Steven Womack - By Blood Written

“Everybody says that at first,” Talmadge offered. “But when the reality hits, you realize that even a life in prison is still life.”

Michael shook his head. “Not for me,” he said. “Not for me.”

Monday morning, eight months later, Nashville Taylor Robinson rolled over in the oversize hotel bed and turned to the windows. The covers were bunched around her, knotted up, her legs cramped under them. She opened her eyes and tried to focus on the window.

Is the sun even up yet?

She rolled back over and kicked the covers off, then stood up shakily beside the bed. Her head hurt, her eyes burning from lack of sleep. If she’d slept at all, it had been only in the last couple of hours. She pulled the heavy drapery aside and squinted at the light filtering through the gauzy thin sheer that covered the window. She looked over at the clock.

Six-fifteen. She groaned and pulled the curtain aside, then stared out over downtown Nashville. The city was just beginning to awaken on a cold but clear late-January morning, the sun looming large and vibrant in the east. From the eighteenth floor, she felt detached from the city, as if somehow she wasn’t really here.

Sleep. All she wanted was sleep.

She walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on her face, then brushed her teeth to get the stale taste out of her mouth. She pulled her robe around her, then sat on the edge of the bed. She typed in a toll-free number from memory, then the twelve numbers of her calling card. Then she dialed Brett Silverman’s home phone.

Brett answered on the fifth ring, barely ahead of the answering machine, her voice thick and groggy.

“Yeah?” she grumbled.

“Oh, God, you’re still asleep. I’m so sorry. I figured with the time difference-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brett mumbled. “The clock was going off in a few anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Taylor said again.

Brett cleared her throat, then spoke again. “How are you?”

“Tired. I don’t think I slept at all last night.”

“Where’s Michael?”

“I guess he’s still in his room,” Taylor answered.

“His room?” Brett asked.

Taylor felt her shoulders knotting up. “We took separate rooms. I know, it’s kind of weird. But he stays up all night anyway. And the way I’m sleeping these days, it would have been impossible for me to get any rest.”

“Darling,” Brett said, drawing out the word, “why did you even go down there? This can’t be good for you.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Taylor asked. “We’re engaged. He’s my client and my fiance. I have to support him.”

“Even though it’s cost you twenty pounds that you really didn’t have to lose?” Brett said. “You’re skin and bones, girl.

God, I wish I could give you twenty of mine.”

“They’ll come back. When this is all over.”

Taylor sat there for a moment, silently. The silence stretched into awkwardness, and she felt silly for calling her best friend so early.

“At this point, I’m more worried about you than I am Michael,” Brett said. “Whatever’s going to happen to him is going to happen. I don’t want you to go down in the process.”

“I’m okay,” she said. “I just wish this was all over.”

“When do you have to be in court?”

“Nine. A little less than three hours.”

“You’re going to eat something?” Brett scolded. “You’re going to take care of yourself?”

Taylor nodded. “Yes. I’ll be all right. I think I just wanted to hear your voice. You’ve really been a big help these last few months.”

Taylor heard Brett let loose a long sigh. “It’s been the weirdest fucking eight months I’ve ever been through. I’ve always wanted to have a real, for-true New York Times best-selling author. I just never imagined him going on Larry King Live to announce that he wasn’t a serial killer.”

“This is crazy,” Taylor said. “Surely a jury’s going to see how crazy this is.”

“Yeah, for sure. Will you call me later?”

“I’ll have my cell phone. I’ll call you every break I can.”

“Good, use my mobile number, too. Keep me apprised.

Part of me wishes I could watch it on TV. Part of me is glad I can’t.”

“Me, too,” Taylor agreed. “I was actually relieved when the judge banned TV cameras.”

“Taylor,” Brett said. “This is going to be okay. Whichever way it goes, you’re going to survive this. Okay? Promise me?”

Taylor smiled. “Okay,” she said. “Promise.”

Carey picked up Taylor and Michael at the hotel and drove them silently to the Davidson County Courthouse. They avoided the news vans and the waiting reporters at the main entrance by using an entrance on the river side of the building.

Carey escorted them up to the third floor of the Davidson County Courthouse, where Talmadge and two other men in suits, carrying heavy briefcases, waited for them.

“There’s a small conference room down here we can use,”

Talmadge said. “We’ve got about ten minutes before we kick off.”

Michael and Taylor followed them to a narrow doorway off the main hallway. One of Talmadge’s assistants held the door open.

“Should I wait out here?” Taylor asked.

“No,” Michael said. “I want you with me, if that’s okay.”

Talmadge nodded solemnly. Inside the room, he turned and faced Michael. “You know my assistants, Jim McCain and Mark Hoffman, right?”

Michael nodded. “Yes, we met a couple of months ago.”

“Jim, Mark, this is Taylor Robinson, Michael’s fiancee and literary agent.”

The two men nodded quickly. “Pleased to meet you,” Taylor said quietly.

“We don’t have a lot of time, Michael,” Talmadge said. “I just want to go over a few last things with you. First, do your best not to react to anything the prosecutor or anyone else says. If you need to say something to me, whisper it very quietly or scribble it down on a legal pad. You don’t have to say anything out loud, and I don’t want you to. Just stay calm, look professional, and let us handle this. You good with that?”

Michael smiled, a look of confidence on his face. “I’m fine, Wes. I’m ready to go.”

“Good. So are we. Now when we get in there, the judge will ask if there are any last-minute motions or questions.

We won’t have anything and the DA probably won’t, either.

Then the judge will seat the jury and we’re on our way. The DA will start with an opening statement. As we’ve already agreed, we’re going to hold off on our opening statement until the prosecution rests. We know what we’re up against and we’re ready for it. Let’s just get our heads in the right places, okay? Everybody with me on that?”

Talmadge looked around the room. Both his assistants nodded, then Michael turned to Taylor. “You okay?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. A little nervous, but I’ll be fine.”

“Outstanding,” Talmadge said. “We’re good to go.”

They exited the room and walked down the long, cavernous marble-floored hall of the Davidson County Courthouse. Taylor expected to have to walk through a throng, but surprisingly, there were few other people in the hallway. As they approached the security checkpoint that barred access to the two massive wooden doors of the courtroom, Taylor saw a line of perhaps ten people waiting to be screened.

She looked nervously at her watch. It was two minutes until nine.

Time seemed to drag. She fought the sense that this was unreal, a dream that wasn’t really happening. Her stomach knotted, and she felt, briefly, the urge to scream.

And then she was at the security checkpoint, handing her bag to a female officer and stepping gingerly through the large frame of the metal detector. She waited at the heavy wooden doors for Michael and the rest to get through, then grabbed the handle of the door and pulled.