VC04 - Jury Double (23 page)

It wasn’t much and it wasn’t nearly enough. The only remotely corroborated details seemed to be the hairstyle and the brown eyes. As for the name, there was no such person listed with any phone company in a fifty-mile radius. There was a Catch Talbot listed in Seattle, but it was a business phone and a recorded voice said to call back Monday between nine and five.

Cardozo pushed up from his chair and stepped into the squad room. Twelve of the sixteen desks were deserted. The mayor’s austerity budget had decreed Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays low-crime days. Detective Greg Monteleone sat staring at a triplicate form in the carriage of his typewriter.

“Greg, you got a minute?”

“Obviously not now, I don’t.”

“Would you run a check on charge-card activities over the past week, anyone you can find by the name of Catch Talbot? We’re especially interested in any charges in the New York City area.”

“Does Mickey Williams ever wear a ring in his left ear?”

Cardozo was sitting with Tess diAngeli in her office, a partitioned space on the eighth story of the state court building. A weekend nocturnal quiet flowed through the floor.

“I’ve never seen him wearing one,” she said.

“But the man who picked up Toby had a shaved head. You said Mickey does too.”

“Unfortunately, quite a few men shave their heads nowadays.”

“What color are Mickey’s eyes?”

“Brown.”

“The ma in the car had brown eyes.”

Tess shrugged. “Did any of your witnesses recognize him?”

“One said there’s a good resemblance to Britta’s photo of Mickey Williams.”

A shadow glided across the frosted glass door. Tess waited for a pair of lonely feet to scurry past in the corridor. “You’re yanking my chain, Vince. You don’t have a single witness who can say the man in that car was Mickey.”

Cardozo nodded. “That’s right. In fact, Mademoiselle de Gramont says he was Toby’s father.”

Tess diAngeli’s head snapped around. “Then what the hell are you bothering me for?”

“Doesn’t it seem peculiar—a father sits in a car taking photos of his kid? And drives away when a cop challenges him?”

“So? There are peculiar fathers. Vince, why are you dumping all this on me?”

“Because that man is the last person who saw Britta alive. I need to find him, and Kyra Talbot can help me.”

“Forget it, Vince. The government has invested over four years and forty-nine
million
dollars in this case. They’re going to keep her sequestered.”

“If Kyra Talbot’s sequestered, how did she manage to write these?” He handed Tess the notes, cased in protective Mylar.

She skimmed them, then flung them down. “Give me a break. Obviously she wrote them ahead of time and post-dated them.”

TWENTY-TWO

8:20
P.M.

I
N THE HOTEL COFFEE
shop, Anne watched Shoshana transfer keys, coins, and cosmetics from her purse to the Formica tabletop.

“It hides from me; I swear it hides.” Shoshana finally found a little brown bottle, opened it, and tapped it against the palm of her hand. A solitary pill rolled out. She closed one eye and peered down the bottle. “Do you believe it? This is my last.”

“What is it?”

“Prozac, what else? From here on, I’m flying without a parachute.” Shoshana tossed the pill into her mouth and belted it back with a slug of iced tea.

Anne tried to smile, but the smile felt forced and false. “I think I’ll skip dessert. I have a headache. Would you excuse me?” She pushed up from the table.

“See ya.” Shoshana waved and began shoveling debris back into her purse.

Anne told the uniformed jury guard by the door that she was going up to her room.

Anne fitted the card-key into the lock of room 1818. The door swung open onto darkness. She flicked the light on, went into the bathroom, and took an Advil with tap water. She began running a bath.

There was a shrill warbling sound in the other room. Her heart gave a jump. She stopped the water. The sound came again.

The telephone
, she realized. But weren’t outside calls supposed to be blocked?

Maybe it was an electric surge on the line. Or maybe calls from inside the hotel weren’t blocked.

She crossed the bedroom and lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

There was a clicking sound like a bicycle chain ripping loose. And then a man’s voice: “Kyra Talbot?”

It was a voice like none she had ever heard before—it seemed alien, fraudulent, as though he—or she—was pushing it down to alter the sound.

“Yes, this is she.”

“Don’t repeat what I’m about to say to anyone. If you ever want to see your son alive again, vote Corey Lyle not guilty.”

The threat caught her like a rock to the skull. There was a click followed by a dentist’s drill of a dial tone. It took her a stunned moment to remember that she still had two hands. She broke the connection and punched zero.

After three maddeningly leisurely rings, a woman answered. “World Wide Inn.”

“This is Kyra Talbot—one of the sequestered jurors. I’ve got to speak to Judge Bernheim right away.”

“Hang up the phone and you’ll be contacted.”

“You don’t understand. It’s an emergency.
It can’t wait
.”

“I understand, ma’am. You’ll be contacted.”

It was three minutes of racing thoughts and ice in the pit of her stomach before the phone finally rang. She snatched it up. “Hello?”

“Ms. Talbot?” A man. Young sounding. “This is Josh Hormel, Judge Bernheim’s assistant.”

“I’ve got to speak to the judge immediately.”

“Could you give me some idea what the problem is?”

The warning echoed in her head.
Don’t repeat this to anyone.
“I can’t. It’s … personal.”

“I’m afraid the judge won’t be available till Monday. I’ll tell her you wish to speak to her.”

Anne grabbed her purse and made sure the door was locked behind her. She jabbed the elevator button and almost collided with Shoshana stepping off.

“Hey.” Shoshana arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “Thought you had a headache. Where are you running?”

“I’ll be right back.” Anne jabbed the button for the ground floor and held her finger on
emergency call
all the way down.
Please, God
, she prayed,
let it be a mistake. Let it be a horrible, sick prank. Let Toby be safe.

With its gold-leaf walls, the lobby had the costume-jeweled iridescence of an overlit nightclub. She dashed through milling patrons to the front desk. “Excuse me.”

The sandy-haired, very young desk clerk gave her a startled look. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Someone just phoned my room. I need to know who he was and how the call got put through.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. Calls to the rooms are put through automatically.”

“But I’m a juror—I’m sequestered. My phone’s supposed to be cut off.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about sequesterment.”

“Who does?”

The clerk placed a short, low-voiced phone call. Thirty seconds later a tall man in a business suit came striding across the lobby and introduced himself as the manager.

Anne explained that she was sequestered and she wanted to check on a call that had come to room 1818.

The manager’s eyes were dubious. “Chris, let me have that outside line.” He tapped in a seven-digit number and held the receiver so Anne could hear.

“I’m sorry,” a recorded female voice was saying. “The number you have dialed cannot be accessed at this time.”

“Anyone who calls your room,” the manager said, “gets that message. Your number’s blocked.”

“
Somebody
called, and they weren’t blocked.” She turned on her heel and raced through startled patrons toward the street door.

“Ma’am!” the manager shouted behind her. “Madam!”

Anne pushed through revolving glass doors. The September night caught her like a warm washrag slapped in her face. A taxi braked in a bath of sparks and a man stepped out. She grabbed the cab door from him and slid into the backseat.

“Could you take me to Six Barrow Street? That’s just off Fourth Street, west of Sixth Avenue.”

The cab eased into a traffic jam. Through the open window horns blared and brakes squealed. A police siren yodeled and a blue-and-white cruiser pulled into the street ahead of them, lights flashing. The cab swerved and braked.

The driver, a slender black man in a
Terminator
T-shirt, turned his head. “Hey, lady …” He had a Jamaican accent. “What did you do? Rob a bank?”

Two officers were running toward the cab, revolvers drawn. “Kyra Talbot?”

“Mrs. Talbot …” Judge Bernheim was wearing diamond earrings and a black evening dress. The air in her chambers was dry and cold, like flowing particles of iced silicon, and she hadn’t taken off her brocade bolero. “Would you care to explain why you told the guard you were going to your room and then left the hotel?”

Anne had to push words through disaster scenarios exploding in her head. “That wasn’t the way it happened.”

“Then how
did
it happen?” The judge’s tone was withering.

“After dinner I went up to my room. I was running a bath. I received a threatening phone call. A man or woman—I couldn’t tell—said if I ever wanted to see my son alive again, I had to vote Corey Lyle not guilty.”

The judge stared in drop-jawed shock. “Stop right there. How did you get a telephone into your room?”

“I didn’t. The call came on the hotel phone.”

“That phone is blocked—there’s no way a call could have gotten through.”

“Your Honor, there is a way, and a little boy could be in danger.”

Gina Bernheim shot her a long, evaluating glance. “What time did this call come?”

“A little after eight-thirty.”

“Why didn’t you contact me immediately?”

“I tried to.”

The judge sighed. “Was anyone else in the room with you?”

“I was alone.”

Judge Bernheim lifted the telephone receiver and pushed two buttons. “Harvey, run a check on any incoming phone calls to Mrs. Talbot’s room this evening.” She replaced the receiver and consulted the scrawl on a yellow legal pad. “You left the-hotel at twelve minutes after nine and got into a taxi. You asked the driver to take you to Six Barrow Street. Why?”

“That’s my home. I wanted to make sure my son was safe.”

“Are you totally ignorant of the law, or do you just think it doesn’t apply to you?”

“I’m not completely ignorant. My father’s a lawyer. You may know him. Leon Brandsetter?”

Judge Bernheim stiffened. “You’re his
daughter
?”

“One of them.”

“You were asked in voir dire if there were any lawyers in your family. Why in God’s name didn’t you say yes? You’d have been excused and we wouldn’t be going through all this.”

Don’t tell me
—
Kyra missed a chance to get off the jury?
“I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

“Evidently. What’s your phone number?”

“My phone—?” For one whirlpooling moment Anne couldn’t remember Kyra’s number. And then it popped into her memory.

The judge dialed and grimaced. “Busy.” She dialed zero, identified herself, and asked the operator to interrupt.

“I see.” She lowered the receiver and glanced up. “That line’s out of order.”

Anne’s mind ricocheted between terrifying possibilities. “I left Toby with my sister. They could be at her place.” She managed to remember her own number.

The judge dialed. Anne sat forward on the chair, straining to overhear.

After a moment the judge cleared her throat. “Yes. This is Judge Gina Bernheim.” She had the voice of someone who loathed speaking to answering machines. “I’m calling for …” She covered the receiver. “What’s your sister’s name?”

“Kyra—” Anne bit her tongue.

“Your
sister
, Mrs. Talbot.”

“Anne Bingham.”

“I’m calling for Anne Bingham. This is an emergency. Would you please get in touch with me as soon as possible?” The judge left her number.

There was a knock on the door. A young man in blue jeans and a Brooks Brothers shirt handed the judge a printout. She scanned rapidly. Her gaze swung around to Anne. “According to the record, there’ve been no calls to your room since you were sequestered.”

“The record is mistaken, Your Honor.”

Judge Bernheim glanced at her assistant.

“There’s a call block on sequestered jurors’ rooms,” he explained. “Caller I.D. automatically registers any incoming attempts. If anyone had placed a call to your room, it wouldn’t have gotten through, but there’d be a record of their number and the time they tried.”

Anne gritted her teeth. “I understand how the system’s supposed to work—but it didn’t work tonight.”

The judge’s eyes iced over. “When you monkey with justice, Mrs. Talbot, you’re monkeying with the DNA of civilization. You’re also monkeying with me. I have one word of free legal advice:
don’t
. We’d better have a talk with that lawyer of yours. What’s his number?”

Twenty minutes later, Mark Wells burst into the room wearing squash shorts and a windbreaker. “I apologize for my clothes, Your Honor.” He was out of breath; sweat had plastered locks of brown hair to his forehead.

“Sorry to interrupt your game,” Judge Bernheim said. “Have a seat, Mr. Wells.”

Mark sat in the chair beside Anne and flashed her a smile.

In a rapid monotone, Judge Bernheim summarized the situation. She handed Mark the telephone printout. “As you can see, there’s no record of any phone call.”

“Yes, I see.” He darted Anne a pained look.

“Once a jury is impaneled,” Judge Bernheim said, “any attempt to get off fraudulently is a felony.”

“Your Honor, I doubt my client was fully aware of the legal implications of her action.”

“
My
action?” Anne cried. “Their recording system goofed! There
was
a phone call!”

“Kyra … please.” Mark’s hands made placating gestures. “Let me handle this?”

“Why don’t you take Mrs. Talbot into the next room,” Judge Bernheim suggested. “Talk with her.”