VC04 - Jury Double (6 page)

“But now this damned jury thing is going to wreck it all.” Kyra’s teeth pressed down into her lower lip. “Could you save my life, Annie? And Toby’s? Could you please please please take a half hour off and go down to the court and sit in for me?”

“Sit in for you?”

“Pretend to be me. It’s only a formality. It’ll only take a minute or two.”

“How could I do that? It’s illegal.”

“But Mark’s going to get me off, so what difference does it make?” Kyra’s eyes beseeched. “Please, Annie—please?”

That tone and that look did it. They always had. Anne felt herself softening like candle wax. “But no one will think I’m you.”

Kyra pushed Anne down in front of the dressing table glittering with silver and tortoiseshell. “All you have to do is brush your hair like this. …”

Anne looked at their reflections in the mirror. She saw Kyra—groomed and fashionable even in her distress, silken colors coordinated to bring out her strong points: the hazel-green eyes; the hair with its auburn highlights; the pale, milk-smooth skin with jeweled accents twinkling at her ears and throat.

And then she saw herself—the colorless sister, too practical to bother with froufrou, simple and sensible in a gray blouse and jeans from the Gap and a necklace of amber beads from a vendor on 63rd Street who she’d felt sorry for.

Kyra removed Anne’s barrette and jumbled the hair and patted it down loosely. “See?”

Now they looked like an actress playing identical twins in one of Anne’s TV movies, a dual high-contrast role. “But what about our clothes?”

“I’ve taken care of that.” A little needlepoint-and-pigskin Vuitton suitcase sat on the easy chair, as though Kyra had been preparing an overnight getaway. “I packed a few of my things.” She laid the suitcase on the bed and snapped it open. The sleek, simply cut clothes screamed style and taste and money.

“And a little present.” Kyra pulled a Lady Seiko watch out of a pocket in the suitcase lining. “You get to keep it.”

“Kyra, I couldn’t—”

“And some perfume. Because Mark would know the difference. You don’t mind wearing Joy.” Kyra spritzed her with the tiny beaded atomizer.

A perfumed dew settled.
Besides scoring, I’m not doing anything tomorrow
, Anne thought.
Nothing that I can’t put off a few hours … It would be killing two birds with one stone. Kyra pulls out of this tailspin; and Anne gets to be queen for a day.

“All right,” Anne said. “But just for tomorrow.”

“Hey,” Toby called. “Somebody forgot something.”

“His good night kiss.” Kyra pulled Anne into Toby’s half-darkened bedroom.

Toby sat in bed with a laptop computer, tapping instructions into the keyboard. “Look, Mom, I figured out a way to access the Internet without paying.”

“That’s not legal,” Kyra chided.

“Sure it is. All you do is dial the eight-hundred number of your software provider, enter your user code, and—”

“That’s enough net-surfing for today.” Kyra set the laptop on the bedside table. “Now say good night to your aunt.”

Toby turned and scowled at Anne. “You’re not going away, are you?”

The suitcase
, she realized. “No such luck. Just borrowing some things from your mom.”

“Good. I don’t want you to ever go away.” He threw his arms around her neck and tugged her into an embrace. She kissed him on the forehead.

“I love you, Aunt Anne.”

She winced at the sound of the words
Aunt Anne
. They seemed to put her somewhere between unmarriageable and buried. “I love you, too, Toby. Sleep tight.”

“Hey, Mom. It’s too dark. Turn the TV on?”

Kyra flicked it on but lowered the sound. “Now get some sleep.” Thin lines of light and shadow pulsed across the life-size poster of Joe Montana of the Kansas City Chiefs, which kept guard above the bed.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I wish we were all together again—you and me and Dad.”

“I do too. But sometimes things just don’t work out the way we’d like them to. Sleep tight.”

Kyra walked Anne to the front door.

“Isn’t he a little old to be afraid of the dark?” Anne said.

“It’s only started lately. His shrink says it’s because he’s looking for a father figure.”

“Is there a connection?”

“Absolutely.” Kyra pulled the apartment door open. “This custody hearing has got him as much on edge as it has me.”

“It’ll work out.” Anne kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, sweetie. Thanks for dinner.”

“And thanks for saving my life. I mean it.”

SIX

Tuesday, September 17

Last day of voir dire

9:20 A.M.

P
ICKETS SURGED AROUND THE
60 Centre Street entrance of New York State Supreme Court, which despite its name was not the highest court in the state system. Voices and placards screamed,
Free Corey Lyle!

Freedom of religion!

Stop the government-sponsored witchhunt!

Anne threaded her way up the steps, through the mob, past the pillars. The picketers were a satanic, druggy-looking lot. Many of them, male and female alike, had shaved their heads.

As she approached the brass-framed door, a young woman jumped in front of her. “Juror! Juror!” she screamed.

Anne recoiled from eyes of hatred and madness. “You’re mistaken—I’m not on any jury.”

“Liar! Bitch!” The girl swung her picket.

A tall, dark-haired man stepped forward and caught the blow on his outstretched arm. Seizing the picket, he snapped it in half and flung the pieces to the ground.

“Fascist!” the girl screeched. “Racist!”

The man held the door and shot Anne a grin. “Pretty nerve-racking around here today.”

“I’ll say. Thanks.” Anne stepped into a two-story marble rotunda lined with plaster friezes and carved inscriptions. Scores of people with scores of purposes hurried through. Echoing voices and footsteps rained down from the vaulted ceiling.

She went through the upstretched arms of a metal detector. Her Good Samaritan bypassed the detector and showed the guard his wallet. Anne caught the flash of a detective’s gold shield.

“So you’re a detective,” she said in her most chirping Kyra manner.

He looked at her oddly.

“I’m Kyra Talbot. Good to meet you.”

“Lieutenant Vince Cardozo. We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Have we?”

“We met yesterday.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t worry. Happens to me all the time.”

They walked to the elevator. A wave of chattering secretaries swept past. He stepped aside for her to go in first and pushed a button. “You’re five, same as me, right?”

She had no idea. “Right.”

The door shut and the elevator lifted with a lurch.

“Know what I hate?” he said. “Waiting. I’ve been here since nine-thirty yesterday, waiting for the prosecutor, waiting for your jury.”

“Sorry about my jury.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s the lawyers.”

The elevator stopped. He walked her down the corridor to room 506. “Have a good one,” he called.

Cardozo knocked at room 509. The door opened and Tess diAngeli extended a hand in greeting.

“Thanks for coming by. Sorry I couldn’t see you yesterday. Excuse this broom closet. We’re a little short of space. And time.” She motioned to one of the folding metal chairs. “You took notes on the crime scene, right? Will you be testifying from them?”

He sat. “If I need to refresh my recollection.”

“Could I see them?”

He reached into his pocket and handed her the notebook.

She leafed through the pages. “You have nice handwriting—for a cop.” She smiled and it softened her face, and for an instant she looked like the young woman she was. “I know some cops who scribble so no one else can read the notes if they’re subpoenaed.”

Cardozo had a feeling that was a suggestion.

She flattened out a page. “You certainly were thorough.”
Too thorough
, her tone said. “Actually, we’re not going to be using all of this.” She took a small roll of Scotch tape from the desk drawer. “We’re going to soft-pedal the physical details of the killings.”

At first he thought she was patching a tear in one of the pages, but then he realized it was masking tape and she was covering several lines of his writing.

“We’ve rethought our strategy. If the Briars’ suffering is made too vivid, the jury may have trouble seeing Mickey as a victim.”

“
Victim
?” Cardozo’s eyes jerked up. “What are you talking about? That bastard’s no victim—he was
responsible
!”

“We’re not interested in Mickey Williams’s responsibility. Forget it. That’s not what this trial is about.”

“Then what
is
it about?”

“
Corey Lyle
’s responsibility. Because Mickey was carrying out Lyle’s instructions.”

“Tess, will you please skip the commercial?” Cardozo pushed out a weary exhalation. “Just tell me in plain English what the hell you’re up to now.”

“Mickey is no longer under indictment.” Her glance flicked up. “He’s testifying for the prosecution against Corey Lyle. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Excuse me, but yes, I have a big problem. It stinks.” Cardozo had to wonder: If the deal had been worked out recently, why had the feds erased Mickey’s stats two years ago?

“Sometimes you have to make a deal with a demon in order to catch the devil. The Briar murders are the first case where we can
prove
Corey Lyle programmed a man and sent him out to kill. Corey Lyle is a monster. He’s responsible for close to a hundred deaths that we know of. And hundreds of millions of dollars in property damage. Compared to Corey Lyle, Mickey Williams is
insignificant
.”

“Fine, but Mickey Williams happens to be a murderer too, and a sociopath, and a child molester. And it sounds like you’re letting him walk.”

“Mickey Williams is not legally responsible.” DiAngeli slid a manila folder across the desk:
PAYNE-WHITNEY. PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION OF MICHAEL WILLIAMS, CONFIDENTAL
. “He’s no more a murderer than your gun is. He’s a weapon. And Corey Lyle loaded him, aimed him, and pulled the trigger.”

“That’s a load of bull guano and you know it.”

“Damn it, Vince. I don’t impugn your professionalism and I wish you’d respect mine.”

“Then give me something to respect.”

Her color darkened. “Now, just hold on a minute. I’ve worked twenty-hour days for almost two years, researching every angle of this case. I’ve interviewed I don’t know how many potential witnesses. I’ve consulted with the country’s top psychologists and criminologists and forensic experts. And one fact emerged time and time again: In and of himself, Mickey Williams is no more dangerous than a cup of water.”

“Tess, I
saw
John Briar’s body. No cup of water did that. I also saw Mickey’s record before the feds shredded it. The man’s a threat to any community he sets his foot in. Including wolf packs and alligator colonies. For the public good, he has to be kept under twenty-four-hour lock and key.”

“Stop worrying about that. He’s under guard.”

“Where?”

“All right—if you must know, he’s in the federal witness relocation program.”

“Christ. That program’s about as secure as a paper bag.”

“Vince, I understand the new strategy may come as a shock. I understand you may feel hurt we didn’t call you in at the planning stage. You may even feel we’ve thrown your work out. But we haven’t. You did terrific work, and without it we’d never have had this chance to nail Corey Lyle.”

“So I get a gold medal, you get your chance, the government gets Corey Lyle, and what does the public get?
Shafted
.”

“There are considerations and ramifications here that you’re not aware of.”

“Then make me aware of them.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“What a shame.”

“Would you please stop seeing this thing in black and white?”

“Believe me, I’m seeing it in full color.”

DiAngeli drew in a long, deep breath and slowly let it out. “I hope you’re not planning to take that attitude onto the witness stand with you.”

“Depends.”

“Vince … be reasonable. You and I are on the same side. We both want the same thing. We want justice. We want the bad guys locked up and the good guys safe. That’s why I’m prosecuting this case, and that’s why you’re testifying. And your testimony could make the difference between winning and losing.”

“That’s beautiful. I’m supposed to fine-tune my attitude and edit my testimony to win your case, and Mickey Williams goes scot-free to rampage anytime his hormones sound the hunting horn.”

There was a silence that reminded Cardozo of that speak-or-forever-hold-your-peace moment in wedding ceremonies.

“Believe me,” Tess said, “Mickey’s not going to go free. That is absolutely not going to happen.”

“How can I be sure of that?”

Tess rose and walked to the window. After a moment she turned. “Because you have my word of honor.”

Anne saw wooden benches. No cushions. No armrests. There must have been two hundred long-faced jurors and potential jurors trying to get comfortable on those benches. Half of them—obviously veterans—had slipped earphones over their heads. Their Walkmans made mysterious squeaking sounds, like a rain forest of insects at nightfall.

A middle-aged man with dyed red hair sat at a desk clipping his nails. The desktop held a microphone, three telephones, and jumbled stacks of paper.

Anne fixed a smile on her face. “Excuse me.”

The man’s eyes flicked up. “You wish.” Barely a glance.

“I’m Kyra Talbot.”

“What do you expect me to do about it, Kyra—dress up as a snow leopard and sing Turandot?”

“I’m expecting my lawyer—I thought he might have asked for me?”

“He hasn’t been asking
me
for you, honey. And when he does, you’ll be the first to know. Now, why don’t you go park your tush.”

She found an empty seat. She sat down and glanced at the
New York Post
that someone had left behind.