Blood Defense | страница 18



I stumbled out of bed the next morning, tired and groggy. I had a headache that felt like someone had pounded a spike through my forehead. It took three cups of coffee to get my brain clear. By the time I left for the office, it was nine thirty. I hate being late.

I ran downstairs, jumped into my car, and jammed the key into the ignition. Beulah slowly groaned to life. Dealing with her on days like this made me want to scream. I needed to fly-or at least make it from zero to sixty in less than five minutes. But that just wasn’t Beulah’s way. I was turning onto Beverly Glen Boulevard to head over the canyon when Michelle called. “You almost here?”

“Almost,” I lied.

“Just left home, huh?” Michelle knows me way too well. “Good. Because you need to get downtown. Your jury came back.”

It’d been three days since the jury had gone out on Harold Ringer’s case. It wasn’t the longest I’d ever had a jury stay out, but it was close. “Sure took their time.”

“Yeah. And I hope they hammered your guy. That scum-sucking pig. No offense.”

“None taken. My guess is you’ll get your wish.”

It’d taken hours of coaching to make Ringer come off halfway decent on the witness stand. “Okay, I’m heading to court.”

Happy at the prospect of not having to see him again after today, I dialed up a Steely Dan album on my phone and sang along to “Don’t Take Me Alive.” When I got to court, I saw that the victim, Aidan Mandy, was sitting in the audience with a victim-witness counselor from the DA’s office. He looked frail, vulnerable, his skinny frame hunched over with his hands clasped in his lap. It hurt to look at him. I signaled to Jimmy, the bailiff, to let me into the holding tank.

Ringer was pacing in his cell. His square face, normally ruddy, was pale, and I noticed a film of sweat on his forehead. As I approached the cell, I saw that his hands were shaking and he was swallowing hard, his breath coming in shallow gulps. Prison was going to be a rough ride for him, and he knew it. He moved up and gripped the bars. “What do you think?”

Now that I was closer, his body odor, sharp and rancid, made me turn my head. I shrugged. “You never know with a jury. But we did all we could-”

The bailiff poked his head in. “Wrap it up. Judge says we’re ready to roll.”

Five minutes later, Ringer was seated next to me at counsel table as the judge called for the jury. I watched their faces as they came out. The foreman glanced at me, then hurriedly looked away. A bad sign. I studied the judge’s expression as he checked the verdict forms, but he was stone-faced. He handed the folder to the clerk and said, “Will the defendant please rise?”