Double Jeopardy (2 page)

He took a deep breath, then released it slowly. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client has committed acts that probably horrify you, just as they horrify me. But this court has no jurisdiction over him. I ask you to put aside your personal feelings and remember that this is a court of law, not a court of vengeance. The only question before you today is whether my client is guilty of murdering a federal informant. And the answer is no.”

Travis returned to the defendant’s table and sat without so much as glancing at his client. Ms. Cavanaugh rose and began her rebuttal argument, but Travis could tell the jury was not listening. They were looking at him, and his client, and considering the question he had put before them.

C
AVANAUGH DRAINED HER PAPER
cup of coffee. “I don’t mean to get personal, Byrne. I don’t know you that well. But I have to ask you one question. How do you sleep at night?”

Travis Byrne carefully considered his response.

“You’ve read the Constitution, Cavanaugh. At least, I hope you have. Every man is entitled to a defense.”

The two attorneys were in Judge Charles E. Hagedorn’s private chambers in the Dallas County Courthouse, awaiting his return.

“I’m not complaining because you gave your client a defense,” Cavanaugh replied. “I’m complaining because you exonerated the filthiest piece of trash I’ve ever seen!”

“The jury is still out.”

“I saw the look in their eyes during your closing. They were mesmerized. Who wouldn’t be? You put on a great show. What’s more, you gave them the perfect excuse not to convict. They’re going to use it.”

Here we go again, Travis thought. He poured himself some more coffee. “So you’re saying it’s okay for me to defend the man, just so I don’t do it very well.”

“I’m saying I wish your ethics got as much exercise as your silver tongue.”

Travis sighed. He’d confronted this argument a million times before and he didn’t feel like rehashing it. Especially not with Cavanaugh. She was a formidable opponent—tall, slender, with jet-black hair restrained in a tight chignon. She could probably be attractive, he mused, if she’d loosen up a bit and act like a human being. “Everybody’s got to make a living.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to make it by putting child molesters back on the street. Look, Byrne, I understand the issues. I haven’t always been a prosecutor. I was a PI for five years—a skip tracer, basically. I hated it. I didn’t enjoy rubbing shoulders with the oiliest creeps this side of hell. So I quit. I went to law school and joined the good guys. You could do the same thing.”

“I’ve been with the good guys,” Travis said. “It didn’t work out.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you’re an ex-cop. The fact that you wore a badge for seven years doesn’t mean your life has been any tougher than anyone else’s.”

Travis’s face became stone cold. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Cavanaugh.”

“I think I do.”

“You don’t know the least thing about me.”

“When have I had the chance?”

Travis’s head jerked up. “Is that what this is about? Are you yanking my chain because you want to go out with me?”

She brought her hand to her face and stifled a laugh. “My God. Mother
was
right. Men are all alike.” She lowered her hand, revealing a broad grin. “I’m not after your body, Byrne. Promise.”

Judge Hagedorn poked his head through the door. “Mind if I step into my own chambers? I don’t want to intrude.”

“Please, Judge,” Travis said. “This ethereal banter is making my head hurt. Soon I’ll be hearing voices.”

“Let me know if one of them sounds like Jiminy Cricket,” Hagedorn said. “We’ve all assumed you’d get a conscience someday.”

“Don’t you start in on me now. The jury is still out, for God’s sake.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hagedorn replied. He removed his black robe, revealing a casual Western shirt and rattler-skin cowboy boots. When he wasn’t on the bench, Hagedorn was a rancher with an expansive spread out in Braddock County. Travis had learned some time ago that he could make more points with Hagedorn talking about cattle than cases. “They’re going to acquit.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been on the bench for thirty-two years,” Hagedorn said, settling himself into a chair beneath a pair of wall-mounted longhorns. “That’s how I know.”

“Look,” Travis said, “it’s not my fault Cavanaugh decided to grab some glory by dragging this case into federal court. It should have been tried in state court and we all know it.”

“I doubt if Ms. Cavanaugh had much say in that decision,” Hagedorn said. “Brad Blaisdell is the U.S. Attorney and he calls the shots for his cadre of assistants. He’s been known to purloin a headline or two. Particularly when a seat is about to open up on the federal bench.”

“Amen,” Cavanaugh said, “And no comment.”

Travis resumed his self-defense. “I had an ethical duty to defend my client to the best of my ability.”

“You did that, by God,” Hagedorn said. “Nothing personal against our learned assistant U.S. attorney, but you whipped her butt. No offense, ma’am.”

“None taken.”

I’ll just bet, Travis thought.

“You’re out of law school what—barely a year, Travis?” Hagedorn said. He stretched out in a chair and put his boots up on his desk. “Already you’ve got the instincts of a first-rate trial attorney. Better than most lawyers who’ve practiced for decades. I just wonder about some of the … choices you’ve made. Most ex-cops who go to law school end up working for the DA or some other law enforcement agency.”

“I’m not most ex-cops,” Travis muttered.

“No, you’re not. And I can’t find fault in your working for Dan Holyfield either. He’s a damn fine man. Honest, respectable. I’d just like to see you exercise a little more discretion in selecting your clients.”

“Someone’s got to represent the scum of the earth.”

“Someone’s got to pick up the garbage, too, and there’ll always be someone willing and able. It doesn’t have to be you.”

“Thanks, Judge, but I like what I’m doing.”

“Fine.” Hagedorn shuffled several tall stacks of files on his cluttered desk. “I’m glad to hear you express those noble sentiments, Travis. Because I’ve got a job for you. Criminal indigent—needs a court-appointed attorney. Normally, I’d feel guilty assigning a case like this, but since you feel so strongly about the rights of the scum of the earth …”

Travis didn’t care much for the sound of that. “What’s the charge?”

“Forcible rape,” Hagedorn said, opening a file folder.

Damn. Another sex crime. Travis hated sex crimes.

“Aggravated assault,” Hagedorn added. “Several other related charges.”

“What happened?”

“A pretty little SMU coed was leaving an off-campus pub. Before she reached her car, she was surrounded by six men—three white, three black. They took her keys, threw her into the trunk of her car, and drove her to a secluded area near White Rock Lake. They took turns at her. In fact, some of them took several extremely brutal turns. And then they tied her to the back of the car and dragged her for about a mile.”

Travis closed his eyes. “Did she live?”

“After a fashion. I’ve heard the phrase
hamburger meat
used at the pretrial hearings.”

“And I would represent one of the alleged assailants?”

Hagedorn nodded. “The only one the police have been able to find.”

“And how did Brad Blaisdell get this one into federal court?”

“Turns out the parking lot from which she was abducted actually belonged to a nearby VA hospital. She was on federal property.”

“That’s pretty lame. Surely you’re going to dismiss.”

Hagedorn spread his arms expansively. “I’ll entertain any motion you care to make. But no, I’m not going to dismiss.”

Travis maintained his poker face. He couldn’t fold now. “All right, I accept. Assuming, of course, that the client has no objection.” He saw Cavanaugh’s eyes widen in amazement. “Where’s the file?”

“It’s on Millie’s desk.”

“I’ll send someone to pick it up tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Hagedorn said. “The trial
begins
tomorrow morning.”

“
What?
” Travis’s brow protruded from his forehead. “How can that be?”

“This case was originally assigned to Tom Seacrest. You know, the young associate at Rainey and Wright. But he disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“You heard me. Didn’t show up for the pretrial this afternoon. Firm says he hasn’t been seen since the day before yesterday.”

“Are they looking for him?”

“Of course. But the trial still starts tomorrow morning and his client still needs a lawyer.”

“What about someone else at Seacrest’s firm?”

“No one else there does criminal work. No, Travis, I offered you the case and you accepted.”

“Then I respectfully move for a continuance.”

“Denied. I’ve already granted two continuances to Seacrest. Time to get this show on the road.”

“But I can’t be ready by tomorrow morning!”

“Why not? The prosecution will take at least three days to present its case. All you have to do is sit around and object periodically. In the meantime, you can prepare your defense.”

“Who knows,” Cavanaugh interjected, “maybe you can dream up some technicality to get this toad off the hook, too.”

Travis ignored her. “I want my request for a continuance and your denial on the record, Judge.”

“Suit yourself. We’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

“If you two will excuse me, I’ll collect that file from Millie and get to work.”

Travis left chambers and entered the reception area, careful not to let his expression change. His stomach was doing flip-flops, but he couldn’t let it show. Millie, Judge Hagedorn’s secretary, wasn’t in sight, so Travis rummaged around on her desk until he found the file, then tossed it into his briefcase.

My God, he thought. I just hope she isn’t a redhead.

H
AROLD SATROM LOVED TWO
things in life: sunsets and fishing. Every chance he got, he’d close the Dallas bait-and-tackle shop he managed, grab his ten-year-old son, Jimmy, and drive to Lake Palestine before the sun faded. They would watch the fiery red light filter across the horizon, find a comfortable spot on the bank, then cast their lines and see what the Corps of Engineers had stocked the lake with this year.

But everything seemed different tonight. Different and wrong. The sky was overcast; ominous clouds were gathering. Worse, the fish didn’t seem to be biting, at least not where they were. Harold could see the occasional bass or trout, but he couldn’t catch them. They seemed disturbed, skittish. Probably teenagers had been out here last night, drinking beer, causing a commotion, stirring everything up. Damn kids.

Harold left Jimmy with the gear and strolled along the shore, hoping he could find a better location. He’d been walking about half a mile when he came upon a large gray blob that he knew with instant horror was a man. The remains of a man.

He approached slowly, although he realized this desiccated corpse could do him no harm. It appeared to have washed ashore after floating in the lake for some time.

Harold rolled the corpse onto its back—and immediately wished he hadn’t. The face was a puffy gray green, swollen and scarred; it had been horribly burned. Thin, translucent skin barely covered the skull. Harold couldn’t have identified the man if he’d been his best friend.

Then Harold noticed his legs. The man had been burned from the groin down—horribly so. To make matters worse, his body was riddled with deep, blackened stab wounds. It was grotesque.

Harold wasn’t a coroner, but he got the distinct impression that this man had died hard, slowly and painfully, at someone else’s hands.

He reached into the corpse’s pocket and found a leather wallet. Amazing that it hadn’t fallen out in the lake. There were twelve twenty-dollar bills inside. Well, hell, they weren’t going to do this stiff any good. But they would buy a mountain bike, and that would give Jimmy a lot of pleasure. And give Harold a lot of peace.

Harold thumbed through the rest of the wallet. A few pictures, a driver’s license, and membership cards for various organizations. Several credit cards, but Harold wasn’t stupid enough to try to use those. Nothing else of value.

He rolled the corpse back onto its face. A sudden chill swept through his body. He ran into the lake, consumed by the desire to cleanse himself. He ran his hands over his body, scrubbing every inch of exposed skin.

Finally he stepped out of the lake, feeling much better. He started to walk on, then thought of Jimmy, back behind him. Alone.

Harold headed back the way he had come, walking, then jogging, then flat out running, the whole time wondering who the hell Thomas J. Seacrest was and how he got himself into so much trouble.

T
RAVIS SPREAD THE MOROCONI
file out on his desk. It was all he could do to suppress his growing nausea. He opened the Maalox he kept in his briefcase and drank straight from the bottle. His stomach had been churning all day long.

Most of the trial attorneys he knew suffered from ulcers; some doctors called it
lawyer’s elbow.
The tremendous pressure of trial practice was unrelenting. Anyone who handled more than a few trials a year eventually started to feel the cracks in their professional facade.

And this new case was only making matters worse. Travis gazed out his office window at the Dallas skyline. He saw the NCNB Plaza, Dallas’s tallest building, trimmed in green argon light. Through the other window, Reunion Tower, with its illuminated geodesic dome, beckoned to him. It was almost enough to make him forget. Almost—but not quite.

He carefully read the case summary in the pretrial order and scrutinized the snapshots the police photographer had so thoughtfully provided. There were several details Judge Hagedorn had neglected to mention. Hideous details. How the rapists broke the woman’s rib cage with blows from a tire iron. How they urinated on her and in her mouth. How, when they finished raping her the usual way, they went at her instrumentally, with the tire iron and a Coke bottle. How they abandoned the woman, all but dead, bleeding in a dozen places, naked, facedown in the mud, by the side of the road. How she was in the hospital for weeks, and was forced to undergo a double radical mastectomy as a result of her beating.