Double Jeopardy (5 page)

“Three or four days.”

“Fine. Throw in a lot of objections and make sure it doesn’t end any sooner. I’ll take care of myself.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good strategy—”

“Are you my mouthpiece or ain’t you?”

Travis hesitated. “I’m your court-appointed attorney—”

“Then do what I say.”

“I think I could help you—”

“You better just try to help yourself, jerkwad.”

Travis’s head twitched. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean exactly what I say. People are trying to get me, in case you haven’t figured it out, chump.”

Oh great, Travis thought. A conspiracy theory from the paranoid defendant. I suppose the rape was committed on a grassy knoll. “Why do you assume—”

“Why do you figure I got hauled in by the police?”

“I understand there was an anonymous tip. …”

“What a lucky coincidence. Shit. They saw a chance to nail my butt to the wall and they took it. In spades.”

“I really don’t understand—”

“Are you blind? Jesus, why do you think you’re here? Do you really think my last lawyer just disappeared? Decided to go to Tahiti or somethin’? There are people who want me
gone,
asshole. That’s why they framed me for this rap, and that’s why they’re gonna make sure I do serious time for it.”

Travis frowned. “And who are these alleged people?”

“They’re people who’d cut your fuckin’ heart out just to see what it looks like, that’s who!”

Travis heard the guards returning. Time was up already. Sad thing about it was he was relieved—although the trial would start shortly and he hadn’t gleaned any information he could use in court. “I don’t feel I can adequately represent you without more cooperation on your part, Mr. Moroconi. The judge won’t like it, but perhaps I should withdraw. He’ll deny the motion, but if I just don’t show up—”

Moroconi sprang out of his chair and lunged at Travis. Travis jumped, falling backward in his chair. Moroconi tried to dive after him, but the handcuffs restrained him.

Guards ran down the corridor and shoved the key into the cell door. Moroconi twisted and strained on the tabletop, spitting and cursing, looking as if he might burst free at any moment. Thank God for those handcuffs, Travis thought. The handcuffs I wanted removed.

Moroconi fought the guards as they hauled him to his feet. “Just make goddamn sure you’re there today, shyster. I don’t care what you do, I don’t care what you say. Just keep the trial going. Understand?”

Travis nodded slowly.

“Good.” Moroconi smiled, baring his yellow teeth, as the guards dragged him out of the cell. “See you in court.”

T
RAVIS BUMPED INTO CAVANAUGH
as he hurried through the courthouse. He surveyed her stuffed attaché case and determined expression and drew the obvious conclusion.

“Not you again?”

“I’m afraid so, counsel. Double jeopardy doesn’t apply to prosecutors.” She placed her briefcase on the conveyor belt of the X-ray machine. “Blaisdell asked me to handle the Moroconi case weeks ago. You have a problem with that?”

“No. It just seems a little unfair. You can’t be in full fettle so soon after yesterday’s crushing defeat at my hands.”

They passed through the metal detector and started down the corridor to Courtroom Three. “Spare me the egomania, Byrne. Today’s case is a whole new ball game.”

“In what way?”

“Have you met your client yet?”

“Uh, yeah.”

She smirked. “Then you know. Face it, you’re going down in flames this time. Even if the evidence wasn’t all against you, which it is, your client is such a disgusting little creep the jury will send him to the slammer anyway. It’s hopeless.”

Travis tended to agree, but he wasn’t about to let her know that. “We may have a few surprises for you.”

“Don’t try to buffalo me, Byrne. You haven’t had sufficient prep time. It’s going to be a case of the blind leading the repugnant.”

“We’ll see.”

“And if you’re hoping to make a deal, forget it. We already tried. Your client refused all plea bargains. You’re stuck with him till the bitter end.”

Travis veered off toward the men’s room. “I’ll just have to make the best of it. See you in five minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting. With bated breath.”

Travis pushed open the door and entered the bathroom. It was a tiny room—one sink, one urinal, one stall. The walls were composed of a grungy green tile streaked with mildew. Given the seemingly permanent odor, Travis preferred short visits during which he could conceivably hold his breath for the duration.

The urinal bore an out-of-order sign, so he used the stall. After he finished, he pushed open the door and stepped out.

There were two men in dark suits standing outside the stall. Staring at him.

“Excuse me,” Travis said. He tried to push past them to get to the sink. The man on his left, an older man who was chewing a cigarette, leaned away from his much younger companion, blocking Travis’s way.

“Hey, what do you think—”

Before Travis could finish his complaint, the cigarette man slammed him back against the wall. Travis’s head thudded against the tile; bursts of light flashed before his eyes.

“Look,” Travis said weakly. His brain felt scrambled. He realized he was slurring his words. “There are … s-security guards outside and—”

The cigarette man drew back his fist and punched Travis in the soft part of his stomach. Travis cried out in pain and fell forward onto his knees. The man blasted his face with the back of his fist. Travis’s head smashed against the stall door. Blood trickled from his nose.

The younger man reached for Travis’s throat. Fighting to clear his blurred vision, Travis grabbed his assailant’s hand and squeezed down on a pressure point. The man cried out. Travis tried to wrench the man’s arm behind his back, but before he could finish, the cigarette man chopped the side of his neck with his flattened hand. Travis fell back against the wall, releasing his grip on the young man’s hand.

The cigarette man grabbed Travis again, this time by the collar of his jacket, and hauled him up to eye level. Travis’s stomach burned; every movement was excruciating.

“Lose, asshole.”

Travis tried to form words, but his lips were numb and unresponsive. “I don’t … understand. …”

“You unnerstand enough.” The man reached down and clamped his hand onto Travis’s groin. “Feel that? I want you to remember what that feels like. Your balls are in my hands.” He grinned malevolently. “In a minute, we’ll disappear. But don’t be fooled, asshole. Your balls will still be in my hands. You’re gonna lose.”

The man squeezed tightly. Travis screamed in pain. His knees weakened; he tumbled back down to the floor. The cigarette man shoved him away and started to leave, then whirled around suddenly and kicked Travis in the gut, in the same aching spot he had hit before.

Tears clouded Travis’s eyes. “What … do you
want
?”

The man sneered. “You know what we want. Now you need to figure out what you’re gonna do about it. If you decide not to cooperate, it’ll be the last decision you make. We’ve taken care of punks like you before and we’ll do it again.”

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.

C
AVANAUGH 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?”