“All right.”
I gave her Ralph’s number, ended the call, and turned off the phone. After everyone had taken their seats, Judge Craddock faced the jurors and cleared his throat. “This incident involving Mr. Sikora bears no relevance to the trial at hand. We are conducting a trial concerning the defendant, Richard Devin Basque, not this man who just tried to shoot him. If this event is allowed to disrupt the judicial process, our justice system would be too fragile, too easily manipulated to be efficacious.”
He took a deep breath. “And so, considering all of these factors, I am not calling for a mistrial. You will be sequestered until Monday. No news media. No outside contact. During the weekend we will provide independent, court-appointed psychologists to conduct, at no charge, confidential counseling sessions with any jury members who wish to discuss their feelings regarding the shooting. We will resume proceedings Monday at nine o’clock sharp when Dr. Bowers returns to the stand.”
I could hardly believe his words, and by the looks of the jury members’ faces, neither could they. I wasn’t sure what would be normal in a situation like this, but resuming the trial on Monday “I will not let this grievous event train-wreck the judicial process. Not in my courtroom.” He let his eyes click from one jury member to the next. “This trial will move forward. We will proceed and we will reach a verdict, and justice will be served.”
Even though I was surprised by his decision, the more I thought about it, the more I found myself understanding the logic of it. The actions of Grant Sikora weren’t at issue here, and shouldn’t be allowed to affect the trial’s outcome. And the longer we waited, the more likely the jurors would be to remember the shooting and forget details from the trial.
I expected Ms. Eldridge-Gorman to object to the judge’s decision, which she did, quite vociferously. She would certainly appeal if Basque were convicted, and the state would do the same if he were acquitted. What a mess.
“Objection denied,” Judge Craddock squawked. “Dismissed!” He slammed his gavel down, rose, and had his robe half off by the time he entered his chambers.
Just like me, the jury must have thought he was going to call a mistrial, because they sat in shocked silence, most of them staring blankly at the door to the judge’s chambers, which was now slowly swinging shut.
I took a moment to think.
I really wanted to take a look at the crime scene where Taylor had been killed. It wasn’t even five o’clock yet, so I could probably catch an earlier flight and still make it home tonight, then return to Chicago Sunday evening.
A quick call to the airline told me there was a flight that would arrive in Denver just after ten tonight, and I still had ninety minutes before the departure time, so, even with Friday rush hour, I figured I could make it.
I confirmed a seat assignment and was ending my call when Ms. Eldridge-Gorman crossed the room toward me. She came close and spoke quietly, only for me to hear. “I know what you did in that slaughterhouse, Dr. Bowers. On Monday morning I will move that you be held in contempt of court for refusing to answer the question today.”
She might have been baiting me to see if I’d say something she could use against me when I returned to the stand next week. I didn’t respond.
“If you tell the truth, the jury will discount your testimony and empathize with my client.” A sense of dark satisfaction threaded through every one of her words. “And if you lie you’ll perjure yourself. Either way, Richard will be set free, Dr. Bowers, and you’ll be the one to thank.”
Everything had suddenly become even more complicated. “Have a good weekend, Ms. Eldridge-Gorman,” I told her.
“I will.” She snatched up her briefcase and gave me a half smile.
“And I will look forward to seeing you on Monday.”
She strode away, and I noticed that Ralph had been watching us. He walked to me, and after she was out of earshot he asked, “What was all that about?”
“A misunderstanding.” I’d never told him what had happened in the slaughterhouse, and now was not the time to get into all that.
His gravelly voice became even lower than usual. “Something you need to tell me, buddy?”
I considered my options, his friendship, the case, my future… and decided to let things stand for now. “No. It’s nothing.” I gestured toward the door. “You heading out?”
“I gotta give a statement to the press. Being the senior agent on site… You know.”
“Gotcha.”
He mumbled a few choice words concerning how excited he was about talking to the reporters. When he paused for a breath, I said, “I booked an earlier flight. I need to get to the airport.”
“I’ll give you a shout tomorrow.”
I nodded, he lumbered away, and after I’d picked up my knife and SIG, I headed toward the back door so I could avoid the media drones swarming around the courthouse entrance. On the way, I called Cheyenne and told her I could make the 7:00 a.m. meeting tomorrow morning. “I’ll swing by your place at about 6:30,” I said.
“How about I drive? That is, unless you have power issues with a woman being in the driver’s seat?”
I had the sense that she wasn’t just talking about carpooling but decided not to go there. “All right. You can pick me up.” Only after I’d said the words did I realize that they contained at least as many meanings as hers had.
“Sounds good to me,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I’ll see you at 6:30.”
She’d never been to my house before, so I told her my address before we ended the call. Then I speed-dialed Calvin to let him know I was taking a cab to the airport and that he could just hang on to my suitcase until Monday. While I waited for him to answer, I exited the courthouse’s back door.
And found him standing on the steps, sheltered from the drizzle by a broad gutter high above him, scouring his pockets, looking for his ringing phone. “Oh, there you are, my boy, I’ve been waiting for you.” He found the phone, looked at the screen, then at me. “Shall we speak in person or on our mobiles?”
I stared at him. “How did you know I was coming this way?”
“I know how much you like to appear on the news. Come along. I’ll give you a ride to the airport.” He repositioned his coat and stepped into the rain.
But I hesitated. “I just changed my flight less than five minutes ago. How did you…?”
“My dear boy, I can’t give away all my secrets.” He pulled out his car keys. “Come along, there’s something I would like to ask you on the way.”
16
For nearly twenty minutes Calvin wove through traffic without speaking. Maybe he was trying to give me an opportunity to deal with Sikora’s death. Hard to know.
The rain was easing up, but the clouds hung heavy and gray above us. I knew the sun wouldn’t be setting for a few hours, but already the day seemed to be withering into night.
We hopped onto the Kennedy.
More time passed.
A car swerved in front of us, and the driver flashed Calvin a rather elaborate finger gesture I’d only seen a few times before, on the streets of New York City. For a moment it reminded me of my years in the City, and of Christie, the woman I’d met there, fallen in love with there, married and then buried there.
Death.
Surrounding me.
Touching my life no matter where I turned.
And now this week, more of it: the two victims on Wednesday, the day before I joined the case… Heather Fain and Chris Arlington yesterday… Sebastian Taylor and the unidentified woman, and now Grant Sikora…
So much death in my past, in my present. I’d chosen this career, this life for myself, but sometimes “I heard some of the reporters chatting,” Calvin said softly, interrupting my thoughts, “while you were giving your statement to the police. The media is already calling you a hero, my boy. They want to pin a medal on you.”