First Offense (45 page)

They walked out to the car, their arms linked together. Once David got in the passenger seat, Ann turned to him and took his hands in her own. “Honey, the service for your father will be really nice. All the highway patrol officers will come in their dress uniforms from all over the state. Your father would like that, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” David said softly, “he’d like that.”

By the time Ann got to the courthouse the following morning. Tommy Reed and Noah Abrams were waiting in her office. “They searched his house last night.”

“Glen’s?” she asked.

“Yes,” Reed answered. “They found the wig he used in the rapes. I guess he wanted to be certain that he would never be identified forensically from hair samples. It also served to obscure his identity even further.”

Ann nodded. In many ways Glen had been shrewd and devious. In other ways he had been reckless and foolish. All that trouble with the wig, and the condoms. He should have realized that there could be pubic hairs. He’d prosecuted dozens of rape cases. But he also knew, she realized, that he was in the perfect position to correct his mistakes, cover his errors. Having the power to manipulate the system must have played into his madness, and the more he got away with, the bolder he became.

Ann looked at the detectives. “How long had he been involved in narcotics trafficking? Do we know?”

“According to the rental receipts for the warehouse where the drugs were stored, Hopkins rented it two years ago,” Reed said. “It wasn’t only Sawyer and his pals, Ann. We’re almost certain Hopkins was behind a number of these home labs.”

“But why?” Ann said, shaking her head.

Abrams rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Green,” he said. “Lots of green. He had over a half-million dollars stashed in an offshore account. We found the bank books in his house. And there may be more. We haven’t gone through his safety deposit boxes yet.”

“But his family is wealthy,” Ann said. “Why deal drugs?”

“His mother flew in today,” Abrams said. “We met her at the house. She’s a tough old bird, let me tell you. She claims she had a falling-out with her son when he took the job as a county prosecutor. Because of it she cut him off financially, even threatened to cut him out of her will. She wanted him to affiliate with a fancy law firm back East, but they all turned him down. Seems his academic record was not the greatest.” Abrams shrugged his shoulders. “I guess he thought he could impress her if he made a lot of money, just like he wanted to try Delvecchio and bring in the conviction to win her approval.”

“And we also know about the phone calls,” Reed interjected. “You were right, Ann.”

“The home videos,” she said quickly.

“Bingo,” Abrams said. “We found them in his house. Your suspicions were right, Ann. He merely edited out a few sections, transferring them to a high-quality audio tape, and then played them back over the phone when he called you.”

“Bastard,” Ann said, wanting to strangle him with her bare hands. Making David think his father was alive was the ultimate cruelty. “He should go to the gas chamber for that alone.” Then Ann recalled the unsolved homicides. “What about the murders? What did Melanie find out?”

“The fingerprints obtained from the homicides aren’t Glen’s,” Reed said. “The only similarities were the fact that the victims were older women. Because the murders occurred prior to the rapes, we think Hopkins purposefully wanted us to believe the same individual was responsible. You know, sort of a copy-cat crime.”

Ann was just staring out her window, her eyes on the spot in the shrubbery.

As if he could read her thoughts, Abrams said, “Hopkins is down, Ann. Last night we got together a lineup, and Delvecchio positively identified him.

We’re going to get the surviving rape victims in and see if they can identify him as well. They may not be able to identify his face, but I bet they’ll never forget his voice. And Melanie has a blood sample from your house. Once we get one from Hopkins, they can positively identify him through genetic fingerprinting.”

“But wait,” Ann exclaimed, Abrams touching on the one point that still disturbed her. “Delvecchio saw Glen dozens of times in the courtroom. Why didn’t he recognize him then?”

“I think it was seeing him out of context,” Abrams said, placing a hand on Ann’s shoulder. “You know, he just never dreamed the district attorney was the man who gave him the coat. I mean, Delvecchio is a pretty dull fellow. We made the men in the lineup wear dark glasses like Glen wore that day in the car. Sometimes it’s a detail that small.”

Ann said she needed some fresh air. They walked outside and took a seat on the ledge around the fountain. “What’s Fielder going to do about Delvecchio?”

Abrams looked behind him at the jail and smiled. “I think your answer is right there, Ann.”

Walking across the courtyard was Randy Delvecchio himself.

“But they have to officially set aside the convictions,” Ann said, standing. “How did he get out so soon?”

“Nothing says an innocent man has to remain incarcerated,” Reed said, a smug smile on his face. “Fielder got him released on bail. By the way, Melanie invited me over for Thanksgiving. She wants you and David to come too. Hell, she even invited Noah. I kind of like that woman. She’s a feisty little thing.”

“You and Melanie Chase?” Ann said, shocked. “God, Tommy, are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he said, a flush spreading across his face. Then he looked over at Abrams and sneered. “You got a problem with that, Noah?”

“Me?” Abrams said, pointing at his chest. “Hey, Sarge, you can go out with anyone you want. Of course, it would be nice if you’d let me do the same.” He tilted his head toward Ann.

She smiled at them and pecked both men on the cheek. “I don’t know how I would have made it through this without you guys,” she said fondly. “But then again—”

Reed and Abrams both frowned, knowing she was referring to the fiasco at Marina Park. She was never going to let them live that one down. “Hey,” Reed said, wanting to change the subject fast, “are you coming to Mel’s for Thanksgiving or not?”

With so much going on, Ann had forgotten all about the impending holiday, but seeing Delvecchio out of the comer of her eye, she decided at least one person had cause to celebrate.

Delvecchio saw Ann and started walking toward her. He grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. “You’re my lady,” he said, bowing at the waist. “I knew there was a God the minute you walked in my cell. The other inmates told me I was crazy. They said you were nothin’ but poison. But I heard His voice in my head. He said, ‘Randy, this is the woman who’ll save you.’”

Ann took his hand and pulled the young man to her. Throwing her arms around his neck, she hugged him as she would hug her son. “I’m so sorry for all your suffering,” she said softly. How many months had he sat in jail? How many days of his life had been cruelly stolen? He could sue the county, but no amount of money could give him back the portion of his life that had been lost.

When she released him, he took off across the courtyard walking briskly, the sun at his back. Then he stopped and yelled out over the parking lot, as excited as a five-year-old, “I’m gonna have my mama’s roast turkey next week. She’s the best cook in town.”

Ann smiled and waved at him as he leaped into a car filled with people and drove off. Instead of going to prison, a young man was going home for Thanksgiving. “God,” she said to the detectives, “he doesn’t even seem bitter. If that had been me, I think I’d be out for blood.” As soon as she said it, she recognized the irony of her words. Look at what she’d been through, not just the past few months but the entire four years she had waited to know the truth about Hank. Was she bitter? No, she decided, smiling at the detectives. She knew how Delvecchio felt: an overwhelming feeling of relief, so intense that it left no room for bitterness, no room for hatred.

They headed back to the courthouse. Ann walked slowly, savoring the warmth of the sun on her skin, the company of two good friends, the fragrant fresh air. So many little things she had taken for granted, she thought. But having been only seconds away from death had left her with a renewed appreciation of life, and for that she would always be thankful. Over and over the same thought played in her mind, and her eyes turned to the sky in a moment of gratitude.

“I’m alive,” she suddenly said. “By the grace of God, I survived. Do you know how great it feels just to be alive?”

“I think we do,” Reed said, a smile stretching across his rugged face.

Reaching the double doors to the courthouse, Reed held one door open while Abrams held the other, and Ann stepped through. Then the two men followed, the doors slowly closing behind them.

You are invited

to preview an

excerpt from

Nancy Taylor Rosenberg’s

latest triumph—

Trial by Fire

a riveting legal thriller

sizzling with suspense.

The corridor outside the courtroom resembled the inside of a TV station. Lights, tripods, steel equipment cases, twisted cords, and heavy cables were strewn around in the narrow corridor while technicians sprawled out along the walls, sipping coffee and talking among themselves. Charley Abernathy, a reporter for the
Dallas Morning News
, spotted the prosecutor, Stella Cataloni, and the Dallas County District Attorney, Benjamin Growman, huddled in a comer in the corridor. Thinking he might be able to get a statement during the recess, he rushed over. “Do you think Gregory Pelham will be convicted this time?” he said, holding his portable tape recorder up close to the district attorney’s face.

“Absolutely,” Growman said. Tall and lean, he was dressed in a dark Armani suit and a white starched shirt bearing his initials. His nose was pronounced, his eyes closely set and his lips thin. At fifty-seven, his hair was sprinkled with gray, but he was still a handsome man, accomplished and confident.

“Why did he get off the first time?”

“The trial resulted in a hung jury,” he answered. “You know all of this, Abernathy. Give us some space here.” He turned back to his conversation, but Abernathy continued thrusting the tape recorder at him.

“Pelham was recently arrested for attempting to molest a child,” the reporter continued. “Is this why you decided to retry him on the old homicide charges? Why didn’t you just prosecute him on the new crime? Aren’t you afraid the jury will acquit him this time? Once he’s acquitted, he can’t be retried again. Isn’t that true?”

“Once he’s convicted on the murder charges, we’ll prosecute him on the new charges,” Stella Cataloni said. “Turn off the tape recorder, Charley. Ben and I have some things to discuss right now.”

At thirty-three, Stella was an intelligent and determined woman. The press had dubbed her the “Italian Wildcat,” but they also referred to her as a Texas beauty. Dressed in a yellow linen suit, her ebony hair fell to her shoulders in natural, soft waves, her luminous brown eyes were flecked with gold, and her thick skin appeared flawless. She wore the left side of her hair pushed back behind one ear, allowing the other side to spill forward and obscure the right side of her face. Her walk was purposeful and her footsteps heavy, defying the lightness of her slender yet curvaceous body. One of her most valuable qualities was her ability to capture the attention of an audience. Her direct look, her gestures and mannerisms, the way she modulated her voice—sometimes soothing, sometimes startling—combined to make her a compelling and fascinating person to watch.

“How long is the recess?” Growman asked once the reporter had walked off. It was the second week in August, and the temperature was a scorching hundred and five degrees. The air conditioning in the Frank Crowley Courts Building in downtown Dallas was operating, but when it got this hot, it seldom took the temperature down below eighty degrees. Taking out his handkerchief, Growman wiped the perspiration off his face and neck.

Stella glanced at her watch. “Only five minutes left,” she said, “and I didn’t even have time to stop by the office. I wanted to see if the coroner’s report on the Walden case has come in yet.”

Growman frowned. “Worry about your closing argument right now,” he said. “Everything else can wait.”

“I’m about to conclude,” she said, connecting with his eyes. “Depending on how long the jury deliberates, we could have a verdict by this evening.”

“How do you feel?” he said. “Do you think it’s in the bag?”

“I feel good,” she said, smiling nervously. “Of course, if the jury stays out longer than three or four hours, I’ll be ready to slit my wrists.” The smile disappeared. An outspoken and feisty Italian, Stella had shot to the number two position in the Dallas County District Attorney’s Office in only seven short years. Riding a wave of good fortune and backing it with talent and skill, she had achieved a remarkable one hundred percent conviction record. She wasn’t about to lose a case now.

Ben Growman ran his hands through his hair. “Kominsky said you bullied some of the witnesses,” he said. “I’ve warned you about that. The last thing you want in a case like this is to alienate the jurors.”

“It’s a six-year-old homicide,” Stella said, her voice echoing in the tiled corridor. “Even the best memories dull after so long, Ben, and our witnesses were ail over the place in there. I was trying to force them to go the distance.”

Growman knew the case could be crucial to both of their careers. When the defendant, Gregory James Pelham, a drifter and dangerous psychopath, had originally been tried six years before for the murder of a young retarded boy named Ricky McKinley, the jury had been hung and Pelham had been set free. Although the new crime he had been charged with was minor compared to the McKinley homicide, it had brought the defendant back into the limelight and the public was now screaming for vengeance. The media blamed the district attorney’s office for letting a dangerous criminal slip through its fingers, the mayor and city council members were crawling up Growman’s ass demanding he resolve the matter and get the man behind bars, and the whole country was watching the drama unfold on national television.