War at Home: A Smokey Dalton Novel (57 page)

Our walk to the van was longer than I remembered, but the van was intact when we found it.

The interior was hot, but I didn’t care.
All of our possessions were there.

“Lemme drive,” Malcolm said as he loaded the suitcases in the back.

“Not yet,” I said.

Both boys looked at me.

“I want to stay one more night,” I said.

“Smoke,” Jimmy said.
“You promised.”

“We have to get out of here, Bill,” Malcolm said.

I swallowed.
I had thought about this all day.
“I want to go to Daniel’s arraignment.
I want to make sure they don’t let him out on bail.
There’s still dynamite missing, and he’s angry.”

“You can’t go to the cops,” Jimmy said.

“I’m going to the courthouse,” I said. “It’s okay.
The cops know that I found the dynamite, and they know I was at the bomb site.
They have been looking for the bomber. They’re not interested in me.
After the arraignment, I’ll come back here and we can go home.”

“I’m going with you,” Malcolm said.

I shook my head.
“You and Jimmy are spending the morning in the airport, eating some breakfast and reading a newspaper.
That way I can have you paged if I need to.
Otherwise, we’ll meet back at the van about noon.”

“You don’t need to be there,” Malcolm said.

“I do.
It’s also something I need to do for Grace.”

“Mrs. Kirkland,” Malcolm said and leaned his head against the van’s back door.
“What’re you going to tell her?”

“If Daniel hasn’t called her, I’m not going to say a word,” I said. “If he has, I’ll tell her the truth.”

“She won’t believe you,” Jimmy said.

I looked at him.
I certainly wouldn’t have believed any story like that about him.

“I know,” I said.
“And she’ll probably be angry at me for not doing more.
But I have to remember — we all have to remember — that Daniel made these choices.
We had nothing to do with who he is.”

“It’s going to break her heart,” Malcolm said.

“That’s why I’m taking this one last trip,” I said.
“I want to make sure I do what I can for her.”

“You hate him, don’t you?” Jimmy asked.

“Who? Daniel?” I said.

Jimmy nodded.

I thought about that for a moment.
“Hate’s not the right word,” I said.
“He’s scary.
He’s scary because he’s so smart.”

“You’re afraid he’ll find a way out of this,” Malcolm said.

“Yeah,” I said, “and I want to be there to prevent it.”

FIFTY-SEVEN

That night it was too hot to sleep in the van.
We had to drive several miles away from the airport
before
we found a deserted patch of grass where we could sleep outside.
We used the sleeping bags as ground cover and slept until dawn.

I didn’t wake refreshed, but at least I wasn’t as exhausted as I had been.
I still didn’t have a lot of energy to spend. It would take a great deal of effort to go into the city, but I didn’t see any other choice.

We had breakfast at a nearby restaurant, used its bathroom to brush our teeth and wash our faces, and then I dropped the van and the boys back at the airport.
I promised them I’d return by noon.
If I was delayed, I would page Malcolm and let him know.

Then I took the bus back to Manhattan.

The United States Courthouse was in the center of a series of government office buildings anchored by City Hall.
Just off the wide
-
open Foley Square, the courthouse was one of the stranger buildings in the city.

The courthouse had a thirty-two
-
story
roofed in
gold leaf that looked like someone had just glued it to the top of a typical turn-of-the-century
granite government building.
The result made it look like the tower was part of a building behind the courthouse, even though it wasn’t.

As brave as I had sounded to Jimmy the night before, I felt nervous entering this large building.
There might be FBI at the arraignment, and they would be looking at people who had showed up to watch the War at Home Brigade plead.
I could only hope that they would assume I was Daniel’s father or a simple bystander who had wandered in off the street.

I couldn’t imagine they would think I was Smokey Dalton from Memphis.

The worst thing I could do, however, was look nervous.
I arrived early enough to find the courtroom, and just late enough so that I wouldn’t seem anxious.

I slipped in ten minutes before the proceedings started and found a packed courtroom.
The room itself was large, with murals on the walls and the thick brown wood that marked it as a 1930s construction.
Obviously, lots of WPA help went into this building.
But the room itself was faded and musty with overuse, and the air smelled faintly of an added air-conditioning unit not properly installed.

A group of elderly people lined the back wall. I had learned early in my detecting days that if you wanted to find out anything about the inner workings of a courtroom, talk to the retired folk who spent their days watching trials.

Up front, reporters sat in a designated area. Many of them already had notebooks out and were scrawling details to be used later in articles that would cover this case.

The jury box was empty, except for some purses and a briefcase tossed casually on some chairs.
A lot of reporters used the jury box for extra space when there weren’t any jury trials.
Most judges discouraged the practice, however, and frowned on any reporter who dirtied up the courtrooms.

Professor Whickam and his wife sat in the first row behind the tables.
They were the only black couple.
The rest of the War at Home Brigade’s family members — equally well dressed, just as obviously from money — were white.

I planned to slip in behind Professor Whickam so that I looked like family as well. But I waited a minute, preferring to view the others from the back so they couldn’t see me watching them.

The remaining people in the courtroom were either hobbyists, like the elderly, or people who had other relatives in other cases
on the docket
up after the War at Home Brigade. I saw no young people, nor did I see anyone who looked familiar.

A middle-aged white man turned slightly and looked at me, obviously having felt my gaze on his back.
He had a beak nose, short hair, and wide
,
intelligent eyes.
He nodded to me.
I nodded back.

Then he turned around again.

I didn’t recognize him, but his action made me nervous.
Did I know him?
Was he someone from my past?

I couldn’t very well leave now, not so soon.
I would simply play this by ear.

A few other people looked, probably because he had.
I felt conspicuous, so I went and sat down.

I touched Whickam on the back.
He jumped slightly as he turned.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” I said softly.

He sighed.
“I did not expect this.”

“I know,” I said.

“We hired an excellent attorney.
Rhondelle would not take him unless he represented Daniel
,
too.
So he is taken care of.” Whickam sounded annoyed.

“Thank you for that,” I lied.
I hoped the attorney wasn’t as wonderful as Whickam thought he was.

“I don’t think it will do a lot of good.
They have got a lot of evidence, and they are getting more.”
He ran his hand through his hair, revealing drops of sweat against his scalp.
“That girl died, you know.”

“June?” I asked.

He nodded. He didn’t sound sad that June
D’Amato
had died.
I wondered how Daniel was taking it. Was that why Rhondelle wanted him to have a good attorney as well? Because her competition was out of the way?

Or was she afraid that Daniel would lie, blame everyone else, and get himself off the hook, leaving the rest of them to hold the bag?
Was she doing her best to control him?

The prosecuting attorney arrived next, along with an assistant, which surprised me.
Several police officers entered, most sitting near the elderly in the back.

Then the defendants came in. There were twelve, and most had their own attorneys.
Rhondelle and Daniel entered last, a well-dressed white man following them, his suit so expensive that it shone.

Daniel’s hair had been cut and he wore a suit that didn’t fit well.
Rhondelle was in the dress she had been photographed in for the
New Haven Register
long ago, back when she’d been a pretty and innocent high school student who had just received a scholarship.
She looked a lot like that student now — or would have, if it weren’t for the bruise still coloring her face.

“All rise!” the clerk shouted.

And we did.

The judge, an overweight middle-aged white man, balding and impatient, hustled into his chair.
He had a stack of files with him, and he scattered them across his desk as he sat down.

He motioned for all of us to sit, then with a minimum of fanfare, began the proceedings.

The clerk called the cases, starting with the War at Home Brigade. The nice thing about places like New York, places that were used to public trials, was that everyone knew
to get the high-profile cases out of the way quickly so that they could get back to the business of the court.

The War at Home Brigade
defendants appeared
in the order they had arrived in. The prosecutor read the charges, the individual kids pleaded — not guilty, all of them — and the prosecutor asked for remand in each case.

The defense lawyers protested.
None of the kids had a record, and most were excellent students.

“The prosecutor only has
a
supposition, your honor,” said Daniel’s lawyer, “that these young people were even involved.”

“Enough supposition to get some warrants and make arrests,” the judge said.

“Certainly not enough to put these exemplary young people in jail while awaiting trial,” Daniel’s lawyer said.

“Your honor,” the prosecutor said, “we haven’t found all of the bombing materials.
These aren’t kids.
Daniel Kirkland nearly kicked a man to death in New Haven, and then beat up a security guard here while stealing dynamite.
If we let them go now, they might try to bomb the jail or the courthouse or the police station.
No one is safe while they’re on the street.”

“One hundred thousand dollars bail each,” the judge said, and brought his gavel down.
“Next case.”

Rhondelle looked at her father.
He nodded wearily. My stomach twisted.
Judging by the row house and his attitudes, Whickam had enough money to cover both Rhondelle and Daniel.

I didn’t want Daniel on the street. I didn’t want Rhondelle free either.

I had to stop this somehow.

Half the courtroom stood, and started to leave.
Whickam made his way to the defense table.
I followed, wanting to overhear his promises.

Daniel saw me, and his eyes widened slightly.

The bailiffs were gathering the defendants, trying to move them back into the system until their bonds could be assured.
The attorney leaned toward Daniel, and asked him a question.

He seemed to be ignoring me.

Someone bumped me.
I turned to see the man who had nodded at me.

His expression was grim and determined. He shoved his way through the families gathered around the defend
a
nts.
The bailiffs didn’t notice him; they were trying to break up the bail conversation, trying to get their young charges out of the courtroom.

The man had reached the railing that separated the gallery from the defense table.
Then he raised his arm.

He was holding a gun.

He was staring at Daniel.

Daniel, who might go free that very afternoon on one hundred thousand dollars bond.

I hurried forward, trying to reach the man, but people kept shoving at me, trying to hold me back.

No one seemed to notice that man except me.