James Patterson - #1 Suspect

“We’re all with you, Jack. Everyone at Private. We’re reaching out to street contacts, sifting through everything we’ve found, and we will keep at it until we’ve got something useful. Are you all right?”

“It’s good to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same. I know how bad it is in there.”

I thought, You can’t really know-and you should thank God for that.

I said, “So you don’t have anything?”

“Not yet. Tommy has an alibi.”

“So I heard.”

“His wife. He was home with her that evening.”

I sighed.

“We’re still digging,” said Justine.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“I know.”

Why had I slept with Colleen?

Why hadn’t I resisted that impulse?

Justine wished me luck, and then the bailiff called out a number. Caine said, “That’s us. Let’s go.”

The assistant district attorney was Eddie Savino, still in his twenties, dark, handsome, and on his way up-at least he gave that impression.

Savino said, “Your Honor, Mr. Morgan murdered Colleen Molloy, one of his girlfriends. He shot her three times in the chest. We recovered his DNA from inside the victim, to put it delicately.”

The ADA smirked, shot a glance at the gallery, didn’t get a reaction, and went on.

“And the special circumstance in the charge is that Ms. Molloy was six weeks pregnant.”

“Go on,” said the judge. “And can the flourishes, Eddie. There’s no jury. Just me.”

“Yes, Judge,” said the ADA. He smiled charmingly. “The murder weapon was a. 45-caliber handgun registered to Mr. Morgan, concealed in some bushes about fifteen feet from his front door. The bullets from that gun are a positive match to the bullets extracted from the victim’s body.”

Judge Coffin looked at me squarely for the first time, as Savino kept talking and ticking off items on his fingers.

“Jack Morgan is rich, he’s armed, and he’s dangerous. He’s also a pilot. He not only flies planes, Your Honor, he owns one. If that doesn’t define ‘flight risk,’ I don’t know what does.

“The people request that Mr. Morgan be remanded over to the Twin Towers Correctional Facility while he awaits trial.”

Everything Savino had said about me was true-except for shooting Colleen and being a flight risk. My mood was changing. I had gone through terror and self-pity and was now working on getting very mad.

Judge Coffin said, “Mr. Caine. Talk to me.”

Caine said, “Nice speech on the part of Mr. Savino, Your Honor, but my client is not a flight risk. He wants to defend himself against these heinous false accusations because he’s not guilty of anything. The cops rushed to judgment, and Mr. Morgan is bearing the brunt of their laziness.”

Coffin said, “Just the facts, please, Mr. Caine. I’ve got another hundred people waiting to be heard today.”

“Sorry, Your Honor. Facts are, Mr. Morgan is a war hero. He’s a pilot like the bald eagle is a bird. He was a captain in the Marine Corps. He flew transport helicopters in Afghanistan and was awarded the Silver Star. Mr. Morgan is a personal friend of the chief of police and the mayor, both of whom vouch for him.

“And there’s more, Your Honor. Mr. Morgan employs over three hundred people. Whatever a pillar of the community is, Jack Morgan fits the definition.”

“Bottom line it for me, please, Mr. Caine.”

“Bottom line, Your Honor, Mr. Morgan came home from a business trip and found his former girlfriend dead in his bed. It was a setup. He called the police.

“If my client had actually committed a murder, he is more than capable of getting rid of any evidence of the crime. He lives alone. He had thirteen or fourteen hours before he was expected at the office the next morning. In that time, he could have gotten rid of the body, sanitized the scene, established an alibi. Hell, he could have invited twelve people out to dinner at Spago and still had time to get rid of the evidence and then get on a plane to Guadalajara.

“So what are the cops saying? He killed the girl, left her in his bed, buried the gun in a pile of mulch fifteen feet from his door? That’s nuts, Your Honor. If he was going to fly to Mexico, why didn’t he do it?

“Because Jack Morgan didn’t kill Colleen Molloy. He called the police and he cooperated with them fully. Those are the actions of an innocent man.”

Caine had done a powerful-correction, a phenomenal — job. My gratitude to him was so overwhelming, I almost broke down. But Judge Coffin was deadpan. He appeared to be unmoved by Caine’s speech.

Coffin said, “Mr. Morgan, you’re charged with felony murder with special circumstances. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

The judge said, “Uh-huh.” Then he leaned over his laptop and poked at the keys.

Judge Coffin was a two-finger typist, and while he hunted and pecked, noise rose from the gallery like a typhoon boiling up the coastline. A fight broke out in the aisles and sheriffs put it down. The judge banged his gavel four times and glared.

There was silence and then Judge Coffin looked down at me.

“Mr. Morgan, do you intend to flee?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Okay. Well, I’d say we have an unusual situation, Mr. Morgan being an upright citizen who called the police to report the crime. Still, we’ve got special circumstances.”

The judge scratched his chin. He had our attention.

“I’ve found a precedent in Meyer versus Spinogotti.”

Savino looked puzzled. “Wasn’t that an abduction case, Your Honor?”

“Bingo, Mr. Savino. Pregnant victim. Mr. Caine, I want Mr. Morgan’s plane disabled and secured so that it cannot be moved. Mr. Morgan, you will surrender your pilot’s license and your license to carry a weapon; also your passport.

“When those conditions are met, find a bail bondsman who will put up twenty million dollars and off you go.”

The gavel came down.

The bailiff called the next case. Caine said to me, “Don’t worry, Jack. I’m on it. You’ll be home tomorrow.”

Was Caine right? Or was he just giving me false hope?

A deputy was at my side. He jerked my arm, and I walked with him out the back door of the courtroom. I turned just as the door closed. I was hoping to see Justine, but I saw Fescoe.

He was in a huddle with Tandy and Ziegler and Eddie Savino. I could tell by the looks shot in my direction that they were discussing me.

It was a fair guess that the prosecution was disappointed that I might make bail.

I was loaded into the holding cell behind the courtroom, where I was chained again to three other men. I sweated in silence for six hours, then returned by bus to the men’s jail, where I was shooed into my cell.

We had a new cell mate.

Another talker.

The new guy’s name was Vincent, and he looked like he’d been sleeping over a grate. He got rolling fast and told me about what he called “an almost criminal imbalance in the real estate market” that wouldn’t straighten out until 2015 at the earliest. He talked about the boomers, the pressure they’d put on all things related to the economy and the current entitlement programs. We wouldn’t see a bull market until we were wearing orthopedic shoes, he said.

He still had a sense of humor. It was admirable.

“You’re in finance?” I asked politely.

“I drive.”

“Drive?”

“A cab. I didn’t pay a couple of tickets. They pulled me in here for that. You believe it?”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“When we get out of here, if you need a cab, just remember 1-80 °Call Vin.”

I said, “Sure. I can remember that.”