4. The Jury

by Fern Michaels

  Alexis, all six foot three of her, stood at attention. “I prefer to call it a par-tee. A sort of come-to-Jesus meeting. Shut up and speak only when we address you.” To make her point, she whacked him across the face so hard his big head rolled backward.

  “Stop!” came the commanding voice. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Nikki drawled. “We know exactly who you are. You’re the son of a bitch who beats up his wife. Well, Mr. National Security Advisor, we’re here to even up that score.”

  Isabelle strolled into the room. The NSA blinked and then blinked again at her slutty appearance. “The guy has twelve, count ’em, twelve Hugo Boss suits. The gray one will look real nice to get laid out in. They have gray caskets now. Bronze used to be the in color but I read that the silvery-gray is a good seller. Yeah, the gray suit. Red tie. Red’s a power tie. Befitting this little shit. Maybe a gray shirt.”

  “Gray it is!” Alexis said cheerfully. “How you doing over there?” she shouted to Nikki.

  “I demand you stop this instantly. I’ll…I’ll…You can’t get away with this.”

  “Helloooo there, Mr. National Security Advisor. You need to get with the program. We’re here, and you’re sitting there begging us to let you go. That means we are getting away with it,” Isabelle said. “You ready?” she shouted to Nikki.

  “Got it all ready,” Nikki responded. She waited for the others to join her.

  “The place is clean,” Yoko said. She handed out latex gloves to everyone. The women made a production of pulling them on and snapping them into place.

  “Who wants to tell this son of a bitch why we’re here?” Nikki said.

  “Me!” Kathryn said. “We’re here, Mr. National Security Advisor, to give you a real taste of your own medicine. What that means, you sick bastard, is this: we’re going to do everything to you that you’ve done to your wife, Paula. Hit it, girl!”

  Nikki could have been a doctor or a technician the way she slapped the first X-ray on to the lighted panel. “This little work of art is from 1987. Fractured collarbone. I have another one almost just like this where the collarbone is shattered. But we’ll get to that later.” The women all watched in silence as Nikki continued with X-ray after X-ray. “And this particular masterpiece is when you ruptured your wife’s eardrum. I think you get the picture, Mr. National Security Advisor.”

  The NSA tried to lean forward. Yoko grabbed his hair but it came off in her hands. She tried not to laugh as the man tried to reach for it with his cuffed hands. She clipped him on the side of the head before she grabbed for both ears and held them tight in her tiny hands.

  “Stop this instant. Do you know who I am? I’ll have you locked in prison for the rest of your life. The President of the United States is my best friend.”

  “Name-dropper,” Kathryn said. “Just out of curiosity, how are you going to do anything? Look around you. There’s five of us. There’s one of you. We have weapons and you’re handcuffed. In my book, that means we got you! You ain’t going nowhere, you little piece of shit! When we’re done with you, you aren’t even going to know your own name. Now, shut up.”

  The women used up five minutes as they arranged a grouping of Queen Anne chairs so that they could all face the NSA. Nikki pointed to the huge red bag. Alexis opened it and withdrew a long serrated carving knife and a thick, heavy book. She handed the knife to Kathryn as she took her seat and opened the book. The NSA’s face was bone white, his eyes frantic as he struggled on the sofa.

  “All right,” Alexis said as she opened the book and pretended to read. “This is how you cut up a whole chicken. Same principle as cutting up a body. First you spread the legs wide and cut downward on the joint. Then you do the other leg. That leaves you with the torso and the wings, which you then cut at the joint in the same manner.”

  “How long will it take for him to bleed out?” Isabelle asked as she picked at the hole in her fishnets.

  “Thath methie,” Myra said.

  “Oh, well, what’s a little mess? We’ll be leaving and won’t have to clean it up. But to answer your question, maybe five minutes. Ten at the most. What’s it say in the book?” Nikki asked.

  “Well, the chicken is dead so it can’t bleed out. Let’s go with eight minutes,” Alexis said.

  The NSA tried to twist his head but Yoko leaped up and chopped at his neck. He ceased struggling but only for a moment.

  “Where’s my wife? Did she put you up to this? You’re all wrong about this. What do you want?”

  “Now, if we tell you that, we’ll have to kill you,” Isabelle singsonged. The hole in the fishnets was getting bigger by the minute as she kept picking at it.

  “Continue,” Nikki said to Alexis.

  Happiness rang in Alexis’s voice. “OK. We did the wings, right? OK, now we have the rest of the carcass. You flip it over and cut down the sides. Then you flatten the breast and slice down the middle. Oh, shoot, I forgot. You have to cut off the part that goes over the fence last.” She made a slicing motion with her hand. “You know, the private parts. That’s it. Anyone have any questions?”

  It appeared no one had any questions.

  Nikki stood up. “Take off the flexi cuffs. Do his leg first. If he behaves, we’ll take off the wrist cuffs.”

  Kathryn bent down to undo the flexi cuff on the NSA’s ankle. His foot shot upward, narrowly missing Kathryn’s head.

  “Try something like that again, you piece of crap, and they’ll be carrying you out of here in a body bag.” She balled up her fist and socked him in the middle of his fat stomach. He cursed as he doubled forward. “Not so tough, are you?” Kathryn reached out for the man’s ankle, gave it a twist sideways and didn’t release her grip until she heard the bone snap. The NSA squealed like a stuck pig. “Is that how your wife sounded when you beat her?”

  Kathryn bounded to her feet. “Look how brave he is! I’m impressed. Are you all impressed? That’s bone number one.”

  Yoko hopped off her chair and ran behind the couch to grab the NSA’s neck in both her little hands. “Answer the question or I’ll do to your neck what she just did to your foot. Now, are you impressed with my colleagues’ expertise?”

  His teeth clenched, his face white, the NSA said, “Fuck you!”

  “What a guy! No guts, no glory, Mr. National Security Advisor. I wonder if the Prez would still consider you his best friend if he could see you right now. Show him we mean business,” Kathryn said to Yoko.

  Yoko’s hands slipped down under Woodley’s arms. She pulled and lifted him backward, giving Isabelle a perfect shot at his rib cage with the billy club. She took it, and then tossed it to Nikki. The pig in Woodley squealed so loudly that Myra clapped her hands over her ears.

  “Isn’t it time for a coffee break?” Alexis asked.

  “Why, yes, it is.” Nikki pulled the small .22 caliber gun out of her backpack. She stood back, took careful aim, but didn’t fire. Instead, in the blink of an eye she brought down the billy club on Woodley’s kneecap. She waved the gun again and fired off a shot, missing Woodley’s ear by a hair. “That should take care of his eardrum. He ruptured his wife’s eardrum. She wears a hearing aid. How many bones does a crushed kneecap count? Oh, I must have nicked his ear. That’s a lot of blood.”

  “Not enough. Yeah, it is a lot of blood. And here we sit with no Band-Aids,” Kathryn snapped. “I’ll make the coffee.”

  Everyone called out their sugar and cream orders as Nikki watched the blood soak through the NSA’s trousers.

  “Oh, look, he’s got a bone sticking out of his knee. Looks like it’s in slivers.”

  “Ith methie,” Myra said.

  “Do we care?” Nikki asked.

  Myra pushed the chipmunk teeth higher on her upper gum. “No!” she said clearly and distinctly.

  Twenty-One

  The women sipped at coffee they didn’t want. “I couldn’t find any cookies,” Kathryn said. “Guess this guy eats out since his slave isn’t here to c
ater to him.

  “Hey, you, Mr. National Security Advisor, look alive here. We want to talk to you and we don’t want to hear any cussing. We’re going to ask each question once. If you don’t respond instantly, we’ll break another bone. Whatever you do, don’t confuse us with someone who might care about how much pain you’re in.” Kathryn jerked her head in Isabelle’s direction and made clicking noises. Isabelle got up to get a disposable camera out of Alexis’s red bag. “Be sure you get all the blood.”

  “Tell us why you beat your wife, Mr. Woodley.”

  “Anger,” came the response, right on cue. “You have to call a doctor. I could bleed to death. Please,” he begged.

  Nikki pretended to consider the request. “No. You don’t deserve a doctor. How long have you been abusing your wife?”

  “Since we got married. Please. I’ll never do it again.”

  “That’s a lie and we both know it. Don’t lie to me again. I hate liars.” Nikki looked at Kathryn. “Take off his cuffs. He isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Did your wife beg you to stop when you were beating her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you stop?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not going to stop either.” In the blink of an eye, Nikki whipped out the billy club and whacked him in the elbow. The breaking bone made a loud popping sound. All the women looked on with clinical interest as the NSA’s body catapulted upward then bounced down on the sofa.

  “Get his head! Get his face!” Alexis shouted to Isabelle who was busy snapping pictures. The NSA was crying, his hairpiece clutched in his good hand. She walked over to the whimpering man, took the hairpiece, plopped it on his head. Crooked, of course.

  Isabelle giggled as she clicked and clicked. “Tell me this isn’t a Kodak moment!”

  “It’s a Kodak moment,” Nikki agreed. “You almost killed your wife the last time and you walked out and left her. Why did you do that?”

  “I was angry,” the NSA gasped.

  “Guess what? I’m angry, too.” Nikki walked over to the mantel to pick up the tall metal candlestick the NSA had beaten his wife with. She tossed it to Kathryn who caught it in midair. Woodley held up his good arm to ward off the blow he knew was coming.

  “Big mistake.” Kathryn brought down the candlestick on his shoulder. She winced at the sound of crushing bones.

  “He blacked out,” Yoko said.

  “Well, we’ll just have to fix that right now.” Kathryn stomped her way to the kitchen to return with the leftover coffee. It was still hot when she poured it over the man’s head. Coffee dripped from the crooked hairpiece. Yoko clapped her hands in approval.

  Woodley opened his eyes. “Please. Stop. I can’t stand the pain. Call a doctor. I won’t tell anyone what you look like.”

  “Is that what your wife said? Only in your dreams will you get a doctor. I don’t like your nose, Mr. Woodley, or your teeth.”

  “Oh, Jesus, please don’t do this. Why are you doing this to me?”

  “You can’t be that stupid. You beat your wife to within an inch of her life. You terrorized her. She lived in fear of you. For whatever reason, she felt powerless to stop you. As you can see, we are not powerless. We are women. Women are doing this to you.” Nikki jerked her head at Kathryn.

  Kathryn did a pirouette and swung the metal candlestick. Teeth and cartilage flew in all directions.

  “He blacked out again,” Alexis said. “He still has his hips, one good knee and his fingers. How many pictures you got left, girl? Ooh, and the ribs on his other side.”

  “Seven,” Isabelle responded.

  “Allow me,” Yoko said, stepping forward. The others watched as her tiny hands reached for the NSA’s right hand. One by one she broke every finger.

  “Wake him up,” Nikki ordered. Alexis ran to her bag for smelling salts. She waved them under the NSA’s nose.

  “Look alive, Mr. Woodley. Tell me what I want to hear. I want to hear you tell me you’re sorry for what you did to your wife. I’m waiting.”

  “I’m…”

  “You’re what?”

  “He blacked out again,” Alexis said.

  “Wake him up,” Nikki said. Alexis waved the smelling salts.

  “Go to fucking hell!” the revived NSA screamed.

  “Did you hear that? Did you hear that?” Isabelle squealed as she snapped the last picture with the throwaway camera.

  “We’re outta here. Clean up, ladies. We weren’t wearing the latex when we arrived. Clean everything. Quick.”

  The ladies of Pinewood worked in unison as they gathered up everything they’d brought with them. They were at the door when Nikki asked, “Where’s the security bracelet?” Isabelle pointed to the table in the foyer.

  “Yoko, give us time to dump this stuff in the car and back out to the road. Isabelle, you go one way, I’ll go the other way. Yoko, take the bracelet to the bathroom, activate the panic button and then drop it in the toilet. We should have five minutes to get away before his security arrives. Run like hell. All right, let’s go.”

  The car with the Ohio license plates was already moving when Yoko leaped into the front seat.

  The ladies of Pinewood were on the move. Again.

  Jack didn’t know when he’d last been this cold. He felt like he was rooted to the ground under the spreading yew. One hour and ten minutes was all it had taken the ladies of Pinewood to do whatever the hell they’d done. They were gone now, on their way back to Pinewood, he figured. Time for him to leave, too. He struggled to stand upright, his cell phone an open line.

  “OK, I’m ready.” He heard the cars before he actually saw them. The screech of tires told him he was a minute too late. He stepped back into the shadows and waited, hardly daring to breathe. Car doors swung open; men emerged, guns drawn as they ran at full throttle up the walkway, up the steps to the porch. In the dim whitish glow of the porch light, Jack was able to make out the faces of the men with the drawn guns. Like he really didn’t know who they were.

  He heard the motorcycle at the end of the street. Well, it was now or never. He hunched down and ran like the hounds of hell were on his heels. The cycle barely stopped as he leaped on the back. The three men on the porch turned. Two went inside and the third one ran to his car.

  Jack clamped the extra helmet on his head with his free hand, the other securely around the waist of the driver of the Harley. “Make these wheels fly, mister. That’s a Fed on our tail.”

  The Harley ate up the road, going through stop signs and red lights. They made it back to the alley behind Nikki’s house in Georgetown in eleven minutes. The driver parked the cycle and both men ran to the house and crawled through the laundry-room window.

  Jack cringed when he saw the mess in Nikki’s living room. He barked orders as he stripped down. Minutes later he was dressed in a pair of plaid flannel pants and a Georgetown sweatshirt.

  “I’ve been here all night,” he said, reaching for a beer. He looked around at the expectant faces of his friends and his new friends. He issued orders like a general. The men scattered, leaving Mark and himself in front of the fire. Jack eyed his shoulder holster that he’d dumped on the chair in the living room.

  The doorbell rang. Mark flinched. Jack took his time finishing the rest of his beer. He popped another one, took a swig as he sauntered to the door. “Showtime, guys!” he called over his shoulder. He looked out the side panel before he opened the door.

  “You’re a little late. The party’s over, but then I bet you already know that. What the hell do you want now?”

  The tall man shouldered his way inside.

  “Just a goddamn minute. Do you have a warrant?”

  “I don’t need a warrant, Emery.”

  “Yeah, you do, you asshole.”

  Before he knew what was happening, the intruder was surrounded by dark figures clad in Ninja attire. His gun, his special shield, his keys, his cell phone, and everything in his pockets were tossed onto the coffee table.


  “First rule of law enforcement, you asshole, is you never give up your gun. What’s the Prez going to think when he hears we took you?” Jack said.

  “Don’t do this, Emery; you’re in enough hot water.”

  The agent’s phone rang, saving Jack from a reply. “I’m going to let you answer the call, but I want to hear what you say. If you utter so much as one word I don’t approve of, this big guy behind me is going to crush your larynx. Tell me you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  “No matter what your buddy says, this is what you say: ‘I’m at Emery’s. He was the guy on the cycle. Get over here.’ Got it? OK, click it on and make sure I can hear.”

  The agent, his eyes twitching, brought the cell phone to his ear. “Yeah, what?”

  “Never mind what. Where the hell are you?”

  “Emery was the guy on the cycle. I went after him. You need to get over here.”

  “Yeah, well, our hands are a little full right now. Somebody busted into the NSA’s house and damn near killed him. He’s pretty busted up. I think every bone in his body is broken. He’s out of it, but he keeps saying a bunch of women invaded his home.”

  Jack pinched the agent’s neck and nodded. The agent repeated, “I told you, you need to get over here.”

  Jack reached over to take the phone. He cut off the call.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Emery? You can’t possibly think you’re going to get away with this. The President himself will throw the switch on you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Somebody shut this guy up.”

  One of the dark-clad figures raised his hand and chopped down on the agent’s neck. He crumpled and dropped to the ground with a thump.

  “And to think we don’t even know this guy’s name,” Jack muttered.

  Fifteen minutes and two beers later, the doorbell rang again. The agent was sitting up on the floor, massaging his neck.

  “I think you should answer the door, Special Agent whatever the hell your name is. I’ll plug you right in the spine if you even blink your eyes when you open that door. Say ‘Thank you, Mr. Emery.’”