"Hello," Carella said, "what is it?”
"How fast can you get down here?”
"Twenty minutes. Have they ...?was "From what we can tell, it'll be any minute now.”
"I'm on my way," Carella said.
The men and women of the jury filed in at twenty minutes past four.
Carella tried to read what was on their faces.
Throughout the course of trial, when they were mere supporting players to the stars on and around the witness stand, he had paid scant attention to them.
But now, suddenly, they were center stage, walking into the spotlight as a group and solemnly taking their chairs in the jury box. The foreman had a mustache. He had not noticed that before. Two of the three women were wearing eyeglasses. One of the black jurors was wearing an outrageous tie.
All of the jurors, male or female, white or black, Hispanic or Asian, wore expressions that were completely blank.
Judge Di Pasco turned to them as soon as they were seated.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he said, "have you agreed upon a verdict in this case?”
"We have," the foreman said. He was a tall black man wearing a dark suit, a white shirt, and a burgundy-colored tie. His hands were shaking.
"Please return the papers to the Court," the clerk said.
"Mr. Foreman," Di Pasco said, "what is the jury's verdict?”
Carella caught his breath.
"We find the defendant not guilty," the foreman said.
Carella felt as if he'd been hit in the face with a closed fist.
Lowell was immediately on his feet.
"Your Honor," he said, "may I respectfully request that the jury be polled?”
Di Pasco nodded to the court clerk. At the back of the courtroom, Sonny Cole's supporters, most of whom did not know him and many of whom would not have cared to meet him in a dark alley at midnight, were slapping each other on the back in congratulation.
"Juror number one," the clerk said, "Franklin Jonathan Miller, how do you find the defendant?”
"Not guilty," the foreman said.
"Juror number two, Maria Catalina Perez, how do you find the defendant?”
"Not guilty.”
And now Carella sat stunned and silent as the names were called and each member of the jury rose in turn to respond to the clerk's question, how do you find the defendant, the answers seeming to resound into that paneled chamber, rising to its vaulted ceiling, not guilty, cascading down onto the grinning faces at the back of the courtroom, not guilty, rushing down through the center aisle, not guilty, not guilty, and settling at last on Carella in a final fading roar where he sat feeling oddly embarrassed and utterly alone, not guilty, not guilty, not guilty.
The night could not be trusted, winter could not be trusted.
What had started as a bright and sunny day was now, at eight-forty P.M., bitterly cold.
Meyer and Carella stood in their heavy overcoats outside the Smoke Rise building where murder had been committed, talking to the Chief of Detectives, who had come all the way uptown on this one because he was afraid of what the media might make of it.
Blue-and-white radio cars were angle-parked into the curb across the street from the building.
Directly in front of the building's green canopy, an ambulance was backed into the curb, its rear doors open. Grayish-blue exhaust fumes floated up on the night. Uniformed cops with nothing to do stood around near the front door. Monoghan and Monroe, who had got here ten minutes before the chief arrived, were talking to the doorman, trying to appear actively essential to the investigation.
The Chief of Detectives was named Lou Fremont, and he had been appointed only recently by the new commissioner, an act of conciliation in that he was both white and a man who had come up through the ranks right here in this city and not in some little Southern town where the only action on a Saturday night was the blinking of a traffic light on Main and Cucumber. Both Meyer and Carella knew Fremont from when he'd been in command of the Seven-Three in Majesta. A gruff, no-nonsense man in his late fifties, he had a reputation for being short of temper and quick with his fists. But he knew what it was like to be a street cop, and they knew he would go to bat for them if this thing got out of hand. What they were all worried about was something called Prior K.
"Said somebody was trying to kill her, huh?”
Fremont asked.
"Well, someone pushed her off a subway platform," Carella said. "And later, he ...”
"What'd you find out about that?”
“It's a complicated story, Chief.”
"I'm not going anyplace," Fremont said.
"Are you going someplace?”
"No, sir.”
The chief nodded. He was anticipating the media saying the police had known there was murder in the air, the woman had come to them after a murder attempt, and now there was an actual murder, never mind attempted murder. Twist this around a bit, it could look like they'd been negligent in their investigation. Thank God it didn't involve race. All they needed was another goddamn racially motivated incident in this city.
Carella was telling him how the guy who'd shoved her off the platform had tried to run her down later on and had finally ended up dead himself, the victim of a shooting. This was- "What shooting?" Fremont asked. "Where?”
He told the chief all about Roger Turner Tilly hanging from the ceiling in a Diamondback basement- "Hanging? I thought you said he was shot.”
"Shot first, hanged later," Carella said.
"In Diamondback? That's the Eight-Three, isn't it?”
"Yes, sir.”
"Then how'd you get ...?was "First Man Up, sir.”
"Because the woman came to see you on the murder attempts?”
"Yes, sir.”
"Two of them, I'm now hearing. I don't like this, I can tell you that.”
"Yes, sir. We were looking for Tilly because she'd identified him as the man who'd tried to run her down. So when Tilly turned up dead, there was some question about whether or not FMU applied here.”
"I would say it did.”
"Well, Lieutenant Byrnes wanted to check that. But meanwhile, he advised us to stay on the case.”
"Do you think this might be the same person?”
"Sir?”
"Who killed Tilly and did this one?”
"Oh. No, sir. No, we've already got Tilly's murderer. He was arraigned Monday, and the judge denied bail. It couldn't possibly be the same person.”
“Good work," Fremont said.
"Thank you, sir.”
"But I'm still worried about Prior Knowledge here.”
"Yes, sir.”
"I know it's a stretch ...”
"Well, yes, sir, I think actually it might be.”
"But the media has ways of making something out of nothing, you know that.”
"Yes, sir.”
"She did come to you ...”
"Yes, sir ...”
"And now ...”
Fremont shook his head.
"What's it look like upstairs?" he asked.
Meyer filled him in on what it looked like upstairs. The safe broken into, tool marks around the dial and the edge of the door, victim lying on the- "Where is this? The safe?”
"In the master bedroom, sir," Meyer said.
"Closet in the master bedroom.”
-victim lying on the floor just inside the bedroom door, shot in the face at close range. Three spent cartridge cases recovered, as well as two bullets that went right on through, exiting at the back of the head, the other bullet presumably still someplace inside the head.
"Anything left in the safe?”
"Dry as a bone, sir.”
"Any idea what was in it?”
"We found a list in the desk drawer, yes, sir.”
"How about the casings and bullets? What do they look like?”
"Forty-fives," Meyer said. "Clearly stamped on the casing. Remington forty-five Auto Colt.”
"Better run them down to Ballistics right away.”