Sawyer, Meryl (15 page)

Her mind wandered through a labyrinth of disjointed thoughts.
Cocaine. In her home? Mitch. Hell.
Don't talk to anyone about the case.
The
nerve shattering sound of her front door splintering, destroying the stained-glass
panel her father had so lovingly made.

Who? Who would frame her like this? Who hated her this much?

She curled on her side, facing the wall, praying for sleep that
would revive her. And bring an answer.

"Winston," yelled the matron, "you've got a
visitor."

Royce opened her eyes, at first not remembering where she was. She
staggered to her feet. A glance at the wall clock confirmed she'd slept for
over an hour. She hurried down the hall to a visitor's room, hoping for Wally
but finding Talia.

"Omigod, Royce. Are you all right?"

Royce dropped into the chair. "Sure. I'm just tired. I've
hardly had any sleep. I was napping."

"I didn't mean to wake you, but Mitch said to keep visiting
you to keep your spirits up. I—I—"

"It's okay. What's happening? What are the papers
saying?"

Talia swept her dark hair behind one ear. "That Tobias
Ingeblatt is the worst. He's..."

"Go ahead tell me. I can take it."

"Ingeblatt has interviewed all the Farenholts' friends. The
consensus is you're a fortune hunter that—"

"What did Brent say?" Some part of her still couldn't
believe he'd deserted her. Why hadn't she foreseen this? But she hadn't.
Nothing she'd known about him could have predicted this reaction. "Didn't
he deny that I'm a fortune hunter?"

"Brent hasn't given a statement." Talia hesitated and
Royce knew she was hiding something. Talia had a newborn sensitivity honed by
months of introspection, thanks to an outrageously expensive psychotherapist,
and bolstered by encounter groups. Now Talia was obsessed with finding the true
meaning of life.

"Talia, don't keep anything from me."

"There have been pictures of Brent—and Caroline at posh
restaurants like Postrois."

Not Postrois. Not "their" restaurant. She put her head
in her hands. In some hidden corridor of her mind she'd expected Brent to love
her enough to come to her rescue. Each passing minute confirmed what her brain
already knew, but her heart refused to accept. Brent had never really loved
her.

Then she felt it again, the odd sensation of her spirit leaving her
body. The fight was going out of her; she couldn't muster her usual biting
comment at Brent's betrayal. If she didn't get out of here soon, the Farenholts
would get what they wanted. They'd destroy her. Completely.

"I think Caroline did it," Talia insisted. "She
wanted to marry Brent and had to get rid of you."

Don't talk about the case.

"Val insists she put the key back after she picked up your
passport. But didn't you say Caroline had been with the Farenholts once when
they'd dropped you off and you'd mentioned the key?"

Had she told Talia that? Royce's mind was too foggy to remember,
but she did recall the incident. All the Farenholts and Caroline knew she had a
key hidden under a flowerpot. It wouldn't have taken Sherlock Holmes to find
it.

"I've been cooperating with the authorities," Talia
confessed, a little more shamefaced than necessary. "The truth will set
you free, don't you think?"

Judge Clarence Sidle gazed over the rims of his half-moon glasses
and cursed his bad luck. Night court—the judicial pits. But a newly appointed
judge could expect no better: drug addicts, prostitutes, and a stream of
homeless who committed petty crimes so they could spend the night in jail out
of the cold.

Clarence thought of his father, who'd called in every favor to get
him appointed to the bench before his legal practice failed entirely. "A
judge is only a lawyer who knows someone," his father had reminded him a
thousand times. "They're no smarter than you are."

Really? His father wasn't sitting in night court packed with
reporters, facing two of the best legal minds in San Francisco, Abigail
Carnivali and Mitchell Durant. Attorneys this important didn't appear in night
court, and the media didn't turn out in force, unless something big was up.
Beneath his black robe and the white shirt his wife had so carelessly pressed,
Clarence began to sweat. Shit, he didn't want to screw up. Not now, not during
his first month on the bench.

Abigail Carnivali rose and Clarence suppressed a shudder. What a
ball buster. It didn't take long for Abigail to enumerate the state's charges
against the sexy blond.

"Royce Anne Winston," Clarence said, angling his head
down so he could peer over the tops of his glasses and get a better look at
her.

Royce Winston was standing, appearing stunned, not nearly as sexy
as in those bikini photos in yesterday's paper. Still, Clarence shifted in his
chair, his cock responding to the attractive blond and reminding him that his
wife was holding out for a mink. He hadn't been laid in over a month.

"Royce Anne Winston," he began again, striving to sound
stern, "you are charged by a complaint filed herein with a felony, to wit,
a violation of section forty-three of the Penal Code in that you did, in the
City and County of San Francisco, willfully and unlawfully commit grand theft.
Further, you are charged with violating section one thirty-seven of the Penal
Code, in that you had in your possession a controlled substance, eight ounces
of cocaine, for the purpose of sale. How do you plead?"

The press corps leaned forward, straining to hear the soft voice.
"Not guilty."

Immediately Durant stood, taking Clarence by surprise. The
prosecution was supposed to suggest bail now.

"Your Honor," Durant said, and Clarence almost looked
over his shoulder to see if there was someone else in the room. But no, it was
just the power of the title. "I would like to request the court order
participants in this case to refrain from discussing it with anyone from the
media."

"Unfair," and a lot of other complaints, rose from the
Fourth Estate.

Clarence rapped his gavel. Silence. He swallowed a smile. Power.
He could get used to it. "Continue."

"The biased press coverage"—Durant looked at the DA's
table—"and blatant attempts by the assistant district attorney to grab
headlines to further her political career are jeopardizing my client's right to
a fair trial."

"Objection!" Abigail Carnivali shot out of her chair as
if spring loaded. "Your Honor, I have merely answered media questions
without impinging on Miss Winston's right to a fair trial."

Sweat sealed Clarence's shirt to his chest. Oh, boy, a legal
shoot-out at the OK Corral. What should he do? He rapped his gavel several
times although the room was silent. Royce Winston suddenly appeared less dazed,
truly alarmed, her eyes fastened on him.

The pack of slavering dogs from the local media glared at him. He
recognized Tobias Ingeblatt, who was seated directly behind Royce Winston.
Clarence's wife believed every word the man wrote, unashamed that her vision of
the world was shaped by what she read in supermarket checkout lines. Clarence
couldn't stifle a smile, imagining the headlines: judge sidle invokes gag
order.

Power. He could spend a whole year in night court, bored shitless
with a litany of drug charges and stoned hookers. This was his chance to become
a name overnight.

"I agree with the defense council. I refuse to allow any
defendant's rights to be jeopardized. All parties in this case are hereby
ordered to refrain from discussing it." He wasn't positive he had the
wording right, but close enough.

Durant looked over his shoulder at the disgruntled press and
Clarence hesitated. Was he supposed to toss them out now? The only person he'd
ejected so far had been a drunk who'd thrown up just as he'd pled not guilty.

Clarence whacked the scarred top of his desk with the gavel.
"Bailiff, clear the court. The prosecution may continue."

Abigail Carnivali rose, obviously caught off balance. "Your Honor,
in view of the enormous amount of cocaine found in the defendant's home and the
threat she poses to society, the state is requesting bail be set at one million
dollars."

"Jesus," Clarence muttered under his breath. He had the
suggested bail chart right under his elbow. This was excessive.

"Your Honor," Abigail continued, "we have reason to
believe Miss Winston may leave the country. After all, she has lived abroad
before and has relatives in Italy."

Royce needed sleep so badly, she felt drugged, all her energy now
consumed by the effort to stay awake. She struggled to concentrate as Abigail
gave the court the reasons for the astronomical bail. Why, she'd never be able
to raise that. Even if she found Uncle Wally, he didn't have that much money.
She gazed at Mitch; his remarkable profile gave no clue to what he was
thinking. Why hadn't he told her there would be a bail problem?
Trust me.
Who
did he think he was kidding?

"Your Honor." Mitch rose, papers in his hand. "May
I approach the bench?"

Judge Sidle peered over his half-glasses, uncertain for a moment.
"Yes."

"I've prepared a list of defendants charged with possession
of narcotics for sale arraigned within the last year. Not one of them received
this steep a bail despite the fact that many of them are repeat offenders and
known drug lords. Many are foreign nationals who could return to South America
in an instant."

Royce tensed, anticipating Abigail's response. How could any woman
be that beautiful, that confident, that cold? She reminded Royce of a black
widow. Mitch walked toward Abigail and handed her a sheaf of papers. Their eyes
met and Royce found it difficult to believe they'd once been lovers. They
seemed more like prizefighters squaring off before the opening bell.

Had they loved each other? Royce refused to dwell on it; not now,
not with so much at stake. Instead, she studied Judge Sidle, whose Adam's apple
was bobbing like a yo-yo, thinking he seemed far less confident than either
attorney. Had he ever been inside a jail? Did he know what he'd be doing to her
if he insisted on a bail she couldn't raise?

"Since when," Mitch continued, his voice cool, forceful,
"do known drug dealers get a break and citizens never before charged with
any crime get more than the maximum?" He glanced pointedly at Abigail.
"Your Honor, I'm grateful you had the wisdom to eject the press. What
would they say about the assistant DA's favoritism to drug interests?"

Royce bit back a smile as the polished Abigail Carnivali turned
the color of an eggplant. Don't get excited. This wasn't over yet. They haggled
until Judge Sidle decided on a modest increase over the existing bail.

"I've got a bail bondsman standing by," Mitch told her
after Judge Sidle had retreated into his chambers. "We're using your BMW
for collateral."

"Why didn't you tell me there'd be a problem with bail?"

"Were you afraid, Royce?" His blue eyes flashed a
challenge. "Didn't I tell you to trust me?"

"I have a right to know when there's a problem."

"If there'd been a problem, I would have told you."

Royce was still fuming as she changed out of her prison jumpsuit
and into her beaded dress. But she had to admit, Mitch was good. He'd
outmaneuvered Abigail, playing on her ambition to maintain a good image with
the press to further her political career.

She conceded it was a relief to have Mitch representing her.
Normally, she wasn't the insecure type, and Mitch would have been her last
choice. But these weren't normal circumstances.

Exhausted, emotionally stripped—frightened, she was being pummeled
by an unknown adversary. She needed Mitch. Still, jerk that he was, he
infuriated her, harping on trust, throwing it in her face. He'd let her sweat
it out on purpose.

Mitch was waiting when she emerged, and he hustled her down the
back stairs rather than make her face the hordes of reporters waiting in the
halls. She expected his Viper to be parked out back, but instead Mitch helped
her into a van. The graphics on its side read GODZILLA'S PIZZA—BUY TWO GET ONE
FREE.

The van's interior looked like a space station, with more
electronic gear than she'd ever seen. "What is this?"

"A surveillance van," Mitch explained as he touched the
driver's shoulder. "Meet Paul Talbott. He's heading the investigation for
your defense."

Royce remembered the name from her research on Mitch.
"Hello." She assessed him quickly before he said, "Hi," and
turned away to gun the idling engine. Sandy hair, friendly blue eyes, body like
a linebacker's.

Mitch sat beside her. "Pizza vans, phone company trucks
—common sights in every neighborhood. No one suspects when Paul's conducting an
investigation. If Paul tells you to do something, do it. Paul speaks for me.
Sometimes I'll be away on a case."

"I'm willing to cooperate with both of you, but I insist on
knowing what's going on." She leveled what she hoped was a furious glare
at Mitch, but the surge of adrenaline she'd experienced in court was beginning
to wear off. She felt punchy, weak. "This is my future—not some
game."