By Blood Written (44 page)

“General Collier,” Forsythe said, “do you have any sugges-tion as to how to deal with this most unusual circumstance?”

Collier jumped to attention. “Your Honor, has the jury communicated to you that they’ve reached a verdict?”

“They have.”

Collier turned to the defense table, stared at Talmadge for a moment, then turned back to the bench. “Well, then, Your Honor, the state moves that the jury be brought into the courtroom to deliver its verdict!”

A murmur arose throughout the room. “Objection, Your Honor,” Talmadge shouted. “The defendant is not here. You can’t deliver a verdict without the defendant.”

“Objection overruled,” Forsythe snapped. “If the defendant’s not here, it’s his own damn fault, and if it’s not his own damn fault, I intend to find out whose fault it is. Bailiff, bring in the jury.”

Seconds later, the jury filed in, looking lost and weary.

Immediately, they spotted the defense table. The looks on their faces became even more questioning.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have an unusual circumstance here,” Forsythe said. “We seem to have lost our defendant.

However, this does not mean that the verdict cannot be delivered
in absentia
. So, Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”

The foreman, a thin man with gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, stood. Before he could open his mouth, Talmadge was on his feet again.

“Your Honor, move for a mistrial, as the defendant’s absence is highly prejudicial.”

“The jury has already reached a verdict, Mr. Talmadge, before the defendant went missing. So how could it be prejudicial?”

“Move for a mistrial, Your Honor,” Talmadge answered weakly.

“Motion denied. Answer the question, Mr. Foreman.”

The thin man looked frightened as his glance jumped around the courtroom. “Yes, Your Honor. We have.”

“Would you hand your verdict to the clerk, please?”

The man held out his hand as the clerk approached and took the forms from him. She walked over, reached above her, and handed the papers to Forsythe. He scanned them quickly, his face expressionless, then handed them back to the clerk.

“Since the defendant is unable to stand and face the jury, his representatives will. Gentlemen, on your feet.”

Talmadge and his two underlings stood.

“Clerk, read the verdicts.”

“On count one of the indictment, a violation of TCA 39-13-202, first-degree murder of Allison May Matthews, we find the defendant guilty as charged …”

A muffled buzz filled the courtroom. Forsythe slammed his gavel down twice as the clerk continued.

Guilty as charged. Guilty as charged. Guilty as
charged …

How many times, Taylor wondered, would she say that? A roar grew in her ears. She looked to her right and saw all the people around her staring at her. She looked up and watched as Forsythe banged his gavel over and over, almost in slow motion, his voice a roar now, too.

She felt herself swaying back and forth, as if the room were swirling around her.

Forsythe turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, as I explained at the beginning of this trial, this is a two-part process. Ordinarily, we would begin the sentencing phase of this trial now. But that’s not possible. The constitution requires that a defendant be present to speak to the jury about any mitigating factors in his favor, and as we can plainly see, that is not possible. There are constitutional grounds for delivering a verdict
in absentia
, but that’s as far as we can go right now. Therefore, I have no choice but to thank you for your long and difficult service to the court and to dismiss you at this time.”

The jurors looked at each other, almost in shock, as if to ask, “Can we really go now?”

Forsythe slammed his gavel down again. “General Collier, I will issue an immediate warrant for the arrest of the defendant on any charges you draw up. Just do it quickly.

And I assume the police are already in the loop on this, correct?”

“We’re on it, Your Honor. As we speak …”

“Fabulous.” Forsythe turned to the defense table. “And I’m going to hold you, Mr. Talmadge, in contempt of court.

You’re going to be spending the next forty-eight hours as my guest. Bailiff, take him into custody.”

Wes Talmadge, in his eight-hundred-dollar Armani suit, looked up at the judge in shock. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His hands were shaking and he held them out, palms forward, as if to ward off the court officer walking up to him. Then his hands fell to his side in defeat.

“Court’s dismissed,” Forsythe announced, banging his gavel as he stood up. “All rise,” the court officer shouted, his right hand holding Wes Talmadge’s arm.

Taylor stood up, her mind blank, her vision blurring. People around her were jumping, scrambling to get out of the courtroom, yanking out their cell phones, shouting at each other. A half-dozen people jostled her, almost knocking her over as she stood there gazing out at the courtroom pandemonium.

He’s gone
, she thought.
He really did it.

Then she looked down at her own hands, held out in front of her, shaking slightly.

What do I do now?
she wondered.

Then there was a hand on her elbow. She turned. A young, attractive Hispanic woman, dark-skinned, coal-black straight hair, stood next to her.

“Ms. Robinson?” she asked.

Taylor nodded blankly. “Yes?”

“Ms. Robinson, I’m Detective Maria Chavez of the Metro Nashville Police Department. You’ll have to come along with me now.”

“I will?” Taylor asked. “Why?”

“Because,” the young woman answered. “We have a few questions for you. I’m taking you into custody as a material witness.”

Monday evening, Nashville

The room was cold, the fluorescent light above her harsh.

An immense framed mirror dominated the opposite wall, but Taylor assumed it was a one-way mirror and that they were watching her from the other side.

Just like TV
, she thought.
Now I know what it feels
like …

The room smelled stale, with the faint scent of body odor and cigarettes lingering in the air. She sat in a metal chair that was bolted to the floor. She’d been there almost half an hour and no one had entered the room. She hadn’t been allowed to call anyone or talk to anyone.

Suddenly the metal door burst open, and a man in a gray suit walked in with a clipboard in his hand, followed by the young Hispanic woman and Agent Powell. She recognized the detective from the trial, but couldn’t remember his name.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Robinson,” the detective said. “As you can imagine, this is a somewhat delicate situation for us.”

Taylor watched as the detective slid into the chair across from her and slapped the clipboard down on the table. “Now, we’ve got a few questions for you, as I’m sure—”

Taylor cleared her throat loudly, then said: “And you are?”

The detective stopped. “What?”

“Your name?” Taylor demanded. “Who are you?”

The detective glared at her for a moment, then she could see him stuffing the anger away. “I’m Detective Gilley, ma’am. I’m the lead investigator in this case.”

“I see. Then tell me, Detective Gilley, am I under arrest?”

“No, ma’am, you’re not under arrest. Not yet anyway.”

“Not yet,” Taylor said. “Hmm, that means I might be before this is over. In that case, I want a lawyer.”

“Ms. Robinson, you’re only being questioned as a material witness. At this point, you’re not entitled to a lawyer.”

Taylor glared back at him. “
Everyone
is entitled to a lawyer.”

The woman, Detective Chavez, spoke up. “Ms. Robinson, we’re really just asking for your cooperation. Do you have any idea where Michael is? Right now, he’s an escaped fugitive who’s been convicted of a capital offense, and that’s a very dangerous place for him to be. Anything could happen right now, most of it bad.”

“Yeah,” Gilley said, “believe it or not, it’s in your boyfriend’s best interest to come in and let us take care of him.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Taylor said.

“According to our information, the two of you are engaged.”

“Your information is out-of-date, Detective Gilley,” Taylor said. “We used to be engaged. We’re not anymore. In fact, we were through.”

Gilley and Chavez looked at each other for a moment.

“When did this happen?” Chavez asked.

“At the moment during the trial when I became convinced he was guilty,” Taylor said. “At the point where I knew he’d done it.”

“But why did you stay?” Chavez asked. “You stayed for the rest of the trial, stayed in the same hotel …”

“But not in the same room,” Taylor snapped. “Never in the same room.”

“But why didn’t you leave?” Gilley asked.

Taylor looked up at Hank Powell as he stood next to the closed door across the room. Their eyes met for a few seconds as Gilley and Chavez looked around, confused.

“Because I asked her not to,” Powell said.

“What?” Gilley said. “Hank, you could’ve given us a heads-up on this, buddy.”

Powell stepped over to the table and looked down at Taylor, never taking his eyes off her. “She came to me about three weeks ago, after the DNA testimony convinced her Schiftmann was guilty. She was upset, distraught really. She was going to leave immediately. I asked her not to. I was afraid that would be enough to push him over the edge, to make him run.”

“Which he just did, goddamn it,” Gilley said, exasperated.

“Thank you, Agent Powell,” Taylor said softly.

Chavez turned back to her. “So you had no idea he was going to escape?”

“None, Detective. Part of what I agreed to do for Agent Powell was let you all know if I thought he was going to run.”

“And he never gave you any hint?” Gilley asked.

“Never.”

Chavez shook her head. “And you have no idea where he could be? What his plans are? Where he’s going?”

“No to all of those,” Taylor said. “He never even hinted to me that this was an option. If he had, I’d have called Agent Powell immediately.”

Powell sat on the edge of the table, his hip resting on the edge, and leaned over toward Taylor. “Where do you think he’ll go?”

Taylor rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know,” she said, sighing. “He may have some friends left in Cleveland, although with all this publicity, how anyone would actually help him is beyond me. And—oh my God—he’s still got the keys to my co-op.”

Taylor looked up, fear etched across her face. Powell held up a hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll have a team of officers watching your apartment and your office within the hour.”

“And I’m having all the locks changed as soon as I get home.”

Chavez smiled. “Yeah, good idea. But let me ask you, you think he might have been planning this all along? Or did he just get a sudden impulse?”

Taylor leaned back and studied the three officers for a moment. She took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then let it out slowly.

“Michael’s a lot of things,” Taylor said. “He’s sick, maybe he’s evil. I don’t know. But he’s not stupid. If I were placing bets, I’d say he had a plan in place weeks ago. He’s put everything he needs, including a lot of cash, in some safe place where he can get to it quick. And I’ll bet he already knows where he’s going, and I’ll bet he’s already on his way.”

“What kinds of resources has he got?” Chavez asked.

“How much money does he really have?”

Taylor bent her head and once again wearily rubbed her forehead. “Well, Detective Chavez, thanks to me, a lot.”

A cold, depressing sleet had been falling long enough to freeze on the sidewalks as Taylor and Agent Powell walked out the front doors of the Metro Nashville Criminal Justice Center. Taylor pulled her coat around her tightly. The wind had picked up, driving the icy mix into her face. Strangely, though, it felt good to her after the overheated stuffiness of the interview room where she’d been the past three hours.

As they walked down the steps, Taylor realized she felt strangely hungry, and took this as welcome evidence she was still alive.

“C’mon,” Powell said. “I’ll take you to your hotel.”

“I can take a cab,” Taylor said.

“This is Nashville, not Manhattan. You can’t just hold up a finger here and flag one down, especially on a lousy night like this. Besides, what if he’s still around? What if he’s hiding in the hotel, waiting for you?”

Taylor raised her face to the streetlights and let the frigid drizzle rake across her face. “Then he’d be a damn fool,”

she said.

“All the same, I’ve got a car. Let’s go.”

He took her elbow and guided her toward the street, then into the parking garage across from the police department.

Two rows down, a government-issued Ford Crown Victoria sat waiting. Powell held the door for her as she slid into the front seat.

“You’re at the Stouffer, right?” he asked.

Taylor turned to him. “Yes, but to tell you the truth, Agent Powell, I’m getting hungry. And I could use a drink. Maybe another of those Stoly martinis we had that night.”

Powell turned to her and smiled. “So are you saying you’d like some company?”

“You did say, didn’t you, that he might still be out there?”

“All right,” Powell said. “On one condition.”

“Yes?”

“It’s been a long day and my shift is over,” he said. “It’s not Agent Powell. It’s Hank.”

Taylor turned to him as he started the car. She had absolutely no idea why she had asked him to spend time with her. Maybe it was that he seemed kind, and right now, she could use some kindness. Maybe it was that she didn’t feel like being alone.

Maybe she was afraid.

“All right, Hank,” she said. “Call me Taylor. Glad to meet you.”

Thirty minutes later, the waitress set two vodka martinis—olives for him, pearl onions for her—on the table in front of them. They’d found a quiet table, beyond a row of potted palms, in a corner of the hotel restaurant that was out of view of the main lobby. They’d taken their coats off; he’d loosened his tie. It had been the longest day in a wearying series of the longest days she’d ever had.