Silent Son (27 page)

Gardner suddenly had a vision of Granville in the stern of the old boat on Valley Lake. They had rowed out to the middle to
try for deep-water bass. Granville was about three, and he was trussed up in a way-too-big life preserver. His arms and legs
were as thin as pencils, and he was holding on to the seat. The boat was drifting as Gardner tried to get an uncooperative
worm onto the boy’s hook.

“Dad?” His voice was soft, like a breeze.

Gardner looked up.

“Who’s Grand Bill?”

“Huh?” Gardner was still struggling with the worm.

“Who’s Grand Bill?”

Gardner put down the hook. “Grand Bill?” He didn’t understand.

“You and Mom say it a lot…”

“Grand Bill,” Gardner said to himself. Then it hit him. He called the boy Gran, or son. And Carole always used the obnoxious
Granny. But neither of them ever called him by his full name. The only time they used it was when they were talking to each
other about him.

“Granville,” Gardner said. “That’s you. That’s your full name.”

The boy smiled. “Grand Bill.”

“No,” Gardner corrected. “Gran-Ville.”

“Grand Bill,” the boy repeated.

Gardner smiled and patted him on the head. “Close enough,” he said. Then they got the hook baited and caught a three-pound
bass.

Gardner’s heart was aching as the memory faded. The material witness summons was still waiting for the addition of a name.

Gardner had the pen ready to write GRANVILLE ALCOTT LAWSON in the space, but he stopped short. This was too drastic a move
to make in his usual spur-of-the-moment style. The consequences were too extreme.

Gardner put the pen down. Before he completed the form, he needed a second opinion.

Joel Jacobs stood at the window of his suite in the Anderson Mountain Inn and looked out at the valley. The lush green of
summer was spread from horizon to horizon like an avocado dip. Orchards. Meadows. And fields of clover. It was a far cry from
New York, where the only respite from concrete and asphalt was Central Park. In its own quaint little way, it was charming.

Jacobs placed his hands on his hips and turned to survey his room. It wasn’t the Plaza, but it would do. He’d requested the
best accommodations in town, and the best room in the house, and they’d turned over the keys to the Lincoln Suite. A place
where the President had allegedly stayed after Gettysburg, but which historians had never documented. Furnished in period
antiques, it was regal enough for a chief executive or a Joel Jacobs.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Jacobs called.

“Me,” a voice answered.

Joel went to the door and opened to Drew Udek’s narrow face.

“Come in, Drew,” he said.

Udek was a tall, thin man in his fifties, emaciated as Ichabod Crane. He entered the room and looked around appreciatively.
“Niiice,” he said.

“Glad you like it,” Jacobs replied.

They sat at a round mahogany table in the bay window alcove.

“Got your data here,” the investigator said, pulling a stack of papers from a beat-up leather case.

Joel put on his reading glasses and thumbed quickly through the stack. “This is going to be very helpful,” he said.

Udek smiled. Over the last twenty years, he had turned over a lot of rocks for the old man. Uncovering little secrets that
enabled Joel to one-up his opponents with a vengeance. In that department, Udek had never let him down. “Information was tight,”
the investigator said, “I can tell you that. I had trouble getting this much.”

Jacobs frowned. “That doesn’t sound like you, Drew.”

“This is a small town,” Udek replied. “People notice when someone’s poking around. They’re suspicious. I had the same trouble
last time I was down here—”

Jacobs suddenly flashed an angry look, as if Drew had broached a forbidden subject.

The investigator caught the stare and reddened. “Uh, I mean, it’s tough to root things out in this pigtown.”

Jacobs went back to the file, and Udek stood. “Thanks again, Drew,” the lawyer said without looking up.

“Welcome,” the investigator replied on the way out the door.

After Udek had gone, Jacobs walked to the telephone beside the four-poster canopy bed.

Seconds later his call to Annapolis had gone through.

“Court of Appeals.”

“Chief Judge Biddington, please.”

“May I say who’s calling?”

“Jiff Jacobs.” Joel lapsed into his law school nickname. Jiff. Like the peanut butter. Smooth and sweet. But hard to digest.

“One moment, sir.”

There was a click, a pause, and a familiar bass voice came on the line. “Jiff! You made it down!”

“Hi, Bid,” Joel answered softly. “I’m here.”

“How long do you expect to stay?”

Joel paused. “Not really sure. May have to go to trial.”

“Can’t work it out, huh?”

“Not so far. Listen, Bid, I wonder if you could do something for me.”

“What is it?”

“Can you arrange a trial assignment up here?”

There was a brief silence. “Assignment?”

“Can you arrange for a particular judge to hear a particular case?”

Again, there was a short silence. “They’re not exactly under my jurisdiction. Assignments are up to the local administrative
judge.”

“But if you made a suggestion, they’d listen.”

“Yes,” Biddington answered. “They usually follow my advice.”

“Okay. Can you make a recommendation in the Starke case?”

“I suppose I could. Judge Danforth and I are pretty close.”

“Good. We just had a bond hearing, and I found the judge to be top-notch. An excellent jurist.”

“That’s quite a compliment,” the chief judge replied. “And you want that judge to hear your case.”

“Yes,” Joel said. “If it can be arranged.”

“We can swing that,” Biddington answered. “What’s the judge’s name?”

“Hanks,” Joel said sweetly. “Judge Carla Hanks.”

Gardner was at the therapist’s office in Veil Valley. He was still struggling with his decision to issue the material witness
summons because of the effect it might have on Granville. He wanted the boy home. And it looked like the summons was the only
way to make it happen.

“There could be problems,” Nancy Meyers told Gardner in the privacy of the therapy room. Toys were still strewn on the floor
from a previous session, and the smell of paint and glue lingered in the air. “Forceful removal could seriously set him back,”
she continued.

“But isn’t that what already happened?” Gardner cut in. “His mother took him. What’s the difference?”

The therapist groped for a response. “Carole is not the sheriff. It might confuse him,” she continued. “He won’t know who
to listen to. Who to trust…”

“He’ll listen to me,” Gardner said.

“Don’t be so sure. You take him from his mother, and he may turn on you. He’s very attached to her…”

“But he’s close to me too,” Gardner argued. “He loves me—”

“This isn’t about love.”

Gardner looked her in the eye. “I think it is!”

“No. It’s about trust and being in a safe place. Tell me, Mr. Lawson, can you provide him a safe place? After the sheriff
takes him away? Do you really think he’ll feel safe?”

Gardner closed his eyes for a second. Meyers was not making the decision any easier. “He’ll be safe with me.”

“But he won’t necessarily feel safe,” Meyers said.

“So what choice do I have?” Gardner asked. “Leave him where he is?”

“It might be best,” the therapist replied.

“But what about his treatment? His sessions with you? He’s been making progress. Shouldn’t he continue?”

“In time…” Meyers answered.

“But we don’t have any more time,” Gardner said.

“As long as he’s in a stable environment, he’ll be okay. Therapy can resume later.”

Gardner stood up. “Are you telling me
not
to issue the summons?” he asked.

Meyers pushed her glasses against her nose. “I have no right to do that. I’m just telling you the possible consequences.”

“Possible,” Gardner said.

Meyers nodded. “You asked, I told you.”

“I’m going to do it,” Gardner said resolutely. “I have to. Granville is a strong boy. He’ll be okay with me. We have to prepare
for the case.”

Meyers shook her head slightly. “That may be, but this is not about a
case,
Mr. Lawson. It’s about his
life.”

“Thanks for your time,” Gardner said. He had to get back to the office to finish the paperwork. The decision had finally been
made. If they didn’t win the
case,
Granville might not have a
life.

Although bond had been set that morning, IV Starke and Roscoe Miller were still locked in the detention center at 6:00
P.M
. They occupied separate cells on the B wing, a section that held the most dangerous of the county’s pretrial detainees. On
Gardner’s orders, the warden had kept the two men apart, so they were placed in staggered cells on the block, with another
indicted murder defendant occupying the space between their narrow steel enclosures.

“Roscoe!”

Miller got up from his bunk and shuffled to the bars. The voice was coming from the cell next door.

“Roscoe!” It was a loud whisper, not intended to attract the attention of the guards.

Roscoe edged his cheek against the cold steel. “Yeah!”

“Heard you got a bond.”

Miller smiled. His neighbor was not so lucky. Hank Smatt. Killed his ex-girlfriend, her new lover, and threatened to kill
the rest of her family. His status was no bond. “Yeah, they put one on me,” Roscoe whistled through his teeth. “Gave me the
armband too.”

On the other side, IV Starke was listening. He had quietly slipped close to the bars so he could eavesdrop on the conversation.
He was going to be released first thing in the morning when the bank certified the funds in the fifty-thousand-dollar check
that Joel Jacobs had posted after court. The delay had angered him, but Joel told him to shut up, so he bit his tongue. Just
a few more hours, and he’d be free.

“I had that bitch one time,” Smatt continued. He was talking about the electronic tracking device that the sheriff bolted
to the wrists of released defendants. Its signal was displayed on a locator map, and every movement was tracked.

“Yeah? What’s it like?” Roscoe had never been given the honor of wearing one.

“Sucks!” Hank hissed. “Can’t do shit without them knowin’.”

IV leaned against the bars and canted his ear toward Smatt’s cell.

“But I heard that you kin beat it,” Hank went on.

“Huh?” Roscoe whispered.

IV held his breath and perked his ears.

“Heard that Tommy Pascoe done beat it.” Another notorious county tough guy, well versed in every conceivable punishment. “That’s
what I heard. He found a way to knock the damn thing out.”

Roscoe grabbed the bars with both hands and squeezed. “What’d he do?”

IV slowly let out his breath, took another, and held it.

“Microwaved the son’bitch. That’s what I heard. Somehow got the fucker in the damn microwave and blew out the signal.”

Roscoe clutched the bars tighter. “In the microwave? What about his hands?”

The sound of a clanging door at the end of the long hall interrupted the answer. A guard was approaching.

“His hands!” Roscoe repeated. “What’d he do with his hands?”

“Gloves,” Smatt rasped. “Wore some kinda gloves.”

The guard’s footsteps were echoing down the corridor. Miller and Smatt silently retreated to their bunks.

And IV Starke remained standing with a curious smile on his face.

Carole and her mother were seated at the dining room table of the Andrews home in suburban Baltimore. Kathryn Andrews was
angry, her well-preserved face creased with worry. She was a gray version of the dark-haired Carole. Attractive, feisty, and
just as sharp with her tongue. The Gardner-Carole impasse was getting old fast.

“You cannot keep doing this!” she said sternly. “You
must
work out your problems!”

Carole glared at her mother. “I’m only trying to protect my son!”

“But you can’t keep him away forever!”

“God, Mother!” Someone had tried to kill Granville. Didn’t the woman understand that?

“And what about Gardner?” Kathryn was trying her best to keep the situation under control.

“What about him?” Carole screamed. “Do you
know
what he did? He tried to get Granny to talk about the case.”

“So what? He’s the father. He’s entitled—”

“But he promised not to!” Carole hit the antique cherry dining table with her hand. That was her memory from their conversation
at the hospital. Gardner was
not
going to use Granny as a witness.

Kathryn Andrews winced. She had always liked Gardner. Even after the divorce she had tried to maintain cordial relations,
although Carole had regarded it as betrayal. Gardner was a good man. He had his flaws, like anyone else, but his love for
Granville made up for his inability to hold Carole’s affection. “So what do you plan to do?” she finally asked.

“Don’t worry, Mother,” Carole said grimly. “I’m not going to involve
you
anymore.”

“What are you going to do?” Kathryn repeated.

“I’ve got a friend in Switzerland. She has a chalet on Lake Lucerne. We can stay there.”

“Europe?” Kathryn’s face registered shock.

“I’ve already booked the flight. We’re leaving day after tomorrow. Then you won’t have to be involved.”

“What’s Gardner going to say?”

“Nothing he can say!” Carole snapped. “All he cares about is his case! He could care less what happens to Granny!”

“That’s not true, dear,” Kathryn said gently, trying to touch her daughter’s arm.

Carole pulled away and stood up. “I can’t go back…”

During the argument, Granville had been in the upstairs den trying to watch TV. The loud voices had rung out over the sound
of the TV show, and he’d gotten scared. Quietly he’d descended the stairs and walked to the door of the dining room.

“But, dear…” Kathryn persisted.

“No!” Carole screamed. “We’re going away, and that’s final!”