Steven Womack - By Blood Written

Steinberg smiled. “Funny how things change over time.”

Michael signed the check, ripped it out of the book, and handed it across the table to Steinberg, who folded the check and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Now, let’s move on to some other things.”

Then Steinberg began talking, nonstop. Taylor sat there, off to the side, as the old attorney went on and on, with Michael occasionally nodding his head or answering a question with one or two words. Taylor found herself drifting in and out of the conversation; she still couldn’t believe this was happening. There was something about it so far removed from reality, so surreal, that she kept thinking that sooner or later someone was going to burst into the room, shout, “Just kidding!” and then it would all be over. Steinberg would roar back laughing, stand up, and rip Michael’s check into shreds. Then they could all go have a big lunch and a few drinks and a good laugh over all this.

Only it wasn’t a joke.

Taylor looked down at her watch; they’d been in Steinberg’s office nearly an hour. Suddenly the door opened and a middle-aged woman wearing a stern blue pin-striped power dress, her hair pulled back tightly, walked into the room.

Steinberg, irritated, turned to her.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Steinberg,” the woman said, “but you’re going to want to see this.”

She walked over to a large, closed cabinet that dominated the middle of the built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases. She opened the door, revealing a large flat-panel television. She picked up the remote off the top of the TV and pointed it at the screen. The television powered up in a few seconds. The woman raised the volume and pressed the buttons to go to Cable News Network.

The shot was a live one, from the steps of the Davidson County Courthouse in Nashville, Tennessee. A podium had been set up on the steps with a bank of microphones jammed on top. A crowd milled around, restlessly murmuring. It was a bright blue spring day in Nashville, Taylor noticed as she got up from the sofa and walked over to the television. A moment later, Michael was standing on one side of her, with Steinberg on the other.

As Steinberg’s assistant raised the volume, the screen split, with the courthouse scene in a frame to the right of the screen and the clean-cut, blow-dried, rubber-stamped CNN

anchor to the left.

“We take you now to Nashville, Tennessee, where the district attorney has scheduled a brief statement regarding the rumored indictments of best-selling novelist Michael Schiftmann on two counts of first-degree murder.”

“Jesus,” Taylor muttered. No one else spoke.

They all watched as a tall, gray-haired man in a nondescript gray suit approached the microphone. He carried in his right hand a sheaf of papers, which he jogged into a neat stack as he stood at the podium. He looked up into the cameras, cleared his throat, and began:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am T. Robert Collier, the District Attorney General for Davidson County and Metropolitan Nashville. As you all know, last February, on February fifth of this year, there was a double murder here in Nashville at a place of business on Church Street known as Exotica Tans. Two young women were killed in what the police have described as one of the most brutal and horrifying murder scenes in the history of our city. These two women were gainfully employed in a legal establishment, working their way through college, with families and friends who mourn their violent and premature passing, and who seek justice for them and their memory.”

Collier paused here, looking down at the papers in his hand. Taylor felt her heart thumping in her chest and cold sweat breaking out around her chest, under her breasts, in her armpits. She squeezed her arms into her ribs as a thin trickle of perspiration ran down her side.

“I am here today to announce to you,” Collier continued,

“that as of nine o’clock this morning, the Davidson County Grand Jury has issued a series of criminal indictments in connection with the events of that horrible February night.”

Collier paused again, clearing his throat. “A Mr. Michael Schiftmann, whom we believe is currently residing in New York City, has been indicted on the following charges relating to the murders of Sarah Denise Burnham of Murfreesboro, Tennessee and Allison May Matthews of Fairview, Tennessee.

“First, under Tennessee Code Annotated 39-13-305, Mr.

Schiftmann is charged with two counts of especially aggravated kidnapping, a Class A felony. Second, Mr. Schiftmann is charged with two counts of violating Tennessee Code Annotated 39-13-540, aggravated sexual battery. Third, Mr.

Schiftmann is charged with two counts of violating Tennessee Code Annotated 39-13-502, aggravated rape.”

Collier paused for a moment and looked out over the crowd, letting them wait for a heartbeat or two. This guy , Taylor thought, has good dramatic timing .

“Finally, Mr. Schiftmann is charged with two counts of violating Tennessee Code Annotated 39-13-202, which is first-degree murder.”

Taylor gasped involuntarily. Michael reached over, took her hand, and squeezed it. She turned quickly to her left.

Michael was staring at the television, his body rigid, his jaw clenched.

“And because of the especially heinous and violent nature of these two senseless, brutal murders, my office wishes to announce that we will be seeking the death penalty in connection with the first-degree murder charges.”

Taylor went numb all over. She stared at the television as time seemed to stop for a moment. Michael’s hand in hers felt cold, stone-cold, and hard as a rock.

“These are the charges that the grand jury has issued today,” the voice on the television droned on. “Other charges may follow. An arrest warrant has been issued for Mr. Schiftmann, and my office is preparing extradition papers as we speak. I also want to say that I’m aware of the implications of bringing these serious charges against a suspect who is a high-profile celebrity, with a great many resources, including the court of public opinion. But my responsibility is to Allison and Sarah and the people of the state of Tennessee.

We have taken this course of action only after much thought, deliberation, even debate. We believe the evidence in this case will show that this was the only way we could bring justice to Allison and Sarah and closure to their families.”

Taylor looked over at Abe Steinberg, who was staring intently at the television and nodding his head imperceptibly.

“We have time for a few questions,” the voice said. Steinberg looked at his assistant and made a motion with his head. The assistant hit the power button on the remote, and the television instantly went dead.

Taylor turned to Michael, the color drained completely out of his face, as he stared at the dark television. “They’re serious,” he whispered after a few seconds.

Steinberg laughed out loud. “Oh yes, my friend, they’re serious. They’re very serious. And this guy is very good, very good indeed.”

Steinberg walked slowly back to his chair, with a slight limp to his gait, and sat down. “You notice how he managed to call the two girls by their first names not once, but twice.

He humanized them. And how he attempted to defuse the argument that they were after you for their own glory by saying that indicting you was almost a last resort.”

“He made it sound like they had no choice,” Taylor commented, almost matter-of-factly, as she crossed back over and sat down on the sofa. She reached up, touched her face, and realized she couldn’t feel it anymore.

“I’ll fight it!” Michael said, crossing around and standing in front of the two of them. “I’ll fight the extradition. I won’t even go down there!”