by Ben Miller
“Nothing,” Randall said. “I’ve held up my end of the deal, Jack. I told you that I would not tell anyone, as long as you continue to follow through with your end of the deal.”
“So, when you die…” Jack began.
Randall shrugged nonchalantly. “It dies with me.”
61
“I think, at least, you should have told me about it. A story this big, on one of my cases?” Heath Reilly paced a track around the perimeter of the bed in his hotel room, his phone to his ear.
“What is it with you men? Like we women have to run everything by you,” Corinne seethed on the other end.
Reilly could tell she was getting frustrated, but he didn’t want to back down yet. He deemed this a decent time to stand his ground. “What ‘men?’ What do you mean, ‘men?’”
“I just got off the phone with Jack Byrne, bitching me out. What—do you have a problem with a woman with power, with her own ideas?”
“What?! No!” Reilly stopped his pacing, bewildered by her unexpected question accusing him of sexism. “That’s not what this is about. That’s one of the things I like so much about you.”
Corinne exhaled. “Listen. I thought about telling you. I wanted to, actually. I like sharing things with you.”
With this, Reilly instantly softened. What little anger he had directed toward her completely dissipated.
Corinne continued. “But I knew I couldn’t tell you, because you’d try to convince me not to do it, out of loyalty to Jack.”
“You’re probably right.” Reilly always considered his loyalty one of his most redeeming traits.
“And I didn’t want it to be a thing between us, because I knew I had to publish it whether you wanted me to or not.”
“Why?” Reilly asked. “Why are you so compelled?”
“Upshall. Heath, that greasy shitball deserves to be chewed up and spit out. And the Branford family deserved this. They needed a win. They’ll never get their daughter back, but they needed something, and I could give it to them.”
Reilly sensed true altruism in her voice, and it made him like her even more. He hadn’t thought that was possible at this point. “OK. I get it. Just, maybe, trust me next time? Share stuff with me and know that we can have a difference of opinion without it blowing up?”
“OK, I will,” Corinne conceded. “I was just following the ‘sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission’ dogma. Do you forgive me?”
“I do.”
“Good.” Corinne replied. Reilly could hear a smile in her voice. “How are things with you? Any closer to the Piper?”
“I think so. Inching—no big steps.” Reilly paused, trying to decide how much to tell her. He clicked his tongue as he opened his mouth, but ended up remaining silent.
“What?” Corinne said on the other end. “Sounds like you want to say something else.”
“No,” he replied flatly, trying to hide the hypocrisy from his voice. He had just asked her to trust him, and here he was withholding information about his investigation. He needed more confirmation before he could share his thoughts. His insecurity kept him from disclosing any more.
62
Vicki popped another Xanax, her second since Jack left the house. She couldn’t focus on anything but the trial, and having to go through everything again. She would have to give another deposition. Ian Dewey had been able to expedite this trial mostly because, she figured, Victor Upshall knew Randall was guilty and didn’t really give a shit. He just wanted more of the limelight. Who knew how long it would take to set up a second trial. A new lawyer could request more preparatory time, which any reasonable judge could grant. She imagined sitting in front of that microphone again, talking about how she fell so short as a mother, how she couldn’t protect her baby at his most vulnerable moment. She would have to recite and relive those terrible moments when she lost her sense of security, her sense of self.
Dr. Inkler again would chastise her for perseverating.
Labeling thoughts and emotions was important, Dr. Inkler had told Vicki. It helped to control them, take ownership over them. Right now, however, identifying the cyclic nature of her thought processes couldn’t stop the hamster inside her head from continuing to spin the wheel.
Randall Franklin must die.
She tried to calm herself, to tell herself how ludicrous that sounded. She had never harmed anyone in her life. How could she even consider taking someone’s life? Or, more accurately, paying someone to take another’s life? She knew she couldn’t pull the trigger herself, but could she place the order? And whom could she find to do it? She guffawed at her original notion to find some mercenary masquerading as an air marshal. There was no way one of those men would be willing to kill for cash. But would one of them know someone else who would? Perhaps. Many of them seemed to have connections on both sides of the law. Now she was considering involving at least two other people in her murder-for-hire plot. Surely that would lead to a leak. One of them would talk—maybe even before the deed got done—and she would spend the rest of her life in jail.
Not worth it. She would have to endure.
She began to feel a gush of tranquility wash over her, like stepping under a hot shower. Perhaps she had found a workable solution to her dilemma—to endure.
Or perhaps that second Xanax began to kick in.
63
Stanton Newkirk stretched out on their king-sized bed, lying on his side and gazing at his lovely wife. Kim hadn’t stopped crying all day. It hadn’t been a continuous flood of tears, nothing like sobbing. One would just trickle down the side of her face every so often, usually when her smile broadened so much that her cheeks squeezed it out.
Kim leaned against their headboard, cradling baby Renny in her arms. He had surprised Kim with the infant girl when he came home with her that afternoon. “Surprised” was an understatement. Even “stunned” or “shocked” couldn’t quite encompass the enormity of the emotions. Kim had collapsed on the floor, once she realized that his bringing home a baby girl to call their own didn’t constitute the cruelest prank ever pulled. They had spent probably the first hour or so huddling speechlessly right there on the floor of their foyer, their arms intertwined to support the adorable sleeping baby together. When she had woken up and begun to cry, they realized she must be hungry. Stanton had rushed to the local pharmacy to pick up a carton of formula, a huge package of diapers, and a handful of other necessities. When he had returned, Kim had found a way to soothe the infant. She had sat with her in the living room rocking chair, both gazing into the other’s eyes. Stanton decided it was the most glorious, most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“I’ve decided on a name,” Kim had said as Stanton prepared the first bottle. “Renny.”
“That’s different,” he replied. He didn’t hate it, but it certainly wasn’t atop his list. They had decided on both boy and girl names years ago, and Renny had never been part of the conversation.
“Like ‘Renaissance.’ Rebirth. A new life.”
She didn’t have to say another word. Stanton loved it.
Kim had not yet asked where Stanton had found this perfectly normal, healthy newborn. He wondered if she ever would. He had prepared his answer: the truth. He would tell her all about his doings and goings-on over these past weeks. He felt confident she would end up in the same place as he did—that, essentially, the end justifies the means. She had gotten her baby. She wouldn’t care how.
DAY SEVEN:
TUESDAY
64
If the media frenzy outside the courthouse yesterday was a deluge, today’s was a category five hurricane. Corinne estimated the number of cameras and accompanying reporters quadrupled. She saw at least a half-dozen different languages on the swarming crews’ equipment. She quickly gathered that at least a handful of these other languages had no corresponding term for “mistrial;” she could hear reporters trucking along in their native tongues before fumbling through a pronunciation of t
hat word in heavily-accented English.
Corinne waited nearly thirty minutes to get through the security line into the courthouse, only to find the courtroom doors locked and guarded by two bailiffs. She had expected some sort of delay, but it seemed as though she might be the only attendant with that mindset. A frustrated Mario Cugino paced in a small ellipse; Corinne imagined some cartoon version of him with smoke billowing from both ears. Amy Coulter bellowed expletives into her cell phone, purposefully using a volume just loud enough to be heard over the commotion in the corridor. Adam and Bernadette Cottrell sat on a bench at the end of the hall, their hands clasped in one another’s, both of their knees bouncing up and down nervously.
Corinne found an open spot against one wall. A score of other reporters surrounded her, most of them busily checking their smart phones or tapping away in a notebook. Corinne leaned back and observed the crowd, taking mental notes of the atmosphere, trying to soak up the raw emotion in the air. This ability to discern and appreciate the subtleties of our world set her apart from her cohorts. She focused less on the facts and data and more on the humanity of a story. Details like Mario Cugino’s solo waltz and the Cottrells’ tremulous vigil would help her book transcend from an ordinary true crime tale to a Pulitzer contender.
After about fifteen minutes—and the sensation that the ambient temperature had risen as many degrees—the bailiffs opened the courtroom doors. The crowd poured through. Corinne took her seat at the end of the same row as yesterday. She took a few seconds to get settled in, and then she noticed that almost everyone else also had assumed the same position as yesterday. Mario Cugino could not seem to sit still. Amy Coulter had already produced a tissue from her purse, awaiting the waterworks. Carl Coulter sat near her, but not quite close enough to qualify as beside her. He had turned a shoulder, such that he couldn’t witness Amy’s behavior. Perhaps he could no longer stomach Amy’s antics.
Victor Upshall emerged from the judge’s anteroom in the front of the courtroom, followed closely by Prosecutor Dewey. This struck Corinne as highly unusual, though not unexpected. The lead counsel on either side of the case had spent the first part of the morning having a meeting in the judge’s chambers. Upshall looked nauseated, his usual glowing-orange skin tone dampened to that of a normal person’s. Corinne secretly reveled in his misery. Dewey didn’t look much better, which brought her far much less pleasure.
Soon after Upshall and Dewey took their places at their respective tables, a bailiff opened a door in the front to let Randall into the room. He strolled deliberately toward the defendant’s table. Holding his head high, he stared at Corinne the whole time, a subtle, smarmy, inside-joke-teller’s smile on his face. It began to feel creepy, so she looked away. For the first time, she briefly questioned her alliance with the twisted mastermind. When she regarded Upshall, and the slimy fuck that he was, she let the regret quickly fade away.
When instructed to by the bailiff, she and the rest of the audience stood up as Judge Banks entered the room. He took his seat and invited everyone else to do the same. After adjusting his robe, he squared his shoulders to the crowd and cleared his throat. “Good morning, everyone. As you may have heard, it has come to light that counsel for the defense, Mr. Upshall, had a prior personal relationship with one of the defendant’s alleged victims. Even though that particular crime is not among the charges in this trial, the prior relationship could present a conflict of interest for Mr. Upshall. Dr. Franklin has declared that Mr. Upshall did not divulge this relationship to him at any point. As such, he has requested a change in counsel.”
Judge Banks waited several seconds to let this sink in. Perhaps due to the lack of a collective gasp, he decided to rephrase. “Dr. Franklin wants a different lawyer.”
Amy Coulter obliged the judge, cackling a wet sob and bringing her hankie to her mouth.
“Under the circumstances,” Judge Banks continued, “I believe that this request is warranted. I have granted Dr. Franklin this right.”
Now several people joined Amy in her vocal response. Though the noise in the courtroom never rose above a grumble, Judge Banks banged his gavel twice. “Just like every citizen in this country, Dr. Franklin deserves a fair trial, which includes competent counsel. This also is such an important case for the state—for several states, actually. But more importantly, it’s imperative for you, the victims’ families, that we get this case right. I don’t want to bring this case to fruition only to see it thrown out due to a compromised counselor.”
He paused again, though the crowd reaction remained contained. “Dr. Franklin’s new attorney will need preparation time and, by law, needs to be involved in the jury selection process. Therefore, I have no choice but to declare a mistrial.”
“No!” Mario Cugino shouted as he began to stand up. He quickly stifled himself and sat back down.
Adam Cottrell doubled over, as if punched in the gut.
“Please, God, no!” Amy Coulter howled, launching into hysterical sobbing. Carl stood up beside her, stepped over her sniveling body, and calmly but rapidly walked out of the courtroom. Corinne guessed he might be going out to vomit.
Judge Banks appropriately knocked his gavel several times on his bench. He announced sternly but politely, “Order, please, everyone.” After the courtroom had quieted, he continued. “Dr. Franklin, you have two weeks to find a new attorney. If you cannot identify one by that time, an attorney will be appointed to you.
“And, Mr. Upshall…” Judge Banks leaned forward, directly toward the defendant’s table. “…I will be contacting the State Bar Association to recommend a formal inquiry. I find your lack of disclosure to both Dr. Franklin and the Bar troubling at best, and it borders on ethical misconduct. I suggest you get your house in order, sir.”
Corinne determined she should try to hide her extreme pleasure, but she didn’t. She let her mouth succumb to a wide, self-satisfied grin.
“This court is adjourned,” Judge Banks declared before he banged his gavel one last time.
65
Jackson Byrne stared at the tarmac outside his window. He had landed in Boston with mixed emotions. He knew getting back on the ground with the Piper case would re-invigorate him; its particulars had played on a cycle in his mind throughout his time at home. He also knew he would benefit greatly from some distance from Randall and that clusterfuck. However, leaving Vicki behind created an uncomfortable guilt, despite how remarkably together she seemed this morning. She practically begged him to leave, citing how much the “poor babies of Boston” needed him. She assured him she would be fine, and she even acted like it. Her turnaround from yesterday surprised him, so much that he didn’t know if he should trust it. He knew she could produce a believable façade just to make him feel better about his obligations at work. In the end, he decided to cede to her wishes—and his desire—to come back here to solve this case. Had he stayed behind, both he and Vicki knew it would be because of his concern for her. Both also recognized that she could not handle any guilt on her part if more kidnappings occurred in New England that Jack could have possibly prevented.
Ian Dewey had called him last night to fill him in on conversations he had had with Judge Banks and Victor Upshall. The judge had decided to grant Randall’s request, which would lead to a mistrial. Neither Jack nor Vicki needed to come to the courthouse in the morning. Jack appreciated the heads-up, though Dewey’s kindness couldn’t dull the sting Jack felt from the whole situation.
Jack deplaned and caught a cab to the police headquarters. He hadn’t yet developed an agenda for the day, but he hoped one would come to him after receiving an update from Jeff, Reilly, and Camilla. Perhaps his lack of an agenda would turn out to serve him well, as no schedule could hold up to the chaos about to befall him.
66
Mario Cugino sat in the passenger seat of his idle car. His head hung below his shoulders with his palms flat on the dashboard in front of him. He tried to catch his breath and collect his thoughts. He had predetermined h
is course of action today and had promised himself not to second-guess it. Now he threatened to renege on his self-bet.
He took his right hand off the dash, leaving behind a puddle of sweat on the vinyl. He opened up the glove compartment to look at his .38 pistol lying on top of a stack of registration documents. He stared at the gun, hoping it might speak to him, provide him with some sort of divine instruction. He knew what he wanted to do. He knew what he had to do. He steeled his nerves. He grabbed the gun, shut the glove box, and hopped out of the car as he tucked the pistol into his jacket pocket.
Mario had arrived very early this morning, well before the trial was supposed to resume. (Jennifer had gotten a ride with her ex Andrew—a decent guy whom Mario actually kind of liked.) He had sat in his car most of the time, waiting to see the transport vehicle from Coffeewood arrive. When it did, he popped out of the car and casually but quickly followed it to the northwest corner of the courthouse. Two armed guards opened the back doors and led Randall Franklin into a back entrance of the courthouse.
Mario now kept both hands stuffed in his jacket pockets and briskly walked to that same northwest corner. When he reached the southwest corner of the building and turned, he could see a hoard of media had beaten him to the spot. He stopped abruptly.
There was no getting away with this. He would be caught on film, immortalized as the man who shot Randall Franklin. A modern-day Jack Ruby.
He thought of Jennifer, of how much she needed this vengeance. He imagined leaving her behind, which crushed him. But at least she would have peace.
Somehow he failed to consider his little boy Emedio. Had he thought about how he would never see him again, he probably would have turned around and gotten back in his car.
