Silent Justice (51 page)

“I always am,” Colby said. He leaned over toward Mark and winked. “Isn’t that right?”

It was Fred. It was really, truly, believe-it-or-not Fred.

All along, he had considered Fred the least likely suspect—virtually the impossible suspect. But he had been wrong. It had been Fred all along.

He wiped his hand across his forehead, briefly covering his vivid green eyes. To think of all the time he’d wasted. All the time he’d spent killing Harvey and Margaret and George. Not to mention The Tiger, way back when. He’d exterminated the whole club, except for Fenton. That poor schmuck had exterminated himself.

It seemed he had underestimated good ol" Fred the Feeb. They all had. That, of course, was what had allowed Fred to get away with it. Much easier, he supposed, to get away with a brazen act of betrayal when no one in their wildest dreams would suspect you.

He still couldn’t quite make himself believe it, but there was no other possibility, no one else left. Fred had the merchandise.

And he wanted it.

And he would get it, too. No matter what it took. No matter how long it took. No matter what torture he was required to exact on Fred’s body. He would do it. He would do it in a heartbeat. He would do it with great pleasure.

And he would do it to anyone else who got in his way, too.

A
S CHRISTINA STEPPED OFF
the elevator on her way to work, she was almost flattened by a sofa.

“Whoa!” she said, ducking out of harm’s way. “Remember your elevator etiquette, boys. Unload first, reload second.”

One of the workmen carrying the sofa tipped his hat. “Sorry about that, ma’am. Didn’t see you.”

“That’s all right. This sort of thing happens, when you’re only five foot one.” She started walking down the hallway, then froze. “Wait a minute.”

She whirled around. “That looks like the sofa in my office.” She blinked. “That
is
the sofa in my office!”

She ran in front of the workmen, blocking their access to the elevators. “What’re you doing? You can’t take my sofa! I love my sofa!”

The same workman looked at her sheepishly. “Sorry, ma’am. We’ve got orders.”

“Orders? Orders from whom?”

“The bank.”

Christina ran down the hallway and into the office. The place was crawling with workmen, all wearing the same blue coveralls and matching baseball caps. They were taking everything—the desks, the tables, the lamps, the lampshades.

Jones was standing in the center of the deconstruction, his hand covering his face.

Christina raced up to him. “Jones! What’s going on here?”

“What does it look like? They’re hauling off all our stuff. They’ve foreclosed on our loans.”

“They can’t do that.”

“They certainly can. They were only supposed to be short-term loans, and they’re way past due.”

“Didn’t they say they’d ride it out till the end of the trial?”

“As far as they’re concerned, they did. They didn’t expect jury deliberation to go on forever.”

“It’s only been a week.”

“That’s an eternity, in jury time. You know as well as I do that when a jury is out that long, there’s a good chance they’re hung. If that happens, we won’t get a penny. And we won’t be able to pay back our loans—any of them. So the bank decided they’d better get something now while the getting was good.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“Like what? The bank filed a valid foreclosure lien with the sheriff. He’s required by state law to seize any assets he can to make good the debt. I tried to talk to the man, but I got nowhere.”

“There must be something you could do. You’re the office manager.”

Jones’s face steamed up. “Which is why, if you’ll recall, I advised everyone not to take this case in the first place. But did anyone listen to me? Nooooo.”

“Don’t say "I told you so," Jones. It’s so unbecoming.”

“Everyone wanted to do the sweet, kind, heroic thing. Represent the parents no one else will represent.” He gestured toward the men hauling away everything that wasn’t nailed down. “And see what it got us?”

Christina stepped back, narrowly avoiding four men who were hauling her desk out the door. “Does Ben know?”

Jones shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Where is he?”

“Where do you think?”

Ben sat on a bench in the hallway, staring at the closed door to the jury deliberation room. What were they saying in there? he wondered. He would give almost anything to know. The door was firmly shut, and every time he started to get close to it, the judge’s bailiff gave him a harsh warning glare. He would just have to wait. And he had been waiting for so long now.

What was this—Day Seven of the courthouse vigil? He had lost count. He knew it was stupid to just sit here waiting, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to know. The first day, he had tried to go back to the office and work on something else, but his mind inevitably drifted back to this case, this trial, his ever-diminishing hopes. It was clear he was not going to get any other work done until this deliberation was over, so he stopped trying.

On the second day, he’d started bringing a book to the courthouse with him, but now, so many days later, he was barely out of the first chapter. He couldn’t focus. Everything he read reminded him of the trial. Did he do enough? Did he do it right? Did he do honor to the rights and expectations of those bereaved parents? The potential for second-guessing himself, for Monday morning quarterbacking the trial now that it was over, was endless. Did he muster all the evidence possible? Did he show it in the most favorable light? Did he do everything he could? Everything he had promised he would do?

He heard movement behind the closed door. Someone in the jury room was moving. Barely a moment later, the door opened. One of the male jurors appeared, and Ben could glimpse the others behind him. Was this it? His heart leapt into his throat; his pulse began to race. Was it finally over?

No. Only the one man left, and he went straight for the men’s room. Just a false alarm. Like so many others he had suffered through these past few days.

He had been so intent on the juror leaving the room that he didn’t even notice the woman who had sidled onto the bench beside him. “Any news?”

Ben turned. It was Cecily Elkins. She looked good in the cerulean blue jacket with matching brooch, although her eyes suggested she had not had much sleep of late. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought lunch.” She lifted her hand, revealing a large bag from Taco Bell. “Hungry?”

“Not yet. Maybe later.”

She nodded. “Any change?”

“Sorry. No.”

“Won’t they call you at your office? I mean—if something breaks?”

“Yeah. I just—I don’t know. I want to be here. I want to see the jurors walk in and out of the room every day. I want them to see me.”

Cecily nodded again. “Mind if I wait with you?”

“Oh, Cecily—there’s really no need. This isn’t your problem.”

“Excuse me?” She drew herself up. “I’m the one who started this mess, remember? I’m the one who brought it to you and dropped it in your lap.”

“I just meant—” He stopped. How selfish he had been—acting as if this was
his
case, as if he was the only one who cared about the outcome. She was Billy’s mother, not he. She was the one who saw her son die in her arms, as she desperately tried to revive him. She was the one who had devoted years of her life to the boy, only to see that all come to naught, all due to the greed of a corporation that cared more about its bottom line than about people.

It was her case. It always had been.

“Actually,” Ben said, “I could do with some company.”

“Thanks. I should warn you, though—I’m not much for small talk.”

Ben smiled. “Thank goodness.”

“How many time are we going to rehash the same damn arguments?” Marshall bellowed. “We’ve been over all this before.”

“I know that,” Foreman Peabody said, trying to remain cool. “We’ve been over it before and we’ll go over it again until we reach an agreement.”

The bailiff had brought all the evidence into the deliberation room—which took several trips—and they had pored over it, piece by piece. They had asked the judge for transcripts of the testimony of all the witnesses. They had asked for a magnifying glass, so they could scrutinize the aerial photographs of the dumpsite and ravine. They even asked for a medical encyclopedia, to help them decode some of the expert testimony.

But they were still unable to reach a consensus. A week later, the vote was still eleven to one. And Mrs. Johnson would not budge.

“How can you deny what’s right there in front of our faces?” Marshall asked. He had had enough of this case, enough of the deliberation, and most of all, enough of her intransigence. “The Blackwood water killed those kids!”

“No one can prove that,” Mrs. Johnson said, folding her hands.

“Who needs proof ? It’s obvious!”

“Not to me.”

“What do you think made those kids get cancer?”

“I don’t know. And nobody else does either, except the Good Lord.”

“Is that the same Good Lord who gave the kids cancer?” Mary Ann Althorp asked. “Those families have been hurt. They need our help.”

“If they need help,” Mrs. Johnson rejoined, “we can pass the hat. But I’m not going to give them millions of dollars of someone else’s money.”

Marshall threw himself back in his chair. “Isn’t there some way we can get rid of this old bat?” he asked the foreman. “What were those alternates for?”

“They can’t join the deliberations unless something happens to one of us,” Peabody explained.

“Maybe I should strangle her,” Marshall said under his breath. “That might speed things along.”

“I heard that,” Mrs. Johnson proclaimed. “And I am not amused.”

“There’s no need for unkindness,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “I’m sure we can work through this without sinking to that level.”

“Easy for you to say,” Marshall grumped. “I think you’re enjoying this. But I’ve got a business to run.”

“Let me see if I can get us back on track,” Peabody said. In fact, he was as tired of this as everyone else, but as the duly elected foreman, he felt an obligation to try to resolve the dispute. “Let’s focus on the medical testimony. Let’s see what evidence there is that the water caused those kids" cancers. I myself was very persuaded by that fella—what was his name?—Rimland, I think.”

Mrs. Johnson groaned. “Mr. Colby called him a quack.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Marshall rolled his eyes.

“Let’s look at the published report from Dr. Rimland’s study. I thought those results with the lab rats were kinda interesting.” Peabody had no real confidence that reviewing the report—or anything else—would ever change Mrs. Johnson’s mind. But he had to try something. He was the foreman, damn it. This was his watch. He had a responsibility. It wouldn’t be easy—but he was a farmer. He was used to things not being easy.

He wasn’t going to throw in the towel yet. Not without putting up one hell of a fight.

W
HEN BEN STEPPED OUT
of the judge’s chambers, Cecily was so excited she could barely restrain herself. She jumped off the bench that had been their home base for the past two weeks and met him halfway down the corridor.

“So? What did the judge want?”

Ben hesitated before answering. “The jury sent a note back.”

Why was she having to drag this out of him? “Yes? And?”

“They say they’re deadlocked. They can’t reach a verdict.”

Cecily was unprepared for the hollow pain she felt when she heard those words. Of course, she had realized it might not be good news, but this? She would almost rather be told that the jury found for the defendant.

“Why? What’s their problem?”

“I don’t know. And I can’t ask. But they say they can’t work it out.”

“So what did the judge do?”

“Basically, he told them to get their butts back in their chairs and work harder.”

“So—he didn’t let them declare a deadlock?”

“Not yet. But eventually …”

Cecily knew what he meant; they had discussed it often enough during the past two weeks. The judge couldn’t let the jury deliberate forever; eventually he would have to declare a mistrial. Which meant all their work, all their expense, would be for nothing. Their only option would be to try again with a new jury—an option she knew Ben couldn’t afford. And the chances of another lawyer taking the case—when it had already bankrupted the first lawyer—were nonexistent.

“Surely they’ll work it out,” Cecily said, but her voice sounded weak. “Surely they’ll see things the way we do.”

Ben laid his hand gently on her shoulder and guided her back to the bench. “I hope so.”

In the jury deliberation room, the frustration levels had reached an all-time high. No one had been happy about sending the note to the judge saying they were deadlocked—but they had at least thought it would bring this misery to an end. But now they had the judge’s reply, and not only were they not off the hook, the judge was basically scolding them and telling them the work would have to continue, perhaps for weeks.

“I just can’t stand this any longer,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “I’m tired of the pictures and the transcripts. I’m tired of the charts and graphs. And most of all, I’m tired of all this bickering.”

“I’m tired of everything, too,” Mary Ann Althorp added. “I’ve missed so much school I may have to retake the whole semester in summer school.”

“Don’t tell me your sob stories, girl,” Marshall said. “I got my own business. And it’s been goin" to hell in a handbasket since I got stuck with this trial.”

“None of which gets us where we need to go,” Foreman Peabody interjected. “I think we need to reconsider the evidence and see if we can get anyone to change their mind. Should we start with the medical evidence or the damages evidence?”

“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Johnson?” Marshall huffed. “Since it’s her mind you want to change.”

Peabody smiled thinly. “What about it, Mrs. Johnson? Shall we rehash the medical evidence?”

The woman at the end of the table looked up from the papers she had been reading. For the first time, at least in several days, Peabody realized how frail she was, how delicate. And yet she had stood up to the lot of them for two weeks running. That took some serious fiber. He had to admire that, even if he did think she was dead wrong.