"All rise."
In profile, Judge Nicholson looked like the eagle flying over his head. Slight, with a huge nose, he held his head to the side as if daring one to try and look at anything else in the room. Given that he was so far above the courtroom, it was difficult not to stare into his nose. Tess was so entranced by his nostrils she forgot to sit down once the judge had taken his seat. Tyner had to yank her down by her blazer.
"Luckily he hated Abramowitz," Tyner hissed, then rolled forward to present his case.
Judge Nicholson's face was unreadable as he listened to Tyner argue that Rock, who had paid a bail bondsman ten percent in cash for his $100,000 bail, was not likely to flee if allowed to go to Pittsburgh, Boston, Virginia, and Philadelphia over the next eight weeks. He pointed out Rock's work history, his ties to the community, his eagerness to be acquitted by a jury of his peers in this matter.
"Your Honor, we absolutely object to allowing the defendant to leave the state," said the state's attorney, a thin young woman whose shrill voice bounced painfully off the limestone walls. She wore a cheap suit with a nylon blouse, the kind with a bow at the neck. Her shoes were scuffed and run-down at the heels. Tess, who knew how poorly prosecutors were paid, almost felt sorry for her. She looked quite mousy next to Tyner, splendid in a pale blue shirt, red bow tie, and navy suit.
The judge's eyes narrowed like a bird closing in on a particularly fat worm.
"Does Mr. Paxton have any prior arrests?"
"No, Your Honor."
"Does he have any prior convictions?"
"No, but the crime was quite violent and impulsive. PreTrial Services recommended he not be allowed to leave Maryland under the circumstances. The state believes he is at risk for flight."
Tyner whispered to Tess: "The state believes it had better look as tough as it can on this case, so no one accuses the state's attorney's office of being soft on a white defendant."
The judge glanced at Rock. Seated, his overmuscled torso hidden by his blazer, his legs concealed beneath the table, he looked like a stocky nerd. The judge turned his stare back to Tyner.
"Mr. Gray, would you be willing to accompany your client out of town and to guarantee his return?"
"It had not been my plan, Your Honor, but it could be arranged." Tyner tried to conceal his delight. Things were working out better than he had planned, Tess realized. The judge had just made it possible for him to deduct, as a business expense, his usual fall trips to the head races.
"Then it is the opinion of this court he can go." The judge stood and left so rapidly that he was gone before the clerk barked out, "All rise." As Tyner had predicted, the hearing had been easy. Now came the hard part: leaving.
At Tess's signal the three put their heads together. "Let's just pretend to confer urgently," she said in the huddle. "That will keep the reporters at arm's length."
"The judge looked familiar," Rock whispered.
"He's on the board of the Baltimore Rowing Club," Tyner said. "Lightweight four, Princeton."
The Beacon-Light's Feeney, who probably would write no more than a brief on this routine court action, sauntered out. The television women had bolted for their cameramen and were outside, white lights blazing.
"Here's my plan," Tess said once the courtroom was cleared. Rock knew part of it already. She had prepared him that morning at the boat house. Tyner listened, grasping it immediately.
Minutes later they burst out of the courtroom at full speed, and the camera crews trotted through the hallways in orgasmic delight, recording the fleeing Mr. Paxton with jacket over his head and attorney rolling alongside. The elevator arrived quickly, but that didn't stop the reporters and their crews. Some crowded on, while others ran down three flights of stairs and met the elevator on the courthouse's first floor.
"Why is it so important for you to row, Mr. Paxton?" "Did you kill Michael Abramowitz?" "How do you feel about being allowed to leave the state?" The questions came, fast, furious, and dumb. Tyner just kept rolling. He still had a lot of upper body strength and could move quickly along the smooth floors. The TV crews followed him through the hallways of the first floor, picking up speed. But Tyner appeared to be outpacing them until they split into two groups, then cornered him in a long hallway on the building's west side.
Here, benches along both walls were crowded with young men just starting out in the criminal world, parents accused of abuse and neglect, children caught up in nasty custody cases between their parents and the state. There were a lot of tired-looking women, surly teenagers, and screaming children, but no men. No fathers. Tired and bored, they welcomed Tyner's little sideshow.
Sure he had everyone's attention, Tyner nudged his jacketed client. Tess whipped Rock's blazer off her head and smiled broadly at the cameras. Given her height and Rock's huge jacket, which hung well below her hips when draped over her piled-up hair, no one had noticed they were following blue-jeaned legs instead of khaki ones.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the press," Tess said, bowing. "Darryl Paxton has left the building."
"As you can see," Tyner said, "this is not Mr. Paxton. And if you show videotape tonight suggesting this was Mr. Paxton running through the courthouse, you can expect a lawsuit by tomorrow morning. Of course, you are free to report you chased Tess Monaghan through the courthouse, as long as you report she is my assistant, and is accused of no crime. Thank you."
The teenage boys in the hallway, many of whom could look forward to a day when they would make their own desperate runs past television cameras, began whistling and stamping their feet. They didn't know what was going on, but they knew someone had been humiliated, and they liked it. The weary mothers began laughing; the children clapped their hands and shouted. Bailiffs came running from nearby courtrooms, demanding silence, but the laughter and shouts only escalated. Tess's trick seemed to free something in that sad place, and she and Tyner began giggling as well. Only the television reporters were unamused, their lipstick-thick mouths thinning into severe lines.
Rock, of course, was long gone. He had slipped out a side exit, one used primarily for the incarcerated men brought to the courthouse from city jail. His bike had been in the trunk of Tess's Toyota, parked a few blocks away. He had taken it out with Tess's spare key, leaving her blazer in its place. He would be crossing North Avenue by now, Tess calculated. Almost home, if not home free.
Chapter 12
Friday night. The Shabbat candles burned brightly on the mantel, creating a redundant halo effect for the cheap watercolor of Jesus hanging above them. Tess pushed her pot roast around on one of her mother's "meat" plates, hoping to create the illusion of eating. At the end of the table, her father was eating a cold cut sub on a paper plate and drinking a Pabst from the can.
Her mother, a striking woman despite the deep frown lines cut deep along her mouth and forehead, ate daintily from her steaming plate, wiping sweat from her face between bites. She wore a toast-colored dress of polished cotton, flattering to her dark eyes and hair, her tanned face and arms. Although her legs were also deeply tanned, she had sheathed them with panty hose, one shade lighter than her dress. Her suede pumps were also toast colored. Bite, chew, wipe. The weather had turned warm again, but Judith Weinstein Monaghan did not believe in air-conditioning or cold suppers after Labor Day any more than she believed Jesus Christ was the son of God.
"What's the matter?" she asked, not fooled by Tess's childhood habit of pretending to eat. "It's pot roast. You love pot roast."