Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

Mary Kowalczyk charmed him with her poignant strength, while Blues left her one step short of assault with intent to kill. As for Blues, he'd never walked away from Mason before. And Claire had never lied to him, though he couldn't shake the suspicion that she had at least dodged the truth this time. Mason felt like he was slipping into an X-Files episode where everyone turns out to be someone else.

Adding to his irritation, Mickey Shanahan, his legal assistant, was late again. Mickey had spent the summer working as a volunteer on Josh Seeley's campaign for the U.S. Senate. Abby Lieberman did public relations work for Seeley and hooked Mickey up with the campaign. Mickey's life ambition was PR and politics, shoving his day job to the bottom of the priority list. The primary was three weeks away and Mason had seen less and less of Mickey as the summer wore on.

Nick Byrnes's arrival did nothing to lift Mason's mood. The kid came in pulling a handcart loaded with three banker's boxes. Mason knew what was in the boxes before he saw the neatly printed lettering on the sides- State v. Kowalczyk and King.

"How ya doin', Mr. Mason," Nick said, standing in front of Mason's desk, breathing hard from carrying the boxes and the handcart up the stairs, a sheen of sweat dampening his hairline and wetting his upper lip.

"I'm good, Nick. How 'bout you?" Mason asked.

"Hot, man. This weather is a killer. They say it's gonna be like this for another couple of weeks."

"Stay cool, son. No heavy lifting," Mason said. "That your file on your folks' case?"

"Yeah," Nick smiled sheepishly. "I know it looks like a lot of stuff, but I've organized everything. I've got the police reports, the trial transcript, and the exhibits. Well, except for stuff like the clothes. The cops still have that in storage. They don't throw anything away."

Mason nodded, wondering why he ever thought Nick had a case for him that didn't involve the murders. It was the nature of solo practice. Every day began with the hope that a homerun case would walk through the door, landing in his lap like a winning lottery ticket. Mason doubted that Nick wanted him to get a pardon for Ryan Kowalczyk.

"Have a seat. What do you want me to do with all that?" Mason asked, pointing to the boxes.

Nick didn't hesitate. "I want you to sue Whitney King for the wrongful death of my parents," he began, holding up his hand before Mason could answer. "I was a minor when they were killed. That means the statute of limitations didn't start to run until I turned eighteen. I have a year after that to sue him. My time runs out two weeks from today. I've been all over town looking for lawyers to take my case, but everyone turned me down. They all say that I don't have a case since King was acquitted. I ask them about O.J. Simpson. He was acquitted too and the families nailed his ass for big bucks on a wrongful death deal. They don't care. They're only interested in the sure thing. You're my last chance."

Mason leaned back in his chair, hands clasped across his middle. "Do you need the money?"

Nick furrowed his brow. "Nah. My folks had life insurance. It's in a trust fund that will pay for college and get me started when I finish school. I don't need the money."

"Then why do it?" Mason asked.

Nick stiffened. "Come on, Mr. Mason. That asshole killed my parents and he got away with it! Nobody gives a shit about that, I guess. Everybody says the system isn't perfect; it was a long time ago, leave it alone, life is for the living. What a load of crap! Son of a bitch, Mr. Mason, I thought if anyone would get it, you would!"

Mason grinned. "Oh I get it all right, Nick. I just wanted to make sure you did. There's just one problem."

"What's that?" Nick asked.

"Mary Kowalczyk beat you to the punch. She hired me this morning to get a pardon for her son."

"A pardon? What good will a pardon do him? Besides, he was guilty."

"She doesn't think so. She wants me to clear his name and prove that King killed your parents. I can't represent both of you unless you both agree."

"As long as you nail Whitney King, I don't care what you do for Kowalczyk. He's dead, so it won't matter anyway."

"Maybe or maybe not," Mason said.

The hottest part of a summer day in Kansas City is late afternoon. That's when asphalt streets and brick buildings are at their oven best, soaking up the deepest cool spots, wringing out the shallow ones. That's when the cottony air swells with heavy humidity drifting in from the Missouri River, settling in the city's lungs like the croup, squeezing the air out of anyone foolish enough to go outside and draw a breath. That's when power plants wheeze and grind, pushing current to air conditioners and ice machines, borrowing hot air, cooling it with interest.

Kansas City Power amp; Light warned of brownouts and power failures, making good the threat in staggered outages that hopscotched across town, knocking out the power in Mason's office at 5:15 P.M. Mason was deep into the trial transcript-not noticing when the refrigerator quit humming and the ceiling light disappeared, finally catching on when the air started to clot.

The transcript provided the facts but didn't tell the whole story. Why would one or both boys, neither of whom had any prior history of violence, suddenly go on such a rampage? The prosecutor's version was robbery, a crime of opportunity that spun out of control. Graham Byrnes's wallet was found next to his body. There was no cash in it, but there was no evidence of how much cash, if any, had been in it before he was killed.

Mason sensed something more primal in the murders. He agreed it was a crime of opportunity but doubted that the perceived opportunity had been robbery, not if Whitney King had been the killer. Whitney was rich so he didn't need the money. The opportunity was the chance to get away with murder. A thrill killing. Exercising the power of life and death was the ultimate rush for a thin slice of twisted souls. The trial transcript didn't open that window into either defendant. Insanity was not pled as a defense. No psychiatrist testified to a lifetime of abuse or chemical imbalance that stoked the killer's rage.

The most common motives for murder-greed, jealousy, love, and hate-were nowhere present in the facts laid out for the jury, leaving Mason with an inescapable conclusion. One of those boys-or both-was a natural born killer who came of age that night. If he was right, and Whitney King was the killer, Mason knew one other thing. It may have been his first time, but it wouldn't be his last.

He'd just finished reading the testimony of an auto mechanic who inspected the Byrnes's car, testing Kowalczyk's and King's alibis that it had broken down, each defendant pleading that the murders were committed by the other while he went for help. The car had been towed from the scene, examined by the mechanic the following day. Worked fine, the mechanic testified. A lot better than the defendants' alibis, Forest Jones, the prosecuting attorney, noted in an aside that drew an objection and the judge's impotent instruction to the jury to disregard.

Nancy Troy, Ryan's court appointed attorney, scored on cross-examination when the mechanic admitted that he'd found a short in the alternator that could have caused the car to fail to start one time but not another. Mason wasn't surprised at the testimony. It was like everything else so far in this case. The truth depended on which side you were on and who asked the last question.

The dry record of the case made Ryan Kowalczyk's conviction inevitable. His car. His clothes soaked with blood from both victims. The undisputed facts forecasted King's conviction as well. King was with Kowalczyk. King's clothes were as bloody as Ryan's clothes. The only thing missing was the murder weapon. The cops assumed the boys had used the tire iron from the Byrnes's car, since it was gone. Yet King got off.