William Bernhardt - Capitol offence

Ben's throat was dry. "It's not a hung jury. They've reached a verdict. One way or the other."

Dennis's eyebrows knitted close together. Ben could see he was in turmoil, but there was simply nothing he could do for the man at this time.

Guillerman entered the courtroom but did not stop to chat with Ben. No taunts, no bragging, no speculation. The trial was done. He apparently had no more use for collegiality. Ben was relieved.

A few minutes later, Judge McPartland entered the courtroom. His opening remarks were brief and to the point. He did caution the reporters that he wanted no inappropriate outbursts or disruptions when the verdict was read, although Ben had a hard time seeing what he might do about it, unless he had wired the seats to produce electric shocks. They would all be gone before he had a chance to issue sanctions.

When the preliminaries were complete, the judge signaled his bailiff. A few moments later, the man reappeared with the jury trailing behind him.

Ben saw that Mrs. Gregory, the elderly woman with the cat, had been chosen jury foreperson. He hadn't seen that coming. But then, he had tried many cases and he had never correctly predicted the foreperson yet.

Over the years, Ben had heard so much contradictory speculation about the meaning of whether the jury looked at the defendant as they reentered the room that at this point he preferred not to even watch. He stared straight ahead as they took their seats. Why speculate? They would all know soon enough.

"Would the foreperson rise?" the judge said. Mrs. Gregory complied.

"Have you reached a verdict?"

"We have, your honor."

The judge signaled the bailiff again. He took the piece of paper from Mrs. Gregory and brought it to the judge. The judge glanced at it with a perfect poker face. Then he passed it back to the bailiff, who returned it to the foreperson.

"You may read the verdict."

Mrs. Gregory cleared her throat and began. "In case number C-09-8563, the State of Oklahoma versus Dennis Fitzgerald Thomas, on the charge of murder in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant…"

Why did they always have to pause there? Why?

"… guilty as charged."

Ben felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. A gnawing hollowness replaced it. He reached for the edge of the table and missed it.

Dennis stared at him wordlessly.

"Pursuant to the guidelines set forth in the judge's instructions," the foreperson continued, "we recommend that the defendant, having been found guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree, should be sentenced to execution by the most expedient legal means."

The judge polled the jury, but Ben was barely aware of it. "Is this your verdict?" It was, in all twelve cases. "The court will accept the jury's recommendation."

Ben felt as if he had been dropped into a vacuum chamber. It was almost as if it were happening somewhere else, somewhere far away from him. The clamor of the reporters, the applause from the prosecution table, the banging of the gavel, all in some faraway land.

"I want to thank the jury for their service. I know this has been a long and burdensome trial, particularly after you were sequestered, and I want to thank you for your cooperation."

The judge turned to face Dennis. "The defendant will be immediately rendered into the custody of the county authorities. Bailiffs."

Two officers swooped in from the sides, one on either side of Dennis. Ben spotted two marshals in the rear of the courtroom. They were ready.

"Isn't there anything you can do?" Dennis asked, tears springing from his eyes.

"I'll visit you as soon as they allow it," Ben replied. "We will begin immediate work on your appeal."

"Do we have grounds?"

Ben didn't answer. The truth was, he couldn't think of any procedural errors. But he and Christina would put their heads together and come up with something.

One of the bailiffs pulled Dennis's arms back and slipped on a pair of handcuffs.

"Stop this, Ben," Dennis said, weeping profusely. His voice broke. "Please stop this."

Ben felt a dry catch in his throat. "There's nothing I can do."

Dennis fell to his knees. "Please stop this. Please!"

Ben felt his mouth working, but no sounds came out. Tears sprang to his eyes as well. "I–I'm so sorry…"

The bailiffs hauled Dennis to his feet and dragged him toward the doors. "I'm sorry, Joslyn!" he screamed. "I'm sorry! Ben, help me!"

Ben felt Christina squeeze his arm. "I am so sorry." They were both sorry, and they were both totally helpless as they watched the authorities drag Dennis away. Within a few days, he would be transported to the penitentiary in McAlester, where he would be placed on death row. To await execution.

"Help me!" Dennis screamed one last time before they pulled him out of the courtroom. Ben watched in despair as they hauled him away, the man who had bet it all on Ben Kincaid and, as a result, had lost everything.

Loving woke scared.

Too many sensations rushed together at once, all of them confused, none of them good. His head hurt. He was parched. Worst of all, his skin itched. He felt hot, as if he were… burning.

His eyes flew open.

Slowly, he assimilated what few facts he could be sure about. He was outside. It was daylight. He was lying on the ground, restrained in some manner. He didn't know where he was, but it didn't look like Oklahoma. More of a desert. New Mexico, maybe. Arizona. He was tied down to something-not that he was likely to go anywhere soon, given how he felt.

He glanced down at his right arm, exposed beyond his short-sleeved T-shirt.

Oh dear God…

"Loving! You're awake! About time."

That was Officer Peter Shaw. He recognized the voice. Hard to forget a man like that, after he had…

Had what? He tried to remember what had happened when he saw Shaw last. He had a strong sense that something important had occurred, but he couldn't remember the details, nothing after he was spotted by Shaw's accomplice. It was as if he had gotten drunk and had a blackout-but he was pretty sure nothing nearly so entertaining had been involved.

"Don't bother trying to get free. You can't. Don't bother trying to escape. You're going to die."

"Then why haven't you done it already?" Loving managed to say. His voice was slow and creaky.

"Haven't had time, sadly enough. Been racing across the country to make an appointment. And then I get this text message. Turns out our contacts are running late. I'm irritated beyond belief. I hate people who aren't punctual, especially when I'm carrying stuff that can get me arrested. Or kill me dead."

"Sorry you're inconvenienced," Loving grunted.

"You're the one who's inconvenienced," Shaw said. "This leaves me time to deal with you."

Loving bit down on his lower lip. "You're a real piece of work, you know that, Shaw? You make all cops look bad."

"Is that what you think?" He leaned down into Loving's face. "Well, let me tell you something, Mr. High-and-Mighty Private Investigator. You don't know squat!"

Shaw pulled back up, pacing around Loving's prone body.

"Why don't you educate me?" Couldn't hurt to keep him talking. Better than the alternative.

"You think I'm going to start monologing and tell you my whole sad story?" He laughed bitterly. "Why not? You're dead already."

What did that mean? His skin felt so hot… "I've known you for a long time, Shaw. You used to be a straight arrow. What happened?"

Silence hung between them, heavy as a hippo. Loving still could feel the sun beating down upon him. At least, that's what he hoped he was feeling.

"My sister. That's what happened. Did you ever meet Nikki?"

"Don't know that I did," Loving answered quietly.

"She's a sweetheart. An angel. Best sister a guy could have. Always there for me. Job troubles. Divorce. Always there. Never had the sense to link up with any guy halfway worth her salt, but she's a princess. Never had a boss halfway worth her salt, either, but she's a queen."