Steven James - The Knight

“There’s always a chance.”

She gave me a solemn, unsettling look. “If he scares you… I mean… there’s… Just do a good job, OK?”

All I can do is tell the truth.

“OK,” I said.

Then I kissed her on the forehead, picked up my bags, and left for Chicago.

The Cook County Criminal CourthouseThe corner of West 26th and South California Avenue Chicago, Illinois11:52 a.m. Central Time

With the number of death penalty protestors and counter-protestors surrounding the courthouse, South California Avenue had been closed off, so Dr. Calvin Werjonic and I parked a block away. We stepped out of his car, and I shielded my eyes from the pelting rain.

Despite the storm, snipers were in place all around the courthouse.

Because of the possibility that Sebastian Taylor might show up, Ralph had coordinated efforts with the Chicago Police Department and the U.S. Marshals Service to provide coverage. But even with their help, I wasn’t sure we’d be able to locate Taylor. He was one of the most elusive and dangerous men I’d ever met, and I didn’t know too many people who were good enough to stop him.

The recorded message in the mine hadn’t contained any specific threats against me, but if Taylor were here, I wanted to flush him out, so, even though there was a secure parking garage underneath the courthouse, I’d insisted that we not use it.

I wanted to be in the open, where he could find me.

Now, while I shuffled through my pockets for some change, Calvin, who was in his mid-seventies and looked like he was about to get blown away by the wind, tugged his London Fog trench coat tighter around himself. “I’ll meet you inside, my boy.” His light English accent flavored every word.

“All right.”

As he disappeared into the dark rain, lightning slithered across the sky, leaving a drumbeat of thunder in its wake. I slipped quarters into the parking meter.

Calvin Werjonic, PhD, JD, had been my advisor nine years ago when I started my doctoral program in environmental criminology. That was also the year I made the transition from being a detective with the Milwaukee Police Department to becoming an FBI agent.

For the next four years I’d buried myself in my postgraduate studies, while still working full-time for the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. Tough years. Very little personal life. Only a few friends, but when I finally finished my degree, Calvin shifted from being my professor to becoming one of them.

Parking meter fed, I splashed across the street toward the courthouse, my eyes on the protestors. I’d thought the thunderstorm would have kept them away, but despite the weather it looked like three or four hundred people had shown up.

I wondered which of them might be FBI agents or undercover officers.

As I made my way to the building, I entertained the possibility that Taylor wasn’t the one who’d left the recording device in Heather’s mouth. In truth, it might have been almost anyone in the crowd.

I looked for any familiar faces, for anyone who was making unnecessary eye contact with me, or purposely avoiding it, but I saw nothing unusual.

There were at least 150 death-penalty supporters, some carrying signs with enlarged photos of the victims, others holding signs that read “An eye for an eye. A life for a life.”

The people gathered on the other side of the street waved “Death Does Not Equal Justice” and “Rehabilitate, Don’t Slaughter” signs. The two groups were trying to outshout each other.

Two visions of justice.

Two sides of the equation.

Thankfully, the police had cleared a path and blockaded it with wooden sawhorses, so I was able to make it to the courthouse steps. I jogged up them as the wind whipped through the channel between the neighboring administration building and the courthouse, sending rain pelting into my face.

Calvin was shaking the rain off his trench coat when I found him in the entryway. “Quite a scene out there,” he said.

“No surprise.” I brushed the water out of my hair. “Considering who’s on trial.” Even though we were inside, the temperature hadn’t changed. The central air must not have been working properly. I guessed it was somewhere around sixty-two degrees. Maybe cooler.

Calvin was silent for a moment, then said, “I am a bit surprised they didn’t recognize you, my boy.”

“It’s been thirteen years.”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose it has.”

I was scrutinizing the faces of the news reporters and bystanders in the lobby, trying not to look like I was staring. Some of the victims’ family members wore black armbands. “Besides, killers are a lot more memorable than the guys who catch them. Nobody makes FBI agent or police officer trading cards, but three different companies make them for serial killers.”

“That is a little troubling.”

“More than a little.”

A pack of reporters glanced in our direction and apparently recognized Calvin, because they began to flock toward us, eyes locked on him. He was used to media attention, being one of CNN’s most frequently called upon criminology experts, so it didn’t surprise me, but I like media interviews about as much as I like truck-stop coffee, and I think Calvin knew that because he walked past me to intercept them. “I’ll see you in the courtroom,” he said.

I thanked him and headed for the security checkpoint where six officers stood sentry beside the three metal detectors. One of the officers, a squat man with an uneven dome of sheared-off hair, motioned for me to step forward. It took me a moment to empty my pockets and send my keys with my lock pick blades, along with my Mini Maglite flashlight and some change, through the X-ray machine.

Before the officer could even ask for it, I handed him my ID and said, “FBI.”

Then I removed my. 357 SIG P229 and the knife Ralph had given to me-a Randall King black automatic TSAVO-Wraith-and handed them over as well.

The Wraith wasn’t the kind of knife I would’ve chosen on my own, but Ralph had told me I needed a good one and had given it to me last month. Tessa called the Wraith “wicked.”

Which was actually a pretty good description.

The officer, whose badge read Jamel Fohay, set my gun and knife on a table beside him, then stared at my ID while I laid my computer bag on the conveyor belt. “Fed, huh?” he said. “Big guy came through here a few minutes ago.”

That would be Ralph.

“Agent Hawkins.”

“You two here to testify?”

“He did last month. I’m about to.”

He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to return my ID, and the line of reporters waiting to get into the courtroom was quickly growing behind me, so I plucked the ID from his hand and he backed up as I stepped through.

He gestured toward my Wraith. “Two and five-eighths ounces. ATS-34 stainless steel blade. Made in the U.S. of A. Good choice.”

“You know your knives.”

“I work the evidence room,” he explained, “whenever I’m not stuck babysitting this X-ray machine. See a lot of knives come through. Always glad to see a Randall King. Gotta leave it here, though. The SIG too. You know the drill.” He placed them into a small metal locker attached to the wall. Turned the key. Handed it to me.

After all the times I’d been called in as an expert witness, I was all too familiar with courtroom proceedings and protocol. While it varies between jurisdictions, I knew that here in Illinois no one was allowed to have weapons in the courtroom except for the two officers who stand guard by the main door. Some states allow judges to have guns hidden beneath the bench.

But not Illinois.