Sandra Brown - Ricochet

Stan Adams told him to shut up.

Ignoring the advice of his attorney, Savich said, “It’s her you have to thank for this,” and motioned toward Elise with his head. “Her and her boyfriend Hatcher.”

“Be quiet!” Adams grabbed Savich’s arm and tried to yank him into a chair, but he stumbled on his chains and fell to the floor.

Duncan gave Cato Laird a nudge. “Say good-bye to your bench. You’ve made your last ruling.”

“You son of a bitch,” the judge said, spraying spittle. “You lied to me. You…” He divided a wrathful look between him and Elise. “You are fucking her, aren’t you? Well, have her. You deserve the bitch. You deserve each other.”

Duncan’s eyes drilled into those of the judge and he held his arm in a bone-crunching grip. Lowering his voice to a menacing pitch, he said, “I advise you to leave this courtroom now, before you say something for which I’ll be forced to hold you in contempt.”

Recognizing the words he’d said to Duncan, Cato lunged toward him and Elise. Two uniformed cops rushed to Duncan’s assistance, and it took the three of them to restrain Laird. Feral sounds issued from his throat. The blood vessels in his forehead looked ready to burst.

Elise didn’t recoil. In fact, she stepped closer to him. Suddenly the judge ceased his struggles and became perfectly still except for his raspy breathing.

“What Savich says is true, Cato,” she said. “I set you up. But you have only yourself to blame. From the day you were born, you were handed every advantage that could possibly be granted to a person, and you abused them all. What a sick, selfish individual you are. As well as criminal.

“I’m sure you realize how unpopular you’ll be among the prison population. You’ll have enemies already in place, anticipating your arrival. That means every day for the rest of your life, you’ll be looking over your shoulder, living in fear, like Chet did.

“Fear will be your constant companion, Cato. Every minute of every day, you’ll have to be on guard against ambush, rape, torture. Execution.” She took a deep breath, then added softly, “May God have mercy on you. I have none.”

Duncan admired her restraint. In her situation, he wouldn’t have been nearly that eloquent. But then, she had waited a long time for this day. Maybe she had known exactly what she would say to him if ever given the opportunity.

She turned her back on Cato Laird. Duncan relinquished the judge to the policemen and moved up beside her, taking her elbow. She’d won the respect of Gerard and Worley during the long and detailed telling of the whole story last night. They preceded her and Duncan up the aisle like bodyguards.

They were about halfway to the exit when the shot rang out. Acting on instinct, Duncan dove to his right, knocking Elise to the floor and covering her with his own body.

Screams and warning shouts echoed in the courtroom.

“Stay down!” Duncan yelled at her. Then in one fluid motion, he rolled onto his back and came up into a crouch, aimed and ready to fire his drawn weapon.

But the threat was over. There had been only one casualty.

THE NOVEMBER DAY WAS SUNNY BUT COOL. A BREEZE RIPPLED the surface of the channel between Beaufort and Lady’s Island. It was a good day to be outdoors, but Duncan and Elise preferred getting their fresh air through the open window while they languished in bed.

They’d arrived late the previous evening. It was the first time they’d been to this house since they’d departed it separately, he with DeeDee, she alone in his car on her way to confront Savich.

The intervening four months had been turbulent. They hadn’t discussed when they might return to Lady’s Island, but they seemed to tacitly agree that they wouldn’t come back until they could celebrate the end of their ordeal, until their return marked a new beginning.

Yesterday afternoon at 4:38-Duncan had checked his wristwatch when the verdict was read-Robert Savich was found guilty of murdering Meyer Napoli.

Adams had argued for three days that Elise be disallowed to testify.

He’d spent the next four trying to discredit her testimony.

But the jurors weren’t fooled by his blustering and courtroom posturing. They believed Elise. When they retired to the jury room, no one was taking odds on Savich being acquitted.

Duncan had helped the DA’s office prepare its case, but from the sidelines. Officially he was on suspension until the end of this month. Since Elise had been integral to the case, they’d seen each other regularly, but not as often as Duncan wished.

She had steadfastly refused to move into his town house. “You’re in enough trouble as it is with the police department,” she’d said.

“I’ve already admitted to sleeping with you during an ongoing investigation. I’m taking my punishment like a man. So what difference does it make now if you’re living with me?”

“I’m the reason for your suspension. How would it look if I was living with you during it?”

“I don’t care.”

Quietly she said, “I do.”

That had ended the argument, most effectively. Because he realized it wasn’t only his disciplinary suspension she was taking into account, it was her recent widowhood.

For days following the scene in the courtroom that had ended with Cato Laird’s grisly suicide, the story had dominated the media. You couldn’t turn on a TV or pick up a newspaper without getting another account of the stunning events that took place that afternoon in superior court.

Several witnesses had seen Cato wrestle the pistol from the holster of one of the policemen escorting him from the courtroom. Each had a version of how he’d placed the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger before any of the surprised officers or horrified onlookers could stop him.

The story was repeated for weeks, told from different perspectives, but always summarizing with the same gruesome outcome.

As details of Laird’s criminal activity were disclosed, they were explored and editorialized upon. News junkies couldn’t get enough, and the media fed their voracious appetites.

Public opinion of the judge was generally one of outrage over his duplicity and the misuse of his power and position. The widow who had exposed him was regarded with sympathy and admiration.

But Elise had shied from the publicity. It wasn’t a celebrity she welcomed. Her triumph was small and simple, but meaningful to her-she was able to exhume her brother’s coffin and give it a proper burial in a decent cemetery. Chet Rollins had been no saint, but he hadn’t deserved his horrible death. Perhaps he’d found peace. Elise had.

Now, her limbs were tangled with Duncan’s in a tableau of lassitude after a night and a morning of lovemaking. He rubbed his cheek against her belly. “You need a shave,” she said drowsily.

“Later. Right now, I can’t move.”

“Hmm.” She combed her fingers through his hair, whispering, “I don’t want you to move.”

Nevertheless he nibbled his way up her torso, until he reached her mouth. The long kiss that followed was sexually evocative. When they finally pulled apart, her eyes remained closed. She murmured, “I only thought I didn’t want you to move.”

“You like that, scratchy beard and all?”

“Scratchy beard especially.”

“Then you should marry me.”

Her eyes sprang open. “I can’t.”

“You don’t have to answer right away,” he said wryly. “Give yourself some time to think about it.”

“I can’t marry you, Duncan.”

He settled himself beside her, propping his cheek on his fist. “Why not?”

“Because I love you.”

“Hmm. Well, see, usually it works the other way. If you love someone, you want to marry him.”