James Patterson - Judge & Jury

I would know exactly what it meant.

I had followed the jury out of the courthouse and stayed there, watching the bus as it pulled away from the curb.

With Ellen gone, my life was falling apart a bit. So it made me feel good to help the two of them, DeGrasse and her little boy. It made me feel that in all this craziness, I had done something for a change that put some life back. I watched her wave at me, that happy smile. I waved back. Happy birthday, kid.

And then the world fell apart! Theirs, and mine.

The gray van pulling up next to the bus at the red light. Then two men, in work clothes, suddenly running out.

Running away.

It took a second for it all to register, even for someone trained to see the worst in any situation. Then all of a sudden it was as clear as day. The whole horrible picture.

I heard myself yelling,"Get out of there now!" I started running toward the bus through traffic."Get out of that bus!"

Then the van exploded, and the entire street just lit up in this brilliant flash. The recoil threw me back into a mailbox. Intense heat from a block away slammed into my face.

Oh, God, no! No!

All I could do was watch helplessly as the juror bus was engulfed in flames. Then it exploded.

I fumbled for my radio, connected back to the security team at the courthouse."This is Pellisante. We've got a full-scale nine-one-one. The juror bus just blew up! Corner of Worth and Church. Repeat, the juror bus just exploded! We need full medical support out there now!"

Then I ran toward the bus at full speed.

It was bad. Very bad. Flames raged out of the hulk of the van. Dense gray smoke billowed over the street. People everywhere around me were screaming. Passersby, injured by the blast, were lying dazed on the street. A taxi lay upended and in flames.

I did a quick scan for the two men in work clothes. They were gone, melted into the bedlam. Dear God, the juror bus was no more than a charred, burning carcass. The entire left side was just a fiery, jagged hole.

I ran to the entrance. The blast had blown it wide open. The heat coming off arm rails felt like a thousand degrees.

Everything was covered in flaming char. The bus driver was dead. Not just dead, decapitated. Oh, God. One of the passengers, an elderly woman who I could picture sitting in the back row in court, had been flung over the driver's back and smashed into the front window. I didn't remember who she was-which juror?

"FBI," I screamed into the thick, diesel-smelling smoke."Can anyone hear me in there?"

I waited for voices. There had to be voices. C'mon! Moaning, shouting, screams for help, some evidence of life.

I shielded myself from the flames as I listened for somebody, anybody.

Nothing came back, no sound. That's what I'll always remember. That's what will always haunt me. The silence.

IT FELT AS THOUGH my heart didn't move a beat. I just stood there listening, praying. Somebody say something back to me. Shout! Scream for help!

All I heard was the crackle of flames, and all I saw was the dark gray smoke mushrooming through the bus. The scene was as still and desolate as a bloody battlefield after the fighting was done.

I covered my face with my hand and pushed my way down the aisle. Madness, but I had to do it. It was impossible to see. Somebody, a small woman, had been hurled against a side window and was twisted into a grotesque position. Others had died right in their seats. Clothing was burned off.

I recognized some of the faces. The writer was dead. So was the kindly-looking Hispanic woman who always knitted. Both had been roasted in their seats. Then I saw the red-haired guy who worked for Verizon, O'Flynn.

"Can anyone hear me?" I shouted. Only silence came back from the passengers.

I heard sirens outside. Emergency vehicles had arrived on the scene. Someone else, a policeman, stepped onboard."Jesus, God." He winced."Is anyone alive?"

"I don't think so."

I tripped over some kind of mound. It turned out to be the body of the Jamaican mechanic, his clothes charred, his body crisp.

The thick, acrid smoke was starting to get to me. I coughed, pulled up my shirt, and covered my nose and mouth with folds of cloth.

"We better wait for the emergency people," the cop called to me. He was right. There were noxious fumes and fire everywhere. The damned thing could go up at any time. I tried to see the back of the bus. There were no signs of life there either.

Then I heard something. A groan-more like a whimper. Someone alive?

"FBI," I shouted, fighting against the fumes. The smoke was blinding."Where are you? Are you all right?"

I heard the voice again, just a murmur.

"I'm coming."

Then I saw him. On the floor. It was the boy! He was in the fetal position underneath a seat."Jarrod!" I bent down-I remembered his name."Jarrod!"

I put my face down to his, as close as I could get. The floor was hot, steaming.

My stomach fell. The little boy was dead. His pink skin was black with horrible burns. I wanted to retch. I couldn't help bringing up the image of his face just seconds before in the window as his mother waved to me."I'm sorry, little guy."

Then I heard it again. The whimper, soft and faint. Someone was alive.

I pushed over twisted metal and bodies to the very back of the bus. Vinyl seats and plastic panels were melting in flaming strips. The smoke clung to my skin, like scalding rubber.

I heard it close." Jarrod… Jarrod. "

It was Andie DeGrasse. She was pinned beneath a metal support beam. Her hair was black. Her face was covered with blood. Her lips quivered." Jarrod… Jarrod. " She kept calling for her son.

"Help is here," I said, bending to her.

She was the only one alive.

RICHARD NORDESHENKO HEARD the tremendous blast. At precisely 2:03 p.m., from three blocks away. He felt the ground beneath him shudder, the earth slide. It was done.

He had instructed his limo to wait while he went inside an electronics store and purchased a gift for his son. World Championship Poker.

Nordeshenko had heard similar explosions before. The double concussion. The ground shaking. Like an earthquake, actually. The store clerk looked confused. Nordeshenko knew what had happened. Nezzi had taken no chances. There was enough C- 4 in that van to do the job three times over.

Nordeshenko tucked the package under his arm and left the store. He looked forward to getting home. He had a few gifts for his son: an iPod and the new computer poker program that he knew would delight the boy. And earrings for his wife from New York 's Diamond District.

His work here was over, and it couldn't have gone any better.

He had already received a message about his Swiss account. More than two million dollars. There were still a few more payments that had to be made. But he had earned every penny. He would take it easy for a while when he returned home.

"What the hell was that?" the limo driver said, looking back toward Foley Square as Nordeshenko climbed back in the car.

"I don't know. Some kind of explosion. Maybe a fuel line." The scent of gasoline and cordite hung in the air.

They heard sirens. Two police cars rushed past them toward the courthouse, lights flashing.

"Something's happened!" the driver exclaimed, turning on the news."This is not good."

Nordeshenko looked back and saw a cloud of black smoke rise up above the buildings, coming from directly behind them.

He placed the gift for his son in his traveling case. Two rings came from his cell phone-Reichardt and Nezzi were safely away now.

"Let's go," he said to the driver."We'll listen on the way. I have a plane to catch."