William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

Travis’s eyes closed. Someone truly evil was involved in this. Someone—what was the phrase?— someone who’d cut your fuckin’ heart out just to see what it looks like.

“I want you to drop this case, Travis.”

“Tempting, I have to admit … but I can’t do that.”

“I think you should.”

“Why? We don’t know that there’s any connection between Seacrest’s death and the Moroconi case. Seacrest just happened to be working on it when he was killed. He was probably working on ten other cases, for that matter.”

“Given the character of your client—”

“My client has been behind bars for weeks. He couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”

“Still, I’d feel more comfortable—”

“I can’t drop the case, Dan. I’ve been appointed by a federal judge.”

“Let me speak to Charles. I’ve known him since law school. I’m sure I can make him see reason—”

“No way, Dan.”

“Just let me talk to him.”

“Dan—no. I can handle this myself.”

Dan squared his shoulders. “Travis, I don’t like to pull rank, but last time I looked at the letterhead, my name was above yours. I’m your boss, and I’m telling you I want you out.”

“Or what? Get real, Dan—I know you’re not going to fire me. I have more respect for you than anyone else in the world. But I can’t drop a client in the middle of a trial.”

“Travis—I don’t mean to interfere. I’m just concerned about you.”

Travis did his utmost to sound reassuring. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“This from the man who looks like he lost a fight with a refrigerator. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what really happened?”

Travis looked away. “Well …”

“As I suspected.” Dan stepped toward the doorway. “Take care of yourself, Travis. You have an extremely promising future. Don’t get in over your head.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Mr. Byrne?” Travis heard a voice from the other end of the courtroom. “May we talk to you for a moment?”

“Excuse me, Dan. Duty calls.” Travis approached a couple, a young woman in a blue print dress and the man in the seersucker suit he had noticed earlier. “Yes?”

“My name is Curran.” He was a skinny man with no chin. “This is my sister, Sarah.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Mary Ann McKenzie is our sister.”

Oh God, not now. Anything but grieving relatives.

“I’ve spoken to some people around town about you,” Curran said. “You get high marks, especially for someone who’s only been out of law school for a year. I hear you’re especially clever at finding legal technicalities to get your clients off.”

“I know the law and I’m willing to apply it, if that’s what you mean,” Travis replied.

Curran reached into a manila envelope and withdrew two eight-by-ten-inch photographs. “Have you seen these?”

The top photograph showed a smiling, red-haired teenage girl in a ruffled blue dress standing beside a straggly-looking geek in a blue tuxedo. “I take it that’s your sister,” Travis said.

“It was taken two years ago, on prom night.” Curran shuffled the photos. “Now look at this.”

Travis examined the second photograph and gasped. It was a close-up of Mary Ann taken at the crime scene, but this one hadn’t been in the file. She was lying beside a dirt road, her body broken and twisted unnaturally, skin flayed from her face and arms. It was nightmarish.

“Where did you get this?” Travis said, suddenly short of breath. He turned the photo facedown.

“I don’t think that’s important,” Curran said. He turned the photo faceup and held it in front of Travis’s eyes. “I’d hate to see the man who did this get off on a legal technicality, wouldn’t you?”

Travis looked away. Wordlessly, Curran returned the photos to the envelope. He put his arm around his sister and left the courtroom.

11

10:25 P.M.

TRAVIS SAT IN HIS office, the contents of his trial notebook spread all over his desk. The office was dark except for the lamp burning on his desk. Mary Ann McKenzie would take the stand soon, and Travis knew he would either win or lose the case depending on how he handled her. He nibbled at a stale Caesar salad and reviewed his cross-examination notes for the tenth time.

Or tried, anyway. He took another bite, then pushed the take-out container away with disgust. He was really learning to hate salads. And Caesar salads were the worst—cold, soggy, and slimy. Even when they claimed the anchovies were gone, Travis knew they were still there. What kind of weenie could survive on this hamster chow?

He knew the answer to that question well enough. The kind of weenie who gets pummeled in the men’s room by two ham-fisted thugs. He tried to concentrate on the case, but his mind kept drifting back to the day’s bizarre series of events. His interview with his client—the most revolting man he had ever met, much less represented. The pressure tactics from the victim’s family. Hagedorn’s version of a kangaroo court. Learning that Seacrest bought the farm. And the incident in the bathroom.

Damn! He slammed his fist down on the desktop. That shouldn’t have happened. Which was beside the point, or as the older lawyers said, “immaterial, inconclusive, and irrelevant.” It happened, whether he liked it or not. He should have told Dan what happened—he knew that—but somehow, he just couldn’t admit he’d been caught with his fly open by those two creeps.

What were they after? Surely there was more involved than a trial fix. All indications at this point were that Moroconi was well on his way to the big house. Assistance from outside forces seemed grossly unnecessary. Why take the risk? Unless they had a different objective in mind.

Travis’s head suddenly rose to attention. Behind him, in the lobby outside his office, he heard a shuffling noise.

He bolted from his chair and pressed himself against the wall. Was he imagining things again or …

No. He heard the shuffling again. Louder now. Footsteps—several of them. And they were drawing closer.

This time, by God, they weren’t going to get the drop on him. He grabbed the letter opener on his desk and whirled through the open office door.

“Freeze, punks! I’ve called the cops.” Travis spun through the lobby, trying to look in every direction at once. He stopped, pivoted, then whirled around the other direction. Unfortunately, his foot struck the coffee table. He stumbled, waved his arms madly trying to regain his balance, then fell flat on his back.

He lay on the floor for a second, dazed. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw two men in long overcoats staring down at him.

Instinctively, he covered his stomach. Please God, not again. “Who … are you?” he whispered.

One of the men reached into his coat and withdrew a badge. “I’m Agent Janicek. This is Mr. Holt. We’re with the FBI. The Joint Organized Crime Task Force, to be specific.”

“You’re … feebees —” Travis propped himself up on one arm. “Then you’re not going to …”

Janicek offered a hand and pulled Travis to his feet. “We’d like to have a word with you.”

“You’d like …” Slowly, Travis was getting a grip. “How did you get in here?”

“Does it really matter? We’re here, obviously. Let’s talk.”

Travis brushed off his suit. “I suppose this is about the McKenzie case.”

“Not exactly. We want to discuss your client.”

“Moroconi? What about him?”

Janicek was in his midforties, judging from the pronounced wrinkles around his eyes and the gray patches in his brown hair. “How much do you know about Mr. Moroconi?”