, watching from the other table, suddenly stood and walked over to the group. Taylor watched as Jane Sparks brought her hand to her mouth in shock. Collier turned and walked away from the group.

The court officer backed away, pulled a Handie-Talkie from his belt, and spoke into it. A second court officer stepped over from the other side of the room and whispered something to the first officer, then turned and disappeared.

By now, the noise in the courtroom was rising as the press and spectators got wind of what was going on. People pushed and shoved, voices were raised. The court officer motioned for people to quiet down. The radio on his belt crackled loudly, and he held it to his ear for a moment, then spoke into it. A second later, he turned and strode quickly through the doors into the judge’s chambers.

Taylor stood at the rail, staring. Talmadge turned to her, his eyes dark and serious, and shrugged his shoulders.

Moments later, the court officer reentered, his voice loud:

“All rise!” he began.

Judge Forsythe came in behind him, his robes in a flurry, and immediately took his seat and began banging his gavel before the officer could even finish his spiel.

“Be seated!” he yelled. “Everyone take a seat, or I’m going to have this courtroom cleared immediately! Those of you in the back, stand against the wall and be silent. This is my last warning. I
will
have this courtroom cleared.”

It took a few seconds, but order was quickly restored. Forsythe looked out over the bench and glared at the defense table.

“Counselor, produce your client,” he ordered.

Talmadge stood quickly. “Your Honor,” he said, his voice breaking. Taylor had never heard him sound like he was losing it before. “Your Honor, I—I can’t. He was here a few minutes ago. He was in the bathroom. I—”

“Mr. Talmadge, I just gave you a direct order to produce your client. I’m going to hold you in contempt if he’s not delivered to this court immediately.”

“Y-Your Honor,” Talmadge stammered. “I’m sorry, but I can’t make somebody just appear if they’re not here.”

Forsythe turned to one of his court officers. “I want this building locked down immediately. Search the entire courthouse. Find him.”

The court officer fumbled for his radio, then bolted from the courtroom through the judge’s door.