Stephanie couldn’t help herself. She smiled. “That sounds great.”
“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it.”
“Do his lawyers know?”
Preston said, “Are you kidding? No, they were just told that there’d be no patience if their client was to, quote, misbehave, unquote. And I’m sure the message got passed along to Tommy there.”
Stephanie looked again at the defendant, standing cheerfully with the two sheriff’s deputies, as the jurors were brought around to the gravesite, where fingers were pointed and statements were made.
“Too bad,” Stephanie said.
Bored? he was asked once. Don’t you ever get bored?
And the truth was, no, not really. When you were in the zone, everything was magnified, everything came into focus, and you could see things you couldn’t see otherwise. Like right now, seeing through the telescopic sight the finely groomed hair of Tommy Zammit, the little patch on the side of his cheek where he had missed shaving this morning, and the little red marks along the skin of his wrists, where earlier they were constrained by metal handcuffs.
Seeing all of this was like being a scientist of sorts, observing from afar, and that thought made him laugh.
Scientist.
Yeah. A mad scientist, ready to kill if need be.
Preston said, “What do you mean by that, too bad?”
There was an inquisitive tone to her sergeant’s voice, not too sharp, so Stephanie knew she wasn’t in trouble. But still...
Oh hell, she trusted Preston well enough, and he never gave her crap about being one of the ten percent of the officers in the force who went to the bathroom sitting down, so she said, “I meant, too bad Tommy got the warning. It might be better for everyone if he started running for it, to give Carl Dixon the excuse to take him down.”
Preston said, “Tsk, tsk, such cold words to come from such a young lady.”
Stephanie said, “I’m not a young lady. I’m now a cop. And what I’m thinking about are the dozen or so women out there who were sexually assaulted by that smiling creep, and how they’re going to have to line up to testify against him. One right after another. Talking about how they were walking or jogging or minding their own business, and how Tommy Zammit grabbed them and dragged them into a graveyard... not knowing if they were going to live or die... just knowing that their whole life was over. Done. Finished. And that they would have to find their way back to living again. And I’m sure most of them have... and now, months later, they have to relive it. They have to see him again. They have to tell the most private and humiliating details of what went on to a bunch of strangers.”
Preston stayed quiet for a moment or two, and quietly said, “It’s changed, you know. What they can do to a woman in court. I had an aunt once... something... well, she had to testify. And back then, she had to answer questions about her dating life, how old she was when she lost her virginity, what kind of underwear she was wearing the night she was attacked, crap like that. So it has gotten better.”
Stephanie found she had clenched her right fist, for no apparent reason. “If you say so... but still, it stinks that all those women have to come back and see that smug face over there.”
“The price of justice,” her sergeant said.
“Yeah,” Stephanie said. “But who’s paying the price?”
Still in the zone, the sniper watched the scene unfold below him. The jurors huddled together as either the defense attorneys or the state’s attorneys indicated points of interest around the large tombstone with the pine trees flanking it. Part of the trial process, though no testimony was being recorded. Nope, what was going on was a bit of show and tell. Show the jurors the crime scene — oops, he caught himself, the alleged crime scene — so that when testimony did begin, they would have a point of reference.
The sniper knew the drill well. The attorneys from the state would indicate the location of the trees, the tombstone, the lane where the victim — damn it, once again, the alleged victim — was walking one night with a portable telescope, to do some observing in this area as part of fieldwork associated with a class she was taking from the nearby University of New Hampshire.
And the defense attorneys would do their part as well. Making sure that the jurors noted the lack of illumination on this cemetery lane, the lack of any streetlights or storefronts, the absence of any homes or buildings in the area that held possible witnesses to what had gone on that night.
Planting, the sniper thought. That’s what those two defense attorneys were doing: planting the seeds of doubt so that that cheerful-looking fellow down there would walk free.
Stephanie said, “How much longer?”
Preston said, “Usually doesn’t last long. The defense and the prosecution get to show the scene to the jurors, the jurors nod and hopefully look interested, and that’s about it. Nobody gets to ask questions. The jurors are just here to observe.”
She watched Tommy Zammit whisper something to his female defense attorney, who was well dressed in a dark black pantsuit, white blouse, and pearls around her neck. Didn’t she notice, Stephanie thought, didn’t she see that she was working for the enemy? Didn’t she?
“Stephanie?”
“Yes?”
“You in a hurry to get out of here?”
Stephanie looked at Tommy, still grinning. The jurors were still together in a group, in some sort of herd mentality, as if they subconsciously knew that they were in the presence of a predator, and wanted to feel safe among themselves.
“No,” she said. “I’m in a hurry to get away from that slug.”
When it seemed everything was done and the attorneys had finished with their presentations, that was when it happened.
Tommy Zammit was being led back to the sheriff’s department van and he turned to look back at the jurors, and even through the telescopic sight, the sniper saw it all unfold. Tommy seemed to pick out one of the jurors — an attractive-looking woman, long brown hair, short tan skirt, in her mid twenties — and Tommy winked at her.
The bastard winked at her. And then blew her a kiss.
The sniper moved quickly.
In his green equipment bag was a highly illegal and homemade silencer device, made of a length of PVC pipe — painted matte black last week — and filled with pink home insulation, a length of spring and metal washers. Previous tests had shown that the silencer would work for at least two, if not three shots, but that was — hah, hah! — overkill. He would just need one.
The sniper threaded the silencer on the end of his Remington rifle, quickly pulled it back under his chin and got the target in sight and the crosshairs were set perfect, right at the base of Tommy Zammit’s skull.
In the movies, this would be where he would say something pithy, something significant, like “Here’s a taste,” or “Sucks to be you,” or “Payback’s a bitch,” or even “Hasta la vista.”
But the sniper was a professional.
He just squeezed the trigger.
Stephanie was walking behind the group of jurors, getting ready to stroll over to their van, when there was the oddest sound, like a pumpkin being hit by a hammer, and Tommy Zammit fell forward, right on his face, and the deputy sheriffs started yelling, drawing their weapons, and then the female defense attorney started screaming and screaming and screaming.
Preston shoved Stephanie’s arm and shouted, “Get those civilians behind the van, now!”
Stephanie drew her Glock, kept it at her side, and with her other arm she started herding and moving the frightened jurors, moving them behind the shelter of the van. They moved quickly, letting her push them along, and it only took a few seconds before they were on the ground, kneeling or sitting, eyes wide with concern and fear. Joining them were the attorneys — the woman attorney crying — and the judge, who looked pretty calm, all things considered.