"Miss Hackett, perhaps you misunderstood my question," Judge Hackett began.
"I understood it, Judge."
"Miss Hackett, before coming into this courtroom today, you signed a plea agreement with the prosecutor, did you not?"
"Yes," she said.
"I have a copy of that agreement before me, Miss Hackett. In it, you state your intention to plead guilty to these charges. I cannot accept this agreement unless you tell me that you are guilty. Do you understand that?"
"I do," she said, tightening her grip on Mason's hand.
"I must warn you, Miss Hackett. If you return to this courtroom at a future date asking me to approve a plea bargain, it is unlikely that I will do so."
Patrick Ortiz interrupted. "Don't worry, Your Honor. There won't be another plea bargain in these cases. We're going to trial and we're asking for the death penalty."
Judge Tanner stared down from the bench grim-faced. "Mr. Mason, do you wish to confer with your client before this hearing is concluded?"
"No, sir. My client says she's innocent and that's good enough for me. We'll be ready for trial."
Abby wormed her way through the crowd, reaching Mason and Jordan at the same moment as Arthur and Carol Hackett. The courtroom deputy kept others away, his hand on Jordan's shoulder, a firm reminder that she was still the property of the State. Carol held to the fringes, Arthur easing inside the deputy's grasp, wrapping his arms around his daughter, their heads bowed together.
Mason couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could feel it. Abby leaned into Mason, letting her tears seep into his sleeve, then pulling herself up, straightening her clothes and her face, leaving Mason in the courtroom with his client and her parents. When at last the deputy insisted, Jordan's hand slid down her father's arm, lingered at the wrist, brushed across his fingers, tracing the lifeline across his palm, their connection interrupted but not broken.
Arthur let go, following his wife to the hallway, stopping at the door, looking back at Mason, who watched from the center of the courtroom, the last to leave. "Please, Mr. Mason," he said. Mason nodded his promise in reply.
Chapter 33
"I feel so stupid," Abby said to Mason. "I've made a complete and utter fool of myself, thinking Jordan could be my daughter. Especially when I saw her with her parents in court this morning."
Abby's PR firm, Fresh Air, was on the second floor of a building a block from her loft. Mason brought lunch from a deli at the corner of 21st and Baltimore, remnants of panini and Thai chicken salad littering a small round table in the corner of Abby's office, overlooking the street. Her staff busied themselves, shuttling in faxes she didn't read and phone messages she didn't return, pretending not to notice the tear-stained mascara streaks at the corners of Abby's eyes. The suite was decorated to soothe with creamy burnished wood, indirect light, and comforting music. The walls were hung with colorful photographs of people, places, and things in motion, sending the subliminal message that Abby and her people made things happen.
"Only because you look like Gene Simmons after a bad KISS concert," Mason said.
"That good, huh?" Abby answered, scrubbing her face with another tissue. "Even if Jordan is my daughter, I can't jump into the middle of her life now. The Hacketts are the only parents she's ever known. In spite of everything that's happened, Jordan wanted them to be in court this morning. That's her family. I should just butt out."
"Jordan needs friends too," Mason said. "You've connected with her. Don't let go of that."
"I know," Abby said, "but I need something else. I need to know what happened to my daughter, even if I can't be a part of her life. I need that closure."
"Closure is overrated," Mason said. "You trade one pain for another. If you found her, you'd want to meet her, be with her, make up for all those years, and she might not be interested. If you couldn't find her, you'd have a wound that never healed."
"I just want to know that she's all right, that she has a life," Abby said, gazing at the street as if her daughter would step out a door or turn a corner and wave to her.
"What if she wasn't all right?" Mason asked too carefully for his question to be academic. "What then?"
Abby looked at him, catching his meaning and her breath. "Lou, if you know something, tell me."
Mason pushed back from the table, not wanting to tell Abby what he suspected but didn't know for certain, unable to keep it from her any longer. "After we got back from St. Louis, I reread Gina Davenport's autopsy report. She had a congenital abnormality that prevented her from ever getting pregnant."
Abby wrinkled her brow. "What's that go to do with me?" she asked, then gasped with understanding, racing to the conclusion. "Emily! That's why Gina never signed the Baby Book at the hospital and why my medical records are missing. Is that what you're telling me? That Gina Davenport took my baby!"
Mason shoved bread crumbs into a mound, smashing them with his thumb. "I don't know for certain. That's why I didn't tell you. We know that Terry Nix worked at the hospital. We know that he could have met your uncle in the alcohol treatment program, and we know that Nix dealt in black-market babies. Emily's birth certificate identifies Gina and Robert as her natural parents. They couldn't adopt legally because Robert was a drug addict. The birth certificate had to have been forged. The date of birth is a week before your baby was born, but changing the date was one more step to make it look legit. It all fits, but I can't prove it."
"Oh, my God!" Abby said, coming out of her chair, the full impact of Mason's explanation hitting her. "Emily is dead." Mason took her in his arms, Abby shuddering, dissolving, repeating again and again, "Emily is dead." Mason held her until she pulled away, walking around her office, arms crossed, finding her center of gravity.
Mason explained, "Gina must have told her lawyer, David Evans, about you. Evans let it slip to his girlfriend, Paula Sutton, who worked at KWIN and was jealous enough of Gina to hook you and Gina up. She used Jordan's cell phone to cover her tracks. All she wanted to do was cause Gina some grief. Instead, I think she put this whole thing into motion."
"Jealousy and hate," Abby said. "That's what killed Gina and Trent. What are you going to do?" Abby asked, her mouth set in a thin, fierce line.
"Terry Nix is in the middle of all of this. He was there at the beginning and at the end. He's got ties to Gina, Robert, and you. I'm going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with him."
"You think Nix killed Gina and Trent?"
"No, especially if you're right about jealousy and hate. It's not his style. He's a let's-make-love-not-war relic, but I bet he knows a lot more than he's told me so far."
"Why would he tell you anything now?" Abby asked.
"Self-preservation. That's how guys like him survive. They use guys like Centurion for muscle. Take away the muscle, and they'll give it up. Blues and Samantha have Centurion under wraps. Nix may be ready to talk."
"I've got some questions of my own," Abby said, her jaw tightening.
"Don't even think about it," Mason said. "Write them down. I'll add them to my list."
"I'll call you," she said, returning to the window, palms against the glass, eyes on the street.
Mason wiped his dry-erase board clean, starting over with what he knew, and what made too much sense not to be true. From that, he made a list of questions, guessing at the answers. When he was done, he had a story.
Terry Nix supplied drugs to Robert Davenport when they lived in St. Louis, getting one hook into the Davenports. Nix sold Abby's baby to the Davenports, adding another hook. Years later, Nix landed at Sanctuary, using those hooks to persuade Gina Davenport to refer patients there, adding credibility to the operation, while plugging Robert Davenport into Centurion's drug supply. Gina must have feared disclosure of the truth about Emily and Robert enough to go along, even to the point of letting Emily live at Sanctuary. She lost control of her daughter, her husband, and her life. Emily's death made her more vulnerable, not less, to Nix, one more secret to be kept, the price paid by contributions from Emily's Fund.