The attorney general of Alabama got out of one black Mercury and walked toward the Daphne car holding Daniels. The driver and the state troopers moved quickly to stand behind him.
Steve Cohen walked up to the car. He had ridden with O’Hara in the Lincoln. Matt Payne and Joe D’Amata took up positions behind him. Chief Yancey, several of his officers, and Detectives Martinez and McFadden stood to one side.
At a nod from the man in civilian clothing, one of the state troopers opened the door of the police car and helped first Sergeant Kenny and then Mr. Daniels out.
“Mr. Daniels,” the man said. “I’m Baxley Williams, Attorney General of the State of Alabama. And this is Sergeant Matthew Payne, a Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, police officer, who has a warrant for your arrest.”
Daniels did not reply.
Williams turned to Matt.
“You may now take custody of the prisoner.”
Matt put his hand on Daniels’s arm. Sergeant Kenny took his hand off.
Cohen signaled D’Amata with a finger. D’Amata took handcuffs from his belt, went to Daniels, and put them on him.
“Sergeant Kenny, you want to help me with this?” D’Amata asked.
Kenny began to remove the prisoner restraint system.
When he had finished, D’Amata said, “Come with me, please,” and led Daniels toward the Cessna Citation.
Matt walked quickly to the airplane, got there first, and went inside.
When Daniels came into the cabin, Matt showed him where he was to sit, the rearmost seat, usually occupied by the steward. Then he took handcuffs from his belt, added one cuff to Daniels’s left wrist, and snapped the other around the aluminum pipe work of the seat.
D’Amata watched.
Steve Cohen came aboard, followed by Mickey O’Hara.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Matt walked forward and knocked on the cockpit door. A man in a blue shirt with first officer shoulder boards opened it.
O’Hara took his picture.
“Any time,” Matt said.
The copilot walked through the cabin and operated the door-closing mechanism.
O’Hara took his picture.
Before the copilot could get back to the cockpit, there was the whine of an engine starting.
Joe D’Amata went to Homer Daniels.
Mickey O’Hara took their picture.
“The law says you cannot be restrained during takeoff, flight, or landing,” D’Amata said. “The law also says I have the authority to use what force is necessary to ensure that you remain in custody. What I’m going to do now is take those cuffs off you. What you’re going to do is fasten the seat belt. If you even look like you’re thinking of getting out of that seat, I’m going to shoot you. Do we understand each other?”
Daniels nodded.
D’Amata took the cuffs off.
The Citation started to move.
From where he was sitting, Matt could see everybody waiting for them to take off.
He didn’t think they could see him through the darkened windows of the Citation, but he waved anyway.
The Citation taxied down the runway, turned around, and immediately began the takeoff roll.
Matt could see that at least half the law enforcement officers on the tarmac were waving goodbye at them.
When he stopped looking out the window, Mickey O’Hara took his picture.
There weren’t quite as many people, or representatives of the Fourth Estate, on hand to meet the Citation at the Northeast Philadelphia Airport as there had been when Stan Colt’s Citation had arrived. But almost.
The Hon. Alvin W. Martin was there, sitting with a group of prominent officials and citizens at tables in the Flatspin Restaurant whose windows provided a view of aircraft using the main runway.
These included Police Commissioner Ralph Mariani- who was there primarily because he heard over Police Radio that the mayor was headed for the airport-and First Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin-who was there because he wanted to be.
Sitting with them was Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III, Chairman of the Executive Committee of Nesfoods International, who was there at the invitation of the mayor who intended to thank him publicly-that is, before the assembled TV and still cameramen-for his generous public-spirited offering of the airplane. Beside Mr. Nesbitt III was Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV, a vice president of Nesfoods International, who was there because he had called the Nesfoods International aviation department and asked to be informed of the arrival of the Citation.
When word was passed that the Nesfoods Citation had just requested landing and taxi instructions, Mr. Nesbitt IV was engaged in conversation with Mr. Stan Colt, the film actor, who had somehow acquired a zipper jacket with the legend PHILADELPHIA POLICE DEPARTMENT on it.
Also sitting in the VIP section of the Flatspin, so to speak, were the proprietor, Mr. Fred Hagen; Mr. Brewster Cortland Payne II, Esq., and Amelia M. Payne, M.D. The latter two had been informed of the arrival time by Commissioner Coughlin. Mr. Payne was there as a proud parent. Dr. Payne was there both because she wanted a look at an interesting example of mental disorder and also because she wanted to see her little brother’s moment of triumph.
The Hon. Eileen McNamara Solomon had also found time in her busy schedule to be in the Flatspin, primarily because she wanted to have a look at Mr. Daniels, with an eye to evaluating how he might be evaluated by a jury should he change his mind-which she thought was a distinct possibility-about his confession, and claim his right to be judged by a jury of his peers.
Outside the restaurant, just inside the airport property- where a four-engine B-24 Liberator stood permanently parked as a memorial to Captain Bill Benn, USAAC, Mr. Hagen’s uncle, who had gone down flying a B-24 in World War II-a small coterie of more junior white shirts and their cars was also waiting for Mr. Daniels.
Captain Henry Quaire and Lieutenant Jason Washington of Homicide stood beside Captain David Pekach of Highway Patrol and the captains commanding the Eighth Police District and Northeast Detectives between the B-24 and the tarmac in front of the Nesfoods International Aviation Department hangar where the Citation would park.
Twenty or so uniforms-and their cars-waited in front of the hangar itself.
About three quarters of them, Deputy Commissioner Coughlin thought privately, had no real business being here. All that had to be done was to get Daniels off the airplane and into a patrol car and haul him off to the detention room in the Roundhouse basement. Sending a car- or even two-to go with the car with Daniels in it-there was a slight but real possibility of a flat tire, or a vehicular accident-would seem justified, but this was more like a circus than it should be. Homer C. Daniels was not the first-by a long shot-accused murderer to require transportation.
But Coughlin knew there was nothing he could do about it, even if he had the authority to order them all to go away. He understood their curiosity, their sense of proprietorship. This was a homicide, thus Quaire and Washington. Northeast Philadelphia Airport was in the area of responsibility of both the Eighth Police District and the Northeast Detectives Division, thus the presence of both of those captains commanding. And Highway Patrol had citywide authority, which is why Dave Pekach had felt free to come and watch Homer C. Daniels be returned to Philadelphia.
Mr. Michael J. O’Hara, who had gotten out of his seat the moment the Citation’s wheels had touched ground to take a final shot of Daniels in his seat-and had nearly lost his footing when it decelerated rapidly-was the first person off the plane.
He took up a position to get a shot of Daniels getting off the plane very much as Eddie, Colt’s “personal photographer, ” had taken when Colt had landed at the Northeast Airport.
Mr. Steven Cohen got off next, followed by Detective D’Amata, then Daniels, again wearing handcuffs, and finally Sergeant Payne.
The Eighth District commander and the Highway Patrol commander walked up to the airplane and a Highway car, an Eighth District car, and then anot
her Highway car drove up.
Detective D’Amata put Daniels in the Eighth District car, then got in beside him. The three cars then drove off, leaving Mr. Cohen, Sergeant Payne, Mr. O’Hara, and the two captains standing beside the airplane.
“They want you over there,” Captain Pekach said, indicating the grouped VIPs.
Sergeant Payne looked carefully around the field. He did not see Detective Lassiter.
There had not been much for the press to record for posterity. It had taken less than a minute to get Daniels off the plane and into the Eighth District car. Having nothing else to do — something the mayor had counted on-the press turned their attention to him.
The mayor smiled first at Steven Cohen, Esq., and shook his hand, and then smiled at Sergeant Payne and shook his hand. District Attorney Solomon, also an elected official, was photographed shaking Mr. Cohen’s hand.
The mayor waved Mr. Nesbitt III to his side.
“I have a brief statement to make,” the mayor began. “A terrible tragedy took place in our city, and nothing can ever make that right. But I want to take this opportunity to say how proud I am not only of our police department and the office of the district attorney but of our concerned, involved citizens as well.
“As soon as it came to his attention that as the result of some really first-class investigative work by the police department, and some really first-class legal work by Mrs. Solomon and her associates, the man charged with this heinous crime was in custody in Alabama, Mr. Nesbitt, of Nesfoods International, called to offer the use of his corporate aircraft-at no cost whatever to the city-to bring the accused murderer to Philadelphia to face justice. Thank you, Mr. Nesbitt.”
“It seemed the least we at Nesfoods could do, Mr. Mayor,” Mr. Nesbitt said. “Nesfoods International likes to think we are responsible corporate citizens of Philadelphia.”
“And I have to say this,” the mayor went on, “there has been some unfortunate, and in my judgment, unfair comments in some of the press lately to the effect that certain police officers were spending too much time protecting my good friend Stan Colt from the ardor of his fans, when what they should have been doing was trying to apprehend a murderer. I think this proves beyond any doubt that our police can do both things at the same time.”
Mayor Martin did not take questions. He turned and ducked quickly into his waiting limousine.
Mr. Nesbitt III shook hands with Sergeant Payne and ducked into his waiting limousine. District Attorney Solomon said, “Good work, you guys,” and got into her unmarked Crown Victoria.
Commissioner Mariani shook Sergeant Payne’s hand and got into his Crown Victoria.
Captain Quaire and Lieutenant Washington walked up.
“What next, boss?” Sergeant Payne asked.
“Come to work in the morning,” Washington said, “after you finish your detail with Dignitary Protection. I understand Mr. Colt is leaving at eleven-fifteen tomorrow morning.”
“I was supposed to leave after the last thing tonight,” Stan Colt said. “But I didn’t want to leave without seeing you. I want to hear everything that happened.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Matt said.
“Bullshit. After this thing tonight, I’m throwing a little thank-you party at La Famiglia. You, Mickey, your pal Nesbitt Four, Terry, a handful of others.”
“Stan, I don’t know…”
“It’s all laid on. You can’t say no now. I gotta go. One more lunch-which I’m already late for-and this thing tonight, and then I’m done.”
Commissioner Coughlin nodded, which Detective Payne correctly interpreted to mean was an order to him to attend Mr. Colt’s little thank-you party tonight. And to tell him everything that happened.
Mr. Colt then punched Sergeant Payne in the shoulder and got in his limousine. Highway Patrol officers kicked their bikes into life and, sirens growling, led the way out of the airport.
“If my children,” Brewster C. Payne said, “don’t mind having lunch with a couple of old men, Denny and I are about to have ours.”
“He doesn’t have any choice in the matter,” Dr. Payne said. “I want to hear about this guy.”
“So do I,” Deputy Commissioner Coughlin said. “How about right here at the Flatspin? They do a really nice Mahi-Mahi.”
TWENTY
There was a telephone in a niche in the low fieldstone wall around the patio of the Payne house in Wallingford, but when it rang, Patricia Payne really didn’t want to answer it.
Feeling just a little ashamed of herself-this has to be prurient interest-the truth was that she was fascinated by the interrogation of her son by her husband and her daughter concerning his encounter with Homer C. Daniels.
She had known Amelia M. Payne, M.D., from before she had taken her first steps-and was in fact the only mother Amy had ever known-and she had given birth to Matt. They were her children.
And she had taken maternal pride in both. Amy was a certified genius, and while Matt wasn’t as smart, he had graduated summa cum laude from Pennsylvania. And she knew that her husband was a very good lawyer, and Amy a highly regarded psychiatrist, and Matt was carrying his father’s sergeant’s badge.
But knowing that hadn’t prepared her for sitting with them and listening to them speak of this unspeakable crime, and the man who had committed it, and his motivations, and the legal aspects of the whole sordid series of events as professionals, rather than father and son and daughter.
And it wasn’t just an idle conversation. They had been at it over an hour, ever since Brewster’s sedate black Cadillac had unexpectedly led Amy’s battered Suburban and Matt’s unmarked police Ford into the drive. When he had called from the Flatspin Restaurant where they had had lunch, she had asked what the chances were of having “the children” home for supper. He had said he’d see. From his tone of voice, it had seemed unlikely.
But then they’d appeared, surprising and pleasing her. Brewster had said Matt couldn’t come for supper, he had to be with Stan Colt, so they’d come now. They’d immediately gone out to the patio, arranged themselves on the comfortably upholstered lawn furniture, and started talking about Homer C. Daniels.
Without being asked, Mrs. Newman, the Payne house-keeper-a comfortable looking gray-haired woman in her fifties-had produced a pot of coffee and a tray with toasted rye bread, liverwurst, mustard, and sliced raw onions, and then taken a chair by the door. Patricia was pleased to see Mrs. Newman was as fascinated with Mr. Homer C. Daniels as she was.
And then the phone rang, and Patricia didn’t want to talk to anyone, and said as much.
“Grab that, please, Elizabeth,” she called. “And get rid of whoever it is. I’ll call them back.”
Mrs. Newman took her walk-around telephone from a pocket in her dress and spoke into it. Then she got up and walked to them.
“Mrs. Nesbitt for Mr. Payne,” she said. “She won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“Damn!” Brewster C. Payne, Esq., said.
“Not you,” Mrs. Newman said. “Young Mrs. Nesbitt for Young Mr. Payne.”
“Shit,” Young Mr. Payne said.
“Matty!” his mother said.
Mrs. Newman handed him the phone.
“And how is the somewhat careless caretaker of my god-daughter? ”
“God, you’re such an asshole, Matt…” Daffy Nesbitt said.
“Thank you for sharing that with me. I’ll tell Mother what you said.”
“… but despite that, I’m going to do you a favor.”
“Oh, God!”
“I probably really shouldn’t tell you this, but Chad said I should.”
“You’re in the family way again?”
“No, goddamn it!”
“Can we get to the point of this fascinating conversation, please?”
“We’re having a few people in here before we make an appearance at the Four Seasons thing,” Daffy said.
“What people?” Matt asked.
“Old friends of ours, of yo
urs,” Chad said.
“And I want you to show up in black tie and spare us your usual bad manners,” Daffy said.
“What’s in it for me?”
“Terry,” Chad Nesbitt chimed in.
“She’s the door prize?”
Chad laughed.
“I can’t imagine why,” Daffy said. “But she really likes you. She asked if you would be coming.”
Now, that’s interesting!
Detective Lassiter’s cellular phone was reported out of service. And messages left on her answering machine and at Northwest Detectives asking that she call him had brought no response.
“Tell me more,” Matt said.
“You could take Terry to the Colt dinner at the Four Seasons and then to La Famiglia.”
“Whose idea is that?”
“Mine,” Daffy said. “She’s not throwing herself at you.”
“Well, I don’t know. I like it better when they throw themselves at me.”
“Suit yourself, you bastard,” Daffy said.
“What time is this drunken brawl of yours?”
“Five-ish,” Daffy said.
“What was that all about?” Dr. Payne inquired, asking the question her mother had just, reluctantly, decided was none of her business and couldn’t ask.
“Daffy wants me to go by Society Hill before the Colt dinner at the Four Seasons. They’re having people in. What I think they really want is for me to entertain one and all by telling them all about Homer C. Daniels.”
“That’s unkind, Matt,” Patricia Payne said. “They’re your oldest friends.”
“And they’re playing cupid again,” Matt said, “trying to pair me off with Terry Davis.”
“So you’re not going?” Amy asked.
“As Mother says, Chad and I go back a long way,” Matt said, realizing as he said it that it sounded transparently lame.
At 11:48, when Matt Payne left La Famiglia-an upscale restaurant on South Front Street just below Market Street, overlooking the Delaware River-he was just about convinced that he was going to get lucky with Terry Davis.
Everything had gone well, from his immediately being able to put his hands on the little box with the studs for his dress shirt when he hastily changed into a dinner jacket at his apartment-that almost never happened-through the drinks at Chad and Daffy’s place until now.
Final Justice boh-8 Page 48