William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

Travis wanted to shout for help, but found he had no breath, no voice. He clutched his stomach helplessly.

“Just remember. We’ll be watching, asshole.” The two men left the bathroom.

Travis lay in a crumpled heap on the floor beneath the sink. He was gasping for air like a drowning man. His groin and stomach were on fire. He wanted to crawl up to the mirror and see if there was any permanent damage, but he couldn’t manage it. He hurt too much.

He felt the warm blood flowing out of his nostrils, forming a sticky puddle around his mouth. He hoped his nose wasn’t broken.

After all, he was due in court in less than five minutes.

10

3:00 P.M.

CAVANAUGH WAS STILL VOIR-DIRING the jury.

She was taking no chances. Travis had been on the opposite side of a trial from her at least half a dozen times in the past year, and she had never taken nearly so long to select a jury. Usually it was the defense that wanted to know every minute detail about the jurors’ lives.

Maybe she was still stinging from her defeat the day before, Travis mused. Whatever the cause, it had gone on too long, and if it took much longer, his head was going to explode. Judge Hagedorn had been relatively understanding when Travis stumbled into the courtroom fifteen minutes late with a bandage on his nose. Hagedorn probably didn’t buy Travis’s story about falling down the stairs, but he let it pass, and he recessed the proceedings every hour or so to allow Travis to soak his head and vomit. Who could ask for anything more?

For some reason he didn’t quite understand himself, Travis didn’t want to explain what had really happened. He didn’t understand the situation well enough; it might have a negative impact on Moroconi’s case. Or maybe it was just pride—the big burly ex-cop didn’t want to admit he’d been trashed by two goons in the little boys’ room.

Travis heard a noise in the back of the courtroom. He jumped, jerked his head around. No, it wasn’t them; it was some spectator in a blue-and-white seersucker suit. Never seen him before. Looked harmless.

It had been this way all day—every time Travis heard a noise, he sprang out of his seat and his pulse shot off the scale. He wasn’t sure what he feared most—that the two men from the bathroom would return, or that they wouldn’t. He dearly wanted another go at them, but the way he felt right now, the result would probably be much the same. Or worse.

Travis silently cursed himself. The fact of the matter was they got the drop on him. It was humiliating. He was only thirty-six, for God’s sake. He’d been trained to protect himself and to subdue assailants. But in the bathroom, he’d been a human punching bag. Sure, they caught him off guard, but there was more to it than that. Somewhere in the course of quitting the force, going to law school, and burying himself in the books—he’d gone soft. He’d forgotten how to fight with, anything other than his mouth.

Speaking of which …

“Mr. Byrne, I repeat—do you have any questions for the jury?”

He looked up at the bench. Hagedorn was staring at him impatiently. Cavanaugh must’ve finished while he was grumbling to himself. Hope she didn’t say anything too objectionable.

“Yes, your honor.” Travis rose to his feet. “I have several questions.”

“Please limit yourself to thirty minutes,” Hagedorn said crisply.

“Thirty minutes!” Travis approached the bench. Cavanaugh followed close behind. “Your honor, counsel for the prosecution has questioned the jury panel for over five hours!”

“That’s just the point,” Hagedorn said. “She’s surely explored every area of potential prejudice by now. I don’t think it’s necessary for you to rehash the same material.”

“Judge, I can assure you I won’t be repetitious—”

“I can assure myself of that, counsel. Your thirty minutes begin now.”

“Your honor, this is grossly prejudicial. The court can’t—” He froze, immediately realizing his mistake. Never tell a judge what he can’t do. Never.

Hagedorn’s face grew stern. “This court has the inherent power to set guidelines for the conduct of trials, as you well know.”

“But, Judge, if the prosecution talks for five hours, and I only talk for half an hour, the impression left with the jury will be that the prosecution has the better case.”

“This is not an evidentiary stage of the trial, counsel. This is merely voir dire.”

“Sure, that’s what the textbooks say. But as a practical matter—”

“Twenty-nine minutes, counsel. And counting.”

Travis pushed away from the bench. What was going on here? Since when did the Honorable Charles E. Hagedorn engage in this kind of blatant favoritism? He glanced at Cavanaugh, but she looked away. No appeal to that quarter. She might not agree with the ruling, but she was smart enough to take a break when she got it.

Travis calmly approached the jury, trying to act as if nothing unfavorable had occurred. The jury couldn’t hear what went on at the bench, but they could usually figure out who the judge liked and who he didn’t. Travis couldn’t let that happen here; he had too many strikes against him as it was.

He smiled pleasantly. “Ladies and gentlemen, how many of you are familiar with the phrase presumed innocent ?”

After Travis finished questioning the jury (just under the thirty-minute deadline), Hagedorn took the lawyers into chambers and they eliminated jurors that either side thought could harm their case. Unfortunately, Travis suspected that any juror with common sense and good taste was detrimental to his case, but that was hardly a basis for dismissal.

Afterward Hagedorn called a recess for the day. Thank God. Travis’s head was throbbing and his nausea had never subsided. He made a beeline for the back of the courtroom.

Dan Holyfield stopped him at the door.

“Dan!” Travis said, surprised. “What brings you to the courtroom? Couldn’t resist my offer to second-chair?”

Dan didn’t smile. “I came over because—” He stopped and stared at Travis’s face. “My God, what happened?”

Travis touched his bandaged nose—still sore as hell. “A little accident in the bathroom.”

“You’re getting dark circles under both eyes. Your nose may be broken.”

“Damn. I hope not. I’ll stop at the emergency room on the way home.”

“See that you do.”

“Surely you didn’t come down here just to do your Marcus Welby impression.”

“True.” Dan looked around, then pulled Travis to one side. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

The blood drained from Travis’s face. “Not about Staci?”

“No, no. Staci’s fine. At least, as far as I know. This is about Seacrest.”

“Tom Seacrest? The attorney who had this dog case before he disappeared?”

“Right. Except he didn’t just disappear.” Dan gripped Travis by the shoulders. “He’s dead, Travis. He’s been murdered.”

A cold chill shot down Travis’s spine. We’ve taken care of punks like you before and we’ll do it again. “Who—who did it?”

“The police haven’t the slightest idea. His body was found on the shore of Lake Palestine—but he didn’t drown. He was killed—in the most god-awful way you can imagine. Someone poured lighter fluid on his face and genitals, then set him on fire with a blowtorch. Then stabbed him with an ice pick about twenty times. Seacrest died slow and horribly.”

Travis’s mouth went dry. “When did this happen?”

“They’re not sure. The body’s been rotting for a couple of days at least. My friend at the police station tells me the corpse is all green and bloated, chewed by animals, picked at by birds.”