“Thirteen stars …” said Harper.
“It’s a map. Cass was killed in Wilmington, Delaware. Hightower in Springfield, Massachusetts. Harvey in Manchester, New Hampshire. All were colonies whose representatives signed the declaration of independence. If we count Ariella Bloom and Carl Tozer, then that’s New York. There may have been more murders. All along the eastern seaboard. Tell Delaney she needs to find out if anyone has been convicted of a murder due to some tie to a dollar bill. The dollar had to have been part of the evidence against them. She’s probably done this, already, country-wide, but she can narrow the search. We’re looking at the eight remaining states who signed the declaration – Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Georgia, Connecticut, Maryland, Virginia, Rhode Island, North Carolina …”
“Eddie, Richard Pena. The dead killer whose DNA was on the bill found in Tozer’s mouth. He was convicted of killing those women in North Carolina. It could be a link,” said Harper.
“You’re right. It could be. We need to get on to that. Can you go talk to Delaney? She doesn’t know about Pena.”
“I’m on my way, but there’s a couple things that don’t add up yet. Why are there three marks on each bill? I can understand the stars – that’s location. What are the other two for?”
“I don’t know yet. Need to think about it. Maybe it’s to do with the victims, somehow.”
“There’s something else we’re not considering here. What if there are no other killings in those states? What if this guy is just getting started?”
“There’s several years between some of these killings. I don’t think he’s been lying low. I think there are more victims we haven’t found yet. And if Ariella Bloom and Carl Tozer were victims of this guy? Well, he’s had a lot of practice. My guess is there are more out there. But I get it. This guy might still be playing his game. He could be targeting another victim right now.”
“I know. But look, I don’t want to waste too much time on Richard Pena. He had multiple victims. It doesn’t fit like the others,” said Harper.
“It might. In our case there were the same three marks on the bill and two victims.”
I placed a dollar on the window sill, stared hard at it and read aloud the Latin phrase on the banner that fluttered across the eagle on the Great Seal.
E pluribus unum.
Out of many – one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The jury room stank of old coffee, sweat, and fresh paint. Kane had sat quietly around the long table and listened. When he’d arrived, the jury keeper had told him to go on into the jury room. He didn’t have to wait in the corridor on the hard plastic chairs like the other alternates. Judge’s orders.
Kane sipped at a Styrofoam cup of tepid water and tried to tune in on the gossip. Already, certain cliques had developed among the other eleven jurors. Four women. Seven men. Three of the men were talking basketball. Trying to take their minds off the upcoming trial. You could see it though, the weight of their upcoming duty rested on their slumped shoulders.
The other four men barely spoke, they were listening to the women discuss juror twelve – Brenda Kowolski.
“I saw it on the news. It was her. It’s so awful,” said the short, blond lady called Anne. Kane had listened closely to all the jurors as they had been questioned during jury selection. Making mental notes. Occupations. Family. Children. Religious beliefs. The woman closest to Anne held her palm over her breast, tucked in her chin and let her mouth fall open. Rita.
“What happened to Brenda? She’s the lady who was here yesterday, right? In the nice sweater?” said Rita.
“She’s dead. A hit-and-run outside the library where she worked. It’s so awful,” said Anne. The other women shook their heads, stared at the grain on the old oak table. Kane had enjoyed listening to Arnold Novoselic talking about one of them – Betsy, in the mock trials. Arnold would be particularly happy that Rudy Carp had managed to seat her on the jury. The defense liked Betsy a lot.
Kane agreed. He liked Betsy too. She had long brown hair tied up in a ponytail. Kane wanted to stroke that hair.
The last of the four women – Cassandra – shook her head in amazement at the discussion of Brenda. Kane had watched Cassandra talking to Brenda yesterday, before he’d left. She was elegant and well-spoken.
“It’s just so dangerous crossing the street these days. Poor Brenda,” said Cassandra.
“I saw that on the news too,” said Betsy. “I didn’t know she was on the jury, My God. You know it said on the news the car backed up over her after the collision?”
“You know, you’re not supposed to watch the news. Didn’t you hear what the judge said yesterday?” said Spencer, one of the youngest of the jurors.
Anne started to flap. Her neck flushed red. Betsy waved Spencer away like he was an irritating fly.
“We just met her yesterday, and now she’s dead. That’s what’s important here,” said Betsy.
“No, what’s important is that we do what the judge tells us. Like, people die every day. I don’t mean to be bitchy about it, but like, so what? It’s not like she was anyone’s friend,” said Spencer.
Kane rose from his seat, brought out his wallet, fished out a twenty and threw it down on the table.
“I spoke to Brenda yesterday. She seemed like a nice lady. Doesn’t matter if we knew her or not. We were all in the same group. I don’t know any of you, but I’d like to think if I died tomorrow somebody here might care. I say we put in some money and send a wreath. It’s the least we can do,” said Kane.
One by one, the jurors threw down cash. Some said, “Damn straight”, or “Poor woman”, or “Let’s send a card too”. All of them, except Spencer. He stood with his arms folded, his weight on one hip. Finally, after one of the male jurors stared at him hard enough, he rolled his eyes and put down a ten-dollar bill.
“Fine,” he said.
A small victory. Kane knew that such gestures were vital. Subtle manoeuvers. Just one or two to start with. That would be all he needed to gain some standing. Kane gathered up the cash and asked Anne if she wouldn’t mind picking something out.
She didn’t mind at all. She beamed at Kane as she took the money.
“That’s so thoughtful of you. Thank you – everyone, I mean,” she said, with just the right hint of emotion at the back of her throat. She swallowed and put the money in her purse.
The jurors felt better.
Kane sat down and thought about the sound made by Brenda’s skull as it broke on the hood of his Chevy Silverado. The single drum-strike of something hard, and hollow, cracking on metal. And that crunch a microsecond earlier. Too close in time to be distinguishable. Yet it was there, in that cluster of sounds. Like a chord on a guitar, the echoes of her clavicle and cervical spine disintegrating. To Kane, it had sounded almost melodic. Like an orchestra unleashing a single blast of music before beginning their overture.
Kane sipped at his coffee, picked some fluff from his sweater and thought about the disappointingly silent bump from the pick-up on the second impact – when he’d reversed over her head.
Hey-ho, thought Kane.
The door at the rear of the jury room opened and the judge walked in. He wore black robes over a black suit.
Everyone fell quiet and gave their attention to the judge. Anne was really panicking – like she’d been caught breaking a rule she didn’t really understand. Kane leaned over and patted her arm, gently.
Placing his large hands on the table, Judge Ford leaned over and spoke softly. As he did so, he let his gaze wander around the jury room. Occasionally letting it linger on certain jurors.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have some distressing news. I felt I needed to tell you all this in private. Believe me, I’ll be discussing this in a few moments with the lawyers in this case. That’s important. However, I wanted you to hear it from me, first. I received a call this morning from the police commissioner. The police department have reason to believe that you’re all in very real danger.�
�
CARP LAW
* * *
Suite 421, Condé Nast Building, 4 Times Square, New York, NY.
Strictly Confidential,
Attorney Client Work Product
Juror Memo
The People -v- Robert Solomon
Manhattan Criminal Court
Anne Koppelmann
Age: 27
Kindergarten teacher at Saint Ives. Single. No children. Subscribes to the New Yorker. Plays the clarinet and piano. Both parents deceased. Mother was a housewife, father worked for the city. No financial issues. Social media interests – likes include Black Lives Matter, Bernie Sanders, Democrats, etc. Liberal. Loves Real Time with Bill Maher.
Probability of Not Guilty vote: 64%
Arnold L. Novoselic
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The elevator doors rolled open and a big ball of crazy spilled out.
First, a man in a green jacket came out of the elevator car backwards liked he’d been fired from a cannon. He hit the doors of the elevator opposite and an expensive-looking camera smashed by his side.
A phalanx of security guards dressed in black exited the elevator in one smooth movement. In the center of the flesh ball I could see the top of Bobby Solomon’s head. Rudy beside him. The doors to the stairwell burst open beside me and a line of photographers trampled out like a platoon running into battle. Another elevator arrived and a mass of reporters and TV cameras erupted onto the scene. The corridor exploded in lens flare. Questions and microphones probed the circle of security, testing for weaknesses.
I ran for the courtroom and threw both doors wide. The security team picked up speed and pushed back against the advancing media.
Jesus, what a circus.
The security guards grabbed the men they were protecting and ran for the doors. I stepped aside just in time. If I’d stayed put I would’ve been crushed. A big security guy in a black bomber jacket spun around and closed the doors on the cameras.
I looked around. Apart from the clerk and court security officers, the courtroom was empty.
The circle broke. Some of the guards carried briefcases. Like the one Holten used to carry around the laptop. They made for the front of the court. I saw Bobby crouching down in the aisle, breathing hard. Rudy patted his back, told him it was okay.
I wandered over to Rudy, told him I needed a word. He hauled Bobby to his feet, adjusted Bobby’s tie and smoothed down the jacket of his suit. Then he gave Bobby a pat on the arm and told him to sit down at the defense table. Rudy and I walked to the back of the room and I gave him my theory on Dollar Bill.
He nodded, politely at first. The more I talked, the less interested Rudy became. I could tell he was tense from the way he chewed his top lip. His hands wouldn’t stay still. He was nervous. Anxious. First chair in a trial like this will do that to anyone.
“This FBI agent, Delaney, is she going to testify to any of this?” said Rudy.
“I doubt it. There might be a way around that. We’re working on it.”
He raised his chin, winked at me. Nodded and said, “Good. Now if you don’t mind I have an opening statement to prepare. Oh, and one more thing,” said Rudy. He beckoned me to come closer, lowered his voice to a whisper.
“We hired you to go after the cops in this case. We all know why, don’t we? You’re a soldier Eddie. And if you break through the police lies I’ll carry you out of here on my shoulders. If you don’t, well, we expect you to throw yourself on that grenade and protect the client. If that happens you’ll disappear from this case like you were never here in the first place. Is that understood? I don’t really want you wasting time and resources on leads that we just can’t use. Just do the job you were hired to do. Okay? Sound reasonable?”
“I’m okay with that,” I said, in a tone which told Rudy I was very far from being okay with it.
“Fine. Your shopping has arrived by the way. My paralegal has everything in an evidence storage room down the hall. They’ll bring it in if and when it’s required.”
And with that, Rudy walked away and sat at the defense table beside Bobby. Rudy chatted to Bobby softly, trying to calm him down. I was fifty feet away, at least, but still I saw his back and shoulders trembling. Arnold Novoselic took up a corner seat at the defense table and sorted through some documents.
By the time I’d taken my seat at the defense table, I’d calmed down. No point in picking a fight with Rudy. Not now. I could always do it later. Sitting down put pressure on my chest. I popped some painkillers with water. It wasn’t so bad if I stood up. For now, I had a lot of sitting to do. At least the pain from my broken rib took my mind off the headache.
The court officer opened the doors at the sound of a familiar holler. The man I recognized as Art Pryor made his way into court, flanked by a handful of prosecutors carrying heavy cardboard boxes. Pryor looked the part. Impeccable, blue, pin-striped suit. Tailored, of course. Crisp white shirt that almost shone, set off with a pink tie. Pryor liked pink ties, or so I’d heard. The handkerchief in his top pocket matched the tie. He had the walk too. It wasn’t quite a swagger, but it was close.
He approached the defense table, greeted Rudy warmly. His teeth looked as though they were powered by the same electricity supply that had been hooked up to his shirt.
“Game time, Art. By the way, this is my second chair. Eddie Flynn.”
I stood up, grateful for the respite it afforded my ribs, and held out my hand along with my best smile.
Pryor shook it. Said nothing. Stood back and flicked out his handkerchief in front of him, like a maître d’ would before draping a napkin in your lap in a three-star Michelin restaurant. Pryor retained the smile as he carefully wiped his hands.
“Well, my, my – Mr. Flynn. We meet at last. I’ve heard a lot about you these past twenty-four hours,” he said, in a southern accent straight out of a production of A Streetcar Named Desire.
Pryor had a twinkle in his eye. I could feel the hate radiating off his tanned skin. I’d met his kind before. Courtroom gladiators. Didn’t matter about the case. It didn’t matter that someone got hurt, or someone died. His kind treated a trial like it was sport. They wanted to win. And more than that, they wanted to crush their opponents. They got off on it. Made me feel sick. I could tell Pryor and I were not going to get along.
“Whatever good things you’ve heard about me probably aren’t true. Whatever bad things you’ve heard are probably just the tip of the iceberg,” I said.
He took a deep breath through his nose. Like he was inhaling the animosity in the air.
“I really hope you’ve brought your ‘A’ game, gentlemen. You’ll need it,” said Pryor. He walked backward to the prosecution table, keeping Bobby in his sights the whole way.
Before he got back to the prosecution table, a man in beige pants and a blue sports coat approached Pryor. The man wore a white shirt with a red tie, loose at the neck because of his open collar. Short fair hair, keen eyes and bad skin. Real bad. Angry red blotches escaped from his collar, clusters of blackheads on his cheeks and nose surrounded by white, flaky skin. And all of it highlighted by his pale skin tone. He had a press badge sticking out of the pocket of his coat and a shoulder bag.
“Who’s the reporter talking to Pryor?” I said.
Rudy gave the man the once-over. Said, “Paul Benettio. He writes a celebrity rag column for the New York Star. Real piece of work, that guy. He hires PIs to dig up sex stories. He’s a witness in this case. You read his statement?”
“I did, but I didn’t know what he looked like. He doesn’t say too much. It’s mostly speculation that Bobby and Ariella weren’t getting along,” I said.
“Exactly, and he won’t name his sources. Look at this,” said Rudy.
He brought up Benettio’s statement on the laptop, and pointed to the last paragraph.
“Journalistic privilege applies to my sources. I cannot name them, nor can I reveal further information at this time.”
“Any follow-up
on that?” I asked.
“No. Guy is a hack. No point in wasting resources on a loser like him,” said Rudy.
I noticed Pryor and Benettio didn’t shake hands. They leapt into full conversation, no smiles, no greetings of any kind, just an intense talk right off the bat. I couldn’t hear what was being said. It appeared clear that these guys knew each other, and they’d spoken recently. At one point, both men stopped talking and looked my way.
Only they were looking past me, and directly at my client. I followed that line of vision to Bobby and immediately saw what had drawn their attention.
Bobby looked close to losing it. He flicked his hair back, tapped his fingers on the table. His legs were hammering up and down. Bobby’s chair tilted backward. I reached out to grab him, felt a shot of pain in my side which stopped me dead. The chair went over, and I saw Bobby’s eyes roll back into his head before he hit the ground.
His body jackknifed. Foam spilled from the side of his mouth. His limbs flailed and shook. Arnold was the first man beside him on the floor. He tried to roll Bobby onto his side, and spoke calmly to him – calling his name.
“Paramedic!”
I don’t know who shouted. Could’ve been Rudy. A crowd quickly formed around us. I knelt down, almost fainted myself with the pain. I held Bobby’s head. Took out my wallet and jammed it into his mouth to stop him swallowing his tongue.
“Get a Goddamn paramedic in here now!”
This time I heard the shout from Rudy. People were crowding around. I saw the multiple flashes from a camera reflected on the tiled floor. Goddamn paparazzi. Benettio was there too, looking on with some satisfaction. A woman in a white shirt with red flashes on the shoulders broke through the crowd, shoving Benettio aside. She had a medical kit in one hand.
“Does he have epilepsy?” cried the medic, as she knelt down beside Bobby.
Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury Page 16
