Miller nodded and said something. Lynch did the same and they hastily returned to their seats, each looking upset.
When Decker looked at him questioningly, Miller shook his head and said, “Later.”
Abernathy said to Leopold, “I’m ordering you to be returned to your cell for now. A public defender will be appointed to represent you. You will then be returned to this court for your arraignment tomorrow morning.” He glanced at Lynch. “And get the psych eval done promptly, Ms. Lynch. Understood?” She nodded, her gaze refusing to meet his. Abernathy said, “Officers, please remove the defendant.”
He rapped his gavel down. The two uniforms immediately came forward, shackled a confused looking Leopold, and led him back out.
Abernathy said to the bailiff, “Call the next case, please. And I trust he will have counsel.” As he said this he shot first Lynch and then Miller a withering look.
Decker, Lancaster, and Miller rose and headed out as the second prisoner was led in for his hearing.
The reporter had already left.
Out in the hall a scowling Lynch came over to Miller.
She said, “I don’t like getting my ass handed to me in court, Mac.”
“We couldn’t force him to accept a lawyer, Sheila. You were in the middle of it. You know.”
“Well, he’s getting one whether he likes it or not, if only to enter a guilty plea.” She shot Lancaster and then Decker a glance. “Hello, Amos, I guess I’m not surprised to see you here.”
“I guess not,” replied Decker.
Lynch turned back to Miller. “Since Abernathy’s ordered a psych eval, I’m not sure he’ll be able to plead to anything if the eval comes back like I think it might.”
“You mean mentally unfit,” said Lancaster.
“You’ve seen the guy. You think he’s all there?”
“Maybe he was sixteen months ago,” said Decker.
“Doesn’t matter if he’s not legally competent to stand trial now.”
She turned and hurried off, her briefcase banging against her thigh.
Decker turned to Miller. “So?”
“So we got read the riot act by Abernathy. He was pissed that Leopold had no PD, and he’s right. Death penalty case with no lawyer? Whatever happened at this level would get overturned on appeal automatically. And Abernathy does not like to get overturned by the appellate court. That’s why he was ticked off. I think he thought we were setting him up. As if.”
“So why wasn’t a PD appointed?” asked Decker.
“Like Lynch said, Leopold didn’t want one. He was totally uncooperative. Kept saying he did it so why did he need a lawyer. We had our hands full with Mansfield or else we would have handled it differently. We basically dropped the ball there.”
Decker stuffed his hands into his pockets and let his chin fall to his chest. “So you lawyer him up, he comes back in, pleads guilty, and then what?”
“Well, hopefully his lawyer will convince him to plead not guilty just so it looks better. We can talk about a deal and see what comes of it. But we also have to see what the psych eval says. If he’s unfit it throws a monkey wrench into things.”
“And if he isn’t guilty?” asked Decker.
“Do you think he is?” asked Miller.
“I met with the guy once. I can’t say definitely what I think.”
“Well, none of this is going to happen today. So we’ve got time.” Miller glanced at Lancaster. “You better get back to Mansfield. I hear the FBI is working hard to take over the case.”
“And if they want to can we really stop them?” asked Lancaster.
“We’re not going to roll over and play dead for the Feds, Mary,” said Miller sternly. He looked at Decker. “You going to be able to continue helping us on it? Leopold will keep. This prick at Mansfield, the longer it goes, the harder it’ll be for us to find him.”
Decker looked off. The answer should have been easy. Only it wasn’t.
Miller studied him for a few moments. “Well, let me know.”
He turned and walked off, leaving Lancaster and Decker standing in the hall. Activity in the courthouse had started to heat up and the corridors were growing full. Moms crying about sons in trouble. Lawyers clustered like chickens in a pen. Cops were coming and going, and folks were wandering around who were already in trouble or about to be.
Lancaster said sharply, “Why the wavering? Last night you said the shooter wasn’t going to get away with it.”
Decker didn’t answer right away. He was watching the reporter standing next to the entrance to the courthouse. She was obviously waiting for him.
“Amos?” said Lancaster.
He glanced back at his former partner. “I’ll be at the high school later today.”
“Does that mean you’re still engaged on it?”
“Later today,” said Decker. He headed for the rear exit.
The reporter caught up to him halfway down the hall.
“Mr. Decker? Mr. Decker?”
Decker’s first plan was to just keep walking, but the woman gave every indication that she would simply follow him out of the building, down the street, and into his next life if need be. So he stopped at the exit, turned, and looked down at her. His mind automatically collected observations and distilled them into an assortment of deductions.
She was in her late twenties, pretty, tall, slim, and brunette, with her hair cut short around her ears. Ears that weren’t pierced even for earrings. He saw tat letters on her left wrist where her cuff rode up.
Iron Butterfly. Well, they did make a comeback after she was born.
Her eyes were a dull blue that clashed with her complexion. One of her incisors was chipped, her nails were bitten down to the rims, her right index finger had once been broken and healed badly with a little bend to it in the middle, and her lips were overly thin and chapped. She didn’t smell of smoke, drink, or perfume.
Her clothes were not new, nor overly clean, but they rode well on her tall, slender figure. She had a dark blotch on the inside of her right middle finger where the pen was held. Not just a keyboard clicker, then. She used ink.
Her face held the wonderful enthusiasm of youth as yet unblemished by life. That age was a nice time in anyone’s life. And it was necessary. To get through what was coming in later years.
If we all started out cynical, what a shitty world that would be.
“Mr. Decker? I’m Alex Jamison with the News Leader.”
“You like ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’? It was Butterfly’s biggest seller. Thirty million and still counting. In the top forty of all time.” Decker had read this in a Rolling Stone article three years ago while eating a PBJ and drinking a cup of coffee at a diner downtown while he was a witness in a case involving a burglary ring he and Lancaster had busted. It was on page forty-two of the magazine, lower right-hand corner. He could see the page and the accompanying picture in his head so clearly it was like he was watching high-def TV. At first this total recall had scared the crap out of him. Now it was as natural to him as swallowing.
She seemed surprised by this until she glanced down at her tat. She looked back at him, smiling. “My mom got me into their early music. Then when the band re-formed the last time I became sort of obsessed. I mean, they played with Jimmy Page and Zeppelin. Lot of tragic stuff with them, though.”
Decker did not follow this up with anything, because music was not why she was here, and he had places to be. She seemed to get this point by his silence.
“I tried calling you. I don’t like to chase people down in the courthouse,” she said a bit defensively.
Decker just kept staring at her. All around them the courthouse activity went on, bees in a hive, oblivious to the pair of intruders into their world of legal higgledy-piggledy.