James Patterson - Judge & Jury

Some leave. I was doing everything I knew just to hold it together. I wasn't sure I'd ever go back, at least not to C-10, not after the beating I had given Cavello in his cell. But who was I kidding? It was more than that. Lots more. The bastard had been right. Since that day, the image of Jarrod's face looking out the window of that juror bus hadn't left my mind.

A female student in the second row raised her hand."It's the means to an end," she said." Mapp, and United States versus Russell allow the police to use deceptive procedures to obtain evidence. Without it, they might never make a case. It's deception for the greater good."

"Okay." I nodded, then got up and started to stroll around."But what if the police have to lie about those procedures during testimony-in order to protect their case?"

In the back row I spotted something that annoyed me. Some kid seemed a lot more interested in a newspaper folded in his textbook than he was in me. I raised my voice."Mr. Pearlman, you care to weigh in on this?"

The student fumbled with his textbook."Yeah. Sure thing. Not a problem."

I went up to him, removing the newspaper from his desk."Mr. Pearlman here is busy checking his stocks while the Fourth Amendment is under siege. I hope for your future clients' sake you've got a nice family practice in entertainment law to go into."

There were a few laughs around the room. Typical suck-up snickers.

I felt a little ashamed, though. Like one of those professorial bullies who gets his rocks off from a big show of power over his class. And that wasn't me. A few months ago I was pushing around one of the most notorious criminals in the country. Now it was just some kid, in law school. Jeez, Nick.

"So, Mr. Pearlman," I said, offering the kid an olive branch,"the Supreme Court case that held that the exclusionary law of evidence was binding is …"

" Mapp versus Ohio, sir. U.S. 643. 1961."

"Nice guess." I grinned. I tucked the newspaper under my arm."I have stocks, too."

The bell rang shortly afterward. A couple of students came up to go over an assignment or question a grade. Then I just sat alone in the empty classroom.

You're lying to yourself again, Nick. You're trying to run, but you're not fast enough. It wasn't about some kid catching up on the box scores in my class. Or the Fourth Amendment, or police methodology. It wasn't even about this closed, dark corner of the universe I had let myself drift to, pretending I was building a new life.

No. I flipped the paper over on my desk. I stared at the headline. The very one I'd been waiting these past five months to see.

GODFATHER, PARTII. In big bold letters.

Unfinished business-that's all it was. Cavello's retrial was scheduled to begin next week.

SHE WAS DOING her best to recover, but it was hard and lonely. And long. And basically impossible. Yet she was starting to come through it.

For a while her sister, Rita, stayed with her. Andie had suffered a ruptured spleen, a collapsed lung, a lot of internal bleeding, and burns on her legs and arms. But those were the wounds that healed. What hurt a lot more was the pain inside. Every time she looked into Jarrod's room, caught his scent on his books and things, his pajamas, his pillows.

Then there was the anger she felt every single day. Anger that his killers had never been brought to justice. That everyone knew who was behind it-Cavello! And the bastard wasn't even being charged. She even had dreams of finding him in his jail cell and killing him herself.

Then one day she was finally able to put some of Jarrod's things away, pack them into boxes, without crying. Without being too ashamed. She had asked the coroner to cut off a piece of the Knicks uniform shirt Jarrod was wearing that day. She kept it in her purse.

MARBURY

3

She started back toward having a life with the simplest things. Doing her proofreading, seeing a flick. It was like relearning the steps of life all over again. Telling herself it was okay. To live was okay.

Over time, she found herself reading the papers again, watching the news. Laughing at a joke on Letterman. One day, she even picked up a copy of Variety. A few weeks later, she called her agent.

Then, five months after it happened, Andie found herself standing in front of the doors to a casting studio on West 57th Street. The call was for some Cialis commercial. All it took was looking fortyish and a little sexy-pretty much herself. Her agent said, Go. See how it feels.

Standing in front of the studio, Andie had never felt so terrified in her life. It was like the first time she ever went on a casting call. It was too new. It wasn't right. Way too soon.

A pretty blond woman stepped out of the elevator behind her."You goin' in?"

"No, you go ahead." Andie shook her head. A wave of panic swept over her. A tightness pounded in her chest. She needed air.

She didn't even wait for the elevator, just hurried down the back staircase and onto 57th Street. Her legs felt weak and wobbly. She sucked a deep, grateful breath into her lungs.

This isn't going to go away, Andie. It's always going to be with you. Survivors pull it together. You have to do that, too. A few people passing by on the street glanced at her. She realized how foolish she felt, and probably looked.

Andie pressed herself against the cold concrete of the building and took another breath. She reached into her purse and felt for the little piece from Jarrod's uniform. You're always going to be with me.

Andie went back into the building, taking the elevator this time, back up to the third floor. She stood outside the studio again. Clutching her portfolio, she sucked in a breath. This was hard. This was so damn hard.

A woman stepped out just as she entered, and the woman had that look of disappointment Andie knew so well. Andie pushed through the doors and walked up to the receptionist.

"Andie DeGrasse. I'm here to read for the part."

FROM A STAIRCASE across 183rd Street, I bit my lower lip as I watched her coming back home. I don't think she ever saw me, and I wanted to keep it that way. The alternative was too crazy to spend time thinking about.

Andie DeGrasse looked good. She was dressed up and clutching a large black portfolio. On the outside it looked as if she had it all back together. But I thought I knew what must be going on inside her.

I came up this way from time to time, and I wasn't even really sure why.

Maybe I just felt good that someone had come out of this thing alive. A couple of times I even went up and knocked on her door. I'd say hi, or bring something-a little news about the investigation. Basically, stand around a few moments, as though it was an official visit and I had something to say that I couldn't quite put into words. It felt good being connected to somebody. I didn't reach out to people much since the trial.

Maybe I was just kidding myself again. Maybe it was simply Andie DeGrasse. How she was pulling her life back together after what had happened. I envied that. That she never once accused me, though she had every right to-that she never looked at me with blame in her eyes.

Maybe it was simply the knowledge that we shared something-neither of our lives would ever be whole again. That's what I believed, anyway.

So I watched her as she climbed the stairs to her building and unlocked the inside door. She checked her mail and tucked a few envelopes and magazines under her arm, then disappeared from sight. A short while later, the lights went on in her apartment. What am I, a stalker? But I knew that wasn't it.