A small wave of apprehension surged through him as he stopped and peered through, soon replaced with relief as he pushed the door open, a familiar face passing through.
“Evening stranger,” Christine said, a brown paper sack in one hand, her purse in the other. She was dressed in heels and jeans, meaning she could either be on her way in or out for the evening.
Shane had long since quit trying to tell the difference.
“Why hello there,” Shane said, holding the door open until she was through before pulling it closed in her wake. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit this fine evening?”
Christine ignored the question, walking right on through towards the table in the back, spying Abby seated behind a stack of papers. “This guy has you working in here, in the dark, on a Saturday night? That’s just not right.”
“It hasn’t been so bad,” Abby said, offering a shrug and a half smile. “Sure beats sitting at the hospital. Besides, Shane was just serenading me with some Billy Joel.”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” Christine said, setting her paper bag down on the table and pulling out a chair on the corner. “I’ve heard this guy sing before, it sounds like a wounded duck.”
Abby laughed out loud as Shane raised his hands by his side, ready to defend himself. Before a word could pass his lips, the front window of the library door exploded behind them, a menagerie of sound and glass shards that sprayed into the room. Smiles faded from all three faces, each of them spinning to stare at the door, fear and dread welling within them.
For several moments everything seemed to stand still until an arm dressed in black leather snaked its way through the busted window and reached down, pushing the release on the door.
Shane stood rooted in place as the door swung back and a roughneck man with short hair and a beard stepped through. He stood with his hands open by his sides, clenching every few seconds, a deviant smile on his face. The feeling of dread grew in Shane as he stared at the man, knowing in an instant that it was Ute Carbone.
Carbone paused, silhouetted against the door for several moments, before beginning to walk towards them, his entire body moving with a stalking gait. It wasn’t until he was several steps into the room that Shane snapped himself into action, retreating to the table.
“Get behind the table, now!” Shane said to Christine, waiting a beat as she ran behind it and settled herself in tight against Abby. Gripping the edge of it with both hands, Shane flipped it up on edge, the broad top serving to block them from view.
“That’s not going to help them one bit,” Carbone glowered as he continued moving forward, malice in his voice.
Shane spun his gaze around for any sign of a weapon, his eyes instead spotting his bag on the ground beside his chair. In one step he snatched it up and dumped it over the table, right into Christine’s lap. “There’s a business card in my wallet for Officer Ryan. Get on the phone and get him here now!”
“He’s not going to help you either,” Carbone said, covering the last few feet between them with remarkable speed and grabbing Shane by the collar, jerking him backwards into the center of the library.
The motion threw Shane off balance, his arms and legs flailing as he tried to stay upright. His body careened several steps until slamming into the side of another table, a sharp pain rising in his hip.
It was nothing compared to the explosion of agony that erupted as a fist slammed into his kidney.
The shot caught him just beneath the rib cage, lifting his feet from the ground, pitching his body forward onto the table. The synapses in his brain told him to move, to push himself forward and out of harm’s reach, but his body was unable to respond. Every muscle fiber in his core tightened up, seizing around his injured organ, pain coursing through him in waves.
“What...what the hell do you want?” Shane gasped, sliding his body forward along the table until he reached the end of it, depositing himself into a heap on the ground. In the background he could just make out Christine’s voice screaming into the telephone as she called for help.
“I want you to go away,” Carbone hissed, shoving chairs aside as he came around towards Shane, “but since you don’t seem to be getting the message...”
The sharp point of a boot connected with Shane’s ribs, again lifting his body off the ground. Every bit of air was forced from his lungs as he landed on his side, wheezing for precious oxygen.
“I will say I’m a little disappointed though,” Carbone said, circling Shane, lining him up for another kick. “After seeing so much fight in the courtroom, I expected more out of you in a tussle.”
Bit by bit Shane forced air back into his body, the bright lights before his eyes receding. He rolled over onto his knees and began to crawl forward, pushing his way towards the door, out into the hall, away from the ladies. Ahead of him a steel trash can was tucked against the base of a pillar, shrouded in shadow, out of sight from his attacker.
“Don’t know where you think you’re going,” Carbone taunted, still circling around Shane. “Nothing over there that can help you.”
Shane kept his head lowered towards the ground, inching his way towards the can, keeping his body between it and Carbone. He forced his mind not to focus on the pain, instead honing in on the sound of Carbone’s footsteps, of his heavy breathing.
Raising himself up onto his feet, Shane staggered forward a step, bracing himself against the pillar while listening to Carbone close in behind him.
“Now that’s a little more like it,” his opponent hissed, his voice strained as he bore down. In one quick movement Shane snatched the trash can up and swung it around, Carbone’s fist connecting with it just inches away from Shane’s nose. The contact rang out with a resounding clang, spilling through the closed space of the library.
The momentum of the shot tore the trash can out of Shane’s hand, the polished steel hurtling end over end into the darkness. It also drew a guttural grunt from Carbone, clenching his fist and drawing it into his stomach. He bent at the waist for just a moment, folded over the hand, before rising tall, a new look of determination on his face.
“That’s going to cost you,” he muttered, making a direct line for Shane.
In three quick steps Shane retreated behind the pillar, using it to put space between them. He held it out at arm’s length, peering out from either side.
Carbone humored him for just a moment or two, leaning one way and then the other before circling hard to the right, Shane staying just beyond his reach. Instead of continuing to follow him, Carbone abandoned the chase, making a quick movement for the overturned table in the corner.
Abby let out a high pitched squeal that reverberated from the walls as Carbone strode for them, a vindictive look in his eye. It took a Shane a full moment to realize what has happening before circling around the pillar, charging hard for the back of Carbone, forgetting the pain in his body or the severe disadvantage he was under. He lowered his shoulder and ran hard for the outline of the man’s black jacket, slamming his shoulder into him, tossing them both forward.
They rolled onto the floor in a tangle of bodies, knees and elbows flying between them, each fighting for the upper hand. Shane’s knee connected with the soft tissue of Carbone’s groin, a burst of air pushing forth, releasing foul breath between them. Carbone’s elbow cracked against Shane’s temple, an array of stars dancing before his eyes, a warm trickle of blood running down his face.
For a moment time stood still as the blow rolled through Shane, his body falling slack, helpless against the floor. That was all it took for Carbone to seize his opportunity, rising and raising a fist to his ear, preparing to deliver the knockout blow to Shane.
Shane braced for it, but the sound of a dull thud rang out above him instead, followed by the smell of beer, the feeling of cold liquid dripping down on him.
“You little bitch,” Carbone seethed, the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh, followed by the pained cry of Christine. With a shake of his head, Shane pushed the co
bwebs aside and rose to a crouch, firing a palm strike into the inside of Carbone’s knee. The blow forced the joint out, locking his leg in place as Shane drew back, balling his fist and driving it into Carbone’s groin.
A horrific moan slid from the man as he braced himself against the table, one hand on it for support, the other hand on his genitals. He stared in pure hatred at Shane for several moments before sliding his hand into the seat of jeans, emerging with a switchblade. He triggered the blade release and wagged it in front of Shane, the blade flashing beneath the overhead lights.
Rational thought fled from Shane’s body as he took two steps back, his entire being focused on the blade in front of him. He watched as Carbone slashed it from side to side in front of him in long swipes, each one coming a little closer to Shane’s chest.
“Drop it! Now!” a voice barked from the entrance to the library, the front doors bursting open, Murphy and Ryan spilling inside. Both were dressed in civilian clothes with guns poised in front of them.
The warning didn’t even register with Carbone as he stalked forward on Shane, brandishing the knife, coming ever closer to his abdomen, his chest, with the blade.
“Right now, I’m warning you!” Murphy barked, but Carbone ignored him, drawing the blade back for one more mighty swipe, moving his body to within striking distance of Shane.
His arm started its arc back towards Shane when the first shot rang out, jerking Carbone’s upper body to the side, a spray of blood and tissue disappearing into the darkness. A second one followed right after, slamming into him center mass, forcing his arms to flail out on either side, the knife flying from his hands.
His entire body hung in the air, his face awash in surprise, his limbs beyond his control. He remained there, motionless, for several seconds before falling backwards, his body coming to rest flat on its back, limbs spread in four directions. Red bubbles foamed from the corners of his mouth, his eyes blinking, trying to focus. He remained that way for several moments as Shane stood rooted in place, Murphy and Ryan descending on him in measured steps, guns outstretched.
All three stood in silence as Carbone gasped his last breath, his focus on Shane, his head drifting back to the floor.
Abby and Christine rose from behind the table, Christine with a hand raised to her cheek, a red welt already covering half her face. Ryan and Murphy both snapped their attention to the girls, just as fast lowering their weapons and looking back to Shane.
“Was he alone?” Murphy asked.
Shane nodded. “As far as we know.”
“Is everyone alright?”
Shane looked over at Abby and Christine, one a little banged up, both still standing. He raised one hand to his ribs, the other to his temple, and nodded.
“Yeah, we’re okay.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
If you’ve done your job, closing argument is the easiest part of the entire trial.
The words sounded in Shane’s head over and over again, starting when he gave up on sleeping sometime just after four. They stayed there as he stood under the shower head, wincing as the beads of hot water hit his temple, his ribs, his kidneys. Time after time the sentence replayed in his head, the same melodic voice his mother always saved for him, just a hint of the underlying hardened attorney she was.
The last two weeks had gone well, as well as Shane could hope for, inside the courtroom. Every moment spent outside was a complete mess, with half his team in the hospital, his best friend nursing a black eye, he himself feeling beat to hell. Within the confines of the courthouse though, things were going well. Shane had been able to coax what he wanted from his witnesses, find at least one damaging point to make on all of the defenses. Tyler and Margie had performed well in front of the jury, mixing sympathetic with determined, never once making it appear they were seeking a handout.
Most of the work was done, all that was left was for Shane to put a bow on it.
There was a subdued feeling in the courtroom as Shane arrived. Gone was the entire team he had first walked up the steps with two weeks before, Abby electing to stay with Heath, far from the possibility of any further danger. Byers was again posted up in his traditional spot, but gave Shane only a small wave and a knowing grin, their meeting already set for later in the day.
The crowd inside was much smaller than the previous weeks, many of the expectant gawkers having moved on now that there were no more witnesses to be called, no more bombshells to be dropped. By this point in the proceedings most everyone had already formed their opinion on what the outcome would be, the closing statements were little more than a formality.
“Good morning,” Shane said to Tyler as he walked in and set down his bag, drawing a double take from his client.
“Good Lord, what happened to you?” Tyler asked, his jaw hanging open, Margie making the same face on the front row.
Shane opened his shoulder towards the defense table, his head cocked to the side, voice loud enough to be heard. “They happened to me.”
The extra day between the incident and arriving at court had given the defense team time to get past any initial shock. Shane watched from the corner of his eye as they busied themselves at their table, not once looking over or even acknowledging that they had heard him.
“Is everyone else alright?” Tyler asked. “Where’s Abby?”
“Abby’s fine,” Shane said, nodding his head. “And thanks to a helping hand from CPD, their goon got far and away the worst of it.”
“How much worse?”
The rear door into the court opened up and the bailiff stepped out, his uniform pressed, the top of his head polished to a mirror shine. He waited as the jury made their way in and took their seats, all looking tired, some even annoyed. “All rise.”
The sound of people raising themselves from their seat filled the air, Shane leaning over to whisper to Tyler. “Let’s just say he won’t be putting anybody in the hospital ever again.”
Tyler’s eyebrows shot up as he glanced to Shane, pointing a finger at him as if to ask if he did it. Shane shook his head in the negative and rose to full height as Judge Lynch entered, his robe appearing even larger than usual as he came into the room, swirling around his tremendous bulk. He swung himself down into his chair and went straight to the documents before him, mumbling a perfunctory, “Please be seated.”
The room lowered itself back into place while the judge prepared his things, getting everything in order before raising his gaze to the counselors before him.
“Today we are here to receive the closing arguments in the case of Bentley v. SynTronic. The plaintiff will be given the floor first, followed by the defendant. Should the plaintiff wish to add a rebuttal closing, he may do so thereafter.”
Judge Lynch shifted in his chair, aiming his gaze towards the jury, his bushy moustache bobbing up and down on his face. “Jurors, I would like to remind you that before you hear the closing argument, the burden of proof in this case lies with the plaintiff. Please keep that in mind both now as you hear his closing, and later as you deliberate.
“Mr. Laszlo, the floor is yours.”
Shane nodded to the judge and stood, his attention turned down onto his notes, the words of his mother running through his head one last time. He did his best not to wince as he stood, not to show the stabbing pain that was shooting through his torso. Instead he walked out into the floor and turned to face the jury, one hand in his pocket, the other out in front of him.
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I know you have all been put upon by being asked to take part in this case, and I sincerely thank you for doing so. I respect that many of you have been away from your families and jobs for quite some time, so I promise to be brief here this morning.
“As you just heard Judge Lynch state, the burden of proof in this case is on the plaintiff, and I am positive that after hearing all of the evidence over the last two weeks you would agree we have met that burden.”
Shane paused for a moment, turning to walk b
ack along the front of the jury box, his hand extended towards Tyler. “Last week you heard from the Bentleys, about how they were cajoled into a procedure they weren’t certain of, how they were told by university employees that they must take part in the procedure or risk having to pay for the surgery out of pocket. You heard from the surgeon performing the surgery, about how he has performed three hundred and forty three such procedures, but the only person to ever lose a limb was the one that received a KnightRunner.
“After that, you heard from Dr. Lomax, who described to you what the design and implementation process for a new prosthetic should entail, and you heard from Ms. Graham about the future that Tyler was robbed of as a direct result of the corners SynTronic cut.”
Shane turned back, walking the length of the jury, the pain of his body fading into the background as he focused in on them one by one, making eye contact, weaving his tale.
“Taken together, those facts alone would be more than enough to mean that we have met the burden of proof. However, I think it important to look at what the defense was able, or rather not able, to muster as a response. The overseeing physician on the case more or less admitted that he signed with SynTronic through the encouragement of significant gain. The company itself confessed to rushing along the product to such a degree that the only person they could get to endorse it was a paid actor that has never had a knee operation in his life.”
Shane stopped there, letting the words hang in the air, willing the jury to accept their importance. “Sometimes, being a juror in a case like this is a tough job, but I don’t believe this is one of those instances. I truly feel that the evidence in this situation is so overwhelming, so damning, that there is only one way to look at it.
“Tyler Bentley was a star, bound for the fairy tale life of a professional football player. At the very least, he was a young man that was going to be blessed a long and healthy life, replete with a lot of good stories to tell his friends. Now he is a young man, just entering his twenties, facing life minus a limb.
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