“You’re blaming me for this?” Teddy said.
“You bet I am,” Stokes said. “Building this firm’s reputation has taken me a lifetime. Look what you’ve done in just three months. Barnett said we weren’t putting up a defense. There wouldn’t be any headlines. You’re obviously not doing what you were told.”
Teddy remained quiet, his anger rising. If he said what was on his mind, he knew the idiot would fire him on the spot.
“He wants to see you right away,” Stokes said. “I just got off the phone with him.”
Teddy sat down in his desk chair.
“Not later,” Stokes shouted. “Right away. He’s in room three-fourteen.”
Teddy grabbed his briefcase and left the room. As he passed Jill, she took a step back and cringed. Before turning the corner at the end of the hall, he glanced back at his office and saw Stokes still glaring at him from the door.
“Get out,” the man said, rocking on his heels.
He found Barnett’s room at Bryn Mawr Hospital. The shades were drawn, the man cloaked in darkness with a copy of the Daily News beside him and three needles in his arm. Barnett’s legs were still held in place by a maze of steel tubing, his face more white than pale. After a moment, Barnett sensed his presence and lowered his gaze from the ceiling. His eyes were hollow and sick. Teddy didn’t feel any anger emanating from Barnett, just devastation and terror. When he checked the medications hanging beside the bed, he realized the man was on morphine.
“Jesus, Teddy,” he whispered.
Teddy pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. Barnett took his hand and gave it a squeeze, not wanting to let go. Teddy didn’t feel uncomfortable holding Barnett’s hand. The gesture was an act of friendship, the kind of thing a father and son would do.
“Have you ever felt like shit?” Barnett asked, slurring his words.
“Yes.”
“Well this is worse than that.”
“The doctor says you’re doing good.”
“The doctor’s full of shit.”
Barnett smiled, releasing Teddy’s hand to adjust the hose feeding oxygen into his nostrils. As he moved, he groaned and tried to catch his breath.
“What the hell happened?” he asked after a moment.
“There’s been a leak,” Teddy said.
“A leak? When a dam breaks it’s not a leak. It’s the end. What do you think the chances are that Holmes will get a fair shake in court now?”
The answer was none. The jury pool had been poisoned. If it went to court, the Veggie Butcher was dead.
Teddy glanced at the morphine again, doubting Barnett was in any condition to handle an update on the case. He did it anyway, briefing him on what had happened since he was run over by the car. Barnett seemed particularly shaken by the fact that the district attorney had widened the scope of the investigation to include ten more missing women. Still, Teddy noted the glimmer of hope in the man’s eyes when he mentioned that Nash thought Holmes was innocent. The hope faded just as quickly, however, as Teddy brought up their theory that they were looking for an artist. When Teddy was finished, Barnett picked up his copy of the Daily News and rested it on his lap.
“This is exactly what I’d been hoping to avoid, Teddy.”
“Nash seems to think we’re making progress.”
Barnett sighed and shook his head. “You still don’t have any evidence,” he said. “You’re still counting on best guesses and a theory that sounds like it’s built on hope. Holmes is an artist, but maybe he’s not the artist you’re looking for. Rosemary Gibb is missing, and may or may not be a victim of the same man you don’t have any proof even exists.”
Barnett may have been mainlining morphine, but it hadn’t impaired his judgment after all.
“Let me ask you a question,” Barnett said. “Imagine we’re in trial and you’re not a member of the defense. Instead, you’re sitting with the jury on this one.”
Teddy nodded, ready to listen.
“The prosecution presents its case,” Barnett said. “A young woman is brutally murdered. A man is seen running from her house. The cops find the murder weapon in the man’s car. DNA links the man to the murder weapon, and the weapon to the victim. But the DNA also links the man to another murder that occurred some time ago, and there are ten more missing women who look just like the first two victims. Bloody clothes are found in the man’s trash. The man’s an oddball from the word go. Everyone in the jury can see it with their own eyes, including you. Even better, the oddball freely admits being at the crime scene but can’t remember what happened. The prosecution fills in the blanks with photographs of the victims, a shot of the accused with blood all over his face, fingerprints found on the corpse, and charts of the DNA results proving their match is a statistical lock. You with me so far?”
Teddy nodded hesitantly. He knew where Barnett was headed. He’d been down the same road himself.
“So now it’s the defense’s turn,” Barnett said. “Remember, you’re still a member of the jury. You don’t live in a vacuum, so you’re aware of the case before trial. The Veggie Butcher case. You remember reading about the murders because the Veggie Butcher is a cannibal and eats people. You saw the stories on TV, but you haven’t made up your mind yet because you’re either dead from the neck up or a damn good liar. The defense steps up to the plate. The defense says that the Veggie Butcher couldn’t have done it because he takes care of this little neighbor girl. The Veggie Butcher couldn’t have done it because serial killers aren’t known to run away from crime scenes. While the defense agrees that the man responsible for these gruesome murders is an artist, it couldn’t be the Veggie Butcher because he paints landscapes. The defense shows you a novel about the life of Michelangelo. They even read a passage from the book. And guess what-the defense has something more up their sleeve. There’s another victim out there. Lucky thirteen. Another girl who looks something like the others and disappeared after the Veggie Butcher’s arrest. This proves, of course, that the Veggie Butcher couldn’t be the real murderer. Although he’s odd looking, he isn’t really a cannibal. He may have been a butcher, but all that’s behind him now. The defense shows you a copy of this newspaper, points to the front page and raises a question. How could the Veggie Butcher be the one when he doesn’t even eat meat?”
It was a performance Teddy knew he would never forget. A summation of the facts and arguments so complete and concise, nothing had been left out. Barnett sank back into the bed and groaned. It had cost him considerable physical effort, but he’d made his point and lived up to his reputation as a master at the end game during trial. They’d spent a lot of time on the big ride to nowhere.
“Send me a copy of the profile,” Barnett whispered after he caught his breath. “Have someone drive it out tonight when you’re through.”
When Teddy tried to speak, Barnett waved him off and closed his eyes saying he needed to get some rest. It looked as if his mental anguish was even greater than the pain emanating from his broken legs. Teddy slid the chair away from the bed and left the room.
THIRTY-EIGHT
He checked the time. When he punched Nash’s office number into his cell phone and reached his assistant, Gail Emerson, he told her that he had two stops to make but would be in as scheduled following lunch.
It would be a morning of putting out fires-suppressing his anger. If he couldn’t douse the flames and kill them, at least he would confront them.
Teddy forced the issue with the warden at Curran-Fromhold. Holmes had been quoted in the Daily News. Someone had gotten to him at the prison, and Teddy demanded an explanation and a look at his client’s cell. The warden protested. Teddy struck the visitor’s list with a closed fist. No one from the paper had made a trip out to the prison. No one other than Teddy had signed in. The warden finally agreed, calling the request unusual and escorting Teddy up to the quarantine pod in building B himself.