Lou Mason Mystery 03-Cold Truth (32 page)

"Call the next case," the judge instructed his bailiff.

"The State of Missouri versus Jordan Hackett," the bailiff replied.

"I understand that we are here for the entry of a plea. Is that correct, Mr. Ortiz?" Judge Tanner asked.

Ortiz rose, unbuttoning his suit jacket. "Yes, Your Honor. The defendant has advised us that she will plead guilty to two charges of second-degree murder in the deaths of Gina Davenport and Trent Hackett. In return, the State recommends that she be sentenced to concurrent terms of fifteen years to life imprisonment with no parole until the completion of the minimum term of fifteen years, at which time she would be released."

"Is that a correct statement of the agreement, Mr. Mason?" the judge asked.

Rising, Mason answered, "It is, Your Honor."

"Very well," the Judge continued. "The defendant will come before the court."

Mason loved the courtroom. It was the grandest stage, hosting the greatest drama, a venue where life stood still, holding its breath, waiting for a judge or jury to raise their thumbs up or down. It was a vault, guarding justice, dispensing disappointment to losers and miracles to winners. At moments like this, the audience disappeared for Mason. The prosecutor, the bailiff, the court reporter all faded as he and his client stood before the court alone in the last silent instant before unthinkable fate became real.

"Miss Hackett," Judge Tanner began. "Do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?"

"Yes," Jordan said, her eyes on the floor, her voice a subdued murmur.

"You understand that you have been charged with two counts of murder in the first degree and that, if convicted, you could be sentenced to life in prison or death by lethal injection?"

"Yes," she answered, an involuntary tremor rippling through her.

"You understand that you have the right to a trial by a jury of your peers, that you have the right to confront and cross-examine the witnesses against you?"

"Yes."

"You understand that the State has the burden to prove its case against you beyond a reasonable doubt?"

"I do."

"You understand that by asking me to accept your plea of guilty to the lesser charge of second-degree murder, you give up all those rights and that you will serve fifteen years in the state penitentiary before you can be released?"

"Yes," Jordan said, forcing her answer.

"Knowing all these rights, and knowing the evidence the State has against you and after conferring with your attorney, is it your desire that I accept your guilty plea?"

Jordan turned to Mason, eyes wet, mouth trembling. He nodded to her.

"Yes," Jordan said. "I do."

"And is that because you are, in fact, guilty of these crimes?" Judge Tanner asked.

The judge's question hit Jordan like a slap, jerking her head up as she stiffened, her face red, stung by the demand for a confession.

"Miss Hackett, are you in fact guilty of these crimes?" Judge Tanner repeated.

Mason held his breath, choking on his doubts of Jordan, who squared her back and answered, her voice filling the corners of the courtroom, echoing the rage Mason thought had expired.

"No, Your Honor. I am not."

Judge Tanner gaveled his courtroom into submission, stifling the outbursts caused by Jordan's departure from the script. Behind him, Mason heard Carol Hackett cry, "My God," Arthur shushing her, the judge exempting them from his demand for order. Jordan held steady, waiting for the judge's next question.

"Miss Hackett, perhaps you misunderstood my question," Judge Hackett began.

"I understood it, Judge."

"Miss Hackett, before coming into this courtroom today, you signed a plea agreement with the prosecutor, did you not?"

"Yes," she said.

"I have a copy of that agreement before me, Miss Hackett. In it, you state your intention to plead guilty to these charges. I cannot accept this agreement unless you tell me that you are guilty. Do you understand that?"

"I do," she said, tightening her grip on Mason's hand.

"I must warn you, Miss Hackett. If you return to this courtroom at a future date asking me to approve a plea bargain, it is unlikely that I will do so."

Patrick Ortiz interrupted. "Don't worry, Your Honor. There won't be another plea bargain in these cases. We're going to trial and we're asking for the death penalty."

Judge Tanner stared down from the bench grim-faced. "Mr. Mason, do you wish to confer with your client before this hearing is concluded?"

"No, sir. My client says she's innocent and that's good enough for me. We'll be ready for trial."

Abby wormed her way through the crowd, reaching Mason and Jordan at the same moment as Arthur and Carol Hackett. The courtroom deputy kept others away, his hand on Jordan's shoulder, a firm reminder that she was still the property of the State. Carol held to the fringes, Arthur easing inside the deputy's grasp, wrapping his arms around his daughter, their heads bowed together.

Mason couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could feel it. Abby leaned into Mason, letting her tears seep into his sleeve, then pulling herself up, straightening her clothes and her face, leaving Mason in the courtroom with his client and her parents. When at last the deputy insisted, Jordan's hand slid down her father's arm, lingered at the wrist, brushed across his fingers, tracing the lifeline across his palm, their connection interrupted but not broken.

Arthur let go, following his wife to the hallway, stopping at the door, looking back at Mason, who watched from the center of the courtroom, the last to leave. "Please, Mr. Mason," he said. Mason nodded his promise in reply.

"I feel so stupid," Abby said to Mason. "I've made a complete and utter fool of myself, thinking Jordan could be my daughter. Especially when I saw her with her parents in court this morning."

Abby's PR firm, Fresh Air, was on the second floor of a building a block from her loft. Mason brought lunch from a deli at the corner of 21st and Baltimore, remnants of panini and Thai chicken salad littering a small round table in the corner of Abby's office, overlooking the street. Her staff busied themselves, shuttling in faxes she didn't read and phone messages she didn't return, pretending not to notice the tear-stained mascara streaks at the corners of Abby's eyes. The suite was decorated to soothe with creamy burnished wood, indirect light, and comforting music. The walls were hung with colorful photographs of people, places, and things in motion, sending the subliminal message that Abby and her people made things happen.

"Only because you look like Gene Simmons after a bad KISS concert," Mason said.

"That good, huh?" Abby answered, scrubbing her face with another tissue. "Even if Jordan is my daughter, I can't jump into the middle of her life now. The Hacketts are the only parents she's ever known. In spite of everything that's happened, Jordan wanted them to be in court this morning. That's her family. I should just butt out."

"Jordan needs friends too," Mason said. "You've connected with her. Don't let go of that."

"I know," Abby said, "but I need something else. I need to know what happened to my daughter, even if I can't be a part of her life. I need that closure."

"Closure is overrated," Mason said. "You trade one pain for another. If you found her, you'd want to meet her, be with her, make up for all those years, and she might not be interested. If you couldn't find her, you'd have a wound that never healed."

"I just want to know that she's all right, that she has a life," Abby said, gazing at the street as if her daughter would step out a door or turn a corner and wave to her.

"What if she wasn't all right?" Mason asked too carefully for his question to be academic. "What then?"

Abby looked at him, catching his meaning and her breath. "Lou, if you know something, tell me."

Mason pushed back from the table, not wanting to tell Abby what he suspected but didn't know for certain, unable to keep it from her any longer. "After we got back from St. Louis, I reread Gina Davenport's autopsy report. She had a congenital abnormality that prevented her from ever getting pregnant."

Abby wrinkled her brow. "What's that go to do with me?" she asked, then gasped with understanding, racing to the conclusion. "Emily! That's why Gina never signed the Baby Book at the hospital and why my medical records are missing. Is that what you're telling me? That Gina Davenport took my baby!"

Mason shoved bread crumbs into a mound, smashing them with his thumb. "I don't know for certain. That's why I didn't tell you. We know that Terry Nix worked at the hospital. We know that he could have met your uncle in the alcohol treatment program, and we know that Nix dealt in black-market babies. Emily's birth certificate identifies Gina and Robert as her natural parents. They couldn't adopt legally because Robert was a drug addict. The birth certificate had to have been forged. The date of birth is a week before your baby was born, but changing the date was one more step to make it look legit. It all fits, but I can't prove it."

"Oh, my God!" Abby said, coming out of her chair, the full impact of Mason's explanation hitting her. "Emily is dead." Mason took her in his arms, Abby shuddering, dissolving, repeating again and again, "Emily is dead." Mason held her until she pulled away, walking around her office, arms crossed, finding her center of gravity.

Mason explained, "Gina must have told her lawyer, David Evans, about you. Evans let it slip to his girlfriend, Paula Sutton, who worked at KWIN and was jealous enough of Gina to hook you and Gina up. She used Jordan's cell phone to cover her tracks. All she wanted to do was cause Gina some grief. Instead, I think she put this whole thing into motion."

"Jealousy and hate," Abby said. "That's what killed Gina and Trent. What are you going to do?" Abby asked, her mouth set in a thin, fierce line.

"Terry Nix is in the middle of all of this. He was there at the beginning and at the end. He's got ties to Gina, Robert, and you. I'm going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with him."

"You think Nix killed Gina and Trent?"

"No, especially if you're right about jealousy and hate. It's not his style. He's a let's-make-love-not-war relic, but I bet he knows a lot more than he's told me so far."

"Why would he tell you anything now?" Abby asked.

"Self-preservation. That's how guys like him survive. They use guys like Centurion for muscle. Take away the muscle, and they'll give it up. Blues and Samantha have Centurion under wraps. Nix may be ready to talk."

"I've got some questions of my own," Abby said, her jaw tightening.

"Don't even think about it," Mason said. "Write them down. I'll add them to my list."

"I'll call you," she said, returning to the window, palms against the glass, eyes on the street.

Mason wiped his dry-erase board clean, starting over with what he knew, and what made too much sense not to be true. From that, he made a list of questions, guessing at the answers. When he was done, he had a story.

Terry Nix supplied drugs to Robert Davenport when they lived in St. Louis, getting one hook into the Davenports. Nix sold Abby's baby to the Davenports, adding another hook. Years later, Nix landed at Sanctuary, using those hooks to persuade Gina Davenport to refer patients there, adding credibility to the operation, while plugging Robert Davenport into Centurion's drug supply. Gina must have feared disclosure of the truth about Emily and Robert enough to go along, even to the point of letting Emily live at Sanctuary. She lost control of her daughter, her husband, and her life. Emily's death made her more vulnerable, not less, to Nix, one more secret to be kept, the price paid by contributions from Emily's Fund.

Paula Sutton's gambit made real the rule of unintended consequences. Gina must have panicked, Mason theorized, believing that her past was going to catch up to her, and gone to Nix, perhaps to warn him, perhaps to ask his help. Mason doubted Nix killed Gina. It was more likely that Nix would slip away under cover of darkness, content to set up shop somewhere else. Centurion would have had a different solution, equally pragmatic but deadly. He had too much invested in Sanctuary to walk away. Car-jacking Mason to find out what he'd done with the baby ledger was proof enough of that.

Though he was satisfied with his analysis, Mason still couldn't make Trent part of Nix's equation. It was time to talk with Terry Nix. First, he called Blues.

"Are you and Centurion still playing Me and My Shadow?" Mason asked him.

"Gave it up. Samantha's got the cops covering him so close, every time he farts, they gotta roll down a window."

Mason said, "Centurion must know he's being watched."

"They ain't keeping it a secret," Blues replied.

"Where was Centurion when you last saw him?"

"Holed up in a big house in Sunset Hills, belongs to one of Sanctuary's sponsors. He doesn't want to give the cops any reason to go sniffing around Sanctuary."

"Perfect. I'm going to have a chat with Terry Nix."

"You need any help putting that dog in a mellow mood, you let me know."

Mason pulled into the center drive at Sanctuary just after seven o'clock. The grounds were deserted, the main house dark, except for a light over the porch, the only other illumination from October's first moon. A lone girl was climbing into a Jeep as he got out of his car.

"Where is everybody?" Mason asked.

"Sent home," she said. "I'm the last."

"What happened?"

"Something about insurance coverage. That's all I know."

"How about Terry Nix? Is he still here?"

"Yeah," the girl said. "He was packing until some woman showed up. Last I saw, they were headed downstairs."

Mason's cell phone rang as the girl drove away.

"Lou, it's Samantha. Where are you?"