Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

"Are you asking the court to deny bail, Mr. Ortiz?" Judge Pistone asked. Ortiz took a breath, buying a moment, stuck between the judge's bench and the podium. "Mr. Ortiz," Pistone snapped. "Make a decision."

"Yes," Ortiz answered, facing the judge. "The state opposes bail."

"On what grounds?" Smith demanded.

"Mr. Smith," Judge Pistone said, "sit down. This isn't your courtroom and Mr. Ortiz isn't on the witness stand."

Smith unbuttoned his suit jacket and smiled as if he'd received an invitation, not an order.

"We have reason to believe that Mr. Mason poses a serious threat to others," Ortiz said.

"What others?" Smith asked from his seat, drawing Judge Pistone's glare. "Sorry, Your Honor. My mistake."

"What others, Mr. Ortiz?" Judge Pistone asked, pretending not to hear the muffled laughter from the audience.

Ortiz shot a glance at Smith, angry that he'd let Smith trap him. Smith had goaded the judge into making Ortiz reveal more of his case than he was ready to. Ortiz knew he either had to fold on Mason's bail or tip his hand. Having committed himself to opposing bail, he would lose too much credibility with the court if he didn't back it up. Smith didn't return Ortiz's look, watching the judge instead.

"Your Honor," Ortiz began. "Sandra Connelly was representing Whitney King. The defendant had two clients, Nick Byrnes and Mary Kowalczyk, who were threatening to sue Mr. King. Mr. King will testify that the defendant had followed him and threatened him. Ms. Connelly had tried to talk the defendant out of filing a lawsuit. Mr. King's office is at the Holmes Corporate Center. We believe that the defendant used Ms. Connelly to lure Mr. King to his office where he intended to kill both of them. Mr. King didn't show up, so he killed Ms. Connelly anyway."

"Why didn't King show up?" Smith asked.

Judge Pistone hammered his gavel. "Once more, Mr. Smith, and both you and your client will need lawyers! Understood?"

Smith raised both hands in surrender. "Understood. Yes sir. Understood."

"Well, Mr. Ortiz," Judge Pistone said. "Why wasn't Mr. King there?"

"Your Honor. As Mr. Smith said, this isn't a trial. It's premature to lay out all the evidence at this stage of the case."

"Not if you expect me to deny bail because of a threat to Mr. King."

Ortiz nodded, blood creeping up his neck as he returned to his seat, his assistant shrinking into her chair. "Mr. King didn't know about the meeting. That's all I'm prepared to say at this time," he said.

Mason looked at Smith, who smiled back, waiting for the judge to call on him.

"Now it's your turn, Mr. Smith. What do you have to say?"

Smith rose slowly, taking his time to the podium, resting his elbows as he looked at Ortiz, shaking his head like a disappointed parent, then straightening and giving his attention to the court.

"Whitney King was tried for the murder of Nick Byrnes's parents fifteen years ago in this courthouse. He was acquitted. His codefendant was Mary Kowalczyk's son, Ryan, who was convicted of the murders and executed last week. Nick Byrnes and Mary Kowalczyk both hired Lou Mason to prove that Whitney King was guilty of those murders and that Ryan Kowalzcyk was innocent. Since King's murder trial, eight out of the twelve jurors who acquitted him have died violently. Two of them were shot to death in the last week. Both were shot in the face, just like Sandra Connelly. Last week, Whitney King shot Nick Byrnes. Although Nick survived, he may be crippled. No charges have been filed in that case. Mary Kowalczyk has vanished. Yesterday, Mr. Mason filed a missing persons report on her and the police are investigating her disappearance.

I'd say that if anyone needs protection, it's Lou Mason, not Whitney King."

Judge Pistone rested his chin on his fingertips, looking back and forth from the defense to the prosecution.

"Bail set at one hundred thousand dollars. Next case."

Claire and Harry picked up Chinese food, joining Rachel Firestone, Blues, and Mason at Mason's house. Mason caught Harry alone for a moment.

"You get anything on that license plate?" Mason asked him.

Harry fixed him with a bewildred stare. "You don't have enough problems?" Mason didn't answer, holding Harry's look with his own. "I'm working on it," Harry finally said.

They gathered at the dining room table that Mason had shoved into the living room to make way for his rowing machine. Tuffy patrolled the perimeter, sniffing out morsels that landed on the hardwood floor.

Television trucks had lined the curb in front of Mason's house since he got home, broadcasting live reports of the day's events. Mason didn't tune in, disconnected his phone, and let Blues answer the door when reporters knocked. After Blues turned away the first two reporters with a look that said don't come back, the rest retreated to the other side of the street, searching for neighbors who would say they knew all along something was wrong with Mason, which was why they wouldn't let their kids play in his yard or ring his doorbell on Halloween.

By seven o'clock, the last broadcast truck had pulled away. Claire had turned up the air-conditioning, saying they'd had enough heat for one day.

No one talked about the charges against Mason or the rest of the case. No one exchanged high-fives to celebrate the judge's order setting bail at a manageable level. They were having dinner, not a party, sticking close to Mason. They finally ran out of food and small talk, unable to avoid the day's events any longer.

"It's a good thing the bail bondsman likes you," Harry said to Mason.

"I've done enough business with Carlos Guitteriz to support all three of his ex-wives and his six kids," Mason answered.

Harry said, "Carlos cut his fee in half and took an unsecured promissory note for the bail. That's loyalty."

"I thanked him," Mason said. "But I haven't thanked you for taking care of Dixon Smith's retainer," he told Claire. "I'll pay you back."

"I have no doubt," Claire said. "And, if you don't, I know where you live."

"I don't get the part about the stun gun," Rachel said. "How do those things work?"

"It's pretty simple," Blues said. "A stun gun uses compressed nitrogen to fire probes connected to a wire. The probe carries fifty thousand volts and the current lasts for around five seconds after it hits. The victim is incapacitated as long as the charge lasts, but it takes most people a few minutes to recover completely. That's plenty of time for the killer to do what he did. Effective range is about fifteen feet for commercial models you can buy on the Internet."

"Can Lou prove that's what happened? Does it leave a mark on the skin?" Claire asked.

"Usually not," Blues answered. "Maybe a red mark like a small burn, but that will fade pretty quickly. The big drawback is the wire. The killer had to reel it in like a fishing line. When he saw me coming, that probably saved Lou's life. Either I would have caught him or he would have had to leave the gun behind, which would have corroborated Lou's story."

The doorbell rang. Mason's shoulders sagged as he looked at Blues, who eased out of his chair, flexing his hands like he was ready to hang a reporter from the nearest street light. The entryway to Mason's house was an arched vestibule that was not visible from the dining room. Conversation stopped as Blues swung the wide oak door open, closing it with a decisive thud before leading Dixon Smith into the living room.

Smith, still wearing his suit, his tie cinched tightly against his neck, and carrying his briefcase, surveyed the room. Rachel had gathered the empty food boxes, building a pyramid in front of her.

"How come the lawyer never gets invited to the party?" Smith asked.

"You know the answer to that, Dixon," Claire said. "We're only wanted when we're needed. Lucky for you, you're both. Have a seat."