Patricia Cornwell - Cruel and Unusual

"Norring had ten damn years to find his briefcase;" Marino said. "Why did he wait so long to start looking?”

"1 suspect Norring has had Waddell watched from, the beginning," Wesley said, "and that this surveillance was stepped up considerably over the past few months. The closer Waddell got to the execution, the less he had to lose, and the more likely he was to start talking. It's possible someone was monitoring his phone conversation when he called Jennifer Deighton in November. And it's possible that when word got to Norring, he panicked.”

"He should have," Marino said. "I personally searched through all of Waddell's belongings when we was working the case. The guy had next to nothing, and if anything belonging to him was back on the farm, we never found it.”

"And Norring would have known that," I said.

"Hell, yes," Marino said. "But he's going to know, there's something strange about belongings from the farm being given to this friend of Waddells. Norring starts seeing that damn briefcase in his nightmares again, and to make matters worse, he can't have someone just barge into Jennifer Deighton's house while Waddell's still alive. If something happens to her, there's no telling what Waddell will do. And the worst possibility would be if he started singing to Grueman.”

"Benton," I said, "would you happen to know why Norring was carrying epinephrine? What is he allergic to?”

“Apparently, to shellfish. Apparently, he keeps EpiPens all over the place.”

While they continued to talk,, I checked the lasagna in the oven and opened a bottle of Kendall Jackson. The case against Norring would take a very long time, if it could be proven at all, and I thought I understood, to a degree, how Waddell must have felt It wasn't until close to eleven P.M. that I called Nicholas Grueman at home.

"I'm finished in. Virginia," I said. "As long as Norring is in office, he'll make sure I won't be. They've taken my life, goddamn it, but I'm not giving them my soul. I plan to take the Fifth every time.”

“You will certainly be indicted.”

"Considering the bastards I'm up against, I think that's a certainty anyway.”

"My, my, Dr. Scarpetta. Have you forgotten the bastard representing you? I don't know where you spent your weekend, but I spent mine in London.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"Now, there's no guaranteeing that we can slide this around Patterson," said this man I used to think I hated, "but I'm going to move heaven and earth to get Charlie Hale on the stand.”

14 January 20 was as windy as March but much colder, and the sun was blinding. as I drove east on Broad Street toward the John Marshall courthouse.

"Now I will tell you something else you already know," Nicholas Grueman said. "The press is going to be churning up the water like bluefish on a feeding frenzy. You fly too low, you lose a leg. We'll walk side by side, eyes cast down, and don't turn and look at anyone no matter who it is or what he says.”

"We're not going to find a parking place," I said, turning left on 9th. "I knew this would happen.”

"Slow down. That good woman right there on the side is doing something. Wonderful. She's leaving, if she can ever get the wheels turned enough.

A horn blared behind me.

I glanced at my watch then turned to Grueman like an athlete awaiting last-minute instruction from the coach. He wore a long navy blue cashmere coat and black leather gloves, his silver-topped cane leaning against seat and a battle-scarred briefcase in his lap.

"Now remember," he said. "Your fried Mr. Patterson decides who's going in and who isn't, so we've got to depend on the jurors to intervene, and that's going to be up to you. You've got to connect with them, Kay. You've got to make friends with ten or eleven strangers the instant you walk into that room. No matter what they want to chat with you about, don't put up a wall. Be accessible.”

“I understand," I said.

"We're going for broke. A deal?”

"A deal.”

"Good luck, Doctor.”

He smiled and patted my arm.

Inside the courthouse, we were stopped by a deputy with a scanner. He went through my pocketbook and briefcase as he had a hundred times before when I had come to testify as an expert witness. But this time he said nothing to me and avoided my eyes. Grueman's cane set off the scanner, and he was the paragon of patience and courtesy as he explained that the silver top and tip would not come off, and that there truly was nothing concealed inside the dark wood shaft.

"What does he think I have here, a blowgun?” he remarked as we boarded the elevator.

The instant the doors opened on the third floor, reporters descended with the predicted predatory vigor. My counselor moved quickly for a man with gout, his strides punctuated by taps of his cane. I felt surprisingly detached and out of focus until we were inside the nearly deserted courtroom, where Benton Wesley sat in a corner with a slight young man I knew was Charlie Hale. The right side of his face was a road map of fine pink scars. When he stood and self-consciously slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket, I saw that he was missing several fingers. Dressed in an ill-fitting somber suit and tie, he glanced around while I preoccupied myself with the mechanics of being seated and sorting through my briefcase. I could not speak to him, and the three men had the presence of mind to pretend they did not notice that I was upset.

"Let's talk for a minute about what they have," Grueman said. "I believe we can count on Jason Story testifying, and Officer Lucero. And, of course, Marino. I don't know who else Patterson will include in this Star Chamber proceeding of his.”

"For the record," Wesley said, looking at me, "I have spoken to Patterson. I've told him he doesn't have a case and I'll testify to that at the trial"

“We're assuming there will be no trial," Grueman said. "And when you go in, I want you to make sure the jurors know that you talked to Patterson and told him he has no case but he insisted on going forward. Whenever he asks a question and you respond by addressing an issue that you have already addressed with him in private, I want you to say so. "As I told you in your office or 'As I clearly stated when we spoke whenever it was; et cetera, et cetera.”

"It is implant that the jurors know that you are not only an FBI special agent, but that you are the chief of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, the purpose of which is to analyze violent crime and develop psychological profiles of the perpetrators. You may wish to state that Dr. Scarpetta in no way, shape, or form fits the profile of the perpetrator of the crime in question; and in fact, that you find the thought absurd. It is also important that you impress upon the jurors that you were Mark James's mentor and closest friend. Volunteer whatever you can because you can rest assured that Patterson isn't going to ask. Make it dear to the jurors that Charlie Hale is them.”

"What if they do not request me?” Charlie Hale asked.

"Then our hands are tied," Grueman replied. "As I explained when we talked in London, this is the prosecutor's show. Dr. Scarpetta has no right to present any evidence so we have to get at least one of the jurors to invite us in through the back door.”

“That's quite something," Hale said.

"You have the copies of the deposit slip and the fees you have paid?”

“Yes, sir.

'Very good. Don't wait to be asked. Just put them on the table as you're talking. And the status of your wife is the same, since we spoke?”

"Yes, sir. As I told you, she's had the in vitro ferrtilizaliion. So far, so good.”

“Remember to get that in if you can," Grueman said.

Several minutes later, I was summoned to the jury room.

"Of course. He wants you first.”