William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

“As you can see, there is a resemblance between Charlie and my client. Both have dark hair, a medium build, medium height. But they are far from identical twins. Any clear-thinking person should be able to tell them apart.” He turned toward the witness. “Mary Ann, isn’t it true that you identified Al Moroconi simply because he was the only man in the lineup who came close to fitting your general description?”

She didn’t answer.

“Isn’t it equally true that you would’ve identified any medium-sized, dark-haired male in that lineup? Just as you identified Charlie Slovic in the courtroom today?”

“No,” she said weakly. “I—I— saw him—”

“That’s all right, ma’am. We’ll let the jury answer that question. Nothing more, your honor.”

15

11:45 A.M.

AT THE LUNCH BREAK, after the jury was excused, Travis left his client in the trusting custody of his five guards. He needed to stretch his legs. Unfortunately, traffic out of the gallery was slow. This case was drawing standing-room-only crowds and five minutes passed before the courtroom emptied. He pushed his way toward the door, only to find himself face-to-face with Curran McKenzie.

“What did you bring me today?” Travis asked. “Her baby pictures?”

Curran stared at Travis, his face fixed like granite.

Obnoxious wimp. Travis tried to push past him. “If you’ll excuse me …”

“Sarah and I saw what you did to our sister up there,” Curran said as his kid sister appeared beside him.

“Every defendant is entitled to cross-examine his accusers. I was just exercising my client’s constitutional rights.”

“This is all a game to you, isn’t it?” Curran said with undisguised contempt. “An entertainment. An easy way to make a buck.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.”

“The hell I don’t. You’re a whore, Mr. Byrne. A filthy, two-bit whore.”

Sarah McKenzie took her brother’s arm. “Curran, let’s leave. We don’t want any trouble.”

Still glaring, Curran followed his sister out of the courtroom.

“Self-righteous prig,” Travis muttered to himself.

Cavanaugh strolled up beside him. “A meeting with the president of your fan club?”

“Not exactly. That’s Mary Ann McKenzie’s brother.”

“I know. I’ve had some heated conversations with him myself. He’s more interested in results than the legal process.”

“So he’s furious with you, too.”

“I never said he was furious. We’ve just had heated conversations. Lest you forget, Travis, I’m one of the good guys.”

“And what does that make me? I’m just doing my job.”

“That’s what they said at Nuremberg.” And on that note, Cavanaugh left the courtroom.

Travis started after her, but a figure passing just outside the courtroom doors caught his eye. Was that …? My God, it was ! It was the man from the bathroom, the son of a bitch with the cigarette.

A tremor of cold fear shot through Travis’s body. He’d spent the past twenty-four hours fantasizing about what he would do if he ever saw that man again, and now that he had, he was paralyzed.

He forced himself forward, consciously moving one foot at a time. He was not going to let this man get away. Finally getting in gear, he rushed out of the courtroom and plunged down the corridor.

Just as Travis rounded the corner a reporter stepped in front of him, almost tripping him. “Excuse me, Mr. Byrne. I’m from the Morning News. Could you please answer a few questions?”

“Get out of my way!” Travis growled.

Another reporter, a woman with a minicam operator hovering behind her, blocked his path. The red light on the minicam flickered. “Surely you can answer just a few—”

“Not now!” Travis shouted. He shoved her aside. The woman fell back against the minicam operator and both tumbled to the floor. An elderly guard shouted at Travis as he plunged down the corridor. He burst out the front doors of the courthouse.

He looked up and down Commerce Street, but saw no sign of the man from the bathroom. If that’s who he had seen. At any rate, the man was gone now.

The sun went behind a cloud, and it started to rain. A flurry of umbrellas covered the courthouse steps as the guard tottered out the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Byrne, but rules are rules. We can’t have you—”

“I’m sorry, Harry. Thought I saw someone I knew. Guess I was wrong. I’ll come back and apologize.”

“Well … I reckon that’d be all right.”

Travis returned to the courthouse, glancing back over his shoulder. Had that been the same man? He was almost certain it was.

And if so, what did he want? Or who did he want?

16

6:22 P.M.

THE FEDERAL MARSHALS TRANSFERRED Moroconi from the courthouse to the midway detention room, where he waited for county sheriff’s men to escort him back to his cell. The feds didn’t have their own holding cells in Dallas County; they had a contractual agreement with the state to use their space as necessary.

The marshals pushed Moroconi into the detention room and began looking around impatiently. “I don’t know where the hell those state cops are,” one of them grumbled. “Lazy slobs. They think their whole life is one big trip to the doughnut shop. Never want to do a damn thing they don’t absolutely have to.”

He removed Moroconi’s handcuffs and shoved him down in a chair. “They think they have it so tough. They ought to take a walk on the federal side, just for a day or two. Spend an hour at Leavenworth. Find out what tough really is.” He sneered at Moroconi. “Couple days with scumbags like you, they’ll be begging for a nice job at Burger King.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Moroconi mumbled.

The other marshal’s eyes flared. “Wiseass. Let me bust him in the chops, Frank. We’ll say he was trying to escape. Just once, that’s all. I’ll make it count.”

Marshal Frank grinned. “I’m sure you would, Jim, but forget it. This sleaze is on trial, remember? If he shows up in court tomorrow all beaten up, the prosecution’s case goes into the dumper. And our ass is grass.” He leered eye to eye with Moroconi. “We’ll just wait. After he’s convicted, he’ll be sent to the pen. And the cons there just love rapists.”

“Oh yeah,” Marshal Jim replied. “Those that give, so shall they receive.”

The two men laughed uproariously and walked to the door. “Now we’ll be right outside, Moroconi. Don’t even think about trying to leave.”

“Shucks, Frank, don’t spoil the fun. I’d like to see him make a break for it.” Marshal Jim patted his pistol. “I’d enjoy having the opportunity to apprehend a fleeing felon.”

Still laughing, the two men strolled out the door and locked it behind them.

Moroconi sat in his chair, inhaling deeply, trying to suppress his temper. Miserable bastards. I’d like to meet them just once when they didn’t have a goddamn holster strapped around their bloated bellies. He made two more entries on his mental list of people he wanted to take care of, along with Travis Byrne and his old pals Jack and Mario.

Once he was certain they were not returning, Moroconi walked to the far left corner of the room. He examined the paneling on the ceiling. Standard sound-resistant panels held in place by thin metallic strips. He’d tried them the first night he was left in here—they wouldn’t budge. But tonight just might be different.

He counted panels, starting with the one directly above his head. Six to the right, two to the north, three to the left. That’s what the man said. He drew his chair beneath the panel, stood on the chair, and pressed up.