“Be careful, counselor,” Judge Toomey said through his teeth.
“I'm sorry, Your Honor. I realize that the horrid conduct of Judge Bellafonte's son is not.. .”
Judge Toomey fumbled for his gavel. He missed and it clattered to the floor. Reddening, the judge's eyes swept the row of reporters who stood inside the courtroom door.
“I'll jail you, sir,” he seethed, “if you say another word on that subject.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Meister shuddered innocently. The judge glanced at the prosecutor, Bloom. Baker thought he saw a look of helplessness.
“The State strongly advises against bail in this matter, Your Honor.” There was an edge to the prosecutor's voice, as if a warning were being given. Toomey dropped his eyes.
“Perhaps a substantial bail,” the judge muttered. “I'm thinking two hundred thousand dollars' cash bond.”
“That's outrageous,” Meister blurted. “Even if Mr. Baker could beg and borrow an amount like that, he'd be held in jail at least two weeks until he could raise it.”
The judge cocked his head toward the prosecutor and raised one eyebrow. Baker watched for a reaction. Bloom's face showed nothing. But the hand that held the manila folder curled into a partial fist, leaving two fingers showing. The judge looked away and sat back in his chair.
“Well,” he said, straightening, “the fact is that there's been extreme violence committed here, according to the charges. This court feels a greater obligation to protect the community than to give any special consideration to Mr. Baker because of the loss he suffered. I'm going to set bail because law and precedent provide for it. But I'm prepared to revoke it at any time, given any hint of violent behavior.” The judge slapped his palm against his desk. “Bail is set in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars. The defendant is remanded to custody until he can post that amount.”
The prosecutor smiled his thanks. Baker felt himself wilt. He thought of Tina and the weeks that might pass before he would see her. He thought of Sarah's funeral. The rage was building again. He could feel it pushing from inside his head. Baker took a step forward.
”I can post it now, Your Honor.” Ben Meister stepped with him, one hand reaching to grip the back of Baker's jacket. Baker stopped. He saw the judge's mouth move and hang open. And he saw the prosecutor's face. Bloom's gaze was fixed upon the envelope Meister had drawn from his pocket. Its contents were already in the lawyer's hand. He counted off eight slips of paper. At least that many remained. “Your Honor, I'm holding eight cashier's checks in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars each. My client is prepared to make bail.”
Toomey recovered from his surprise, but slowly. ”I thought I understood you to say that your client could not raise that amount, Mr. Meister.”
“He could not, Your Honor. I was moved by a sudden impulse to post bail from my own resources.”
Toomey's expression blackened. “This court does not take kindly to being bamboozled, Mr. Meister. I would feel entirely justified in rescinding that order and finding you in contempt in the bargain.”
“My arguments and my offer are made in good faith, Your Honor.” Meister dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “We all share the hope, Your Honor, that this matter will not be tainted by any talk of your relationship with the father of the Bellafonte boy.”
Bloom, the prosecutor, coughed aloud, then closed his file. The judge, Meister knew, had been signaled.
Toomey's skin flushed angrily. He drummed his fingers on the bench. “See the bailiff on your way out, Mr. Meister. Take your client and go. We'll look forward to an early trial date.”
“God's grace be upon you, Your Honor.” Meister smiled.
“I'll be seeing you again, Mr. Meister.”
“Always a pleasure, Your Honor.” Meister bowed deeply toward the bench and again toward Bloom. He was entirely pleased with himself. He had, after all, won the first battle. And if Toomey, as he expected, got himself assigned as trial judge, Meister had virtually assured that he would now lose the war. Baker would have little chance. And that, he told himself, was not a bad morning's work at all.
The courthouse was well behind them. Benjamin Meister had led Baker to the bailiff's office, where he counted off and endorsed checks totaling two hundred thousand dollars. Then, release papers in hand, the two men found a side exit and passed unnoticed through the section where divorce cases were heard. They walked slowly, lost among the chain-smoking men and women who stood about the corridor avoiding each other's eyes and among the lawyers who riffled through thick folders and whispered to nervous clients. A taxi, called by Meister, waited outside. The lawyer directed the cab driver to Greenwich Police Headquarters, where his rented car was parked.
“He can drop me off at home,” Baker said. ”I want to get to the hospital.”
“I'll take you there, Jared.” Meister patted his knee. “We have things to talk about.”
“You're damned right we have.”
Meister silenced him with a wave of his hand, a finger pointed at the driver.
Baker stared glumly out the window as the cab passed familiar streets and stores and drove onto a stretch of the New England Turnpike that Baker had traveled a thousand times. Everything looked different than it did three days ago. Three days ago it was a road that led home. Now there was no home.
”I have to find a place,” he said. It had not struck him before. He could not stay in his house. Baker could not bear to stay there.
“We'll work it out, Jared. Trust me.”
Meister worked his body into the seat of a Pinto that seemed much too small and too modest for him. Everything else about the man looked expensive. Baker noticed that the car had New York plates.
”I want to know who you are,” Baker said as the engine coughed into life, “and why are you doing this.”
“All in good time, Jared. You can trust your attorney.”
“You keep saying that. Bullshit.” Baker turned in his seat.
Meister feigned hurt feelings. “If I'm not your friend, Jared, who is? I thought I just did very well by you.”
“What you did was antagonize that judge, to say nothing about the prosecutor. I know enough about law to realize that most of it is what a judge says it is. But you went out of your way to openly sucker a man who might be hearing my case.”
Meister stiffened slightly. He had expected only blind gratitude from Baker. “What else is troubling you?” he asked.
“For openers, what happened to the diminished capacity plea?”
Meister raised an eyebrow. “Where did you hear that phrase? I don't recall using it.”
”I watch television ” Baker snapped. “And I'd also like to know why you happen to be carrying two hundred thousand dollars in your pocket.”
“I'm carrying half a million.” Meister smiled. “Isn't that the hospital up ahead?”
Meister steered his Pinto into the circular driveway leading to the main entrance of Greenwich Hospital. He stopped near the twin electric doors, but Baker made no move to get out. “Whose half-million?” Baker asked.
”I can't tell you that yet, Jared,” he said softly. ”I hope to soon, but not now.”
“Then why?”
“To get you out, naturally,” Meister answered, “and at any cost. Your benefactor has an interest in you, and I give you my word that it's not a sinister interest. As for the plea of not guilty, if I'd said what the prosecutor expected, the judge would have had an excuse to bind you over for psychiatric examination. He could have denied bail on that basis but not so easily otherwise. Still, we were lucky. Old Judge Toomey was forced to think uncharacteristically quickly with all those reporters watching. I suckered him, as you put it, into setting a very high amount, never dreaming that you could come up with it. As for antagonizing him, the man is out to hang you anyway, Jared. The more I irritate him, the more appealable errors he's likely to make. For the moment, however, you are free and are about to visit your daughter. I expect a modicum of app
reciation for that, at least.”
“Thank you,” Baker said. But the look he gave Meister said that he knew he was being massaged. “Why is he out to hang me?”
”I told you. You maimed the son of a judge. You can hardly expect dispassion from one of his colleagues.”
“What about a change of venue?”
“Who's going to grant it? Toomey?”
“There are other judges. There has to be one who's impartial.”
“Not for you, Baker. You're up against more than you know,” Meister told him. “I'll pick you a decent jury, but the sitting judge will restrict me every way he can.”
Baker shook his head. Appealable errors. Restricting judges. Meister was talking like a lawyer who expected to lose. Or, at least, that if he might win, it would be sometime in the distant future. Baker could not believe that. He could not believe that a jury would convict him for defending his home against the man who had destroyed it. Meister sensed that disbelief.
“You've entered a new world, Jared,” he said. “You can't go back to the old one, and nothing in your life will ever be the same again. Does anything seem the same to you, Jared? Anything at all?”
“No,” Baker admitted.
“Adapt, Jared. Adapt or you'll be swept away. And for God's sake, learn who your friends are.”
“The man with the money?”
“Go see your daughter, Jared.”
Tina opened one eye just a crack, then closed it. The man was still there. He was there yesterday too. She thought then that it was Father Lennon from St. Paul's because of the way he was dressed. But this one wore no collar. Just a black suit and black eyes with bags under them. And he never said anything. Not yesterday either.
“My father's coming,” she whispered. Maybe that would make him go away. Tina didn't like this man. She liked the other one, though. She liked the one with the spinning toy who said she could call him Grandpa. He made everything seem not so bad. He made her feel not so afraid and helped her not miss Mom so much. Maybe not quite so much. But still a terrible lot.
“No.” The man in the black suit shook his head. “Your father will not come.”
“He is,” Tina answered. ”I know he is.”
The man didn't answer.
Baker was waiting at the elevator when he noticed the lobby gift shop. He patted his pockets, knowing they were empty. Meister had not thought to bring him his wallet. Baker retraced his steps to the area where the volunteer receptionist sat and he found the lawyer riffling through a pile of magazines. Meister loaned him twenty dollars.
It was more than enough for the large, stuffed koala bear that he'd noticed among the menagerie that covered one wall of the shop. With the change he bought a jigsaw puzzle, a tiny plant, and a Doonesbury paperback. Baker tucked the paper bags under one arm and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. He hoped that he looked more rested than he felt.
There was a rest room near the elevator bank. Baker wet his face with cold water, dried it, then straightened his hair with his fingers. Not too bad, he thought, except for the strips of singed and dirty tape wrapped around his knuckles. Tina can do without seeing that.
Baker peeled away the bandage and dropped it into a trash bin. Next he washed the hand, rubbing off the thin lines of adhesive with his fingertips. The hand looked fine, he thought. Very fine, considering how ugly it was three days ago. There remained only a faded bruise across two knuckles.
Baker stepped back into the corridor and found an elevator waiting. He entered it and pressed the fourth-floor button. As the doors slid closed, he saw Meister in the gift shop examining an embroidered pillow.
“What are you doing here?” Tina was alert now. She raised her upper body on both elbows.
”I have a son here.” The old man's voice was flat.
“No, you don't. This is my room.”
“He's above you.” The man lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Intensive Care. If you listen hard, even here you can hear him screaming.” His eyes met hers again. “How is it that you don't scream?” he asked.
Tina looked toward the door. There was no sound out there. Not even nurses walking past. She felt herself becoming frightened.
“Listen, would you please not stand there? I'm sorry that your son is hurt, but I think you should be with him and not here. Anyway, I told you my father is coming.”
“It was an accident, you know. My son would never have harmed that woman.” The man seemed to be talking to no one in particular.
“What woman?” Tina's color began to rise. She was afraid that she knew what woman.
“But what your father did”—these words were to her— “that was no accident.” The man in the black suit stepped toward Tina's bed and lifted the sheet that covered her tented leg. Tina braced her hands and jerked her body backward, gasping at the bolt of pain that shot to her hip.
“You get out of here!” she cried out.
“Now!” Baker's voice hissed from the doorway.
“Daddy!” Tina called, but her father did not look at her. His eyes bored into the older man from a face that seemed on fire, and the sight of them caused him to stagger backward. Baker's hands opened and the bags they carried fell.
“You!” the old man whispered, the word dripping with hatred.
Baker saw his hand reach forward. For a heartbeat, it seemed to have a life of its own. He knew that it was reaching for the old man's throat and that it was flexed to tear the throat away from the retreating body. Baker knew the man. It was the devil he'd seen through the bars of his cell. He willed the hand down. It was his own hand again when it clamped down on Judge Bellafonte's arm and nearly lifted the old man's body from the floor. Baker half-dragged him toward the corridor.
Outrage at being handled replaced fear, and the judge found his voice. “Get your butcher's hands off of me,” he choked as he flailed at Baker, slapping him hard across the face. Baker blinked back a tear from his smarting right eye, but he did not break his stride.
Heads appeared in doorways. The sounds of grunts and scuffling feet reached the duty nurse, who rose from her station and padded toward them. “Judge Bellafonte!” she called, horrified.
“Stop this animal,” the old man shouted, his feet splaying now across the slippery floor.
Arms waving, the nurse fell in behind Baker as he danced the judge toward the elevator bank. Baker stopped and pressed a button. Once again, Bellafonte swung at his face. Baker caught the hand and twisted it, spinning the judge so that his chest was forced against the wall, then locked both the older man's wrists behind him.
Baker turned to the nurse. “You know this man?” The tone of his voice made her back away.
“It's ... Judge Bellafonte,” she stammered.
“It's the father of the punk who killed my wife and put my daughter in the hospital,” Baker growled.
“You're Mr. Baker!” Her eyes widened with recognition and with a rush of fear that surprised Baker.
“I'm Tina Baker's father,” he said, as if correcting her. ”I want this man kept away from her. If I see him again in her room or even on this floor, I'm going to . ..”
The elevator door opened. Baker pulled the judge from the wall where he was pinioned and shoved him full into the astonished face of Benjamin Meister.
Meister caught him, blinked, but recovered instantly. “Where was he?” he asked. “Tina's room?”
“Frightening her,” Baker answered. “She was backing away from him when I walked in.”
“How is it you're not in jail?” the judge gasped at Baker.
Meister ignored him and turned to the nurse. “Was this man authorized to visit Tina Baker?” he asked.
”N-no.” She wrung her hands. “Only family. Except for Mrs. Carey and clergy.”
“And Mr. Baker escorted this man from a room where he was not supposed to be?”
”I guess . . . Yes.”
“Were any blows exchanged?” Meister saw the redness on Baker's cheek.
“
No . . . well. . . the judge slapped Mr. Baker.”
“The hell with this,” Baker snapped. He took the judge's arm once more and forced him deeply into the elevator. Baker pressed a button and stepped back into the corridor.
The judge raised both his hands in a clawing gesture and he found his voice. “I'll break you, you butcher,” he rasped. “I'll break anyone who . ..”
The doors closed on his words and the churning whine of the elevator muffled them.
“The rest of that threat would have been interesting to hear,” Meister said, reminding the nurse that a threat had been made.
“Not to me,” Baker said, straightening his suit jacket. ”I came to see my daughter.” He left the nurse and Meister standing there.
“I'm sorry, Daddy.” She held out her arms as he entered the room. He shook his head and closed his eyes as if to say that she should not be sorry and that it was nothing, but he found he could not speak. Carefully, he set his gifts down on her bed and then leaned into her, holding her lightly while she squeezed him.
“That's not a hug.” She sniffed. Baker shuddered and swallowed a sob. Then he crushed her body to his. There was no need to speak for many minutes.
“That was stupid, Baker.” Meister glowered at him as he pulled back into traffic. “You're lucky you're not back in a cell already.”
“He was scaring Tina.” Baker rubbed his eyes. “You'd have done the same thing.”
“I'd have done almost nothing the same,” Meister retorted. “I'd have achieved a like result, but I'd have done it without manhandling a judge an hour after posting bond on an assault charge. And certainly not in front of a witness, God save us.”
“That was almost two hours ago,” Baker said disinterestedly. “If he was going to call the cops, they'd have been here by now. Thanks, by the way, for hanging around. And thanks for Tina's pillow. That was nice.”
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