He had a festering wound on his arm, another on his neck. He told me about the mystery-meat sandwich for lunch and the dinner burrito, the kind you get at gas stations.
I had missed both.
He asked if I had a good lawyer. I said I did, then I leaned back against the wall. I didn’t want to attract any kind of attention. I was drowning in a riptide of despair that didn’t make total sense to me.
I’d been through marine boot camp and then a war. I’d killed people. Friends had died. My parents had died. I’d been wounded in action. In fact, I’d died and been brought back to life. All of that.
And yet the one thing I couldn’t remember feeling before was an utter lack of hope.
Nothing I said mattered.
I had no access to anyone. No moves to make.
I was at the mercy of people who wanted me put away. Even Fescoe had let me down: confess or else.
Irwin moved to the other slab, and another unwashed desperado took his place next to me. He seemed like a decent guy. Had a couple of kids, a wife, had gotten into a bar fight. Said he hadn’t been able to make bail. He had a bad cough. Sounded like TB or maybe lung cancer.
I feigned sleep. I made a mental list of people who hated me. It was a long list of guys I’d busted, thwarted, fired, or exposed.
Tommy’s face kept coming to me, and then I was awakened out of a murky dream. The lights were all on. One of my cell mates was grunting on the can. But what had awakened me was the voice booming over the public-address system, naming which people would be bused to what court.
Irwin said, “This is what they do at four a.m. Like it? Court isn’t until nine.”
My name wasn’t mentioned.
They hadn’t called my name.
I closed my eyes, and sometime later a guard hit a buzzer and the door to my cell slid open. The guard said, “Jack Morgan? You need to get dressed for court.”
CHAPTER 59
Caine had enough clout to get me bumped to the front of the line, and I was transported from the jail to the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center on West Temple. I was brought into the holding cell outside the courtroom, chained to three other guys, one of whom was about eighteen years old and pale with fright.
There was air-conditioning.
It was a miracle. I thanked God.
I sat for hours as my fellow prisoners left and came back. And then I was separated from my cellies.
Caine came to meet me, put both arms around me, and held me in a hard hug. He whispered, “Remember who you are. Look alive.”
I smelled bad, like the unwashed men in my cell. I was wearing yesterday’s clothes and had numerous cuts and bruises and a day-old beard.
I said to my lawyer, “Okay. I think I can fake that.”
I followed Caine into the courtroom. It was paneled, civilized, but it still reminded me of old prints of Ellis Island, where refugees were processed after three weeks in the hold of a ship, not knowing what would become of them.
The judge was the Honorable Skinner Coffin. I’d never met him, but I knew who he was. He was in his fifties, reputed to be touchy and opinionated. Justine had once said that he excelled at “creative interpretation of the law.”
I didn’t know if that was good for me or bad.
While Judge Coffin was in conversation with his bailiff, I scanned the gallery. There was a low rumble of people whispering, shifting in their seats. Babies cried. I heard my name. I turned to see Robbie Pace, the new mayor, coming toward me.
I remember thinking how clean he looked in his blue suit, his face shining from a recent shave. He leaned close and said into my ear, “I wrote to the judge. Put in a good word. I think you’re going to be okay.”
“Thanks, Robbie.”
“No problem.”
Doors opened at the front of the courtroom, and Fescoe entered, came up the aisle. He stopped to speak to Mayor Pace, looking at me over Pace’s shoulder while they chatted. Robbie’s head bobbed in agreement, then Fescoe nodded at me and went to the back of the gallery.
The doors opened again, and Justine came through them, a stunning picture of grace, fresh as a new rose, her smile weighted with sadness. She came up to me. Stopped short of hugging me. Contact was expressly forbidden.
“We’re all with you, Jack. Everyone at Private. We’re reaching out to street contacts, sifting through everything we’ve found, and we will keep at it until we’ve got something useful. Are you all right?”
“It’s good to see you.”
“I wish I could say the same. I know how bad it is in there.”
I thought, You can’t really know-and you should thank God for that.
I said, “So you don’t have anything?”
“Not yet. Tommy has an alibi.”
“So I heard.”
“His wife. He was home with her that evening.”
I sighed.
“We’re still digging,” said Justine.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“I know.”
Why had I slept with Colleen?
Why hadn’t I resisted that impulse?
Justine wished me luck, and then the bailiff called out a number. Caine said, “That’s us. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 60
The assistant district attorney was Eddie Savino, still in his twenties, dark, handsome, and on his way up-at least he gave that impression.
Savino said, “Your Honor, Mr. Morgan murdered Colleen Molloy, one of his girlfriends. He shot her three times in the chest. We recovered his DNA from inside the victim, to put it delicately.”
The ADA smirked, shot a glance at the gallery, didn’t get a reaction, and went on.
“And the special circumstance in the charge is that Ms. Molloy was six weeks pregnant.”
“Go on,” said the judge. “And can the flourishes, Eddie. There’s no jury. Just me.”
“Yes, Judge,” said the ADA. He smiled charmingly. “The murder weapon was a. 45-caliber handgun registered to Mr. Morgan, concealed in some bushes about fifteen feet from his front door. The bullets from that gun are a positive match to the bullets extracted from the victim’s body.”
Judge Coffin looked at me squarely for the first time, as Savino kept talking and ticking off items on his fingers.
“Jack Morgan is rich, he’s armed, and he’s dangerous. He’s also a pilot. He not only flies planes, Your Honor, he owns one. If that doesn’t define ‘flight risk,’ I don’t know what does.
“The people request that Mr. Morgan be remanded over to the Twin Towers Correctional Facility while he awaits trial.”
Everything Savino had said about me was true-except for shooting Colleen and being a flight risk. My mood was changing. I had gone through terror and self-pity and was now working on getting very mad.
Judge Coffin said, “Mr. Caine. Talk to me.”
Caine said, “Nice speech on the part of Mr. Savino, Your Honor, but my client is not a flight risk. He wants to defend himself against these heinous false accusations because he’s not guilty of anything. The cops rushed to judgment, and Mr. Morgan is bearing the brunt of their laziness.”
Coffin said, “Just the facts, please, Mr. Caine. I’ve got another hundred people waiting to be heard today.”
“Sorry, Your Honor. Facts are, Mr. Morgan is a war hero. He’s a pilot like the bald eagle is a bird. He was a captain in the Marine Corps. He flew transport helicopters in Afghanistan and was awarded the Silver Star. Mr. Morgan is a personal friend of the chief of police and the mayor, both of whom vouch for him.
“And there’s more, Your Honor. Mr. Morgan employs over three hundred people. Whatever a pillar of the community is, Jack Morgan fits the definition.”
“Bottom line it for me, please, Mr. Caine.”
“Bottom line, Your Honor, Mr. Morgan came home from a business trip and found his former girlfriend dead in his bed. It was a setup. He called the police.