The Knight pbf-3

by Steven James

  I located one of the Chicago police detectives and gave him my statement, although, with more than a hundred witnesses in the courtroom, there wasn’t a whole lot of ambiguity about what had just happened.

  Even though this wasn’t the time or the place to sort through all the issues we needed to discuss, after coming so close to being shot, I felt the need to talk to Lien-hua, to hear her voice. I punched in her number, but she didn’t pick up.

  I decided not to leave a message.

  I left my shirt, still soaked with Grant Sikora’s blood, with one of the crime scene investigators, and while Ralph went to find Calvin to get a change of clothes from my suitcase in his trunk, I asked one of the paramedics to take a look at the bruises on my side.

  A quick examination was all it took.

  “You’ll need X-rays to see if the ribs are broken,” he said.

  I’d been in my share of scuffles, so I already knew that the treatment for a bruised rib and a broken rib is pretty much the same-keep it wrapped, avoid straining yourself, and take lots of Advil. I figured I’d wait and see how much it bothered me before going in for X-rays.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He wrapped a snug dressing around my chest and gave me a cold pack to help reduce the swelling. “Take care of that, OK?”

  “I will.” As he was stepping away, I saw Ralph approaching, bringing me a fresh shirt and jeans. I accepted the clothes, thanked him, and went to find a restroom to clean up and change.

  A few minutes later as I was buckling my belt, my phone came to life and I figured Lien-hua must have seen that she’d missed my call. I answered, “Hey, you.”

  “Hello, Pat.” It was Detective Cheyenne Warren. “I heard what happened up there. I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “That makes two of us.” I realized that I wasn’t disappointed it was Cheyenne rather than Lien-hua.

  She got right to business. “It doesn’t look like Taylor left the recorded message in the mine.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “We found him this morning, dead, along with a woman. I should say we think it’s only one woman. It’s hard to tell.”

  Her words could mean only one thing. “Dismembered?”

  “Yeah. The killer dumped her in the water at the northern swimming beach at Cherry Creek State Park. Killed her at Taylor’s house, though; we matched the blood at the two sites.”

  I let her words sink in as I returned to the courtoom. “Taylor had a house in the Denver area?”

  “Up in the mountains. Near Evergreen. That’s where he was beheaded-tortured first, though. We’re still looking for his head.”

  Unbelievable.

  The envelopes had all been mailed within the Denver metroplex, so I’d suspected that Taylor might be living in the region, but still, it was disconcerting to hear that he’d been that close to us and we hadn’t found him.

  “Suspects?” I asked.

  “Not yet.”

  I was considering everything she’d just told me when the bailiff led the jurors into the room. I only had time for a few quick questions. “Besides the dismemberments,” I asked, “are there any evidentiary links to Heather Fain’s death?”

  “No physical evidence yet, but there was an anonymous 911 tip, just like with Heather’s body.”

  Judge Craddock and the two lead lawyers emerged from the judge’s entrance.

  I tried to think of any criminals I’d run into who could have found, overpowered, and killed Taylor, but came up short. “Anything else?”

  “We’re going to Taylor’s house in the morning to finish processing the scene. Early: 7:00 a.m. It’s about half an hour from downtown; maybe you can ride with me, reduce our carbon footprint.”

  Normally, it annoys me when people try to sound so progressively green by using the “carbon footprint” cliche, but from Cheyenne it just sounded natural.

  “I’d come,” I said, “but I’m not scheduled to arrive in Denver until almost noon tomorrow.”

  “So change your flight. Come back tonight.”

  It was a possibility.

  I suspected the judge would call for a mistrial, but I wouldn’t know for a few more minutes. “I will if I can. I’ll call you back when I know more.” Judge Craddock situated himself behind the bench and called for order. I needed to get off the phone. “Do me a favor. Text Agent Ralph Hawkins for me. Fill him in.”

  “All right.”

  I gave her Ralph’s number, ended the call, and turned off the phone. After everyone had taken their seats, Judge Craddock faced the jurors and cleared his throat. “This incident involving Mr. Sikora bears no relevance to the trial at hand. We are conducting a trial concerning the defendant, Richard Devin Basque, not this man who just tried to shoot him. If this event is allowed to disrupt the judicial process, our justice system would be too fragile, too easily manipulated to be efficacious.”

  He took a deep breath. “And so, considering all of these factors, I am not calling for a mistrial. You will be sequestered until Monday. No news media. No outside contact. During the weekend we will provide independent, court-appointed psychologists to conduct, at no charge, confidential counseling sessions with any jury members who wish to discuss their feelings regarding the shooting. We will resume proceedings Monday at nine o’clock sharp when Dr. Bowers returns to the stand.”

  I could hardly believe his words, and by the looks of the jury members’ faces, neither could they. I wasn’t sure what would be normal in a situation like this, but resuming the trial on Monday “I will not let this grievous event train-wreck the judicial process. Not in my courtroom.” He let his eyes click from one jury member to the next. “This trial will move forward. We will proceed and we will reach a verdict, and justice will be served.”

  Even though I was surprised by his decision, the more I thought about it, the more I found myself understanding the logic of it. The actions of Grant Sikora weren’t at issue here, and shouldn’t be allowed to affect the trial’s outcome. And the longer we waited, the more likely the jurors would be to remember the shooting and forget details from the trial.

  I expected Ms. Eldridge-Gorman to object to the judge’s decision, which she did, quite vociferously. She would certainly appeal if Basque were convicted, and the state would do the same if he were acquitted. What a mess.

  “Objection denied,” Judge Craddock squawked. “Dismissed!” He slammed his gavel down, rose, and had his robe half off by the time he entered his chambers.

  Just like me, the jury must have thought he was going to call a mistrial, because they sat in shocked silence, most of them staring blankly at the door to the judge’s chambers, which was now slowly swinging shut.

  I took a moment to think.

  I really wanted to take a look at the crime scene where Taylor had been killed. It wasn’t even five o’clock yet, so I could probably catch an earlier flight and still make it home tonight, then return to Chicago Sunday evening.

  A quick call to the airline told me there was a flight that would arrive in Denver just after ten tonight, and I still had ninety minutes before the departure time, so, even with Friday rush hour, I figured I could make it.

  I confirmed a seat assignment and was ending my call when Ms. Eldridge-Gorman crossed the room toward me. She came close and spoke quietly, only for me to hear. “I know what you did in that slaughterhouse, Dr. Bowers. On Monday morning I will move that you be held in contempt of court for refusing to answer the question today.”

  She might have been baiting me to see if I’d say something she could use against me when I returned to the stand next week. I didn’t respond.

  “If you tell the truth, the jury will discount your testimony and empathize with my client.” A sense of dark satisfaction threaded through every one of her words. “And if you lie you’ll perjure yourself. Either way, Richard will be set free, Dr. Bowers, and you’ll be the one to thank.”

  Everything had suddenly become even more complicated. “Have a goo
d weekend, Ms. Eldridge-Gorman,” I told her.

  “I will.” She snatched up her briefcase and gave me a half smile.

  “And I will look forward to seeing you on Monday.”

  She strode away, and I noticed that Ralph had been watching us. He walked to me, and after she was out of earshot he asked, “What was all that about?”

  “A misunderstanding.” I’d never told him what had happened in the slaughterhouse, and now was not the time to get into all that.

  His gravelly voice became even lower than usual. “Something you need to tell me, buddy?”

  I considered my options, his friendship, the case, my future… and decided to let things stand for now. “No. It’s nothing.” I gestured toward the door. “You heading out?”

  “I gotta give a statement to the press. Being the senior agent on site… You know.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He mumbled a few choice words concerning how excited he was about talking to the reporters. When he paused for a breath, I said, “I booked an earlier flight. I need to get to the airport.”

  “I’ll give you a shout tomorrow.”

  I nodded, he lumbered away, and after I’d picked up my knife and SIG, I headed toward the back door so I could avoid the media drones swarming around the courthouse entrance. On the way, I called Cheyenne and told her I could make the 7:00 a.m. meeting tomorrow morning. “I’ll swing by your place at about 6:30,” I said.

  “How about I drive? That is, unless you have power issues with a woman being in the driver’s seat?”

  I had the sense that she wasn’t just talking about carpooling but decided not to go there. “All right. You can pick me up.” Only after I’d said the words did I realize that they contained at least as many meanings as hers had.

  “Sounds good to me,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I’ll see you at 6:30.”

  She’d never been to my house before, so I told her my address before we ended the call. Then I speed-dialed Calvin to let him know I was taking a cab to the airport and that he could just hang on to my suitcase until Monday. While I waited for him to answer, I exited the courthouse’s back door.

  And found him standing on the steps, sheltered from the drizzle by a broad gutter high above him, scouring his pockets, looking for his ringing phone. “Oh, there you are, my boy, I’ve been waiting for you.” He found the phone, looked at the screen, then at me. “Shall we speak in person or on our mobiles?”

  I stared at him. “How did you know I was coming this way?”

  “I know how much you like to appear on the news. Come along. I’ll give you a ride to the airport.” He repositioned his coat and stepped into the rain.

  But I hesitated. “I just changed my flight less than five minutes ago. How did you…?”

  “My dear boy, I can’t give away all my secrets.” He pulled out his car keys. “Come along, there’s something I would like to ask you on the way.”

  16

  For nearly twenty minutes Calvin wove through traffic without speaking. Maybe he was trying to give me an opportunity to deal with Sikora’s death. Hard to know.

  The rain was easing up, but the clouds hung heavy and gray above us. I knew the sun wouldn’t be setting for a few hours, but already the day seemed to be withering into night.

  We hopped onto the Kennedy.

  More time passed.

  A car swerved in front of us, and the driver flashed Calvin a rather elaborate finger gesture I’d only seen a few times before, on the streets of New York City. For a moment it reminded me of my years in the City, and of Christie, the woman I’d met there, fallen in love with there, married and then buried there.

  Death.

  Surrounding me.

  Touching my life no matter where I turned.

  And now this week, more of it: the two victims on Wednesday, the day before I joined the case… Heather Fain and Chris Arlington yesterday… Sebastian Taylor and the unidentified woman, and now Grant Sikora…

  So much death in my past, in my present. I’d chosen this career, this life for myself, but sometimes “I heard some of the reporters chatting,” Calvin said softly, interrupting my thoughts, “while you were giving your statement to the police. The media is already calling you a hero, my boy. They want to pin a medal on you.”

  “I’m no hero, Calvin.”

  “You saved a man’s life.”

  “Who?” This was the last thing I wanted to talk about. “Basque? He deserved to die. Sikora deserved to live. How does that make me a hero?”

  Calvin thought for a moment. He chose not to reply, and I felt his silence to be some sort of refutation.

  “I was proud of you today,” he said at last. “Proud to have been your teacher.”

  His words sounded conclusive, as if he were wrapping up one of his lectures rather than simply commenting about the day. It made me uneasy. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

  Once again he chose not to reply, which was uncharacteristic of him. Now, he definitely had my attention.

  A dump truck in front of us spit up a plume of sour exhaust.

  Calvin pulled into the left lane to pass.

  Silence stretched between us, and finally, when I realized he wasn’t going to answer my question, I tried to guess what he’d been hoping to talk to me about. “Was there something I said on the stand that…” I searched for the right word. “That you felt was inaccurate or unrepresentative of-”

  He swept his hand through the air dismissively. “Don’t be ridiculous, my boy. Of course not. Nothing like that.” I waited for him to continue, but once again I received only silence.

  I’d never met anyone who chose his words more carefully or more precisely than Dr. Calvin Werjonic, but now he was being evasive. I didn’t want to pressure him, but I did want to find out what was going on.

  “Patrick, governments daily break international laws and treaties to look after their nation’s best interests. And this is necessary because laws are established to serve something greater than themselves.”

  “Justice,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  I considered his words in light of the day’s events. “But Calvin. Justice is a matter for the courts to decide.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. The right answer. The textbook answer.”

  I hadn’t noticed earlier, but now in the cloud-darkened day, I saw that he looked frail and tired, like a mighty cliff finally eroding with time. “But not your answer?”

  “The quest for justice leads not to an answer but to a dilemma: how far is one willing to go to see it carried out?” Calvin merged back into the right lane.

  I was beginning to see how his words might be related to the trial. I hoped I was wrong. “Don’t we vow to tell ‘the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth’? Justice isn’t served when truth is censored.”

  “Yes, precisely.”

  Another surprising answer. “But?”

  “But have you noticed that the attorneys for both the prosecution and the defense are not required to take the same oath? Rather than being bound to tell the whole truth, they are, I dare say, expected not to. Their legal obligation is to tell only the version of truth that supports their case. Only the witnesses, not the lawyers, have to vow to tell the whole truth. And yet, as you just noted a moment ago, justice is not served when truth is censored.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. Thick traffic closed in on us. Rush hour.

  “We’ve lost sight of the goal, Patrick. Our justice system is concerned more with prosecutions and acquittals than it is with either truth or justice. You know it’s true. It’s just that we’re reticent to admit it.”

  He was right on both counts: it was true, and I didn’t like admitting it. Both the prosecution and the defense stick to the evidence and witnesses that support their case. If they discover evidence that would help the other side, they don’t submit it to the trial-even if it might mean keeping an innocent man from going to prison or making sure a brutal killer g
ets locked away. That’s what happens when a legal system values individual rights above the search for truth or the administration of justice.

  Calvin went on, “But seeing justice done, isn’t that why we entered this field in the first place? Isn’t that more important than winning a case?”

  “You’re not justifying-”

  A tired sigh. “I’m seventy-six years old, my boy. I don’t have time left to either justify or condemn, only to reason and, while I’m able, to act.”

  It felt strange hearing Calvin say these things. Over the years, I’d questioned aspects of the judicial system myself but had never articulated my misgivings to anyone.

  “Yes,” I said, returning to his question. “That’s why I entered this field.”

  We were nearing the exit for O’Hare airport, and I sensed that we hadn’t yet made it to the crux of our conversation. “Calvin, at the courthouse you said you wanted to ask me a question.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “Now, please understand that I mean no disrespect whatsoever when I make reference to your stepdaughter in my hypothetical example.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Imagine that a man is on trial for first degree sexual assault. You are called in as a witness and you know that he is guilty and that your testimony will make the difference in the verdict.”

  I began to feel a little uneasy. “All right.”

  “However, the evidence is not sufficient for a conviction and you know that if you relate only the facts of the case, he will be acquitted and will sexually assault Tessa, or perhaps another girl her age. However, if you shade the truth in your testimony toward his guilt, he will be convicted. What would you do?”

  His hypothetical situation left me very little wiggle room.

  “Assuming my testimony was the only deciding factor.” I felt my throat tighten. “I would lie to protect her.” Finally, like a lens slowly coming into focus, I realized what Calvin was saying and how it related to the events earlier in the day.