"What people?" Briggs asked.
"Well," Toy said slowly, "I left the hospital in the afternoon and went to a restaurant. I didn't have my purse and couldn't pay for my coffee, so they called a transit officer and he had another officer give me a ride back to the hospital."
"Back up a minute," he said. "The fire was in the morning, not in the afternoon."
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i know," Toy said, "but I wanted to cover the whole day. Just think about it. If I went to Kansas on a plane, I'd have to fly back, I wanted to show everyone that I didn't do it that way."
i see. And did the hospital discharge you?"
"Not really," Toy said. Then she drank the rest of the Coke and slammed it down on the table. "I was in cardiac arrest at the time of the Kansas fire. All you have to do is check with the hospital."
Both Briggs and Davidson snapped to attention. "You mean your heart stopped?" Davidson said.
"Yes," Toy said. "But they revived me. I have a medical condition that makes my heart stop every now and then. It's hard to explain."
"I bet." Davidson smirked. "Look, I don't know what you're trying to tell us, but you can't be in Kansas at this fire, admit it, and then tell us you have an alibi in Manhattan."
Toy looked up defiantly. "I just did."
"You just did what?" Briggs snapped.
"That's what I just told you."
The two men exchanged glances, as if to say they had seriously misjudged their suspect. She was leading them in a circle, wasting their time. She had to be off her rocker or an egomaniac, Briggs thought. She apparently not only believed she could do anything she wanted and get away with it, she thought she could hand them this silly story as well. "Have you ever been in a mental hospital?" he asked. If that didn't cut her down to size, he didn't know what would.
"Never," Toy said, cutting her eyes first to one man and then the other.
Davidson was getting annoyed and restless. "Let me tell you something, Mrs. Johnson—or Toy. Do you mind me calling you Toy?"
"Yes, I do."
Things were getting more hostile by the minute, Davidson thought. Whereas she had been frightened and disoriented earlier, the woman sitting in front of them was now fully alert and in control. She knew exactly what she was saying, exactly what she was doing.
"Let me tell you something, Toy," he said, putting emphasis on her name, "three schoolteachers died in that fire. The authorities have classified it as arson. They believe you set that fire, that you used that fire to force the children out of the building. Once you accomplished that, they contend, your intent was to kidnap one of those children."
Toy's hand flew to her chest. "Kidnap a child? Why would I do that? I would never hurt a child."
"Do you have children?" Briggs asked, knowing she didn't. Dr. Johnson had already informed them of that fact.
"No, I don't," Toy said, still reeling from the last statement.
"But you'd like to have a child, wouldn't you?"
"Of course," Toy said, "but you'd have to be insane to kidnap a child just because you couldn't have one."
"And you can't have one? You're incapable of having one? Isn't that right?"
Toy didn't answer. She considered these questions personal and inappropriate.
"Did you hear me?" Davidson said, getting right up in Toy's face.
"Yes, I heard you. There's no medical reason why I can't conceive. I'm not sterile."
"But you have gone to fertility doctors?"
"Yes," Toy said, wondering how they had acquired all this information. Surely, she told herself, Stephen wouldn't have told them anything, not if they were about to charge her with a crime. He was too smart. Toy thought they were bluffing, just making wild guesses that happened to be correct.
"I see," Briggs said. "Your husband says you've been having some pretty strange delusions. Is that correct?"
Toy's eyes fell to her hands. So, Stephen had told them everything. She should have known. She'd never felt so small, so despised in her life. There was no use to lie. Eventually it would all come out. "Yes," she said, without looking up, feeling a stab of bitterness. "I mean, I don't consider them delusions, but my husband does."
"Mrs. Johnson, there's another serious problem we'd like to discuss with you. Yesterday a little girl was kidnapped from a playground and left in a drainage ditch. Did you see this girl? Were you involved in this crime as well as the crime in Kansas? Was this another child you tried to steal?"
Toy leaned forward excitedly. "Is she okay? Is Lucy okay?"
Briggs arched his eyebrows. "So, you do know about this child?"
Toy suddenly stiffened. Her husband might be a fool and play into their hands, but she knew better. These were serious allegations. "I'd rather you don't question me anymore without my attorney."
The men stood. The interview was over.
Toy was booked at the Women's House of Detention at nine o'clock Monday morning. She had not slept the night before and was so exhausted that she was certain she was going to collapse.
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The night before she had remained in the interview room, just sitting there as the minutes clicked off on the wall clock. Once the agents had finished interviewing her, around four o'clock in the morning, they left and did not return. At one point Toy had rushed the one-way glass, knowing they were in there, knowing they were watching her, but no one had come to take her out. Finally she had resigned herself. It was some type of police tactic, she decided. They wanted her to sit in there alone until she went crazy and confessed. But she couldn't confess to something she hadn't done.
At the pretrial detention facility, Toy was searched, ordered to undergo a delousing shower, given a stack of clothes and a bath towel, and marched down a corridor of cells in front of a female deputy. The bars rattled and women stood up close, checking out the new inmate. One of them let out a wolf whistle, and Toy turned around.
The deputy seized her arm and pulled her along at a faster pace. "There's some pretty tough bulls in here, Johnson. Better watch your back and stay to yourself. These women could make mincemeat of a tasty little toy like you." She laughed, liking the pun on Toy's name. The poor woman was going to have it tough, no doubt about it.
Toy looked up at the older woman. She was tall, at least five ten, and looked like she could handle anything that came her way. Her short-sleeve uniform shirt showed wiry arms laced with muscles as developed as most men, and the skin on her face was leathery and worn. Sandy Hawkings had been working in jails for over fifteen years. She was beginning to look like one of the prisoners.
"Here's your house," she said, stopping and speaking into her portable radio. "Open sixty-three west," she said. A few seconds later, the metal door opened automatically.
Toy walked in. There was a woman on the bunk reading a paperback book. Toy was about to say something to her when she heard the metal doors clanking shut with a distinctive ring of finality. Dropping her clothes and towel on the floor, Toy went to the bars and peered out, lacing her fingers through them and holding on for dear life. If she stood like this, she thought, her claustrophobia and panic raging, she could see down the hall, see open spaces.
'Pick up your stuff," a loud voice said. "They're gonna do a cell inspection in fifteen minutes. You'll get reported."
Toy couldn't move. She couldn't force herself to turn around and see the back wall of the cell only a few feet away, to face the fact that she was confined in this tiny, tight space, locked in here with a com-
plete stranger. Her face was small. She tried to press it through the bars, managing to get her chin and nose through but not far enough to see all the way to the end of the hall. If she could just see out, Toy thought, she could make it. All she had to see was the door leading out. Then she could keep that image in her mind, just stand here until someone came to get her out.
"Get away from the bars," her cell mate said, standing right next to Toy now. She yanked on Toy's shirt and Toy mov
ed back a few inches. "If Hawkings or one of the other correctional officers comes around, they'll knock your nose off with their nightstick."
"Oh," Toy said, her eyes down, her stomach in knots. Slowly she raised her eyes and looked at the woman. She wasn't much older than Toy. Her shoulder-length dark hair was beautifully styled, her nails painted, and she was wearing carefully applied makeup, as if she were about to go out on the town. Although she was ten or fifteen pounds overweight, the woman was quite attractive. She looked of Latin descent, but it was hard to tell.
"Name's Bonnie Mendoza," she said, shaking Toy's limp hand. "What's your name?"
"Tony," Toy said quickly, knowing they would make fun of her if she used her real name. "Tony Johnson."
"Okay, Tony Johnson. Pick up your gear and put it away."
Toy did what she said, finding a little open shelf next to her bunk. She glanced over at Bonnie's side of the room and saw that she had her clothing neatly folded and stacked on an identical shelf. The woman also had pictures in plastic frames, at least a dozen different nail polishes, and a whole box full of cosmetics. Toy wondered why she wanted to look good in a place like this.
"What are you in for?" Bonnie asked, sitting on her bunk now, filing her nails.
"Murder," Toy said, swallowing, expecting to see shock on the other woman's face.
"Me, too," she said. "Have you been arraigned?"
"No," Toy said. "The FBI arrested me on a warrant from Kansas." Then she added, "I think they're going to charge me with kidnapping as well."
The other woman's face lit up with recognition. "Damn, you're the baby snatcher. I should have recognized you. You were on the news this morning."
Toy felt the room spinning. She was about to pass out. She had been on the news? They were calling her a baby snatcher? Grabbing
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the bed rail, she tried to steady herself. "I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't take anyone's baby."
"Oh, right," Bonnie said sarcastically, "you just tried to snatch them alter you burned up the school and three teachers. That's not nearly as bad. And what about that little girl down the well or something in Central Park? They said you tried to snatch her, too."
Toy blanched. "I didn't set fire to that school. I just saved the little boy. 1 swear. And the little girl was trapped down there all alone. I only got her out. I didn't kidnap her."
"Hey, girl," Bonnie said, "you don't have to convince me. Save it for the judge."
"What are they going to do to me?" Toy said, a hand over her chest now.
"How the heck do I know?" Bonnie said, tossing the nail file back in the box. "I know you'll be going to Kansas, though. They're probably processing extradition orders right now."
"To Kansas? Why?"
Bonnie looked at her as if she was crazy. "Where have you been? How can they try you in New York State for a crime that occurred in Kansas? That's called jurisdiction, babe."
Toy dropped onto the bunk, staring off into space. If they transferred her to Kansas, she would have no one. Here, at least, she had Joey Kramer. She would call him. He was her strongest witness. He could testify that she had been in Manhattan, nowhere near the scene of the crime. Then she thought of her parents. Had they seen it on the news? Seen their only daughter being led away in handcuffs? Her mother had a heart condition. Toy felt tears on her cheeks.
"Don't cry," Bonnie said curtly. "It doesn't do any good."
Toy walked over and picked up one of the small framed pictures. "Is this your little girl?"
"Give me that," Bonnie said, snatching the frame out of Toy's hands, almost ready to cry herself. "Don't touch that. Don't ever touch that."
"How old is she?"
"She would have been seven next week."
Toy felt all the blood drain from her face. The child was dead; Bonnie was in here for murder. Could she have killed her own child? "What happened?"
"He killed her," Bonnie said, bitter tears streaking down her face.
He killed my precious baby."
Toy took a few tentative steps toward the dark-haired woman. When she didn't balk, Toy sat down next to her on the bunk. "Who killed her, Bonnie?"
"My ex-husband."
"And this is the man you killed?"
Bonnie wiped her face with the back of her arm. "Who do you think I killed? The Easter Bunny?"
Two hours later, Sandy Hawkings appeared in front of the cell. "Got a visitor, Johnson," she said, waiting for the doors to open. "Let's go."
Toy had been resting on the bunk. She stood and walked out of the cell, taking a deep breath of freedom. "Do you know who it is? Is it my husband? My attorney?"
"Move it, Johnson," Sandy said gruffly.
They passed through one locking gate to another section of the jail. Finally Sandy stopped at a room, found a key on her large metal key ring and unlocked the door, shoving Toy inside.
A man in uniform stood. "I'm Officer Hill with the United States Marshal's Office. Are you Toy Johnson?"
"Yes," she said. "Don't you know that? You're the one who came to see me."
"I have to be certain, miss."
Toy took a seat at the table. The marshal remained standing and removed a rolled-up paper from his hip pocket. "Toy Johnson, by the powers vested in me by the United States government, I'm placing you under arrest at the request of the Topeka County Superior Court. You have been charged with three counts of homicide, felony arson, and felony child endangerment. Do you understand?"
"No," Toy said, her whole body shaking with fear. This was a nightmare that just wouldn't stop. How long could it go on? What else could they do to her?
The marshal had a pained expression on his face. "I'm not asking you if you understand why you have been charged, and I'm not asking you if you're guilty or innocent. All you have to do, Mrs. Johnson, is verbally acknowledge that you have been formally arrested on these particular charges, that you are aware of what just transpired inside this room."
"But what does this mean?" Toy said. "Does it mean they're going to take me to Kansas now?"
"You're here on a warrant, Mrs. Johnson. The New York authori-
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ties are planning to charge you tomorrow with conspiracy in a kidnapping. Since you're physically in the state of New York, they will try you on these charges first, and then Kansas will initiate extradition proceedings. All this means is that if for some reason the New York authorities decide to drop the charges and release you, you will be held for the authorities in Kansas."
Toy was so frightened that she couldn't think. "You mean, even if the New York people say I can go, I'll still be locked up?"
"Exactly."
"And then what will happen?"
Tm not an attorney," the marshal said. "And we're restricted from giving any legal advice." He looked at her and then softened. She had such a kind face, such pretty red hair. Other than being a few years older, she resembled his kid sister.
Toy's heart was thumping, thumping, thumping against her breastbone. She was certain if she looked, she could actually see her heart pulsating right through her skin. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap, her knuckles were turning white. What she understood was that no one would be coming to release her, that she would never get out of this place. And if she did, there would just be another prison, another set of bars. Even if she was eventually exonerated of all criminal charges, it could take weeks, months, even years to wade through the red tape and bureaucracy of two different states.
"That's it," the marshal said, banging on the door. Someone came and let him out, then left Toy to wait in the room.
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finally come to understand what he had sacrificed. He had no one now. No one to come home to, no one to care when he didn't feel well or had experienced a particularly grueling day. While many in the legal community respected his expertise, they also secretly considered him cruel and mercenary. He had taken advantage of untold numbers
of innocent souls in his battle to rise to the top, and he knew he was forever tainted with their suffering and sorrow. When he died, he asked himself now on a daily basis, would he face retribution, would there really be a final judgment? Would he be condemned for all of eternity?
Miles Spencer was facing his own mortality. Defending himself in the court of all courts would be his grandest challenge, but the renowned attorney felt he didn't have a case. There was no defense against charges of ruthlessness and greed. He hadn't suffered a tragic childhood. He carried no buried secrets. If he could only approach it like every case, he told himself, approach it logically and realistically, then he could possibly win as always. His confidence in himself was paramount, but he needed a break, an edge, a star witness who would testify to his worth. It was all just a matter of finding what he needed before it was too late. He had stood on the backs of others his entire life. Why couldn't he continue into eternity?
Striding into the conference room, Miles slapped a file down on the table and gazed out over the faces assembled in front of him. "Are we ready? Have you all reviewed the materials?"
"Ah, yes we have," Philip Connors said. He'd been with Miles for five years.
"So," Miles said, leaning back in his leather chair at the head of the table, "should we take on this case or not?"
"It's a crazy case, Miles," Connors said, arching his eyebrows. "I mean, really crazy. Whoever takes this is going to be in for a long, long haul."
"I realize that," Miles said. "But can we win? What do they have? What are we looking at here?"
Connors opened the file folder on his desk. It was identical to Miles's foider and all the others on the table. "Toy Johnson claims she was in New York in cardiac arrest when the fire broke out in Kansas. She also claims she was experiencing another cardiac arrest in the emergency room of Roosevelt Hospital when the child was rescued from Central Park. I spoke with her husband this morning. He called from the airport. He indicated that she had been in the hospital the day of the Kansas fire, but she had vanished for several
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