One to Go (28 page)

“Emma woke up a little before midnight very thirsty. She wanted to go downstairs to get some Coke from the fridge. She tripped on the feet of her oversized pajamas and tumbled down the stairs. When she reached the first floor, her neck snapped.”

“It's my fault.” Tom struggled to keep the tears from his eyes.

Matt reached out and put a comforting hand on Tom's arm. Tom used his other arm to wipe his eyes. “Isn't this where you're
supposed to say something like, ‘There must be a reasonable explanation'?”

The priest lowered his eyes. Was he praying?

Tom continued. Suddenly he desperately needed someone to believe him. “If your faith is real, if you truly accept the concept of good and evil, of God and Satan, then you must believe me.”

While a declarative sentence, Tom raised his voice at the end, positing his remark as a question. Matthew didn't respond, so Tom proceeded to describe the events of the previous night. When he was finished, Matthew leaned back and shook his head.

“You could've been killed.”

“If Ball had killed me before midnight, possibly Emma would now be alive. Who the hell knows what the rules are? You're supposed to be God's agent on earth, what are the rules? Tell me what the frigging rules are?”

“I don't know.”

“And in two weeks Janie will die unless I commit murder. So what's the moral thing to do, Father? Take my own life and hope my application to hell's accepted? Murder a total stranger?”

“Suicide's a sin.”

“Gimme a break. Now? Today? If I knew for certain taking my own life would count and save Janie, then we wouldn't be having this conversation. I'd be hanging from my bunk bed post with my snappy orange jumpsuit tied around my neck.”

Neither of them spoke for almost a full minute. Then Tom broke the silence, his voice softened.

“Sorry I raised my voice. It really has nothing to do with you personally. I guess if I've appeared hostile, it's because I'm just an average guy matched up against…against what? Demons from hell?” Even now, after all that's happened, those words sounded crazy.

Tom continued. “You have to understand, when my mom died, at first I blamed God, then quickly concluded there was no God, or this wonderful woman who believed deeply in Him would still be alive. Now, thanks to the demon twins, I do believe, but not in the God of love and goodness you and those like you
preach. A God of goodness would not have allowed that innocent child to die as if He'd just lost a few chips in a poker hand.” Tom took a deep breath. “You're the closest thing on Earth to the cosmic good guys, and I think I've been frustrated that no one on your side has done anything to help.” He struggled to hold back the tears. “Right now, I just need you to believe me.”

Matt didn't respond; his head was bowed and it was evident he was engaged in some kind of internal struggle. Finally, he looked up.

“When we first met, I thought you were loony tunes. But as time passed, I began to question, not my faith but my commitment, my belief in my faith. Does that make sense?”

“Um, not really.”

“I believed in God, in the power of redemption, and yes, heaven and hell, though not so much in the fairy tale version of those places. But I was never tested; the strength of my belief was never tested.”

Tom stood up and paced back and forth across the small space. “I now know with absolute certainty there is an evil force roaming this world, a force that can cause an innocent little girl to trip on her pink pajamas and fall to her death. Please tell me I'm insane.”

“If the Bible's to be believed, hell's real and demons, they're real, too.”

Tom struggled to suppress anger from his voice. “But God's the top guy, right? The king of kings, lord of lords. Hallelujah. You're telling me He's going to let this child, and maybe another child, my daughter, burn in agony for all eternity?”

“There are passages in the Book of Peter which describe Christ entering hell and releasing deserving souls. I would like to think—” The priest looked away and lowered his voice almost to a whisper, speaking as if only to himself. “I
have
to think, to
believe
, He would not countenance an innocent soul suffering eternal torment. But—”

“But you don't know. Of course, no one knows. Okay, two simple questions. Do you believe me? Will you help me?”

“Yes, I believe you. But, aside from praying for God's intercession, I'm not sure what I can do.”

“I know this sounds nuts, but what about an exorcism? Somehow, these demons are connecting with me, so they must be inside me. Maybe when they stopped the car from crashing over the bridge, they, I don't know, sort've infected me. Do you guys still perform exorcisms?”

“A little over ten years ago, the church updated its ritual for exorcism, a rite which dates back at least as far as 1614. Exorcisms are conducted every year; they're not publicized in order to avoid undue attention. But there are specialists who conduct this rite.”

“You're not allowed to do it?”

“Any priest is permitted to perform an exorcism, but—”

“What do we have to lose?”

That Matt was engaged in an internal conflict was obvious from his expression. “You must understand, a true exorcism is not like the movies. No green vomit or swiveling heads. It's serious business.”

Tom kicked the chair, knocking it over. “Serious business? An innocent young girl's life was snuffed out and another, my daughter, her life is gravely threatened, and you don't consider that
serious business?
”

The priest didn't react to Tom's outburst, his distant gaze telegraphing his mind was elsewhere. Tom took his seat and waited what seemed like an eternity for Matthew to respond.

“It's possible,” said the priest.

“Do you really believe it could work?”

“I have absolutely no idea. But there's one major problem.”

“What?”

“You have to get out of jail.”

The worn shock absorbers on the old prison bus were no match for the city's potholes, and its occupants bounced around in their uncomfortable bench seats as the vehicle maneuvered through Monday morning rush-hour traffic on its way to the courthouse. The bus was full. Tom assumed Mondays were busy days in the judicial system, given the citizenry's penchant for criminal mischief on weekends.

As the bus approached the courthouse, Tom saw a midsized media gaggle, replete with satellite trucks, cameras, mic booms, light umbrellas, and perfectly coiffed news personalities gathered on the Indiana Avenue plaza.

“I wonder who they're here for?” asked Tom, to no one in particular.

“They here for you, New,” said a voice from the back of the bus. “You the man with the stripe.”

“United States versus Thomas Michael Booker.”

The bailiff's booming voice carried through the door to the holding cell behind the courtroom. Tom had just finished changing into a suit and tie that Zig provided to the marshal a half hour earlier. A few other inmates had changed out of their orange jumpsuits as well, but most continued to wear the prison garb and didn't appear to care. The marshal nodded to Tom, who stepped forward while the cell door was unlocked. The marshal led him through the heavy oak door to a packed Courtroom 16. No cameras
were allowed, but Tom saw reporters furiously taking notes, while at least one artist had her colored pencils poised over her sketch pad.

Eva stood behind the defense table with a welcoming smile. Zig, sitting directly behind her on the first bench, offered a thumbs up. The marshal unlocked Tom's cuffs, and he sat down next to Eva.

He saw that the AUSA was Vera Lutz, whom he remembered from the Reece Mackey hearing. He nodded a greeting, she ignored him.

“How are your injuries?” asked Eva.

“Not as bad. What about bail?”

She flicked her eyes toward the bench where the Honorable Gerhard Schnabel presided. In his brief criminal defense career, Tom had never appeared in front of Schnabel, but everyone knew his reputation. The judge leaned so far toward the prosecution that his detractors, which included virtually every other member of the criminal justice system, referred to him as the Fuhrer. With his shock of snow white hair, trimmed beard, florid face, and permanent scowl, he resembled an insane Santa Claus. His voice retained the slightest residue of his parents' native German tongue.

“The defendant will rise.” Tom paused for a second, looking to Eva. Big mistake. “I said rise!”

Tom shot up as if he'd been goosed.

The Fuhrer continued. “Are you Thomas Michael Booker?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Booker, you have been arrested and charged with first-degree murder, to wit: that you with premeditation and malice aforethought, did cause the death of one Jessica Marie Hawkins. The purpose of this proceeding is simply to notify you of the charges, and advise you of your right to retain counsel, and if you can't afford counsel to provide you with an attorney.”

Eva stood. “Your Honor, I'll be representing Mr. Booker in this case.”

The judge frowned. “It's my understanding the defendant is
an attorney in one of the largest firms in the city. Are you telling me he can't afford his own representation and is asking the hardworking taxpayers of this city to pay for his defense?”

“Your Honor, Mr. Booker is divorced, and pays substantial alimony and child support. He lives in a modest one-bedroom apartment, and drives a five-year-old car. He's assured me that he will contribute whatever he can toward his defense, which will go toward partially defraying PDS' costs of defending others who are less fortunate.”

Schnabel deepened his scowl. Tom panicked. Could the judge bar Eva from representing him because she was paid by the government? After a long pause, the judge responded. “Very well. The clerk will enter Ms. Stoddard as counsel of record. Mr. Booker, you are advised you have a right not to make a statement to the police or anyone else, and that anything you say to anyone other than your attorney may be used against you. Do you understand?”

Tom was so relieved Eva was going to be able to represent him he almost smiled as he answered. “Yes, sir.”

“You are entitled to a preliminary hearing to determine whether there is probable cause to bind your case over to the grand jury. You also have a right to waive the preliminary hearing and go straight to arraignment.”

“Defendant does not waive his right to a preliminary hearing,” said Eva.

The judge glanced down at his clerk sitting directly below him at a tiny desk.

“Monday, three weeks from now,” said the silver-haired lady.

“Acceptable to you, Ms. Lutz?”

The prosecutor checked her calendar on her laptop. “Fine, Your Honor.”

“Set the date.”

Tom noted that the judge didn't even offer Eva the courtesy of inquiring whether the date worked on her calendar as well.

“Anything else, Ms. Lutz?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Bailiff, please call the next—”

“Excuse me, Your Honor—” Eva cut him off; he was not pleased. “Defense would like to briefly address the matter of bail.”

“This is a murder case, Ms. Stoddard.”

“I'm well aware of that, Your Honor. But, Mr. Booker is a respected member of the bar. He grew up in the metropolitan area. He works for one of the most reputable firms in the country, and he has been volunteering pro bono to represent the city's indigents in this court system. His daughter resides in Arlington, and he has no prior record. His former wife is here today to offer support.”

Tom turned to see Gayle sitting several rows back. She offered as close to a reassuring smile as he had a right to expect. Sitting directly behind her was his cousin, Estin, who offered a thumbs up. Eva continued her pitch.

“In addition, Mr. Booker's cousin, Estin Booker, is present to vouch for defendant. Estin Booker is the sheriff of Cumberton, Maryland, and as an officer of the law, is well aware of both the seriousness of the charges and the defendant's obligations to appear when scheduled. He's ready and willing to take full responsibility for defendant's appearance. Finally, we note that the government's case is paper thin. They have the murder weapon found near his car and a partial print that likely won't survive a motion
in limine
. The trumped-up motive appears to be a very brief, minor exchange during a birthday party for his firm's senior partner. Accordingly, we request defendant be released on his own recognizance, into the custody of Sheriff Booker, or at most, be required to post modest bond.”

Tom saw it as a minor victory that the Fuhrer didn't immediately crash his gavel to his desk and shout “denied.” Instead, he turned to the prosecutor.

“The Government, of course, strongly opposes the defense request,” said Lutz. “As Your Honor aptly observed, defendant is charged with first-degree murder, and thus will have the highest motivation to flee the jurisdiction, and even the country. We see—”