Steven Womack - By Blood Written

“This all feels so strange,” she said.

Michael turned back to her. “It is so strange.”

Minutes later, they got through the construction and were back up to eighty. Then Carey raced across three lanes of traffic, worked her way into a long line of cars, then slammed on her brakes as they hit the exit ramp.

“Excuse me,” Michael asked from the backseat.

“Yes, sir?”

“Does everybody drive like a bat out of hell here?”

Carey turned and smiled. “Yes, sir,” she said. “State law requires it.”

The Lincoln worked its way into the downtown area, through a maze of streets and what seemed to Taylor like traffic at least as thick as Manhattan’s. Carey pulled the car up to a building on Third Avenue at the top of a long hill and double-parked.

“This is where Mr. Talmadge’s offices are,” she said. “Go up to the tenth floor. Roberta, the receptionist, knows you’re coming. She’ll take you straight back.”

“Okay,” Michael said. He turned to Taylor. “You’ll be back soon?”

Taylor nodded. “Yes, as quick as we can.”

Michael hesitated for a moment, as if unsure of what to say next. “I’ll miss you,” he said.

Taylor smiled, leaned over, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’ll miss you, too. But we’ll be back in a few minutes. As soon as I check in.”

Michael squeezed her hand, then pushed the car door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

As the Lincoln pulled away from the curb, the young woman turned and faced Taylor. “Ma’am, while we’re taking care of this, is there anything else I can do for you? Anything else you need?”

“Make this all go away,” Taylor answered.

Carey smiled and faced forward. “If I could, I’d be glad to. I can’t. But if there’s anyone that can make this go away, it’s Wes Talmadge. He’s the best.”

Taylor eyed her. “Really? Tell me, how do you know?”

“Because,” Carey replied, “he’s my father.”

Just under two hours later, Taylor and Carey in the front seat, with Wesley Talmadge and Michael in the backseat, drove around Capitol Hill and approached the Metropolitan Nashville Criminal Justice Center from the back way, through side streets. While the area around James Robertson Parkway was new and well-groomed, home to government buildings and high-rises, the area behind the hill and the parkway seemed considerably more run-down. Every other building sign, Taylor thought, seemed to be for a bail bonding agency.

As they turned a corner, Taylor saw the road ahead was blocked with a mob of reporters, cameramen, news vans, and trucks of every type, with microwave towers jutting into the sky for live feeds.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “Look at that.”

Wesley Talmadge, a thin, graying man in a dark suit, spoke up from the backseat. “You two know the drill, right?

Neither of you says a word.”

“Don’t worry,” Michael said. “I wouldn’t know what the hell to say anyway. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Carey expertly slowed the car to a crawl and worked her way as close to the police station as possible, then pulled the car to the curb and stopped it. Immediately, the throng descended on them. Taylor watched as a blur of bodies, microphones, video cameras, cables, all piled in around the car. Michael got out of the right-hand side of the car, next to the curb, while Talmadge got out of the left and quickly worked his way behind the car and back around to stand next to Michael.

Taylor pushed out the passenger’s side door as well, and edged up to Michael.

“Mr. Schiftmann!” a voice cried. “Mr. Schiftmann, how do you-”

“Mr. Schiftmann!” another voice yelled. “Are you guilty?”

“How do you plan to plead?”

Taylor felt like they’d been descended upon by a pack of wolves. Someone shoved her back against the car and her shoe buckled under her, twisting her ankle. Michael shifted to help her, then he got pushed back. Talmadge held up his arms and motioned the crowd away.

“Please,” he said loudly, firmly. “Please step back.”

“Can you give us a statement?” a voice in the back of the herd yelled.

“My client,” Talmadge said forcefully, pausing to give the reporters time to point their microphones in his direction,

“will have no statement at this time. However, he proclaims his innocence and looks forward to getting his day in court at the earliest possible time so he can prove these scurrilous and unfounded accusations false. That’s all for now, folks.

We’ve got an appointment to keep.”

The crowd seemed to part as Talmadge stepped forward into them. Michael reached back, took Taylor’s hand, and pulled her along behind him. Taylor kept her head down, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, struggling to stay connected to Michael. As they approached the entrance to the building, the crowd seemed to divide even further.

Suddenly Michael stopped, and Taylor almost bumped into him.

She raised her head and saw a man standing in front of them wearing a gray suit and white shirt, with a blue-striped tie. His hair was cut short and his face was deeply lined. Taylor thought he looked tired as he stepped forward and faced them. Behind him, four uniformed police officers stood close by, watching, along with a young Hispanic woman who seemed to be staring especially hard at them.

“Mr. Schiftmann?” the man asked as he approached. Everything around them seemed to quiet. Taylor heard traffic noise in the distance and thought she heard the whirring of video cameras.

Michael nodded. “Yes.”

“Are you Mr. Michael Schiftmann?”

Again, Michael’s head went up and down. “Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Detective Gilley of the Metro Nashville Police Department’s Murder Squad. I have a warrant for your arrest.”

Gilley turned and motioned to one of the uniforms, who approached Michael with a pair of open handcuffs. The officer stepped up to Michael, gently took him by the elbow, and pulled one hand behind his back. Michael let go of Taylor’s hand with his left and held it behind him.

“Are the handcuffs necessary?” Michael asked.

“Yes, sir, it’s standard procedure,” Gilley answered. “Mr.

Schiftmann, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.

You have the right to an attorney …”

As the detective droned on, Taylor felt the world start to spin. She fought to hold on. She looked over at Talmadge, who stood next to his client, stone-faced, serious. He looked over at her, nodded his head almost imperceptibly, and winked.

“Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?” Gilley asked.

“Yes.”

“Then come with me, sir.”

Michael turned and faced Taylor. “You okay?”

Taylor took a deep breath and held it for just a moment, trying to clear her head, to get oxygen to her brain. “Yes, I’m fine. You take care, and I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Michael leaned over, kissed her quickly. As if he were going off to work or a dentist’s appointment or to run a casual errand …

“We’ll call on the mobile when we know the time for the arraignment,” Talmadge said as he got in step behind Michael and the officers.

Taylor was left alone in the middle of the pack. She suddenly felt frightened, isolated.

“May I ask you a question, please?” someone shouted.

A microphone on a long boom pole suddenly appeared in front of her face. She felt someone grab her elbow and jerked around, startled.

It was Carey. She had a firm grip on Taylor’s arm. “C’mon,”

she said. “Let’s get you out of here.”