The People vs. Alex Cross: (Alex Cross 25)

by James Patterson

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dalton. I know you’re in a difficult situation, and I appreciate your handling it with such grace.”

  She hesitated, but then tilted her head and gestured toward the waiting room. I walked in. When I did, Coulter Tate, the kid with the broken nose, shrank away, curled up, and whined fearfully.

  “What’s gotten into you, honey?” his mother said, craning her head over her shoulder to look at me.

  “He kills people, Mom,” Tate said. “He teaches his kid to kill too.”

  “Shut up, Coulter,” Ali said, opening his eyes. “You are such an ass.”

  “Language,” I said.

  Ali looked relieved, got up, and hugged me. I looked at Mrs. Dalton and ignored the others. She led us down a hall to her office and closed the door after we went inside.

  “You okay, bud?”

  “My forehead hurts,” he said, and he hugged me again.

  “Mrs. Dalton’s not happy,” I said. “So give me the truth, everything.”

  CHAPTER

  37

  I OPENED THE door ten minutes later and found Mrs. Dalton standing there looking flustered.

  “I was about to knock,” she said.

  Or you were trying to listen in, I thought, but I said, “Call in the others. They’ll want to hear Ali’s side of things.”

  “Why?”

  “Because those boys are lying to you. And Ali can prove it.”

  Five minutes later, three kids and three parents were crammed into Mrs. Dalton’s office. None of us looked happy.

  “Expect a suit for damages, bucko,” George Putnam’s father said, shaking a big finger at me. “I’m a lawyer.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “I never would have guessed.”

  “Let’s be respectful, shall we?” Mrs. Dalton said. “Hear Ali’s version?”

  “He’s a liar,” George Putnam said in a hoarse voice.

  Ali shook his head. “You dolt, Putnam, I haven’t said anything yet.”

  I put my hand on Ali’s shoulder and squeezed.

  “Stick to the facts,” I said. “No name-calling. Address Mrs. Dalton.”

  Ali wasn’t happy, but he nodded and told Mrs. Dalton that Putnam had grabbed him while he sat on the wall and pushed him back, hard. If he’d let go, Ali would have dropped close to six feet to the concrete and probably would have been gravely injured.

  “But I didn’t let go,” Putnam said. “I pulled you back. It was a joke. Saved your life. Jeez.”

  Ali said, “He did pull me back, and he did say, ‘Saved your life.’ But then Coulter stuck his face in mine and started talking trash about my dad.”

  “So you head-butted him?” Tate’s mom said bitterly. “You can’t do that. They were fooling around, but you took it as a chance to really hurt someone.”

  “Like father, like son,” Tate said.

  “It’s true,” Putnam’s father said. “Ali didn’t have to punch George in the throat. The game was over, and he suckered my boy.”

  “George was still choking me after I head-butted Coulter,” Ali said, looking Mrs. Dalton right in the eye. “I feared for my life. I swung for his face, but I hit him in the throat.”

  “Feared for your life?” Putnam rasped. “Are you kidding?”

  “Did you have hold of my collar when I hit you, George?” Ali said. “All the other kids have gone home, but I know someone must have seen it. They’ll back me up eventually, so tell the truth now.”

  Putnam opened his mouth angrily, painfully. He hesitated, swallowed hard, and said, “I might have been holding your collar, but I never choked you.”

  “Never?”

  “No.”

  Ali unbuttoned several buttons on his shirt and then spread the lapels. There were raised welts around his neck.

  “Clear sign of attempted strangulation,” I said.

  “What?” Putnam’s father cried. “That’s BS. You could have done that when you were in talking to him!”

  Ali held out his phone, said, “I may be nine, but I’m not stupid. I took pictures in the bathroom an hour ago. A bunch, all time-stamped. So case closed. This was self-defense, or should we take you all to court and sue for batteries?”

  I hid my smile and said, “That’s multiple counts of battery.”

  “Oh,” Ali said, grinning. “Right.”

  There was a long silence in the room. Finally Mrs. Dalton said, “George? Coulter? A five-day suspension.”

  “Are you serious?” Coulter’s mother whined.

  “No,” Putnam’s father said.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Dalton said. “And if they’re ever involved with something like this again, they will be expelled from Washington Latin.”

  “I’m writing the board of overseers about this,” Putnam’s father said. “Five days for them and nothing for the kid who did the damage? I don’t think so.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Mrs. Dalton said, and she looked at me and then my son. “Ali, a three-day suspension.”

  “What?” he cried. “It was self-defense.”

  The headmistress was unmoved. “You signed a code of conduct when you enrolled in Washington Latin. That code says, among other things, ‘No fighting will be tolerated under any circumstances. None.’ Remember?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts,” she said, looking at me. “He signed the contract. So did you, Dr. Cross, and your wife.”

  “Yes, we did,” I said. “And we will abide by it.”

  “Dad?”

  “Case closed,” I said.

  CHAPTER

  38

  THE NEXT MORNING, after a long jog with Jannie and an excellent shower, I went down to the kitchen with Nana Mama and poured a mug of coffee for Bree. She shuffled to the table, yawning and running on fumes. There’d been a gang fight the evening before, three dead on top of a homicide caseload that was already bulging with backlog. She hadn’t gotten home until two and now she had to turn around and go back in for a meeting with the chief at nine.

  I put the coffee in front of her.

  “Bless you, baby,” Bree said, smiling weakly. She sipped the coffee.

  “I’ll be your barista anytime,” I said.

  “So tell me about Ali.”

  “Humph,” Nana Mama said, and she went back to stirring eggs for a scramble.

  I took a seat across from my wife. “Well, he was like a little pro arguing his defense in there. Very logical. And it was his idea to lay a trap for them by not mentioning the neck welts to Mrs. Dalton before then.”

  “A regular Perry Mason,” Nana Mama said, and she didn’t mean it in a good way. “Fighting on the school steps. That would not have happened back when I was a vice principal. Never.”

  My grandmother, dressed in her quilted blue robe, still had her back to us and was whipping the eggs furiously. Bree shaped an O with her lips and tried not to smile.

  “Nana,” I said, “what was Ali supposed to do? Let himself be choked to death?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said sharply, and she turned to face me. “I’m just concerned for your son’s reputation, which takes a long time to build.”

  Hearing echoes of similar things she’d said to me over the years, I said, “Yes, ma’am. That’s a fact.”

  “Long as it takes to build, a reputation can die in two seconds, Alex,” she said, and she made a shh sound of disgust.

  “I know that, and honestly, Nana, I think Ali did the right thing, considering the circumstances, and he’s getting punished for it, so he’s learning the world can be unfair sometimes.”

  “I agree,” Bree said. “In a lot of ways, Ali’s reputation will only be stronger after this. I mean, he’s nine years old, and he stood up to bullies who were twelve. Be proud of him, Nana. He did good even if it meant getting suspended.”

  My grandmother looked perplexed. I got up and hugged her. “Sometimes you have to break the rules. Sometimes you have to protect yourself.”

  Nana Mama held herself rigid
at first, but then she melted and hugged me back. “You know I don’t like fighting.”

  “I do.”

  “Where’d he learn to fight like that?”

  “He says from YouTube videos on Krav Maga, the Israeli fighting system.”

  “Maybe his time on the Internet should be limited?”

  “I agree,” I said and kissed her sweet old head.

  My cell phone rang. I let go of my grandmother and answered. “Alex Cross.”

  “Bernie Aaliyah, Dr. Cross,” he said gruffly. “It’s Tess. She’s barricaded herself in her bedroom. She’s got a gun, and I’m afraid she’s going to kill herself if you don’t come talk to her.”

  CHAPTER

  39

  SUSPENDED DC METRO Detective Tess Aaliyah lived in a duplex row-house walk-up near downtown on a street heading from renovation toward gentrification. Dumpsters squatted in front of three or four other row houses on the block; hammers and saws popped and whined inside them.

  A circular saw squealed nearby, masking the sound of me climbing up to Tess’s front porch. Her father opened the door before I could ring the bell, and he limped out to shake my hand. Bernie Aaliyah was pale, and his face was scratched and bruised. I could see everything from fright to anger in his eyes.

  “I told you I’d get Tess the help she needed, Dr. Cross,” Bernie said in a low, agitated voice. “And I tried in the best way I knew how. But she got real defensive when I suggested the evaluation. When I told her it was for her own good, just to know what’s what, she went out of her mind. She attacked me, scratched me, and hit me with something that knocked me on my ass.”

  He shook his head in disbelief and sorrow. “Tess was always like her mother, always levelheaded, even as a little girl.”

  “She’s still your little girl,” I said. “But she’s been wounded.”

  “Talk to her. Make her see it wasn’t her fault.”

  Feeling his desperation, I took a deep breath and said, “I can try. Where’s her bedroom?”

  “Top of the stairs, to the right.”

  “The gun?”

  “Her backup. She surrendered her service pistol.”

  “You know what prescriptions she’s taking?”

  “What isn’t she taking? The kitchen counter’s covered with them.”

  “Then I want to take a look there first.”

  He led me inside, past a steep staircase and into a small modern kitchen. The counter held a blooming array of prescription drugs.

  I picked up the canisters one by one and studied them. Some names I recognized. I got out my smartphone and typed names of the medicines I didn’t know into Drugs.com. I scanned all the drugs’ therapeutic effects, scribbled a few notes, and then used the site to look for possible interactions.

  When I finished, I was upset, and I whispered, “Bernie? Is Tess taking all of these? Or just some?”

  “She won’t tell me, and I can’t get her damn doctors on the phone.”

  I grabbed the bottles and looked for the prescribers’ names. In all, five physicians had prescribed twelve different meds for Tess Aaliyah in the past six weeks.

  Her father said, “What do you think?”

  “If she’s taking half these drugs at the same time, it’s a wonder she hasn’t been committed for psychotic behavior already.”

  “Jesus H. Christ.” Bernie moaned. “I knew it. I told my girlfriend something was wrong. But, Jesus, I … I just didn’t push it.”

  “Tess is a grown woman,” I said, and I patted him on the arm. “You coming? She’ll want you at some point, but please don’t say anything unless I give you the nod. Okay?”

  He didn’t like that. “I’ve done my share of talking people off ledges.”

  “I bet you have, Bernie. But it’s like a surgeon operating on a close relative or a man acting as his own lawyer in court. Never a good move.”

  Tess’s dad gave me a sour expression but said, “I won’t speak unless you give me the green light.”

  “Let’s go upstairs, then.”

  CHAPTER

  40

  THE CARPETED STAIRS made no noise as I climbed to a narrow landing. I turned right and went around the banister to Tess Aaliyah’s bedroom door. Before I could knock, I heard her in there talking.

  “Rats,” Tess said in a soft voice that sounded bewildered. “I saw rats. Here? Believe it. I saw … I heard … them scratching in the walls … and her screaming. Mom screaming. Mom’s always screaming.” Tess cried quietly. “Always screaming.”

  She sounded so close, I squatted down and saw a shadow that suggested she was sitting on the floor with her back to the door.

  I got up, took a deep breath, knocked, and said softly, “Tess?”

  “Go ’way,” she said in a whisper that I had to strain to hear.

  “It’s Alex Cross,” I said, a little louder. “I wanted to see if we could talk.”

  “Quiet!” she snarled. “I know my … my rights. I’m not seeing another shrink. No more rats chattering in my closets, no way.”

  Before I could reply, Tess said, “Alex, you’re the big rat. One chitchat, and you start all this drama … put nasty thoughts in my dad’s head. ‘Poor Tess. She’s crazy enough now. Stick her in a hole.’”

  “I’m not here to stick you in a hole.”

  Tess sniggered. “Course you are.”

  “I’m not. I just want to talk things over.”

  For several seconds, there was no reply. The door creaked as she leaned against it. I heard her shift position on the floor.

  I glanced over at her father, who stood at the head of the stairs looking like he was listening to someone drown.

  “Tess?” I said. “Can I just talk, then? Would that be okay?”

  “Whatever you want,” she said, returning to that bewildered voice. “Just do it nice and quiet. I hear you fine.”

  I paused, trying to think ahead, trying to figure out the best way to get her to come out and turn over the—

  Saa-chunk.

  CHAPTER

  41

  THE SOUND FROZE my thoughts. I’d heard it a thousand times in my life, maybe more, the particular noise a double-action revolver makes when a thumb cocks the hammer into firing position.

  “Tess,” I said, stepping quietly to the side of the door and out of the potential line of fire. “Do you have a gun in there?”

  In that off voice, she said, “Hate rats in my closets.”

  I glanced at her father, motioned for him to be patient, and said, “A lot of people care about you, Tess. They’d like to help you. I’d like to come in and help you. Your dad would too.”

  “No need,” Tess said wearily, sounding as if she might be falling asleep. “Ask my dad. Tessie’s an impatient girl, can’t wait for pest control to do its thing.”

  “Will you do me a favor? Will you put the gun down beside you, at least?”

  “No, Alex,” she whispered. “What would be the point of that?”

  I decided to shake her a bit. “I asked you before if you were self-medicating. You said no. But your dad just showed me twelve different meds in your kitchen.”

  After a pause, she said, “Legitimate prescriptions from licensed docs.”

  “Except I don’t think the other doctors knew everything you’d been prescribed, Tess,” I said. “There are several drugs down there—antidepressants and antipsychotics—that pose a significant risk when combined. You could have a very serious drug interaction, one that could stop your heart, trigger a stroke, potentially damage your brain, wipe out your long-term memory.”

  In a slow, modulated whisper, Tess said, “Hasn’t. Worked. Yet.”

  The gun barked.

  It startled me so badly I jumped back before feeling the horror and disbelief well in me. Tess had shot herself. She was dead, right there on the other side of that door. My knees went to rubber and I grabbed at the banister, feeling like I was going to be sick. Bernie Aaliyah roared in panic and despair, “No!”

&nb
sp; He limped fast to her door and pounded on it. “Tess! Answer me! Tess, you answer me right now!”

  In the short silence that followed, I said, “Bernie?”

  Tess’s father twisted his head to look at me, enraged. “Shut up, you. I never should have called you, Cross. You’ve killed her, that’s what you’ve done!”

  Part Three

  THE PROSECUTION OF ALEX CROSS

  CHAPTER

  42

  Four weeks later …

  STRIKING HER GAVEL twice, Judge Priscilla Larch peered out through thick-lensed glasses and in a gravelly voice said, “The People versus Alex Cross. This court will come to order. Sergeant Holm, you may seat the jury.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the bailiff said, and he went out.

  “I’m praying we chose right,” my niece Naomi said.

  Anita Marley nodded stiffly and looked to her opening arguments, not bothering to watch the five men and seven women who held my fate in their hands now filing into the courtroom and taking their places in the jury box. I understood why. Anita was still upset with me about jury selection.

  During voir dire—the questioning of potential jurors by the prosecution and defense prior to jury selection—we’d disagreed over two picks: juror five and juror eleven. Five was a man in his seventies who had something wrong with his spine. His upper back was twisted and hunched. He walked slowly with a cane and had to turn his shoulders and rib cage to look up at you.

  Juror five had also been sharp in his answers, especially when it came to describing his general skepticism about nearly everything in life. An electrical engineer before retiring, he said he took his time making decisions, tried to get to the truth before he acted, and was firm in his convictions.

  Anita had wanted to dismiss juror five because he had a friend whose son had been shot by the Baltimore police. But he also said that he had “nothing against cops. They have a tough job. I can apply the law fairly, given that.”

  I overruled Anita’s objection to juror five, telling her we wanted people skeptical enough to hear the facts and honest enough to deal with them fairly.